by John Steele
Jackie, silent, nodded and walked off. He glanced back to see Tommy escort Rab away, his arm straddling bony shoulderblades. He saw a young girl with a trim figure make for the bar counter, and Rainey’s face light up in a warm grin. Miss Mount Vernon, Ruger’s mistress. He saw James Love sit in state with his hard-bitten wife beside him, his son and two daughters at the adjoining table. Billy was chatting with a local UVF commander and waving his arms about expressively, the two men laughing. Jackie walked out of the emergency exit at the side of the room to drink in the warm spring evening. The door swung shut behind him.
He craved a smoke and absently waved his hand in front of his face as he lit up in the side alley, then rubbed his nose.
Bloody spiders’ webs, he thought.
He ran his hand over his face more vigorously, determined to shift the gossamer strands, then turned to the right and said, ‘Fuck!’
Standing next to him, strands of errant hair tickling Jackie’s face, stood Eileen.
‘You’re jumpy,’ she said.
‘What are you doing? You don’t stand right next to people and not let them know. Are you stalking me?’
‘I was here first.’ Her tone was light and easy.
He scowled for a second, then looked at the ground and smiled. He offered Eileen a drag on his cigarette but she declined.
‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ said Jackie. ‘Aren’t you meant to be in Coleraine visiting a relative?’
‘She had to work a double shift. She’s a nurse.’
Eileen looked, as always, stunning. In keeping with the balmy temperature she had a light dress on and every ripple of the breeze highlighted the soft curve of her small breasts, the smooth sweep of her thighs, the flat bank of her stomach. He wanted her, ached for her and had an image of them frantically clawing at one another, her dress hiked up under his arms as he supported her ass and drove into her.
Instead, he said, ‘Billy’s inside, up at the bar.’
‘Of course he is,’ she said with weary resignation. ‘And you’re out here on your lonesome. How come?’
‘I just needed a breath. Rab’s getting a bit feisty with the drink, so I thought I’d get offside for a minute or two.’
She shuddered – actually shuddered – at the mention of the name. The corners of her mouth creased in delicate lines, like petite brackets, as her mouth formed a scowl.
‘He’s an animal,’ she spat. ‘Billy’s a bastard, but at least there’s method to his madness. Rab just likes to watch things suffer.’
Jackie was unsure what to say. He was a member of the group and couldn’t mouth off against one of his ‘mates’. Not even to her. So he changed the subject.
‘What are you doing creeping about the side door anyway?’
‘Ach, there’s women at these things always make a big deal when I show. You know, the whole bow and scrape at the big man’s bird, and I can’t be bothered with it. I just wanted to slip in, quiet.’
‘Well,’ said Jackie, gesturing to the door, ‘slip away.’
And with that she went up on her toes, took his face in her hands and enveloped him in a kiss, sliding her tongue into his mouth and pushing her body against his. For a moment he was lost to all doubt or caution, and he returned the kiss with intensity.
Then she shut it down with a firm hand against his chest and a step back.
‘I’ll see you in there. And I’ll see you in three days. He’s away on business. London.’
‘Okay.’
She nodded and yanked the door open, slipping into the light and noise seeping out from beyond.
He lit another cigarette and smoked it with relish. It was Saturday. Tuesday and he’d be with her, he’d have her.
He paced the alley, hummed a New Order song and –
‘Jackie.’
‘Shite!’
‘Sorry.’
Leanne stood against the wall of the alley. She wore a tight white T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. And an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.
‘You all right, Leanne?’
‘I’m okay.’
He could see the contours of her body. The T-shirt, clinging to her small waist, her hips straining against the jeans. She wore a hair band, scraping her shaggy bob back from her forehead, but her eyes were glinting pinpricks in the low light.
‘What brings you out here?’ he asked. ‘The party’s inside.’
‘Not from where I’m standing.’
How long had she been waiting there, in the shadows? If she’d seen anything, he wanted to beg her to keep her counsel, or threaten her if needs be. Desperate times called for desperate measures, he thought, and dropped the cigarette, grinding it underfoot.
