by Matt McGuire
For half an hour he forgot about everything. Forgot about Sarah, about Catherine, about his empty flat in Stranmillis. He forgot about Wilson, the Chief Inspector, about the fact he hated him and wanted him out of CID. He forgot about the pain in his shoulder, the headaches he still got, the emptiness that never seemed to be far away.
At the top of Tomb Street he paused and took in the view. He looked back at the job, watching it unfold – the armoured Land Rover, the uniforms, the SOCOs. He was always taken by it – the story being written, right in front of you, the sudden burst of facts: names, addresses, times; witnesses, statements, phone numbers; photographs, reports, evidence.
O’Neill paused, put his notebook in his pocket and lit a cigarette. He took a drag and exhaled slowly, allowing himself to watch it all, just for a minute.
TWO
Sunday, 11.04 a.m.
Martin Toner skidded the bike to a stop and lowered his hood. He looked back over his shoulder, breathing hard, waiting.
No one came.
High Street was quiet, the shops closed, the town still in its pit. In the distance the Black Mountain and the Cave Hill looked down on the city, a couple of disapproving parents. Pensioners trickled into St George’s Church, heads lowered for last minute prayers, the reaper on his way.
Marty glanced at the mountain bike between his legs. It was fifteen speed, brand new, folk should take more care. The guy chased him a few streets, screamed ‘You fuckin wee hood’ and gave up.
Marty was seventeen and dressed in his usual – grey tracksuit, black trainers, grey top. He had his hood up, shielding his face from security cameras and CCTV that was dotted round the town. There were no bright colours – no logos, no swooshes, nothing you could pick out from a distance. He was bland, easily forgettable, better that way. You lay low, kept your mouth shut, your eyes open. Marty had seen other dealers, all decked out, head to toe in the latest Ted Baker, Nike Air Max and Stone Island. You could tell who was doing well, who was coming up, who to watch out for. It was frigging stupid, Marty thought, advertising yourself like that, attracting attention.
He looked around before stashing the bike behind the café. He still had the black eye from Thursday and looked like any other hood, the kind security guards followed round shops, the kind you saw on street corners, smoking fags and skulling cider. The kind that liked happy hardcore and cursed their heads off, that never had a job in their life. The kind that smoked blow and snorted speed, that sold gear and would fight you at the drop of a hat. The kind that would tell you to go fuck yourself and pull a knife on you as soon as look at you.
Inside the café was dead. There were two fat Americans in matching kagouls. On the back was a cartoon leprechaun, his dukes up – ‘The fightin’ Irish’.
‘Fucking Yanks,’ Marty muttered, spotting Petesy sitting near the back.
The waitress dragged herself between the tables. She was sixteen with pale skin and that pained comedown expression. Marty smiled, recognizing the bloodshot eyes and the zombie walk. She stopped in front of the Americans, bracing herself for the friendliness.
‘An Ulster Fry, ma’am,’ the man said, like he’d invented it. ‘And some of that hot tea.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ the woman chirped.
The waitress groaned and shuffled off. The Americans leaned in, grumbling about the service.
Petesy was sitting down, his walking stick beneath the table. He was wearing glasses and a brown knitted sweater.
‘Right, Specky,’ Marty said, sitting with back to the wall, like always. ‘Love the jumper. You going fishing?’
Petesy gave him the finger.
They’d been friends since they were ten, since Miss Delaney’s class, when they sat up the back arguing about which of them she most wanted to ride. At fourteen, they ditched school and spent their days round the town, shoplifting, getting wasted, playing ‘FIFA’ on the PlayStation.
At sixteen, they’d started dealing, selling blow for Johnny Tierney who ran the Lower Ormeau. For every twelve quarters they shifted, they got one for themselves. After four weeks Marty had had enough.
‘This is shite,’ he said. ‘Even in McDonalds they don’t pay you in fucking hamburgers.’
It had been Marty’s idea to go out on their own.
‘Dragons’ Den, Petesy son, that’s us. Entrepre-fuckingneurs.’
They managed to score a nine bar from Petesy’s cousin up the Ardoyne. They knew the risks, knew what would happen if Tierney caught wind of what they were doing.
