I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Billy told him.

  Marsh laughed. ‘Christ, Billy,’ he said, ‘you’ve some balls on you.’

  ‘Not really.’ Billy explained about being sent by Pink to collect the money, and Bull and him having a tug-of-war with the bag. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Draining his accounts wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘I have to live, don’t I?’

  ‘Sure, Billy, but did you have to pick on someone who’s going to spend the rest of his life tracking you down?’

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  ‘I know he will.’

  Billy sighed. ‘You’ve no intention of taking me to the airport. You’ll need me to stay and testify about all of Pink’s accounts. That could take months, years. I’ll never get out of here. He’ll find some way to kill me. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?’

  Marsh shook his head. ‘You know something, Billy? You recall Al Capone, the way he was done for tax evasion? I always felt sorry for the guys that chased him all those years. They wanted to catch him with a smoking gun in his hand. It must have been kind of an anti-climax, tax evasion.’

  ‘Well, speaking as an accountant, I’d find it quite fascinating.’

  ‘Yeah, well - fact is, the PSNI are washing their hands of Pink, and I haven’t the resources to mount a full-scale investigation into his finances. Nor, to be frank, the interest. I want to get him for murder, Billy. I want to get him for raping and cutting up a little boy. I want to finish him off for good.’

  Billy nodded. He studied the surrounding traffic for a few moments before looking back at the big ex-cop behind the wheel. ‘You’ve got some balls on you as well,’ he said.

  119

  Mack

  Margaret was taken a little by surprise when she phoned Thomas Mack, Hair Design, in Holywood, and was invited to come the next day. It was so different from, say, her GP, where the receptionist would laugh in your face if you expected an appointment within a month. Clearly, money talked. When she explained roughly what she wanted done, she was told that Thomas Mack was prepared to work ‘in that general area’, but that he was usually a law unto himself. When she asked how much it would cost she was given ‘an estimate’. Her mother had always taught her to go to three different plumbers for estimates before settling on one, but this was slightly different. Thomas Mack was in a league of his own.

  When she told Walter how much the estimate was he looked a little pale and said he’d need to go to the cash machine. They were sitting in Pizza Express on the Dublin Road. Margaret agreed that it was a ridiculous amount to pay for a new hairstyle, but with an excited kind of a glow in her eyes. Walter said that amount of money would keep him, his children, and his children’s children in haircuts for their entire lifetimes. ‘He doesn’t do children,’ was Margaret’s response. ‘Or old women.’

  ‘Is there like a sign on the door, No Kids or Old Bats?’

  ‘I do believe there is.’

  ‘He sounds a bit … eccentric.’

  ‘He’s won Hairdresser of the Year three times.’

  ‘Well, Chelsea keep winning the League, but it doesn’t mean they’re anything special.’

  ‘I would have thought it meant precisely that.’

  ‘It just means they have a lot of expensive prima donnas, and nobody likes that.’

  ‘Well, Thomas Mack is supposed to be a bit of a character. You’ve probably seen him on TV, he’s always on those celebrity quizzes. Dresses all in black, he’s about six foot seven, this big shiny head.’

  ‘He’s bald?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Well, there you go. Never trust a bald barber.’

  ‘He’s not a barber.’

  ‘You know what I mean. It’s like fat aerobics teachers, and laser eye-surgery guys who wear glasses - there’s something quite fishy about it.’

  ‘There’s nothing fishy about it at all. And I thought you were supposed to be getting your eyes done?’

  Walter looked a bit sheepish. ‘I missed my appointment.’

  ‘You forgot?’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘You chickened out.’ Walter nodded. ‘Aw, Walter, it’s not supposed to be sore at all.’

  ‘Well, they would say that.’

  He promised to reconsider, especially when she said he looked really cute without his glasses. Later, outside, he went to the cash machine. When he handed over the thickish wad of notes she said, ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘No, but take it while the going’s good.’

  ‘This is very sweet of you, especially as none of your money’s through yet.’

  No, it wasn’t through, but it would be soon enough. His first stab at a property deal was going like a dream. Geordie had been more than grateful to sell the fruit and vegetable shop to Walter, although for slightly more than he’d originally said - £225,000. But it was still a good price. Even before the paperwork was sorted out, Geordie had handed over the keys. He wanted rid of it that much. ‘Thirty-five years of getting up at five every morning to buy apples. I’ll be happy if I never see another Granny Smith again.’

  Thus armed with the keys, Walter was able to show Paul the baker around later that same day. Paul offered less than he’d originally suggested, saying it was slightly further away from the train station than his original premises and that it needed some structural upgrading, but the offer was still well more than Walter was paying for it. He was going to make a very healthy profit indeed. Almost twice his annual salary at the Department of Education, in fact, which got him thinking.

  The next afternoon, finishing work early, and making sure to change out of her Primark uniform, Margaret duly drove out to Holywood and parked outside a plush, chrome and mirrors edifice just off the High Street. What she was paying for this put even her one-off visit to Toni & Guy into the shade.

