I Predict a Riot

by Bateman, Colin

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Give her one for Ulster.’

  Walter blinked at him for a moment. Then he said: ‘Okay,’ and darted out into the rain.

  132

  Kilimanjaro

  James ‘Marsh’ Mallow and Linda ‘Jump Off a Tall Building’ Wray were enjoying dinner in Pizza Express on the Dublin Road. From their table they could see BBC Northern Ireland, and the local celebrities going in and out. They played ‘spot the newsreader’. They held hands across the table. She had taken his hand as a natural act - they were lovers, after all. Marsh found it awkward at first; he was unused to public displays of affection. He had not held his wife’s hand in such a fashion in their entire marriage. It was not a wasted life, he thought, it was just a different one. There was muzak playing, a truly horrific version of ‘Brown Sugar’. In the past it would have been enough to have spoiled his meal, but not any longer; in fact, the pizza itself was enough to spoil his meal, but even that didn’t matter. He was happy.

  Linda said, ‘Look, there’s Noel Thompson.’

  Marsh saw the news presenter crossing the road outside. ‘Delivering bad news since 1990.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Linda. ‘I think he’s quite attractive.’

  Marsh nodded. ‘All right. Delivering bad news since 1990, but still quite attractive.’

  She smiled and said, ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Well, now that my back’s sorted and my muscles are in shape I was thinking about trekking up Kilimanjaro. Or another night in bed with my loved one. Both equally strenuous, both have a great view, but only one has a risk of malaria.’

  ‘Am I your loved one?’

  ‘Well, you’re definitely in my top three.’ But then he saw she was serious. ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘That’s the first time you’ve said it.’

  ‘Well, it just kind of slipped out.’

  ‘It was nice.’ Then: ‘I would say the same back.’

  ‘If you meant it.’

  ‘I would mean it, but I’ve said it far too easily to too many people for far too long. So I’m going to hold back for now. Even if deep inside I’m dying to say it.’

  ‘Well, you sort of have, then.’

  ‘I suppose.’ They played finger footsie for a minute, then she looked a little more serious. ‘James, what are you going to do, now that you’ve retired? You’re not the type just to garden, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe write my memoirs. I’m covered by Official Secrets, but I’m sure there’s a way round it, and I don’t really feel like I owe them anything.’

  ‘Not after the way they’ve treated you.’

  ‘Although, that said, Belfast Confidential comes out tomorrow. I may actually be taking the Kilimanjaro option. It’s not going to be very pleasant, Linda.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You do believe me, don’t you, about what happened?’

  ‘James, I’m a Let’s Be Mates veteran. Nothing surprises me. Although if you’d shown a bit of backbone in the first place, and not left me sitting in that restaurant, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  ‘It’s all about the little decisions, isn’t it? You can never guess what they’re going to lead to.’

  ‘Well, maybe you weren’t in the right place to meet me then, so maybe we would have had a miserable meal and not hit it off the way we have now. Maybe we needed something dramatic …’

  ‘Like jumping off a tall building …’

  ‘Like me getting drunk and upset, to get our ball rolling.’

  Marsh lifted his glass, Linda lifted hers. Just as they went to clink, Marsh’s phone began to ring. They clinked, and kissed across the table. She said, ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’

  ‘It’s my work phone. And I don’t work any more.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  Marsh removed his phone. ‘Yep?’ he said into it.

  ‘Boss, it’s Gary.’

  ‘You’re going to have to get out of the habit of calling me “boss”,’ said Marsh. ‘Me no worky no more.’ He smiled playfully across the table.

  ‘Right, boss,’ said Gary. ‘I thought you’d want to know about the caravan.’

  ‘Okay, hold on a minute.’ Marsh gave Linda an apologetic look. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Marsh dabbed his lips with his napkin, then pushed his chair back and crossed the floor of the pizzeria. He stepped out into the cool night air. ‘Right, Gary, shoot.’

