I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  Or perhaps not.

  Eventually Billy phoned Primark and asked for her, but was told that employees couldn’t take personal calls while on duty. However, the receptionist at least confirmed that Margaret was on duty, and not bound and gagged in some dank cellar.

  Billy had a choice to make - keep phoning her house, because she had to pick up the phone eventually, and retaining the relative security of the Europa - or actually venturing out to Primark and running the risk of being discovered by Pink’s men. Time was the crucial factor in his decision to go straight down to see her at work. As soon as the decision was made, he felt good about it. Gone were the days when, if there was something deeply personal to be said, he would leave it on a Post-it on the fridge. This was the new Billy, with his heart on his sleeve and his cheque book in his pocket. This was the new Billy, not even wearing a tie as he ventured out of the Europa, baseball cap pulled firmly down, walking down Great Victoria Street and along Howard Street towards Donegall Place and Primark, all the while trying to avoid eye-contact, but at the same time not being able to help it, because if anything was going to happen he wanted to see it coming.

  It didn’t. He reached Primark in one piece, and located Margaret almost immediately, talking to an attractive blonde colleague, her face as happy and smiley as it had been in their early days; however, her expression froze as soon as she saw him coming towards her. There was an urgent muttering between the two security guards and then the blonde one moved away - but not, Billy noticed, very far.

  ‘Billy,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Margaret, love, how’re you doing?’

  ‘Fine and dandy, thanks.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Well - that’s good. How’s your fashion … thing?’

  ‘It’s great. Thanks.’

  There wasn’t even a hint of warmth, but he expected that. It was just a question of thawing her out. Rubbing her limbs.

  ‘I’m going away,’ he said next.

  ‘Oh. Where to?’ No hint of interest.

  ‘Rio.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Or Cozumel, Mexico.’

  ‘Mexico?’

  ‘Or Palma - I hear that’s nice.’

  ‘You came down here to tell me you’re going on holiday?’

  ‘No - look, Margaret. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘You want me to go on holiday with you?’

  ‘No. I’m not going on holiday. I’m going permanently. To Rio. Or Cozumel, Mexico.’

  Margaret folded her arms. ‘You can’t go to Mexico. You’d melt away to nothing. You don’t even like the sun.’

  ‘Yes, I— That’s not the point. I want you to come with me. To live there. To start again.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve rather unexpectedly come into some money. A lot of money. So I’d like us to start again.’ Billy took a deep breath. This was where his prepared speech came in. ‘Margaret, I’m aware that …’ and then he stumbled forward as a big momma with half a dozen Primark bags banged into the back of him, then marched on without a word of apology. ‘Sorry. I’m aware that I haven’t exactly been easy to live with, that I haven’t paid—’

  Margaret’s radio crackled. Mr Kawolski said: ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine, thank you. Just giving a customer directions.’ Margaret looked at Billy. ‘Well?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I should have done better. I didn’t treat you well. I was self-absorbed, selfish. I really don’t blame you for falling out of love with me. But now I’ve come into some money and we have the opportunity to start again, and I swear to God, I will treat you well. You will want for nothing - diamonds, bangles, those wavy sort of scarves you always wanted to buy on holiday because they were made by local craftsmen but I never let you because I thought they were tat. You can have anything. Just, let’s start again, let’s put it back to the way it was.’

  ‘But, Billy,’ said Margaret, ‘you were always a pr**k.’

  Billy laughed at the joke. ‘You married me,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I did. And I regretted it every single day since.’

  Now Billy’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t laughing. ‘But I’m giving you this second chance.’

  ‘You’re giving me a second chance?’

  ‘I don’t mean it like that. I mean, let’s try again. Let me take you out of this place.’ And he waved his arms around the store, then had to apologise for clipping the ear of a passing shopper. ‘Margaret, I’m offering you everything you can possibly imagine. Please, let’s try again.’

