When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  At the end of the corridor they went down a staircase into the bowels of the building. There was the familiar smell of embalming fluids, growing stronger, more intense. The walls were solid concrete, grey and nondescript. O’Neill had heard they were soundproof, because of the screams. He never thought to doubt it.

  At the end of the corridor were more doors, solid wood, no windows. There was a row of chairs and O’Neill asked the McCarthys to sit. He knocked and entered, disappearing behind the closed door.

  A minute later he came out and invited them in.

  The room was small, twelve feet square, with another set of doors at the far end. There were no furnishings, nothing except for the wheeled stretcher, parked in the middle with a white cloth draped over. At the head of the stretcher stood a man holding a clipboard. He was dressed in a lab coat but had the face of a mechanic, someone who worked with his hands. Ann McCarthy stepped forward, her husband behind. The pathologist hovered at the head of the table, looking at the detective. O’Neill nodded and he folded back the white cloth, revealing the head and shoulders of a young man in his early twenties.

  They’d used make-up to hide most of the discolouration. The swelling was all there though, the right eye still closed. Despite their best efforts, you could see the hiding that had been doled out.

  Ann McCarthy stepped forward, shaking her head.

  ‘No,’ she said, matter of fact.

  O’Neill’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘It’s not him,’ she said. ‘No.’

  Her face fell.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, no, no …’

  Her words went from sob to scream to howl. She turned to her husband, burying herself against him, her shoulders shuddering.

  Richard McCarthy put a large hand to the back of her head, stroking her hair. He held on to her, pressing her against him. He looked at O’Neill, his face plain, his eyes empty. Quietly, without speaking, he gave a single nod of his head.

  In the car park, O’Neill told them he had some more questions and suggested the hospital canteen. The McCarthys looked out of place as they threaded their way along corridors, past visitors with their stoicism, their steadied concern, their sense that things would get better.

  In the canteen, O’Neill directed them to a table and bought three teas. Ann McCarthy wrapped her hands round the polystyrene cup, as if prayer was all she had left. O’Neill looked at the father.

  ‘What can you tell me about Jonathan’s flatmate?’

  ‘Peter Craig?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘How long have they known each other?’

  ‘Since university.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘All right,’ the father said, non-committally. ‘The two of them bought that place together. Our company did the mortgage for them. They were lining up somewhere in the Holy Lands next, a buy-to-let, they were going to get students in. He’s all big ideas, Craig, you know.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The flats, the mortgages. That holiday to Miami. It was all him. What I want to know is where was he when our Jonathan was getting the crap kicked out of him outside that club? I mean, what kind of a mate’s that, eh? Wait, is he a suspect in this?’

  ‘Mr McCarthy, we’re looking at every possible angle. I can’t tell you much at this stage. But I’ve looked at the CCTV from the club and Craig’s inside the whole time.’

  McCarthy paused, allowing his suspicions to ebb.

  ‘What do you know about Sally Curran?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  O’Neill turned to Ann McCarthy who looked up and shook her head.

  ‘Did Jonathan ever mention a girlfriend? Someone from work? Was he involved with anyone that you know of?’

  The father shook his head. ‘His last girlfriend was that … what was her name?’

  ‘Paula McCusker,’ the mother added. ‘They did law together at Queen’s.’

  ‘Is she around?’

  ‘No. They broke up twelve months ago. She moved to London and got work with a firm over there.’

  ‘And there’s been no one since?’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ the mother said. ‘Do you think—’

  O’Neill put his hand up, stopping her gently. ‘Mrs McCarthy, at this stage we’re not thinking anything. We’re asking questions. But I’ll tell you something, we’re going to keep asking them. We’re not going anywhere, you hear, not until we figure out what happened to your son.’

  O’Neill held her eyes until she nodded and looked away. He excused himself, said he had to get back to work, that he’d be in touch. He stood up, leaving the McCarthys with their grief, trying to remember what ordinary life looked like and whether they’d ever see it again.

  On his way back through the hospital O’Neill paused and looked through the glass into one of the wards. Visitors gathered round beds while children ate sweets, doing their best to sit still. A boy pressed buttons, lowering and raising the bed, while his da made faces. He noticed an old man at the far end, the only person without visitors. He sat in a chair with his back to the ward, gazing out the window.

  An hour later, O’Neill pulled up at the house where Sally Curran and Lauren Matthews lived. Vauxhall Park was at the top of the Stranmillis Road, not far from his own place. It was close to the university and close to town and, unlike O’Neill’s street, dear enough to keep the students out.

  Sally Curran opened the door and he showed his warrant card. She was pretty, mid-twenties, with shoulder-length blonde hair and an athletic figure. He imagined her walking through a bar, fellas nudging each other, pointing her out. He followed her into the living room, noticing a walk that said she was used to the attention.

  The flatmate, Lauren Matthews, was sitting on the sofa. She had bobbed brown hair, black frame glasses and wore a polo shirt with ‘Ulster Rugby’ across the back.