Marty didn’t give a shit. ‘He who dares, Petesy son, he who dares.’
They were smart about it, avoided the lower Ormeau and the Markets. They stuck to the Holy Lands, the square mile of student digs around Queen’s. It was full of culchies, all with student loans or still on the tit with Mummy and Daddy. They pocketed two hundred quid the first week, twice the week after.
‘Businessmen,’ Marty proclaimed. ‘That’s us, son. Businessmen.’
That weekend they celebrated, getting wasted on White Lightning and a load of speed. It was brilliant. Both puked their ring before crawling home at six in the morning.
It was three months before the wheels came off. Tierney had a search party out. Men in ski masks burst into Micky Trainer’s party. There were knives, baseball bats, Marty and Petesy were mentioned by name.
Eventually the clock ran out. Marty remembered it like it was yesterday. They were caught, the two of them, and given a hiding. Tierney picked out Petesy and they did his knees. The others pinned Marty down, grinding his face into the concrete, making him watch. They set upon Petesy with hurley bats that had nails through them. It had been a year and still, when Marty closed his eyes, he could hear Petesy screaming, that primal sound, like an animal being tortured.
Afterwards, Petesy had lay sobbing, his legs twisted, his trousers wet from where he’d pissed himself.
When he finally came out of hospital Petesy had quit dealing, said he’d had enough. He went back to the Tech to try and get his exams, some GCSEs, maybe even A-levels. He said he wanted to go to Queens, or somewhere across the water. It was a mug’s game, Marty reckoned, Petesy kidding himself. But who was he to say.
Marty was on his own now. He’d no choice and six weeks later started taking Tierney’s gear into the Holy Lands, hitting up the same students that him and Petesy had sold to.
That was ten months ago. Now, he had his own crew – Lockesy and wee Anto. They were shifting Tierney’s gear but Marty had another supplier as well. It was risky though, the guy lived in Ballybean and was UVF, all tattoos and steroid abuse. He only cared about money though and Marty figured he liked the idea of having his own wee Fenian, messing with Tierney’s business. Marty kept the Ballybean gear quiet and didn’t tell anyone, not Locksey, not Anto, not anyone.
He had three rules that he lived by – you trusted no one, you didn’t use dope and you weren’t greedy.
In the café, Marty’s foot knocked Petesy’s walking stick under the table. His mate still needed it – even after four surgeries, three plates and eight pins. He’d always need it and every time he walked into a room, heads would turn and he’d see folk whispering – ‘Fucking wee hood… deserved what he got.’
In the café, Petesy ran his hand down his brown jumper.
‘Smart, eh?’
‘You look like a fruit.’
‘Not what your ma said …’
Marty smiled, realizing how much he missed his mate. Since Petesy went back to the Tech he hardly saw him. He’d stopped hanging out and barely left the house.
‘Nice shiner by the way,’ Petesy said.
‘You should see the other guy.’
Petesy had already heard. The other guy was Dee McNally. He was in the Royal Victoria Hospital with a broken nose, a busted lip and a cracked skull. McNally was eighteen and had already done twelve months in Hydebank Young Offenders. Like Marty said – ‘You’d have thought it counted for something.’
They opened the
ir menus, Marty screwing his face up -Irish stew, wheaten bread, champ.
‘What’s this shit?’
‘It’s for the tourists,’ Petesy said, nodding at Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
The waitress came over.
‘Burger and fries, ma’am,’ Marty said, in a loud American accent. ‘You got any tomay-to sass?’
The girl tried to force a smile. As she walked away Marty studied her arse.
‘Like a dog with two dicks,’ Petesy said.
Marty took it as a compliment. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘How’s the fanny at the Tech anyway?’
‘Wouldn’t know. Too busy studying.’
‘Away an’ shite.’
Petesy looked sideways, ‘Well, there is this one bird …’
‘Go on, Petesy my son.’
They sat back laughing.
‘What about you anyway?’
Marty thrust his fingers under his mate’s nose.
‘Sinead Walters.’
