When Sorrows Come

by Matt McGuire

  ‘We need him on tape.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tierney.’

  Marty laughed, like it was a joke. He looked at O’Neill, saw he was serious.

  ‘How do you want me to do that?’

  O’Neill shrugged, downplaying it. ‘Dunno, a wire or something.’

  ‘Away to fuck.’

  O’Neill made to stand up. ‘No problem, son.’

  ‘Here, hang on.’

  O’Neill looked at him. ‘You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t sound fair. It’s all on me like, all the risk. I mean, what about yous?’

  ‘Understand something, son. I go home at night. To my dinner, to my bed, to a couple of beers and some shit football on the telly. You’re the one running the streets, you’re the one dealing dope round the Holy Lands, you’re the one shit scared of Johnny Tierney … Now, is it fair? No. But then life’s not fair. So get over it.’

  Marty squinted as he stared out across the park. ‘Why a wire then?’

  ‘Think about it. Tierney? McCann? If you want to get them it can’t be no shitty possession charge. Six months in Maghaberry? Wise up. You need them to go down hard, a proper stretch, takes more than a tip-off. It’s not easy. Most guys don’t have the balls.’

  Marty smiled, watching the cop bait the hook. He took another drag, thinking.

  ‘Hey,’ O’Neill said. ‘You could always keep trying to pop him in the street.’

  Marty didn’t look up.

  ‘That was you, wasn’t it? Wednesday night. What happened? Gun jam? You bottle it last minute.’

  O’Neill smiled at his own guesswork. The kid made to stand up and leave.

  ‘Sure, you walk away, son. But keep walking, mind. Because when word gets to Tierney that it was you tried to do him …’

  Marty’s eyes narrowed at the implicit threat. He stared hard at O’Neill.

  ‘What?’ the cop said. ‘You wanted to play with the big boys, didn’t you? Well, this is it. Welcome to the Premier League.’

  Marty sat back, his face dark, his head shaking.

  ‘Listen,’ O’Neill said, trying to soften it. ‘My bosses don’t give a shit about the likes of Tierney. As far as they’re concerned you’re all that matters. We should be chasing after yous, locking yous up, sending yous to Hydebank. And uniform? They don’t give a crap either. They never see the Tierneys of this world. You’re all there is to them. And for most of them, none of yous even have a name. Why should they give a shit? Tomorrow’ll be another shift and there’ll be some other wee bastard telling them to shove it up their arse.’

  Marty glanced. ‘So what about you?’

  O’Neill shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’ll tell you what I think though. I think some people deserve a beating. They make a balls-up, step outta line, break the rules. Fuck ’em, I say, if it’s their fault. Guys like Tierney though, they don’t play by the rules. Yous are out here taking all the risks, handling the gear, but they get all the reward. And when they don’t like how you’re doing it? Well, look at your mate Petesy.’

  O’Neill stopped talking, letting the name hang between them, allowing the memory to come back. After a few seconds he spoke, pushing again.

  ‘How is he by the way? You see him much?’

  ‘He’s out.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yeah. Gone clean. Back at school.’

  ‘No shit.’

  Marty looked down, spitting between his legs. ‘So what do you need?’

  ‘You were at Tomb Street last Saturday.’

  Marty didn’t speak.

  ‘What went down?’

  ‘It was Tierney. I called him, told him the kid was there. McCarthy, or whatever his name was.’

  ‘Why? What does Tierney care about him?’

  Marty shrugged. ‘He just told me to find him and make the call.’

  ‘We need him on tape talking about it.’

  Marty’s eyes narrowed. ‘The wire I’m wearing. It’ll be like that shit on CSI?’

  O’Neill thought about the clunky technology the PSNI used. ‘Exactly.’

  Marty watched the two kids on the bandstand. They were pushing each other now, the sword fight spilling over.

  ‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m seeing them tonight.’

  O’Neill tensed. It was short notice. Not enough time to get sign off, to get the gear sorted. ‘Too soon,’ he said.

  ‘Meet me halfway, fuck’s sake?’

  O’Neill knew he was right. There was a window here.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What time you seeing them?’

  ‘After five. Haven’t heard yet.’

  ‘Right. I’ll call this afternoon. Pick you up in town.’

  Marty raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It’ll be an unmarked van.’

  ‘All right then. This better work. You hear?’

  On the bandstand the older boy had tripped the smaller one and twatted him round the head. The wee one was bawling his lamps out, his face red. O’Neill and Marty watched.

  ‘You see. Always ends in tears.’

  Marty stood and started to walk.

  ‘You owe me a fiver,’ O’Neill said.

  ‘Put it on my tab,’ he said, not looking back.

  At Musgrave Street O’Neill caught himself scanning the car park, looking for Sam’s red Honda. It wasn’t there. He wondered where she was, what she was up to. He felt lifted by the meeting with Marty and thought about texting her, asking if she was around later. He wondered why it was different with her, easier, less defensive. Hang on, he thought. She was upset, needed a shoulder, you shouldn’t get carried away. He closed the car door and headed upstairs to CID.

  It took two hours of form filling and phone calls before he got the go-ahead. He’d pick up the van and equipment after four. O’Neill put the phone down; the bureaucratic annoyance had cancelled out the elation. He left a message for Ward and grabbed his car keys. Sarah’s party was in ten minutes.

