Dark Dawn (ds o'neill)

by Matt McGuire

  Winters took a drink of his coffee and rubbed his chin.

  ‘I don’t think it’s the physical injury though. That’s not the real damage.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ O’Neill asked.

  ‘Well, it’s as if there’s a change in them. They become sullen. Silent. Resigned. You see it in the follow-up appointments. It’s as if they give up. As if the beating is like some final, irrevocable proof. The world, telling them that they really are just a piece of shit, that they’re completely worthless, that their life means nothing. People can come along, beat you half to death, and no one says anything about it. When they wake up from the surgery you can see it in their eyes — that expression — no matter how well things go in the operation. It’s there six weeks later, and at the six-month visit. It’s as if, deep down, they always suspected that they were nothing. And now, there’s no denying it. They have the proof.’

  Back at Musgrave Street O’Neill closed the file and reopened it at page one. He remembered Ward’s words when he first joined CID.

  ‘Sisyphus, son. .’

  O’Neill thought about all the drug players they’d pulled in over Laganview. He thought about the hoods that uniform had stopped. Records the length of your arm, every last one of them. He wondered what the police’s job was in this whole game. They did nothing more than guard the great revolving door — nick them, question them, charge them. Six months later, you were picking up the same people, off the same streets, for the same shit.

  O’Neill stretched upwards before hunching back over the Laganview file. He’d have time to go through it once more, before eight o’clock, when he’d head back to the empty flat in Stranmillis.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was Tuesday night and Marty and Petesy were in the Holy Lands doing their paper round.

  Petesy had been walking about with a face on him all night. The plan had been to go round to Micky’s after and smoke a few joints. They were going to bring the gear. Micky’s mum was due back from Benidorm tomorrow so it wasn’t a big one, just a few of the lads. Micky’d nicked a copy of the new Grand Theft Auto from the Virgin in town. A night of carjacking, shooting cops and picking up prostitutes. All from the comfort of your own home.

  Marty had been bored so he called round earlier in the day but Micky wouldn’t let him in. The ski-masks had scared the shit out of him and he still had bruised ribs from where he’d been hit at the door.

  ‘Tonight’s off,’ Micky told him.

  ‘What are you talking about? Because of Friday?’

  Marty and Petesy had sat round the back of the petrol station for two hours before going home. They only heard about the visitors the next day.

  ‘They held a fucking knife to Locksy,’ Micky said. ‘I can’t be having it. My ma will do her nut. She’ll turf me out. You can’t come round. It’s too much.’

  Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He remembered the cheering when he’d arrived at the party on Friday night. Micky had practically thrown his arms round him and now he didn’t want to see him.

  ‘Aye, Micky? Yous are all happy enough to score some gear. Happy to have us take the risks. Get fucked on the pills that we bring. What? And now you don’t want to know? It’s all different, is that it? Well, away and fuck youself.’ A bit of spit flew out of Marty’s mouth as he gave off.

  ‘Wise up, Marty. It’s not like that. This is only for a wee while. When things-’

  Marty turned and walked away.

  He walked to the edge of the estate and sat near the bank of the Lagan, looking over at the train-tracks on the far side. The Dublin train went along that route, every couple of hours. Marty wondered what things were like down South. He lit a Regal and began tossing stones into the river. He was on his second cigarette when Locksy came up behind him and sat down. He had a plaster down his right cheek from where the knife had opened him.

  ‘All right, mate?’ Locksy said. ‘Give us a toke.’

  Marty passed the cigarette. Locksy sucked on the butt, took it out of his mouth and had another quick toke before handing it back. The two boys sat for a while, neither speaking. Eventually Marty broke the silence.

  ‘Sorry about Friday night.’

  ‘Aghh. Don’t worry about it. They’re fucking cunts.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Marty took a draw on the cigarette. ‘Micky reckoned it was me and Petesy’s fault.’

  ‘I wouldn’t sweat it. Round here, sooner or later everybody gets a turn. It could have been worse, he could’ve really started drawing on me with that fucking knife.’

