Dark Dawn (ds o'neill)

by Matt McGuire

  ‘Where the fuck are yous taking me?’

  O’Neill ignored the question and continued his monologue.

  ‘No comment. Do you hear this, Kearney? This one thinks he’s some kind of criminal mastermind. Are you some kind of criminal mastermind, Janty? Is that what it is? ‘Cause that’s who no comment is for. Wee hoods from the New Lodge? No comment is not for you. Right now, commenting is the only thing you need to be doing. Commenting’s the only thing that’ll stop us turfing your arse out of this car in the middle of the Shankill.’

  O’Neill paused, letting the situation sink in.

  ‘Wait a minute, Detective. I’ve got it!Janty is a criminal mastermind. He knows even if he gets done for this, it’ll only be another stretch in Young Offenders. He’s only seventeen, after all.’ O’Neill paused, looking in the rearview mirror. ‘You’re still only seventeen, aren’t you, Janty?’

  Silence.

  ‘Shit. You’re eighteen? They grow up so fast these days, Ward. You’re in with the big boys now, Janty. Forget Young Offenders — all that playground stuff. This is the real McCoy. Guys from Sandy Row. Tiger’s Bay. Bet they can’t wait to get their hands on a fresh wee Fenian like you.’

  Morgan’s eyes darted from side to side as they drove further into the Shankill. Union Jacks saluted from lamp-posts. The car pulled up at a set of traffic-lights beneath a large mural. A 20-foot masked gunman stared into the car. During the seventies this was the home of the Shankill Butchers, a loyalist gang that used a black taxi to abduct Catholics. They drove them outside the city and decapitated them with a meat cleaver. There was a certain mythical edge to the Shankill.

  ‘You stole that purse, didn’t you, Janty?’

  Hesitation. ‘No comment.’

  O’Neill was getting close. He could feel it.

  He sighed in mock resignation. He slowed the car and pulled over. On the opposite side of the street the Regal Bar stood between a Sean Graham bookmakers and an off-licence. Black paint flaked off the walls. Four men stood outside smoking. Half-drunk pints sat along the window-ledge. They clocked the car as soon as it pulled up and started glaring across. Janty could feel their eyes boring into the car.

  ‘OK, Janty. If you don’t want to talk we’ll just have to let you go.’ O’Neill reached back and opened the rear door of the Mondeo.

  ‘I’m not fucking going anywhere.’ His voice was almost a yelp.

  ‘Come on, Janty. Wise up. Sure you’ll be halfway down the road before they get near you.’

  The group outside the pub saw the door open and became more agitated. One man ducked back inside. The Troubles weren’t so long gone that three men in an unknown car didn’t reek of something.

  ‘You see, Janty, it’s like that Van Morrison song. Things have changed. We don’t beat people up any more. We just talk to you and if you don’t want to talk, we let you go.’ O’Neill sang to himself, laughing. ‘Did your mama not tell you, there’d be days like this?’

  The gang outside the pub had been joined by two more men, both of whom had tattooed forearms. The drinkers were gesturing towards the car, explaining the situation.

  O’Neill leaned back and shouted out of Janty’s door: ‘Orange bastards!’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Morgan said. High-pitched. Desperate.

  The gang of men started making their way across the street towards the car.

  ‘Ah, don’t worry about us, Janty. They might drag you out of the back, but we’ll get away OK.’

  The men picked their way through the traffic, stopping cars, getting nearer the Mondeo. Janty had backed up across the seat, as far from the open door as possible. A tattooed arm reached into the car, trying to grab hold of his feet.

  ‘All right! All right! It was me. I done her,’ he screamed, kicking out at the hands.

  O’Neill lifted the clutch, peeling rubber as the Mondeo shot off down the road. The car left an empty space that the rest of the men seemed to tumble into.

  Two years later, thumbing through the file, O’Neill wished Laganview was that easy. There was no one he could lean on. No one to apply a bit of pressure to. Hell, he didn’t even have a name.

  He walked into the coffee room and poured himself the third cup of the day. It was still only 8.30 a.m.

