102
This Old House
Redmond followed Jack Finucane all the way back to Irma La Deuce, almost impervious to the deteriorating situation all around him. He hardly noticed that the streets were emptying or that sirens filled the air or that plumes of black smoke were wafting over the city. Shutters were coming down and buses were hurrying past stops without stopping, such was their desire to return to the comparative safety of the depot. Redmond only had eyes for the man who was going to marry his wife. The man who was clearly already having sex with his wife. The man who, judging from the front window of his cafe, specialised in carrot cake. What sort of a man was it, Redmond wondered, who specialised in carrot cake? How could any sort of a man hold his head up in public and say that his life revolved around carrot cake? And what sort of a woman would choose a man who specialised in carrot cake over a man who waged war - a warrior, a patriot, a hero, even a martyr?
Redmond had kept his alter ego secret from Maeve all these years only because he wished to protect her. In that respect he was like Clark Kent or Peter Parker. But now that she knew who or what he was, and given her background in the Falls Road ghetto, how could she ever, ever, ever give herself to a man who made carrot cake? What an incredible comedown, after having a man who changed the fate of nations. It was like Mrs Churchill getting over her grief by falling for a cigar-maker. Or Mrs Mao seeking love from a ping-pong player. And to go from death to marriage in a matter of days, what did that suggest? Either that she had been driven mad by her grief, or she’d been carrying on with this maker of carrot cakes for more than just the brief period of her widowhood. That while he, Redmond, was out saving, or destroying the world, she was having sex with this carrot-caking conniver.
Redmond took up a position opposite Irma La Deuce as Jack Finucane - although clearly, he did not yet know his name - entered the empty cafe. A few moments later the Closed sign appeared on the front door, his staff departed and Jack reappeared to pull down the main window shutters. He didn’t yet shutter the front door. Redmond was tempted to walk across. Although he’d had ample opportunity to assault him on the walk up from Primark, he had been dissuaded not only by the presence of the general public, but also by a deeper moral confusion. He was dressed as a priest now, and had vowed to continue his late brother’s good work. This clearly couldn’t involve attacking, battering and generally killing a hated love rival. Yet the temptation threatened to overwhelm him, particularly as Jack Finucane was standing right there, in his shop doorway, without a care in the world, quite happy to break one man’s heart and take advantage of a poor grieving widow. He not only needed to be assaulted, he deserved it.
As Redmond thought about all of this, a taxi drew up outside the cafe and Maeve climbed out. Redmond’s heart jumped and his stomach did somersaults. She looked fantastic. When he had first arrived in Primark, intent on surprising her, he had searched the shop for her without success. There was a gorgeous blonde security guard just a few metres in front of him and he was about to ask her where Maeve was when a bright young shop assistant, seeing his apparent confusion, and alerted to the fact that he was standing in Ladies Underwear, said, ‘Can I help you, Father?’ And when she pointed Maeve out, and it was this gorgeous blonde, Redmond was absolutely staggered at the transformation. He found himself quite unable to approach her. He had always found Maeve attractive, but in an earthy, she’s no oil painting but I like her kind of a way. Now, the way she looked, the way she moved, he thought she was just the sexiest creature he had ever seen. How soul-destroying then to follow her into the changing rooms and first of all hear her attempt to copulate with this stranger, but then also hear her accept his proposal of marriage.
As Maeve stepped onto the pavement, Redmond had a desperate urge to charge across the road and take her in his arms. He would proclaim his love for her, and she would surely reciprocate, once she got over the shock of discovering that he wasn’t dead from a suppurated arse and cremated with undue haste in far-off Colombia. But before Redmond could galvanise himself, Jack Finucane had stepped down from his cafe doorway and Maeve had rushed into his arms. They snogged, and snogged, and snogged, while police vehicles and fire-brigade tenders raced past, their sirens wailing, possibly more loudly than Redmond’s despairing sighs. As the sound of the emergency vehicles began to fade, Maeve broke away from Jack, took his hand, and led him into the cafe. Jack pulled the final shutter down behind them, and they were gone.
