I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘Glasses.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He set the bottle down and began opening cupboards. ‘It’s a furnished apartment, but not that furnished. We’ve nothing to drink out of.’

  Linda moved to her handbag, sitting on the counter. ‘I brought these.’ She produced a small funnel of slightly squashed paper cups.

  ‘Excellent! Now we’re in business!’

  He returned to the bottle and popped it open as Linda squeezed the cups back into shape before extracting two and holding their bases as Walter poured.

  ‘I actually prefer Asti to champagne,’ said Linda. ‘Sweeter taste.’

  ‘Horses for courses,’ said Walter. His eyes flicked up to her. ‘I mean, it’s good to be honest about things, isn’t it? If you don’t like something you should say so. I can’t stand mushrooms.’

  The wine fizzed up over the edge of both cups and spread out across the counter. Linda immediately removed a kitchen roll from her handbag.

  ‘Everything but the kitchen sink in there,’ said Walter.

  ‘Oh, it’s like the Tardis. There is actually a kitchen sink in here. Just in case of emergencies.’

  They lifted their cups and knocked them gently together.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Linda.

  ‘Fandabidozi,’ said Walter.

  ‘To your wonderful penthouse!’

  ‘To you for setting it all up.’

  ‘And your brilliant career as a property tycoon.’

  ‘And to yours. It’s like that film …’

  ‘Glengarry Glen Ross. There’s not an estate agent in the world hasn’t seen that.’

  ‘That’s the one. You get all the leads, and you’re a real closer. You’re like Al Pacino, but much prettier.’

  She smiled. They both drank. An hour later, Walter popped out for another two bottles. An hour after that, they were lying in bed together. Sex had been frenetic and awkward and strange.

  Walter was thinking: This never happens to me.

  Linda was thinking: I am cheap and horrible and he’ll think this is part of the deal.

  Walter was thinking: Great breasts.

  Linda was thinking: What the hell else did I expect, flirting away with him like that, getting him drunk. He’s nice but he’s not that nice, and he’s not exactly in shape, and he’s a three-minute wonder - but then who the hell am I to talk. Look at the state of me. Thank God the lights are off. How am I going to get my clothes on without him seeing me?

  Walter was thinking: I hardly had to do anything, she really fancies me. Is this what it’s like when you have money behind you - women just fall at your feet? She’s nice ‘n’ all, and she’s very serious, but the sex was good. Let’s face it, it’s been years, so any sex is good - but what do I do now? How do I get out of here? And how do I get back into my clothes without her seeing the size of my belly?

  They lay in the darkness of the penthouse master bedroom, the curtains open, the lights of Belfast spread out below the shadow of the Cave Hill with its single red light flashing to stop aeroplanes crashing into it. The paper cups, half-empty with flat wine, sat on matching bedside tables. Their heads were beginning to ache.

  Linda said, ‘It’s a fixed mortgage you’re going for.’

  ‘I thought it was better. We’re putting half the money down, and then we’ll hopefully pay off the rest with the rent.’

  ‘It’s a good market at the moment.’

  They were silent for another little while. There wasn’t even the ticking of a clock, or the murmur of life in other apartments. They were all still empty.

  ‘That ice-maker is a cracker,’ Walter said eventually. ‘The parties I can have here.’

  ‘But aren’t you renting it out?’

  ‘Yeah, but in between I can. Every time I buy another property I’ll have a party here. And of course I’ll use you every time.’ It sat in the air for several long moments. Then Walter added: ‘I mean I’ll use your company. You. And your company. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

  Linda thought: You’re no Humphrey Bogart.

  Walter thought: I’d love to fly one of those old planes.

  Linda thought: He’s not even Paul Henreid.

  Walter thought: Across the desert, with the Nazis in pursuit.

  Linda thought: Maybe a younger Claude Rains, not in looks, temperament.

  Walter thought: That Ingrid Bergman, I’d have her.

  Linda thought: Not completely trustworthy, but his heart in the right place.

  Walter thought: Mile High Club.

  Linda thought: A bit of a rogue.

  Walter thought: With Nazis in pursuit.

  ‘What time do you think it is?’ he asked aloud.