  ‘Are you sitting down?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, first off, we took the caravan apart. The bedroom had been thoroughly cleaned in the past few days, but there was a small hole in the floor and blood had leaked through…’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘Blood had leaked right through and dripped onto a concrete slab beneath the caravan. We have a DNA match, boss - in fact, two DNA matches. One for Michael Caldwell, and one for Pink Harrison. His blood, and a pubic hair.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Marsh.

  ‘I know. We have him, boss. We f**king have him.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Gary. Well done.’

  ‘You led us there, boss.’

  ‘Well. Anyway, tell me how you see it now.’

  ‘Steven Bradley was in the habit of hiring his caravan out to his Unionist buddies and Pink was one of them. He had a thing for boys, but had to take them somewhere real secret, because if word got out, the hoods would have had him for breakfast. So he takes Michael down to Ballywalter, they fight over something, Pink kills him, maybe gets hurt himself in the process. He cleans up the murder scene, but misses the blood, takes the body back to town to throw everyone off-track, then dumps it in the Lagan.’

  Marsh said: ‘You should do this for a living - you’re very good.’

  ‘So should you,’ said Gary. ‘And maybe you could again. When this gets out ...’

  ‘No, Gary. It’s done.’

  They were quiet for a few moments, then Gary said, ‘We’ve paperwork to sort out, but do you want to come along for the ride when we go to pick Pink up? It wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘No thanks, Gary. I’ve better things to do with my time.’

  Marsh returned to the restaurant. When he sat down, Linda said, ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No, not at all. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘So why the long face?’ Marsh shrugged. He turned his glass of wine between his fingers, then briefly told Linda what had happened. At the end she said, ‘That’s great news. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course it is.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose we’re back to old Kilimanjaro again. I mean, I’m told it’s absolutely miserable getting there, freezing cold and you’re so high up above sea level you get a raging headache, so by the time you get to the top you’re not the slightest bit interested in the view and you just want to lie down.’

  Linda squeezed his hand. ‘Well, maybe we should go and lie down. I don’t know much about you, James Mallow, but I do know you’ve been fighting these people for thirty years, and now you’ve … hung up your gun, or whatever it is you do, but not before you got the last of them. It’s been a hard slog and you’re exhausted and you’re in no position now to appreciate what you’ve done. But you’ve done something good, and in the morning maybe it won’t be so cold, and your head won’t be so sore and the clouds will have rolled back and you’ll be able to appreciate the view, and think the effort was worthwhile.’

  Marsh squeezed her hand back and said, ‘I’ll get the bill.’

  133

  Pink

  The arrest of Pink Harrison could not happen for at least twenty-four hours, they had that much from their many moles within Police Headquarters. Even before the Chief Constable was informed of the breakthrough, word had already reached four of the five leaders of the UDA in Belfast. The fifth, obviously, was Pink Harrison, and he hadn’t a clue.

  Pink had be
en on the rampage for the past few days, arguing with and threatening banks, creditors and many varieties of financial institution where he could - but most of them were overseas, and you had to see Pink face to face to appreciate his terror. He wasn’t getting far. With his cash still landing in gardens all over the Province, and his credit cards maxed out or rejecting him, he was forced to squeeze the protection rackets even harder. He demanded a ‘special’ contribution to Party funds, and those few businesses that he still had an interest in were ordered to hand over their reserves and sell off fixtures and fittings, yet something was different. Pink Harrison’s desperation was apparent for all to see. It was the first time anyone had seen him rattled. Billy Gilmore was his Achilles heel. In fact, with the way Pink’s luck was running, he had two Achilles heels/which was not only career threatening in football, but pretty damn risky in paramilitary circles. The second Achilles heel was, at least in the eyes of the UDA Brigadiers, much more serious. They had put up with his bullying ways, they had put up with his showboating and the press attention it brought. And murdering someone, well that obviously went with the territory. But being caught with your pants down with a rent boy - that was the final nail in the coffin. The good people of the UDA would stand for many things, not the least of which was having their country torn away from beneath them, but they wouldn’t stand for a fruit in their midst.