  ‘I’m going to have to talk to you one at a time,’ O’Neill said. ‘It’s just how we do it. Lauren, can you step out while I speak to Sally?’

  ‘Sure, no worries,’ the girl said, closing the door behind her.

  On the opposite sofa, Sally Curran flicked her hair back and leaned forward.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be working today?’

  ‘I went in yesterday,’ she said, ‘but they sent me home.’

  ‘How long have you known Jonathan McCarthy?’

  ‘A year and a bit,’ she said. ‘We started our traineeships together.’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship?’

  ‘Relationship?’ she said, pulling back. ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘Had you been out before? On the town I mean?’

  ‘Only once. A few weeks ago. We mostly got lunch together.’

  ‘And did Jonathan have any feelings for you?’

  O’Neill watched the girl flick her hair.

  ‘I’ve got a boyfriend. Johnny and I are—’ she paused, her face falling ‘—were, I mean, just mates.’

  ‘What happened on Saturday?’

  ‘We went round to the flat for a few drinks, with him and Peter.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘We got a taxi into town, went to Milk.’

  ‘What time did you arrive?’

  ‘Just after ten, I think.’

  ‘And when did you leave?’

  ‘Two maybe.’ The girl screwed up her face. ‘We were all pretty steaming.’

  ‘Did you think it strange he just disappeared like that?’

  ‘I guess. I dunno. Peter just reckoned he had been sick and done a Houdini.’

  ‘A Houdini?’

  ‘When someone vanishes like that, goes home without telling their mates.’

  O’Neill noticed how collected she was, like she’d thought about him coming to ask her questions.

  ‘What about your boyfriend?’

  ‘What about him?’ she said defensively.

  ‘Where was he on Saturday?’

  ‘
I dunno. Out with his mates somewhere.’

  ‘What did he say about you going to Milk with two other guys?’

  ‘Didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Did he know?’

  ‘He goes out with his mates. I go out with mine. He’s not my keeper, you know.’

  O’Neill’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed his face, feeling tired. He’d had enough lies, enough of listening to folk look after number one.

  ‘So tell me about the drugs,’ he said, assumptively.

  ‘What drugs?’

  ‘Wise up,’ he said, underselling it.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  O’Neill stared at her.

  ‘I don’t do any of that,’ the girl said, filling the silence.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, trying to appeal. ‘I know you want to be a solicitor. You got to understand, anything you say to us is in confidence. We’re not going to ruin anyone’s career over this. But we need to know everything that happened.’

  He spoke plainly. Not a threat, not at this stage anyway. It was merely an idea, a suggestion. If she wanted to mess him around then it could get ugly for her.

  Sally Curran flicked her hair, holding her ground. ‘Look, I’ve told you everything. I’m really upset about this. I’ve lost a really good mate.’

  O’Neill watched the performance, wondering if this girl had a sincere bone in her body. He looked at her, thinking about McCarthy, wondering how much he would have fancied her.

  ‘What’s your boyfriend’s name?’

  ‘Ronan.’

  O’Neill waited.

  ‘Mullan. Ronan Mullan.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ he said, pretending he didn’t know.

  She gave an address.

  ‘Has Ronan ever been in trouble with the police?’

  O’Neill had already run a background check. He’d been arrested for assault two years ago.

  ‘No,’ she said, her face giving nothing away.

  O’Neill found the flatmate in the kitchen, making a cup of tea.

  ‘You want one?’ she said.

  ‘No. I’m fine thanks.’

  He closed the door and took a seat. The girl had her back to him, putting the tea bag in the sink. ‘Just so you know,’ she said. ‘I’ve only lived here six months. There was an ad in the paper for a female flatmate. I didn’t know Sally before.’

  O’Neill watched her, already distancing herself.

  ‘You don’t seem as upset as your friend?’

  She shrugged. ‘I hardly knew that guy. Jonathan McCarthy.’

  ‘Had you met him before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about his flatmate, Peter Craig?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t seem sold on them?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not really.’

  O’Neill waited while the girl sat down. ‘So what do you think happened?’

  She paused, thinking.

  ‘You ever meet someone you just know is trouble.’

  ‘In my line of work?’

  A small smile. ‘I mean, it wasn’t anything I saw, or anything he did. Him and his flatmate, they were just guys but they were real cocky, real arrogant. Going on about money all the time. If I have to hear the words “Miami Beach” one more time I’ll kill myself.’

  O’Neill smiled, encouraging her.

  ‘Talk about fancying yourself.’

  ‘What else did they talk about?’

  ‘How they were buying flats together. They’d got that place in Bell Towers and were looking at somewhere down the Holy Lands, planning to rent it out to students, start making their millions.’

  ‘Did they talk to anyone in the club?’

  ‘It was like they knew everyone in the place. You know, when you’re talking to someone and the whole time they’re looking over your shoulder, like there’s someone they’d rather be talking to. In the flat they pulled out these bottles of champagne, showing off like. I don’t know, it just seemed a bit weird.’

  O’Neill looked at the girl, how relaxed she was, unafraid. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Your da a peeler?’

