I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Then she had a terrible thought, and immediately cursed herself for having it: what would it do to the value of the property if Linda Wray did jump? If it became known that the estate agent had committed suicide, would it drive the price down, and make it easier to buy? Despite Margaret’s great hopes for the future, purchasing it now would still be a bit of a stretch. She hadn’t even really thought about a mortgage or what type to go for. Linda, who probably knew all about them, was a bit busy at the moment. Walter was into property, but he didn’t seem able to make his mind up about anything. The one person she probably could depend on to give her good advice was the one person she had no intention of turning to - Billy. She didn’t feel any sympathy for him at all now, losing his job like that. Perhaps his bosses weren’t concerned about the extra expense involved in making him a junior partner - perhaps they just realised what a prick he was.

  Margaret checked her watch. Fifteen minutes since they’d dialled 999.

  Poor Linda. Maybe she just needed a good girlie chat. A night out on the town.

  Looking back into the apartment, Margaret’s eyes fell on the chocolate cake. She glanced at the lift doors, just down the hall a bit. No lights yet. She darted across the kitchen, prevaricated for just a moment over the lack of cutlery, then scooped up a handful of cake and bundled it into her mouth. She hurried back to the doorway. It was lovely.

  Out on the balcony Walter said, ‘Is this because of me?’

  ‘No, Walter.’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘Everything. You’re just the …’

  ‘Catalyst?’

  ‘… final straw. I’ve been thinking about you, Walter, taking a really long hard look at you. And what I think it is, is that you’re surprised to find yourself with two women interested in you - and you don’t know what the hell to do. I have to presume you like having sex with me?’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  ‘So I’m guessing you’re maybe not having sex with her?’

  ‘I’m not, I’m not.’

  ‘But you really want to, except you don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater.’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Well, what is it like?!’

  ‘Okay! Yes, it is like that!’ Walter gripped the handrail. ‘Linda, you’re right, it’s exactly like that. I’ve never been in this position before, and I’m confused.’

  ‘You’re shallow.’

  ‘Yes, I’m shallow.’

  ‘And you’re two-faced.’

  ‘Oh God, yes, I’m two-faced.’

  ‘And I’m standing here, and I’m going to jump in a minute, I swear to God, and I know exactly what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You do? I mean, I’m praying you won’t.’

  ‘Well, maybe you are and maybe you aren’t.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You’re praying that if I do jump, I won’t tell her in there about us before I do.’

  ‘Well, I would appreciate it. I mean, I one hundred per cent don’t want you to jump under any circumstances, and I don’t give a damn what you say to Margaret. It’s such a waste, you are lovely.’

  ‘Don’t! I’ve had enough of your crap! I really thought we had something.’

  ‘We did! We do!’

  ‘B***ocks!’

  Walter sighed. ‘Linda, don’t do this. Please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  Linda shook her head sadly. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Walter. It could have been anyone. I just always dive in at the deep end and the truth is I just can’t swim.’

  ‘You should try armbands.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, no one can swim at first, but with the right support, with lessons …’

  ‘Lessons in love, Walter? Are there armbands for that?’

  Walter shrugged. ‘Please, Linda, don’t.’

  ‘I’ve just had enough.’ Her legs were tired now; she was cold. She wanted to get it over with.

  Margaret watched the lift light move towards the penthouse floor. It had to be the Emergency Services - none of the other apartments were yet occupied. The doors opened, but there was just one man standing there, a middle-aged guy with a stern expression.

  ‘Oh,’ Margaret said, ‘I was expecting—’

  ‘Where is she?’ the man said curtly.

  ‘Down here.’ She nodded towards the apartment’s open door. The man set off towards it. Margaret hurried after him. ‘Excuse me, but who are you? Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Police,’ said the man. ‘The others are on their way.’

  He turned into the apartment. Margaret followed in after him. ‘And are you trained in this? She’s very fragile.’

  ‘I’m an experienced hostage negotiator.’

  ‘She’s not a hostage.’

  ‘Isn’t she? She’s a hostage to fate.’

  Margaret stared at him. That was a bit cryptic, she thought. But maybe that was what was needed. Something deep and philosophical to get Linda in off her ledge rather than the trite and facile arguments she’d been coming out with.

  ‘This way?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  She led him across the kitchen, and through the bedroom. Walter was standing just inside the doorway leading out to the balcony. He glanced at Jimmy Marsh Mallow, who looked vaguely familiar, then said: ‘She told me to go in. After speaking to me, she said that if she hadn’t been suicidal already, she certainly was now. I’m sorry, I did my best.’

  Margaret took his hand. ‘I know. It’s okay. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Walter said weakly, but she didn’t pick up on it.

  Jimmy Mallow said, ‘I’m going out. I’m going to close the door behind me. When the rest of them get here, tell them not to disturb us.’

  Margaret nodded. ‘Good luck,’ she said. Marsh just looked at her, then stepped out onto the balcony and pulled the door closed behind him.

