When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  Anto whistled to himself. ‘Would you look at that?’

  ‘Aye, car’s not bad and all,’ Locksey said.

  ‘Right, darling,’ Anto called, the girl not hearing him. Her fella had gone into the shop. ‘I’m going to talk to her,’ Anto chimed, making to stand.

  Marty glared, suddenly angry. ‘Sit yourself down and shut the fuck up.’

  Anto made to answer but saw Marty’s face.

  ‘We’re working here.’

  ‘All right, dead on,’ Anto said, ‘take a chill pill, would ye?’

  Marty looked away and lit another fag. Anto looked down, spying the scratch card at Locksey’s feet.

  ‘Still a loser eh?’

  ‘Not what your ma reckons.’

  Marty watched the two of them go back and forth, each less original than the other. He thought about Petesy, wondering where he was, what he was doing. He pictured him with his face in a book, the eyebrows furrowed, the desk lamp casting a halo of light. It had been good seeing him yesterday. He knew he left it too long and made a promise to ping Petesy’s windows once it was all over, once the Tierney business had been sorted.

  For six months the three of them had been selling Tierney’s gear round the Holy Lands. It was Belfast’s student ghetto. Landlords squashed as many twenty-year-olds into damp houses as they could legally get away with. They were good customers, all with part-time jobs, student loans and rich daddies. Marty had mixed his own gear in with Tierney’s, not telling Locksey or Anto. They were pulling in two grand a week, half of which was Marty’s.

  He looked at his mobile – 9.32 p.m., the drop-off was half an hour late. Tierney never used a phone, too paranoid, too worried about the peelers.

  Marty thought about his own money, the fourteen grand at his ma’s. No one knew about it, not Locksey, not Anto, not even Petesy. What was he going to do with it? He thought about a car, but there was the licence issue. A plane ticket, but he’d no passport and besides, where would he go?

  ‘Here,’ he said, curious. ‘What would you do if you won fourteen grand on that scratch card?’

  ‘What?’ Locksey said.

  ‘Fourteen grand. What would you do?’

  ‘Why fourteen?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much. What would you do?’

  ‘I’m just saying like, fourteen’s—’

  ‘Easy-peasy,’ Anto interrupted. ‘New TV, flat screen, new PlayStation, load of games, load of Es.’

  ‘Nah,’ Locksey said, getting into it. ‘You’d get decked out. Ralph Lauren. Tommy Hilfiger. Giorgio Armani. The fanny’d be hanging off you.’

  Marty listened. They were like everyone he knew – couldn’t see past the next weekend, the next bit of cash, the next chance to get off your face. For some folk it was drugs, for some it was cars, for some it was girls. Nothing was ever more than seven days away.

  The three lads stopped talking as an armoured Land Rover pulled into the petrol station. Their eyes narrowed, each of them putting on their game face.

  The doors creaked open and two peelers stepped down. They walked to the back of the station to the three hoods. Marty recognized one of the peelers. Donnelly was in his thirties, six foot two, sixteen stone. The other one was younger and brand new; you could tell by the uniform, and the startled eyes he was doing everything to hide.

  ‘What are yous doing?’ Donnelly demanded.

  The hoods stared up, none of them talking.

  ‘Up,’ the peeler signalled, gesturing them to their feet. He came round and squared up to Marty. ‘I said what the fuck are yous doing.’

  Donnelly moved closer, getting into his face. Marty let his eyes go soft, focusing on the cop’s chest, refusing to eyeball him. He knew the game – let them have their fun, talk some shit, run their mouths off. Eventually they’d get bored and go try their luck with some other poor bastard.

  ‘I know you, you wee shit,’ the older cop said, searching his memories. ‘Toner, right? Marty Toner.’

  Marty didn’t acknowledge it.

  ‘The Markets. Your ma’s an alkie, bit of a hoor too.’

  Marty gazed through the peeler, allowing the words to float past his ears.

  ‘Empty your pockets,’ he said, gesturing to the wheelie bin.

  Marty turned them out. A tenner, a fag packet with two singles and a lighter. Always the same.