  He had to go.

  There are no early retirements in the UDA. There are no pension plans, no golden handshakes. You are not asked to clear your desk immediately, or escorted from the building. The Brigadiers knew Pink well enough. They knew that if they stood him down, he would seek revenge in the traditional manner. They also knew that once the police had him in custody, pressure would be brought to bear on him to name names. Pink knew many names, and where they were buried. It wouldn’t be allowed.

  Shortly after the decision was made, Bull drove out to see him. Instead of pulling into the driveway, he parked in the next street along. He grabbed a plastic Primark bag from the front seat. It was full of cash he’d collected from the Supporters Club en route. He stopped just outside the gates, and stepped into the shadows as another car approached, then drove past. At that moment his mobile phone rang. He answered it in case there was a last-minute change in orders.

  ‘Bull?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Mark.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘Mark Beck. I called you about the Trading Standards guy.’

  Bull tutted. ‘Yes, what about it?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean you to go that far. He’s in hospital and—’

  ‘Mark? I’m busy right now.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. It’s just that I’m pretty peeved …’

  ‘Peeved?’

  ‘I only meant you to warn him off.’

  ‘Mark? We did only warn him off. If we’d been serious he would have been propping up the f**king fly-over by now. So take your peeved and stick it up your f**king a*se, all right?’

  ‘All right,’ said Mark.

  Bull snapped the phone shut, then walked up the drive to Pink’s front door. Every light in the house appeared to be on, and music was booming out. Bob Marley. It took several rings for Pink to answer. He was wearing white shorts and sandals. His upper half was naked, well-tanned and muscled. He had a dumbbell in his right hand and a glass of champagne in his left. He smiled at Bull and said, ‘All right, mate? Come on in.’

  There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the house. Bull said, ‘Am I late for the party, or too early?’

  ‘Neither, mate, just chillin’. I’ll get you a drink.’ Pink led him towards the kitchen. ‘You been in here before?’ he asked, setting the dumb-bell down on a granite counter and waving his hand around the ultra-modern design.

  ‘Couple of times,’ said Bull.

  ‘Designed by Liam Miller. Cost me twenty grand, and I’ve never made more than baked beans in it. But see this fridge? Makes its own friggin’ ice, twenty-four seven.’ He pulled the door open. ‘Beer or champagne?’

  ‘Neither,’ said Bull.

  Pink glanced back, and saw the gun.

  ‘Bull,’ said Pink.

  ‘Pink,’ said Bull.

  Marsh didn’t hear about the murder of Pink Harrison until he switched on the radio news the next morning. It had been given blanket coverage by the local stations almost as soon as police arrived at the scene, but there was no TV in the penthouse apartment and besides, he had other things on his mind.

  Now, driving home after another exhausting, fantastical night, he listened in to the local coverage, switching between stations. He didn’t feel anything in particular: certainly not robbed, or angry, or even sad. In fact, he didn’t even want to be driving home; he wanted to stay with Linda, but she had her job to do, and besides, he had to find out what Billy Gilmore was up to. Marsh hadn’t been back to his house for two nights, and Billy wasn’t answering the phone. There was always the outside possibility that one of Pink’s last acts had been to track Billy down to Marsh’s house and murder him, but he suspected he would have heard.

  When he arrived home, the house was in neat and tidy order, but there was no sign of Billy. There was a note, however.

  Dear Superintendent, Marsh read, I see they got Pink, but I don’t think I’m off the hook yet. So I’m off. I just wanted to thank you for saving my life, and also to say you’re a bullying f**ker. You have a very interesting record collection. I know bugger all about music, but you’ve left me here alone for so long, scared out of my wits, that I’ve had time to price your collection on the internet. So I have selected your most valuable records and taken them with me. I will sell them on eBay. It’s a small thing, but I think you’ll agree, very annoying. All the best, Billy.

