by Matt McGuire
An hour later, Petesy watched Marty’s ma come out the front door of her house. She was in high heels and leopard-print leggings, wobbling as she made her towards the Spar. She looked half-cut and was almost run over crossing the road. A car blasted its horn. She gave it the finger without looking up.
She passed Petesy on her way into the shop, doing a double take, then stopping.
‘Here, you’re our Martin’s wee mate, aren’t you?’
‘Aye.’
‘He always liked you so he did, Sean.’
‘It’s Peter.’
‘Right, right, that’s what I meant.’
She leaned in, lowering her voice. ‘Here, Peter. Lend a girl a fiver, would you? I’m expecting my rent cheque any day.’
Petesy looked at her, the hunger in her eyes, the drink with its hand round her throat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three quid. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’
She took it, forcing a smile. ‘Such a gentleman,’ she said, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.
Petsey wiped away the residue of lipstick as she tottered off.
‘Thanks, Sean,’ she called back. ‘I’ll tell our Martin I saw you.’
Petesy watched her go, watched heads turn in cars as they drove past. When she’d gone, he headed round the back, to the entry and the yard, where she kept the spare key.
Inside, the place was a mess. The TV sat in the corner, a blanket on the sofa from where, Petesy guessed, Marty’s ma passed out most nights. On the floor was an empty bottle of vodka and a glass that had been spilled but not cleaned up. On the arm of the sofa a pyramid of cigarette butts pointed up out of an ashtray. The place smelled musty and damp, in need of a good clean.
Petesy looked about, trying to guess where Marty would hide it. He checked the cupboards in the kitchen, before standing up and shaking his head. It had to be somewhere his ma never looked, like under a floorboard or something. He checked the carpet in the corners of the rooms, looking for signs it had been lifted. There was nothing. Upstairs he went into Marty’s old bedroom. He remembered the two of them playing ‘FIFA Soccer’ on the PlayStation. Brazil versus France, always the same. A smile crept across his face thinking about Marty and his favourite saying – ‘Ronaldo, you’re shite.’
Petesy turned and walked on to the landing, looking for the trapdoor to the attic. He saw it was in the bathroom and climbed up on the side of the bath, groaning at the sudden jolt of pain in his knee. The panel lifted easily and he felt around with his hand, his eyes widening when he touched leather and pulled a bag down.
It felt heavy as Petesy lowered the Head bag and set it on the ground. He pulled the zip back and opened it. Bundles of money, forty, maybe fifty. They were in tight rolls, elastic bands keeping them together. Petesy took one out and looked at it. It was made up of tenners, at least five hundred quid.
He shook his head.
‘Marty, you mad bastard.’
Petesy suddenly remembered where he was and what he was looking at.
He zipped the bag and stood up, putting it over his shoulder. Downstairs, he locked the back door behind him and replaced the key under the pot.
Sam Jennings turned the shower on in her bathroom, stripping off her running gear while the water heated up. She’d got up early and done ten miles, along the towpath, past Shaw’s Bridge. Her legs felt tired, her head clear. She would jump in the shower and head to work. They were on security for a funeral that morning, some ex Branch guy. They were expecting a big turn out.
In the shower she thought about O’Neill and the fight a few nights before. She’d been wrong. There was no changing him. He’d drop you in a heartbeat. All it would take would be a call from Musgrave Street. Maybe that’s all he had in him any more. It wasn’t his fault. Sam could see it – the damp flat, the daughter he rarely saw, the ex-wife moving on. The job was the only thing that made sense, the only thing he could rely on, the only sure thing. There’d always be an assault, a spate of thefts, a gang of hoods. There’d always be the city, telling you to go fuck yourself. It was the only thing that would make sense, that you could count on.
In the shower, Sam heard her mother’s words – ‘You’re not getting any younger you know. That clock’s ticking. There’s more to life than that uniform.’
She dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and went down to the kitchen. She poured a bowl of muesli and made tea. The application forms were still on the table – APPLICATION FOR THE DETECTIVE EXAM.
Sam sat down and lifted the biro, pausing for a second before writing her name in the first blank space. She thought about her mother and her ‘more than the uniform’ speech. Sam gave a short laugh.
‘You know something, Mum, you might just be right.’
Ward arrived late and sat at the back of the church. The place was packed, men in their sixties, short haircuts, weathered faces. There was a huge police presence. Land Rovers closed the street in case someone might try something. Ward scanned the room, ticking off the faces, the ex-Branch men, the former detectives, folk from Tenant Street. He looked for Davy Price, sure he’d be there, hiding somewhere.
The cortege had outriders the whole way to Roselawn. They stopped the traffic and crossed red lights, winding their way up the slope of the Castlereagh hills. At the gates there were cops directing cars. Ward recognized Sam Jennings. She was in her high-vis jacket, her hat pulled low. He lifted a finger from the top of the steering wheel and received a curt nod.
It had started to drizzle as they arrived. Guys got out of cars, looking upwards, God confirming what they already knew. At the graveside Eileen looked tiny, dwarfed by rows of men, standing motionless in dark clothes. She held her sister’s hand, squeezing it like she might fall over at any moment.