  The cop shook his head, disappointed, but still gloating. He turned to his mate.

  ‘Fucking Al Capone, eh? A tenner? Who says crime doesn’t pay?’ The cop shook his head. ‘That’s the problem with you wee hoods. No ambition, no imagination, no brains. A year’s time, we’ll roll by this garage and you wee dicks will still be sitting here, still shoplifting Mars bars, still pulling your wires. I mean is this it do you reckon? Is this life for yous? Is this what it’s going to be?’

  Locksey and Anto kept their heads down. Marty fixed his eyes on Donnelly’s chest. He wanted to answer, to tell the peeler that in a year he’d still be in his Land Rover, still giving shit to sixteen-year-olds, still acting the big lad. Who was the sadder bastard? Marty wasn’t sure.

  ‘This is the last time I want to see yous anywhere near this garage, you hear? There’s normal people use this place. Go and be fucking hoods somewhere else.’

  The three lads sloped off, walking as slow as possible.

  Marty sent Anto to the George to get word to Tierney. Half an hour later he got a phone call with details of a new drop-off.

  They walked through the Markets, stopping at the bank of Lagan. Broken glass shimmered on the asphalt. Marty looked around. It was the spot where Petesy had been done. He chose it deliberately, wanting to go there, wanting to remind himself.

  Anto and Locksey threw stones into the black water of the river. Marty stood for a second, closing his eyes, allowing the memories to come back to him – the screaming, the pleading, the sound of bones breaking. He lifted his hand to his face, feeling his cheek where they’d ground it into the gravel, making him watch.

  He opened his eyes, thinking about Rutland Street, the alleyway and Tierney.

  NINE

  Ward was asleep in his bed.

  He dreamt he was twenty-two again, walking the waterfront at Bangor, holding Maureen’s hand. It was before they were married, before the cancer, before the chemo, before everything. It was balmy, late August and their shadows stretched out in front of them. The promenade was crowded so they walked a while, wanting to be alone, away from the world. Ward pulled Maureen close and looked at the ocean. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.

  When they’d left everyone behind he steered her towards a bench.

  ‘You getting tired,’ she teased.

  They sat there, neither of them talking. A serious expression fell over Ward’s face, like he was mulling something over, something he was afraid of.

  ‘You know … I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Careful now.’

  He laughed. It was vintage Maureen, couldn’t be serious if you paid her. He heard the dog again, closer now.

  ‘I’m serious. I’m mean about me and you.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ she said, pressing herself under his arm.

  Ward closed his eyes, smelling her perfume, the L’Air du Temps she saved for and bought from Anderson MacAulay’s.

  ‘I think we should go ahead, you know, go ahead and get …’

  The barking closer now, more urgent, threatening. Ward looked over his shoulder but there was no dog. He turned back to Maureen, trying to remember where he’d left off.

  Again the dog, panicked, insistent …

  Ward snapped awake, his hand reaching for the bedside cabinet and his Glock. Outside the bungalow the dog was barking urgently. He’d had the Alsatian four years, an ex-police canine. It was part company, part security. He looked at the alarm clock – 4.15. Ward got out of bed, staying low, sliding to the wall. He peered through the side of the curtain. It was pitch black out, the light flat, the moon hidden. He couldn’t see the hedge, two
hundred metres away, at the bottom of the garden.

  The dog barked again, harder this time, more insistent.

  This is it, Ward thought, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. He gripped the gun in two hands and released the safety. He thought about the sympathy cards in the drawer back at Musgrave Street. He remembered Pat Kennedy’s words – ‘if anything’s going to happen, that’s where they’ll come.’ A thought started to play inside his head – Bastards … bastards …

  Ward padded through the house in bare feet, boxers and a vest. He suddenly pictured himself, discovered by uniform, lying on his front lawn in his underwear. He shut the thought out and moved through the house, checking out through each window. The light at the bottom of the drive was on, the sensor tripped. There was at least one then, coming up through the garden.

  Ward rubbed his palms against his vest, trying to dry the sweat. He adjusted his grip on the gun and looked at the back door, not wanting to go out.

