When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  At the end of the hall she took them into an office. Richard McCarthy was behind a polished oak desk, looking at a newspaper. He stood as they entered, clocking the haircuts and the suits.

  ‘Would you look at this,’ he said, holding the paper. ‘My son’s been killed and all these ones care about is some footballer shagging his mate’s wife. It’s a disgrace.’

  McCarthy was sixteen stone, with no neck – the classic prop’s build. Along the wall were framed press cuttings, photographs, an Irish rugby jersey. The man had the same bloodshot eyes as his wife.

  When they were arranged round a coffee table O’Neill spoke.

  ‘We need to ask about your son.’

  He took his notepad out and began asking questions. O’Neill jotted down answers, slowing the conversation to a deliberate, forensic pace. Ward listened, watching the mother and father, how they spoke, their gestures, the way they looked at each other.

  ‘When was the last time you heard from your son?’ O’Neill said.

  ‘His mother talked to him Thursday.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘I wasn’t home.’

  ‘So when was the last time you spoke to him?’

  ‘He talks to her more than he talks to me.’

  ‘Are you saying you can’t remember?’

  McCarthy sat forward. ‘I’m saying what’s this got to do with anything?’

  ‘We’re just trying to get some background, Mr McCarthy.’

  ‘We don’t speak much. I mean we didn’t,’ he said, realizing the wrong tense. ‘I was here though, he knew that, knew where to find me if he needed me.’

  The mother sat quietly, the husband holding court. McCarthy demanded to know about the scene, where they found the body, who was there. O’Neill sidestepped but the father kept coming, like he was back in the front row, like he wanted answers, like he was entitled to know. What lines of inquiry did they have? What suspects? When would they know who did it?

  O’Neill allowed him to vent. Eventually he’d had enough.

  ‘Mr McCarthy, this investigation is fourteen hours old. At this stage we have questions, we don’t have answers.’

  He paused, letting the father settle.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do something like this to your son?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think happened to him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  O’Neill heard a note of embarrassment, a faint humiliation that someone had beaten up his boy, that he hadn’t been able to defend himself.

  ‘Who was Jonathan out with on Saturday?’

  ‘Peter Craig, his flatmate. I called him this morning. He’d no idea what happened. Some mate, eh? He said he thought Jonathan had got together with someone, taken her home.’

  ‘Is that par for the course?’

  ‘They’re young guys, you know.’

  O’Neill felt Ward beside him, watching, quiet.

  ‘Do you know if Jonathan was involved in anything he shouldn’t have been?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Listen,’ the father said, indignant. ‘He graduated top of his class at Queen’s, got a traineeship with Thompson and James, bought his own flat by the time he was twenty-three. The boy was going somewhere, you know, his life …’ McCarthy’s voice trailed off.

  O’Neill waited.

  ‘Mr McCarthy, do you know if he had a girlfriend?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. His mother could tell you.’

  O’Neill looked, the mother shook her head. He turned back to the father, trying to figure out what he was so angry about. Someone had beaten up his son, killed him, but there was more. Like he was embarrassed, or blamed himself, or something else.

  On the way out to the car, Ward asked the wife to show him the horse again. She walked off and the DI followed, flicking O’Neill off.

  Ward and the woman approached the fence as the pony trotted over. The animal put his face down, inviting her to stroke him.

  ‘Smart creature,’ Ward said. ‘It’s like he knows something’s wrong.’

  ‘He does,’ she said, running her hand along the animal’s face. Ward stayed silent. After a few seconds she looked up, eyes to the distance.

  ‘They keep phoning the house,’ she said. ‘Journalists. Our number’s not even listed. Every time the phone rings … I keep thinking it’s our Jonathan … and it’s all been a mistake … that yous are gonna …’

  A tear ran down her cheek.

  ‘They’re resourceful,’ Ward said. ‘Don’t answer the phone. It’ll calm down. We’ll put a car at the bottom of the drive in case any of them call.’