Redmond tramped forlornly along the Lisburn Road. From somewhere the expression came to him, It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. But he thought that that was b***ocks. If he had never met Maeve he would not now be feeling this tremendous despair, and his mind would certainly not now be engaged in a tremendous battle between his brother’s piety and his own longing. His brother would doubtless forgive her. Redmond’s inclination was to search out his enemy and destroy him.
At the top of Windsor Avenue a skinhead teenager noticed his priest’s collar and shouted, ‘Look - it’s the f***ing Pope!’
Another, in a Linfield scarf, shouted, ‘You f***ing Fenian b***ard!’
Redmond heard them but walked on, his head bowed. They came after him, catching up quickly, and walking on either side of him.
‘What’re you doing round here, you Fenian c***?’
‘Yeah, why don’t you f**k off back where you belong, you Fenian f***er.’
The boy in the scarf stuck out his foot and tripped Redmond. He staggered forward, but didn’t go down. He turned to the boys, who came up to him, all evil smiles.
‘What’re you looking at, Pope-head?’ the first one demanded. ‘Can’t you f***ing walk?’
‘You f***ing w***er,’ said the other.
Redmond clasped his hands before him, beatifically. ‘Boys, now, there’s no need for language like that.’
‘Is there f***ing not?’
The boy with the scarf took a swing at him. Redmond moved deftly to one side, then headbutted him, hard. The boy’s nose crumpled. He let out a scream and collapsed down, blood pumping. The other boy had already swung back his foot, intending to plant it in Redmond’s stomach, but as it came at him Redmond again sidestepped swiftly and grabbed his DM boot. He twisted it to one side, then walked the boy backwards towards Pressed for Time, a dry-cleaning shop. He stopped just short of the front window. Moving swiftly along the boy’s leg, he grabbed his crotch with one hand, squeezing hard, and his shirt-front with the other. Then he physically lifted him off the ground and threw him at the shop window. The boy hurtled through it with an explosive crash, then landed in a heap on the tiled floor with shards of jagged glass raining down all around him. He let out a miserable groan and lay where he was in a crumpled heap. There were three customers in the shop. They stood and stared, first at the injured boy, but then, and for much longer, at the priest rubbing his hands together in a satisfied fashion.
As Redmond turned away from the shop, the boy with the broken nose staggered back, out of range. ‘What the … what the hell are you?’ he asked.
‘New Pope, new policy,’ Redmond said simply, and walked on.
Redmond didn’t feel any better for his explosion of violence. It was a release, not a solution. And he felt even worse now, standing outside the burned-out remains of his house in West Belfast. He simply could not comprehend why they, whoever they were, had done this. Or how they could have been allowed to do it by the powers-that-be. Didn’t the IRA or Sinn Fein maintain order any more?
Redmond stepped into the small front garden. The grass itself was blackened and strewn with rubbish. No, not rubbish - the charred remains of his, their, possessions. A curled and useless photograph of his uncle playing soccer. Wedding photos torn in two and boasting thug footprints. Redmond fought back tears. He had sworn to start anew as a way of making up for his brother’s death, but always, always at the back of his mind there was the faint possibility, the vague hope, that one day he would be able to go back to his old life. But
now his wife was gone and his house was burned. He literally had nothing of his old life left. The front door was missing and the dark, dank interior of the house beckoned, but it was too much for him. He strangled a sob and turned away. As he stepped back out onto the footpath he saw that an elderly woman, carrying two plastic Dunnes shopping bags in each hand, was standing there looking at him curiously. ‘Are you all right, Father?’ she asked.
Redmond nodded, ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Terrible thing they done, wasn’t it?’ said the woman, nodding at the house.
‘Yes, yes indeed.’
‘That Redmond, he was some pup, eh?’
‘I suppose, yes.’
‘He showed them, didn’t he? No stopping him. If you ask me, he’s a hero, a real Irish hero. We should knock that house down and put up a statue, that’s what I say.’
