by Matt McGuire
‘Come on fuck sake,’ Marty said. ‘I’m ball frozen here.’
O’Neill used three pieces of tape to attach the wire and mic to his chest. He lifted the headphones and held them to his ear.
‘Say something.’
‘Your ma.’
O’Neill nodded. ‘It works.’
He waited while Marty put his top on.
‘Whatever you do don’t get frisked.’
‘No shit, Sherlock. ’Cause I hadn’t thought of that.’
O’Neill could see he was bricking it, that the slabbering was a front. He looked at him, imagining the worst.
‘Listen to me, son. If they figure it out, if you get made … we’re coming for you.’
Marty avoided his eyes, suddenly uncomfortable.
‘Do you hear me?’ O’Neill insisted.
The kid turned to him.
‘Whatever it takes, we’re coming. You hear?’
Marty hesitated, unsure. Finally he said, ‘Right.’
From the front seat Ward’s voice. ‘McCann. We need McCann’s name on the tape. Do you hear?’
Marty looked at him and nodded. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Come on, Cagney and Lacey, let’s go.’
Marty moved towards the back of the van, speaking over his shoulder. ‘I’m meeting Tierney on Cooke Street off the Ormeau. There’s a house we use to stash the gear. Number twenty-two. I’ll walk up, be there in twenty minutes.’
He opened the door, stepped on to the wet cobblestones and disappeared into the night.
O’Neill and Ward were parked at the end of Cooke Street. On one side was waste ground, on the other a line of red-brick terraces. Overhead the night had closed in, the grey sky taking on a purple hue. The street lights were on, creating haloes of orange sodium amid the pervading darkness.
The van was silent.
‘You think he’ll do it?’ Ward said.
‘Don’t know.’
‘A wire at seventeen. He’s some balls. I’ll give him that.’
At 7.23 p.m. a grey tracksuit turned the corner and came down the street. Hood up, head down, Marty passed the Transit without breaking stride. O’Neill and Ward were in the back, headphones on.
‘All right, ball bag?’ Marty whispered into the mic.
O’Neill allowed himself a smile.
He watched Marty stop at the gate. He hesitated for a split second, like he wasn’t sure.
‘Go on,’ O’Neill said, the words involuntary.
Marty pushed the handle and walked through. He didn’t knock on the door, instead reached over and tapped the window with his lighter. They watched the curtain twitch and a shadow move inside the house. The door opened and a figure stepped out. O’Neill and Ward listened, pressing headphones to their ears.
‘Right, Tierney,’ Marty said, making the ID.
‘Good lad,’ O’Neill whispered.
They watched the man point at a car. ‘Come on. We’re going somewhere.’
The man stepped towards a Vauxhall Astra. Marty followed, without looking up.
‘They’re moving,’ O’Neill said, suddenly thrown, things already out of control. He climbed into the front and started the engine, but left the lights off. Ward stayed in the back, listening, as the Vauxhall revved up and passed them on the driver’s side. At the end of the street it turned left and headed up the Ormeau, away from town. O’Neill pulled to the end of Cooke Street where they’d to wait to join the traffic on the main road.
Eventually, he muscled his way out, accelerating hard.
‘Come on for frig sake.’
‘Easy now. Don’t get him busted.’
O’Neill saw the Vauxhall in the distance and put his foot down. They were five hundred yards away. Ward listened to the voices start to crackle and fiddled with the radio.
‘I’m losing them here. There’s not much range.’
O’Neill switched lanes, overtaking three cars on the inside.
‘What are they saying?’ he shouted over his shoulder.
‘Kid’s asking where they’re going,’ Ward said. ‘They’ve some kind of job to do. He’s telling him to shut up and stop talking.’
O’Neill had a knot in his stomach. Marty had said nothing about going anywhere. He told himself to calm down, it was all right, the kid was fine.
At the top of the Ormeau Road the Vauxhall turned without signalling. It screeched into the underground car park at Forest Side shopping centre. O’Neill slowed and signalled as a white BMW came from nowhere and cut him up. Both vehicles braked hard and stopped. O’Neill went for the horn but stopped.