  A week, maybe even a few hours ago, Marsh would have flown into a frenzied rage. His music had been everything to him. But it no longer was. Or not quite. Make no mistake, he would absolutely thump Billy if he ever saw him again, but he wouldn’t go out of his way. The music had been an escape - from everything. From his work, from his marriage. Now there was a brave new world opening up. Before, after his wife had died, he would have the music on constantly, and loud. Now the house was quiet, and he rather liked it. He made a cup of tea. He sat at the kitchen table and checked his mobile. Gary had called half a dozen times, but without leaving any messages. He called him.

  Gary said, ‘Where you been, boss?’

  ‘Out,’ said Marsh.

  ‘You’ve heard about Pink?’

  ‘Yeah. The usual suspects, right?’

  ‘Just the one. We’re just about to pick up the Bull.’

  In paramilitary circles, it usually turned out to be the right-hand man. Marsh was just surprised that Bull had been fingered so quickly. ‘You’d think by now he’d be well versed in getting rid of a gun and burning his clothes, and generally pretty good at giving Forensics a miserable time.’

  ‘Oh aye, he did all that. But the stupid b***ard went and answered his phone right outside Pink’s house about two minutes before he pulled the trigger. Those mobile phone people are all the same, aren’t they? Doesn’t matter whether it’s your bill you’re complaining about or some murder you’ve committed, they always get you in the end. Anyway, boss, we never did get Pink to court, but it’s over anyway, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just about,’ said Marsh.

  134

  Wedding

  Redmond swore that he would not attend the wedding of his wife to Jack Finucane. He swore, and swore, and swore, and swore, until his housekeeper was forced to knock on his bedroom door and ask if everything was all right. He emerged pale and slightly drunk, and said he had to go to Belfast. In the end, he couldn’t not go. He had no idea how he would react when he got there or what he would do or say when his wife walked down the aisle. Physical violence was second nature to him. Redmond could put a bomb together given five minutes and the contents of the average grocery trolley. He could construct lethal weapons out of twigs and nettl
es. But now he had other strings to his bow as well: he could give the Last Rites, as he had; he could baptise, as he had just the previous morning; he could listen to confessions, almost daily, and offer sage and appropriate advice; and he could bless and bless and bless and bask in the warmth, respect, and yes, love of his rural parish. He had eventually decided, after long, fraught hours of deliberation, that he must accept the fact that there would always be two of him. When he wore the black of the priest, then he would be that priest. But he couldn’t wear it all the time. When he took the black off, he would become Redmond. It was a slightly schizophrenic approach, but he could see no other way of doing it. There just had to be some way to keep the two of him apart.

  So he caught the train to Belfast. He wore his priest’s outfit. He thought it might help to control his emotions, and anger.

  Then he got to City Hall and saw Maeve, and his heart near broke in two. She was wearing a beautiful suit. ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she said. ‘My mate Margaret designed it and had it made up as a special surprise. It’s worth thousands.’ She was getting a bit anxious because Jack hadn’t arrived yet. Then she said she had a favour to ask Damian. ‘Margaret’s going to be my witness, but poor Jack - he doesn’t have any relatives living here, and no really close friends to ask, so I was wondering if you’d be his witness.’

  Redmond was stunned. He hadn’t exactly expected the wedding to be packed with family and friends of Maeve’s - as she’d been disowned by every right-thinking Republican in Belfast - but had presumed that her husband-to-be’s family would make up the numbers. However, there appeared to be virtually no other guests. There was Margaret, and presumably the man with her was her husband, and then there was the short, bald, sad-faced man whom Maeve introduced as her boss from work. But that was it.

  ‘What sort of a man has no friends to give him away?’ Redmond asked.

  ‘He has friends, Father - just they’re all chefs. They work in different cities, different countries.’