‘Well,’ said Redmond, genuinely surprised, ‘that’s very kind.’
She nodded, went to move on, then looked at him a little closer and said, ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Father, what’s that on your head?’
‘My what?’
‘Your head - that red stuff.’
Redmond’s hand went to his forehead; it felt a little tender thanks to his recent headbutt. He examined his fingers. ‘Oh, sorry, just a little dried blood. I, ahm, struck my head accidentally.’
The woman smiled. ‘Oh, right. Good job, Father. Thought for a minute there you were turning into a f***ing Hindu. Never f***ing know these days, do you?’
She cackled then, and walked on. Redmond nodded after her, rubbing the congealed blood between his thumb and forefinger. She was right, he thought. You just never f***ing knew, these days.
103
Fashion is a Passion
Experience and statistics show that rioting in Belfast rarely lasts for more than three days, no matter what the cause. Teenagers, the main culprits, get bored. They want to hang with their mates. Usually there’s a mid-week football match on the telly to watch. Righteous anger isn’t quite so righteous when Man United are playing. Indignation fades and hatred is put on the back boiler to simmer indefinitely, a stew for all seasons. That said, it was still day one, and with at least two days to go, spirits were not high in either the police ranks or in the hearts of the general public who had to endure the violence, fear, destruction and disruption.
Margaret was worried about getting caught up in it, of course, but she was equally determined that nothing was going to stop her getting to Emma Cochrane for the first, private showing of the M & Emma collection. Emma had corralled a group of thin women who frequented the shop, to act as models. Some of them were actually real models, but past their best years. Several worked exclusively with one part of their body - their feet for modelling shoes, their hands for showing off jewellery; one even specialised in showing off her varicose veins in campaigns for the Health Promotion Agency. Six out of the eight models Emma had booked actually made it. One who didn’t said she was stuck in a three-mile tailback of cars caused by a petrol tanker being hijacked and parked across the Grosvenor Road, and she thought it safer to turn back home; the other phoned to say her car had Irish Republic number plates, and she was worried about it being seized or attacked, so was staying home.
Six was plenty. They squeezed into the stockroom and excitedly changed into the dresses. May Li clucked around them, pulling and prodding and fixing and even stitching on the hoof. Margaret, even though they were her babies, stayed out of the way, preferring to see the outfits for the first time as a customer might see them at a fashion show. She sat on the counter, shaking with nerves and counselling herself repeatedly not to burst into tears of joy when the models began to parade through that curtain.
Louise produced a bottle of champagne and poured Margaret and Emma a glass, one for herself, then opened another two bottles and took them back to the changing room. Laughter, together with the occasional ping of a makeshift spittoon, filtered through the curtain as Margaret sipped her champagne and wondered if she had ever been happier. Yes, Belfast was going to hell in a handcart, but her own, personal life was turning into one long victory parade. She was finally free of Billy, both physically and mentally, she had a new man in her life, she was about to purchase a luxury apartment, and now her first collection - entirely her own work this time - was about to pass by in front of her. Could life get any better?
Then the moment came. The curtain was pulled back.
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute!’ Louise shouted excitedly, then dived to switch on some music. In a few moments, the sound of Eric Clapton’s ‘Layla’ wafted across the store. ‘All right! Okay!’ Louise called. ‘All systems are go!’
The first of the models appeared.
I’m just going to die, thought Margaret.
An hour later Margaret, giddy with excitement and champagne, wove her way across Belfast, skilfully choosing side streets and back roads in a largely successful bid to avoid the rioting and the rioters. The air was thick with the smell of tyres burning and echoed to the sounds of cheers and yells and shattering glass. At one junction a kid in a balaclava shouted, ‘No surrender!’ at her as she drove past, and Margaret shouted, ‘No surrender!’ right back. She didn’t care if her dresses were never seen by another living soul; it was sufficient for her that she had seen them parade by in a magical swirl of colour and shimmer just once. It seemed to her that the models had almost inhabited her creations, as if they were a second, succulent skin. It seemed both to go on for ever, and to be over in an instant. It was like watching slow motion all speeded up. Emma kissed her and Louise kissed her and the models kissed her and even May Li kissed her. They all danced around and turned the music up and quaffed champagne. They could easily have drunk another half dozen bottles, but the off-licence just along the road had closed early because of all the trouble.