‘Move, dick head,’ he shouted.
The BMW accelerated, window down, flicking the finger as it went.
Ward listened to the headphones, hearing car doors open, others close.
‘They’ve got out,’ he said. O’Neill scanning the car park, looking for heads. Ward heard more doors, then an engine. ‘They’re switching cars.’
At the far end O’Neill saw a black Peugeot with tinted windows pull out of a space and accelerate up the exit ramp. He put the foot down, trying to catch up with them.
‘What’s the car, son?’ he whispered to himself. ‘You’ve got to tell us.’
He put his hand to the headphones.
‘Another voice now, there’s three of them.’
O’Neill drove up the exit ramp, one car separating him from the Peugeot.
‘Come on, kid,’ Ward encouraged. ‘Give us something.’
Neither cop noticed the grey Ford Focus pull out behind them and follow them up the ramp. They didn’t notice the driver, nor Tierney in the passenger seat, nor Marty in the back.
The Transit van turned left, following the Peugeot along the carriageway towards town. Behind them the Focus waited as an elderly woman pushed a trolley in front. The car signalled right, waited for a break in the traffic and pulling out slowly in the opposite direction.
Two hundred yards down the carriageway Ward announced he was losing the signal. O’Neill felt his chest tighten.
‘Fuck it,’ he said, accelerating alongside the black Peugeot. The driver was a young fella, twenty or so. In the passenger seat sat his mate who looked the same age. Neither of them was Johnny Tierney, neither of them Marty Toner.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ O’Neill shouted, bringing his hand down on the steering wheel.
He did a U-turn, mounting the kerb, almost causing an accident. He launched the van into the oncoming traffic, horns blaring, cars stamping on brakes.
Thirty seconds later, they were back at Forest Side. O’Neill jumped out of the Transit, running up and down the lines of cars. He wanted the Astra, wanted to see Marty. He was panicked, imagining the things they’d do to him.
After thirty seconds he found the car.
They were gone.
O’Neill banged his hands on the bonnet, the word ‘fuck’ echoing round the concrete car park. A pensioner looked over and shook his head. A woman shepherded her kid away, like O’Neill was some kind of lunatic.
Ward pulled up in the Transit. ‘Let’s go. There’s nothing you can do.’
O’Neill opened the door slamming it behind him. He wound the window down, feeling sick.
‘So what do we do now then?’
‘We wait.’
‘Wait for what?’
‘Wait for him to call.’
‘That’s if he calls.’
The two men sat in silence as Ward drove towards Musgrave Street. After a while O’Neill spoke.
‘You ever lose an informant?’
He watched Ward hesitate, like he wanted to speak but thought better of it.
‘Give it two hours. If you haven’t heard start calling hospitals.’
O’Neill put his head back and closed his eyes, picturing the worst.
Marty had felt his heart quicken as soon as Tierney stepped out of the house. He’d wanted to bolt when he pointed at the car but found himself shrugging and lowering himself in. They had never done this before. The ge
ar was in the house, it always was. It was in and out, no problems.
He’d glanced at the back of the Transit van as they passed, wanting to call the whole thing off. At the end of Cooke Street the car slowed and he thought about jumping out and taking off. They’d make him for sure though so he stayed put and asked a few questions before being told to shut the fuck up.
As they drove up the Ormeau Road, Marty felt the transmitter dig into his side. He wanted to touch it, to rip it off and toss it out the window. The tape round his chest was tight, suffocating him. He tried to breathe slowly, pretending to be bored.
At Forest Side they pulled into the underground car park. He wanted to look over his shoulder to check whether the van was there but didn’t dare.
The peeler had said they’d be there, that they’d be coming, first sign of trouble. Marty went over his three rules – don’t do gear, don’t be greedy, trust no one. He tried to ignore the voice in his head, asking what the fuck he was doing, wearing a wire for these peelers. He slid lower in his seat feigning further indifference.
Without indicating, Tierney pulled into a parking space and opened his door.
‘Let’s go.’