  ‘Don’t know. Must be late.’

  ‘Still. No one to go home to.’

  ‘No. No one to go home to.’

  ‘We could make love again,’ said Walter.

  ‘Yes, we could.’

  ‘And then I could murder a fish supper.’

  ‘So could I. But only if you go and get it.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Walter. ‘That’s a deal.’

  ‘You’re a real deal-maker,’ said Linda.

  Walter nodded in the darkness. That’s what I am. A real deal-maker. And the diet starts again on Monday.

  76

  Father Redmond

  Father Damian O’Boyle a.k.a. his twin brother Redmond O’Boyle, was three sheets to the wind and slabbering to anyone who would listen to him in the bar of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Bogotá. Phillip Grey of the Daily Mirror had long since stopped taking notes. He’d only been looking for a few quotes, not a f***ing lecture on British imperialism in Ireland, not to mention India and South Africa. He could understand the priest being upset over the death of his brother, but he found it rather unsettling to see so much anger, hate and barely restrained violence in a man of God. He’d thought a drunken Irish priest was nothing but a movie cliche, but here was the living, breathing proof of it.

  Half a dozen other reporters were subjected to his gale-force opinions before the priest finally passed out on a red leather banquette. When he woke, two hours later, his shirt-front soaked in drool and his head rocking, Redmond at first had no idea where he was or why he was wearing priest’s garb or why he had a peanut stuck to his forehead. He wasn’t sober, but he was slightly less drunk. He staggered across the bar to the lifts. Everyone he met, he made the sign of the cross: The businessmen, going up to their rooms; the reporters venturing back down to the bar to see if the coast was clear of him; the cleaners in the corridor outside his room; the rotund little security guard who let him in because his hammering on the door was waking the other guests up.

  Redmond supposed Damian would have returned from his appointment with the Archbishop of Bogotá by now and had most probably gone straight to sleep - even as a kid, once he laid his head on a pillow, you could never raise him - but was pleasantly relieved to find that the room was empty. Redmond knew he was in a state. He had promised not to leave the room. And his brother was going out of his way to help him. He really didn’t want to let him down, albeit in retrospect, but he was pretty sure he had. He had a vague recollection of standing on a chair and lecturing the bar about interrogation methods at Castlereagh Holding Centre, which even drew a round of applause from the bar staff, although probably more for delivery than content, but their support was quickly diluted by his immediately pissing into a plant pot and then demanding a line of coke in a stage whisper which could be heard out on the street. Redmond crawled into one side of the double bed and prayed for a few hours’ grace before his brother returned.

  In fact, his brother never returned.

  While Father Damian conversed with the Archbishop, setting up an escape route into Argentina and securing permanent lodging at a seminary on the Pampas, Miguel del Sanchez, the man with the gun, approached the Archbishop’s driver and, after a brief discussion, agreed a fee of $50. When Father Damian emerged,
beaming, his faith in human nature restored and the power of the Catholic Church confirmed, he climbed into the luxury Sedan and was immediately clubbed with the butt of Miguel del Sanchez’s pistol. As the car set off he was struck again, and again. The Archbishop’s driver drove to the edge of a vast and stinking municipal dump and kept the engine running while Miguel del Sanchez hopped out of the car, ran around to the other side, and hauled out the man he presumed to be Redmond O’Boyle.

  Father Damian, dwarfed by the vast mountains of waste behind him, stood shaking and wounded. But still he demanded to know what was going on. One might argue that it was bleeding obvious. Miguel del Sanchez, of course, spoke no English, and Father Damian spoke no Spanish. Miguel, who was nervous enough, shook the gun at him and issued precise instructions. Father Damian crossed himself and waved a finger the way he did to miscreant boys back home. Miguel del Sanchez grew angrier and angrier. He was happy enough to shoot this Redmond O’Boyle, and had already retrieved the Swedish passport he’d been told Redmond was carrying, but there was no trace of the money the Ambassador had given him. Miguel knew he couldn’t go back without it or he’d be accused of taking it himself. And that would mean another drive out to the dump, only this time it would be his body that would be picked over by the seagulls.

