When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  Ten minutes later, McCann came out with a sports bag and dropped it into the boot of the Merc. He got in the car and drove off. The same thing happened at PARADISE BRONZING on Cromac Street. In then out, bag in hand.

  At eleven, McCann pulled into a manned car wash on the Ravenhill Road. Two young guys in waterproofs set about foaming and rinsing the Merc. Ward watched the speed and hustle. They weren’t locals. McCann disappeared into the office and came out with a navy bag, the kind shops use for their lodgement.

  After the car wash, he headed into town, turning down Victoria Street, passing the Albert clock before curling round to Laganside. At the back of Customs House, the car turned into a temporary car park next to a building site. A large billboard announced Obel Tower. There was an image – a hundred foot glass tower rising over the city’s skyline. It was a new apartment complex – Belfast Quay – all waterfront views and state-of-the-art living.

  Ward did a loop and came back, parking on Waring Street. He watched and waited. Forty-five minutes later, McCann emerged from a set of glass doors. Ward allowed him to pull out and drive off. When he was gone, Ward walked through the blue gates of the car park. He pushed the heavy glass door and entered the mocked-up apartment.

  Ward picked up a brochure. Work was scheduled to start in April. Obel Tower would be ‘The tallest building in Ireland’. Size, it seemed, did matter. Twenty-eight floors of apartments, duplexes and penthouse villas. The picture looked like a shard of glass, stabbed into the ground and left for all to see.

  Ward wandered round the open show home. It was minimalist luxury. Clean lines, egg-white walls, full-length windows. The lounge flowed into the dining room and on into the kitchen. He traced his fingers along the polished granite counters, heels clicking on the solid wooden floors.

  A man in a dark suit appeared, offering his hand. ‘Eric Carney. I’m the Sales Manager here at Obel.’

  He was from the South somewhere, Dublin, maybe Wexford.

  ‘Fred Wallace,’ Ward said, playing along.

  The previous week Obel had featured on the six o’clock news – an historic building, a landmark project, the dawn of a new era.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Fred. Your first time down to the site?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It’s a lovely spot. We’ve been getting a lot of interest, local and foreign investors. You work in town?’

  It was casual, undersold. Carney was fishing though, trying to qualify him.

  Ward nodded.

  ‘What line of work you in?’

  ‘Business.’

  Carney raised an eyebrow, Ward didn’t bite.

  The two men looked out over the show apartment. Carney told him he reckoned they’d sell all 182 apartments when they were released next week. People were buying off plan. Twenty years in property, he’d never seen folk as nonplussed about a price tag.

  He handed Ward a brochure. ‘How about I let you have a wander and I’ll come find you, answer any questions?’

  Ward walked out into the living room, glancing at the booklet. What was McCann up to?

  The brochure had a series of glossy images – the shimmering glass tower, Belfast at night, the sun setting behind Black Mountain. There were blurbs, pull quotes, snappy phrases.

  A one-off event.

  A residential landmark.

  A phenomenal superstructure.

  In each picture the glass tower shone before a perfect blue sky. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Ward looked out at the dull grey morning and smiled to himself.

  Carney came up alongside him. ‘There are a variety of opportunities here. Studio apartments, one bedroom, two, three. Was there anything in particular you were after?’

  Ward stared at the photograph, the broad vista, out across the city. It looked to the horizon, to the dark green hills surrounding Belfast. It looked beyond the maze of streets, the terrace houses, the red Belfast brick. The Markets, the Short Strand, the Lower Ormeau.

  He smiled at Carney, said thanks and headed for the door.

  Back in the car, he sat, staring down Waring Street. Ward thought about the TV report, McCann’s donation to the boxing club. He thought about the businesses he’d visited that morning, about the Obel Tower. McCann was pulling up the rope, protecting himself with a wall of money. He’d have an accountant, a lawyer, a public profile. Soon he’d be gone, out of reach, totally untouchable.

  Ward looked at his watch. Almost three. He thought about lunch but didn’t feel like eating. He turned the ignition, put the car in gear and headed for Musgrave Street.