Then he did something worse than grabbing her throat. Worse than threatening her, slapping her and bullying her into keeping what she might have seen secret. And he did it with the best of his effort because it might buy her silence, at least for now. He pulled her to him and laid his lips against hers.
#
They fucked on her parents’ living-room floor again. As he left to take a taxi back to his father’s house, he heard the drone of helicopters hanging over Belfast.
Five people were shot dead that night. A soldier on foot patrol in the Ardoyne area; two friends walking home from a city centre club; a policeman closing the gate of New Barnsley RUC station after a civilian car had driven in; and a young man walking on the Woodstock Road, not three streets away from the local RUC station.
CHAPTER 22
Saturday
‘You’re fucking kidding.’
Rab is all wide-eyed rage.
Jackie is holding the Magnum in his right hand, his left locked around that wrist and his feet planted firmly and evenly. The plastic bag of photos is on the ground at his feet, where he dropped it. He says, ‘Close the door.’
There is a heavy sound as the reinforced front door shuts tight.
‘Windows double-glazed?’
Rab nods. ‘Blastproof.’ The colour has drained from the deep tan, a residue of sickly yellow pallor showing underneath. Rab looks momentarily shrunken in a quilted jacket as he glances briefly at the bag. His arms hang at his sides, limp, and his hands are curled in half-moons aside his black designer jeans.
‘Right hand on right shoulder and vice versa. Walk backwards, back to the dining room.’
‘Jesus,’ says Rab, ‘you sound like a fucking cop.’
Jackie says nothing.
‘Christ,’ says Rab. The penny drops. ‘You are a fucking cop.’
‘Dining room, now.’
Jackie grabs the bag of photographs and keeps his distance, gun trained on Simpson’s chest as they walk through the hall to the back of the house.
Rab mutters, ‘A cop. A fucking cop.’
In the dining room Jackie says, ‘Close the window.’
Rab does as ordered, glancing at the foil on the frame.
‘Shoulders.’
Rab once again holds that pose, as if playing a child’s game.
‘Take your jacket off and throw it in the corner of the room.’
Rab does as he’s told, then resumes the shoulder position. His torso looks lean in his tight-fitting T-shirt.
‘I’d you all wrong, Jackie. I thought you were a grass, and there’s you a peeler all along.’
‘Is that why you set me up that night?’
‘Ach, behave yourself. I just thought you were a cunt. But until I saw you handle that gun and give them orders, I never clocked you as a peeler. And I know a Black Bastard when I see one.’
‘Right hand, pull out the lining of your right jeans pocket.’
Rab does so, keeping his left hand on his left shoulder. A couple of coins fall out. He repeats the action on the left pocket, revealing a cigarette lighter, keys and a mobile phone. He lets them fall on the carpet.
‘Push the table over to the wall, the chairs, too.’
As he follows the orders, clearing a space in the centre of the room, Rab s
ays, ‘One thing I don’t get. You were a cop; how’d you get away with murder? I know the Fenians complained about the whole shoot-to-kill thing and that, but I thought somebody would have pulled you up for gunning a man down. Aren’t youse accountable? Not that you didn’t do a good job, like. One shot in the forehead.’
‘I didn’t kill anybody,’ says Jackie. ‘Maybe you’re confusing me with one of the psychotic bastards you call mates. You must have known a few.’
Rab shakes his head, serious. ‘You shot Tommy that night in ninety-three. Shot him in the face.’
‘Not me.’
‘Fuck off. I got the ballistics report from that night. The round that killed Tommy wasn’t security forces issue, it was from his own gun. You took it from him and fucking killed him.’
‘It wasn’t me.’ Jackie despairs at the thought of Simpson having access to that kind of intel from a police source.
‘Then who? It wasn’t that other prick, that’s for sure.’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And I don’t have to explain myself to you.’
‘What were you? Branch? CID? Maybe HMSU?’ Rab spits on his valet-cleaned carpet. ‘Sure youse were all trigger-happy in the day. You shot him, you cunt. And that makes your sister guilty by association.’
Jackie takes a deep breath, swallowing the urge to lunge at Rab. If he loses control, Simpson gains it.
