Dark Dawn (ds o'neill)

by Matt McGuire

  Petesy left the house just before three. He had texted Marty, who was sitting smoking round the back of the Maxol garage. He said he’d come over and meet him.

  It was awkward when Petesy arrived. Marty was still pissed off at him. His white Kappa top had a stain on the sleeve.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Petesy asked.

  ‘Riding that Cara one. Dirty wee hoor. Can’t get enough of it.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’

  ‘I’m telling you, she loves it. Tits?’ Marty exhaled between puckered lips, shaking his head. ‘I could sit there all day, just feeling them.’

  They laughed together. Marty tossed Petesy the box of cigarettes. He took one, lighting it from the smouldering end of his friend’s fag.

  ‘Micky’s a dick by the way,’ Petesy said.

  ‘What? Your new best mate?’

  ‘Grand Theft Arsehole.’

  Marty smiled at his friend’s joke. He finished his cigarette and lit another one straight away.

  ‘Listen, Petesy. If you want to go to the Tech, go back to school and all that, it’s fine with me. You’re going to need money for pens and books and everything though.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, your granny can hardly afford it. So what about if I sponsor you? Keep you sweet? You better become a lawyer or something though, because the chances are I’m going to need one sooner or later.’

  Petesy smiled. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘There’s one catch,’ Marty said.

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘You have to bring me to any parties you get invited to. Introduce me to the birds in your class. The snatch down the Tech is supposed to be phenomenal. There’s loads of it. I’ll stick a few books under my arm, nick a pair of glasses from somewhere. They’ll never know.’

  Petesy laughed. Marty would never change. They started to walk home. As they turned off the main road Petesy caught Marty grinning to himself.

  ‘What the fuck are you smiling about?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Fuck away off and tell me.’

  ‘A gentleman never talks.’

  ‘Is it Cara again?’

  ‘She’s a wee. .’

  They stopped in their tracks. Two figures were coming towards them. They were 100 yards away, but as soon as the men saw Marty and Petesy they started running. Instinctively the boys bolted, sprinting back in the direction they’d come from. By the end of the road Marty was ten yards in front of Petesy.

  Another man came round the corner, wearing a dark green combat jacket. He tried to cut them off. Marty was quick, swerving between two parked cars.

  ‘Come here, you wee cunt.’

  A hand lunged out and tried to grab his tracksuit top. Marty could feel him right behind him. He kept his head down, kept going, expecting to go down at any moment.

  Marty cut down an entry between two rows of houses and burst out of the Markets. On the main road he swung right and sprinted up the Albert Bridge. He didn’t let up until he’d gone 500 yards. His lungs were burning. He slowed and looked back over his shoulder. The man had stopped where the entry hit the main road. Even from that distance Marty could make out the figure in the semi-darkness. It was Tierney. He scanned the street behind him, looking towards Oxford Street. There was no one to be seen. Where the fuck was Petesy?

  Tierney walked forward under a lamppost. He wanted Marty to see him, to see who he was. After thirty seconds he turned and went back into the Markets. Marty waited a few minutes before crossing the road and starting back. There was no traffic, not even a taxi. He felt alone, incredibly alone. Where was Petesy? Everybody else could go fuck themselves. His ma. Micky. Janty. Even Cara. Petesy was the only one that mattered.

  He took the long back way into the Markets, lowering himself over a wall and picking his way along the bank of the river. There was a patch of wasteground that separated the edge of the estate from the water. It was the same place as he’d had a fag with Locksy a couple of days ago. Marty could make out some muffled voices at the far end, hidden by the new fence around the disused gasworks.

  Marty crept closer, bracing himself to bolt at any moment. He peered round the corner. There were three figures standing. Tierney, Molloy and another. Petesy lay on the ground at their feet. He wasn’t moving. Tierney kneeled down, grabbing a handful of hair and lifting his head off the ground. He let go and Petesy’s skull bounced off the concrete. Tierney stood up and goaded him.

