Ravenhill: Jackie Shaw Book 1 - the first in an electrifying new thriller series

by John Steele

  Come on, you bastard, thinks Jackie. You couldn’t hold your water half an hour ago and now your bladder’s a world-beater.

  Another young man approaches and he waves him away with the damaged toilet line. He wonders how long he can maintain this charade.

  A third young man appears in front of him and he feeds him the line about the damaged toilet, telling him to use the Gents at the entrance to the club. When he turns back to the bar Morgan is heading straight for him, checking his mobile phone as he walks.

  Jackie yanks the bud out of his ear and stands aside as Morgan pushes through the toilet door, then waits for a moment, monitoring the punters nearby, and slips into the Gents. Morgan is mid-stream at the urinal as Jackie takes the earbud and wire and quickly ties the inner door handle to the light cord, locking the door from the inside. It won’t hold for long, but, he hopes, long enough.

  Morgan shakes himself dry at the urinal and says, ‘What’re you–’ when Jackie punches him in the throat. Morgan stumbles back, almost bouncing off the wall behind as Jackie slaps him hard across the face and says, ‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you. Understand?’

  The man goes pale, gagging and retching, trying to hold his throat and cover his shrivelled penis, and managing neither.

  Jackie runs a cold tap and says, ‘Take a drink.’

  Morgan gulps water, spluttering. Jackie moves in close.

  ‘I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you don’t follow my instructions, Adrian. Do you understand?’

  ‘Who are–’

  Another slap. ‘No questions. Do you understand?’

  Morgan still hasn’t had a chance to put his dick away. His eyes are huge and filling with tears. He nods.

  ‘Good lad. Do you have any spliffs on you?’

  ‘Is that what this–’

  Slap.

  ‘Spliffs.’

  The door is pushed from outside. Morgan stares at the Claddagh ring, now tightening against Jackie’s finger as his hand curls into a fist. Morgan nods.

  ‘Light one. Now.’

  Morgan fumbles for a rolled spliff and cheap lighter. The Buddha on his neck is pulsing. Swearing drifts from the other side of the door. The cheap lighter sparks, then dies.

  A kick at the door. More swearing. The lighter catches the paper and a deep red glow blossoms at the end of the spliff.

  Jackie says, ‘Hold it high above your head, like you’re stretching for the ceiling.’

  Morgan stares at him, dumb. Jackie draws his fist back sharply and Morgan snaps out of it and holds the burning spliff high. There is another kick at the door. Muffled snippets of sentences: … wanker … need apiss … open the fucking door! The wire gives a little. It is slipping on the smooth surface of the metal door handle.

  Another, brutal kick at the door. The wire gives some more.

  Then the smoke detector goes off, followed by the fire alarm. Jackie grabs Morgan’s arm and says, ‘Put your dick away.’

  There is a general uproar coming from the other side of the door: … smell grass … fucking dope … fucking students … He hears deeper, louder shouts.The bouncers: … make for the doors please … make for the exitsplease …

  As he rips the wire from the door handle, Jackie says, ‘You’re with me. Anyone talks to you, you smile, you keep walking. Signal you’re in trouble at any point and I’ll do you permanent injury before anyone can stop me. Understand?’

  Morgan says, ‘Yes,’ earnest and eager to please, frightened by Jackie’s savage calm. They step out of the Gents to find the crowd already bottlenecked at the far exit. Stragglers are gulping down the remnants of drinks at a couple of tables but the area around the toilets, stage and bar is clear. Now for the bouncers.

  If anyone describes a third bouncer in a leather jacket and jeans closing off the toilets, there is potential for further trouble. As they near the exit, Jackie whispers, ‘What else are you carrying?’

  ‘A wee bit of coke, some E.’