He says, ‘On your knees,’ and circles behind Rab. The Magnum is weighing heavily in his hand, the tension he is keeping on the trigger not helping. Simpson looks comfortable despite the stress position.
‘Did you kill Shanty McKee?’
Rab snorts, then looks over his shoulder at Jackie and smiles. A catalogue model smile rather than the ugly mask of twenty years ago.
‘What kind of a question is that? Don’t you want to establish a rapport first? Maybe a threat? I haven’t asked for a solicitor yet.’
‘I’m not in the job any more. I haven’t been a police officer in this country for twenty years and I’ve already broken the law a couple of times today.’ Breaking and entering, possession of a firearm, abduction. ‘Now, the question remains: did you kill Shanty McKee?’
‘Of course I fucking killed him.’ He tut tuts, as though disappointed with a foolish child. ‘You’d know by the state of him I done it. I’d usually just give the word these days, but me and Shanty go back so I did it myself this time. As a courtesy.’
‘How?’
‘Poker.’
Jackie gives him a solid kick between the shoulderblades. Rab takes it with a grunt and his arms fly forward to arrest his fall. Then he settles his weight back on his legs, knees on the carpet, and returns his hands to his shoulders.
‘He was off his face on something. The dog was sniffing round him when I arrived, I think he’d pissed himself. There was an old poker lying next to the fireplace. I caved his head in with the first blow, then went to work on him for a while. I took as many of his teeth with me as I could, just to piss the crime scene boys off a bit. That was that. I took off and left the dog eating away at what was left of his face.’
‘Why’d you kill him?’
‘Stupid twat called me, told me he’d spoken to you and gave you information about me. About Morgan. Thought coming clean would buy him another fix. Sure, I was putting him out of his fucking misery.’
The truth of this statement doesn’t detract from the cold, white fury Jackie is channelling to the tense knotted rope of his right arm. He struggles to control pressure on the heavy trigger of the revolver.
Rab says, ‘I’ve been looking for that Fenian bastard, Morgan. No sign of him though.’
‘Seems you’re cosy enough with the Fenian bastards these days. Call them that when you’re cutting your heroin together?’
‘Just a manner of speech,’ sniffs Rab.
‘And Billy isn’t too fond of your new playmates?’
‘Billy Tyrie’s a fucking dinosaur. He still thinks it’s the nineties. There’s no money in terrorism any more, and the taigs are smart enough to see that. See these splinter groups: Real IRA, Continuity IRA, Part-time-professional IRA? They’re just the bottom of the barrel, the ones not smart enough to make money out of the peace.’ Simpson loudly sucked some stray spit back in his mouth. ‘Billy still gets by on the usual UDA rackets, but that’s nothing to what we’re making.’
Jackie shifts his grip on the .357. Holding it one-handed, his arm is beginning to burn and he can see it beginning to shake. ‘Nice wee box of memories you’ve got upstairs,’ he says. He struggles to get a random Polaroid out of the bag with the other hand, and tosses it in front of Rab. The shot is of a woman in a dog collar, her face wrenched in agony or pleasure; it’s difficult to tell which.
‘Quite a collection: some hand-held, some hidden camera jobs. Pretty good work from a surveillance point of view.’
‘Nikki,’ says Rab. ‘Russian bird worked behind the bar in the Tartan Star Club.’ He leers up at Jackie. ‘Them immigrants’ll do shite our girls’d throw up at the mention of.’
‘Like Eileen Tyrie?’
The leer freezes for an instant. Then the features relax, unfurling into a bright, open smile. He looks like a kid who’s just been given a glowing report on parents’ evening at school: Eileen is an A+.
‘Ah, seen that one, have you? Doesn’t get better than shagging the boss’s woman, does it?’
‘Been there, done that.’
‘No chance,’ says Rab, with a flicker of doubt.
Jackie keeps his distance but drops to his haunches, on a level with Simpson’s head. He rests his right elbow on top of his thigh, easing some of the weight of the revolver.
He says, ‘Did you find the wee mole on her right buttock just where her arse ends and her leg starts? I used to call it her Coco Pop.’
