Fireproof (21 page)

"Can I think about it?"

"Sure, give me your number. I'll call you in a few days. What's your name?"

"Joe Murray. I'll give you my mobile number. Don't phone me after seven or my wife will ask a load of awkward questions."

Cathy tapped Joe's number into her mobile.

"Thanks, Joe. Talk to you soon."

Joe went into the depot and Cathy walked to the bus stop. She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing, but she had to do something, with or without Mike's blessing.

On Sunday night Mike and Cadbury were well received by the Yuppies. Mike had allowed Cadbury to wear his tuxedo into the city centre under the proviso that he kept the "Master Rocks" thing to a minimum. He knew there wouldn't be many bouncers working the doors of the most upmarket and expensive bars in Belfast who'd overlook a man in his pyjamas and a dressing gown. At least if Cadbury wore his tuxedo he'd be the ultimate conformer to the "no casual clothes" rule most of the pretentious night clubs in the city subscribed to. His ragged beard and straggly, long hair raised a few eyebrows, but there were currently no restrictions on hairstyles, facial or otherwise, operating in those circles.

Mike burned through an insane amount of cash as he went on the most expensive bar crawl in history. The clubs and pubs he targeted had an entrance fee of at least twenty quid. A pint of beer cost almost twice the price of a pint in his local. He gritted his teeth as he handed over each note. Paying the ridiculous prices screamed against every moral fibre in his soul. But he had to target a powerful group. A faithless group with connections. A group that had little time for anything they couldn't own or buy with their next salary cheque. A group that would bring Mike, and his religion, up a few steps on the social ladders. Enter the Yuppies.

The first bar they visited did business very close to the City Hall. Mike thought the most logical approach to the night would be to start in the city's dead centre and spiral outwards. The Apartment was the first place in that path. Mike tipped the bouncer who was dressed like an American Secret Service Operative, complete with a communication earplug and shades that served no purpose in the darkness of nine o'clock. The bouncer didn't thank Mike, but more importantly, the young group of sharp-suited men chattering into mobile phones as they approached the door didn't witness him stiff the bouncer. He would not be accepted in this crowd unless he displayed a blatant disregard for the thing they craved the most. Money.

Mike sent Cadbury to the blue neon back-lit bar and sat at an empty table next to the biggest gathering or twenty-somethings. He tuned into an appalling conversation. The group of business acquaintances were talking about the new legislation for maternity leave. The opinions from the men at the crowded table were cold and offensive. The opinions from the women were even worse. One young lady had gone off on a terrible rant when Cadbury joined Mike with the overpriced alcohol. She wore a serious skirt and jacket combination with a blouse that screamed aggressive sexual energy. Her hair had been slicked back into a bun and her nose looked as sharp as a razor. Her tongue was sharper.

"Nine fucking months statutory pay? For what? Squatting and plopping a squalling brat into a society that is already having trouble with property prices and National Health Service waiting lists? As if the family-friendly fucks we have in government haven't made enough bad choices. I can't even enjoy a cigarette in a bar anymore. I have to go
outside
and hang about the door like a pleb. I mean, what the fuck? I can snort Charlie indoors to my heart's content, but light up a smoke in a place where fucking kids shouldn't even be allowed and I'm treated like Adolf Hitler. What favours are the government doing me for advancing my career, paying more taxes as a result, and contributing to the economy? Fuck all! They've increased retirement age, upped capital gains tax and increased car and road tax for high engine capacity vehicles. All so some soppy bitch that can't cut it in the real world can get herself knocked up and have nine months funded holiday to look forward to. I think it's a fucking disgrace. What kind of message does that send out to the girls still at school? ‘Oh, let's not bother putting our heart and soul into our career plans. We can get a job after uni then take nine months off every year by getting up the duff as often as we can. Sweet deal.' Fucking maternity pay."

Her poisonous speech was well received. Mike would love to see her in ten years time. He leaned over to Cadbury and said as much.

"Well, Mast… I mean, Mike, that young lady will be pregnant this time next year. The young highflier, whose child she will carry, will talk her out of her third abortion. She'll marry and have three more kids before she figures out that her husband is cheating on her. She'll figure
that
out when she contracts a particularly nasty STD eight years from now. When she confronts her husband, he'll throw her out of their marital home, cut her off financially and divorce her on the grounds of
her
promiscuity, using doctored evidence and corrupted witnesses. Ten years from now she'll be living in a shelter, waiting for housing executive accommodation for herself and her four kids. You don't want to know where she'll be in twenty years, let me tell you."

"How do you know all that?"

"Clairvoyance. It's like the Aura reading thing. It comes and goes to varying degrees when I'm in your company."

"Next time I ask you about someone's future, can you be a little less depressing?"

"Pick a nicer person and I probably will."

"Touché."

"So, are you going to recruit these wankers, or listen to this shit for another drink?"

"Let's get down to business. Help me out if I struggle, Cadbury."

Mike approached the low oak table. He wore one of the suits Cathy picked for him on their impromptu shopping trip. He certainly looked the part. Being a little older might lend him even more credibility in their company. Mike dived right in.

"I hate to interrupt this heated discussion, but could I steal a few precious minutes? I have a proposal you guys might be interested in. What do you say?"

"How much and what's the return?" The rapier wit response came from the sharp-nosed young woman with the very bleak future. It earned her more hyena cackles from the others at the table.

"This deal will cost you nothing at all."

"I've heard that before."

"I'm sure you have, but this is the first time it's been true."

"So, what is it?"

Mike took a deep breath. "I'm talking about membership to a growing community. A lot of what you do is based on your contacts, right? I can offer you a social network that is currently growing at an unprecedented rate. A social network that applauds self-improvement and greed. If you get in now, you can claim seniority over all the admissions after yours. Think of the prestige."