Marty saw Sean Molloy, another of McCann’s boys, in another car. They were out and in, Tierney in front, Marty in back. Molloy looked at him in the rear-view mirror and allowed himself a smile.
Something inside Marty screamed ‘RUN!’ He reached for the door handle and was about to pull it when Molloy drove out of the space and they were off. He looked out and saw the Transit van in front of them. He knew it was wrong, that they’d missed the switch. The Transit signalled left and pulled out of the car park, heading back towards town. Molloy indicated right, waited for a break and pulled out.
Marty wanted to scream.
He dug his nails into his hands, using the pain as a distraction. He felt sick and wondered if he asked would they stop the car and let him out for a second. No, they knew what they were doing. It was Game Over. He slouched in the seat, like he didn’t give a shit, like there was still nothing to worry about.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘just so yous know, all this gallivanting’s not good for business.’
He was right. Saturday evening was prime time. Folk wanting to score, to get themselves sorted.
‘There’s customers out there. Doesn’t pay to keep them waiting.’
‘Shut up,’ Tierney said.
Marty looked out the car window, aware of how dark it was, how few people were about. The houses thinned out as suburbia gave way to country. He’d no idea where they were going.
After ten minutes they were in the back of beyond. Marty glanced over his shoulder looking for the Transit. There were no other headlights. O’Neill’s words rung in his ears – whatever it takes … we’re coming.
He sighed, knowing he’d been stupid. He thought about the microphone, the wire, the transmitter. If you’re going to go down, might as well go down swinging.
‘Here, Tierney, that was some hiding you gave your man last week.’
Tierney glanced sideways at Molloy.
‘Tomb Street like. Was he skimming or what?’
Marty bluffed, like McCarthy was another dealer. The two men ignored him.
As they turned a corner, Molloy shifted uneasily in his seat. He winced, reaching for his lower back.
‘Still bad?’ Tierney said.
‘Fucked like.’
‘Teach you to buck seventeen-year-olds.’
Molloy smiled. ‘She’d some hole on her though.’
The two men laughed, falling back to silence.
After ten minutes, the car slowed and turned into a gap in the hedge. They were in a wide open space, a corrugated barn on one side, a field on the other.
Molloy stopped and pulled the handbrake. Marty’s stomach lurched.
He thought about the stories he’d heard, about the things Tierney and Molloy had done to people. Guys disappeared – driven to the middle of nowhere, they never came back. He looked at the barn, wondering what was inside. He thought about being tortured. Did you just pass out? With the pain and all? Or would it be a bullet in the head? The loud noise, then lights out.
‘Right, let’s go,’ Tierney said. They were out of the car, all three of them, Marty on autopilot. The door of the barn lay open, offering a three-foot gap into utter darkness. Tierney pointed at it.
‘You first.’
Marty stepped in front of the two men, waiting for the sound, the sudden pain, the blackness swallowing him. This was it. He suddenly felt calm, like he’d always known it would end like this – alone, on his tod, just Marty. There was some comfort that at least something had worked out like he’d imagined.
He stepped into the darkness and closed his eyes.
The burring of an engine startled him. A generator kicked in and lights flicked on. Marty opened his eyes, smelling cow shit and diesel. He looked round. In the corner were hay bales, stacked five high, like giant Lego.
‘Come on then,’ Tierney said, walking over. ‘The gear’s in here. The cripple here done his back, so it’s me and you.’
Molloy looked on, smiling, pleased to get out of the lifting.
Marty began moving bales, suddenly ecstatic.
‘Calm down,’ Tierney said. ‘They’ve got to go back, so don’t throw them so far.’
After ten minutes they found a box, wrapped in a black plastic bag. Tierney and Marty lifted it out to the car before returning to build the stack again. Marty had to stop himself from laughing as he threw the hay bales on top of one another.
In the car on the way back, he sat quietly. As they pulled into Cooke Street Tierney turned to him.
‘Now listen to me, you wee hood. You shift whatever gear we give you. Don’t lecture me about what’s bad for business. And as for that wee cunt on Tomb Street, you don’t need to worry about him. He got what was coming to him.’