  In the office next door DI Ward hunted through the bottom drawer of a steel filing cabinet. He pulled out a series of black notebooks, the ones he’d used in the eighties, back when he was in uniform.

  He was looking for William Spender, the developer at Laganview. He knew he was in there somewhere. It was a complaint; although nothing ever came of it. Ward had been sent to interview him over allegations that he had threatened one of his neighbours. Something to do with an extension.

  The investigation had been dropped. Out of nowhere, the neighbour retracted the complaint. Ward sat at his desk, thumbing through old notebooks, trying not to get sidetracked by the names and memories that leered out of the pages.

  Next door, O’Neill continued to circle Laganview. The more he looked at the file, the less he believed it was a straight-up punishment beating. Punishment beatings were a warning, a signal that drug dealing wasn’t tolerated. A dead body was one way. Better though was a living, breathing victim. A daily testimony, in 3-D Technicolor. If the young ones saw their mate hobbling round on a pair of walking sticks, taking painkillers for the rest of his life, they would know what was coming to them. A punishment beating was about control. A way of making sure the hoods knew who was in charge. If you were dealing for someone and thought about ripping him off, there were going to be consequences. It wasn’t a crime of passion. Things didn’t get out of hand. O’Neill heard of incidents where they even called the ambulance, waiting until they heard the sirens before doing the guy’s knees.

  He thought about Wilson’s warning. About not calling this a punishment beating. The political ramifications. The need to be careful. The Chief Inspector might get his wish, after all.

  O’Neill sighed and prised himself up from his desk. He went outside to the car park. Two white Land Rovers sat in the shadow of the station wall. He lit a cigarette. Three uniforms stood by the back of one of the Land Rovers, sharing a story.

  The door from the lock-up opened and Sam Jennings walked out. She had her hat pulled down, her short blonde ponytail peeking out the back.

  ‘Hey, John,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, Detective Sergeant O’Neill?’

  ‘That’s right.’ O’Neill lifted three fingers, tapping imaginary stripes on his shoulder. ‘You need to stand up when I walk in the room.’

  ‘Hah. You forget I knew you when you didn’t know your radio from your pepper spray.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  Jennings glanced over at the three male uniforms at the back of the wagon. She saw her shift stretching out in front of her. Stuck in the Land Rover, taking a ribbing for chatting up CID. From what she could tell, Musgrave Street was a boys’ club. She felt as if she was being watched, that the guys on her shift were still waiting to see if she could cut it when things turned rough. It had been the same in Dungannon. A load of lads waiting to see if she wasn’t another empty uniform. The PSNI playing politics, filling another bullshit equality quota.

  ‘So how’s Musgrave Street working out?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You got a good shift?’

  Jennings raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘I’ll let you know. There are a few cowboys round here, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Guys who think they’re hard lads, that they can do whatever they want.’

  ‘Yeah? Just keep your head down. And anyway, what was wrong with Dungannon? Last I heard, you were entering boxing competitions.’

  ‘Listen. It’s official. Dungannon’s been pacified. I thought I’d come to the big smoke. Show you boys how it’s done.’

  ‘And how are the Belfast streets treating you?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re lovely. Spent most of yesterday being told to fuck off by twelve year olds.’

  Uniform had been ordered to
stop and question any young ones within a three-mile radius of Laganview.

  ‘Yeah, that was my fault,’ O’Neill answered. ‘The Belfast hood though — there’s a lot of spirit there.’

  ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’

  O’Neill felt the memories coming back from Police College. Sam was quick. She had an answer for everything and plenty of street smarts. She glanced over again at the Land Rover.

  ‘And what about you? How is. .’ Sam hung over the name, not quite able to remember.

  ‘Catherine?’ O’Neill hesitated for a second. ‘Bit of choppy water there.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. You have a wee girl, don’t you?’

  A loud whistle came from the Land Rover across the car park.

  ‘I’ve got to go, John. Listen, we should catch up though. .’

  She was off before O’Neill had time to answer.