  Shuffling towards the cold night air, Jackie hopes he is right about the reputation of the area. As they clear the double doors, a firm grip on Morgan’s elbow, he sees several PSNI officers standing outside speaking to the bouncers. RUC uniforms and Vice always kept an eye on Botanic, with its proximity to the university area and Golden Mile entertainment district. He had been banking on uniforms being nearby and arriving quickly on the scene. The bouncers would be kept occupied and a drugs possession charge might deter Morgan from trying to alert the cops.

  Outside they reach the car and Jackie unlocks the passenger door, pushing Morgan down onto the seat.

  ‘Stay calm and relax. I just want to talk. But if you try anything, I will break your arms. Understand?’

  Satisfied by the sobbing reply, he puts the car in gear and drives into the mantle of gloom oppressing the city.

  #

  They sit in the rented Toyota on the Rocky Road, sloping down to the city of Belfast at a twenty-degree incline from the Castlereagh Hills to the east, like a giant concrete water-slide. Somewhere beyond the lights, on the other side of the city, is where he walked with Eileen hours earlier. Jackie is looking ahead but Adrian Morgan is clear in his peripheral vision, sharp in the car’s inner light.

  ‘Whereabouts do you live, Adrian?’

  ‘Markets area.’

  ‘Oh aye? Which part of the Holy Lands is that then?’

  There is a small moan from the passenger seat.

  ‘Make no mistake, Adrian, if you lie to me again I’ll hurt you. But I don’t want to, and if you answer my questions you’ll be fine. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Damascus Street.’

  ‘Where do you deal?’

  ‘Mostly about Queens: students, squatters, that crowd. You’re not Drugs Squad, right? You’re not wired up or anything?’

  A backhanded slap. Not enough to really hurt. Just a reminder.

  ‘Focus, Adrian, focus. Where do you get your stuff?’

  ‘I know people. People over in West Belfast. People in Derry.’

  ‘And do you supply anyone?’

  ‘Look, I can’t–’

  Slap.

  A moan.

  ‘Adrian, I know you’re scared. You don’t know who I am and you never will, I can promise you. All this mist, open fields on either side of us, hedgerow – I could end you right now. Nobody would find your body for weeks. Maybe longer.’

  ‘Please–’

  ‘But I won’t hurt you if you answer my questions. You have my word.’

  Morgan’s head goes down. ‘There’s this guy in East Belfast. He’s somebody big there. I’m like a middle-man.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t have a name.’

  Jackie considers the semi-automatic now taped deep under the steering column. No: he wants Morgan calm and coherent. No good beating the face and head for the same reason, and the stomach or balls will just slow this down.

  ‘Are you a smoker, Adrian? Aye? Get us a fag from the glove compartment, will you? Take one for yourself.’

  It’s a simple manoeuvre to snap the compartment shut on Morgan’s hand. He feels the smallest give in the tendons between wrist and knuckles as the sharp edge bites hard. He lets the howl continue for a moment.

  ‘No permanent damage. Yet. Now, give me the name.’

  Of course, Jackie knows the name. He despises the mention of the man, but he needs to trust what Morgan tells him as far as possible.

  ‘Rab Simpson …’

  ‘When’re you next due to supply Simpson?’

  ‘Next weekend, Friday afternoon.’

  Far too late. Simpson and Tyrie expect each other dead by Sunday night. There is silence for a moment, blessed silence. He considers just getting on the first available flight tomorrow. Rab and Billy are all sound and fury. Hartley will be glad to be rid of him. They’ll never go after his sister and her family.

  As if resurfacing in shallow water, he hears a m
uffled, ‘Adleasurnoraad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At least you’re not RAAD.’

  Jackie notices the man eyeing his ring.

  Morgan says, as though talking to a slow child, ‘I thought you might be Republican Action Against Drugs. I mean, you’re not a Prod,’ and nods towards the Claddagh.

  ‘I’m a tourist,’ says Jackie. ‘Why would I be RAAD?’

