I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Bradley hesitated, then took a sip of his tea. He nodded to himself. ‘James, you’re not here in any official capacity, are you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, is there any reason why I should wish to discuss Office Twelve with you then?’

  ‘Your son works for Office Twelve and there is a possibility that that office might have some connection to a murder case I’m investigating.’

  ‘Really? I understood you had retired.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m doing this on my own time.’

  Bradley pondered that for a moment. ‘What makes you think there’s a connection?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that.’

  ‘James, I’m sorry, that’s the kind of thing a police officer says. You’re no longer a police officer.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  Bradley set his mug down on a coffee table. He sat back and clasped his hands. ‘Tell me what you know, or think you know about Office Twelve.’

  ‘As far as I can determine, it’s a secret department set up within the Civil Service for black propaganda purposes, with the aim of destabilising the political situation here.’

  A smile had appeared on Bradley’s face as Marsh spoke. ‘And your sources for this information are … ?’

  ‘Again, I can’t divulge that.’

  ‘Have you spoken to my son?’

  ‘No, sir, that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Superint— sorry, James, have you any idea how easy it would be for me to cite national security concerns and slap an order on you?’

  ‘I’m aware it can be done.’

  ‘Yes, it can. And you’re probably thinking that if my son’s involved in Office Twelve, then I am as well, that its tentacles reach right into the top tier of Government. That I could lift this phone and call in a squad to pick you up and you might never be seen again. Are you thinking that?’

  ‘It had crossed my mind.’

  ‘And you wish to continue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why, James? One last case before you ride off into the sunset? Something for us to remember you by, something epic, rather than going out with your tail between your legs?’ Marsh just looked blankly at him. Bradley took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You have to understand - this isn’t easy for me. James, we live in a world rife with conspiracy theories; there’s one for every occasion. Except for this one. Do you want to know what’s incredible about Office Twelve?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s not difficult. It quite simply doesn’t exist. There is no Office Twelve. At least, not as you imagine it. It is a figment of my son’s imagination.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Bradley sighed. ‘You see, James, when my son followed me into the Civil Service, he was a bit of a high flyer, being groomed for the top and rising swiftly through the ranks of the Unionist Party. And then - well, he lost it. He became unwell. Steven, my beautiful son, was diagnosed as being borderline schizophrenic.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Marsh. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No reason why you should. I don’t know all the hows and whys of it, but that’s what he is. Good news is, it is quite treatable with the right medication. As I’m sure you’re aware, James, it’s very difficult to actually lose your job in the Civil Service - particularly when your dad is the Head. Steven was turning up for work every day but making a quite dreadful hash of things. It was a very difficult situation. So, with my full agreement, it was decided to move him into his own office, with only the simplest duties to perform, to give him the security and routine of employment with none of the responsibilities, in the hope that with time, and medication, he might return to his old self. The office he happened to move into was Office Twelve.’

  128

  Swap Shop

  Margaret was driving through the Craigantlet Hills, looking down over Dundonald, trying to locate an address which she presumed belonged to a farm. It was her only option: to track down the purchaser of the Primark dress and make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. The Trading Standards people wouldn’t provide the information, citing client confidentiality, but Emma Cochrane was more than helpful: she remembered exactly which women had bought the Primark dresses, because they were all regular customers, and from there it was just a process of elimination. Margaret explained it away by saying that as the dresses were merely prototypes, she wanted to make sure that no problems had developed after purchase - that the stitches hadn’t slipped or the colours faded. ‘Wow!’ said Emma. ‘Talk about customer service!’

  Now she was on the hunt for Kathleen Norton, peering up lanes and trying to decipher faded numbers. The radio was playing ‘See My Baby Jive’ as re-imagined by an electronic frog. It was weirdly hypnotic. Margaret drummed along on the steering-wheel. Just as it finished, she spotted a slurry-sprayed house number and a slightly bent marker pointing up a poorly maintained lane. She’d already gone just a little beyond it by the time she realised what it was, so had to reverse to the opening, then turn in. There was scarcely room for one vehicle; if a tractor came the other way it would have to reverse or plough up a bank and through a hedge to get round her. She was in that kind of a mood. Primed for action, and unwilling to back down.

  Kathleen Norton’s mother was as fat and uncouth as Kathleen was thin and proper. Clearly Kathleen was grooming herself for a physical, mental and stylistic escape from the farming life, and her mother was just as determined to hold onto her. She was, as Mrs Norton wasted no time in telling Margaret, as she sat in the parlour, their only child. ‘She never eats nothing and there’s more muscle on a twig,’ she said, handing Margaret a brimful china cup of tea and a fig roll, no plate. ‘She should be out there helping Jack with the cows, not sticking Carmen rollers in her hair.’

  After ten minutes a somewhat flushed Kathleen came hurrying in dressed as if for a prom, but with a wilting look which suggested she still lacked an invite. She said, ‘My gosh, you came all this way from Emma Cochrane?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Margaret, as if it was perfectly normal. ‘When a tragic error like this occurs, we don’t hang about.’