As she waited at one set of traffic-lights, virtually the only car on the road, she took out her mobile and phoned Linda Wray and confirmed that her appointment to take a second look at the Towerview apartment was still on and that Linda had made it there despite all the traffic disruption. Then she called Walter and babbled excitedly about her dresses and how stunning they’d looked and how the models had crowded around her kissing and hugging just like you’d see on the TV. When the torrent had eased and the apartment block was coming into view she finally managed to say, ‘So how are you, where are you?’
‘I’m trudging into the city centre. Our train got hijacked - they threw everyone off.’
‘Oh God! Are you all right?!’
‘Oh yeah, they’re just kids having fun.’
‘And did they like, take the train?’
‘Yep. Steamed off into the distance. But it’s not like hijacking a plane or anything. They can’t say, “Take me to Cuba.” They could only say, “Take me to Lisburn or Antrim”, or something. They’re kind of confined to where the line runs to.’
‘But you’re okay, that’s the important thing.’
‘Yes, it is. And what about you? What’re you up to now? More mad fashion parties?’
‘Nah, that’s enough excitement for one day. I’m actually going to take another look at that apartment of yours.’
‘That what?’
Margaret was by now pulling into the car park at the Towerview Apartments. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Just you said you weren’t interested in buying it, so my idea to rent it off you went out the window, but I couldn’t get it out of my head, so I called you for a chat about it, because I value your advice, but you’d gone and left your phone in the apartment, and Linda, you know, the estate agent, answered your phone, so I thought that was pretty bloody spooky and possibly a sign from God. I got talking to her and she invited me to come over for another look. You don’t mind, do you, Walter?’
‘I … I … no, I … You spoke to Linda?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And she said she had my phone?’
‘Walter, I was talking to her on it.’
‘And, and she invited you over?’
‘Walter, what’s wrong? Your voice is all …’
‘Nothing, nothing. I just, ah, you know, I’m still quite kind of taken with the apartment.’
‘But you said you weren’t interested!’
‘I know, I know.’
‘You said you were going into commercial property.’
‘And I am, I just … well … Linda didn’t say anything, you know, about me?’
‘No, Walter, what could she say? You backed out. She seemed surprised that we were together again.’
‘She did?’
‘Well, last time she saw me I was falling into a river.’
‘Right. Yeah.’
‘Look, I’m here now - in fact, I’m a couple of minutes late, so why don’t I phone you when I’m finished and maybe we can go out for a drink to celebrate?’
‘Ahm, yes, that would be nice. Tell you what, speak to Linda, and then, yes, ahm, call me. I’m sure that would be - you know, fine.’
‘Walter, are you sure you’re all right? You sound a bit weird.’
‘Weird, no. It’s just, you know - Chinatown.’
She laughed. He laughed. She said goodbye. He said goodbye. She took the lift up to the apartment, still smiling happily. Walter thought seriously about throwing himself in the Lagan.
104
Safe
In a recent poll conducted on a well-known internet travel site, the two most popular tourist destinations in Northern Ireland were named as the swinging Falls Road, in the heart of Catholic West Belfast, and that corrupted artery which runs partially parallel to the Falls, the Shankill Road. Interesting, because the tourists chose to ignore the beautiful Glens of Antrim, the stunning Mourne Mountains, the emasculated shipyards where the Titanic was built, and the Giant’s Causeway where the Isle of Man was heaved out of the ground by a steroid-enhanced Finn McCool. They were chosen because of their history of menace and because you can see nice mountains in any country - apart from Holland, obviously - but you can’t always feel like you’re being brave and daring, which you can by sauntering along the Falls or the Shankill with a camera strung around your neck.
I Predict a Riot Page 43
