‘Blood will be born, John. With the chaos to come, blood will be born. You won’t need those pills, the Moley will be well fed.’
That had been over three months ago. The kid had asked him to be patient; but July 1st had come and gone and Fryer was still in his cell. The shadow beneath the desk was definitely darker now, and yes, something had just moved. Any second now, the smell would hit him, hormonal and dank. The kid had let him down after all; there was only one visitor Fryer could depend on, the Moley. He ripped the dressing off his injured arm. He needed blood.
Then Fryer heard it.
He froze, dead still; ready to open the cut.
Outside his cell the fire alarm was going off.
Chapter 2.
Outside, the patients were marshalled into rows, each headed by a member of staff wearing a Day-Glo yellow jacket. Ade pushed Fryer in the wheelchair, the dew from the grass splashed his socked feet as a light drizzle fell. He could smell the acrid tang of smoke as the wind shifted and changed. Definitely not a drill and that meant this was going to take a bit of time. They approached a line of inmates and the big fella parked Fryer at the front, his breath coming in wet pants.
A voice from behind him, telling Ade he was needed at Line A, someone had fallen down. Fryer felt the weight lift off the back of the chair, and watched as Ade lumbered off up the lines in search of A. Fryer’s chair creaked as another pair of hands took control. A voice spoke from behind him. He recognised it immediately.
‘Hello John. It’s me, mate. Are you ready to go?’ Fryer kept still, but replied to Christopher, his first words for three months.
‘You’re late, kid.’
‘Sorry John, I’ve been busy. Had a few things to take care of.’
‘So I see. Nice work,’ said Fryer, nodding in the direction of the black smoke he could now see billowing over the darkened outline of the Height’s secure wing. Christopher’s hand on Fryer’s right shoulder, his mouth now close to Fryer’s left ear.
‘Oh, John, believe me, you don’t know the half of it,’ he said.
‘I’m ready, kid,’ said Fryer.
Christopher wheeled him briskly past dead eyed patients, none took an interest. They passed the last man in line, open grass beyond, headed for the copse of trees in the dip of the slope. The squeak of the wheels accompanied them all the way. Fryer turned his head as they trundled down the hill. The kid was dressed in whites, like the rest of the staff; he even had the day glow over coat on too. Head shaved, his flaxen Jesus hair all gone.
‘I see you’ve been bapped,’ said Fryer.
‘Disguise,’ he said, scrubbing the stubble on his head.
‘I know that it’s dark here John, but do you think you can stand it till we reach the cover of the trees? Then you’ll be able to use your wee torch.’ Fryer turned away from the kid, faced the black copse, too dark to make out any details.
‘Didn’t bring it, kid. I’ll be alright.’
‘Ah, good man, not far,’ he said.
The dry leaves crunched crisply under the wheels. Fryer’s eyes started to adjust. They were on a hard packed path, no wider than the rear wheels of his wheelchair. The fir trees crowded to its edge on each side, their lower trunks dry and bald and dead looking.
‘Stop,’ said Fryer.
He stood up and stretched, swiped the drizzle from his face and breathed in the dry mulchy scent of the woodland night. For the first time in ages he felt good.
‘I can walk.’
Fryer led, Christopher pushed the chair. They could have been father and son, the shorter, stocky figure followed by the leaner, younger man. After a few minutes they came to a wooden fence and eased out between its horizontal slats; Christopher lifted the chair over to Fryer.
The sound of a heavy engine gunned to life, the rattling cough of an old London black cab. The tail lights turned the drizzly air into a blood red mist. As the taxi drove away, they faded to two red points, evil eyes watching from the dark.
Chapter 3.
As his plane approached Belfast International, the words of his Chief Inspector in London replayed again and again in his mind: ‘A three month break is a big risk, Sheen. Even your friends will circle like vultures for your spot on the Murder Squad. If you’re gone long enough, the only things you’ll be remembered for is your mistakes.’
The plane banked sharply, pale Saturday morning light danced over the luggage lockers and ceiling. His stomach lurched.
‘Cabin Crew prepare for landing,’ said a male voice over the intercom. He could feel the whole plane roll and fall, to the right. He shut his eyes.