  She shook her head. ‘Brother.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Omagh.’

  O’Neill smiled. ‘You talk to him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘Said tell you everything.’

  ‘What about drugs then?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘The others.’

  ‘Not that I saw. But they were charging pretty hard. If you asked me to put money on it …’

  ‘And what about Sally’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Mullo?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He’s all right. Only met him the once. Bit of a boy, but sure that’s half the fellas out there.’

  When they finished O’Neill gave her a card and told her to call if she thought of anything.

  He headed back to Musgrave Street to type up the interviews. He tried Ward on his mobile, but couldn’t get him.

  Driving down the Stranmillis Road he thought about the McCarthys, about what it would be like to stand there, over the body of your own child. He remembered the hospital ward on his way out – the man and his wee boy, messing about together. He pictured the old guy sitting alone, staring out the window, his back to the world. Passing his flat O’Neill thought about the rest of his day – the empty flat, a Chinese takeaway, some crap TV.

  He pulled the car over opposite the walls of Friar’s Bush and took out his phone. He dialled Sam Jennings, listening to it ring, wondering if she was there, watching his name flash on her phone but not answering. It went through to voicemail. He thought about leaving a message but hung up.

  O’Neill put the car in gear and turned away from the city centre, heading north, towards Tivoli Gardens. Ten minutes later he was outside the house. He stepped out of the car rehearsing his lines – just passing, wanted to say hello, ask Sarah about a birthday present for next week.

  He saw his daughter down the side of the house. She had two balls out and was throwing them off the wall, singing to herself. O’Neill hung back, looking at how tall she’d got, trying to figure out when she’d changed into a proper little girl.

  ‘Hey you,’ he said, mock gruffness.

  Sarah dropped the balls and came running.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ she exclaimed, leaping up into his arms. He shushed her quiet, not wanting Catherine to come out.

  He sat on the ground, his back to the wall.

  ‘Keep juggling then.’

  The girl resumed the steady rhythm, keen to show off.

  ‘So tell me about school, love?’

  Sarah juggled, rattling off the life of a six-year-old – her teacher Miss Cunningham, her new best friend, the dog she was getting for her birthday. O’Neill sat quiet, allowing her voice to spill over him, letting it wash everything away, Ann McCarthy’s ‘no’, Sally Curran’s lies, everything.

  Eventually the front door opened and Catherine appeared. She looked at him, sitting there, her face unimpressed. O’Neill looked up and smiled.

  ‘A dog, eh?’

  Catherine frowned, preparing to have a go. He wasn’t supposed to turn up unannounced. He felt her pause and for a split second imagined her asking him in for a cup of coffee. He would say ‘yes’ and they would talk, Sarah would like it, buzzing round the kitchen, pretending not to listen. It would be awkward at first but Catherine would warm to him, like when he first asked her out …

  He snapped back to her face, to the irritation, the disbelief, the disapproval. Who was he kidding?

  ‘Party’s this Saturday right?’ O’Neill asked, all innocent.

  Sarah’s seventh birthday. He already knew the answer.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Cool. Just checking.’ O’Neill stood and started to walk towards the car. ‘See yous then.’

  Catherine stood on the porch, her arms folded. O’Neill lowered h
imself into the car and drove back to Musgrave Street, feeling slightly better, wondering how long it would last.

  ELEVEN

  Marty Toner stood at the top of May Street, waiting on Tierney coming out of the George. It was after two and a trickle of lunchtime drinkers filed out of the pub, heading back to their desks. Behind him the towering white facade of the Waterfront Hall reached up towards the cloud. To his right stood the Laganside Courts, three floors of reinforced stone and bomb-proof windows.

  Marty saw Tierney come out of the pub and made eye contact. He fell in behind, walking at a distance as they cut beneath the Albert Bridge. Tierney stopped at a spot out of sight.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ he said.

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘With the drop-off. We lost half our customers. By the time we did our round, they’d scored somewhere else.’ Marty sensed Tierney rising up. He made to change tack. ‘It’s not good for business, you know. Takings go down, the boys get pissed off, everyone makes less.’

  Tierney glared, then spat on the ground.

  ‘I’m just saying,’ Marty said.

  Tierney spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’

  Marty looked at him, wanting to tell him he was talking to a dead man. To a man that would soon be lying in a gutter, bleeding to death, begging for his life. A man whose last words would be, ‘Please, wise up, don’t …’

  Marty didn’t speak. He knew that kind of crap was for the cinema, for Van Damme and Arnie and the rest of them. This was Belfast. Mouth shut, head down.

  ‘Listen, dickhead,’ Tierney said, breaking the silence. ‘If you don’t like the way we do things, you know what you can do.’

  Marty clenched his jaw, his face giving nothing away.

  ‘Now fuck off outta my sight.’ Tierney stared at him, waiting for Marty to walk away.

  At the bus stop on Cromac Street, Marty looked at his phone. He’d said four and it was already ten past. He replayed the conversation with Tierney, knowing he’d done the right thing, knowing he’d get his chance to answer back, all he had to do was wait.