  ‘Where’s your big talk now, you fucking wee hood? Do yous think this is a free market or something? That you can just do whatever you want? You and your fucking mate. Where’s your mate now, eh? Fucked off on you, has he?’

  Molloy laid a boot into Petesy, who groaned and curled into a ball.

  Marty looked round for something. A bottle. A stick. There was nothing.

  Fuck it.

  He put his head down and sprinted, making for Tierney. He was at full pace when he came out of the dark. He hit Tierney in the face, knocking him off his feet. Marty stood over Petesy to protect him.

  Tierney picked himself up. ‘You fucking wee cunt.’

  Marty hadn’t thought this far ahead. What did he do now?

  ‘There must be a special offer on or something,’ Molloy said from the side. ‘A two-for-one on hoods.’

  The three men barred any escape route. Molloy walked casually to the wall and lifted a hurling stick that was lying on the ground. The end of the stick had a series of nails protruding out of it. He gave a few practice swings as he walked back to the group. Warming up.

  ‘So what the fuck are you going to do now?’ Molloy asked.

  He took a swing and Marty jumped back wards. The two others rushed him, knocking him to the ground. They were all over him. Punching him in the head. Then they stood up and started laying boots into him. Marty felt the wind go out of him and blackness start to close in.

  The two men stood up. Molloy held the hurling stick at his side.

  ‘You know something? It’s your lucky day. We’re only going to do one of you. The other one of yous is going to come and work for me. We’ll put those entrepreneurial skills to some use.’

  Marty heard the words, vaguely somewhere in the distance.

  Molloy started pointing back and forth between the two boys on the ground.

  ‘Eeeny — meeny — miny — mo — catch — a nigger — by the — toe. If he — screams — let him — go. Eeeny — meeny — miny — mo.’

  His finger stopped on Petesy.

  The two men dragged Marty away from his friend. One knelt on his back, pressing Marty’s face into the gravel. They would make him watch.

  Molloy methodically straightened out Petesy’s legs. He stood back and took off his coat before stepping up and cocking the hurling stick over his shoulder. Then he swung it down, smashing the stick into Petesy’s legs.

  Petesy screamed. It was a raw, animal sound. He screamed with each blow. Molloy hit him five or six times on each leg. Afterwards Petesy lay there gradually quietening to a series of moaning whimpers.

  ‘Not such a hard lad now, you wee cunt.’ Molloy laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally, mind you. It’s only business.’

  The three men walked away, leaving the two boys on the waste-ground. They joked among themselves, making imitation screams, revelling in the pain they’d inflicted.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  O’Neill was going to church.

  It was the first time in twenty years. He hadn’t seen the light. Laganview was nothing but darkness. It was almost two weeks and the body still didn’t have a name.

  St Mark’s was tucked away in the city centre of Belfast, dropped among office blocks and apartments. It sat two streets back from the green copper dome of the City Hall. The building dated from the 1840s, when Dunvilles had the whiskey distillery next door. The distillery was long gone. O’Neill wondered how long before churches went the same way. Congregations were shrinking. He had heard of places across the water being turned into r
estaurants and nightclubs. Northern Ireland wouldn’t be far behind.

  O’Neill was not desperate. He’d been desperate a week ago. Desperate was a distant memory. Everyone else was off the case. He was alone. Just him, the body and a total lack of suspects.

  St Mark’s parish included the Markets and the lower Ormeau Road. The peelers had been stonewalled by everyone on the street. Even their regular informants knew nothing. O’Neill needed something, even if it was just a whisper — a rumour. Anything. Some kind of lead, something he could work from. He was still waiting on Forensics coming back with the footprints and wasn’t hopeful.

  Outside St Mark’s a glass case contained notices of Mass times. There was a Polish Mass at 10 a.m. every Sunday. Above the sign was a question: Looking for answers? O’Neill ignored it and walked into the church.

  The door thudded shut behind him, sealing O’Neill in the quiet of the building. He had stopped going to church when he was sixteen. He hated being told what to do. All that stand up, sit down. People droning their prayers like cattle.