  She nodded. ‘Our Karen’s in London. Jonathan’s sister. She’s flying home tonight. That’ll help.’

  Ward waited before speaking.

  ‘What’s the story with your husband?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Was there something going on between him and your son?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘They’re just men.’

  Ward nodded but didn’t press. ‘We’ll need one of you to come and identify the body for us. He’s at the pathologist’s at the moment, at the Royal. We’ll call you, probably tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’

  The roads were quiet as the detectives made their way back to Belfast. It had just gone five and the daylight was already fading. The Mondeo summited a hill and the lights of the city swung into view, shimmering in the dusk.

  ‘So what are you thinking?’ Ward asked.

  ‘I’m thinking they’re holding out, not telling us everything.’

  ‘Who does?’

  O’Neill thought about the father, wondering how he would feel if something happened to Sarah. He pictured his daughter’s face that morning, the smile, the tears.

  ‘How’d you go with the mother?’ he asked.

  Ward nodded. ‘She’ll open up next time.’

  ‘The father’s a piece of work,’ O’Neill said. He paused, thinking about his own da. ‘Mine never came you know.’

  Ward knew what he was talking about, but waited.

  ‘When I was in hospital, last year, after Laganview, with the shoulder and the concussion.’

  ‘When they were checking for brain damage,’ Ward said, looking sideways.

  ‘Aye. Something like that.’ O’Neill hesitated, not finished. ‘My ma came you know. But not him, not the old boy.’

  His voice was flat, unemotional, stating the facts.

  ‘My passing out was the same. They give you two tickets. My ma brought her sister. He refused.’

  ‘The police thing?’

  ‘I guess so. Then he goes and dies. Before I could talk to him, have it out, ask him what he was playing at. It was just like him. Auld bastard, always had to have the last word.’

  ‘Hard to have a conversation with a ghost.’

  ‘Aye. I remember standing in the church, listening to the priest – “a good man, a family man, well respected” – he hadn’t a clue, never met my da in his life. Didn’t mention the drinking, the nights at the bar, the lost weekends. Didn’t mention the opinions, the judgements, the way he always knew better. She was about to leave him you know. I overheard her, talking to my aunt. Then he got the diagnosis, liver cancer, six months to live.’

  O’Neill remembered Roselawn Cemetery, his mum there, his two brothers, watching the earth being shovelled into the hole. They turned to go but he hesitated, wanting to stay to the end, to make sure they filled the whole thing in.

  ‘Come on you,’ his brother called, and O’Neill fell in behind.

  The car pulled into Musgrave Street. Ward paused before getting out, like he was going to say something but had second thoughts.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said, pulling the handle.

  O’Neill watched the DI get into his car and drive out of the station. He thought about doing the same, before pic
turing the empty flat, the Chinese takeaway, the cold six-pack. They could all wait, none of them were going anywhere.

  He got out of the car, swiped his card and disappeared into the station.

  FIVE

  Marty Toner jerked awake.

  In the dream he’d been standing over Tierney, knife in hand. The older man was asleep, snoring quietly, dead to the world. Marty looked at his throat, watching the soft skin as it rose and fell. He took a breath, steadying himself. Suddenly a hand snapped up, grabbing hold of his wrist. On the bed Tierney opened his eyes, looked at Marty and slowly shook his head.

  Marty lay there with his eyes open, his heart pounding, his palms sweaty. He looked around. It was a girl’s bedroom, a mess of make-up on the dresser – foundation, eyeliner, lipgloss. There were posters on the wall, boy bands he’d never heard of. The room smelled sweet, a mix of perfume, cigarettes and blow. Next to him Sinead Donnelly was curled in her trackies and a T-shirt, still asleep. The night started to come back to him. He’d texted her at one in the morning and she’d sneaked downstairs to let him in. Sinead was sixteen and game for anything, especially after a few spliffs.

  Marty pulled back the duvet, careful not to wake her. He looked at the ring of love bites round her neck. They weren’t his, probably Micky Lapin or Dee McLaughlin. He didn’t know and didn’t care. It would be the last time, with Sinead at least. Wee girls were all the same, talked too much. There were a hundred Sineads. All it took was some chat and a bit of blow.