The grin melts and Rab’s forehead knots into a frown, his teeth bared. But his eyes are his biggest tell. There is pure bloody murder in them.
Simpson probably couldn’t believe his luck. Survives being shot in the face, his currency rockets in the organisation and his legend on the street grows. Into the bargain, the reconstructive surgery gives him looks. Takes what pleasure he can from women, maybe men too, and records it all for posterity. Eileen must have been the greatest prize of all: the boss man’s missus. Now he finds out that the traitor in their midst had already been with her.
‘It’s a wonder you haven’t shagged Billy, too,’ says Jackie.
‘I’m a bit old for him,’ says Rab, flecks of saliva in the corners of his mouth. ‘I don’t have a school uniform for a start.’
He wants to press Simpson on the comment but time is short and he focuses on Rab.
‘You were running girls?’
‘Whatever pays the bills. These birds come over here, all lawyers and accountants and what have ye. But they can’t get anything better than stacking shelves or cleaning bogs. I’m doing them a service. They make ten times working for me what they would for Tesco.’
‘On their back.’
‘It’s a living,’
‘I thought it was all “local houses for local people” with the UDA these days. Burn out a couple of Polish or Blacks when there’s no football on TV.’
‘They have their uses,’ says Rab. ‘At least the fucking Eastern Europeans are white.’
‘And they get to meet famous people,’ says Jackie, thinking of the politicians in the photos.
‘Ah, you found those shots. Funny, the Catholics are generally less kinky than the Prods. Must be all that fucking guilt.’ He laughs. ‘The photos are just a wee insurance policy.’
‘I hope you’ve life insurance too.’
Jackie tosses the bag in the corner and takes a cushion from a chair. He shoves it on Simpson’s head with his left hand. With his right, he pushes the muzzle of the .357 hard into the fabric. He psychs himself up: thinks of Shanty McKee. The young man ruined by sectarian ink; the older man broken and ruined by drugs pushed by Simpson. And the broken and b
loody corpse, unrecognisable. Dog food.
‘I’m going to end you now,’ he says.
There is silence but for their breathing, ragged and rapid. The trigger is a hard pull. He extends his left arm, as if to avoid blood splatter. Rab feels the movement.
‘Wait. There’s more. More photos upstairs.’
‘I don’t think I could stomach more.’
‘There’s one,’ says Rab.
Jackie shoves the muzzle of the revolver hard into the cushion and Rab’s head jerks forward.
‘There’s one with me in it. The only one. My reflection in a mirror behind somebody, riding them.’
‘Who?’
‘Cochrane’s missus.’
Jackie eases the pressure on the cushion. ‘James Cochrane?’
‘Aye,’ says Rab. ‘I work with him. With Cochrane.’
Madra Mor, thinks Jackie, Adrian Morgan’s ‘big dog’ in the republicans. So Cochrane and Simpson are sharing the drug trade in East Belfast, UDA and RAAD working together. Brave new world. He kicks the cushion under the dining table and takes his previous stance with the revolver levelled at Rab’s head.
‘I’m listening.’
‘He was away in Cork. Some of our gear comes up from there. I’d been working with him and that shower from RAAD for over a year. He’d shot a young lad who was a friend of Morgan’s.’
Morgan’s mate from the Markets, thinks Jackie.
‘I went over to his house to ask him to lay off my dealer, didn’t know he was out of town. His wife was in next door and saw me through the window, offered me a cup of tea. She can’t abide him, but you know what the taigs are like about divorce.’ Rab’s face creases in disgust. ‘She’d do anything to spite him and she’s pretty fit, so I fucked her here, upstairs.’
He looks at Jackie and winks. ‘She was a good ride.’
‘And your partner doesn’t know?’
‘Of course not. The photo’s under the bed in my bedroom. It’s in a briefcase, not even locked. Take it and fuck off.’
Jackie is unsure what angle Rab is playing here. Maybe just buying time. Maybe moving to take more control of the business. Maybe just desperate. But the photo would be of value and he isn’t going to kill Simpson, he knows that. Not like this, in cold blood; he isn’t sure he could do it in anger.