  Father Donal Mullan had been at St Mark’s for ten years. He had hoped to be retired in some country parish by now. Visits to the elderly. Cups of tea. ‘A wee bun there, Father?’ Instead, the Bishop had given him St Mark’s. Recruitment was at an all-time low. ‘All hands to the pump, Donal.’

  Fr Mullan felt as if he’d done his fair share of pumping. He’d been in Belfast schools for over thirty years. O’Neill had been one of his pupils at St Malachy’s College. Mullan regarded the Catholic boys of Belfast as his own particular penance. He taught History and Religion, but his true love was Gaelic football.

  ‘Dribbling is for babies,’ he used to say. ‘Soccer? An English game. Grown men falling over themselves like a bunch of women.’

  Inside the church, forty pews stretched out in front of O’Neill. The altar was a large stone table. Confession boxes were built into the wall along the side of the church. Above the three doors, small lights showed they were all engaged. The priest sat in the middle. A sinner on either side.

  Two pensioners sat nearby waiting. O’Neill took a seat near the back. He looked at the pensioners, wondering what they could possibly be there for. He thought about the files they had on people at Musgrave Street. The assault, the robbery, the rape. He wondered did that stuff get an airing in the darkness and quiet of the confessional.

  One of the doors opened and an old man walked out, head bowed, face penitent. O’Neill thought about what must have been said in those boxes over the last forty years. The bombings. The shootings. What did you get for killing a man? For following him home. Putting three bullets in him in front of his wife and two children. A few Hail Marys? A whole rosary? He suddenly had a deep loathing for the Catholic Church. Did they forgive these fuckers? Were slates wiped clean? Any SOCO would tell you, you can never entirely get rid of a bloodstain.

  The last pensioner came out of the confessional. O’Neill waited. It was getting late. There’d be no one else coming. He got out of his seat and pulled the handle of the heavy door. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting inside. In the box there was a kneeler and a chair. O’Neill sat.

  He heard the priest in the adjacent box clearing his throat. The divider slid back and a gravelly Tyrone voice came through the wire mesh.

  ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and of the Holy Spirit. The Lord God is a just God and forgives the sins of the world. How long is it since your last confession?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Father.’

  ‘O’Neill.’

  Mullan’s tone changed, reverting back to the streetwise school teacher.

  ‘Now there’s a voice I haven’t heard for a few years. Someone told me you’d joined the mighty Police Service of Northern Ireland. Is there something on your mind, O’Neill? You haven’t been beating up the suspects, have you?’

  ‘Just a visit. Thought I’d see how you’re doing. Catch up on old times.’

  ‘Oh aye. I’ve heard that one before.’

  ‘How’s the God business these days, Donal? Plenty of bums on seats? A lot of sinners, a lot of sins.’

  ‘Don’t mock, son. It doesn’t suit you.’

  O’Neill could smell the waft of tobacco coming through the grille.

  ‘Still at the Dunhills, I see. You know those things’ll kill you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got to do something to get out of here. Forty years in Belfast — a life sentence by any man’s reckoning.’

  ‘You’ve not seen the news then? The Promised Land. The new Northern Ireland.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’

  There was a pause in their conversation.

  ‘I need your help, Donal.’

  ‘You need my help? Or the PSNI needs my help? Because you see it’s interesting. The PSNI spend their days harassing my congregation and then they come round here asking for help?’

  O’Neill had almost forgotten Mullan’s style. He was like a bantamweight boxer. A conversation was a sparring match. He had taught the same way. St Malachy’s had 700 teenage boys and they all had an answer for you. There wasn’t much choice.

  ‘You know about Laganview, Donal?’

  ‘Saw it on the news.’

  ‘I’m in the dark. Completely in the dark.’

  ‘We’re all in the dark, son. That’s how the world works.’

  O’Neill knew Mullan was a strong Republican. According to him, Irish history taught its own lessons. It was a list of wrongs, a litany of sins against Irish Catholics, first by the British, and then by the Protestants in the North. Mullan used to tell them: ‘A creed. A man’s got to have a creed.’ O’Neill could feel the door closing on him and the priest retreating into his shell.

