I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  He could have phoned, of course, but he was sufficiently intrigued by this Steven Bradley to want to meet him face to face. So he killed some more time listening to the radio and thinking about his wife, until he was ready to go to Lemon Grass. He arrived five minutes early. Linda was already there, sitting at a table by the window. She smiled widely as he approached.

  ‘They tried to give me the same table as last time,’ she said, ‘but I refused point blank. It was an unlucky table.’

  ‘And this is a lucky one?’

  ‘Well, you’re here this time, so it’s luckier.’ She reached across and gently rested her hand on top of his. ‘Thank you for coming. It’s very sweet of you.’

  ‘I wanted to come.’

  ‘I know, but ...’

  ‘But nothing. Linda, let’s get this clear right from the start. I’m not here because you tried to kill yourself. I’m here because I picked you out of an internet dating site and then left you sitting here.’

  She smiled wanly. ‘Could you keep your voice down? The people at the table behind us now know that I tried to commit suicide and have had to resort to an internet dating site.’

  Marsh cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s because they’re at the unlucky table. And sorry - I didn’t mean to shout.’

  ‘It wasn’t shouting. It was just a little too loud.’

  ‘I’m used to shouting. It’s part of the job.’

  ‘A job you don’t have any more.’

  Marsh nodded. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So you’re not on duty now.’

  ‘No, absolutely not.’

  ‘So you can speak more quietly. When we show clients around, we speak in hushed tones. Due reverence for the magisterial qualities of our properties.’

  ‘I’ll keep it down.’

  The waiter came and took their orders. While they were eating their steaks Linda asked, ‘Why do you keep looking round? Are you looking for an escape route?’

  ‘No. Sorry, I just noticed the table behind - they’re smoking, and it’s a non-smoking restaurant.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed. Does it bother you?’

  ‘No, not really. Just the waiters should say something.’

  ‘They’re just boys, they’re probably scared to say,’ said Linda. ‘If it’s not bothering you, let it be. That’s half the trouble with this country: too many people stick their big noses in then they get all hurt when they get bitten off.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Marsh.

  ‘I don’t mean that you have a big nose, or you stick it in. I’m just talking generally.’ She decided to change the subject, and quickly. ‘Have you ever had a massage?’

  ‘A massage? No. In my position, I can hardly go to a massage parlour, can I?’

  ‘Your position. Would this be the one you were fired from?’

  ‘I wasn’t fired, I took early retirement. But yes.’

  ‘So you’ve never had a massage.’

  ‘No, I’ve never had a massage.’

  ‘You strike me as a man in dire need of a massage. You’ve thirty years of tension in those shoulders.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to go. And I wouldn’t feel comfortable.’

  ‘With a stranger?’

  Marsh nodded. ‘And also I’d be worried about, you know, if it was a woman, getting …’ and he raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Aroused?’

  Marsh blushed. Linda thought it was very endearing. She squeezed his hand again. ‘I give massages, James. Everyone tells me I’m very good. I light candles.’

  ‘Well,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Are you game?’ asked Linda.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Marsh.

  They decided to skip dessert, and coffee, paid up quickly and skipped along to Marsh’s car, holding hands. She said her place was a mess and could they go to his. He said his place wasn’t a mess, but he had an accountant sleeping on his sofa, and please don’t ask for an explanation. They finally settled on the Towerview apartments. Sometimes Linda thought her fate was inextricably linked to those apartments, but at least they were convenient when she felt horny.

  126

  The Last Lesson

  During the course of the morning Walter received three phone calls from different estate agents suggesting commercial properties or developments he might care to invest in. Word was clearly out about his fruit-shop deal. That he was, already, a player. And the thing was, they weren’t wrong. He had money in the bank and a keen eye for his next venture. Everything was starting to smell of roses, or if not roses, at least fruit and vegetables. His lovelife had gone from roaming in the wilderness for more years than he cared to remember, to chaotic, to his current state of happiness. The Linda problem was resolved without his two-timing ways being exposed. He now even had friends in high places. Or at least, one friend in a high place. Mark was with Office 12 and had promised to help Walter out with his little problem. He would use his newfound influence and power to get Margaret out of her difficulty with the Trading Standards Gestapo. Walter had been a little surprised at her pulling such a stunt, but on reflection it fitted in exactly with where her life had been, prior to meeting him - drifting, anchorless on the stormy seas of life. She had lied in her Let’s Be Mates web profile and at their first meeting. The scam with the dresses was surely just an extension of that. The good thing was that, since meeting him, her own, original dress designs had been acclaimed and she was firmly on the road to being as much of a fashion mogul as he was a property tycoon. They were truly a golden couple.

  Walter, in between dealing with fawning estate agents, tried to call Bertha a couple of times during the afternoon, but without success. She was probably out at salsa classes, or kick-boxing. She was an example to every old bat in Belfast. She was full of vim and vigour. And she had her head screwed on. She was the sage of Omagh. She had helped to make him a small fortune, and now he was going to pay her back. After work he took the train home, got changed, bought a box of Milk Tray and a bunch of flowers from the garage, then drove out to see her.