"That sounds interesting, but what kind of people are involved in this network and what does membership require? What are your aims?"

"‘Let's cut to the chase,' to quote our American friends, eh? I'm talking about Satanism."

"Come again?"

"The only requirement is that you devote your soul to Satan and you become involved with the emerging elite. This is a religion for the evolved. Look at the state of the world. Politics affect the economy,
your hunting ground
. So far the kinds of people we have enlisted are crooks and middleclass rebels. But those are just stepping stones. In the long-term you could be rubbing shoulders with some very important people; politicians, judges, gangsters, whatever. But more importantly, from an established position within the religion, you can have a little bit of power over them."

"Are you nuts?"

"Not at all. I'm a success."

"And you believe that Satanism contributed to that?"

"Satanism is the sole reason I am where I am today."

"I think we should call the bouncer over." The sharp-nosed career girl looked for support from her colleagues. She didn't find it. The others at the table were eyeing up the small man in the very expensive suit. Mike knew he almost had them.

"I think the bouncer should stay where he is," Mike said. The girl's colleagues didn't disagree with him.

"And what is expected of us with regards to a time commitment, should we entertain this absurd notion?"

"You just need to attend a weekly black mass and meditate when you have the time. Satanism is less about ritual and more about the lifestyle you choose. It'll probably take up less time than your weekly visit to the racquetball court."

"Do you have a card or something?"

Mike had printed business cards after he left Cathy's house that day. He handed the girl one of the little white cardboard rectangles. Mike's contact information was printed in Gothic script for dramatic effect. He put a small bundle in the middle of the table and invited the other Yuppies to help themselves.

"Do we sell you our souls or anything like that if we go to one of your masses?"

"No, that's something you could explore on your own time."

The sales pitch followed a very similar script in every hot joint he visited. Some groups seemed more eager than others but Mike felt he'd left quite an impression on every one of them. He expected them to start arriving at the black masses in dribs and drabs, and then as word of mouth circulated the banks and big businesses in Belfast, it would snowball. Communication played a big part in the Yuppie lifestyle. He could expect great things from the heartless bastards.

***

At the end of a hard night meeting with the money-hungry masses, Mike phoned Jim.

"Jim, can you give us a lift?"

"Sure. I'll come pick you up as soon as I get a car. Say about twenty minutes?"

"Good man. We're standing at the gates of City Hall. See you soon, Jim."

"Sweet."

Burger King was just across the street and still open. Cadbury took a stroll over to buy some stodgy filler. While he was gone, a petite, Chinese woman approached Mike with an armful of cellophane-wrapped, single red roses. Mike dug into his pockets and produced a fiver. The Chinese woman smiled and Mike thanked her. Her smile broadened.

"You speak Chinese."

"I guess I do." Mike was still speaking Cantonese.

"Your accent is very good."

"Thank you."

"I hope your lady likes her flower."

"I think she will."

As the little woman walked her dainty walk towards an ever growing crowd of ousted drunks, Mike wondered how many languages he knew.

Cadbury came back with a swollen paper bag. They decided to wait for Jim before tucking into the grub.

"So, are we going to pin down the Skater Kids next?" Cadbury asked.

"No, I'm going to ask Jim to handle that one. I think his new air of confidence will sell us pretty well. He can call it the new extreme religion. Those cheap thrill addicts will lap it up."

"Who are we going to see tomorrow?"

"I think it'd be good to get to the tattoo artists of the city."

"Oh. That's not an incredibly big group of people. Do you think it's worthwhile?"

"Certainly, Cadbury. Tattoos are at their most popular these days. The tattoo artist literally leaves an everlasting impression on his customers. While they ink they usually chat non-stop. If they talk about the religion once in a while we could gain a lot of interest from it. Maybe even start a trend; goat head and demon tattoos could be the new Chinese symbol."

"So we go see a tattooist tomorrow. I take it I'll be getting ‘inked' as they say."

"Well there isn't much room left on me, buddy." Mike pulled up his sleeves and rotated his forearms. Colourful dragons and demons danced on his sinewy muscles. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. You'll have to help me choose one though."

"Cool."

Jim picked them up and was pleased to receive a quarter pound of beef patty in a bun for his troubles. He drove one-handed while he ate. He managed the gear changes with masterful proficiency. Before he dropped them off at Mike's apartment, Jim agreed to go see the Skater Kids first thing in the afternoon. He seemed eager to get on with a bit of PR work. Mike asked him if he owned a skateboard. He did and Mike suggested that he take it with him on the meet and greet.

***

Belfast City Skinworks only accepted customers by appointment, but as it was in a central location in the city, Mike wanted to start there and work outwards. He phoned the morning after he met the Yuppies and was able to get an appointment for the afternoon through a cancellation. According to the guy on the phone, Monday was the day they got most of their cancellations. He blamed hangovers.

Some of the architecture in Belfast is unimaginative, and at times a little depressing. This building was both. The redbrick façade was grubby and the wooden-framed windows were unremarkable. Pigeons had more taste than to nestle on the roofing. But they didn't mind shitting all over the place. A wooden sign on the footpath directed customers to the studio on the first floor, above a sportswear shop. Mike and Cadbury climbed the narrow and poorly lit staircase. The actual studio gleamed; a bright and clean area. Tattoo stencils covered every inch of wall. They were separated into Celtic, tribal, biker and every other design under the sun. At a small reception desk outside the room where the inking happened, a short man with a bullring in his nose smoked while he doodled on an artist's sketchpad. His pencil laid down lines in frenetic strokes. As Mike and Cadbury approached, Mike could see a complex tribal design emerge. With what seemed like random slashes across the page, the small man with the huge piercing created a fierce dragon's head from black tribal curves and slashes.