  ‘Do you remember Raymond Burns, Father?’

  ‘I remember you all, O’Neill. Every last one of you.’ Mullan sighed. ‘Burns was from the Ardoyne. A cheekier wee bastard you wouldn’t want to meet.’

  ‘Let me tell you about Raymond Burns. He has a wee brother, Jackie Burns, ten years younger. Wee Jackie is sixteen. Thinks he’s a big lad. Decided to have a go at nicking cars. He got away with it, or at least he did for a couple of months. One day he’s walking to the shops when a couple of men grab him off the street. Broad daylight. They know what he’s been doing and he needs to be taught a lesson. They put him down a manhole. And put the lid back on. Wee Jackie’s screaming. Begging. He’s claustrophobic, you see. But fuck it, down he goes. These wee bastards, you see, they never listen. Now those manhole covers are pretty thick. Six inches of heavy iron. It fairly muffles the screams.’

  O’Neill felt the priest listening on the other side of the mesh.

  ‘They left him there for three hours,’ he said. ‘Three fucking hours. By the time they let him out he’d lost his voice. He’d shredded his vocal cords screaming so much. He’d pissed himself and shit himself. Sixteen years old, Donal. Not shaving yet. They’re laughing as they lift him out. “Dirty wee bastard. Look at the state of you.” And they leave him there. Just lying by the side of the road.’

  O’Neill cleared his throat.

  ‘You probably saw the rest of it on the news. The anti-depressants. Wouldn’t leave the house. In the end he hanged himself. His mother found him in the entry round the back of the estate.’

  O’Neill stopped talking. He could hear the priest breathing on the far side of the grille.

  ‘But you’ve probably seen this all before, Donal. The seventies. Wee girls kissing soldiers. Hoors, the lot of them. Chain them up. Shave their heads. Get the tar. Teach them some lessons, eh, Donal? Pearse, Connolly, Collins — I forget which one spoke about torturing kids. A man’s got to have a creed. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  O’Neill stopped. He had gone too far. The frustration of the past two weeks had boiled over. It was all mixed up inside him. The images of Laganview, the kid’s legs, his blood, his face. The story filled the confessional, making the space seem smaller, as if the air had been breathed too
much.

  ‘Laganview, Donal. Somebody out there knows something.’

  O’Neill slid one of his PSNI cards under the mesh. He then got up and left the confessional, walking through the empty church, out of the heavy wooden doors. The sky had greyed over while he had been inside. As he got into the car, specks began to appear on the windscreen. The rain was starting up again.

  Back in Musgrave Street, Ward was thinking about Spender.

  He’d gone fishing after his visit to Cultra. The projects Spender had been involved in: the houses on the High Town Road, the investments in the Cathedral Quarter, Laganview, and the next one, the Ormeau Gasworks. Apart from the retracted complaint, twenty years back, the man looked clean. He might be rich, and he might be an arsehole, but so far, none of that was illegal, Ward told himself.

  On his way into work Ward had stopped at a ESSO garage to get petrol. He watched two teenagers getting out of car. The girl had long blonde hair, just like. .

  That was it. Spender’s kids.

  When he got to Musgrave Street he ran both kids through the Police National Computer. The daughter, Zara, was clean. The son, Phillip, was a different story.

  A string of minor offences went back to 1999 when he was seventeen. Shoplifting, theft, possession. It had drugs written all over it. In 2001 it had stopped for six months, then a couple more, this time in Manchester. Ward remembered Mrs Spender saying the kids were across the water. He must have gone away to university, cleaned up for a while, or at least had a student loan to cover his habit. When that ran out he would have needed to get busy again.

  Ward imagined how it would have gone. The parents cutting off the money. He started stealing. It escalated from there. He sighed, knowing he could pull out a thousand files with exactly the same story.

  Ward looked in his notebook, picked up the phone and dialled a number. A secretary answered.