  Marty looked at his mobile. It was almost nine, time to be moving.

  He slid out of bed, hearing breakfast TV burble up through the floorboards. Sinead lived with her ma who spent her life watching talk shows, collecting the dole and smoking John Player Specials.

  Marty had slept in his tracksuit bottoms, in case he had to bolt. He checked his pocket for the roll of notes, which was still there. On the bedside table lay the remains of the quarter he’d watched Sinead smoke. He left it for her, calling it a going away present, as he backed out of the bedroom, careful not to wake her.

  On the landing he sat down to put his feet in his trainers. Through a slit in a doorway, a pair of five-year-old eyes stared out at him. Kevin was Sinead’s wee brother, the youngest of four kids, all to different dads. Marty smiled and put a finger to his lips. The boy slowly came out of the bedroom. Marty stayed on his knees, putting his fists up like a boxer. Wee Kevin did likewise, edging forward, throwing baby punches. Marty ducked and feinted, giving him a few taps before tickling him into submission.

  Behind him he heard Sinead stir.

  ‘Time to go, son.’

  Marty took a tenner from his pocket and gave it to the kid, watching the boy’s eyes suddenly widen. He ruffled his hair before disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Marty climbed on to the sink and opened the window, edging himself out. He grabbed the drainpipe and shimmied down to the yard. The wall was topped with a cemented line of broken glass. Through the living room window he saw Sinead’s ma, in her dressing gown, fag in one hand, tea in the other.

  She didn’t see him lower himself off the wall, drop silently into the alley and steal away into the morning.

  It was Monday and the Markets were quiet. The oldies weren’t out yet and the young ones were still in their beds. Marty crossed the Albert Bridge, heading for the Short Strand and his ma’s place. He walked with his hood up and his head down, eyes peeled. The morning traffic had started to thin out, the worker bees, buzzing at their desks. Overhead the sky was grey and the light flat. It wasn’t raining but it was in the post. From the crest of the Albert Bridge, Marty looked at Laganview Apartments. They’d been completed a month ago. You could see in the windows – the flat screen TVs, the leather sofas, the big stereos. It was Yuppieville. Outside was a line of cars – an Audi A3, an RX8, a Golf GTI.

  Marty felt his mood darken, like he’d been taken to a sweet shop and told he wasn’t allowed anything. He wondered if he’d ever have a car like that. It wasn’t the money; he’d no licence. It would attract attention, plus where would he keep it? Still, he thought, there might be some good customers down there. They’d be mostly looking for coke, maybe some blow. He’d have Locksey go down next Friday, hang about, talk to folk as they got in from work.

  Half a mile away stood the Short Strand, a dozen streets of red-brick terraces. Marty swung off the main road, taking a detour through the back entries where folk kept their bins and young ones rode their bikes. It was safer, he figured, fewer windows, fewer eyes. When he got to the door he climbed a bin and pulled himself over. The key was under the flowerpot, where it always was. It was his ma’s precaution, for when she had blackouts or got so blocked she’d leave her handbag in the back of a taxi or at some random guy’s flat.

  Marty turned the key and quietly stepped in. He hadn’t slept at the house in over a year. The kitchen was a mess, the fridge bare except for some out-of-date milk and an empty bottle of Smirnoff. Vodka was his ma’s poison – vodka and coke, vodka and soda, vodka and white, she wasn’t fussy. ‘From Russia with love,’ she’d say, one of her favourite lines.

  Yesterday was Sunday. She’d have started early and finished late. Marty stood still for a second, listening for sounds, trying to tell if she was home. Half the time she had company. You would hear snoring and peek into the bedroom to see some guy lying there, his gut hanging over his boxers. She would run out of money and let men buy her drink. Half of them passed out, trying to keep up.