  109

  Last Rites

  Redmond sat disconsolately in the main thoroughfare at Belfast Central Station, waiting for a train that wasn’t coming. His plan was to go to his late brother’s parish house and rest up, get his head together. His life of late hadn’t been so much a roller-coaster as a ghost train, and he needed to climb off. Just pull the blankets up over him and lie undisturbed for a while. By assuming his brother’s identity he hoped also to inherit the quiet, quaint, undemanding life of a parish priest. The only demands on his time would be the occasional baptism or funeral. He might listen to confessions, secure in the knowledge that he himself had committed acts one thousand times worse than anything the local farmers’ daughters could imagine. He would tend the parish garden and grow his own vegetables. His old life was over.

  There were several dozen passengers stranded by the cancellation of the entire network service milling around, unsure what to do with themselves. It had been dangerous enough just getting to the station and none of them were in the mood to venture out again. Most of them were anxious to get on the Dublin Express. They had been told that it was unlikely to run at all, as the smouldering remains of the Bangor-Belfast train were still being attended to by the Fire Brigade on the tracks below, but as unlikely wasn’t an unequivocal no, they chose to wait in hope. The bar, at least, was open, but like most railway station drinking establishments it seemed more like a good place to get into a fight or be robbed than to enjoy a relaxing drink. Its atmosphere was heavy with neglect and violence, so most of the travellers were disinclined to stay after taking an initial look. They sat around the tiled plaza, chatting amongst themselves, strangers mostly, united by circumstance. Redmond kept himself to himself. He stared morosely at the ground and thought about his beautiful wife making love to a man who made carrot cake.

  There was a bit of a commotion down towards the barriers leading to the platforms and for a moment Redmond’s heart soared in hope that the train schedule had been reinstated; certainly several of the stranded passengers were now
hurrying forward. But as he looked closer he saw that they weren’t approaching the ticket barrier, but rather were gathering to the right of it. Then some of what they were saying began to drift back across the echoing spaces towards him.

  ‘I called - they said it would be half an hour at least.’

  ‘Does anyone know how to do this?’

  ‘You squeeze his nose and breathe into his mouth.’

  ‘Christ, he smells like a brewery.’

  ‘Don’t say that, he could be your dad.’

  ‘Right, here goes ...’

  There was silence for the next few minutes, and then someone said: ‘It’s no use. He’s a gonner.’

  ‘Does he have any ID? We should phone.’

  ‘Here, look. A pension book, isn’t it? He’s Fintan Hennessey. I don’t see any address or anything.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘We can’t just leave him like this.’

  Their voices dropped. Redmond looked up from studying the ground to find that several of them were looking at him. Then a girl, a teenager, in shorts and sandals, came hurrying up.

  ‘Father, Father,’ she said. ‘There’s an old man dead or dying over here. Could you say the Last Rites for him?’

  Redmond blinked at her. ‘Well, I’m not sure. He may not even be a Catholic, and I wouldn’t want to send him off with the wrong details. It would be like putting the wrong destination on your luggage.’

  The girl’s eyes widened a little. ‘Father, he’s called Fintan Hennessey, and he had these in his pocket.’ She held up a set of rosary beads. ‘I think he’s one of yours.’

  Redmond reluctantly got to his feet and followed the girl back across to the small group of passengers. They parted before him, revealing the very obviously dead body of Fintan Hennessey. He was an old man in an ill-fitting farmer’s suit; bald on top but with bushy hair on the sides. There was a rolled Irish News sticking out of one pocket.

  Redmond knelt beside Fintan Hennessey and made the sign of the cross, then began to administer the Last Rites. In fact, he began to mumble. Redmond was aware of the concept, but had no real notion of the detail, of the actual words and phrases and acts that went to make up your official, approved Last Rites. It wasn’t as if it made any difference: Fintan Hennessey was dead as a door knob.

  ‘Father?’ Redmond looked up. One of the passengers, a solid-looking man in a yellow wind-cheater said, ‘Sorry, Father, but could you speak up a bit?’

  Redmond shook his head. ‘Son, it’s between me and him and God.’

  ‘I know that, Father, but still - I’m taking these young people on a retreat to Navan,’ he nodded around the little group, and Redmond suddenly realised, with a dreadful sinking feeling, that they were indeed a group, ‘and it would be tremendously inspiring for them to see this act of Absolution.’

  Redmond nodded. He gave the sign of the cross again, then renewed his attempt on the Last Rites, but it was scarcely any louder or clearer.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, but we’re, uh, just not getting it.’

  ‘Getting what?!’ Redmond exploded suddenly. ‘It’s not a fu— a floorshow!’

  ‘We just want to be part of his journey.’

  The little group all nodded and crossed themselves. Redmond sighed, and bent to the task again. His words grew louder, but conversely, less coherent. When he was finally done, Redmond stood and brushed dust off his knees. ‘All righty,’ he said.

  ‘But .. . surely, you’ve not said the half of it?’ the man in the yellow wind-cheater complained.

  ‘How do you know, if you couldn’t hear me?’

  Redmond gave him a rather misplaced look of triumph, then bristled, ready for action as the man stepped forward. ‘Could I have a wee word, Father?’ Before he could move, the man had slipped an arm through his and pulled right up beside him. He whispered into his ear, ‘Please, Father, it would be very instructive for us to hear what you’re saying. This is the living Catholic Church in action. Some of these guys are considering entering the priesthood, but they need to see this done, and done well.’