Marty listened, his eyes narrow, letting on he didn’t care. Molloy went into the house and came out with his package for the night. It was after nine but there was still time for his round, still time to make a buck.
Marty thought about what Tierney said, about Tomb Street, about the dope. He had him by the balls. He’d all but confessed. Marty couldn’t believe it and had to fight the urge to run down Cooke Street shouting at the top of his voice.
TWENTY FOUR
Sunday morning, 8 a.m. Ward stared out at Castlehill Park, a suburban cul-de-sac in East Belfast. It was the worried wealthy, all two-car garages and holidays in the Dordogne. He shifted in his seat, watching number forty-six in the rear-view mirror, waiting for McCann.
The night before they’d had driven back to Musgrave Street. O’Neill was panicked, thinking they’d lost the kid, fearing the worst. Toner had phoned just after nine, bouncing off the walls, bragging about how well he’d done. O’Neill told him to lie low and arranged to meet the next day. He let the kid have his moment, not telling him they’d lost the signal, they’d no recording, that he’d have do it all over.
Ward looked out at the dull grey morning. The sky lay low, as if there was a sun up there, but no one was taking any bets. He watched an old man walk down the street, a Yorkshire terrier following behind. He came back in ten minutes with Sunday papers, a packet of soda bread and a pint of milk.
Ward glanced at the Sunday Life on the seat beside. He’d bought it, knowing Tomb Street wouldn’t be there. He wasn’t disappointed. This week’s menu was political corruption and sexual jealousy. A local MP’s wife had been caught cavorting with a nineteen-year-old. Ward pictured Castlehill Park tutting their disapproval over their jam and crumpets.
He closed the paper, allowing his thoughts to drift. He saw Pat again, thinking he would like this. The Sunday morning stake-out, the waiting game, the fishing trip. His funeral was the following Thursday. Ward figured it would be big. He imagined Eileen, embarrassed by the turnout, by all the old peelers and how well they knew her husband.
He thought about Davy Price
, wondering where he was. His words from the Europa Hotel echoed round his head – Old Testament … it needed to be biblical …
Deep down Ward agreed. A few months’ jail was nothing to these boys. It was a holiday camp, living with the lads, a break from the missus. But did it justify turning vigilante? Being judge, jury and executioner? Death penalties were what paramilitaries were about, not the police. Ward wondered if Pat would say the same. He pictured him smiling, shrugging his shoulders, telling him that the North was a unique place, where black was white, and everything was a shade of grey.
At 9.45 a.m. the door opened and Gerry McCann stepped into the morning. He was in dark jeans, a white shirt and a black jacket. He looked like a property investor or one of the folk you see lunching at The Merchant. A woman appeared in the door, wearing a black silk nightie. She was late twenties, curly blonde hair, young enough to be his daughter. She put her arms round him, giving him a long, lingering kiss. He turned and lowered himself into a black Mercedes parked in the drive. Ward shook his head.
‘You’re a long way from the Markets, Gerry.’
The car started up and purred out of the drive. Ward bent into the passenger footwell as it passed. The Mercedes turned right down the Newtownards Road, towards town. Ward started the car and set off after it, sliding behind an old couple on their way to church in their Sunday best.
McCann drove slowly, taking his time. He stopped at the Esso and came out with a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. Ward watched him exchange ‘Mornings’ with a guy filling up his Range Rover.
‘That’s right, Gerry,’ Ward whispered. ‘Hanging with the locals.’
Back in the car, McCann headed for town.
His first stop was a tanning salon on Lower Ormeau. Three kids sat outside on bikes, leaning against a wall. They eyed the Mercedes as it pulled up, ready to say something. When they saw McCann get out they cycled off, knowing better.
The sign read TROPICAL TAN. Eight state-of-the-art tanning beds, 50p per minute. Ward watched McCann enter, noting the time. He exchanged words with the girl on the reception before disappearing into the back. The name of the shop caught in Ward’s head but he couldn’t place it. He wondered about earlier jobs, if there had been a robbery there, or someone was lifted coming out.