  So he yelled some more in Spanish, and Father Damian remonstrated.

  They only stopped when the Archbishop’s driver clambered out of the car, waving the small black Spanish-English phrasebook he kept in the glove compartment at Miguel del Sanchez. This led to a long, loud argument between them, during which they shoved each other several times. Miguel del Sanchez eventually peeled off another $50, and then they both huddled around the book, speed-flicking through the pages and exchanging excited whispers. Eventually the driver straightened and nodded at Father Damian.

  ‘He say - give me money or I kill you.’

  ‘I have no money,’ said Father Damian. ‘I am a man of God.’

  The driver’s brow furrowed. He studied the phrasebook again, rapidly flicking through the pages, then turned to Miguel del Sanchez and said something in Spanish. Miguel snapped something back. The driver shrugged. Miguel waved the gun. The driver turned back to Father Damian: ‘Man … of … God?’ then held up the phrasebook and shook his head as if it was useless.

  ‘Priest. Father - ahm - padre,’ said Father Damian.

  ‘Padre?’ the driver repeated. He turned to Miguel. ‘Padre.’

  ‘Padre?’ Miguel shook his head.

  ‘Padre, padre,’ said Father Damian.

  Miguel took out the Swedish passport and opened it to the correct page. He held it up to Father Damian. ‘Viggo - Viggo Mortensen.’

  ‘Viggo Mortensen?’ asked the driver. He moved across and took a closer look at the passport. His eyes flicked up to Father Damian again. He said, in Spanish, ‘Movie star?’

  Father Damian said, ‘Padre - padre?’

  The driver said, ‘Hollywood? Lord of the Rings? Frodo Baggins?’ He held up a finger. ‘Ring? One ring?’

  Father Damian shook his head uncomprehendingly. All he knew was that he was being mugged at a most inopportune time. His twin brother’s salvation was at hand, but it was imperative that he got him out of the hotel immediately. Redmond wouldn’t be truly safe until he was out of the country.

  Damian pointed at his neck and repeated, ‘Padre,’ and patted his pockets to show that he had no money. He dearly wished that he’d kept his habit on.

  The driver turned to Miguel. ‘Dunno - maybe big movie star. Maybe padre. Archbishop don’t tell me nothing.’

  ‘He don’t look like no movie star. Ask him where the money is again.’

  ‘You searched him already, he has no money. I have to get back to the Archbishop. You do what you have to do.’

  Miguel shrugged. Then he shot the driver through the temple. He crumpled straight down.

  Father Damian staggered backwards. ‘Good God.’

  Miguel stepped after him. Father Damian lost his footing and fell. He looked up, half-blinded by the sun, the caw of surprised gulls all around.

  ‘Padre … padre,’ he whispered.

  77

  Hurricane

  Benny Caproni didn’t like being driven around East Belfast with someone as familiar as Jimmy Marsh Mallow up front. So he was squirrelled down in the back, effing and blinding every time the vehicle stopped at lights or got stuck in traffic. Gary McBride, sitting beside him, said, ‘A quid in the swearbox every time, Benny,’ and Benny would respond with another flurry of curses. He kept insisting he didn’t know anything about Michael Caldwell, nor his mates Carl or Alan or Bix, or if he did they were just kids who came into the arcades from time to time; he might know their faces, but nothing else.

  ‘I don’t deal to kids, you know that.’

  When they’d stopped laughing, Jimmy said: ‘We’ve got you for the hotel job, and we’re talking to your friend Bellow.’

  ‘What? What the f**k are you talking about?’

  ‘’Nother quid in the swearbox,’ said Gary.

  ‘You ever heard the song “Hurricane” by Bob Dylan, Benny?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Bob Dylan.’

  ‘Well, you should,’ said Jimmy. ‘“Hurricane” is about Rubin Carter, who was a contender for the world middleweight crown till he got framed by the cops for a murder and robbery in a bar in New Jersey, and he got put away for life. Bob Dylan wrote this very fine protest song - it’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘So the f**k what?’

  ‘You think anyone would write a protest song for you, Benny? With your dope and your crack and your rent boys?’

  ‘I don’t do none of that stuff, not any more.’