  Locksy’s face was smooth. He wasn’t properly shaving yet. His eyes looked towards the horizon and the Castlereagh Hills in the distance.

  ‘Micky’s a bit freaked out,’ Marty said.

  ‘Micky’s always freaked out. The guy’s a fruit. I wouldn’t worry. Best you can hope for is what happened the other night. When they come for you, if you’re lucky, you’re not there. Micky thinks Friday was a nightmare. He’s wrong. It was a fucking result. That’s what it was.’

  Marty pulled out the packet of Regal and offered one to Locksy. They sat by the edge of the river, smoking together. Further along the bank they could hear the rumble of diggers flattening the old Belfast gasworks. The site was being levelled and workmen were erecting blue fence panels to seal it off. The place had lain derelict for years but they were building a hotel and some offices once the weather got better in spring. Marty spat on the ground in front of him. When he had finished his fag he stood up, telling Locksy he’d see him later, he had to collect some more gear for that night.

  Later, walking round the Holy Lands, Marty could tell Friday had spooked Petesy. He came out of their first call, a gram of coke on Damascus Street, and found him pacing the pavement. Marty looked at him. Petesy might as well have had a sign on him saying dodgy in foot-high letters.

  ‘There’s a fucking parked car over there,’ Petesy said, his voice shaking. ‘The black one. Guy’s been sitting for ten minutes.’

  ‘All right. Calm down.’

  Marty was casual. He looked up the street, taking in the car without making it obvious. A man was trying not to look out at them, talking into his mobile phone. He was in his late twenties and had a shaved head and a gold earring. Marty could make out a tattoo on his neck which crawled up and out of his collar.

  ‘OK, Petesy. Walk slowly — and be ready to bolt.’

  They started down Damascus Street. Suddenly a door burst open in front of them.

  A blonde girl came bouncing out, almost running into Petesy. She was wearing thick foundation, four-inch heels and a short black skirt. She bounded over to the car and got in, leaning over to kiss the driver. The car fired to life and peeled off down the street, its bass blaring.

  Marty breathed a sigh of relief. Petesy was all over the place. He wasn’t thinking and he was getting inside Marty’s head now and all.

  Normally Petesy was totally cool. He could disappear at the drop of a hat. Even in broad daylight, he’d slide into a doorway, duck behind a hedge or just sit on a wall. He’d look bored, blend in, cloak himself in casual indifference. People walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Tonight though, he wasn’t at the races. Pacing up and down. Jesus Christ, Marty thought, it was only a matter of time before he came out of a house to see the peelers with Petesy up against a wagon. He was so wired he’d probably get Marty lifted and all. He decided to bring him with him. They’d go in together and at least then he could keep an eye on him.

  After three calls Petesy started to relax. He liked going inside, liked looking at the posters on people’s walls. He reckoned every second place had the mad one of Jack Nicholson from The Shining, his crazy face sticking through the door. Petesy liked the books piled up on people’s desks. Wherever Green is Worn. People’s History of America. Utopia. He wondered what they were all about. He thought about sitting in someone’s flat, reading one, maybe having a spliff while he was at it. He wanted to know what was so fascinating that people would sit
for hours, just reading. He imagined being a student, going to Queen’s. All the birds. It would be just like school, except without the boring stuff. He’d heard that if you didn’t like the teacher, you could just get up and walk out. He’d learn about other countries. About America. He had a cousin in New York who had been there on 9/11 when the planes hit them buildings. Now that was a terrorist attack. None of this blowing up a bookies or shooting a peeler rubbish.

  In a flat on Cairo Street two guys were buying some blow. In one of the armchairs a girl was lounging, reading a magazine. She wore ripped jeans and had long brown hair. Petesy thought she looked like that bird from Lord of the Rings. She had a small nose and skinny features, offset by a pair of dark brown eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at her, as if something was forcing him. Sure, he knew girls that were wee rides, ones you’d want to have a go at, but this one. . she was really beautiful.

