I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Yeah, with my luck.

  No!

  My luck has changed.

  And because at heart I am a good person, God, after years of taking the p**s, has decided that I am worthy of favour.

  I didn’t give her a lift home and fix her shower because I knew about her big house, I helped her out because that’s the kind of guy I am. If she chooses to reward me, then that is her affair.

  Walter nodded self-righteously. He drove a little further, he changed the radio station, he tapped along in time to Abba. And then the dark side began to creep in again. What if he did manage to insert himself into Bertha’s will? Her obscure relatives would certainly contest it. And they’d go to the press. He’d be portrayed as the scheming handyman who forced a senile old woman to change her will.

  What would Margaret think of that?

  And what if Bertha changed her will, and then didn’t oblige him by dying quickly? What if she lived to be 125? That wouldn’t be fair, would it? After all, she’d had a good innings.

  No! Don’t even think it! But Walter couldn’t get the thought out of his head. What if she changed her will and then accidentally fell down the stairs? Or what if she was bending to get chips out of the chest freezer and she inadvertently lost her balance and fell in, and somehow the lid came down on top of her? Or what if that nice handyman insisted she hadn’t taken her medicine that morning and somehow persuaded her to take 200 times her normal dose?

  Walter sighed as he stopped at a traffic-lights. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a murderer, and he wasn’t a property developer, and you needed the killer instinct for both. It was a nice house. It was a lovely house. But Bertha wasn’t just going to give him it, no matter how many curtain rails he straightened out.

  As he waited for the lights to change, he glanced to his left. There was a tiny terraced house, close to the road, with a For Sale sign screwed to the side of it. Beneath it there hung a small appendage: Under Offer. He wondered how much it was worth. And then how much had been actually offered.

  What if he made Bertha an offer for her house? It was a huge old place, and clearly too big for her to cope with. What if he found out the true value of the house, and then made her a somewhat lower offer? He wouldn’t be cheating her. He would be doing exactly what a property developer would do. It was just business. He wouldn’t pressure her into selling.

  He would say, ‘If you ever felt like selling, then I’d love to buy it.’

  And she would say, ‘Well, I really don’t know what it’s worth.’

  Walter would say, ‘I’ve been checking around, and I reckon it’s worth such and such.’

  Bertha, having lived through wars and rationing and being able to get into the movies in exchange for a jam jar, would say, ‘That sounds like an awful lot of money,’ and sell it to him there and then. She would add, ‘You will look after the old place, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ he’d reassure her, while picturing the bulldozers moving in to flatten it, and the luxury apartments he would build.

  There was a blast from behind; the lights had changed. Walter waved an apology in the mirror, and drove on.

  Who am I kidding? he thought wearily. It’s not going to happen. She’s an old woman. Old women spend their lives complaining. She has no intention of selling. She was just moaning for the sake of it.

  In fact, she’s the smart one. Pretending to nearly get knocked down, then using me to fix every damn thing in her house. She’s saving herself a fortune. She probably has half a dozen guys coming round doing things for her, all in the hope of some day getting their hands on her property.

  Five minutes later, still alternating between wild ambition and doomed reality, Walter parked outside Margaret’s house. Perhaps he should talk to her about it. She seemed to have her head screwed on. Yeah. Maybe she’d like to get involved - they could pool their resources, make a combined offer for the house. They could live there together while they fixed it up. And then they’d fall in love with it themselves and instead of selling it on, it would become their home.

  Walter sighed. One step at a time.

  He checked himself in the mirror. Glasses on, glasses off? He left them on. That reminded him, he had to decide whether to go back for his laser eye-surgery. So much had happened since, with Margaret falling into a coma and then his hanging around the hospital, that he’d quite forgotten about it. Walter climbed out of the car. Here I go - the Milk Tray Man.

  It was different this time. Before, he’d been chancing his arm. This time he was invited.

  She liked him. She fancied him. They were a couple, almost. Walter rang the bell. He heard footsteps on the stairs. He had a Polo in his mouth. He crunched as much as he could of it, then swallowed the rest. She might kiss me.

  Walter smiled widely as the lock was turned and the door opened.

  ‘Hope I’m not—’

  But it wasn’t Margaret. It was Billy. He had no shirt on. There was sweat on his brow.

  ‘Oh,’ said Walter.

  Billy smiled. ‘What do you want, you speccy fat clown?’

  Walter shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Then f**k away off.’ Billy closed the door.

  Walter stood there, completely frozen, his head pounding. He heard Margaret’s voice, calling from inside, upstairs. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘No one,’ Billy shouted back.

  37

  Reap What You Sow

  Billy came back into the bedroom. She recognised his supercilious I’ve got one over on you grin immediately, but couldn’t think what it might be in aid of. He went to pull the quilt back, but she held onto it.

  ‘Who was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, some clown.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him I was upstairs shagging.’

  ‘You did not.’ He pulled at the quilt again. She held fast.

  ‘Give me some credit. Said I was in the shower.’

