When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  ‘Aye. To hospital.’

  Sam shook her head. ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘I know you are. Now take yourself off.’

  Sam made to speak.

  ‘That’s an order.’

  She backed down, offering a ‘sir’.

  The two officers started packing up the wagon. Sam looked at O’Neill. He thought about smiling but it didn’t seem nearly enough. The two of them locked eyes, O’Neill nodding as the doors closed and the Land Rover rumbled off, turned the corner and disappeared.

  FOURTEEN

  Marty crouched in the alley, between a pair of wheelie bins. He’d been there two hours, watching 46 Rutland Street, Tierney’s ma’s house. It was cold out, his breath visible, his feet like ice blocks. Marty had his hood up and a scarf round his face. It was pitch black but he was taking no chances.

  He looked at his mobile – 01.25.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered.

  He’d felt sick at the start and after twenty minutes put his fingers down his throat and puked, trying to be quiet. He leaned against the wall, hands in pockets. In his right he held the Browning, fidgeting with the safety, flicking it back and forth.

  He’d watched Tierney walk into the George just after eleven. He knew it was on. Tierney slept at his ma’s after a few pints. Marty pictured the breakfast table, the old girl fussing over him – ‘You want a fry, son? Help steady the ship.’

  The image of food sent another wave of nausea through him.

  He tried to ignore the voice in his head, the one telling him to wise up, to catch himself on. He thought about what Tierney had said the day before – ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ He thought about all the smart replies he never said. This was gonna be his reply, this would shut Tierney up, this would tell him exactly who he was.

  Marty spat on the ground, still tasting the vomit. He thought about the peelers at the garage a couple of nights ago, Donnelly and the new guy – yous are wee hoods … never amount to nothing … no imagination. He tightened his grip on the gun, flicking the safety again. He heard his ma’s voice – a useless wee bastard … a waste of space … just like your da.

  Marty looked at his mobile – 01.27.

  He felt his chest tighten. He couldn’t do it. What was he thinking? He’d get caught. Someone would see and that would be it. Even with Tierney dead. He’d get nabbed somewhere. A car would pull up, four guys, grab him. They’d take him somewhere, to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. He’d be let out, told ‘Start walking, don’t look back.’

  Marty looked round the alley, suddenly seeing himself, on his own, on his hunkers, shivering in the dark. He thought about Petesy, wishing he was there. They’d share a joke, have a laugh about something. It would help, make him feel stronger, able to go through with it.

  A panic started to rise in him. No, it was no good.

  Marty stood up and walked down the alley, away from Rutland Street.

  He’d had gone three steps when the sound of a car made him pause. He cocked his head and listened as it slowed near the mouth of the entry.

  Without thinking, he took the gun out of his pocket and held it by his side. He pressed himself against the wall, feeling the cold brick against his back.

  Marty watched as a man stumbled out of a taxi followed by his wife. He was short, in his fifties, half cut.

  ‘Right,’ he slurred to the driver. ‘See you later.’ Marty watched him search his pockets for his keys. He opened number forty-eight and disappeared inside, the woman following.

  Marty shook his head. It’s no good, he thought, he’s not coming.

  Another car, top of the street, headlights brightening as it got closer to the mouth of the entry. Marty listened as it slowed, hearing a door open and a voice.

  ‘Right big lad …’

  It was Tierney.

  His stomach lurched.

  ‘… see you in the morning.’

  The car dropped into gear and slowly pulled away.

  In the alley, Marty stood motionless with the gun at his side. He watched Tierney walk to his door.

  Marty stepped forward, the autopilot kicking in. He kept his head down and moved quickly. Out of the entry, into the glare of orange sodium. He was in the middle of the road, Tierney at the door. Marty stepped to the kerb, fifteen feet away, ten, six.

  Tierney turned and saw the hood, the scarf, the gun. His eyes went wide.

  ‘Wise up. Don’t—’

  Marty pulled the trigger.

  A click – nothing.

  Tierney blinked.

  He squeezed again. Click. Nothing.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Tierney hurled a pot plant. It missed, breaking the window of a parked car.