  Walter parked outside, climbed out of the car with the flowers and chocolates already in his hand, only mildly crushing them in the process, then approached the front door. He could see the glow of the television in the front window, and the top of Bertha’s head, just visible above the back of her favourite chair - ‘Frank’s chair,’ she called it - but she clearly wasn’t hearing the bell. She had confessed to being a little deaf, so the volume on the TV was right up: Walter could hear the EastEnders theme through the double glazing. He tried thumping on the front window next, but he still couldn’t attract her attention. Walter moved around to the back of the house, and found that the back door was unlocked. He made as much noise as he could coming in, and called her name out several times. He didn’t want to just suddenly appear and give her a heart-attack or something.

  He made his way through the kitchen and down the hall to the lounge. The door was half-open. He called her name again, and knocked on it before pushing it fully open and venturing in. ‘Bertha,’ he said, ‘it’s only me. I rang the—’

  She didn’t look up, even as he stepped in front of her. Her eyes remained fixed on the television screen, and her hand was hovering above the remote control on the arm of her chair.

  ‘Bertha?’

  She continued to stare through him as if he wasn’t there.

  ‘Bertha, love, are you all right?’

  Still nothing. Walter touched her arm - it was cool, and vibrating slightly. Now that he was so close he could see the shallow movement of her chest and the small trail of drool from the corner of her mouth. She became aware of him for the first time; just a slight movement of her eyes, then she opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words of welcome and explanation, there came a groan, a long, sleekid groan like the yawn of an opening tomb. Walter stood back, shocked. The groan came again. She was trying to say something, but the ability had deserted her. She was left only with the most primeval of sounds. It was meaningless, yet at th
e same time said everything that needed to be said. Walter moved the remote control and turned the sound down. Then he eased her vibrating arm back down onto the arm of the chair and stroked it gently.

  ‘I’ll just call someone,’ he said. He went back out into the hall, located the phone and called an ambulance. There was also a small black address book on the table. He checked it for her beardy nephew Eric’s number and called him. It was his home number, but there was no response. There was also a work number. Even though it was late, Walter called McGympsey, Styles & Cameron and Eric himself answered the phone. Walter quickly explained.

  ‘I knew you were trouble,’ said Eric. ‘I’m on my way.’

  The ambulance people, now that life was back to being just a matter of life and death, and not rioting, promised to be there in ten minutes. Walter sat with Bertha for a while, but she kept making those groaning sounds, so he took the remote control and turned the sound up again. Then he changed the channel. Then he checked the Ceefax for the latest business news. It wasn’t particularly insensitive, there was just nothing else he could think of doing for her, apart from tucking a tartan blanket in around her to keep her warm. Then he remembered why he’d come, and took an envelope out of his jacket and held it up in front of her.

  ‘BERTHA?’ Walter shouted. ‘BERTHA? THIS IS YOUR MONEY, THE MONEY YOU LENT ME AND A SHARE OF THE PROFITS, ALL RIGHT?’ There wasn’t even a flicker of understanding. ‘I’LL JUST PUT IT ON THE MANTELPIECE, ALL RIGHT?’

  Walter showed her the envelope again, then slowly moved it towards the mantelpiece, but as he moved out of her direct line of sight her eyes remained fixed on the TV.

  He propped the envelope up against a photo of her Frank. He turned then and looked at her. Such a vibrant, lovely woman reduced to this.

  ‘BERTHA?’

  Nothing.

  ‘I THINK YOU’VE HAD A STROKE. IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, BLINK YOUR EYES. ONCE FOR YES, TWICE FOR NO.’ Then he thought about that and laughed. ‘I MEAN ONCE FOR YES. CAN YOU HEAR ME, BERTHA?’

  Nothing.

  Eric and the paramedics arrived almost simultaneously. Walter rushed them all through to the lounge. He said, ‘I think she’s had a stroke.’

  Eric said, ‘Let them be the judge of that.’

  A paramedic said, ‘Looks like she’s had a stroke.’

  Eric thrust a pudgy finger at Walter and said, ‘What happened? What did you do to her?’

  ‘I did nothing. I just called round to see her, found her like this.’

  ‘You had a row, you tried to rip her off, the stress of it set this off.’

  ‘No, really. She was just sitting there when I arrived, moaning.’

  ‘Moaning about what?’

  ‘Just moaning. Or groaning. She was already away with the fairies.’

  ‘She was what?’

  ‘How she is now.’

  ‘Away with the fairies? What sort of a way is that to talk about someone?’

  ‘It’s just an expression,’ said Walter.

  The paramedics were calling Bertha’s name, trying to get a response, then talking her through what they were doing, checking her blood pressure, giving her a wee injection, then gently lifting her out of Frank’s chair and strapping her onto a stretcher.

  Eric said, ‘Is she going to be all right?’

  The paramedic said, ‘I hope so,’ but his eyes said the opposite.