I know that I shall meet my fate.
Somewhere in the clouds above.
The plane dropped to the left. A jittering vibration went up his arms and Sheen opened his eyes in time to see a swathe of rain darkened fields, partitioned with bramble hedges and one track roads before they descended into white mist, the scene gone.
‘Well I hope you’re not talking about today,’ said the woman on his right. She was old, her silver hair cropped short, no makeup. A thin gold wedding band was her only adornment.
’Sure we are nearly landed now,’ she added. The man beside her had florid cheeks and wore thick glasses. He had a flat cap on his head. He turned to Sheen.
‘Relax Seamus Heaney, it’ll be alright.’
‘Can’t stand flying,’ said Sheen.
‘Sure who can pet?’ the woman said. ‘The only reason we bother is it’s easier than the boat.’
‘You should try a glass or two before you board son,’ said the man, showing a red stained plastic cup to Sheen. ‘Might even help with your poetry.’
‘In your case one glass too many,’ she said. The man returned to his free copy of the Daily Mail. She smiled at Sheen.
‘We have been visiting our son, he lives in Cambridge. That’s where he studied, he has a fellowship there and a wife too.’ A pause, ‘She’s Chinese.’ Sheen nodded.
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes, well as long as he is happy and healthy. That’s the main thing.’
‘Health’s your wealth,’ suggested Sheen.
‘Well said Seamus,’ said the man, not looking up from his paper.
‘Have you been to Northern Ireland before?’ she asked.
‘I was born in Belfast, but we moved.’
‘I would not have known it. Not a trace of an accent left. And what brings you back? Have you still got family here?
‘A few relatives, not many. My brother died when he was a child, and his grave is in Belfast. It’s been a long time since I visited him.’
‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Long time ago. Anyway, I am taking a break from work for a few months.’
‘And what work do you do? My son, he is a mechanical engineer. I have no idea where he got the brains from, not from him, that’s for sure.’
‘Police. The Met.’
‘Not the flying squad then?’ said the husband. His wife angled her face to him. The man plucked a biro from his breast pocket and started the crossword.
‘Sorry about him. You were saying? Your job?’
‘Police, Homicide actually.’
‘Oh my. Though that must be very interesting?’
‘Less than you might imagine. More knocking on doors than car chases.’ The woman leaned closer, and dropped her voice to a whisper: ‘Are you sure it’s a break, or is it homicide work that brings you here?’
The Chief Inspector’s voice in his mind again: ‘I know this is personal, Sheen, but be careful digging round in Belfast for answers. There’s a lot of past there, not all of it is yours.’
‘Research,’ Sheen lied. This conversation had already gone too far, he should never have said he was a copper. Why not come out and tell her he was here to lead a Historical Offences Team, oh and maybe find the bastard who murdered his brother?
‘I’m researching a history of Irish folklore and beliefs, the Banshee, Changelings, the Leprechaun. The Line
n Hall Library in Belfast is a fantastic repository. I want to know how stories have been passed down, oral traditions. Link it with real historical events. Like wakes,’ he said.
‘Waking the body you mean? That’s a country tradition mostly.’
‘Exactly. People think that it started during the Potato Famine, a way of checking if a person was really dead and not in a deep coma. So, the family sat in vigil over the body. In time it became a tradition; an open casket, a way of venting grief.’
A memory, awful but cherished: His mother, thin and drunken at his brother’s wake. She leaps on the coffin, scattering wreaths and mass cards, scratching at the tightly screwed down lid, crying out who destroyed my son, who would do this to a boy?
‘And leprechauns?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What about the leprechauns?’ she said.
‘I can’t say I know a lot about them. Not now, but that’s what I am hoping to discover.’
The man made a scoffing sound. ‘A Londoner come to Norn Ireland in search of a leprechaun? Are you expecting the crock of gold too?’ The woman put a hand on the man’s arm.
