‘The dead head in the water.’
‘The dead head in the water. Wasn’t it awful?’
‘Bit of a shock to the system.’
‘Your girlfriend must have been horrified.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend.’
They had had one date, snogged, and set up another, so technically she was his girlfriend. But they hadn’t exactly said it: You’re my girlfriend. Let’s be boyfriend and girlfriend. And also Walter had detected an ever so slight interest from this Linda Wray, and as lightning had never in his life struck twice in the same place, and given the already bumpy history of his short relationship with Margaret and the racing certainty that it would all go pear-shaped again in the near future, he decided that it was better to keep all options open, all bases covered.
‘Oh. I thought, from the way you … like a lover’s tiff …’
‘We went out twice, that’s all.’
‘I thought you had a row, and you pushed her in the river. I was watching from the balcony.’
‘Good God, no! She jumped in! She’s as mad as a bag of spiders.’
‘Oh I see. She did seem a bit flighty.’
‘So there you go.’
‘Oh. Well. Anyway. So your offer’s been accepted.’
‘Excellent. What happens next?’
‘Well, you’d need to get your mortgage confirmed and—’
‘It won’t be a problem. As you know, Bertha is financing a lot of it.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Bertha - I’d forgotten. How is she?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Great. Excellent. There’s a few things I need you to sign…’
‘I’d really like another look at the penthouse.’
‘Well, why don’t I meet you there? You can sign—’
‘—and have another look round at the same time.’
‘Excellent,’ said Linda.
They arranged a time after work. Walter felt quite flushed when he came off the phone. He glanced across at Mark, who was smiling.
‘What?’
‘I have a Margaret Gilmore holding for you.’
‘Oh. Right.’
Mark shook his head, then transferred the call.
‘Hello you,’ said Walter.
‘Hello you,’ said Margaret.
‘Sorry, I was tied up.’
‘You’re a busy man.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. How’re you doing?’
‘Fine. Great, yeah, tired though. Last night was nice.’
‘Good pizza,’ said Walter.
‘I was thinking,’ said Margaret.
‘That’s always dangerous,’ said Walter.
She laughed. ‘I was thinking - and this is really, really forward, and I won’t be offended if you tell me to catch myself on. But I was thinking, this apartment - you’re still buying it?’
‘Well, there’s a few things to sort out, but yeah, I think so.’
‘And you’re buying it to let it out, aren’t you?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Well, I’m looking for a place.’
Walter hesitated, just for a moment, but long enough for her to leap in.
‘I am being forward, I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, no.’
‘I am. You hardly know me and here’s me trying to—’
‘No, seriously.’
‘I just thought, obviously it would all be done properly, with proper contracts and a rent book - the whole thing. I really like it you see, but I’m not in a position to buy at the moment and I just thought, what’s the harm in asking. But now I wish I hadn’t.’
‘It’s fine. Honestly.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Yeah. But I haven’t bought the place yet. It could be a couple of months before all the paperwork gets sorted.’
‘That’s no problem. As long as I know I’ve somewhere to go.’
They were quiet for a few moments then.
‘Are you all right?’ Margaret asked.
‘Fine. Yes. Just work - difficult to talk.’
‘I know. Look, I really enjoyed last night, and I didn’t even have a nightmare about the head, so that’s how good it was. So let’s not … let’s not ruin things again. Honesty is the best policy.’
‘I totally agree.’
‘And I’ll see you tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow night.’
She gave a little kissing sound, and he gave one back. She put the phone down. When Walter looked up, Mark made a little kissing sound, but didn’t take his eyes off his computer screen.
‘Shut your face,’ said Walter.
‘Shut your own,’ said Mark.
71
Extreme Make-over
Mr Kawolski had been pacing back and forth all morning, making them all nervous. It was an open secret that he had a bit of a thing for Maeve, and even though he had been hopelessly inadequate when it came to showing support for her while her husband lay in a Colombian prison, they knew that was only because he had difficulty expressing his feelings, and because he was the boss, and because he was married with five children and a wife with rheumatoid arthritis with whom he hadn’t had sex in thirty-six months. But he’d helped in his own way. By not keeping too much of an eye on her when she clocked in and out. Fending off press enquiries. Getting her sandwiches from the canteen. But he had heard on the news that her house had been burned down in rioting in West Belfast, and now she hadn’t turned up for work, and he feared the worst.
Margaret kept quiet. She felt dreadful. Maeve had appealed to her for help and she had turned her down. She had been so focused on her date with Walter that she had underestimated the gravity of the situation. It was only when she saw Maeve’s house on fire on the breakfast news that she realised how serious it was. And now Maeve hadn’t turned up for work.
What if she’d been forced to walk the streets all night?
What if she’d been captured by some mad gang and even now was one of The Disappeared?
Margaret was torn. She should have been feeling lighter than air. Everything was going so well. It was funny, the way things could turn round. One moment in a coma, then having sex with her hated husband, then finding a dead head, the next her fashion line being signed up and even now being secretly designed, Walter snogging like a professional and then offering her somewhere to live. Her! In a penthouse apartment! With a new man! And a bright future!