Petesy pulled back. ‘You dirty bastard,’ he said, laughing again.
The waitress brought their drinks over. When she left, Marty asked about his knees.
‘Right’s OK, left’s fucked. I should use both the sticks but I can’t be arsed.’
Marty remembered visiting Petesy in the hospital after he’d been done. They’d him strung up, in hoists, both legs. His granny arrived, looked at Marty and told him to frig off. Petesy had lived with his granny for four years, since his ma ran off to Derry with some guy she met. The old girl was sharp and knew that whatever led to Petesy ending up in the hospital, you could be sure Martin Toner was involved.
The waitress dropped the plates in front of them and announced, ‘Ten eighty.’
Marty produced a twenty-pound note and slapped it down.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said to his mate. ‘I’ve got you.’
Marty always paid.
‘How are the books going anyway?’ Marty asked. ‘You had an exam or something.’
‘An essay.’ Petesy paused. ‘I got a B.’
‘What do you mean you got a B?’ Marty was annoyed.
‘It was a B plus.’
‘Aye, plus what?’
‘Away to fuck. If you care so much you write the next one.’
Marty was bankrolling Petesy, partly out of guilt, partly to see if he could actually pull it off. Books, A4 pads, pens. He sorted him out with a laptop a couple of months ago, for the assignments and everything. Petesy had phoned him the next day.
‘Who’s Price Waterhouse?’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause half his shit’s still on this computer.’
Marty laughed. ‘Just delete it. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
They ate their food, talking about birds, about Man U and how Liverpool were still shit. When Marty was finished he put his fork down, his face suddenly serious.
Petesy looked up, still chewing. ‘What?’
Marty didn’t speak.
‘Listen, if you’re going to propose you can fuck off.’
Marty smiled. ‘I want to tell you something.’
‘Look, I already know you’re gay …’
‘Fuck up would ye.’
Petesy smiled, then sat quiet, listening.
‘I’m gonna do something.’
Petesy waited.
Marty held back. He’d told no one. Petesy was the only one that mattered, the one person he could trust, the only one that needed to know.
‘Tierney,’ he said.
‘Tierney what?’
Marty looked across the table, not speaking.
Petesy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re full of shit.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Wise up.’
‘It’s them uns that need to wise up.’
‘What are you gonna do to Johnny Tierney?’
Marty leaned forward, whispering. ‘I’m gonna do him, that’s what.’
Petesy laughed, his voice trailing off when he saw the serious expression on Marty’s face. Tierney was older, in his late twenties. He ran with Sean Molloy, who was another psychopath.
‘They’ll kill you, you know. And that’s if you’re lucky.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ Marty said.
‘What about McCann?’
Tierney answered to Gerry McCann who was older, in his fifties, an ex Provo. He ran everything – drugs, racketeering, robbery. Nothing happened within three miles of the Markets without McCann knowing.
‘You don’t think he’ll come for you?’ Petesy said.
‘He’ll need to know it was me first.’
Marty sighed and leaned back in his chair. He told himself he couldn’t take it any more. The nightmares, lying in bed – Petesy screaming, pleading with them, begging them to stop. He told himself it was revenge. He remembered Tierney and the others, laughing as they walked away, fucking laughing.
Marty had told himself the same story, over and over – about getting his own back, about what they did to Petesy, about how it wasn’t right. It got rid of the fear, helped him get angry, helped him believe in what he was about to do. In his head though, he knew it was about money, about getting rid of Tierney, about making a move.
‘They’re not getting away with it,’ he said, his voice insistent, self-righteous.
‘I’ve news for you,’ Petesy said, tapping his leg. ‘They already have.’
After a few seconds Petesy spoke again.
‘Do you know what they did to wee Stevie?’
‘I heard.’
‘Aye, all he done was nick twenty quid. They stripped him bollock naked and locked him in a room with a pit bull.’
‘Aye, wee Stevie got caught though.’
Petesy shook his head. ‘And Skelters. He just disappeared. Jackie said they took him out into the country, to a disused abattoir or something. They hung him up on one of the hooks, left him there and went drinking. When they came back they got the knives out, the butchers’ ones, like for gutting the pigs …’
Marty didn’t flinch. ‘How does Jackie know what they did?’