  ‘Billy, I’ve met someone else.’

  He blinked at her. It was lucky he was in a forgiving mood. ‘That’s allowed, darling, I won’t hold it against you. But forget about him. Come back to me, live a life of luxury. Sun and sea and—’

  ‘Billy, I’ve really met someone else.’

  ‘Does he have any money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  Margaret’s radio crackled again. ‘You sure you’re all right?’ said Mr Kawolski.

  ‘Yes, boss. He’s just leaving.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Billy, you should go.’

  ‘I’m not going without you.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘Margaret, I love you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t love you.’

  ‘Then why the f**k did you marry me?’ Billy exploded suddenly.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Billy sighed extravagantly. He blew air out of his cheeks. He looked around him, anywhere but at Margaret.

  She moved a little closer. ‘Billy, I’m sorry, but I’m happy that you’ve come into some money. Maybe you’ll meet someone nice in Coz … Comuzel?’

  ‘Cozumel, Mexico. Margaret, I have millions. You have to understand, if you come with me, it’s like winning the lottery.’

  Margaret shook her head sadly. ‘With last year’s numbers, Billy. With last year’s numbers.’

  Billy looked baffled. ‘What the f**k are you talking about? Why do you always have to be so bloody cryptic?’

  ‘I’m not trying to be—’

  ‘Shut up. That’s just exactly it! You think you’re being so smart - you like to think you’re better than other people, but you’re not, you’re not even as good as other people. Just because you find someone mug enough to buy some of your funny wee designs, you come over all high and mighty, but you’re not, do you hear me? You’re a middle-aged woman working in Primark. And in five years you’ll be an old woman working in Primark.’

  ‘I think you should go now, Billy.’

  His eyes were blazing. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he snapped.

  ‘I can have you thrown out.’

  ‘Yeah, right. You would do that, wouldn’t you? Everything I did for you, you would do that? What was I thinking of? Taking you abroad would be a f***ing misery.’ He looked about him. They were standing in the Young Adult fashion section. ‘Okay. Where are the T-shirts? I need T-shirts.’

  ‘Over there, on the right,’ said Margaret.

  ‘Thanks.’ Billy moved away. Then he turned back. ‘Last chance?’

  ‘No, Billy.’

  ‘Okay, all right. Loser. See you around.’

  Billy stormed off.

  115

  Martini Girl

  Gary McBride was sitting in an unmarked car outside Jimmy’s house when Jimmy arrived home in his car. It had taken Gary a while to find the house, because although they’d worked together for the past decade, they had never socialised. In the end, he kind of stumbled on the house, recognising it not by a house number, which wasn’t visible anywhere, but by the array of security cameras and the incongruous blocks of concrete (albeit decorated with flowers) which formed a protective barrier around it. Although there hadn’t been a proper car bomb in years, the blocks were probably just too awkward to shift now. Marsh raised a hand as he drove towards the electronic gates. As they purred inward, Gary climbed
out of his car clutching a bottle of whiskey.

  Jimmy Mallow was looking surprisingly upbeat. Last time Gary had spoken to him, at Police HQ, he’d looked like thunder. He’d smacked Pink Harrison in the chops and then stormed out. But now he appeared quite calm, and even managed something of a smile as he extended his hand.

  ‘Gary,’ he said.

  ‘Boss,’ said Gary. It meant nothing, Marsh realised, but it was a nice mark of respect. ‘Brought you this.’

  Marsh examined the bottle. ‘That’ll do nicely,’ he said, and led Gary into the house.

  While Marsh fixed their drinks, Gary looked about the lounge, and was more than a little surprised at the extent of his host’s music collection. There was no shortage of shelves, and every one of them seemed to be filled with LPs, CDs and singles. He’d never let any of this slip at work. Gary was quite into music himself. He was just examining a vinyl copy of The Rolling Stones’ Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out when Marsh appeared with the drinks.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Gary. ‘This is the live one, right?’

