‘With all my heart.’
‘He runs a cafe.’
‘God, you are well-connected. Yes, he does. But he has big plans.’
‘Redmond’s only been gone a few days, Maeve.’
‘No, Father, he’s been gone for years.’
‘Was this going on before he died?’
‘No, Father, of course not.’
‘It’s all a bit of a whirlwind then.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Maeve - you’ve heard of the expression, “marry in haste, repent at leisure”.’
‘Yes, of course. But it’s not like that.’
‘As every runaway bride has doubtless said.’
‘He’s the one for me, Father, I know it.’
‘I like your hair. Why, in all the years you were with Redmond, did you never get your hair done like that?’
‘It was Jack’s idea. Redmond never noticed anything like that.’
‘He was too busy fighting for his beliefs. Tell me this, Maeve, if Redmond was to walk back through those doors there, right now, what would you do then?’
‘He’s not going to walk through those doors, Father.’
‘Aye, I know, but if he did, what would you do?’
‘He’s not going to, Damian, he’s dead.’
‘Yes, I know, but hypothetically speaking, if Redmond was here right now, sitting next to you, what would you say to him?’
‘But he’s not here, Father. I can’t live with “what ifs”.’
‘Yes, I know he’s not here now, and you may say you can’t live with what ifs, but I’d really like to know, for my own peace of mind, what you would say?’
‘I wouldn’t say anything, because he’s dead and—’
‘Oh for Christ sake!’ Redmond exploded. ‘Will you just answer the question?!’
He jumped up then, and began to pace about. Maeve looked shocked, but recovered quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said. ‘I know it’s been very hard on you, and perhaps it was a mistake to come, but I had to. Please understand - I was married to your brother, I loved him once, but he’s gone now. I don’t want to be a bitter old war widow like the half of them up there. I want to start again, and this is my chance. The wedding is on Wednesday. It’s in the City Hall, at eleven, and I would like you to come as my guest. I think Redmond would want me to be happy, and your being there will be like him giving me his blessing. Will you come, Father Damian, for Redmond, and for me?’
130
Caravan
It was a response from a different era, but just as appropriate. Marsh looked at Richard Bradley, almost crumpled in his chair now, and said, ‘With all due respect, sir, but you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
The Head of the Civil Service raised his hands helplessly.
‘You actually expect me to believe that this Office Twelve is just something your son concocted?’
‘Yes, I do, James.’
‘Mr Bradley, there are other people working in Office Twelve with him.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘I’ve spoken to at least one of them.’
‘Well then, I can only presume that they have been sucked into it in exactly the same way that you have. I’m sorry, but I’d no idea. I can only presume he’s stopped taking his medication, that he’s creating some kind of elaborate fantasy world around himself. If you met him, James, you’d appreciate how easy he would find that. He’s a very plausible young man, even when he’s ill. The point is, he absolutely believes what he’s doing, there’s no artifice to it. If he’s set up Office Twelve, then it’s up and functioning in his head. But I can’t believe that it has gone beyond that. The phones in his office don’t work, for goodness sake. His computer works but he uses it purely to surf the internet. There are parental controls on it to stop him accessing adult sites, and it freezes if he attempts financial transactions. Honestly, James, I’m kept well up to speed on this.’
‘And this man I spoke to, who claims to be working for Office Twelve?’
‘James, it’s the Department of Education. It’s full of idiots.’
Marsh set his cup down. ‘Well. I don’t quite know what to say.’
‘It’s simple. You’ve been misled. You must follow leads that lead nowhere all the time. Or, at least you used to.’
Marsh ignored that one. ‘Is it possible to speak to him? Steven?’
‘You don’t believe me, still?’
‘I’m not saying that.’
Bradley sat back and sighed. ‘Well, he’s not here.’
‘Could you tell me where he is then, Mr Bradley?’
‘I don’t really see the purpose of it. But - yes, all right. In fact, I’ll take you to see him. If he’s off his medicine, maybe you’re just the man to scare him back onto it.’
‘I can do that,’ said Marsh.
Bradley asked for half an hour to get ready, but spent a good half of that time bickering with his wife in the kitchen. Marsh tried not to listen in. It couldn’t be easy, having an only son like that. Didn’t matter how many Royals you knew or how much you earned. He was lucky with his own daughter, yet he had never spent time with his grandchildren. Married to the job. And a denial of mortality. He would have to do something about that. Perhaps he would go and see them in England. Take Linda with him. He wondered if his daughter would allow them to sleep in the same bed together and how she would cope with his screams of pain as Linda bent his spine.
Forty-five minutes later Richard Bradley climbed into Marsh’s car, even as Marsh hurriedly removed crushed coffee cups and a sandwich box from the seat. ‘Where for?’ Marsh asked.
‘Ballywalter.’
Marsh turned the car. Bradley stared ahead of him, saying nothing for a good ten minutes. Ballywalter was a small village on the Down coast, the kind that used to get a steady holiday trade from Belfast in the old days, but which now struggled. It could look picturesque in the sun, nice enough for day-trippers to think about buying property there, but interest quickly faded when the rain started and the grey drabness of the place reasserted itself. Marsh had spent holidays there as a kid himself. The memories were good. The beach was stony. If there was pollution in the sea then, they hadn’t been aware of it. Just lots of skinny children with sunburn.