  Petesy caught himself staring and looked away. After a few seconds he glanced back and saw her looking at him. He gave a faint smile and she smiled back. Petesy felt like he’d been lifted off the carpet. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her things, to tell her-

  ‘Hey.’ Marty was half way out the door. ‘Time to go.’

  Petesy followed him out of the flat. He wasn’t brave enough to turn round but he thought he could feel the girl’s eyes on him as he walked out the door.

  That was the last call of the night. Marty was happy. He was trying not to think about Sean Molloy or Johnny Tierney, focusing on the fact it was Tuesday and he already had two hundred quid in his pocket. Their fifty-fifty split would mean a hundred each. Petesy barely spoke as they walked out of the Holy Lands and down the Ormeau Road.

  ‘Two hundred tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ Petesy said quietly.

  ‘Not bad for a few hours’ work.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Reckon we’ll double up by the end of the week.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I think I’m a fruit.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Marty stopped walking.

  ‘OK. Enough. Will you frigging wise up? This is like working with a zombie. If you don’t want to come out, just say so. There are plenty of other guys who’d like to make a bit of money.’

  ‘They don’t all have cousins in the Ardoyne though, do they?’

  The two of them walked on in silence. Marty stopped at the Shell garage and bought a can of Coke. He handed Petesy a Mars bar he’d nicked while the manager wasn’t looking. He smiled at Petesy.

  ‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’

  Petesy didn’t laugh. He carried the Mars bar in his hand, not eating it. Finally he spoke.

  ‘How hard do you think it would be to go to Queen’s?’

  Marty spat out a mouthful of Coke. He wiped his chin, laughing.

  ‘What the fuck would they want with you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  Petesy was sullen. Marty tried to backtrack.

  ‘It’s not that. I mean, what the fuck would you want with them? Have you seen the state of these students? Sitting around all day. All their fucking books. Homework and everything. Didn’t you get enough of that shite at St Matthew’s?’

  ‘This is fucking boring. The same every day. Sitting round. Nicking stuff. The PlayStation. Going round the Holy Lands. Getting wasted. I don’t want to spend all day just waiting until Johnny Tierney gets his hands on us. Besides. .’

  ‘What the fuck’s wrong with it?’ Marty snapped back.

  Petesy paused. ‘I don’t know. I mean, it’s just. .’

  ‘What else do you think there is, Petesy?’

  Marty was hurt. It wasn’t Petesy slagging off what they did, it was the idea of him not wanting to hang about any more. Petesy was his mate. His best mate. Micky could go fuck himself. So could the rest of them. He’d always have Petesy though. Least that’s what he’d thought. Butch and fucking Sundance.

  ‘Fine,’ Marty said. ‘Fuck off then. See if I fucking care.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll still be able to get the gear off my cousin.’

  ‘Do you think I give a fuck about that?’ Marty stormed off, throwing his can of Coke on to the main road. A car blared its horn. Marty gave it the finger and walked on.

  Petesy stood by the road, holding the Mars bar by his side as his friend strode off on his own.

  EIGHTEEN

  Tuesday night dissolved into Wednesday morning. O’Neill lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He’d been watching the clock since twelve. It was almost three. The smell of Chinese food wafted in from the empty cartons in the living room. O’Neill had sat for an hour, rereading the forensics. Taking police paperwork home was a serious offence but what the hell, the ship was sinking anyway. Since the break with Catherine it had given him something to do. Stopped him thinking too much.

  The one-bedroom flat was identical to when O’Neill had first moved in. There were no pictures and no plants. A pile of dishes rose out of the sink. Beside the bed sat an unframed photograph, curling at the edges. It was Sarah on the beach at Portstewart. She wore a woollen hat with her hair falling halfway across her face. He had another one of the three of them, but he had put it away in a drawer. He had told himself to wise up, to stop kidding himself. He knew ‘a break’ meant Catherine didn’t have the guts six months ago to tell him it was over. Divorced at thirty-four, O’Neill thought. Well done, son. All he needed was a drink problem and a dodgy past and they’d make him a character in some crime novel.

