When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  He shook his head, feeling like he was already dead. Had Tierney figured out he’d been skimming? Selling his own gear on top? Did he know about the peeler? He’d said nothing but it wouldn’t matter. They would kill him, but they’d want to know everything first. He pictured pliers, a nail gun, an acetylene torch. He saw blood, heard screaming, smelt burnt flesh. He pictured himself blacking out, coming through, pleading with them to just do him. He went back and forth, his heart racing. Think, think. He grabbed his phone, scrolled to Eddie and hit Call. He heard it ringing.

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  ‘Martino. Another pick-up.’ Eddie was jovial.

  ‘I’m fucked here. Stewart Street. I’m pinned in, two cars.’

  ‘Peelers?’

  ‘Worse.’

  Eddie knew. ‘Cunts,’ he said.

  ‘You need to come get me.’

  Eddie was a mad bastard but he still hesitated.

  ‘It’s worth a grand,’ Marty said.

  ‘Right. Ten minutes. I’ll call when I’m close.’

  Marty hung up and paced the floor, oscillating between the front and back window. He looked at his phone. What if they came before Eddie got there? He’d have to run for it, take his chances.

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  Marty gathered the gear and his money and tucked it into his sock. He looked at his phone, checked the windows. The back, the front, the back again.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  It felt like an hour. Finally, the phone lit.

  ‘Red Mazda. I’ll come down the street slow. Back windows open.’

  Marty went downstairs, into the living room. It was bare, except for brown seventies carpet and a two-bar fire that didn’t work. He prised the board away from the window, climbing on to the sill, lowering himself down. In the front garden he crouched, ready to bolt. He peered over the wall. A red car tootled along the street at twenty mile an hour. In the driver’s seat was Eddie, wearing some auld boy’s flat cap.

  The Mazda drew near and Marty crept out, staying low, between parked cars. He dived in the window and lay along the back seat. Eddie whistled to himself.

  ‘What the fuck you wearing?’

  ‘Disguise,’ Eddie laughed. ‘You like it? It was in the car.’

  Marty shook his head and rolled on to his back, looking at the roof.

  ‘Where did you get the hairdryer?’

  ‘Don’t panic, son. It’s Japanese. Kamikazes and shit.’

  The car edged towards the top of the street. Eddie looked straight ahead, ignoring the grey Astra and the driver who turned to watch as he passed. They rounded the corner, driving slowly. Marty listened carefully. Neither of the other cars moved. They were on the side street when Eddie spoke.

  ‘What did I tell you, mate? It’s the disguise.’

  The Mazda had gone ten yards when the guy with the scar came out of the entry. He walked along the footpath, glancing into the Mazda. Marty looked up as the face moved past the window in slow motion. Their gaze met, eyes wide. The guy went for the door.

  ‘He’s here,’ he screamed. ‘He’s fucking here.’

  The guy reached in, trying to unlock the door of the Mazda. Marty kicked out, Eddie flooring it. Scarface spun away. Tyres peeled behind them. Eddie floored it, tearing through the gears, the engine screaming. Marty flew across the back seat.

  ‘Get us outta here!’

  ‘Yeeeeoooow!’ Eddie, shouting. ‘Come on, ya bastards.’

  He’d a hand on the gear stick, one on the wheel, feet dancing the pedals. There was one road out of the estate. The Astra was behind. The other car was trying to cut them off. They passed Petesy on the kerb, who pushed a wheelie bin on to the road. The Astra smashed into it, knocking him over as well.

  Eddie threw the Mazda round a corner, the tail sliding out, clipping a parked car. A woman ran out of a house. ‘You wee bastards!’

  Three kids kicked a football. They dived out of the way as the Mazda roared towards them.

  Eddie watched the blue Focus skid to a stop at the top of the street, hemming them in.

  ‘Hang on,’ he shouted, flooring it.

  The driver’s eyes widened as he saw the Mazda come straight at him. At the last minute Eddie pulled the handbrake. The car slid sideways, shunting the Focus and making a gap. He grabbed first and mounted the kerb, missing a teenage girl and her buggy by six inches.