  ‘So who was it really?’

  ‘Take a wild guess.’ He pulled, she held on. He let go and folded his arms.

  ‘The Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘The Osmonds?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Gypsy pegs?’

  ‘Getting colder.’

  ‘It wasn’t actually a clown? Are Fossett’s back in town?’

  ‘Let me into the bloody bed and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  ‘No.’

  She pulled the quilt firmly down and tucked it beneath her bum on either side. ‘It’s time you were going anyway,’ she said.

  Billy looked surprised. ‘Aye, right.’

  ‘Please, Billy.’

  ‘Wise up,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve done what you wanted. So please.’

  ‘You don’t want to go again?’

  She started to laugh, then stopped herself. But not soon enough to prevent him from looking hurt. ‘It’s not a good idea,’ she said quickly. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Billy snapped. He turned to look for his trousers. They were in a crumpled heap on the floor at the bottom of the bed. Margaret looked across at her own clothes, folded onto a chair. Their neatness reminded her of the way a suicide might fold their clothes on the beach before walking into the sea.

  Billy giggled suddenly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Margaret wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing.’ As he pulled on his shirt, he laughed again, but it wasn’t a nice laugh. Kind of mean. She recognised it. ‘You should have seen his face.’

  Margaret’s brow furrowed. ‘What?’

  Billy just kept smiling. He pulled a shoe on, then put his foot down on top of Margaret’s clothes as he bent to tie it.

  Behind him Margaret suddenly shrieked. ‘Oh my God!’

  Billy snorted.

  ‘It was Walter - I completely forgot!’

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t have been up for another shag so soon anyway, would
you?’

  ‘You b***ard!’

  ‘Whatever.’ Billy pulled on his jacket.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘Didn’t have to say anything. He’s a man, after a fashion, so he could tell.’

  ‘You complete and utter b***ard!’

  Billy shook his head. ‘I’m not a b***ard, Margaret. I’m a bloody fool. I’ve just paid three grand for a crap shag with my ex-wife. I feel pretty bad about it, but I’m sure you feel a hundred times worse. Even at three grand, you must feel pretty cheap.’

  With that, he walked out of the room and down the stairs. When he reached the bottom he shouted back up, ‘Call me when you want to do it again!’

  She heard the door slam. She buried her head in the pillows and cried, and cried, and cried, and cried.

  Oh, what a fool I am, she thought. Oh, what a bloody fool.

  Walter was in a bar off Great Victoria Street. He’d downed three pints and three shorts and was now sitting with a pint of Guinness. He was shell-shocked. He was still trying to compute what had happened, desperately trying to concoct an alternative explanation for Billy’s half-naked presence at Margaret’s house:

  He was having dinner with his ex-wife, and spilled gravy on his shirt. It was being cleaned when Walter called.

  Billy’s shower is broken, so Margaret allows him to call round and use hers.

  Billy had stripped off in an attempt to seduce his ex-wife, but she had rejected him.

  Margaret was giving him a massage.

  She had a sudden urge to count the freckles on Billy’s back.

  She hurled The Da Vinci Code across the room, yelling, ‘I’d rather have sex with my ex-husband than read any more of this crap!’ and he was round like a shot.

  Or, Margaret was making love with her husband because she felt like it. It was her perfect right to do so. She hardly knew Walter. Okay, so it was a bit sordid, having sex with anyone immediately before your ‘date’ was due to arrive, but it wasn’t illegal.

  Walter sighed. He couldn’t get Billy’s smug grin out of his head. He ordered another drink.

  This was his life. He built himself up. He built other people up. And always, always, there was disappointment. It was like football. It was ultimately disappointing, because in the end, your team always got beaten. Of course, some teams were better than others. (And Chelsea won nearly all the time, which probably made the occasional loss easier to bear.) But if Walter had to be a football team, it would be one that had just been relegated from the Irish League, and its top player had had his legs broken by a gang with baseball bats.

  Walter hated himself, and his life.

  Then his mobile phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number - although, that said, being three sheets to the wind, he could barely make it out.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Walter? It’s Margaret.’

  Silence.

  ‘Walter - I’m so, so sorry.’

  Silence.

  ‘Please, Walter - I can explain. I … he … shouldn’t have … He wasn’t meant to … I mean, I didn’t mean to … Oh Christ, will you say something?’

  Silence.

  ‘Walter, please. I’m really sorry and I can explain. I was stuck, I didn’t have enough money and … No, look, it just doesn’t come out right. I mean, it can never come out right because I’ve done a terrible thing - but if I could just talk to you face to face … Oh God, Walter, I’m sorry, please talk to me.’

  Walter cut the line.

  He stared at his phone. Then he stood and hurled it at the bar. The barman ducked down just in time and it smashed into one of the optics behind him. The barman raised himself slowly, then threw himself to the ground again as Walter’s empty pint glass crashed into the optics as well. Another empty glass followed, then another; then he lifted a full pint from the next table and threw it. Walter picked up a table. It sailed through the air and shattered the huge mirror. Half a dozen chairs followed. Everything he could find, he launched at the bar. All around him, other drinkers dived for safety as Walter screamed in agony and torment, the heartbreaking screech of a damaged soul.