In some ways it was good that Maeve had disappeared. It kept Margaret tethered to reality. Life was short and precarious. She still needed to earn a living. It could be months, years before the money started rolling in. So she hadn’t resigned her job. It was early days yet, but the force was with her. She was sure of that.
Poor, poor Maeve. How callous was I? In her very hour of need, I preferred pizza and a snog.
Out on the floor, a blonde woman in a white trenchcoat slipped a set of white briefs into a carrier bag, then moved on. She’d done it casually, but professionally, dropping the briefs in while reaching forward to look at something else. Another shopper might not have noticed anything, but Margaret was a professional. It wasn’t the three days of training, or the lessons in unarmed combat; it was working on the front line, day in, day out. She was the pile ’em high sell ’em cheap equivalent of a three-tour Gulf War vet. And it was only slightly less dangerous.
Margaret moved towards the thief. She was tall, five ten, her hair cut short and angular. Attractive, confident, even from the back. She wasn’t a one-stop shoplifter, that was for sure, and that was all the better from Margaret’s point of view. One packet of briefs could be an accident, or forgetfulness, but a jumper, a bikini, a pair of shoes and two pairs of black jeans, there was no mistake there. Nor was there a particular pattern to it. As the thief moved from counter to counter, she appeared to lift items at random, irrespective of size or price. She mixed the cheapest T-shirts with the high end stuff (or as high end as Primark got). By the time she began to mo
ve towards the exit, her bag was bulging.
The rule was, you had to wait until they went outside. Only then was it theft, and you could challenge them. But you had no legal powers whatsoever. It was a citizen’s arrest. They’d every right to smash you in the face. Margaret had surreptitiously radioed it in, and now as she followed the thief towards the front doors she made furtive hand signals to three of her colleagues, including Mr Kawolski. She would move in, the others were to lend physical support if needed.
Butterflies flapped in her stomach. This was the exciting bit, this was what made it all worthwhile. Actually - nothing made it worthwhile, but it was the only bit of her work that was vaguely interesting. The fact that she got punched or otherwise assaulted in more than half of these cases only increased the adrenaline.
Just as she was about to take the crucial final step out of Primark, the woman suddenly stopped. ‘God!’ she announced. ‘I nearly forgot to pay!’
Margaret let out an audible sigh as the woman turned slowly - and was surprised to find her smiling widely at the small phalanx of security guards.
‘If you could see your faces!’ she laughed.
Margaret’s mouth dropped open. ‘Maeve?!’
Maeve cackled.
‘Maeve?!’ said Mr Kawolski, moving forward. ‘But—’
‘Your hair!’ cried Margaret.
‘Your hair!’ cried Mr Kawolski.
‘What have you done!’ cried Margaret.
‘Your hair!’ cried Mr Kawolski.
Maeve patted her hair, though there wasn’t much of it to pat. ‘Jack took one look at it this morning and said it would have to go.’
‘Your hair,’ whispered Margaret.
‘Jack?’ said Mr Kawolski.
‘And with half of West Belfast after me, I thought a new look might help.’
‘It takes twenty years off you!’ cried Margaret.
‘Twenty-five!’ cried Mr Kawolski.
‘And I had all my make-up done.’
‘It’s fantastic,’ said Margaret.
‘Jack paid for it all.’
‘Jack?’ whispered Mr Kawolski.
‘The hair, the make-up, the clothes. But he hasn’t seen it yet. What do you think - will he like it?’
‘He’ll love it!’ exclaimed Margaret. She gave Maeve a hug, she couldn’t help herself. The transformation was incredible. It really did take years off her. She’d been a sad refugee from the Hair Bear Bunch. Her hair had frightened men off. But now she was gorgeous. She looked so sophisticated.
‘Yes,’ said Maeve, patting her hair. ‘It’s amazing how shagging all night will encourage a man to get his wallet out.’
Mr Kawolski said, ‘You’re late again, Maeve. This can’t go on.’
‘Oh dry up,’ said Maeve, thrusting the bag of clothes into his chest. ‘I was only seeing how alert youse all were. Excellent work, everyone!’
And with that she strode back through the store towards the staff entrance, her head held high and proud.
72
By Hook or By Crook
Marsh’s first thought was, My God, she’s ravishing.
Photographs did not do her justice at all. Julie Mateer was the third of his admirers from the Let’s Be Mates website, and the moment she stepped through the door into Lemon Grass, and began the short walk towards his table, she turned heads. Even the women watched her pass. She was tall, slim, her black hair cut short, a wide smile, short nose, electric eyes. The seventeen-year-old boy couldn’t even get the, ‘I’ll be your waiter tonight,’ out; he just flushed and mumbled and took her coat, and he could hardly stop himself from pressing it against his face and breathing in deeply as he carried it to the cloakroom. There was just something about her.
Julie Mateer’s website entry said she was thirty-seven and single. She was a sales rep.
Almost before they got started she said, ‘You look sad.’
‘What, at my age, on an internet dating site?’
‘No. I mean, just sad.’
‘Well,’ Marsh laughed, ‘that’s the Civil Service for you.’
She smiled. Obviously he hadn’t mentioned his specific job. And being a police officer was a Civil Service job.
