I Predict a Riot
Page 19
‘No, not really,’ said Mark. ‘A little.’
‘Nothing to worry about, really,’ said the man. ‘But let me guess - you’re brimful of ideas about how to reinvigorate the Party, how to win the next election, how to pull this country together. You’ve been working on your spiel for months, you’re going to dazzle them with your grand vision.’
Mark cleared his throat. ‘Well, something like that. Not quite as—’
‘Let me give you a word of advice.’
Mark nodded.
‘I have found that if you give answers which are what they want to hear, rather than what you genuinely believe, then you’ll do a lot better. Quite often, that will mean saying precisely the opposite of what you feel.’
‘But why would I do that?’
‘Because they are old men and are scared of change. And as a rule, people don’t like to hear that they’ve been doing a bad job. Especially from someone who has never held public office or run a campaign or gone knocking from door to door. Do you get what I’m saying?’
‘Yes - yes, of course. It’s just not a very good way to start out - I mean, telling lies, and shouldn’t I be, you know, true to my beliefs?’
‘Of course you should - but later. You have to get past this hurdle first. It’s just the way the Party’s set up; the old fogies do all the administrative stuff. They do it out of love of Ulster; there’s plenty of young pups would do it quicker and better, but they’d want to be paid. These guys do it for nothing. So if I were you I’d just grin and nod and tell them what they want to hear.’
The guy took a sip of his coffee, winked and backed into the other room, just as the first man reappeared at the door of the library.
‘Now, son, come on in.’
Mark stood up and followed him. He had been preparing his grand political vision for weeks and months, and now one fella with a cup of coffee had shattered it. But what did he know? Maybe that was all he did, make the coffee. Maybe he was some kind of half-wit who hung around Unionist HQ cleaning the sinks. Yet, just like the old guy who’d welcomed him, there was also something quite familiar about him. And also appealing. They had only exchanged a few words, but he already seemed like he would be a good man to go on a long drive with. Entertaining, funny, charismatic, with good stories, who could hold his drink and keep your secrets.
Mark took his seat. The old men shuffled papers. They pointed at things and whispered. Then one said, ‘Mark - you work in the Department of Education in Bangor.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Martin McGuinness was in charge there for a while. Tell me, how did you find him?’
Mark blinked at him. What he wanted to say was, ‘Contrary to expectations, he was a breath of fresh air.’
But he couldn’t. And then it came to him suddenly who it was he’d been talking to outside. Jesus Christ. The pink shirt! Pink Harrison. Pink bloody Harrison. He was a Unionist councillor! Of course he was! One of the things Mark had intended to say, if pressed upon the future of the Party, was that they shouldn’t recruit just anyone in order to get elected, and he would have used Pink Harrison as an example. Once a gangster, always a gangster, was his view on it.
‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘obviously his IRA background was very difficult to ignore. We all like to move on, but even so.’ He cleared his throat. The three men looked at him expectantly. ‘He had some interesting ideas, but really, he wasn’t going to last. I mean - signs in Irish, what next?’
The men smiled and nodded. And that was the pattern for the next forty-five minutes. He became quite comfortable with all the lying. When they finally ran out of questions, the man in the middle stood and without consulting with his colleagues extended his hand and said, ‘Welcome to the Party, Mark.’
Mark gave it a firm shake, then repeated it with the others.
‘You seem like a fine young man,’ said the one on the left.
‘Exactly what this Party needs,’ said the one on the right.
‘Good chap,’ said the one in the middle.
‘Now then,’ said the one who had brought him in. ‘You should meet the man you’ll be working with. It’ll be no picnic, mind - you’re prepared for hard work?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘For God and Ulster?’ ‘Absolutely.’
They all smiled and nodded.
‘Good man. Now you wait here, I’ll go and get Pink.’
46
The Name of the Game
Margaret checked her appearance three times in shop windows on her way to Emma Cochrane. She was wearing a white T-shirt, black jeans, Jimmy Choo heels (or at least a knock-off version she’d bought at Knutts Corner) and a determined smile. This was make or break. Like many people with big dreams she lacked confidence, and was willing to accept defeat at the first possible opportunity. For every positive that found her, there was a larger negative she could provide all by herself. Yes, she had been given an astonishing opportunity to kick off her career as a fashion designer, yet it was based on a lie. She had got rid of her very annoying husband and strode out bravely into the world - then had sex with him as soon as she faced her first real crisis. She was talented and ambitious, but also quite pathetic.
Her stomach rumbled. She’d been too nervous to eat breakfast, and had slipped out of Primark on her lunch break. She was now just a couple of doors down from Emma Cochrane. She could really do with something to eat to settle herself. She peered across the road at Irma La Deuce. Perhaps she could pop over for a slice of carrot cake and a coma. She wondered how things had really gone with her colleague Maeve and her attempts to screw some compensation out of the cafe’s owner, Jack Finucane. Maeve had been curiously reticent, merely saying that ‘negotiations were continuing’. Somehow, she doubted that. More that Maeve wasn’t quite as smart or ruthless as she thought she was.
Margaret took a deep breath.