Ward hung back, leaning on his car, watching from a distance. The minister said some things that he couldn’t make out. He watched the crowd at the grave, the ritual of it all, the solemnity and importance. They’d turned up, as if to say ‘Pat Kennedy mattered … what he did mattered … what we all did mattered.’ You could see it in people’s faces, in their eyes; the sense that they’d seen things and done things they’d take with them to their graves. They’d been hunted, stalked, gunned down. They’d arrested men, locked them in rooms, rolled up their sleeves. And when all was said and done they’d been retired, moved aside, paid off. They’d lived on words like duty, honour, respect. And now it was all gone. History had moved on and they were no longer needed.
Ward scanned the horizon, making out Davy Price leaning on a gravestone at the far end of the cemetery. He was smoking, watching events from afar. Ward wondered what he made of it all. How it all added up, were the scores even, had one side lost and the other won? He pictured Gerry McCann, sitting in the George, sipping a pint, making plans. Ward pushed the image away. He’d had enough for one day.
O’Neill walked around the car and leaned on the bonnet next to the DI.
‘Sir.’
Ward nodded.
‘Big turnout.’
‘Yeah.’
O’Neill offered a cigarette and the two of them smoked in silence.
Through the sea of bodies they watched as the coffin was lowered. Men came forward, taking turns with the shovel, each emptying some dirt into the rectangular hole in the ground. Gradually, people turned away and headed back towards their cars.
‘Is there a wake?’ O’Neill said.
‘Aye.’
‘You going?’
Ward paused. ‘No. I’ll give it a miss.’ He opened the driver’s door. ‘You need a lift back?’
‘I’m OK.’
O’Neill watched Ward pull out, joining the line of cars as they filed out of the car park.
He pulled his collar up and walked out on to the grass between the rows of headstones. Roselawn was huge, gravestones stretching as far as you could see.
When he got there, O’Neill stopped and stared. It was the first time he’d been back since the funeral.
In Loving Memor
y of Brendan Eugene O’Neill 1948–2005
Loving Husband, Devoted Father May He Rest in Peace
O’Neill stood for a moment, trying to feel something. He thought about Jonathan McCarthy and all the medals, hidden in a box in his bedroom. He thought about the hall in the house and its shrine to the father and everything he had achieved on the rugby pitch. He wondered how many guys spent their lives chasing after something, hunting a bit of approval, just a quiet word – Well done, son.
He stared at his father’s gravestone, wanting an answer, not sure what the question was. After a minute, he gave up and started walking towards the office, a small Portakabin next to the entrance. The door opened to a small room and a counter separating the public from a pair of desks. On the wall was a map with lettered rows and numbered plots.
An old man stood up and approached the counter. O’Neill pulled his warrant card and CID-ed him.
‘There was some vandalism here a couple of years ago.’
The man snorted a sigh, ‘There’s vandalism here all the time. Hoods playing dominoes. See how many they can knock over.’
‘I’m talking about a sledgehammer. Headstones cracked. About three, four years ago.’
The man nodded. He pointed to the map. ‘Far corner. It’s probably row K you’re talking about. Twenty stones broken by some wee bastard. Used a sledgehammer, taken out of the sheds here. Mind you, police got the wee frigger.’ The man leaned in, lowered his voice. ‘I’d have done what them Muslims do. Cut his hands off.’
O’Neill headed up through the graveyard, retracing the path he’d walked a few minutes earlier. His father was 2005 and the dates worked back from there, the ’04s, the ’03s. He turned down row K, coming on the cracked ones. Dunlop, Turner, O’Hare …They’d been split in half, some cemented back together, others still waiting to be replaced. He walked on, looking at the cracks, reading the names – Quinn, Boyd, Thompson, Bell, Toner …
O’Neill stopped. It was Marty’s father. Michael Toner 1969–2002. Thirty-three when he died. That was about right. He stepped closer, crouched down, ran his hand over the headstone. You could see the marks, the chips, where the hammer had been taken to it. There were ten, twenty bites. It never cracked though. Not like the rest.
This one hadn’t been a sledgehammer; it had been smaller.
He pictured Marty, thirteen years old, swinging at it, cursing, spitting. He couldn’t break it, no matter what he did.
Marty had been right. The police had done him for them all. Chasing the stats, getting the clearance.
He’d only done one though, just the one, just his da’s. O’Neill stood up, patting the headstone, pushing it back and forth. It gave a little. He pushed harder, a thought occurring to him: Tip the fucking thing. He felt a pair of eyes on him and turned. Five hundred yards away, at the office door, the man was watching him under the pretence of a cigarette.
O’Neill looked down at the gravestone, cocking his head.
At the office door, the old man sucked on his cigarette, watching O’Neill walk back towards him. As he neared the car park, the drizzle turned to rain, harder, heavier, more intense. O’Neill put his head down, running the last few yards to the car.
From inside, he looked out across Roselawn, across the rows of headstones, at the corner, his da, Marty’s da.
Finally, he turned the ignition, put the car in gear and headed back toward Musgrave Street.