  On Cromac Street, Eddie forced the car out between a bus and a Tesco lorry. Horns blasted. He pulled into oncoming traffic, a Volvo skidding as the driver winced and swerved. He cut through to the Ravenhill, doing sixty, weaving between traffic. Behind them, the Astra was struggling to keep up. The distance got further. They turned at Annandale, cutting up an Ulsterbus. When they got round the corner Eddie killed the speed. He blended in, tootling at thirty miles an hour, his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘I told you,’ he said. ‘Always trust the Japs.’

  They drove on for ten minutes, taking various turns, waiting at junctions, watching for the cars. They went along Stranmillis, past the Botanic Gardens, on to the Lisburn Road. On Tates Avenue they parked up.

  ‘This do?’ Eddie said.

  ‘Aye.’

  Marty had his hand on the door, Eddie got out too.

  ‘Later, mate.’

  ‘Dead on.’

  They walked in opposite directions, both looking round, scanning for movement.

  A minute later, they were gone.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Tomb Street was a week old and still they had nothing. Ward sat behind his desk, O’Neill facing him, the door closed.

  ‘Newspapers have been quiet,’ O’Neill said. ‘Think McCarthy had a rethink on his press conference. I might have done the Chief Inspector a favour.’

  ‘Don’t make it a habit.’ Ward tossed a file at him. ‘The scene report, Pat Kennedy’s RTA.’

  O’Neill opened it. Diagrams, distances, descriptions. ‘What they saying?’

  ‘Inconclusive.’

  ‘That old chestnut. What about his ticker?’

  ‘Post-mortem came back fine. No heart attack, no stroke. Look at page four. Dents on the rear bumper. Low impact collision.’

  ‘Low impact? They have him leaving the road at seventy.’

  ‘Yeah, but if he was bumped from the behind, even at that speed, it would look like a nudge.’

  ‘You said he drove rally cars. Think he was reliving the glory days?’

  Ward shook his head.

  O’Neill looked at the rest of the report. ‘So they’re saying there’s no way to know with the bumper. He could have reversed into someone in Tesco.’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to his wife. She didn’t know anything about it. If there was a prang it must have happened that afternoon.’ Ward screwed his face. ‘Reversing into someone in a car park? Driving into a tree? It doesn’t fit. Not with Pat.’

  ‘Yous were pretty tight,’ O’Neill said, fishing.

  ‘Pat Kennedy was my first Sergeant. I was twenty-nine when he plucked me out of uniform. He’d been watching, reckoned I could make it in the Branch.’

  ‘And Davy Price?’

  ‘He was the year before. Same deal. Hand-picked.’

  ‘Where’s he these days?’

  Ward paused. ‘Why do you care?’

  O’Neill looked away. ‘I looked at the file, the murdered solicitor, McCann’s brother.’

  Ward stared at him. O’Neill looked back.

  ‘Question everything, believe nothing.’ It was a Wardism.

  ‘Fair play,’ the DI said.

  O’Neill sat forward. ‘Yous worked Michael McCann’s murder.’

  ‘Mostly them. I’d just joined the Branch. I was at a few of the interviews, including Gerry McCann, but was moved on before the case got going.’

  ‘You must have a theory?’

  Ward watched O’Neill, not backing off, not afraid.

  ‘Did someone have McCann’s brother hit? Someone on our side?’

  Wa
rd didn’t speak.

  ‘Did we hand him to the UV? Set the dogs loose?’

  ‘Michael McCann was scum. He defended murderers, guys who shot peelers, who gunned them down in front of their wives, in front of their kids. Do you want names? Archie Long, Bill McAteer, Tony Duggan, Lennie Smith … tell me when to stop. They were good men, all of them, they didn’t deserve—’

  O’Neill held his hands up. ‘We’re not doubting that.’

  ‘So what are we doubting then?’

  ‘We’re doubting everything. That’s the job right.’

  Ward took a breath, suddenly feeling old. ‘It was a war, son.’

  O’Neill nodded. ‘Things happen.’