‘We have a luxury caravan down there,’ Bradley said suddenly. A luxury caravan. ‘Had it for years, but never used it much. Steven likes it though, likes to get away by himself. Very peaceful. But like I say, he has a job, so it was sitting vacant a lot of the time, so he asked me if he’d be able to rent it out over the summer months, weeks here and there, weekends. It wasn’t really the money - it gave him an interest.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Marsh. ‘Who was he renting it out to?’
‘Well, I’m not really sure. I imagine it was some of the ones he knew down at Past Masters - you know, the club?’ Marsh nodded. ‘And he used to socialise quite a lot with the younger elements in the Unionist Party. So I imagine there were a few stag weekends and such.’
‘You’re sure he’ll be here?’
‘When he’s not home, and he hasn’t been since Friday, it’s as likely where he’ll be. Unfortunately there’s no phone, and he’s never carried a mobile.’
‘You don’t worry about him, being off on his own?’
‘He’s not a danger to anyone, if that’s what you mean. Steven wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
But he’d f**k with your head, easy enough.
They didn’t speak much for the rest of the journey. Marsh drove along the Outer Ring, then on to Newtownards, across to Donaghadee and then down the winding coast road to Ballywalter. They got caught behind a tractor and there wasn’t an opportunity to pass before their approach to Baylands Caravan Park.
Summer rain was sweeping across its long, narrow band, carried on a stiff breeze which buffeted the caravans. Bradley directed Marsh to the far side of the park and a large, beige-coloured caravan situated in probably the best spot - at least on a good day, wit
h easy access to the nearby beach, but what was probably a bit of a nightmare in the winter months. The Venetian blinds were drawn. There was a television aerial sticking out of the roof and gas cylinders lined up at the back.
Marsh went to open his door, but Bradley put a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’d better have a word first. He’s a bit strange with people he doesn’t know.’
Marsh sat back.
Bradley hurried up to the door, then knocked sharply on it. He waited just a few moments, then knocked again. ‘Steven!’ he called. He glanced quickly back at Marsh in the car, then added: ‘It’s Daddy!’
There was no response. Bradley nodded at Marsh, then tried the door handle. It opened. He took one step up, then stopped suddenly, began to cough, quickly stepped back onto the concrete slab at the caravan’s base, then crouched down and threw up.
Marsh quickly got out of the car.
The smell hit him straight away.
Steven Bradley had been dead for approximately seventy-two hours, according to the pathologist. There were three empty bottles of prescription medicines found beside his body, which was sitting at a table in the small kitchen. He had left a note which said:
Daddy and Mummy - I didn’t do whatever this is, but I’ll be blamed for it. I’m always blamed for it. I’m in pain all the time. I’m sorry. I love you. Steven. Xxx.
Gary McBride, standing with Marsh on the beach, gazing at the waves, said, ‘What do you think?’
‘What do you think? You’re the one still getting paid.’
‘On the face of it, paranoid schizophrenic commits suicide.’
‘But …’
‘It wasn’t a long rambling note, like you might expect, so if he was as warped as you seem to think he was, he might have experienced some moment of clarity and didn’t want to be the fall guy for something.’
‘But what?’
I didn’t do whatever this is. Is it something to do with this Office Twelve you’re talking about?’
Marsh turned from the water and looked back up to the caravan. ‘I think, if you’re planning suicide, and you’re together enough to sort out your pills and write a fairly coherent note, then you’re going to want to go out with a bit of dignity, not slumped across a table. If you were committing suicide, you’d want to lie down and wait for the pills to take effect. You’d go into the bedroom.’
‘So why didn’t he?’
‘Maybe when he arrived down on Friday he found something that tipped him over the edge.’
‘Like what?’
Marsh just looked at him.
‘All right, boss,’ said Gary, ‘I’ll go and find out.’ He smiled, began to turn away, then stopped. He was used to having Marsh with him. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Skim some stones,’ said Marsh.
131
Casualty
Walter was pretty much surplus to requirements. Eric made that clear right from the off. Eric had arrived at the Ulster Hospital in Dundonald five minutes after Bertha, and twenty minutes before Walter, thanks to his shiny BMW. By the time Walter found a parking spot and made it into Casualty, Eric was waiting to stop him getting any further. Walter just wanted to see her again, and now that he’d seen the state of Casualty - overcrowded with drunks and punishment-beaten teenagers and footballers with sprained five-a-side ankles - to suggest having Bertha transferred to Psyclops Surgeries, but Eric was having none of it. He said, ‘You’re not a relative, you’ve nothing to do with her, you’re not welcome here, so bugger off.’
‘Will you tell her …’
‘I’ll tell her nothing.’
‘Just say that I’m praying for her and I’ll see her when she’s feeling better.’
Eric laughed scornfully. ‘You don’t get better from this.’
‘You really don’t know her at all, do you? Of course she’ll get better.’
Eric shook his head. ‘You really do live in your own wee world, don’t you?’ Then he turned and went back through a set of swing doors.