  ‘They were sniffing about a while ago. Shot a mate of mine from the Markets last year. I know they don’t like competition coming into the Short Strand. That fucker would take out Simpson too, given half a chance, although they’re supposedly partners. Here,’ he says, ‘Shanty McKee called me about some fella Simpson wanted followed. I stuck them Transylvanians or whatever they are on it. You’re not him, are you?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m a tourist. And which fucker would take out Simpson?’

  ‘Don’t know his name. I’ve never seen him, but everybody on the lower Ormeau and Markets has heard of him. Some big name in the republicans, gets the nickname Madra. Madra Mor.’

  Jackie stares at him.

  ‘Irish for dog, or big dog. This fella’s bigger than Simpson in the Prods. That’s why Simpson deals with him: it gives him more clout.’

  ‘And Simpson, do you meet directly with him?’

  ‘Mostly, yeah,’ says Morgan, warming to the subject. ‘Sometimes he sends men but he’s there most of the time. Sleeked bastard doesn’t trust anybody, always wants to see he isn’t ripped off.’

  ‘Where do you meet?’

  ‘Out in the country, wee small hours. Nutts Corner, Ards Peninsula, Lough Neagh shore.’

  Jackie gives Morgan a smile. Morgan smiles back, his mouth at any rate. His eyes telegraph confusion and fear.

  ‘Now Adrian, you’ve been very cooperative but there’s one more thing. I need your mobile phone.’

  Morgan hands the mobile in his back pocket over.

  ‘Just the one?’

  Morgan nods and says, ‘I swear,’ with true conviction.

  ‘Good man.’

  Then Jackie reaches under the steering column for the semi-automatic.

  CHAPTER 15

  1993

  It was a beautiful, sunny spring afternoon. St Paddy’s Day had passed with barely a glance in the loyalist communities of Northern Ireland. Easter Sunday has been and gone too, and with it the beginning of the marching season. This, in turn, marked open season for Jackie and Eileen, as Billy was a committed marcher with a blood-and-thunder flute band. So it was that he was at Portadown for a minor Orange parade.

  And so it was that Jackie and Eileen were lying in the long grass of the County Down coast near Kearney, facing the shining glass surface of the Irish Sea, the horizon blanched with haze for the first time that year. Somewhere beyond was the Isle of Man and, farther still, England.

  Over there, people were still shocked at the horror of the James Bulger murder and the IRA bomb in Warrington. The youth of the country were listening to Lenny Kravitz, Depeche Mode and Suede while they drank their carry-outs on a Friday night, then munching on ecstasy and dancing in underground clubs until dawn. Arsenal and Sheffield Wednesday were preparing to do battle at Wembley for the League Cup.

  And Jackie Shaw and Eileen Tyrie broke off from a deep, intense kiss and looked each other square in the eye. Jackie held her gaze and Eileen, guarded, searched his face, then smiled despite herself. He wondered what this was, passing between them. Not love; certainly desire. For him, at least, it was ever more difficult to keep things in perspective. He thought of Leanne, the two of them sweating silently on her parents’ living-room floor. He hadn’t seen her since but had heard she was asking after him. Life was frustrated temptation: Leanne couldn’t have him, and he couldn’t have Eileen, except for stolen afternoons.

  ‘Have you ever wanted to live over there?’ She pointed to the shimmering line in the distance, separating the two hues of blue: sky and sea.

  ‘Nope, never considered it. Apart from when I went through training in the Army.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Wales. Nice place, but not like here. Not home. What about you?’

  ‘Same. I’ve been to Liverpool a couple of times: we’ve relatives there. Been to London as well. Hated it. It’s so … lonely.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Jackie. ‘I went to Bristol for a weekend when I was at Catterick for infantry training. Didn’t speak to another soul from the time I got there until I left, and I was surrounded by people.’

  Eileen laughed. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? We’re all about being British and no interest in going there.’

  ‘Aye, but England’s not Britain, is it? I love Scotland.’

  ‘But do you want to live there?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he conceded. ‘It’s just not the same.’