  Marty took off, his heart racing, his legs pumping. Behind him, he heard Tierney coming.

  ‘You wee bastard.’

  Everything was a blur. At the top of the street, someone rounded the corner.

  ‘Here,’ Tierney yelled. ‘Stop that wee cunt.’

  The guy sprang to life, lunging at Marty. He darted sidewise, dodging between parked cars. The guy was fat and middle-aged but he kept coming, trying to cut him off. Marty sidestepped as the guy dived and tried to grab him. His hood came down, exposing his head from the nose up. He didn’t stop, bursting across the Ormeau Road. A Volvo skidded and almost hit him. Marty never stopped. He kept his head down and pulled his hood up as he ran. His lungs burned. He cut across two streets, made a right and kept going. He made another right, then a left, then a right. At the end of the road, he ducked down an alley, climbed a wall and dropped into the yard on the other side.

  The house was in darkness. Marty stood, his back to the bricks, sucking in air. He forced his breathing to slow down, listening. It was quiet out. After a minute, he took off the grey hoody and silently dumped it in the wheelie bin. Beneath the top, he wore a red sweater with ‘Kangol’ printed in large black letters. Marty pulled a matching cap from his pocket and put in on his head, pulling it low. He shimmied up the wall and looked out. Coast clear. He threw his leg over and dropped down into the entry.

  On Botanic Avenue, Wednesday night was starting to wrap up. Bouncers stood at doorways watching students stumble out of bars. Folk queued for kebabs and McDonald’s. Stoned crusties hit the twenty-four-hour Spar, looking for boxes of cereal and cigarette papers. Marty glanced round casually before putting his head down and walking on.

  ***

  Half an hour later he was back in the Markets. He decided to stay in Stewart Street, in the boarded-up house he sometimes crashed in. He’d discovered it two months ago and managed to prise one of the boards off the front window at three in the morning. Upstairs there was a mattress and some candles. He sat with his back to the wall, his knees pulled up, the Browning in his hand. He stared at the gun, shaking his head.

  ‘Piece of shit,’ he said, tossing it aside.

  He looked round the room, at the old football magazine and empty Chinese cartons. He thought back over the night, wondering if the guy had seen his face. Did he know him? Could he recognize him? Was Tierney out there now, driving round, looking for him?

  Images flashed through Marty’s mind. The field again, the middle of nowhere. They’d march him across it, a gun in his back. He pictured an aluminium shed, a table with tools – hacksaws, pliers, a blowtorch. He saw himself tied to a chair, a spotlight, the sound of laughter.

  He sighed and shook his head, the words coming out on their own.

  ‘I’m fucked.’

  FIFTEEN

  O’Neill was at his desk, burying himself in Tomb Street. He tried not to think about Sam, about Madrid Street, about what almost happened last night. He’d texted her when she was in the hospital and got a reply – ‘Five stitches, hell of a sore head … and thanks xx.’

  He’d reread the message when he woke up, then tried to call. Sam’s mobile was off. O’Neill had driven past her flat on his way in to Musgrave Street. The curtains were drawn and the lights off. H
e didn’t stop.

  In CID he reached for the notes from the Mullan interview, focusing on the job, on something more tangible. He didn’t like Mullan. Too neat – the DNA, the motive, the MO. They’d get a charge and it would go to trial, but no further. Wilson wouldn’t complain. He would have his clearance, the conviction would be someone else’s problem.

  Ward put his head round the door. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Sure,’ O’Neill said, still wondering what he was ready for.

  In the car park Ward walked to an unmarked Mondeo. ‘I’ll drive.’

  ‘So what are we doing?’ O’Neill said, lowering into the passenger seat.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Ward steered the car towards the station gates. O’Neill heard Wilson’s words, the warning about Ward, about Special Branch and how they couldn’t be trusted. He thought about the DI’s retirement, how he’d be on his own when Ward left, no one watching his back.