  Again the dog – aggressive, determined, convinced.

  Ward lowered his head, telling himself he wasn’t going to be gunned down in his own home.

  ‘Bastards,’ he said, stepping forward and sliding the deadbolt back on the door.

  The dog stopped barking as soon as the door opened and Ward stepped into the yard. It came to heel, ears up, eyes open.

  ‘Good boy,’ he whispered, reaching down, stroking him.

  Beyond the house the wind blew across the fields, buffeting the grass, making the sycamores move. The bungalow was hidden amid rolling farmland, outside Belfast, a coupe of miles from Carryduff. The road was at the bottom of a long garden, the length of a football pitch, dotted with large shrubs. The trees writhed in the wind, threatening him, goading him on.

  The dog let out a low growl.

  ‘Easy fella,’ Ward said, as much for himself.

  The street lights were out on the Carryduff Road, putting the lane in total darkness. Ward forced himself forward, close to the house, gun in both hands. At the corner he stopped and peered into the utter darkness.

  He sniffed and rubbed his cheek with his shoulder. He’d a sudden déjà vu, like he’d been here before, like his whole life had been leading to this moment. He shrugged it off and opened the gate, letting himself out and leaving the dog behind. Ward took a breath and went forward, moving quickly, towards the cover of two ferns at the top of the lawn.

  He buried himself in their soft branches and looked out, catching sight of something to his right.

  Ward rounded, levelling the pistol.

  Nothing.

  He held his breath, listening.

  Nothing.

  He exhaled slowly, hands trembling.

  Ward swallowed and began to edge his way down the drive. The security light flicked off. He tensed, then remembered it was on a timer.

  To his left a shadow moved. It was distant, low down, nestled against the hedge at the edge of his property. Ward squinted and backed his way to the fern again. He half raised the gun, readying himself, peering through the dark. He scanned the hedgerow.

  Nothing.

  Then it moved, again, the shadow. It was crawling along the ground.

  He tightened his grip on the gun and levelled it. There was someone there, along the hedge.

  Ward looked back to the house; it was too far. He watched the shadow work its way along the hedgerow. It stayed close in, low down, well hidden. He tried to steady his breathing. The shadow paused, listening, looking. Ward imagined a gunman, lying down, his gun trained on him. He thought about the Glock, cursing himself for leaving his shotgun in the house.

  The shadow moved again, making its way slowly towards the house. Ward moved back against the fern, pressing himself into the branches. He panicked. There’d be others, the back of the house, behind him. They never send one guy; there’d be a team. He swung his head round, unable to see. He turned back to the figure advancing, lying in the lee of the hedge, willing him into range.

  Behind the gate the dog let out a quiet whimper. Ward looked. The Alsatian was staring straight at him, giving away his position.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered, pressing himself back into the bush.

  The shadow had seen it too and began to move towards him. Ward watched the dark shape advance, staying low. Thirty feet away the shape stopped. Ward pointed his gun and exhaled, ready.

  The shadow darted forward, suddenly turning into a fox as it cleared the overhang of the hedge. Ward heard the dog bark behind him. He felt his bowels loosen and had to hold on.

  In the middle of the lawn the fox stopped and started, its eyes blank.

  Ward let out a sigh and put his hands on his knees, suddenly exhausted. He felt the tension drain out of his body.

  The dog barked again at the fox as it scarpered, its sleek body disappearing through the darkness of the hedge.

  Ward shook his head and straightened, heading back towards the house.

  ‘Come on in you,’ he said to the dog, holding the kitchen door open.

  Inside he boiled the kettle and put a glug of Black Bush in the bottom of a mug.

  He gave the dog a biscuit and sat at the table, allowing the whiskey to do its work. It was almost five now and there was no use going back to bed.

  Ward stood up, bolted the door and poured himself another Bush. He sat there, slowly sipping the whiskey, feeling it burn him inside. He looked at the Glock, lying on the kitchen table in front of him.

  Eventually, he went back into the bedroom where he lay down, watching black turn to purple and the room slowly lighten. He tried to think about the promenade at Bangor, about that summer evening and the walk with Maureen.