  Ward paused, watching him, knowing what he was at. After a while the DI spoke. ‘I asked Pat Kennedy about it last year. You know, what happened? Were we having people killed? Was it unofficial policy?’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said the Provies didn’t have a policy. He said they didn’t care who they hit – women, children, didn’t matter. It was collateral damage. It was inevitable. He said in a war there were casualties. Michael McCann being dead saved lives; that was what mattered. He used the same word.’ He nodded at the report. ‘Inconclusive.’

  Ward stood and walked to the window, stared out. He shook his head.

  ‘The Troubles, the Provos, the whole shooting match. Twenty-five years, three thousand dead and for what?’

  He paused, his back to O’Neill.

  ‘We had to do something. You couldn’t sit around, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for them to come. How do you reason with a murderer? There’s a man standing over you with a gun to your head … do you need to have a fucking policy? Pat Kennedy reckoned sometimes it was about knowing when to close your eyes, when to leave the room, when to look the other way. Sometimes, he said, the law wasn’t enough.’

  Ward turned, eyes distant. O’Neill looked at him.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I think he was a hell of a peeler.’ Ward paused, staring into space. ‘I think he was wrong.’

  A silence fell between them. O’Neill opened the traffic report, allowing the DI his memories.

  After a while, Ward spoke. ‘So where’s the kid now then? Marty Toner.’

  ‘Gone to ground. I saw him yesterday, said he’d go again but he was bullshitting.’

  ‘McCann’s going to disappear you know. I followed him yesterday, watched him driving round in that Merc. He did a loop of his businesses, a lap of honour – Tropical Tan, Paradise Bronzing.’ Ward shook his head. ‘He went to Obel Tower after that, the showroom, looking at penthouse apartments. I’m telling you, in six weeks’ time he’ll be gone, hidden behind his money, behind his lawyers, behind his accountants. He’ll not set foot in the George again, except for old times, to remind himself how far he’s come. We’ll be left with the Marty Toners of this world, locking them up for six months while Wilson pumps out the stats and smiles for the cameras …’ Ward’s voice trailed off. O’Neill not listening. ‘Detective?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Hey!’

  O’Neill looked up. ‘Gimme a minute,’ he said, standing and leaving.

  He was back in two, holding a manila folder. Inside were business accounts. He sat in front of Ward, pouring over them.

  ‘Tropical Tan you said – 426 Ormeau Road.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  O’Neill flicked the pages.

  ‘Paradise Bronzing – 84 Cromac Street.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then you did a car wash on the Ravenhill, a nail parlour on the Dublin Road …’

  Ward nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘These accounts were pulled off Jonathan McCarthy’s laptop. The kid wasn’t dealing coke. He was a front. He was helping McCann to go legit, helping him wash his money, turning him into a businessman.’

  O’Neill pictured the McCarthy house in Lisburn: the long driveway, the stables out back, the Range Rover. It was a lot to live up to. He thought about the hockey medals in the bottom of the cupboard, about never being good enough, about needing to prove yourself. Jonathan McCarthy wasn’t an innocent victim. He wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time. He thought he could play with the big boys, show his da what he was made of.

  ‘Why does he front for McCann?’

  ‘Who knows? Maybe he wants to prove something?’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Dunno. They fuck you up your mum and dad …’

  Ward squinted.

  ‘He was paying him. Blackmailing him too. They might have sold him some coke, hooked him, reeled him in. He was either with them or against them. He did McCann’s books or else they ruin him, go after his da and all, make a few headlines.’

  ‘So how does he end up dead?’

  ‘He makes a balls-up, or a mistake, or decides he wants out. McCann can’t have that. He knows too much. Someone should have a word. Only McCarthy doesn’t want to listen, so they make their point more forcefully. We end up in Tomb Street.’

  Ward sat in his chair, thinking.

  O’Neill held the accounts up. ‘This is our ticket. The kid pointed at Tierney, said it was him. We get Tierney, offer him a walk, he gives us McCann.’

  ‘You think he’ll roll over on Gerry McCann?’

  ‘What would you give for fifteen years of your life?’

  Ward shrugged.

  O’Neill stood. ‘I’ll be next door.’

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Petesy sat at his desk, trying Marty on his mobile. No answer.