  Eric turned angrily to Walter. ‘This is all your fault! She should have been taking it easy, not gallivanting about buying property.’

  ‘Eric, she had more energy than you and me put together.’

  ‘I know about your great deal - well, you needn’t think you’re going to rip her off now she’s near dead. I’ll come after you for every last penny you owe her.’

  Walter pointed to the envelope on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s all there, Eric.’

  Eric glanced at the envelope, but he wasn’t about to demean himself by going across and actually inspecting it.

  The paramedics were just lifting Bertha up when she began to try and say something. Probably it was the injection.

  ‘What’s that, love?’ one of the paramedics said, bending close. Walter could see her lips moving ever so slightly. The paramedic listened, nodding, then smiled at her and patted her hand. He turned to look at Walter and Eric. ‘She says, could someone cancel the Tae kwon do?’

  Walter immediately burst out laughing.

  127

  Office 12

  Marsh woke in agony the next morning. Every muscle in his body ached; every time he turned in bed he had to suppress a groan of discomfort. It was the massage, mostly. The massage and then the sex. He had never experienced anything quite like it - the massage or the sex. Linda was lying beside him in the penthouse apartment at Towerview, sleeping soundly. He felt terrible, but in a good way. The massage had been painful, and the candles might have worked their sensuous charms on a more supple person, but he’d been all but impervious to them; it had been difficult to appreciate them while his spine was being realigned. But the sex. Wow!

  After the early years there had never been much sex in his marriage. They had both just drifted out of it. It was reserved for hard-drinking nights and as a make-up after arguments. But even then it had been quick and unadventurous. He had not been aware of quite how unadventurous until Linda had gone to work on him. She was fantastic. Or, perhaps, most women were fantastic, and he just happened to have been married to one who wasn’t. Or most men were fantastic and he wasn’t. Whatever. Last night had been an eye-opener. He had heard of 69 before, but 99? It was a variation of 69, but required the use of a Cadbury’s Flake.

  Marsh took a shower, dried himself on the showhouse towels, then dressed. There was no coffee or cereal, which was a relief, as he had neither the strength to fill a kettle or wield a spoon. It was a little after 8 a.m. and his plan was to get to Hillsborough as early as he could. When he pulled on his jacket, Linda opened her eyes and said, ‘Is that it then?’

  ‘Is what it?’

  ‘Wham bam thank you ma’m.’

  Marsh sat on the bed beside her, wincing slightly as he lowered himself. He took her hand. ‘Of course it isn’t.’

  ‘I don’t mind. It’s sort of par for the course.’

  ‘Linda, don’t be daft. Last night was … painful. Painful, but also brilliant.’

  ‘Yes, it was. But that doesn’t mean …’

  ‘It does mean. If I have my way, this one is going to run and run.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you climb back into bed then?’

  Marsh smiled. ‘First of all, I would die for sure. I need to rest. Honestly. I would love to. But also I have a job to do.’

  ‘What sort of a job?’

  ‘A case.’

  ‘But you’re retired.’

  ‘I know, it’s just something I have to see through.’

  ‘But you’re retired. They’re not paying you any more.’

  ‘I know that. It’s just something I have to finish.’

  ‘And this is the only one?’ Marsh nodded. ‘And when you finish it, is that you finished?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Marsh. He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.

  She said, ‘I’m not your sister, or your daughter. Kiss me properly.’

  He kissed her properly.

  In the old days there would have been a police guard on the Head of the Civil Service, but Marsh was able to negotiate the twisting driveway which led up to his impressive house unchallenged. Hillsborough Castle, where the Royals stayed when they deigned to visit, was just visible half a mile away as it emerged from the morning mist.

  Richard Bradley, wearing a tartan dressing-gown and with his hair unkempt, answered the door himself. He was a slightly overweight man in his late fifties. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and said, ‘Superintendent Mallow, isn’t it?’

  ‘Retired,’ said Marsh.

  �
��Of course. I forgot.’ He put a relieved hand to his chest. ‘Well, thank God. I saw you walking up to the door and I thought perhaps something had happened to Steven - you know the way, the higher up you rise, the more senior the police officer they send to tell you the bad news. But yes, you’re retired. Unfortunate business, if I read between the lines correctly. Please - come in.’

  Bradley led him down a short hall, and directed him into a lounge on the right. Ahead of him, Marsh saw a kitchen table and a woman’s leg in an identical dressing-gown gently swinging to music from a radio. He didn’t recognise the song. He smelled toast and bacon.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Please, yes.’

  Marsh stayed in the lounge. Every inch of wallspace was devoted to either family photos or official pictures of the Civil Servant posing with members of the Royal Family. In fact, there hardly seemed to be a single member he hadn’t met, from the Queen down to her most distant cousins twice removed. Marsh ignored the Royals and concentrated on identifying Steven Bradley. His father returned before he could find him. He came in carrying two mugs, handing one over.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re not the bearer of bad tidings. That’s always a relief.’

  Marsh gave a little shrug. He sat with his mug and said, ‘I’d like you to tell me what you can about Office Twelve.’