  After ten minutes he gave up, sighing as he rolled out of bed. In the living room the dog raised its head from its paws and looked at him. He poured out a bowl of dog food before making his way to the bathroom, for a shower and a shave, and the start of another day.

  TEN

  O’Neill was in the car, heading to the State Pathologist where he was to meet the McCarthys for the official ID.

  It was almost lunchtime, as he pulled out of Musgrave Street. He’d seen Ward on his way out of the station, the DI looking like death warmed up.

  ‘Where are we?’ Ward had said.

  ‘Meeting the McCarthys at the Royal. Then seeing the two girls he was with on Saturday.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  O’Neill had looked at the DI, the bags beneath the eyes, the heavy gait. He wanted to ask, but knew it was a waste of time. Ward could have cancer, be on death’s door and he’d never let on.

  O’Neill had taken one of the pool cars and pulled out into Victoria Street, rubbing his eyes in an effort to clear the fog from last night. He’d got home late and spent two hours on the sofa, consoling himself with a six-pack and some lower league football. By the third beer he was thinking about Catherine, wondering how she was spending her Monday night. He imagined her online, some dating website, fielding enquiries. He wondered how long it would take before she moved on, before she was back in the game. He pictured Sarah – ‘Mummy’s got a new boyfriend. We’re going to the zoo next week.’ It would be the zoo, the pictures, the swimmers. Then he’d be there in the evenings, at the table, playing happy families. Malcolm or Tom or Glen; something reliable, something dependable, the Volkswagen of boyfriends. O’Neill pictured himself being slowly sidelined. It would be a weekend away, then a holiday, next thing Tom or Glen or Malcolm would be moving in …

  In his head he heard a voice, telling him he’d no one to blame but himself. He’d fucked it up, the whole thing. Night after night, week after week, month after month. Like being in the driver’s seat of your own, slow-motion car crash. What was he supposed to do though? Just look at his watch, walk away from the job – ‘I’m sorry, love, I know you’ve just been raped, but it’s half six, you see, and my dinner’s on the table.’

  The justifications were easy. It was the consequences that were hard to swallow.

  O’Neill had sat on the s
ofa, thinking about Sam Jennings, wondering what she was up to, whether she was working. He remembered Sunday morning, the lingering in the car park, like there was something she wanted to say. By the sixth beer he had his phone out and was scrolling through numbers. He found her and was about to call when he looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He’d tossed the phone aside and gone to bed, before he did something he might regret.

  The McCarthys were already at the pathologist’s when O’Neill arrived. They were parked up in the black Range Rover, outside a nondescript office building round the back of the Royal. On her plinth, a cast iron Queen Victoria stared across the car park, looking unimpressed and unamused.

  As O’Neill parked the car he began to detach, deliberately distancing himself from the McCarthys and what he was about to do. Richard McCarthy saw him and stepped out of the car, offering a curt nod. The mother, Ann, got out of the passenger side, looking pale and drawn.

  ‘Receptionist needs to work on her people skills,’ the father said. ‘Gave us a lecture about smoking near the building. I nearly throttled her.’

  O’Neill opened the door for the McCarthys. Inside, he stepped up to the counter and produced his warrant card. The room was classic Civil Service – pastel colours, plastic chairs, an aroma of disinfectant. There was the impression of procedures and protocols, of abstract and deadening bureaucracy. From behind the counter the receptionist looked up, barely interested. She was in her fifties, overweight, a sullen expression. She let out a sigh as she ran her finger down the list, looking for Jonathan McCarthy. O’Neill wondered whether it was some kind of act, an attempt to protect herself from the people that came here and the reason they did so.

  ‘I’ll call down,’ she said. ‘You know your way?’

  O’Neill nodded and led the McCarthys through a set of double doors. They walked down a long corridor lined with offices, the doors closed, like folk didn’t want to know. Ann McCarthy shuffled along, looking lost, confused, uncertain how she’d got here, how her life had brought her to this place and this particular moment. O’Neill knew the look. Next to her, the husband stared straight ahead, the jaw set, the eyes focused, like he was about to scrum down.