‘Well, it sounds like a very interesting idea to me. I wish you well,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ Sheen felt his cheeks redden and turned his face to the window, away from the simple sincerity of his companion. A break in the fog: A roundabout, a car park, a corrugated roof sped by, shockingly close. He adjusted his posture, heard the robotic winching as the wheels descended. Sheen gripped the arm rests, counted long seconds. A jolt, right under his feet, then weightlessness and drifting, a subdued cry from the passengers. A heavier thump and screeching, and Sheen pushed tight against his seat belt, as the plane slowed, and then stopped. He was safe.
Even before the seat belt sign was switched off, commotion had started. Sheen felt the weight of the woman on his right lift. He gave her a couple of seconds to fully extricate herself, then he would say farewell. He would say something about her son, that he hoped she got to see him again soon. When he looked, she was gone.
Her husband stood at the entrance of the row, checking the fasteners on his hand luggage. He pushed his goggles up his flattened nose and looked down at Sheen, small but solid, the arms of his jacket foreshortened by the tight fit round his chest and shoulders.
‘She’s a decent woman, my wife. Bit naive if I am to be honest with you.’
‘Well, I am sure she is, decent, I mean.’ Sheen gave him a tight smile, and started to move. The man did not respond to this. He looked at Sheen. Sheen hesitated. The plane had mostly emptied, the sounds now came mainly from people and vehicles outside.
‘An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.’
‘Beg your pardon?’
‘Yeats’s poem. The one you tried to quote when you were bricking yerself earlier.’
Sheen’s smile dropped.
‘Excuse me please,’ said Sheen, beginning to move across the seats. The man put out his arm, blocked his way.
‘The years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death,’ said the man. ‘That’s the ending.’
‘I know.’
‘Just saying,’ he said. ‘I’ll get out of your way; sure we are the last out. Chatting like a pair of old women.’ He hoisted his bag on his shoulder and started up the aisle.
‘Thanks,’ said Sheen, sliding out. His leather bag was on its side in the luggage compartment. He reached in and slid it out.
‘No bother Seamus,’ the man shouted, striding up the plane.
‘My name is not Seamus,’ he called after the man.
‘Oh I know it’s not your name, Seamus,’ the man replied, marching on, his back to Sheen. He turned now from the front door of the aircraft.
‘I know it’s not.’
Chapter 4.
Aoife awoke in her own bed in Randalstown, a village just outside Belfast. The bed sheets were tangled round her waist; she tasted the stale air, eyes crusted with sleep. The dream retreated from her, she tried to catch it, sensed only the blackness and panic, and a beeping sound. It started to call again and Aoife closed her eyes, followed it, let herself slip away, then her thinking mind screamed in panic, the beeping recognised and confirmed.
It was her alarm.
Eyes open, she blinked the sleep away and grabbed her phone, saw it was past eight o’clock. She was late. Christ almighty, how had this happened? The alarm was loud enough to crack a glass. It read snooze, she must have dismissed it several times. Her first weekend working Serious Crimes and she was late; great. Three missed calls, plus texts. Two of the calls were from the duty desk, the texts were from her DCI, Irwin Kirkcaldy:
Are you Awake DC McCusker?
Her fingers worked speedily on the surface of the phone:
On my way sir.
Though to where, she had no idea. She typed an apology, decided against it, and sent the message. She threw the phone down on the bed and headed for the bathroom. Aoife gently pushed open Ava’s bed door, careful not to startle her by rattling the assortment of bangles she had decorated her door handle with. She read the warning: Ava’s room! Trespassers will be fed to the goldfish.
Something was wrong.
Curtains open, morning light filled the room, her toys on the floor and a half completed jigsaw, but bed empty and no Ava. She rushed inside, let out a cry as she stabbed the sole of her foot on a bit of stray Lego.
‘Ah God!’ She grabbed her foot in a hand, massaged the pain away. Her momentary panic levelled off too; she cursed her foolishness. Ava had stopped over with her friend Sinead, the one who attended the Irish language school with her, the Bunscoil. The faces of both girls, smiling and framed in pink letters: Cairde Is Feare (Best Friends) stared at her from the wall opposite. Sinead red haired and freckled, Ava brown skinned and hair in thick dark bunches. Both were attending the Irish language summer school at the Culturlann centre on the Falls Road in west Belfast, over the 12th of July weekend. In exchange, Aoife would bring Sinead away with them to a caravan in Donegal she had booked in late August for the next bank holiday.