  Jimmy nodded. ‘You into music?’

  ‘Oh yeah - used to play the guitar in a punk band.’

  ‘You?’

  Gary smiled and nodded. He slipped the record back onto the shelf. Marsh looked down for a moment, debating with himself, then removed the record again and re-inserted it slightly further along. ‘Alphabetical,’ he said by way of explanation. Then added, ‘And anal retentive.’ He clinked glasses with Gary, then sat. ‘So how’s it going?’

  ‘With Pink?’

  ‘With anyone.’

  ‘Well, I hear you’re in line for a medal, talking someone down off a bridge.’

  ‘A balcony. They won’t be thinking about a medal when Belfast Confidential comes out on Thursday.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve my copy ordered.’

  ‘Thirty years, and it ends like this. I just thank Christ the wife isn’t around to see it.’

  Gary took a sip of his drink, then looked at Marsh over the rim. ‘You know, this journalist, Starkey - we can lean on him.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I appreciate the thought, but it’s out there, it’ll find its way into one paper or another; might as well get it over with. What’re they saying, the rank and file?’

  ‘They don’t believe it.’

  ‘Wait till they read Belfast Confidential, then they’ll believe it.’

  ‘No, they won’t.’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘So what’s happening with Pink?’

  ‘We’ve been told to stay clear of him.’

  ‘And what about George Green - has he turned up yet?’

  ‘Nope. No one has heard from him, his credit card hasn’t been used.’

  ‘He’s gone for good, then.’

  ‘It’s looking that way. Boss, what are you going to do now? I mean, when you’re not saving damsels in distress.’

  ‘Well, there’s going to be a shit storm when this comes out, so I’ll probably just keep my head down.’

  Gary nodded to himself. Then he set his glass down and stood up. ‘I brought you your stuff from the office.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘Come on, let’s get it.’

  Gary stood and crossed the lounge. Marsh frowned, but then went after him, down to his car. When Gary popped the boot, it was crammed with bin bags, full to the brim.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Jimmy asked. ‘I was expecting a couple of photos and some pencils.’

  ‘This,’ said Gary, ‘is homework. Every single piece of evidence to do with the Michael Caldwell case, lovingly photocopied by yours truly and half a dozen of your most talented proteges. You may think you’ve been sacked, Superintendent, and you may think you’re just going to sit on your arse listening to records, but we’ve decided otherwise. You’ve been after Pink Harrison for as long as I can remember, and there’s no reason to stop now. And I, lacking an interesting hobby like stamp collecting or cultivating bonsai trees, need something to do with my spare time. So grab a bag, replenish our drinks, and let’s go through the evidence, in the words of someone not a million miles from here, one last f***ing time.’

  Gary lifted a bag out, heaved it up onto his shoulder, then turned for the house. Marsh laughed out loud, then reached for a bag himself.

  Marsh sat up long after Gary left, drinking steadily, listening to Leonard Cohen, still leafing through the evidence, but mostly thinking about Linda Wray. He had sat in the apartment, watching her sleep off her drunkenness, until she woke, sick and embarrassed. He allowed her time to fix her face and check in with her work, then he took her to a cafe and bought her tea and toast. He got the impression that she was a natural talker, but there and then, she didn’t say much. Like an injured bird. A pheasant, even, hiding her colours. He took her back to her house, made sure she had everything she needed, then left her his number in case she wanted to talk. It had now been three days, and she hadn’t called yet. He checked her number in the book on the first day, and sat with it on the arm of the chair, but didn’t call. But now, empowered by whiskey, he gave in to the temptation.

  She answered, eventually, with a slightly groggy, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi. Hello. It’s Jimmy. James Mallow.’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘The apartment, the ledge - remember?’

  ‘Oh God. Yes. Sorry. I meant to call, only I threw your number out. I mean, it must have got stuck to a newspaper and then I couldn’t find it. What time is it anyway?’