  Then the bouncers came in and punched his lights out.

  38

  Fly Away Home

  They opened the cell door at six the next morning. The Legal Aid solicitor had been and gone, having witnessed Walter make his tearful statement of admission, during which he had apologised profusely and wailed about the treachery of women and the inevitability of losing his job if this got out. He had destroyed property worth thousands of pounds and was resigned to a life sentence without the possibility of parole, but the cops kind of peed on his dizzying spiral of paranoia by merely cautioning him and telling him that he’d been a very naughty boy.

  ‘What about all the damage?!’ Walter protested.

  ‘It’s only some glass, a table and some spilled drinks. Relax. It’s not the end of the world.’

  But it was the end of the world. His world. He actually wanted to be punished, he felt so miserable. He deserved it for being such a meaningless, hopeless, spineless specimen. He was a pathetic human being. Everyone thought so. Especially Margaret, who had all but laughed in his face. Screwed in his face. But the bar-owners weren’t interested in pursuing him because their licence was up for review soon and they didn’t want anything to leak out which might place their upmarket drinking establishment in a poor light, like their bouncers pounding on a poor heartbroken man’s face. If a passing police patrol hadn’t intervened, Walter would have looked even more horrendous than he currently did. As it was, his nose was crushed and his eyes were swollen, and he’d a long scrab wound along his cheek. One of the bouncers was a woman. She was built like a brick sh*t-house, but still fought like a girl.

  ‘So you’re free to go.’

  ‘Free to go?’

  ‘Yes, your lift is here.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  Walter had been very drunk when they brought him in, and had only the vaguest of memories as to who he had given as his next-of-kin. Mark, he supposed. Great. That was all he needed now. He liked Mark a lot, but didn’t want sarcastic comments with his life in such a dire state.

  Walter signed some papers, and was given his meagre belongings back. They had even retrieved his mobile phone. Then he limped through the front doors of the Donegal Pass police station and saw Bertha standing there, smiling at him.

  ‘Oh God,’ he groaned.

  ‘Walter,’ said Bertha.

  ‘I’m sorry - I was drunk. I didn’t even know I called you. You really don’t have … I mean, I can get a taxi.’

  ‘Nonsense. Is there anyone at home to make you a cup of tea?’

  Walter shook his head.

  They drove towards Bertha’s house. It was early yet and there was little traffic. Walter sat slumped in the passenger seat, his head down, morosely staring at the floor.

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ said Bertha.

  ‘I’m not exhausted,’ replied Walter. ‘I’m mortified.’

  ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘What sad state is my friggin’ life in that you’re the only person I can think to call to get me out of jail?’

  Bertha smiled. ‘Well - what sad state is my friggin’ life in that I’m so happy to do it?’

  Walter looked up at her and smiled at last. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  He shook his head. ‘What are we like,’ he said.

  They sat at the kitchen table, which itself sat slightly unevenly on the linoleum floor. Walter said he would fix it later. His nose throbbed and he had difficulty breathing through it because it was clogged with dried blood. His head was sore. And he was exhausted, but he couldn’t face sleeping because he knew he would have nightmares.

  ‘You think you’ve got problems?’ said Bertha. ‘I’m eighty-five years old. I’m in perfect health, but it’s like someone’s set the o
ven. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Not if I’d set it. It would never go off.’

  ‘So a long time ago I decided to live every day as if it was my last.’

  ‘You mean lie in bed and moan a lot.’

  ‘No, I mean, enjoy myself.’

  ‘You mean buying plates and vases and shi— stuff like that.’

  ‘Yes. And paragliding.’

  ‘Paragliding?’

  ‘It’s fantastic. Have you ever tried it?’

  ‘No, nor will I. Far as I’m concerned, there’s but a short step from paragliding to paraplegic. Anyway, where’d you paraglide round here? Didn’t think we had the weather for it.’

  ‘Not here. Florida. I spend six months of the year on the Gulf Coast.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Fantastic.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ She smiled at the memory of it. Then, when they’d been silent for a couple of minutes, she reached across and gently put her hand on top of Walter’s. ‘What’s the matter with you, son?’

  He looked at her and suddenly felt like crying. ‘Nothing. Everything. What can I say? My life’s all fu**ed up, and has been for as long as I can remember. This, with her, was just the final straw.’

  He had told her briefly about Margaret on the way home. She had merely nodded, without commenting.

  ‘You seem such a nice man.’

  ‘Well, you don’t really know me.’ He sighed. ‘It’s just … I’ve always had all these dreams and plans, you know, about meeting the right woman, settling down and having children, and getting out of the bloody Civil Service and getting into property and becoming really rich and successful. Becoming someone - but that’s all they ever bloody are, dreams. You wake up in the morning and they’re gone.’