  They drove three blocks before pulling up outside the George. O’Neill knew the bar, by name and reputation. A year ago a man had been stabbed inside. It was Saturday night and the place had been packed but not a single witness came forward. Ward parked behind an S-Class Mercedes, black, with tinted windows. O’Neill looked at the car.

  ‘Gerry McCann,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Ward opened the car door and marched towards the bar. O’Neill quickened his pace trying to keep up.

  The bar chat paused as the peelers stepped through the doors. An oak counter stretched down one side, behind it a row of optics with upturned bottles of various colours. Men sat in threes and fours; a few old-timers bent over newspapers, studying the form. The barman watched but didn’t move, knowing they weren’t customers. O’Neill swept the room, taking in the drinkers, clocking faces. He saw Mark McGinn, Jimmy Taylor and Neil Gillespie. Serious men, serious reputations. O’Neill felt eyes on him, the silent threat that they weren’t supposed to be there.

  Ward paused for a second, scanning the bar, staring folk down. He moved through the bar, walking slowly, as if he owned the place. O’Neill followed, feeling the room change as they moved through.

  At the back of the bar McCann was in his usual spot, conducting business. Across from him sat Johnny Tierney, looking pissed off, like he wanted to kill someone. The word on the street was that someone had tried to do him the night before. O’Neill had shaken his head when he heard, wondering why it was the scumbags that always had nine lives.

  McCann sat back when he saw Ward, adjusting the cuffs of his Armani suit. He silenced Tierney with a nod as the DI approached. Ward stood over them, close to Tierney, too close.

  ‘Heard someone tried to do you.’

  Tierney bristled but knew better.

  ‘Better luck next time, eh?’

  Ward stepped back. McCann flicked his head, sending Tierney to the bar. He slouched off and perched on a stool facing the room.

  O’Neill hung back, one eye on the table, the other on the room.

  Ward sat down slowly, like he’d all the time in the world. He looked at McCann, neither of them speaking. McCann sat still, putting on a show for the room.

  After thirty seconds he broke the silence.

  ‘Detective Inspector Jack Ward. You’re looking a bit rough there. What’s the matter, trouble sleeping?’

  McCann smiled, warming up.

  ‘You want a wee drink, Inspector? Sorry, my mistake. I forgot you’re not so good on the drink these days. Went off the rails there for a while there, eh? Best to stay clear altogether.’

  Ward stared at McCann, his face blank.

  ‘I liked the entrance though. John Wayne and all. Reminded me of the good old days. The RUC. Before they took your name, of course, and your uniform, and your badge. You know, I always wonder which you miss the most?’

  Silence from Ward. McCann chuckled to himself.

  ‘The Royal Ulster Constabulary. Twenty-five years and hung out to dry. A police service now; not a force. Yous have gone soft, a castration really, like having your balls cut off. Or so they tell me.’

  Nothing from Ward.

  ‘Bet you miss it. Special Branch, you and the lads, the wee gang. All for one and one for all. How is Pat Kennedy by the way? Still up the coast with the missus, what was her name again, Eileen, that’s it. How are they doing? I heard he went for the pension, the golden handshake, took the money and ran. Do you blame him? And what about Davy Price? He still in Iraq? Still training the Muslims? Showing them how to be peelers. You gotta wonder what he’s telling them, eh? I’ll tell you one thing, it won’t be human rights. It’ll be the good stuff – stop and search, seven-day detention, shoot first ask questions later.’

  McCann allowed himself another laugh. Relaxed, confident.

  ‘So what is it then, Inspector? You bored or something? You come down here to reminisce?’

  McCann was fatter than Ward remembered, but still had the smugness and self-assurance. Ward could still see him the night his brother was shot. He turned up at the scene, pacing the street like he could kill someone. It was a crime scene and there were cops all over the house. Gerry McCann stood over the car that his dead brother had just been lifted from and wailed. Ward remembered the sound, an unconscious, primal roar.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector,’ McCann continued, ‘how come you never went for the pension, early retirement? You could be sitting in Marbella now, sipping sangria, dreaming about the glory days.’ McCann cocked his head and lowered his voice. ‘Could you not walk away? Was that it? Do you miss the Troubles? You want your war back?’