  She entered Thomas Mack with some trepidation, but was immediately welcomed like a long-lost relative. She was offered a wide range of impressive coffees and then presented with a selection of carrot cakes. ‘We have a special arrangement with Irma La Deuce - have you heard of them?’ said Rhona, who had a badge with Client Liaison Officer on her chest, which was ample; she looked like Cameron Diaz, only with better skin. Margaret declined the carrot cake and was just about to try her choice of coffee when Thomas Mack swept in. He was impressive, but he was also only human. His impressively tall frame was, well, impressive, but it was also clearly causing him back problems, as he was wincing as he walked, which is like mincing, but more painful. His head was completely bald and shining, but it was also flecked with several black dots because ‘those f***ing gypsies are tarmacing again’. As soon as he saw Margaret he looked her up and down, then said, ‘Boy, have you come to the right place.’

  Margaret had not previously thought that her hair was that bad, but Thomas Mack - ‘call me Mack’ - quickly put her straight. It was badly cut, badly maintained, thirty years out of date and the colour was atrocious. ‘You’ve either been in a concentration camp, or you’ve been to Toni and Guy,’ he said, then cackled. ‘No, honestly,’ he quickly added, ‘I won’t hear a word said against them. I was their top stylist for years, but then they just couldn’t afford me.’

  He sat her down and they had a thirty-minute discussion about what she wanted, he emphasised that time and again, although when it came to making an actual decision it seemed to be more a case of what he wanted. Still, she didn’t mind that. That’s what she was paying for - a new approach, a new look; out with the old, in with the new. Certainly she had his undivided attention - no conveyor belt here - even if the more she listened to him the more she realised how everything he said was about him and his career and his famous friends, and what his favourite restaurant was and who he met there and how wonderful the chef was, and where he took his holidays and how exclusive it all was. It was mildly annoying but also maddening, because she wanted to compete with him; she wanted to tell him all about M & Emma and how she was a bit of a player herself
now, but there never seemed to be a suitable opportunity. She was sitting with silver foil in her hair under a heated lamp, sipping a cappuccino when Walter phoned to see how it was all going.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Margaret.

  ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ said Walter.

  ‘Neither can I. When do you get out of work?’

  ‘I am out of work. I’m sitting in my car outside. Look out the window - I’m waving.’

  Margaret peered down the length of the salon, and right enough, there was Walter waving away from behind the wheel of his car.

  ‘Jesus, Walter, I don’t want you to see me like this.’

  ‘I can’t, Margaret, not really. I’m just waving in your general direction.’

  ‘What are you even doing here?’

  ‘I want to take the New Look You out to dinner.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s nice. But if we keep going out for dinner, at this rate we’ll be as fat as fools.’

  ‘I know,’ said Walter, ‘but the diet starts on Monday.’

  It was sweet of him. He was being very good to her. It was such a refreshing change after Billy. She told Walter she would be ages yet and told him to go for a walk or something.

  When she cut the line, Margaret noticed that there was a message waiting for her; it was from Emma. A little frisson of excitement raced through her. She loved the fashion world! As she waited for the message to play back, her only regret was that Mack wasn’t standing beside her. She would have loved to have dropped Emma’s name, then talked business with her. Maybe he’d even knock something off the bill, or give it to her for free - that’s how it worked with celebrities.

  When Margaret called her back, Emma sounded excited. ‘Margaret, darling, you won’t believe this. The ba****ds! We’ve had someone in from Trading Standards! Remember your dresses - the first ones we sold? Well, Primark are selling rip-off copies already! Trading Standards want to take them to court. We’ve definitely arrived now!’

  120

  Mack (2)

  Thomas Mack was growing increasingly agitated with Margaret. ‘Will you just keep still,’ he said on more than one occasion. Margaret couldn’t help herself. Her mind was racing, and when that happened her body tended to follow suit. She moved her head and crossed her legs and shifted her bum and rolled her shoulders. Mack tutted and said, ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Nothing. I—’ She stopped herself saying, I’m about to be exposed as a clothes pirate! Instead, she nodded at her reflection. ‘Is it supposed to look like that?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘That colour?’

  ‘That’s what we agreed.’

  Margaret nodded. She had nonchalantly cut her conversation with Emma Cochrane short, mostly because of panic, but she was dying to know what was going on. A Trading Standards Officer was on the verge of exposing her fraud, and here she was sitting in an expensive leather swivel chair being talked down to by a bald man with scissors. She said, ‘How long do you think this will take?’

  ‘It will take as long as it takes.’

  Margaret nodded. But then said, ‘But how long is that?’

  ‘How long is a piece of string, dear?’

  ‘I know, but ball park.’

  Thomas Mack pulled himself up to his full extraordinary height, even with the slight stoop. ‘Thomas Mack does not do ball park,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. All right. Sorry.’

  Thomas Mack hesitated, then returned to his cutting. His flow of stories about celebrities he had worked with dried up, and he worked on in silence until Margaret’s mobile rang again, then he tutted when she went to answer it. ‘I would really prefer,’ he said, rather testily, ‘if you would switch that blessed thing off. I’m trying to concentrate.’

  Margaret picked up the phone. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Just this one.’

  ‘Margaret - it’s Emma.’

  ‘Emma,’ said Margaret, her throat dry.

  ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Me? I haven’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘Will you keep still?’ Mack, behind her now, pulled her head forcefully back.

  ‘Aoow! Sorry, Emma. I’m having my hair done.’

  ‘Really?! Anything nice?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Thomas Mack.’

  ‘Oh, he’s such a doll! Tell him Emma says hello!’

  Margaret glanced up. ‘Emma says hello.’

  Thomas Mack looked at her, then mouthed, ‘Emma?’

  Margaret shrugged and said, ‘Why does he want to talk to me?’

  ‘He’s just determined to nail whoever is ripping us off! He’s a real crusader! He says that once he gets the bit between his teeth he never lets go! He wants the dates when you originally made the dresses, a statement, any corroborating evidence, then he’s going to go after Primark. They won’t know what’s hit them!’

  ‘Is he … is he still there?’

  ‘No, he’s away now, but he’s left his card and wants you to call him straight away.’

  ‘Could you please keep still?’ asked Mack.

  ‘All right,’ snapped Margaret. ‘This is important.’

  ‘And so is this,’ Mack snapped back, and this time he jerked her head to the right.

  Margaret felt a bone click in her neck. ‘Aooooow,’ she said, and glared at the hairdresser. ‘Would you be careful?’

  ‘Well, would you get off that bloody phone and let me finish this production?’

  ‘I’ll get off it when I’m finished,’ said Margaret. ‘Emma, look, I’m going to have to go. My hairdresser’s not happy.’

  ‘Mack?’ Emma began. ‘But he’s such a—’

  Margaret cut the line and closed her phone. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘All done.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mack. Then he forced her head to the left.

  Margaret took a deep breath. ‘Do you think you could just take it a little easier?’

  Mack glared down at her. ‘Who’s the expert?’

  ‘I’m not doubting your abilities. I’m just saying, take it a little easier. My neck clicked there.’

  ‘Necks are supposed to click, dear. It’s when they don’t click you have to worry.’ He clipped away for another minute, then tried to move her head again. This time Margaret resisted.

  ‘Go with me, now,’ said Mack.

  ‘Then take it a bit easier.’

  Mack stepped back. ‘Listen, dear, either you’re working with me, or you’re working against me.’

  ‘I just have a sore neck.’

  ‘Well, you should have advised us of that before we started.’

  ‘I didn’t have it before we started.’

  ‘Are you implying that we’ve injured your neck?’

  ‘No, I’m just saying, if you carry on like that you will injure my neck.’

  ‘Well, if you would stay still, and didn’t make phone calls, then perhaps I wouldn’t have to keep moving your neck.’

  ‘I wasn’t making phone calls,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Right,’ said Mack. ‘Tell me this, if you were in hospital having liposuction, would you sit up in the middle of the operation to make a phone call?’

  ‘What are you saying, that I need liposuction?’

  ‘It was only an example. It could just as easily be a facelift.’

  Margaret glared at him. ‘Are you saying I need a facelift?’

  ‘Dear, none of us is perfect.’

  ‘You can say that again, you baldy f***er.’

  Mack’s mouth dropped open. All around the salon, where hairdressers and clients alike had been quietly enjoying the growing ill-feeling, mouths dropped open. ‘You … you …’ Mack was trying to say something coherent, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Margaret stood suddenly, pulling off her gown, and stood menacingly before Thomas Mack. ‘You just listen to me, you f***ing big drink of water. You don’t talk to people like that. Have you never heard of the customer always being r
ight? I came in here for a hairdo, nothing more, nothing less, not to have my neck half-broken because you object to me taking a phone call, all right? And not to be made to feel small and imperfect. And for your f***ing information, there’s no comparison between being a f***ing surgeon and a f***ing hairdresser. You cut hair! And you charge more than a f***ing surgeon! And people respect surgeons! They save lives, not split ends!’

  Margaret threw her gown down, grabbed her bag and stormed out of the salon, slamming the door closed behind her. Her hair was still soaking wet, and only cut on one side. She immediately burst into tears.

  Within seconds, Walter was out of his car and holding her in his arms. ‘What’s wrong, love? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Look at my hair!’

  Walter looked at her hair. ‘What’s wrong with it? It looks fine.’

  ‘Fine?!’

  ‘Fantastic! It looks fantastic!’

  ‘Oh!’ Margaret broke away from him; her head began to dart this way and that.

  ‘What’s wrong? What are you looking for?’ Walter asked.

  ‘A shop! I need a cigarette!’

  ‘You don’t smoke.’

  ‘I’m starting!’ She turned and glared back at the shop. ‘That man! The nerve of him!’

  ‘What’s wrong? What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Did he try something on with you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘’Cause I’ll go in and sort him out.’

  ‘No - Christ, that’s all I need! And a cigarette!’

  The tears sprang again. He held her by the shoulders. ‘Margaret, listen to me. Cigarettes won’t solve anything. Can I interest you in a gravy ring?’

  She laughed involuntarily. ‘Oh Walter,’ she said. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘About what, love?’

  Margaret swallowed hard, then began to tell him the story of the Primark dresses.

  121

  The Seven Deadly Sins