  TWENTY FIVE

  Marty Toner stood on a patch of waste ground, kicking stones, smoking. He looked up, still no sign. It was Sunday morning, early doors, Belfast was still in its pit. He’d hardly slept. He kept replaying the car journey with Tierney and Molloy. The country lanes, the utter darkness. Dead one minute, alive the next.

  A navy Mondeo turned into the street and pulled to the kerb. The peeler got out, the detective. He leaned against the car and lit a fag. Marty looked round, before slowly walking to the car. He looked at the cop’s face, expecting a ‘well done, that-a-boy’, something at least. The detective looked pale, his face drawn.

  ‘How do you like that then?’ Marty said, ignoring the doom mongering. The cop forced a smile.

  ‘I’m telling you. I should be in the movies or something. The Bourne fucking Identity, 007 James Bond. Bet you were worried when we got into the car? I was bricking it myself mind, wondering where we were going, if I was for the chop, if that was it … sayonara, Marty son, nice knowing you, don’t call us we’ll call you.’

  O’Neill put his hand up in an effort to slow him down.

  ‘We’ve got him though. Hook, line and sinker.’ Marty threw some fake punches. ‘Ali versus Foreman – the jaw, the body, the jaw … boom! Down he goes.’

  ‘Calm down, son.’

  Marty looked up, his face puzzled. ‘Calm down?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘I just nailed Johnny Tierney. Nailed that son-of-a-bitch. Do you know what that—’

  ‘You didn’t nail anyone.’

  Marty’s face furrowed. ‘He said it on the wire, we got him, admitting it, Tomb Street.’

  O’Neill shook his head.

  ‘He fucking did,’ Marty said, his voice desperate.

  ‘We lost you at Forest Side.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We lost you.’

  ‘So? I was on the wire and all. It doesn’t matter where yous were.’

  ‘You went out of range.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There was no signal. We haven’t got anything.’

  Marty went ballistic, cursing his head off, ranting. He couldn’t believe it. He could have been killed. Worse even. And they couldn’t even follow a car.

  O’Neill let him go, knowing he needed to vent. After thirty seconds he’d heard enough. ‘Listen. Nobody said it would be easy.’

  Marty shook his head.

  ‘You’re going to have to do it over.’

  ‘Fuck away off.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘You’re going to get me killed.’

  ‘Last time I checked, you didn’t have many options.’

  Marty spat on the ground, thinking about the rules – trust no one; no exceptions. He’d looked at O’Neill, remembering him in Ormeau Park, about how he went home to his dinner every night, about how he said this was Marty’s life, his choice, his decision.

  ‘You’re going to have to man up again. There’s no other way.’

  Marty thought for a moment before nodding his head. ‘Sure,’ he said, turning to walk away. ‘I’ll call you.’

  He put his hood up. He’d been stupid and he’d been greedy; the peeler could go fuck himself.

  Marty walked with his head down, not looking up.

  Wee Anto walked out of the Spar clutching a bottle of Coke and a packet of fags. He was rough as guts, his head pounding from the two bottles of B
uckfast the night before. Marty hadn’t shown up with the gear so him and Locksey had gone and got wasted. Marty was a dick, especially after the lecture he’d given them about being professional and not messing about. They agreed to go on their own, to ditch Marty and talk to Tierney about getting their gear.

  Anto stopped in his tracks. There was a cop, next to the waste ground, leaning against a navy Mondeo. The cop was plain clothes but since he was six Anto had been able to spot them. He stopped in the shop door. He took a drink of Coke, waiting for the policeman to move on.

  Anto watched someone in a grey tracksuit approach the peeler. He shook his head.

  ‘Fucking touts,’ he whispered.

  The guy stopped to talk, his back to Anto, a hundred yards away. Anto watched, thinking he knew the guy, recognizing the shaved head, the way he stood. After a minute the guy turned to walk away. Anto almost dropped his Coke.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he whispered, as Marty Toner put his head down and his hood up.