She asked him about his wife, and he began with the usual few, vaguely dismissive details; but she kept asking more questions, and before he was really aware of it he was telling her about how they’d met and his daughter and how they didn’t really get on and how just when things were finally starting to work out, when he was more relaxed about his work - he didn’t mention the Ceasefire and the subsequent drop in body count - and was getting good promotions and the pay that went with it, that that was when his wife had got sick. He’d tried to make up for lost time, but it was too late.
At one point, a tear ran down his cheek and Julie reached across and wiped it away, her touch, and smile, loaded with sympathy and compassion. He hardly remembered what he ate. Outside, she slipped an arm through his and kissed him lightly on the lips.
He said, ‘Do you fancy a drink?’
Julie nodded.
‘It’s late though,’ said Jimmy Marsh Mallow. ‘I’m not sure we’ll get in anywhere.’
‘Let’s go to your place.’
‘You’re sure?’
Julie nodded.
In the car on the way over - he’d had three drinks, but she made him want to chance it - he said, ‘I’m sorry, I must have bored the pants off you, talking about - you know …’
‘No, it was fine.’
‘You hardly got a word in.’
‘I was interested. It hasn’t been easy for you.’
Marsh shrugged. ‘At least I’m here.’
She put her hand lightly on his leg. ‘I know.’
Marsh could feel sweat dribbling down the back of his neck. He hadn’t felt like this in so long. It was like being a teenager again. He had talked ceaselessly of his wife through the three courses of their meal and it had been oddly cathartic to get it out, to finally utter all the depressions and deficiencies of his personal life, while still being careful not to reveal the truth of his profession and the horrors that came with it. But now, on this journey home, which was just a couple of miles, it felt like he was drifting across a continent, that every red light was against him, every roadworks was designed to stop him from having fantastic, wonderful sex with this beautiful woman beside him.
As if she could tell, she said, ‘Relax.’
He nodded. There was no guilt now, about his wife. Or daughter. He just wanted this to be good.
He parked in the driveway and hurried round to open her door. He took her by the hand and led her inside, then hurried into the kitchen to fix her a drink.
She sat in the lounge and called in, ‘I wasn’t expecting it to be so tidy, or to smell so nice.’
He appeared in the doorway, with two drinks. ‘I’m well trained,’ he said.
He gave her her drink, then crossed to the CD-player and put on some early Stones blues covers. They danced. She kissed him long and soft. And then whispered huskily, ‘Where’s your bedroom?’
He swallowed. ‘Top of the stairs, first left.’
She took his hand and led the way. He stumbled once, halfway up, and giggled. She laughed too. He’d made the bed. She smiled and slipped into the en-suite bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, not sure what to do. He dived across and splashed on after-shave. He took his tie off. Then his shoes. She emerged from the en-suite and sat beside him. She nuzzled his neck, kissed his cheek and his ear.
She whispered, ‘We should get the money out of the way first.’
‘What?’
She kissed his cheek again. ‘It just saves - you know - any awkwardness later. I’m really up for this.’
Marsh’s heart was threatening to burst out of his chest. He was drunk, he knew that. She was beautiful, he knew that. But she was - Christ Almighty!
Marsh shot to his feet.
‘What’s wrong, love?’ She reached out to caress the fron
t of his trousers.
He sprang back. ‘Don’t!’
‘I thought you wanted this.’
‘No! Not with … Christ!’
‘What is it?’
‘I didn’t know you were … I didn’t realise you were … You’ll have to go.’
She looked coyly at him. ‘Is this part of your game?’
‘No! Now get out!’ He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.
Her smile faded immediately, her eyes cooled. ‘Get off me!’
‘Then get out!’ He pushed her in front of him, out of the bedroom door towards the stairs.
‘I didn’t come all this way for nothing.’
‘Yes, you did.’
She tried to stop, grabbing the wall on both sides of the stairs, and this time there was a hint of desperation in her voice. ‘Please. Look, you know it’ll be good; it’s only two hundred.’
What scared him more than anything was the knowledge that the money was in his wallet and he desperately wanted to.
‘No!’
He pushed at her, she held on; he peeled the fingers of her left hand off the wall. She let out a little yelp of pain, then let go with her other hand, but she was quite drunk as well and misjudged her step and balance. Before Jimmy could do anything, she was tumbling down the stairs.
He thundered down after her. She was at the bottom, in an untidy heap; deathly still, but only for a moment. She slowly uncurled, sobbing and cursing at the same time. The way she’d fallen, she’d managed to knee herself in the face. There was blood dribbling from her nose and her top lip was split.
‘Oh Christ, oh Christ, look what you’ve done,’ she wailed, although she couldn’t see the damage, and would probably have wailed louder if she could have.
‘I’m sorry, you just slipped,’ said Marsh, kneeling briefly beside her, then rushing into the kitchen to get kitchen roll.
She sat where she was at the foot of the stairs.
‘I’ll drive you home,’ said Marsh, pushing the paper towels into her hand.
‘Get me a taxi!’
Marsh fumbled for a taxi number.
She had a mirror out now, and there came a renewed series of curses.
I Predict a Riot Page 29