  To stop the self-analysis, O’Neill thought about the case. CCTV from the area round Laganview had given them nothing. There was no murder weapon. No witnesses. And still no ID. The autopsy had found wooden splinters in the head wound. It was pine. Heat-treated. Containing traces of methane bromide. Baseball bats and hurling sticks were made of ash which was strong and flexible. Pickaxe handles were hard wood, something like hickory. Pine was soft, cheap. It tended to be used in furniture or packing material. Forensics had taken samples of all the wood near the body — fence-posts, internal beams, cable drums. The splinters matched some nearby pallets. The heat-treatment and methane bromide confirmed it. They were to prevent Asian longhorn beetles coming in through packing crates from China. Apparently they were munching their way across the forests of Europe.

  ‘Bloody foreigners,’ O’Neill had said sarcastically.

  The question was, how did it all relate? What did it say about the murder? Whoever did it didn’t bring the weapon with them. They grabbed the nearest thing at hand. It took away a degree of premeditation. Perhaps they hadn’t intended to kill the kid. Just having some fun and things got out of hand. Maybe they found out something from him and that tipped them over the edge. Something he said which meant he had to go. It was all theory, all conjecture. O’Neill needed more than that.

  He thought they must have chased him into Laganview. He imagined the kid running and figuring he could get away through the building site. Scrambling over the fence. Being followed, caught and then given a hiding. Ending up dead. Maybe there was never a decision to kill him, just to give him a good beating. He must have tried to bolt and wound up taking one to the head. Game over. Lights out. Thanks for coming.

  The chase didn’t chime with a punishment beating though. It was unplanned, impromptu. Punishment beatings were controlled, ordered, disciplined.

  By three in the morning O’Neill decided enough was enough and rolled out of bed. He needed to see Laganview the way the victim saw it, the way the killer saw it. Deserted. In the middle of the night. He got dressed and lifted his car keys.

  Belfast looked like a ghost town as he drove towards the city centre. He passed a couple of taxis hoovering up the night’s stragglers. A white armoured Land Rover was parked up outside Queen’s University. O’Neill wondered if Sam Jennings was in the back. He pictured her, hat down, her eyes staring through the blacked-out glass. He caught himself on.

  ‘Calm yourself, son. What are you? Sixteen years old?’


  He went back to the case. He needed to see the scene again, to be there alone, away from the distortions of daylight and the whole circus of a crime scene. He parked on Bridge Street across from Central train station and jumped the wall, heading across a patch of wasteground towards Laganview.

  The building site was surrounded by 8-foot blue fence panels. Graffiti decorated the side — UTH and FTIRA. O’Neill walked slowly along the perimeter, scanning the panels as he went. After 20 yards he noticed a muddy smear, 4 feet from the ground. He moved along to the next panel, which was unmarked. O’Neill stepped back and took a run at it, making to shimmy up and over the fence. He stopped halfway and stood back. His foot had hit the wall at almost the exact same height as the other smear.

  ‘Edmund Locard. How did I ever doubt you?’

  O’Neill took out a packet of B amp;H and lit one. He emptied the box and put the loose cigarettes in his pocket before tossing it over the fence and into the site.

  Some 500 yards away the security guard slept in his hut, oblivious to the figure examining the fence. O’Neill saw an old oil drum 30 yards from the footprint. Rolling it against the fence, he climbed up and dropped down on the other side. He used his torch to find the cigarette packet, the gold box winking at him in the dark. He stood back and swept the beam of light over the area. The packet of B amp;H glimmered in the darkness and 3 feet from the box he could make out a pair of prints. The feet were parallel, close together, quite deep. It was a landing. O’Neill looked round him. He was at the opposite end of the site to where the body was discovered. It was no wonder Forensics hadn’t seen these. From where he was standing, O’Neill could make out the Nike swoosh in the footprints. It was the same brand of trainers the victim had been wearing. If someone followed the kid over, there would be other prints. He’d get the SOCOs out first thing. Get them to take anything within a 15-foot radius. He left the small gold packet of B amp;H as a marker, taking another loose cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.