  He watched as they piled into the back of the Land Rover, swinging the doors shut behind them. The engine fired to life and the wagon reversed out of its space. Inside, Jennings looked out from behind a small rectangle of blacked-out glass. She watched as O’Neill took a final drag from his cigarette, tossed it aside and walked back into the station.

  EIGHT

  Marty stared at the blonde in her underwear. She looked straight into his eyes and pouted invitingly. He reached out towards her.

  Suddenly Petesy grabbed him and yanked him down, behind the magazine rack.

  ‘Petesy, what the fuck?’

  ‘Shut up,’ Petesy whispered. ‘Fucking Johnny Tierney just walked past.’

  In front of the Spar, Tierney stopped and took out twenty Regal Kingsize. He lit one and walked on. Marty and Petesy crept up to the display of birthday cards. They peered out over pictures of cats, dogs and orang-utans, in various states of confusion. Tierney was across the street, outside Tony Loughrin’s house. He had his hands cupped against the window, trying to see inside.

  ‘What does he want at Locksy’s?’ Petesy asked.

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  Locksy had been in the same year as them at school. He had been obsessed with Man United, and when they had a kick-about he would provide a running commentary. ‘Giggsy to Keane, Keane to Cantona, Cantona shoots!’ He’d been dealing for Tierney for three months now.

  Marty pulled Petesy outside and they made a run for it, going down an entry beside the Spar and along a back street.

  Ten seconds later Tierney had Locksy by a combination of earring and ear. The fifteen year old groaned. His nose was broken and a red patch of blood was spreading down the front of his coveted Man United away strip. Tierney twisted the earring. Locksy screamed. He had opened the door, half-asleep, and been greeted by a punch in the face. The teenager had been in bed, recovering from the weekend. He knew not to answer the door, but he’d been dead to the world, and thought it was only Micky.

  ‘Where’s my money, you wee cunt?’

  Locksy couldn’t speak, only yelp. His ear was on fire and felt as if it was being ripped from the side of his head.

  ‘Aaaah, Tierney! Wise up. My fucking ear.’

  ‘Your ear is the least of your fucking worries. Where’s my two hundred quid, you wee cunt? And don’t have me to ask twice.’

  Tierney towered over the scrawny teenager trembling in his boxer shorts and white T-shirt. He picked Locksy up by the ear and marched him upstairs. Tierney knew what he was doing. Two hundred quid or not, he knew whatever happened to Locksy would make the rounds of the estate. People had short memories: they needed to keep being reminded that he wasn’t to be fucked with. It was about the two hundred quid, but it was about more than that. Cunts talk. At the moment they were talking about how Locksy’d taken the piss out of him, sold his gear and spent his money. That would change. It was one thing he was sure of.

  In the bedroom Locksy grabbed a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the foot of his bed. He had no idea how much was left. He had been on his way to see Tierney when he bumped into Micky. It was Friday night and they had meant to check in once they’d taken the pills, but the Es had kicked in and they’d ended up forgetting.

  Locksy pulled a roll of crumpled notes out of the pocket, wincing at the size of it. He was well short and he knew it. Tierney held the money and counted it silently. As he flipped the last note, he punched Locksy round the head.

  ‘A hundred and thirty quid? What do I look like? The fucking Northern Bank?’

  He then punched Locksy in the stomach, sending the teenager to the floor.

  ‘Please, Tierney,’ Locksy groaned. ‘I’ll pay you back. I swear.’ Locksy had seen what Tierney had done to Jackie Magennis and knew he could be a real nasty fucker. There were no two ways about it.

  Tierney kicked the fifteen year old in the ribs, then again, and again. Locksy curled up on his knees, gasping for air. The older man knelt down and grabbed the small hoop earring, ripping it from the teenager’s ear. The boy screamed, clutching the side of his head. He hunkered into an even smaller ball, fearful about what might come next.

  ‘This is your last chance, Locksy. Do you hear me? Otherwise you’ll end up like that cunt down by the river. You owe me, son. And don’t have me to come looking for you again.’