‘I dunno, but he does.’ Petesy looked at his mate’s face, realizing it was too late, that he’d already decided.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘None of your business. You won’t be involved. Nobody will. Only me.’
‘Who are you? The Lone Ranger?’ Petesy lowered his voice. ‘Even if you get Tierney, even if you get Molloy, McCann will send someone …’
‘They’ll have to know it was me though.’
Petesy shook his head and looked away.
Marty’s eyes narrowed, annoyed. He wanted something more, a fucking thank you at least. It was always the same – Petesy not backing him, too worried, too afraid. He was angry with him, angry about everything, for staying in and hiding, for going to the Tech, for not being around, for not running faster, for falling over, for getting caught …
Marty pushed his plate aside and stood up. ‘Gotta go, son. Things to do. People to see.’ He pulled out forty quid and tossed it on the table. ‘Here, buy yourself some more books.’
Marty took a step to the door. He turned, smiling.
‘And no more Bs, you hear.’
THREE
Ward sat at his desk in Musgrave Street and rubbed his eyes. It was Sunday, just after noon. He’d been on for fifteen hours and knew there was more to come.
They’d got in from Tomb Street at 5 a.m. O’Neill was still down the corridor, writing up statements, pulling a file on the victim. Ward liked the chip on his shoulder, that he took it personally, like every job was about him and whether he was good enough. He thought back, wondering if he’d been the same. He remembered the buzz, walking round a scene and that quiet thrill as someone’s world suddenly opened up to you – all its embarrassments, its embellishments, its dirty secrets.
Tomb Street was ten hours old. They’d released a press statement and put a rush on the forensics. The post mortem was Monday and they had the victim’s family that aftern
oon. The McCarthys lived outside Lisburn, the father a millionaire, some big deal in property. Ward had rolled his eyes when he heard, feeling the shit storm already start to gather.
Alone in his office, he took a sip of coffee and tried to ignore his desk drawer. He didn’t want to open it, didn’t want to take them out, to start looking at them again. It was weeks since Ward had had a proper night’s sleep. It was always the same: waking after a few hours, unable to get back off. He’d end up at the kitchen table, with a cup of tea and yesterday’s Belfast Telegraph. He’d look through the window at the sky, bleeding from purple to grey.
Ward turned his head. There was laughing in the car park outside. He walked to the window and looked down on a couple of uniform, young guys, reliving a story. The station wall towered over them, twenty foot tall, three feet thick. Musgrave Street, still like a fortress, like the Troubles were over, but no one was taking any chances. Ward looked up at the bruised sky, there was more rain on the way. In the distance he heard the hum of machinery and the rattle of a pneumatic drill. It was the building site round the corner, Victoria Square, another cathedral to consumerism.
Musgrave Street was quiet. Sunday afternoon, Senior Management at the golf course, or the boat club, or wherever it was they spent their weekends. It didn’t bother Ward. He liked it, just you and the job. You could forget the politics and all the posturing that went with Monday to Friday and the nine-to-five brigade.
The Chief Inspector, Charles Wilson, had already been on the phone to get his debrief on the nightshift. It was a weekly performance, a quick sniff, but nothing that might spoil your day. Ward told him about Tomb Street and the other two assaults. He was vague on details, knowing Wilson wouldn’t care, not until the press got wind and started huffing and puffing. He pictured the headlines: Tomb Street Tragedy; City Centre Chaos; the usual guff.
Wilson was a new breed, a politician dressed as a peeler. Ward tried to remember when exactly it was that they handed the force over to the bean counters. These days it was all Excel spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations. Maybe Wilson was right, maybe he was the dinosaur, a relic from another era. The Chief didn’t like that he was ex-Special Branch, the old anti-terrorism unit. The Branch had a reputation, a force within the force, a law unto themselves. They’d run informants, conducted interrogations, tried to stop the daily carnage that had ripped the North apart for thirty years. They may have bent the rules, but it saved lives so Ward was apologizing for none of it.