  ‘I’ve done it - twice now.’

  ‘Just once more, Father, please.’ He wasn’t threatening, exactly; he was just very, very disappointed.

  Redmond, despite his growing anger, felt disappointed himself. He was making such a hash of his pledge to Damian. He’d already pursued his wife’s lover and only barely restrained himself from attacking him, then he had actually attacked two wee lads, even if they were asking for it. Now here he was, flummoxed by his first attempt to act like a real priest. He should just rip off the collar now, admit the deception and give himself up for arrest.

  He looked at the little group, so young and hopeful and so clearly impressionable. His own soul might be damned, but how many others was it within his power to damage?

  Redmond sank to his knees again. He stared at the poor, pallid features of the late Fintan Hennessey, then glanced up at the man in the yellow wind-cheater, forlornly hoping for some last-minute reprieve - and his own heart almost stopped. For the man’s face was no longer stern and disapproving, it was no longer even his own face, it was Damian’s, staring down at him, smiling, nodding encouragement. His ghostly lips weren’t moving, yet Redmond could hear his voice, soft and familiar. ‘You know this, Redmond, you really know this.’

  Redmond felt tears in his eyes. He knew that it wasn’t Damian, that he wasn’t hearing his brother’s sweet voice, that it was jet lag and lack of food and sleep, or some kind of weird cocaine flashback, but he couldn’t shake the image or the voice, gently imploring him. He forced himself to look away, to look back at the body of Fintan Hennessey. He raised his hands again and made the sign of the cross, and when he spoke, the words were suddenly, unaccountably there. ‘God the Father of mercies,’ he began, his voice bold and true, ‘through the death and resurrection of His Son has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins Adrenaline surged through him. I know it! I fu**ing know it!

  ‘Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from all of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

  Redmond closed his eyes briefly to signal that the performance was over. When he looked up, there were tears in the eyes of the watching group, the man in the yellow wind-cheater was nodding appreciatively, and even Fintan Hennessey looked a little more at peace with himself.

  Redmond felt fantastic. He almost wished there was a big bomb or something so he could do some more. He climbed back to his feet, nodded around the little group, solemnly clasped his hands, then passed through them, grinning beatifically.

  110

  Billy Whizz

  Billy charged about his apartment, packing clothes into his Gucci suitcases, fully expecting to hear at any moment the thunder of footsteps on stairs, for the door to burst open and for Bull or any one of Pink Harrison’s other cronies to rush in, guns blazing.

  I am a dead man.

  I am a dead, dead, dead, dead man.

  I did nothing wrong, yet I am a dead man.

  There was no other possible way to look at it. He had been sent to Pink’s Shankill Road headquarters to retrieve money, and he had lost it through no fault of his own. A million pounds. At least. What hadn’t been gathered up by rioters was probably still floating around up in the stratosphere. Some farmer in Armagh would wake in the morning and find he had a new cash-crop.

  His only saving grace was that, as far as he knew, Pink was still in the police station, and therefore incommunicado. He would be unable to issue orders for Billy’s immediate execution. Then: Oh, who am I kidding! He’ll have a solicitor who’ll be feeding him news of how all the rioting is going on. And he isn’t going to mention Billy Gilmore losing a million quid?

  Oh, I am truly a dead man!

  Billy crammed in socks and ties and pants and suits and shirts and photos of Margaret. These were the things he needed. But the
things he wanted - they were all around, and he could take none of them. His sixty-inch plasma TV, his top-of-the-range computer, his microwave which blasted food so quickly it rendered the cooking instructions on the side of tins woefully inadequate. His fridge with the ice-making facility. How many kitchens in Europe even boasted such a fridge? He had virtually limitless ice whenever he wanted it, while the plebs out there were still struggling with little plastic trays which delivered twelve cubes at a time. These electrical marvels weren’t just things, they were his things; they existed beyond a simple twelve-month warranty; they were the very symbols of his success. He had become one with his luxury goods; they identified and quantified and represented who and what he was.

  And in the same moment, they were utterly worthless.

  Because he could never return here.

  He must leave this apartment, this city, this country, taking with him only what he could carry. Billy Gilmore, twenty years an accountant, married, defined by his spending power, came down to nothing more than a couple of designer suitcases and the trousers he stood up in.

  Then he remembered what someone had said to him, he forgot who: that there would always be a demand for accountants and undertakers. He had certificates, diplomas; he needed to take those with him so that no matter what corner of the world he washed up in, he had evidence of his qualifications.

  Billy hurried into his back bedroom where he kept three filing cabinets full of his personal papers, all scrupulously indexed. He found his qualifications quickly, but in extracting them his eyes fell on the folders devoted to Pink Harrison’s business affairs. What to do with them? The way his luck was running, they would be seized upon by the police as evidence of his own criminal collusion with the paramilitary gang leader, with the result that he would not only be on the run from Pink, but also Special Branch, or for all he knew of his ultimate destination, Interpol.