  It had been three hours since he’d watched him tear out of the Markets in a stolen car. Petesy had seen the two cars go after him, screaming through traffic, desperate to keep up.

  He tried Marty again. Answerphone.

  ‘Right, son,’ his grandmother called up the stairs. ‘That’s me off to the bingo.’

  She went Mondays and Thursdays, blotting out numbers, hoping her ship would come in.

  Petesy looked at the envelope from the passport applications on his desk. He listened to his granny mumble her checklist – ‘handbag, brolly, keys’ – before stepping out and closing the door behind her. He moved to the bed, closing his eyes, wondering about Marty. He pictured the cars catching him, saw his mate tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged. Petesy wondered what they’d do if they caught him. Would he just disappear? Would that be it? He remembered Marty’s face the other Thursday, the look in his eye, the pure terror.

  Petesy sighed when he heard a knock at the door. It was his grandmother, back for her glasses – ‘Forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’

  He rolled out of bed and went down stairs, ready to tease her.

  ‘How many times …’ he said, opening the door.

  Petesy froze. Johnny Tierney stood staring at him. He smiled, like he was looking at his dinner.

  Petesy closed the door. Tierney stood still.

  ‘That’s not very friendly now, is it? No “how you doing?” I mean, what’s the world coming to?’

  A holy picture looked down on Petesy: Jesus with his sad face, his chest open, his heart on fire.

  Petesy turned and limped through the living room, heading for the back door. Forty-six ornaments watched him. Pink piggies, fishing frogs, miniature clowns. Behind him Tierney’s voice. Quiet, insistent.

  ‘Peter. I need to talk to you son.’

  Petesy burst into the kitchen. The room was small, old-fashioned, immaculately clean. His grandmother was that generation. He’d his hand on the back door when a large shadow crystallized on the far side of the frosted glass. Petesy stood back and watched the handle come down. The shadow pressed against it, trying to get in. A face came up against the glass: Sean Molloy. Petesy wanted to be sick.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’

  Petesy looked round the kitchen, not sure what he hoped to find. There was a small black knife on the breadboard. He shook his head. It would only make it worse. The police were his only
chance. He picked up the house phone. An elbow smashed through the glass in the back door. Mobile, he thought, upstairs.

  Petesy didn’t see Molloy’s large hand reach through and turn the lock. He was in the living room, then the hall, past the front door. Outside Tierney had stopped knocking. He stood there, waiting for the door to open.

  Petesy scrambled upstairs, two at a time, knees screaming. In his room he closed the door and wedged a chair beneath it. His grabbed his mobile, dialled 999.

  There were sounds on the stairs, thud, thud, heavy feet. The door exploded inwards, smashing the chair.

  ‘Hello. Emergency Services. Which service do you—’

  Molloy took the mobile and hung up.

  Petesy looked up as a punch knocked him to the floor.

  He bent double, winded, suffocating. After a few seconds it passed. Petesy looked up at Molloy, wanting to shit. Memories flooded back. The waste ground, his face in the dirt, the hurling sticks with nails through them. He’d begged them – wise up, stop, I’m sorry, I’m sorry …

  Molloy nodded towards the stairs and pulled Petesy up. He’d no stick and put his hand on the bannister, his knees wobbling. He’d gone three stairs when he felt a boot in his back. He was flying. Molloy watched him free fall, landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  He lifted him again and dragged him into the living room. Petesy groaned, semi-conscious. Molloy stepped out to unlock the front door. Tierney came in the house, looking at the crumpled teenager on the carpet.

  Molloy shrugged. ‘He’s a cripple. He tripped.’

  Tierney dragged Petesy off the floor and dumped him in an armchair. He bent down, leaning over, inspecting his injuries. There was a cut above his eyebrow, a line of blood running into the socket and down his cheek.

  Petesy was unsure where he was. Everything looked pink. His head throbbed, like it had been hit with a hammer. His shoulder was killing him. He sensed a face close to his, a man bending over. There were sounds, voices, talking. A pair of hands gripped his head, rolling it, making sure it was still attached. It came back to Petesy – Tierney, Molloy. He felt his body tense and he tried to get up.