  ‘What time’s this film?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘Two,’ his daughter replied.

  ‘Right. Waterworks then?’

  ‘Yay,’ she sang, skipping towards the car.

  They drove down the Cave Hill Road, passing the back of Antrim Road police station. It had been O’Neill’s first post, back in uniform. Sarah was jabbering in the back, talking somersaults and high bars, what Miss Cunningham said, who’d gave her what at the party. O’Neill almost turned into the station out of habit.

  The Waterworks dated from the 1840s, when the reservoir held the Belfast water supply. It was a nature reserve now and on a good day there were greylag geese, mute swans and a few coots. O’Neill remembered doing laps with Sarah, pushing the buggy at seven in the morning. He never knew a baby could scream so much.

  They parked and got out of the car. O’Neill saw a black Mercedes, S Class, parked on the Cave Hill Road. It was the same kind of car he’d seen parked outside the George, Gerry McCann’s, two days earlier. O’Neill looked at the registration and pulled his mobile. He paused, telling himself to calm down, it was his day off, there were probably a thousand black Mercs in Belfast.

  He called Sarah over and put his arm round her. They walked towards the playground, O’Neill staring at the road. The windows were tinted so he couldn’t see inside. After a few seconds the engine started and the car drove off.

  ‘Daddy, can we do a lap of the water?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, his attention on the car as it headed towards the Limestone Road.

  At the reservoir there was a lone fishermen, sipping at a can of Super Lager. Apparently there were trout, but O’Neill had never seen a fish pulled out in his life. As they walked, he glanced back towards the road.

  He let Sarah rabbit on, trying to keep up with schoolyard politics, her new best friends, the gymnastics teacher. After a few hundred yards he started to relax.

  ‘So how’s your mum doing?’ he said, interrupting.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘And who babysits you now?’

  ‘Karen, from two doors up. She paints my nails and—’

  ‘Was she babysitting last weekend?’

  ‘Yes. Saturday. We watched the new—’

  ‘Does she babysit a lot?’

  ‘Em. Most weeks. Or weekends even. Mostly Saturdays. No wait. Some Fridays.’

  ‘Right,’ he said casually. ‘And where does your mum go?’

  Sarah paused, unsure. He tickled under her arm.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  She squirmed, trying not to laugh. O’Neill kept tickling and she hopped forward, out of reach.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to say.’

  ‘I’m your dad.’

  The girl squirmed. More tickling.

  ‘Mummy’s got a boyfriend.’

  O’Neill stayed calm, putting on a panto voice.

  ‘Oh no she hasn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes she has.’

  He faked a laugh, Sarah joining in. A few yards more.

  ‘You met him then?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘How did she meet him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said. ‘I think he knows Aunty Amanda. Maybe he’s a teacher.’

  ‘Aunty Amanda, eh?’ he said, jaw tense.

  Sarah spied the swings and started running, cutting him off.

  O’Neill sat on the bench and checked his phone, looking for a distraction. He looked at Sarah, watching her hang from the monkey bars.

  ‘No hands. Look.’

  ‘Very good, love.’

  O’Neill forced a smile. It hadn’t taken Catherine long to move on, not with her sister’s help. He thought back to the party, the way Amanda floated about, like she knew something he didn’t. He wondered if Catherine was seeing him that afternoon. Andrew the teacher. He imagined sweaters and sensible shoes. His grip tightened on his mobile.

  O’Neill was about to suggest they made a move when he noticed the black Merc on the main road again. It sat there, engine idling. He stood up and started walking towards the gate. From the distance and angle he couldn’t get the licence plate.

  ‘Daddy,’ Sarah called, ‘where are you …’

  ‘Wait here, honey. I’ll be two minutes.’

  O’Neill quickened his pace as he left the park, walking, marching, jogging. The car sat still, its black windscreen egging him on. When he was a hundred yards away, the car sprung to life, pulling out and peeling off up the road.