  There was a party at Micky’s on Saturday night. He’d been spreading the word and everyone was going to be there. Marty was flush from his trip to the Holy Lands with Petesy the night before and still had a load of Es. It would be mental. Earlier in the day three different people, folk he hardly knew, had asked if he was going to the party. Word had started to spread. Marty Toner was somebody to know.

  That morning Marty had gone into the city centre to get himself a new jersey. He’d heard that Cara was going to be at Micky’s. He was after a black Ralph Lauren number. A hundred and twenty quid’s worth. He hung around outside Debenhams, waiting until the security guard was talking to the girl on the make-up counter before slipping in. As he strode behind them he heard the sleazy bastard introducing himself. She must have been half his age and leaned over the counter, enjoying the attention.

  In the menswear section Marty marched straight to the labels and, without breaking stride, took a Ralph Lauren from the shelf. The guards were always on the lookout in that part of the shop and he kept walking to the back, where they kept the underwear and dressing gowns. It was pensioners’ stuff and there wasn’t too much nicking went on back there. He bent down, pretending to tie his shoe and snapped the electronic tag off with his Stanley knife. Marty put the jumper on and zipped his tracksuit over the top. He strolled out casually, smiling at the guard as he passed.

  ‘All right Paul, big lad? Ever get those crabs sorted out?’

  The guard frowned. The girl looked at her admirer, her face curling downward in disgust.

  Marty felt invincible. Security guards? Dozy fuckers.

  Outside he took off his tracksuit top, catching sight of himself in the mirrored windows of Castlecourt. He put his hand in his jeans pocket and felt the two hundred pounds he had made with Petesy the night before. Happy days, he thought.

  On Thursday they had made their usual trip into the Holy Lands, a grid of fifteen streets, made up of three-storey terrace houses. It was Belfast’s student village, a five-minute walk from Queen’s University and the pubs round Shaftesbury Square. Landlords packed as many twenty year olds into damp, mouldy houses as they could legally get away with.

  Marty and Petesy had been dealing there for three months. They’d grown bored with hanging out at the bottom of the Ormeau Road, waiting for folk they knew to walk by.

  ‘Those students are loaded,’ Marty told Petesy.

  They started walking round the Holy Lands, approaching anyone who looked a bit scruffy, asking if they wanted to score. An hour later they’d sold their last six quarters.

  They knew Johnny Tierney was also on the lookout for them so the Holy Lands were a safer bet as well. They’d be on the move, not standing round like a couple of sitting ducks. The Holy Lands
put a bit of distance between them and the lower Ormeau. You weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting to get jumped.

  After a few weeks Marty and Petesy had regulars. Nine or ten addresses. Marty called it their paper round. He walked out of the Holy Lands shouting, ‘Tele-eeagh!’ imitating the newspaper vendors that sold the Belfast Telegraph in the town. They had made over two hundred quid in less than three hours.

  The students were mostly culchies, guys from Fermanagh, Tyrone and Derry. Gaelic football flags hung on the walls in living rooms. Petesy kept watch outside while Marty went in. After a couple of weeks people knew him and were pleased to see him.

  ‘Marty mate, what about you?’

  In a house on Fitzroy Avenue two guys were buying coke. Marty looked at the thick books piled up on the desk. He wondered why anyone would want to read something like that.

  ‘What are all the books for then?’ he asked.

  ‘Law,’ one of the students replied.

  Marty laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. You might be a useful guy to know some day.’

  The guy didn’t get it. Or didn’t think it was funny. For a split second Marty felt like some kind of servant. As if, despite the fake enthusiasm, he wasn’t really wanted. Like he was making the place dirty. Like he was some form of necessary evil. The student pulled out his wallet and handed over the money. Marty took it without saying anything. He gave him the gram of coke and left.

  NINE

  The George was the nearest pub to the Markets. A cold breeze came off the river, whipping into two men who stood smoking outside. Joe Lynch walked past, hearing them mutter about the weather and the fucking smoking ban.