  In the living room the TV was still on, the volume on mute. Marty imagined her steaming, thinking it was broken, not realizing. Out of habit, he checked the cigarette packet next to the ashtray. It was empty – again, no surprise. He crept up the stairs, taking them slow, stepping over the top two which always creaked. To the right was his old bedroom. It was empty, the toys gone, his PlayStation sold to one of the neighbours.

  He put his eye to his ma’s door. She was on the bed, comatose, fully dressed. He stepped in, knocking over an empty wine bottle. It thudded loudly but she didn’t stir. He shook his head – you could set a bomb off and she’d be none the wiser. He looked at her face, the smudged lipstick, the Alice Cooper eyes, like she’d been crying in her sleep. Folk said she was a looker, back in the day. Marty couldn’t remember. All he could picture were the bruises and her cowering beneath his da. He remembered her limping round the house, groaning as she lowered herself into a chair. Standing over her, he closed his eyes, hearing the thud-thud-thud, from the time she ‘fell’ down the stairs. It got so as he could read the signs, like a storm warning. His da at the kitchen table, eyes black and empty. He’d sit chain-smoking, getting torn into the whiskey, waiting for his excuse. He’d goad her, push her, wanting her to answer back, to ask who the frig he thought he was. She never disappointed. That was one thing about his ma, she rarely let you down.

  When he was eight, Marty walked into the kitchen and found them. His da had her by the throat, choking the life out of her, her eyes bulging. He called her a hoor, told her he was going to fucking kill her. Marty had grabbed a fork from the sideboard and stabbed him in the thigh. It was as far up as he could reach. His da screamed and chased him up the stairs, cornering him on the landing. There were fists, feet, the belt came off. Marty was off school for a fortnight. His ma phoned in and told them he’d tonsillitis and had to get them out.

  Six months later a car hit his da. He’d been drunk and walked into oncoming traffic on the Ravenhill Road. Marty wished he’d been there to see it. He pictured himself kicking his da’s lifeless body, putting the boot into him.

  There was a honeymoon period after that, six months, a year maybe. Him and his ma got on grand, just the two of them, the best of mates. Then she started on the bottle and everything became Marty’s fault. He was a waste of space, a useless wee bastard, just like his da. The more she drank, the worse she got.

  Marty would go to Petesy’s granny’s. He’d ping the windows and his mate would let him sleep on the floor in his be
droom.

  Petesy was the only one that ever stuck up for him. When three older lads started on him, calling his ma a hoor, Petesy had piled in. He didn’t care that there was three of them, that they were older, that he couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag. Afterwards, the two of them had sat round the back of the Spar, sharing a smoke and nursing their injuries.

  Standing in the bedroom, Marty watched his mother quietly snoring. He stepped on to the landing and closed the door behind him. He went into the bathroom and put the snib on. From the ledge of the bath he reached up, dislodging the trapdoor into the roof space. Marty stretched into the dark, groping round, feeling for the handle. He pulled down a black Adidas bag and set it on the floor.

  Kneeling before the bag, he unzipped it, his eyes wide.

  Fourteen grand, used notes. Counted, wrapped, tied.

  Marty fought the urge to pour it out, to hold it, to start playing with it. He reached underneath the cash, felt the handle and pulled out the Browning pistol. He’d found it a year ago when he was burgling a house off the Ormeau Road. The pistol was black and slender, the handgrip cold. He slid the chamber back and allowed it to snap forward, checking the safety before putting it in his pocket.

  Marty left the money in the bag, putting it above the ceiling and sliding the trap door back. He stood for a second, still, listening. There was no sound.

  He slipped the snib off the door and moved quietly to the landing then back to his ma’s bedroom. She looked peaceful, a half-smile across her face. Marty wondered if all her dreams were set in pubs and involved a generous bartender and a bottomless glass. He reached down and lifted her purse from the floor. It was light, empty, a mere fashion accessory. He had a flashback of being ten, all the times he’d gone into her purse to steal from her. Mondays were the best, when the dole was in and the family allowance, before she’d been to the off licence.