  He tried to tell himself it was a coincidence. That the kid hadn’t done the dirt on him, hadn’t tipped off McCann and Tierney, that last night’s fiasco hadn’t all been planned. He turned round and started heading back to the park.

  When he got there Sarah was on the ground, wailing. She’d fallen off the monkey bars and hit her head. There were adults kneeling beside her, a man and a woman. They looked up, searching for him, reassuring Sarah he wouldn’t be far. Their own kids were behind on the swings, silently spectating. O’Neill felt the woman’s disgust as he approached. He stared at her, daring her to say something. She sensed his anger and sloped away, shaking her head. She whispered to her husband when they were out of earshot.

  Sarah had fallen and knocked her head. It was shock more than anything and she calmed after a few minutes. O’Neill asked about hospital, but she knew it would mean no cinema.

  An hour later, they had their tickets and were lined up at the sweet counter.

  ‘You get popcorn,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll get ice cream?’

  She was sure of herself, liked to be in charge, liked telling folk what to do. O’Neill went along for the ride, trying to forget about the Merc and the fall in the park.

  Sarah chose the seats, two rows from the front. The place was busy and O’Neill sat in the dark, tuning out from the movie. Maybe Catherine had been right. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for the whole father thing. She’d be better off with Sensible Shoes or whatever his name was. Least he’d be home at night. Not running off after every muppet that looked like he might cause trouble.

  He sat in the dark, holding the popcorn, needing a cigarette. Sarah’s fingers delved in and grabbed a handful and shovelled it towards her mouth. He smiled at how natural she was, how unselfconscious. The world was there to be grabbed, chewed up, enjoyed.

  After ten minutes, O’Neill fell asleep. The soft chair, the dark room. He’d no chance.

  He was woken by Sarah pulling at his arm. He jolted up, looking around at the cinema, empty now, the lights back on.

  ‘The film’s finished,’ she said.

  He was dazed for a second. He’d been dreaming about Tomb Street, the scene again, McCarthy’s body, his head caved in. He looked at Sarah and pushed the images away.

  ‘Any good then, the film?’

  ‘It was OK.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  TWENTY SIX

  Mar
ty was woken by his mobile vibrating beneath the pillow. He was still in his clothes, curled up on the bare mattress in Stewart Street. The floor was strewn with Mars bar wrappers and crumpled fag packets. Outside it was morning, the grey light illuminating the edges of the boarded-up window.

  Marty rubbed his eyes and looked at the phone. Petesy.

  ‘Right, homo,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  Petesy was outside, walking somewhere, panicked.

  ‘Why? You about?’

  ‘Just tell me where you are.’

  ‘Chill out. I’m at Stewart Street, that place—’

  ‘I’m outside it now. There are guys here, two cars, they’re—’

  Marty leapt to his feet and went to the window. He saw his mate go past the house. Petesy had his head down, stick in one hand, phone in the other. He moved slowly, not stopping, not looking up. Marty glanced down the street. There was a grey Astra parked near the corner. The front seats were occupied, two guys in baseball caps, their faces hidden. Petesy reached the other end of the street, still on the phone.

  ‘The blue Focus,’ he said. ‘One guy.’

  Marty grabbed the bag of gear from the ground next to the mattress. He wondered who it was. How did they know he was there? Was it the peelers? Some undercover thing? Had that detective done the dirt on him, fed him to Tierney? He went to the window again, checking the cars, his heart racing.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  He ran to the back bedroom, looking down at the yards stretching the length of the entry. There were washing lines, wheelie bins, scrawled graffiti. A man in a tracksuit leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He had a white scar on one cheek from where he’d been done with a Stanley knife.

  ‘Christ,’ Marty said.

  He thought about running. He was quick and might make it to the main road. There were four of them though. What if they were carrying? He thought about the Browning but it hadn’t been much good the last time. The images came back to him, the night they’d done Petesy. He remembered Tierney’s boot, grinding his face into the tarmac. He remembered the beating they gave Petesy, the hurling sticks, the nails.