  ‘Oh - sorry. I didn’t realise. It’s gone one in the morning. Lost track of the time. I just wanted to phone and check you were okay, but I can call back if you—’

  ‘No, really, Mr Mallow, it’s fine.’

  ‘James, please. Jimmy. Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Silence then.

  And more.

  Then Jimmy said, ‘So are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’ It was heading towards another long silence, but then she suddenly blabbed out: ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m just absolutely … mortified. I’ve never done anything like that in my life. I was just upset and drunk and it’s a bad combination. I’m sorry you or anyone had to see that. I’ve made a real eejit of myself and I just feel like crawling under a rock. I haven’t been back in to work yet. I mean, they don’t know what happened, but I just can’t face … you know, people, not yet, anyway. And, so, how was your day?’

  ‘My day was fine.’

  ‘Well, that’s good.’

  ‘You’re sure you’re okay?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  ‘So, then, now that I know you’re absolutely okay, I was wondering if you remembered what we talked about - you know, the date that never was.’

  ‘The date you never turned up for, you mean.’

  Marsh chuckled. ‘Yes, that one. I was wondering if you’d still like to go on it. Give me a second chance.’

  ‘Mr Mallow, if you don’t mind me saying, I have found that men who require a second chance, quite often require a third and a fourth.’

  He hesitated, then asked, ‘Is that a no?’

  Linda sighed. ‘James Mallow, you saved my life, you are my knight in shining armour, do you think that for one moment I’m ever going to say no? Of course I want to go out on a date. Any time, any place, anywhere.’

  ‘Martini,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Whatever turns you on,’ said Linda.

  116

  Father, Dear Father

  Father Damian’s parish was well out in the sticks, and straddled the invisible border between the counties of Down and Tyrone. While it was undeniably rough and ready, it had never quite been violent or dangerous enough to be considered part of ‘Bandit Country’. If the IRA had been rating it for inclusion under that banner, they would have given it a ‘must try harder’. With the weapons now put away, and love all around, it was a peaceful retreat of a place, a land for growing apples and ten
ding cows. Redmond, standing in for his late, twin brother, absolutely loved it. At least, initially.

  Damian had a housekeeper called Molly Malone - really - who took one look at Redmond’s half-starved figure and immediately ordered him to the kitchen for stew. He feasted upon it three times a day. If she could have attached a stew drip to his arm, she probably would have. She was a kindly, florid woman who lived nearby in a little village with its little post office and little shop, which overlooked a little stream. There was a little pub and when Redmond ventured in for a pint and tried to listen in to their conversation it made little sense, the accents were that thick. The locals would clap him on the back with easy familiarity and set him up another one while they chatted excitedly about this and that, while Redmond nodded away and barely understood a word of it.

  The pints, though, were few and far between. Although his strength was slowly returning, he found that he had little desire for alcohol. Instead he sat out in the sun in his front garden, and wondered how he would tackle the church service on Sunday, and the homily that went with it (there was no Saturday service in these parts due to lack of demand). Late on Saturday afternoon, with the sun still bright, Mrs Malone approached him in the garden. She said she’d left stew for him in the microwave and that she’d see him at church on Sunday. Before she went she said, ‘Say hello to Father Benedict for me.’ Redmond nodded without really appreciating what she meant, at least until shortly after seven when he was just preparing to settle in for a night of Spanish football in front of the telly. He was standing at the sink in the kitchen, with the radio on loud, when he was suddenly blinded by two hands coming down over his eyes. A slightly high-pitched voice said, ‘Guess who-oo … !’

  Redmond, you understand, was trained to kill, so it was quite natural for him to swivel, duck down out of his assailant’s grasp and ram one hand up hard under his chin, snapping his head back. He then pounded the other hand into his attacker’s stomach. As he collapsed down, Redmond caught him by the ears, holding him upright, before turning him round and hurling him into the cutlery drawer opposite.