As soon as he got behind closed doors, Pink said to Bull: ‘Have you found that f***er Billy Gilmore yet?’
‘Not yet, boss.’
‘Well, f***ing do it. I want him crucified, and I’ll hammer in the nails myself.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Pink had lost £800,000. There had been £1.3 million in the safe. Half a million had been recovered by Bull and his comrades at the scene. The rest had either blown away in the wind or been surreptitiously smuggled away. Pink’s take on it was the equivalent of plenty more fish in the sea. Bull himself had stashed away a hundred grand. Pink was aware that his most trusted comrades had helped themselves, without being aware of the individual amounts. It was only to be expected. He didn’t blame them at all. He blamed Billy for making such a mess of it. So he patted Bull on the back and told him to get on with it, and went back to the party.
They were in the Stormont Inn, not far from Police HQ, and overlooking Stormont itself, the vast white edifice (and occasional elephant) that was the traditional seat of power in the Province, and to which, hopefully, such power would soon be restored. It was every local politician’s ultimate goal. Certainly Pink had designs on it. If this gathering, merrily drinking and helping itself to an elaborate buffet, was anything to go by, then that day, when he attained real power, Cabinet power, could not be that far off. The Unionist Party, from its grass-roots supporters to his colleagues on the City Council, was here in force. He assumed they had wavered when news of his arrest broke, but now they were back smiling, pumping his hand, telling him they’d never doubted him for a minute and what a grand chap he was. Pink lapped it all up. He was the man of the moment, the star of the show. He ordered champagne with abandon, he posed for photographs, he was witty and light, but also serious and incisive. He condemned the anarchy that had descended but also praised the people for making a stand. He snorted three lines of cocaine in the toilets.
Mark saw him emerging, and wondered why such a well-groomed man as Pink Harrison had dandruff on his shoulders. Before he could think more of it, Pink spotted him and enveloped him in a bear hug which made Mark feel warm and snuggly, and very much a part of the inner circle, although he wasn’t sure which particular inner circle. He supposed it was like a pebble being thrown into a lake; there were lots of circles, and none of them were joined, yet they were still connected and all were all expanding in the same direction.
Pink released him, but then pumped his hand and said again and again how great a day it was, and Mark was inclined to agree. He had been a little disappointed to learn that Pink was being released without charge, as he had had his eyes on Pink’s council seat, but was thankful now that he hadn’t expressed that ambition to anyone at Party Headquarters. He had been in and out of there half a dozen times following Pink’s arrest, getting his face known and beginning to forge alliances. He did not doubt that his time would come, but his initial jubilation at Pink’s arrest had soon given way to a wider appreciation of the repercussions it would have on the Party if he was found guilty of murderous crimes. The Party was already teetering on the brink of extinction; having hastily adopted Pink as one of its own, his conviction for murder would surely have shown how out of touch and naive it was and served as the final, fatal blow. But Pink being innocent - or at least, not being guilty - was a blessing, saving it both from acute embarrassment and serving as a wake-up call. Yes, they were celebrating Pink Harrison now, but in the quiet corners of Party HQ Mark had eavesdropped on earnest conferences and overheard whispered realignments as the comfy shag was pulled gently from beneath Pink Harrison’s feet. This extravagant party was both his moment of triumph and a wake for his political career.
Mark sat at the bar, sipping an orange juice, and watched as Pink worked the room and encouraged favoured journalists to drink on his tab. Local celebrities - television weather women and showband crooners - sucked around him. Hoods in suits smoked cigars. Once in a while Pink disappeared to top up his dandruff.
Gradually the crowds thinned and the staff began to clear up. Pink stood by the door saying goodbye to everyone, glowing in their praise and promises of support. Finally he retreated to a corner table with a gang of his cronies and ordered shots. He waved Mark over, but Mark said he had to be going. Pink said, ‘Nah, go on, stay, have a drink with the lads.’ Mark didn’t have an excuse, he just didn’t want to. He was still trying to talk his way out of it when the bar manager came over with the bill for the party food and the champagne and the hire of the room, and Pink studied the docket, then clutched his chest like it was a shock and everyone laughed. He handed over his credit card then started to tell his mates some joke, with Mark still standing there not sure whether he needed permission to leave. When Mark laughed at the punchline Pink fixed him with a look and said, ‘Pull up a pew.’
Mark was just pulling up a stool when the bar manager came back over, looking very red-faced. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Harrison,’ he said. ‘There seems to be a problem with your credit card.’
113
What’s For You …
Like any Civil Servant, Walter half-hoped that the rioting would continue into a fourth day and thus, robbed of public transport, he would be excused going to work. But it was not to be. By Monday morning the city was largely back to normal. It was just a little louder than usual; the air was filled with the sounds of hammers and drills as repairs were carried out and scaffolding erected, the scrape of metal as burned-out cars were dragged away for scrap; it was rich with the smell of fresh tarmac and planks.