  ‘An error?’

  ‘Well, as soon as we heard we were absolutely mortified - mortified, I tell you.’

  Kathleen sat on the edge of the armchair opposite Margaret and said, ‘I’m sorry to cause such a fuss. I was just so shocked to see it on sale at such a price. It’s not that I mind paying so much for it - it’s just the thought of every other Millie in town wearing the same dress and thinking that I only paid £18.99 for it as well.’

  ‘Well, that’s perfectly understandable. The fact is, our suppliers made a mistake. A box of dresses meant for us was inadvertently sent to Primark, who obviously wouldn’t know a thousand-pound dress if it walked up and slapped them. They just stuck their usual price tag on and put them out on display. Honestly, I think they weigh the dresses and then decide the price.’

  ‘Does that mean there are dozens of Millies walking around in thousand-pound dresses?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s a tragedy.’

  ‘It makes my dress virtually worthless.’

  ‘Yes, it does. And you had every good reason to take your complaint to Trading Standards. However, although they will sort this mess out, and wrists will be slapped, believe you me, it doesn’t really help your situation very much, does it?’ Kathleen shook her head. ‘And also, the publicity would not be good for us, so Trading Standards, having been made aware of this unfortunate mix-up, have agreed not to pursue the matter if, and only if, you are happy with the compensation we offer you.’

  ‘Compensation?’ This wasn’t from Kathleen, but from her mother, standing in the doorway. ‘Spending a thousand quid on that crap when any fool could see it wasn’t worth more than twenty; if you ask me, she’s her own worst enemy.’

  ‘F**k off, Mum.’

  ‘No, yo
u f**k off.’ Mother Norton turned on her heel.

  Kathleen rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry. She doesn’t approve of me. She thinks I should be out there with my fingers up some cow’s a**e. No sons, you see. Soon as they kick it I’m going to sell up and open my own boutique.’

  From somewhere beyond the door Mother Norton snorted. ‘Boutique! You couldn’t run a marathon!’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Margaret, ‘about the compensation. I have been authorised by Emma Cochrane herself to offer you a full refund on the dress, and also, completely free of charge, to give you this.’

  Margaret opened the plastic bag she’d carried in with her. (Not, thankfully, a Primark bag this time.) She withdrew one of the dresses May Li had made up for the upcoming fashion show, shook it out and held it up.

  ‘What do you think?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What do you mean, what is it?’

  ‘What label?’

  ‘It’s M & Emma.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of that.’

  ‘It’s the first M & Emma ever to be released to the public. When you wear this, you will be the only model - sorry, client - in the entire world to have worn an M & Emma. If any of the fashion magazines hear that one has been released early they will absolutely kill to get a picture of it.’

  Kathleen was feeling the material. ‘How much is it worth?’

  ‘At the moment? It’s priceless. By the time it hits the catwalk, you’re talking thousands.’

  ‘Thousands?’

  ‘Absolutely. Why don’t you try it on?’

  Half an hour later Margaret emerged from the farmhouse, aware of Mother Norton’s stern gaze following her, but barely able to stop herself from smiling. Kathleen was happy with her cheque, even happier with her dress, and had quite willingly sat and texted Kenneth Buchanan at Trading Standards that she was withdrawing her complaint. Now all Margaret had to do was phone him herself and repeat the lie that Emma Cochrane’s suppliers had supplied Primark in error, and that Emma was keen to keep the mistake out of the public eye, as it could easily damage her business.

  ‘And that is what we call a fait accompli,’ Margaret said aloud as she started the engine and began to negotiate the potholes on the narrow lane. She emerged onto the open road, then found a lay-by just a few hundred yards further along. She parked, then sat for several more moments rehearsing what she was going to say. When she was ready, calm, she switched off the radio and dialled Kenneth Buchanan’s direct line. As she waited for it to be picked up she stared out, down the sweep of the Craigantlet Hills and across the fields beyond. There were towns and villages out there, she knew, but the huge swathe of green seemed to stretch uncluttered to the Mourne Mountains in the far distance. She loved the country, although obviously she wouldn’t want to live in it.

  ‘Ken Buchanan’s phone.’

  ‘Ahm, is Mr Buchanan there?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, he’s indisposed.’

  ‘Indisposed? Is that a fancy way of saying he’s popped out for a fag?’ Margaret asked cheerily.

  ‘No. May I help you with something?’

  ‘Well, no, I need to speak to him. Will he be long?’

  The man cleared his throat. ‘Mr Buchanan may be indisposed for several months. I’m afraid he’s in the hospital.’

  ‘Hospital? But I was only talking to him yesterday.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid he’s in the hospital. Broken legs, broken arms, fractured skull.’

  ‘God Almighty, did he crash his car or something?’

  The man hesitated, then said, ‘Between you and me, he did actually pop out for a fag. But they were waiting for him. Paramilitaries. UDA, I think. Beat him really badly.’

  ‘Christ. I’m sorry. When do you think he’ll be back to work?’