Instead of the shower, she returned to her bedroom, picked up her phone and called Marie, Sinead’s mum. Moments later, Ava’s voice in her ear.
‘Hiya, Mummy,’ she said. Instant warmth, filling her up.
‘Hello baby girl, did you have a good sleep?’ In response Ava took her on a rolling disclosure starting with Marie collecting her and Sinead from school, a litany of sugary treats and orange food, ending with both friends top and tailing in Sinead’s single bed (not the comfortable sleeping arrangement Marie had went to some lengths to arrange), together with a staggering array of soft toys and private diaries which were scribbled in and swapped between them until sleep. Whatever time that had been.
‘Mummy there’s a blackout. Tonight we’re going to make a camp, and use torches. I can’t wait,’ said Ava. Aoife’s brow creased, a dark spool of anxiety unravelling in her gut.
‘Ava, honey, put Marie back on for a minute,’ she said. But in reply the phone filled with the chattering commotion made only by little girls greeting the arrival of one of their own. The sound scratched and muffled, no doubt the result of a group hug.
‘Ava, can you hear me? Put Marie back on,’ said Aoife, aware of the edge in her voice, trying to check it. Ava’s voice, breathless and excited, clearly she had not heard or was not listening.
‘Bye Mummy, we’re leaving now, love you, speak to you later on,’ she said, and then she was gone, dead line. Aoife cancelled the call, was about to redial, but stopped. Ava was fine, the child needed to be with her friends. And she was already late. Reluctantly, Aoife tossed the phone back on the bed, hobbled into the bathroom.
The coffee machine poured as she listened to her messages and then called the duty desk. She wrote the victim’s name and details of the job on a pad of paper and tore the sheet off. Woman found dead in her home in Tiger’s Bay, late eighties, mutilation. No sign of forced ent
ry. Aoife poured then sipped the espresso. The victim’s age, and the location in Tiger’s bay had set off an alarm, but too faint to say why. Her thoughts were broken by the sound of another text alert. Irwin again: PRESS R HERE, HURRY UP. Christ that man was going to give himself a heart attack.
She holstered her personal protection weapon, and paused as yet another message arrived from Irwin. She read it and immediately gagged on her mouthful of coffee: Bring the new boy. I have a job for him. The new boy was DI Owen Sheen who was on a transfer from the Met. He was arriving this morning and she was supposed to pick him up at the airport, the first real responsibility Irwin had trusted to her since she started Serious Crimes. She scanned her missed calls, saw Sheen’s name.
Both late and incompetent, she had really stuck a knife in her career today.
At that moment, a text from Sheen, telling her he had arrived, and was making his way into Belfast, would be at his hotel. She knew where it was, had helped arrange the booking. With a bit of luck, he would be there by the time she reached Belfast; she could pick him up, limit the damage. Aoife threw the last of her coffee into the sink, went out and checked under her car, then drove off.
The early morning mist had burned off; just the remnants clung to the top of the mountains to her right. Above was the bluest sky with billowing white clouds moving across the city, west to east. As she sped down the M2 motorway into the city she could see the twin yellow cranes, Samson and Goliath, in the shipyard below, and giant bonfires marking loyalist territory, dry and ready to burn on the 11th night. She had felt the tension rise in Belfast over recent weeks, always the same in the build-up to the 12th; the city was like a powder keg.
The light was clean, Nordic sharp. She reached for her shades and the world toned down; shadowy drabness, the real hue of Belfast city. To the east, hidden from view, was the ladder of terraced streets making up the loyalist district of Tiger’s Bay; the location of the murder, also the haunt of Cecil Moore, someone she had dealt with during her time with Community Relations. She shuddered at the thought of him; he masqueraded as a community advisor who worked as a go between for authorities and loyalist groups who had the guns but did not use them, for now at least. In the double speak of Northern Irish politics, Aoife knew that made him a top brass for the outlawed paramilitary Ulster Defence Association or UDA. The PSNI suspected him of involvement in the drugs trade between Scotland and Northern Ireland, but so far could never prove it.
Blood Will Be Born Page 4