It was a bright, cheerful morning as Walter sauntered towards the train station. If it had been a chaotic few days for the city, it had been a wonderful few days for Walter North. His formula for life: hope + dreams = disappointment had been radically re-imagined, particularly in the romance department. He had endured a Friday from hell, when it seemed likely that he would lose both his sex partner, Linda, and his life partner (to be) Margaret. He felt a certain amount of responsibility for Linda’s suicide attempt, because he hadn’t been straight with her. He also reasoned, however, that if every girl who got two-timed threw herself off a tall building then it wouldn’t be safe for anyone to walk the streets for danger of getting clobbered from above. It was clear that Linda had pre-existing problems which couldn’t be laid at his door. But thank God it had turned out all right. She might even have met a real, proper boyfriend in the process. The way that Jimmy Marsh Mallow had walked her off the balcony and into the bedroom, hugging her to him, and then hurried the rest of them - three paramedics, six firemen, two uniformed police officers - out of the apartment had been so impressive. He seemed to be full of compassion and concern and understanding. Linda barely even noticed the Emergency Services, despite all their regalia and equipment, and didn’t even clock that the chocolate cake had been completely devoured. She only had eyes for her saviour. That surely suggested that there were romantic possibilities there.
It was a relief that she was safe, and over him, but even better that Margaret, despite numerous hints, had still not cottoned on to his fling with Linda. She had now been through three traumatic experiences with Walter - their initial disastrous date, her falling into the river and discovering the head, and now a suicide attempt. As they walked back to Margaret’s car, waving goodbye to the firemen, she said, ‘If we’ve survived this far, I don’t think there is anything else can break us up.’ He had glowed then, and he was still glowing now. They’d since been out on two further dates - one to a movie which they’d missed most of by giggling and snogging in the back row, and one to Deane’s on the Square, a smart restaurant in the city centre. Walter had driven on both occasions, and not had so much as half a pint. He had been the perfect gentleman. He had taken her home on both occasions and they’d kissed passionately. At the end of each date he asked, ‘Can I see you again?’ which she thought was really sweet.
There was a fruit‘n’veg shop on the road leading down to Botanic Station that Walter had got into the habit of calling into
on a Monday morning because that was the day he always started his diets and he liked to stock up with healthy things. He would buy apples and pears and grapes, then spend five minutes squeezing the melons to see which ones were ripe. The melon squeezing had become a bit of a joke between Walter and the elderly shopkeeper, Geordie. Every time Walter bought a melon Geordie asked after the last one. Walter always said it was still sitting in the fridge at home waiting for company. And it was true. He loved melons, but they always seemed like too much trouble to prepare. So he kept buying a fresh one every Monday morning, then taking it home on Monday night to introduce it to the old one. It seemed he always had three melons in the fridge. One overripe and needing to be thrown out, one perfect but neglected, and one fresh and still ripening. This morning, however, the shop was closed and Geordie was up a ladder outside, hammering wooden boards across the open windows. Glass lay in brushed-up piles on the ground, awaiting clearance.
‘Jesus,’ Walter said. ‘I didn’t think the riots had gotten this far.’
Geordie shook his head. ‘Ah, the bad wee ba***rds’ll take any opportunity.’
‘Did they steal anything?’
Geordie laughed sadly. ‘What’re they going to take? Bananas? Courgettes? Nah, they just did this for the hell of it.’
‘Yeah, well,’ said Walter, ‘kids today. So, will you be open later? I’ve a melon at home pining for company.’
‘Nah. Sorry, Walter, you’ll have to go to Tesco’s or somewhere. Tell you the truth, I’ve had enough. I’m boarding her up and I’m walking away. Selling up. I’m too old for all this crap.’
‘Oh,’ said Walter. ‘Sorry to hear that. I always liked your fruit.’ He nodded, and started to turn away, but then he hesitated. He looked back up at Geordie. ‘You’re really selling up?’
‘Aye. First decent offer I’m taking the wife to Spain and I’m not coming back.’
Cogs were turning, circuits were firing.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, Geordie - how much d’you reckon you’d sell her for?’
Geordie’s head tilted to one side, and his lips moved silently. Then he gave a little shrug and said, ‘Had her valued last year, reckoned she’s gone up a bit since then, but then all this rioting has probably knocked that on the head. Maybe two hundred thousand. Why, do you know someone?’
‘I might. I’ll give you a shout, all right?’
Geordie nodded and went back to securing his premises. Walter walked on, thinking about the possibilities. He’d agreed with Bertha that commercial property was the way to go, and here was one almost being presented to him, and maybe at a knockdown price. It needed a bit of fixing up, but whatever damage the rioters had caused looked reasonably superficial. The old fella was keen to move. First decent offer, he’d said. This was quite a smart, artsy part of South Belfast, not usually associated with riots; there was no reason to think that they would occur again any time in the near future. It wouldn’t be like buying property in a danger zone. This damage was surely a one-off.
Still, patience is a virtue, thought Walter. If I’ve learned anything of late, it’s best not to rush into anything. I’m older now, more mature. What was it his mother used to say?
What’s for you won’t go by you.