Okay, be strong. Be confident. You’re a winner. Think of Oprah! Maggie Thatcher! Martha Stewart!
And then she remembered that Martha Stewart had ended up in prison for something fairly trivial. What would happen to her if they found out she’d ripped off her dress designs from—
‘Margaret!’
The shop door was already open and Emma Cochrane came charging out, or at least moving as fast as she could on towering heels. She enveloped Margaret in her sinewy arms. Margaret wasn’t overweight by any stretch of the imagination, but compared to Emma Cochrane she felt like a rhino. As Margaret hugged her back, it felt like she was embracing a birdcage.
‘Oh, it’s so good to have you back! Come in! Come in!’
Emma took Margaret by the hand and led her into the shop. Louise, her fashion buyer, was behind the counter. ‘Welcome home!’ she cried. ‘It only took us three days to get rid of the smell of boke!’
‘Oh shush, Louise. It’s been like forever, Margaret darling. And you’re well? You’re looking well. That’s a lovely top - is it one of yours?’
‘No, no … I …’
‘This is so exciting!’
Emma asked for all the details about her health and recuperation, but before Margaret could properly respond she rushed onto the designs and whether she’d had any further inspiration. Margaret said no, she’d been in a coma, and since then, a bit fatigued, a bit down. Emma made big sympathetic eyes, then produced the original designs Margaret had given her. They discussed some minor changes, then moved onto materials and production costs and who was best to do the actual physical dressmaking. It went extremely well, and after an hour or so of discussion, everything seemed to be agreed. Margaret had relaxed considerably, and they laughed and joked and joshed like old pals. Margaret glanced surreptitiously at her watch - she was well past her lunch hour by now - but Emma noticed and said, ‘We must let you go.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No panic.’
‘Well, I know what it’s like - rushed off my feet, I am. Let me just get you this …’ She reached behind the counter and pulled out a Manila envelope. From within
she produced quite a thick document and handed it to Margaret. ‘I had my solicitor draw this up. He’s a whiz at business things, and he’s worked with all the big fashion houses in Belfast. It’s just to clarify what we’ve discussed really, how much you’ll get. I think you’ll find it’s a rather satisfactory amount. Obviously there’s not that much upfront, but it’s a royalty thing really. If you just look - there …’
Margaret studied the figures. Emma was right. There wasn’t much upfront. Five hundred quid. But she thought the royalty rate was quite generous.
‘That looks fine, fine,’ said Margaret. ‘Do you have a pen?’
Louise laughed.
Emma said, ‘Oh no - no rush, darling. You take it away and study it, get your people to check it out, but I’m sure they’ll say it’s more than fair.’
‘Yes, I mean, I just need your email address so I can … You know, if I have any new ideas I can send them over.’
Louise quickly handed her a pen and she wrote it down on the back of the envelope.
‘So all that leaves really is the name,’ said Emma.
Margaret looked up. ‘The name?’
‘Do you know, I’m completely torn. Do you think it should be just Emma, or Emma Cochrane?’
Margaret found herself momentarily speechless.
‘Louise thinks Emma Cochrane is fine for Belfast, but to go international, Emma might be better. Or perhaps emma, you know, with a small e. Or even M, capital letter, and the word Ah.’
‘Or Cochrane on its own,’ said Louise. ‘Although women might be put off by anything with a cock in the name.’
Margaret stared at Louise for a moment, then returned her attention to Emma, who could clearly see that she wasn’t happy. ‘What’s wrong, darling?’ she asked.
‘Well, sorry, but I sort of presumed … well, they’re my designs.’
‘Yes, of course they are.’
‘Well, I thought they would carry my name.’
‘Your name?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
Emma looked genuinely surprised.
‘Call them Margaret?’ asked Louise.
‘Well, not necessarily Margaret, but …’
‘Gilmore?’ asked Louise. She was starting to annoy Margaret.
‘And why not?’ said Margaret, with slightly more resolve. ‘They’re my designs.’ She was aware that it sounded petulant. She was aware that she was looking a gift horse in the mouth, and sticking spurs into its flanks.
Emma said, ‘But, darling …’
‘You’re separated from your husband, aren’t you?’ Louise asked suddenly.
‘Yes, but …’ Margaret said in surprise.
‘Just thinking. If you had a sexier maiden name, we might be able to work with that.’
Emma gave her a frosty look.
Margaret said, ‘Margaret Wilson.’
Louise snorted. Emma laughed. Even Margaret couldn’t resist a smile. An international fashion line called Wilson.
Emma sighed. She took Margaret’s hand. ‘Look, darling, I understand how you feel, I really do, but to be perfectly frank, this isn’t open to negotiation. I’ve been building awareness of the Emma Cochrane brand in Belfast for nine years. If I’m going to invest in this line, then it absolutely has to carry my name.’
There was an undoubted coolness in the air now. Margaret took her hand back.
‘Believe me, darling,’ said Emma, ‘it’ll be for the best. And I have to tell you, the top fashion houses employ designers all the time, and they’re delighted just to be there. They don’t even consider the possibility of using their own name, not when they’re just starting out.’