  ‘After something like that, who knows? Suddenly, tracking down counterfeit Calvin Klein boxers doesn’t seem so important. So, is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘No. Ahm, give him my best, will you?’

  ‘Sure I will. What’s your—’

  But she had already cut the line. It was funny, she thought, how someone else’s bad news was almost always someone else’s good news, and vice versa. It just depended which end of the equation you were on. It was, as Walter never tired of reminding her, Chinatown.

  129

  A Blast from the Past

  By Wednesday, Redmond was still basking in the reaction to his homily during Sunday’s service. He was a natural. An orator to rival Churchill. He had wowed the congregation with both a glowing appreciation and a damning indictment of his own lately departed self. He had championed war and condemned peace, then he had condemned war and championed peace; he had batted philosophies and morals back and forth, confusing, amusing, exasperating and finally convincing his eager listeners of the sincerity of his beliefs, their wisdom, his own humility, and their deep spirituality. They applauded when he was finished, where normally they were asleep. The collection plate spilled over, where usually there were a lot of Euro cents. He pumped hands at the doorway, where their priest usually quickly scurried away, ashamed of his own performance. Outside they turned to each other and marvelled at the change in their priest, and wondered if he’d been drinking or had developed a personality disorder. Whatever - the reaction was good.

  Redmond felt more relaxed than he had in years. He was putting weight on again. Later on the Sunday and again on Monday he took long walks in the countryside and sat by passive streams, just enjoying them for what they were. For as long as he could remember he had felt weighed down by his own self-imposed responsibilities and felt obliged to fight whatever battle there was going. When he had exhausted the fight out of Ireland, he had transported it abroad. He had begun as a freedom fighter and patriot, and ended as a mercenary. It was like starting out in The Beatles and ending up in The Bootleg Beatles. You looked like a Beatle, you sounded like a Beatle, but you most definitely were not a Beatle. Not even Ringo.

  On the Tuesday morning he did a little gardening. In the afternoon and at night he read theological textbooks from his brother’s small library and practised the rituals of the priesthood. On Wednesday morning he visited two parishioners who were unwell; he sipped a whiskey with one, and played chess with another. After another hearty lunch he slept for a while, then made his way down to the church and sat in the front row, staring up at the icons and the stained glass. He felt a part of it now. He was finally at peace with himself.

  And then he heard the doors open at the back, and heels. He turned to find a woman coming down the aisle towards him, her slim figure and short, blonde hair wonderfully illuminated by the sunlight flowing around her through the open doors. She stopped at the end of the aisle, crossed herself, then turned towards him, and in so doing stepped out of the brightness.

  Redmond’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest. ‘Maeve,’ he whispered.

  ‘Damian,’ she said, and sat beside him. She looked into his face and took his hand; a tear sprang from one eye. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten how much you looked like him.’

  Redmond opened his arms to her and they hugged. He smelled her hair and breathed in her perfume. He fought valiantly to stop himself crushing her against him. She patted his back and smoothed the hair on his head. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know.’

  Redmond released her from the hug, but held on to her shoulders. ‘What do you know, Maeve?’

  ‘I know how much he meant to you.’

  Redmond nodded sadly.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you would speak to me. They’ve turned against me in Belfast.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Redmond. They think you had him cremated with undue haste.’

  ‘Do you think that?’

  ‘I think it would have been nice to bring him home.’

  ‘I just couldn’t face it, Damian - the parades and guns and eulogies. He wasn’t a hero.’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘A hero is someone who s
tays with his family and looks after them. He was never there, Damian.’

  ‘I think he would do it all very differently now.’

  Maeve nodded. ‘We all would.’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But …’

  ‘You drifted apart.’

  ‘Yes. And he lied to me, about what he was doing.’

  ‘He was trying to protect you.’

  ‘No, he was lying because he knew I’d throw him out if I found out.’

  ‘He had strong beliefs, Maeve.’

  ‘He just liked blowing things up.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘It’s the truth. Everyone else gave up bombs years ago.’

  ‘Sometimes everyone else is wrong.’

  ‘You think he was right just to continue on with it?’

  ‘Maeve - he thought what he was doing was right. You have to respect him for that.’

  ‘Why? Do I have to respect whoever shot Kennedy or Gandhi?’

  Redmond blinked at her. He hadn’t even been aware that she knew who Kennedy was, although he had a vague memory of renting Gandhi.

  ‘No, I mean …’ Redmond sighed. ‘Maeve, it’s just good to see you.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Damian. We never saw enough of you.’

  ‘Well, we had differences, Redmond and I.’

  ‘He loved you, Damian.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Oh, he used to talk about you all the time.’

  ‘Did I? I mean, did he?’

  ‘Oh yes. All the time.’ She reached out again, this time taking his hands. ‘Father, Damian, I came for a reason.’

  Redmond nodded. ‘You’re getting married again, and you know you’re doing it with indecent haste, so you want my blessing because you feel bad about it.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Maeve. ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘It’s a small world.’ Redmond wanted to squeeze her hands. He wanted to place them on his body. He wanted to kiss her fingers. ‘Do you love this man?’