  ‘You think Van Morrison would conjure something up? “The Ballad of Benny Caproni”, eh?’

  ‘I think youse are the ones on f***in’ drugs.’

  ‘You know, maybe he would. But the thing is, Benny, Bob Dylan wrote about Rubin Carter ’cause there were so many f***in’ holes in the case you could drive the Boston Pops Orchestra through it, and it still took twenty-five years to get him out. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’ve no f***in’ notion.’

  ‘I’m saying, we’ve been doing this so long we can put a case together against you that even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t deconstruct, you hear me. I’m saying it doesn’t matter if Van Morrison writes a song about you and he gets you out in five, because once you’re inside you wouldn’t survive more than a few days. Rubin Carter was tough. I’ve seen pints of milk with more colour than you, Benny. I’ve seen Biafrans with better muscle tone. This wee fella, Michael Caldwell, someone chopped him up and dumped him in the river; you were his dealer, and we think you set him up with someone. We want to know who that was.’

  ‘And I’m telling you I don’t f***in’ know.’

  ‘You know something, Benny? Far as the press knows, we’ve recovered this boy’s torso and his head, but the other day we found one of his hands as well. And you know something else? Chances are we’re going to find the other hand, and it’ll probably be in your fridge.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Oh yeah, it’ll be on the news - police acting on a tip-off searched the apartment of drug-dealing gay pimp Benny Caproni and found evidence linking him to the brutal murder of schoolboy Michael Caldwell.’

  ‘You couldn’t do that, I’m not stupid.’

  Jimmy turned suddenly in his seat. His right hand shot out and grabbed Benny’s shirt. He dragged him forward, then stuck his face right up close. ‘Yes, you f***ing are, Benny, that’s what’s so nice about it. See, I’ve seen seven kinds of s**t in this job, I’ve been doing it for near on thirty years, but this one, this one, I don’t know, maybe I’m growing old, but this one is really getting to me. He was only a kid, his mum can’t even bury him till we get all the bits of him back. So I want it sorted out. I want whoever did it. But I’m a realist, Benny, I have to be. If I can’t have whoever did it, I’ll need some
one else, and a lowlife piece of s**t like you will fit the bill good as anyone, you hear what I’m saying? And maybe twenty years down the line some smart-arse lawyer will find out that we did frame you, but by that time you’ll have been dead for nineteen years and eleven months, Benny, nailed to a table because they hate fruits like you.’

  Jimmy Marsh Mallow didn’t wait for him to respond; he thrust him back into his seat, then turned back to face the traffic.

  ‘I’m not a fruit,’ Benny said weakly.

  Gary McBride snorted.

  ‘So what’s it to be, Benny-boy?’ Marsh demanded.

  Benny shrugged. He stared out of the window. ‘So I deal some stuff, it’s not a crime.’

  Gary snorted again.

  ‘I mean, sure, but it’s not like … hell, I only do a few quid, you know that.’

  ‘What about Michael Caldwell?’

  Benny sighed. The hot air created a little cloud on the window. He rubbed at it. ‘Okay. So. Right. He was just one of the lads. But, you know, good-looking.’

  Marsh felt a little twinge at the back of his neck. He always got that at the point of breakthrough.

  ‘He was more into getting high than the others, but couldn’t afford it. So, you know, I said to him, maybe there was a trade-off.’

  ‘You pimped him out.’

  ‘He owed me, all right? He said he would only do it this once. And it was, it was his first time. Maybe he couldn’t do it, maybe that’s why …’ He shrugged again.

  ‘Who was it, Benny?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You better know.’

  ‘I swear to God, it was a phone call; a car arrived, he got in. That’s all I know, swear to God.’

  ‘And you never saw anyone, or the car before, or again?’ Gary asked.

  Benny shook his head. ‘I never saw, and next thing I know the wee fella’s all over the news. It wasn’t my fault.’

  Marsh gritted his teeth. He’d had thirty years of morons saying it wasn’t their fault. He told the driver to pull over. They were just at the bottom of the Newtownards Road, an area rich or poor, depending on your point of view, in paramilitary war murals. Marsh climbed out, went round to Benny’s door and opened it.