  Eileen looked out at the water. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? I’ve more in common with someone in Donegal than Devon, but we’re all fighting to keep that border in place.’

  ‘It’s fear,’ he said. ‘We’re scared of losing something. Identity, rights, religion, whatever. And we’ve been fighting too long to give up now.’

  ‘That’s a man talking. People fight for something, and youse fight for the right to keep fighting? That’s pure Irish, that is.’

  ‘Talk like that to Billy of an evening, do you?’ he said, then immediately regretted it.

  Eileen’s face hardened. ‘There’s not a lot of talking of an evening in our house. Half the time he’s drinking somewhere with you and his cronies, half the time he’s drinking at home and staring at the telly or reading the Telegraph. When he’s in the mood, he’ll climb on top of me until he’s done heaving away.’

  He reached for something to say, to change the subject. He feared her scorn and couldn’t stand when she shoved the reality of her marriage in his face. And much as he loathed his weakness, he was afraid of losing days, hours, like this.

  He settled on, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think …’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You look at me and you don’t see a woman. You see a quick fix. You might be broken, Jackie, but I’m not the answer.’

  Maybe she was right: she was a fix. She took him out of his life for a time and gave him a high. Of all the men on the road, it was him she was willing to risk these trysts with. But when it was over, they’d had a shower and washed the scent of each other away again, he went back to his life of cowboys and Indians and put her back on the shelf like a library book.

  ‘I really didn’t mean anything, Eileen. It was a stupid and careless dig, I’m sorry.’ It sounded disingenuous even as the words tripped over themselves leaving his mouth.

  ‘Take me home,’ she said.

  He had had trouble getting a good night’s sleep since going undercover and, aware of how much of a crutch alcohol could be, had treated drink with reverence. He only had to look at his father to see what it could do to a man.

  But he’d had Eileen.

  Lying next to her for a precious hour or two, he was at peace. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to survive on the broken slumber with a gun to hand. Now that wouldn’t happen.

  He dropped her off at Dundonald bus station, leaving her to make her own way into the city, and considered his options for the day.

  He could call Gordon, arrange a meet. He’d watched the news and seen the funeral of the police officer shot at the maternity hospital. Poor bastard’s wife had followed the coffin, clutching their baby while her brothers had supported her. The same scene would follow Cochrane’s death, but with masked gunmen, volleys of shots over the coffin and the pinched, bitter face of the widow beaming spite to the assembled media. The thought of a world without James Cochrane was a tempting proposition.

  Jackie screwed his eyes shut for a second as he sat at traffic lights then shook his head. Cochrane’s death would be the catalyst for another murder: possibly a police officer or civilian. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to find how far he had
driven. It scared him a little to think he’d been driving the last few miles on autopilot. The Holywood Arches were to his right with the statue of local boy C. S. Lewis opening his wardrobe, and a line of buildings on his left, masking Connswater Shopping Centre. On the green light, he swung left towards the complex.

  He parked in a corner of the car park, then sprinted over to a bank of phone boxes to the right of the rear entrance and punched in the contact number for Gordon Orr. He was met by a metallic click and an automated invitation to leave a message, and a beep.

  ‘This is Katana. I want a meet at 13.00 tomorrow: designated location Sierra-Charlie-Bravo.’

  As Jackie replaced the receiver, a younger man walked past him, close enough for him to smell the man’s body spray. The man had his hand locked in a pretty young girl’s hand. Jackie recognised Shelly Kerrigan, daughter of Marty Kerrigan, husband of Jennifer. Jennifer’s maiden name was Tyrie. Shelly was Billy Tyrie’s niece. The young man was Shanty McKee.

  Jackie’s legs turned to water.

  When he was sure they hadn’t seen him, his cheeks burned and he swore sharply under his breath. He stood in the phone box, stupid expression on face and heart racing, for a few moments until a leather-faced older woman yanked the door of the phone box open and said, ‘Are you using this, love?’