  McCann leaned forward.

  ‘All that chasing about, the bombings and the shootings. Not the same, eh? Helping pensioners across the road, the tombola at the church fair … You miss it, don’t you? Them and us, the Provos and the peelers – folk knew where they stood, knew who their friends were, who they could trust.’

  Ward sat listening, allowing McCann his performance. He thought about the designer suit, the black Merc, the charitable donations. The packaging might have improved but the contents were still rotten.

  He was sure now, sure it was McCann that had sent the cards.

  It was there in the attitude, the grandstanding. The whole thing rehearsed, thought out, like he’d been waiting for his moment.

  Ward waited until McCann had blown himself out. He leaned forward, his voice low. ‘You tell me about how it feels?’

  McCann didn’t respond.

  ‘To be shut out by your old comrades. To have them turn their back on you.’

  McCann’s pupils dilated.

  ‘The Northern Bank. I mean the boys pull off the biggest bank job in British history, twenty-five million, and you’re not invited to the party. Because if anyone should be in Marbella right now it should be you, don’t you think?’

  Ward raised his eyebrows.

  ‘So I’m wondering what you are doing here? Pedalling dope, running hookers, selling dodgy TVs. Pretty glamorous, eh?’

  Ward shook his head. McCann looked over the table, feigning disinterest.

  ‘I mean the suits are nice and all, the car out there, those businesses. Remind me again … tanning salons, nail parlours, car washes. Tell us this, Gerry, do you wash the cars yourself, or is there a guy does it for you?’

  Ward paused, giving his words time to work. McCann looked impervious.

  ‘And you never got anyone back, not for your Michael, eh, not for what happened to him. You can still see it, can’t you? That night at the house, the car shot up, the plastic sheet, the blood on the ground. He was your wee brother. Supposed to look out for him, that’s how it goes, isn’t it? Must be rough carrying it, all these years. The guilt, the anger, the blame.’

  McCann’s face twitched. Ward smiled.

  ‘Funny things happen when family are involved. Emotions run high. A man could get his wires crossed, come up with crazy ideas, think that the police are working with murder squads, targeting people, family members, brothers eve
n.’

  Ward shook his head. He reached into his pocket and took out one of the sympathy cards in its envelope. He held it on the table, tapping it nonchalantly.

  ‘You disappoint me, Gerry. You see there was a time, you know, when someone wanted to kill you, they just told you to your face. Or else you never knew, until they were waiting for you and it was all over. Sympathy cards?’ More shaking of the head. ‘A bit childish, eh? It’s not a bit of wonder the Northern Bank boys didn’t invite you to the party.’

  Ward stared at McCann, allowing his words to settle. After a while he stood up.

  ‘Gone soft you reckon? Castrated? Well, if you want to put that theory to the test, you know where to find me.’

  Ward turned and started walking. O’Neill slid in behind. As they passed, Tierney made to get down from his stool. O’Neill moved quick, catching him off balance, pressing him against the bar.

  The room went silent, heads turned.

  O’Neill glared. ‘Don’t even think about.’

  After a second he let go, Tierney slumping into his seat.

  The two cops walked through the doors, out into the cold March morning.

  On May Street Ward lowered himself behind the wheel of the Mondeo. O’Neill got in the passenger seat, realizing he’d been sweating. They drove back to Musgrave Street without speaking. As they pulled into the car park O’Neill broke the silence.

  ‘So what was that?’

  ‘I wanted you to hear it from me.’

  ‘About McCann’s brother?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did Special Branch have him killed?’

  Ward paused. ‘No.’

  ‘Did they have a file on him?’

  ‘We had files on everyone.’

  ‘Right,’ O’Neill said. ‘And what about the sympathy cards?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  O’Neill didn’t buy it but let it go. He pulled the handle and stepped out of the car, Ward staying behind. The younger detective bent down.

  ‘Food?’

  ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  O’Neill made to move off. ‘Hey,’ he said casually. ‘You heard from the Public Prosecutor?’