Walter smiled at the memory of it, and decided to phone Bertha from work to discuss the fruit‘n’veg shop. A further 100 yards along, on a corner opposite the station, there was a bakery Walter usually stopped at on a Tuesday morning when his diet had collapsed again. It was a gloriously old-fashioned bakery, with little dusty old women who’d worked there for thirty years eager to talk about the weather while they sold you gravy rings and Paris buns and German biscuits. This property had also been targeted by the rioters, but to a much greater extent. The roof was missing and the upper floor was charred; downstairs all of the windows were smashed and the interior scorched. The owner, a moon-faced man called Paul, who was on first-name terms with Walter, as he was with all of his best customers, saw him standing surveying the damage.
‘Jesus, Paul,’ said Walter, ‘what’s the world coming to?’
Paul had a brush in his hand. It appeared to be smouldering. ‘They just burned it,’ he said weakly. ‘No rhyme nor reason.’
Walter’s stomach rumbled. He said, ‘Don’t let the ba***rds grind you down.’
Paul sighed. ‘Easier said than done, mate. Had a structural engineer around first thing; he said the whole place has to come down.’
‘God,’ said Walter. ‘But your gravy rings are the best in Belfast. You’ll re-open.’
‘I don’t know, Walter. I mean, we’ll have the insurance money, but it’ll take a year to get her up and running, and once you lose that passing trade, they never come back.’
‘Aw, don’t say that. Couldn’t you get somewhere else, nearby?’
‘Round here - you joking? A shop this close to the station’s rarer than hen’s teeth.’ Paul blew air out of his cheeks. ‘Sorry, Walter, unless I find somewhere in the next few days, that’s me. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your gravy rings.’
Walter shook his head. ‘That’ll be a terrible pity.’
‘Aye,’ said Paul.
Walter began to turn, aware that he was already running late for his train. But then he had a thought. ‘Paul? Say a property was to become available, roughly the same size, similar location, you’d be game?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How much do you reckon?’
‘Round here? Well, you’d be talking, let’s say, about a quarter to three hundred thousand.’
‘Seriously? Even with all the rioting?’
‘Oh, aye. Hardly affects the prices at all. If anything, it drives them up - less available, you know what I mean? Why, do you know somewhere?’
‘I might,’ said Walter.
114
Last Chance Saloon
Billy could have chosen any city in the world. He had cash, and easy access to bulging bank accounts. He could have danced in Rio or gambled in Monte Carlo, but he chose to remain in Belfast, living it up in the Clinton Suite in the Europa Hotel. When I say living it up, it was living it up accountant-style. No mad parties for Billy, no wild women, no drugs. It was watching pay-per-view movies and not giving a damn at the expense of it; it was ordering three-course meals from room service and tipping above 15 per cent - sometimes 17 per cent, once 19 per cent. It was drinking from the minibar and not replacing their expensive cans of Coke with cheaper versions he’d brought with him, as he usually did on holiday. He even sent his favourite shirts out to the laundry.
Billy was living so extravagantly because he knew he was on borrowed time. He might have eked it out for longer if there hadn’t been bit of a cock-up over his signing in. He’d decided to use a false name - Peter de Vere - which he thought sounded classy, and not at all like a 1970s sleazy playboy - but then the woman had asked for a swipe of his credit card. He said he was paying cash, but she still demanded his credit card in case ‘he went mental’ and trashed his room. He had no option but to hand it over, so it was clear to her that his real name wasn’t Peter de Vere but Billy Gilmore. He was aware that it might only be a matter of time before it got out, but still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
For one good reason.
Margaret.
She haunted his dreams. They were happy dreams too, with no arguments and lots of holding hands in the sun. He felt at peace with her. Removed from his plush apartment and luxury goods, and sleeping better than he had in years, despite the fact that Pink Harrison had gunmen scouring the city for him, Billy began to realise the error of his ways. He had concentrated on building his career rather than making his marriage work. He had not paid enough attention to Margaret in the bedroom. All she wanted was for him to love her, and show his love, and when that wasn’t forthcoming, she had rolled up in a ball, to protect herself, like a hedgehog. She wasn’t really cold and unfeeling, she was just hurt.
Well - things were different now. He no longer
had a career, but he had lots and lots of lovely money. He would invest the majority of it wisely, but there would be some left over to lavish on Margaret. He could buy her jewellery - and negotiate a fantastic discount, which all rich people seemed able to do - and sort out her crap hair. They could sit on an exotic beach and order the darkies around, getting drinks and burgers.
Billy went over his speech a thousand times. Given the opportunity, he would have used flow-charts on his laptop to fully explain his plan for their life on the run together but, he suspected, such was her hurt that she wouldn’t give him the time for that. He might only have a couple of minutes to make his pitch. It had to be short, sharp, to the point, and unencumbered by sophisticated electrical equipment.
The problem was actually getting to speak to her. When he phoned her house, her answer-machine was on permanently, and he wasn’t stupid enough to leave a message telling her where he was. You never knew who was listening. The thought struck him that perhaps Pink Harrison had taken her hostage, and this freaked him out for a while. He felt sure a kidnapping would have made the local news, but then there was so much going on with the rioting and its repercussions that a kidnap mightn’t be considered sufficiently interesting. Or perhaps the police already knew about it and were keeping quiet so they could mount an SAS-style recovery.
I Predict a Riot Page 48