Walter thought briefly about going after him, but decided against it. Eric was right, up to a point. Bertha wasn’t a relative. She was hardly even a friend. And their business partnership was over. She’d lent him some money, he’d paid her back. That was it. He could just walk away.
He stood outside; it was spitting. He took out his mobile and phoned Margaret. She immediately launched into her meeting with Kathleen Norton and how well it had gone, and how happy she was with it, but that a little bit of the wind had been taken out of her sails when she heard that Kenneth Buchanan, the Trading Standards man, had been seriously injured after being assaulted.
‘Really?’
‘Oh yeah, he’s in the Ulster, he’s really seriously ill.’
‘God,’ said Walter. He stepped out from under the protection of the entrance to stare up at the dull grey face of the hospital. ‘He’s in here?’
‘You’re there?’
‘Aye. Bertha’s not well. I think it’s a stroke.’
‘Oh - I’m sorry. I never got to meet her.’
‘I know.’ Walter was looking along the windows, counting up the floors. ‘So what happened to your man?’
‘Loyalist thugs, they said. Just ambushed him outside his office. And you joking about hiring a hitman - what if someone overheard?’
‘Then I’d be in deep s**t,’ Walter laughed. ‘So what are you up to now?’
‘Well, I’m not home long. I’m going to have a bath. Open a bottle of wine. Then I’m going to invite my new boyfriend around. If he plays his cards right, we might end up in bed together.’
‘That would be nice,’ said Walter. And then after a moment, added: ‘It is me you’re talking about?’
‘Walter.’
‘Sorry. I just … well, that would be fantastic.’
‘Okay, then.’
‘Should I bring something?’
‘Just yourself.’
‘More wine. A Chinese?’
‘Just yourself.’
‘So it’s just myself you’ll be wanting?’
‘That’s it. How long will you be?’
‘About nine minutes if the traffic-lights are with me.’
‘I said I’m having a bath.’
‘That’s okay. I can watch. Or climb in.’
She giggled. Then she said: ‘I really like this, Walter. Let’s not spoil it.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘But we are both people that things happen to. And they’re usually not good.’
‘No, actually I think you’re wrong there. That’s who we used to be. Now we’ve turned the corner, it’s all downhill from here.’
‘Downhill? Isn’t that a bad thing?’
‘Well, uphill sounds like a lot of hard work. Downhill is like freewheeling. So that’s good. At least until your brakes fail and there’s like this articulated lorry coming right at you. Do they still call them articulated lorries? I don’t even know what articulated means. Isn’t that what solicitors get, articulated? Or accountants? Maybe your Billy would …’
‘Walter?’
‘Mmm-hmm?’
‘Less talk, more action.’
She cut the line. Walter was beaming. But only for a few moments. Then he called Mark on his mobile and snapped into it: ‘What the f***ing hell did you do?’
‘What? Walter? What’re you talking about?’
‘What do you think I’m talking about? The Trading Standards guy!’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s in the Ulster, fighting for his life!’
‘He is?’
‘Something like that, yes. I asked you to get Office Twelve to sort him out, but I was only talking about hacking into his computer and deleting his records, not nearly killing him.’
‘Oh Christ. I should have known.’
‘Should have known what?’
Mark tutted. ‘Look, Walter, I’m sorry, I was only trying to help. I’ve been sitting i
n Office Twelve for days, waiting for Steven, waiting for anyone to show up, but it’s been just me on my lonesome, so I had to call in the favour somewhere else. There’s a man I met through the Party, I don’t even know his real name, but he’s called Bull and, well, he was only too keen to help, but he doesn’t really do hacking - unless it’s with an axe. I’m sorry, I should have guessed. I just thought he’d lean on him a bit.’
‘He did more than just f***ing lean on him!’
‘I realise that now. Is he going to be all right?’
‘Well, how do I know?! Do you think I can just waltz in there and enquire? “And by the way, I’m the one who organised for you to get beaten within an inch of your life”!’
‘Walter, what more can I say? I did my best.’
Walter sighed. ‘Yes. I know. Just, I’ve lived in this bloody city all my life without having The f***ing Troubles affect me one little bit. Then as soon as they’re over I get mixed up in this pile of crap.’
The rain was a little heavier now, so he stepped back into the shelter of the hospital entrance.
‘Walter, whoever told you The Troubles were over?’
‘Mark - it was on the news.’
‘And all that rioting, what would that be?’
‘That’s just them fellas messing about as usual. It’s always been like that.’
‘Yeah. Well. Fair point. Look - I do feel really bad about this. Do you fancy coming over for a drink or something? Make us both feel a bit better.’
‘Sorry, mate, no can do. I’m going to have sex with my girlfriend for the first time.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Walter?’
‘What?’
‘That’s too much information.’
‘I thought that as soon as I said it. Nevertheless, I am. See you later, Alligator.’ He cut the line. He was still smiling at the thought of sex with Margaret when he realised there was a skinhead standing behind him, sheltering from the rain as well, and smoking a fag. He was smiling too. As Walter turned his collar up, and prepared to dash for the car, the skinhead said, ‘Hey - mate?’
I Predict a Riot Page 56