Margaret looked at her. She wanted to say, ‘But you’re not one of the top fashion houses. You’re a little boutique on the Lisburn Road in Belfast that nobody’s ever heard of, and these are my designs and they should carry my name.’
Instead she said, ‘I understand completely. But I’ll have to think about it.’
Emma nodded. ‘We’d really like to get started as soon as we can.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Margaret.
Five minutes later, they’d hugged and said their goodbyes. But outside the shop, Margaret found that she was shaking. Her legs felt suddenly weak. She hated the fact that she was still called Margaret Gilmore, because it reminded her of that creep she’d married. But it was still her name, and she would be damned if she was going to give it up for Emma bloody Cochrane, darling.
47
Rest in Peace
The call came shortly after midnight on a Friday, long after Martin Brown, the British Ambassador to Colombia, had let the staff go home. He was already dozing off in the master bedroom of his official residence in Bogotá. A fan spun relentlessly above him, like a crashed helicopter, but never seemed to make the room any cooler. He found the heat oppressive but the women beautiful. There was one beside him in the bed right now. She had lovely olive skin, and in his half-asleep state he began to wonder how the name Olive had ever come to represent plainness in British women. He tried hard to think of anyone even remotely pretty who had ever been called Olive. It wasn’t a name you heard any more. Like Bertha and Cecil …
He was still thinking about names, and only vaguely aware of a ringing sensation, when the olive-skinned girl growled angrily and snatched the receiver off the bedside table and spat something guttural into it. Then she listened for a moment and wordlessly began to tap the receiver on the Ambassador’s brow, each tap a little harder. Eventually his eyes opened.
‘What?’ he mumbled, batting at his head as if a big fly in steel boots was dancing on his forehead. Then he focused enough to become aware of the girl glowering down at him. She wasn’t much more than seventeen. She had cost him the equivalent of £5.50; she was cheaper than cocaine. Brown groggily took the receiver.
‘Ambassador Brown?’
‘Yes? What time is it?’
‘Ambassador Brown, this is Doctor Mendoza at La Picota prison. I regret to inform you that the British citizen Redmond O’Boyle died this evening.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Brown.
The Ambassador got off the phone as quickly as he could, then hustled the olive girl out of bed. She wasn’t happy at all, but was placated by another £5.50. He let her out of the back door himself, then called his driver. By the time he’d showered and changed into a dark suit his car was waiting out front. The journey to La Picota could take up to two hours during the day, depending on the traffic, but he was whisked there in thirty minutes on largely empty roads. On arrival he was hurried into the administrative block, then ushered into a small office. Dr Mendoza introduced himself, then nodded at the tanned young woman sitting opposite him.
‘And you’ve met Miss O’Rourke. Sin Fine.’
‘Sinn Fein,’ Siobhan corrected.
‘Yes, of course,’ said the Ambassador.
Siobhan wiped at a tear. ‘Poor, poor Redmond.’
‘It is unfortunate.’
‘It’s a bloody tragedy!’
He blinked at her for several moments, then returned his attention to the doctor. ‘You say it was an infection?’
‘Yes, Ambassador - regrettable but unfortunately very common. It is the climate. And the prison, it is not perfect, no? I signed the death certificate at ten-thirty p.m. Now if you will accompany me, you may examine the body.’
Dr Mendoza led them down a short corridor. Flies buzzed. Brown’s suit was already stuck to him. As they walked he noted Siobhan’s flowing earth-mother skirt and cheesecloth shirt. No bra.
Dr Mendoza nodded at the guard standing outside the makeshift morgue and opened the door. Brown wondered why they needed a guard outside a morgue, but didn’t ask. It was Colombia. Inside, it was scarcely any cooler. A young nurse sat by a trolley on which there was a body covered by a green sheet.
Dr Mendoza said, ‘Maria?’
The nurse nodded, stood, took a deep breath then pulled back the sheet far enough to reveal Redmond O’Boyle’s face.
There was a sudden flash of light. Brown’s head shot to his left.
‘Please - no!’ Dr Mendoza shouted, waving angrily at Siobhan.
She had a disposable camera in her hand. ‘Just one more,’ she said quite calmly.
‘Really, I must insist,’ said Dr Mendoza.
‘What on earth?’ said the Ambassador.
Siobhan changed her angle. ‘We must have a record of this. It’s like Che Guevara.’
She flashed once more before Dr Mendoza stepped in front of her. ‘No camera,’ he said. Then he nodded at Maria, and she quickly dropped the sheet back down over the corpse.
‘Really,’ said the Ambassador, ‘this is most inappropriate.’ He didn’t like her at all. They had had several brief telephone conversations about Redmond O’Boyle since she’d arrived in the country, and she had always come across as rather haughty and insincere; in reality, that was his job. Also, there always seemed to be water lapping in the background, as if she was talking to him from a lilo. ‘The poor man should be allowed his dignity,’ said the Ambassador.
Siobhan exploded: ‘A dignity you robbed him of by allowing him to die in this rat-hole!’
The Ambassador shook his head sadly.
‘Just you wait!’ Siobhan shouted. ‘Don’t you realise how bad this is going to look in the newspapers back home?’