  It was after two as he ran into the Toys R Us on the Shore Road. It was like an aircraft hangar and he made a beeline for the Barbies. He remembered Sarah’s disappointment the previous Christmas after the shop assistant convinced him My Little Pony was all the rage. O’Neill shook his head at the choice before grabbing one in a pair of roller skates and heading for the checkout.

  Three balloons – pink, green, blue – were tied to the gate at Tivoli Gardens. O’Neill pulled up and looked at his watch – 2.46 p.m. He’d meant to be early, or at least on time. He stepped out of the car, ready to stave off the looks from other parents, the silent accusations.

  He looked at the cars, trying to spot any he knew. He saw Amanda and Tom’s Lexus. She was Catherine’s older sister, a primary school teacher whose husband worked for the Northern Bank. Catherine never liked her big sister, said she spoke to her like she was a child. It was all about skiing holidays, the Caribbean, the five-bedroom house they were building.

  O’Neill heard the frenzy of seven-year-old girls as he approached the house. He was glad he’d arranged to take Sarah to the cinema tomorrow, to spend time with her, just the two of them. He took a breath and rang the bell.

  Catherine answered. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t want a scene in front of her mummy friends.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I—’

  Sarah came charging, throwing herself into his arms. ‘Daddeeeee!!!! I got Dora the Explorer from Gemma. It’s amazing so it is. It talks to you and asks you questions and you help it solve the puzzles and find treasure and …’

  ‘OK, love, OK. I get it.’

  The girl looked at the wrapped present he was carrying and raised her eyebrows. O’Neill handed it over.

  ‘Ooooohhh,’ Sarah moaned. ‘Is it Bratz? I’ll bet it’s Bratz. Bratz are my favourite. Amanda in my class is always going on about Bratz and we are going to start up a club with her Bratz and my Bratz and they can all go on holiday together and have adventures and …’

  Her voice trail
ed off as she tore the paper free and saw the Barbie doll beneath. Sarah looked up, her disappointment obvious.

  ‘What do you say, love?’ Catherine commanded.

  ‘Thank you, Daddy.’

  She hugged him briefly before running back into the living room to join the high-pitched chaos.

  Catherine looked at him. ‘Come into the kitchen. Amanda’s here.’

  Catherine’s sister was in a pastel twinset, leaning against the sink, the make-up perfect. She was good-looking, in an uptight, prim sort of way. Amanda saw O’Neill and her face fell, like he’d just mugged a pensioner.

  ‘John.’

  ‘Amanda.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  A pause.

  ‘How’s work?’ she said.

  ‘Good. Yours?’

  ‘Fine.’

  O’Neill felt the hatred behind the highly polished exterior. It was a silent judgement, a look that said ‘you left my sister and I hope your balls drop off’. He wanted to tell her it was Catherine’s idea, the whole ‘on a break’ thing, but it would be a waste of time. Amanda was one of those people who needed a good boot in the hole. Catherine’s words, not his.

  O’Neill felt his pocket tremble and took out his phone – Musgrave Street, Ward.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this.’

  Amanda rolled her eyes as he stepped into the hall.

  ‘We on then?’ Ward said.

  ‘Yeah. About seven o’clock, tonight.’

  ‘Get me at the nick. How’d you get him to go for this?’

  ‘Luck I guess.’

  Back in the kitchen, Catherine was preparing a tray of cocktail sausages and miniature buns.

  ‘Let me guess,’ she said, not looking up. ‘You’ve got to go.’

  ‘I was just going to ask if you wanted a hand.’

  She stared at him, doubtful. ‘Carry these then,’ she said, passing a set of plastic plates.

  In the living room, one of Catherine’s friends was at the stereo, controlling the volume for Pass the Parcel. Ten seven-year-old girls sat in circle, tearing wrapping paper, their faces expectant. The parcel got smaller and eventually a miniature Bratz doll was revealed. A girl shrieked with delight, pulling the toy to her chest.

  O’Neill sighed a ‘fuck me’, quietly to himself.

  Catherine walked past. ‘Apparently they’re all the rage.’

  She called the girls to the table and the swarm ran through him like he wasn’t there. O’Neill stood and watched, Amanda joining him, along with the other mums who had stayed to help. He looked round, realizing he was the only man in the house.

  ‘Where’s your Tom?’ he said.

  ‘Golf. Did you know he just got into Royal Belfast?’

  O’Neill nodded at the status update. Royal Belfast was all bankers, barristers and surgeons.

  ‘No boys at this party?’ he said.

  ‘Chalk and cheese at this age.’ Amanda said it like an accusation, like he would know that if he hadn’t taken off, hadn’t walked out.

  O’Neill looked round the room. The girls tucked into their food, talking with their mouths full. Catherine passed glasses of champagne to the mums.

  ‘A wee treat, girls.’

  O’Neill picked up on the furtive glances and stepped back from the table. He felt like an intruder, like an outsider, like he didn’t belong. There was an awkwardness in the air, a reticence. He was sure he’d brought it with him. He watched Sarah, his reason for being there. He wanted her to look up and see him, to smile or stick out her tongue like they used to do. He stood there, waiting, willing her on. Without looking at him, she slid from her chair, announced she needed the loo and left the room.

  O’Neill looked around at the faces of the other mothers. He wondered why he’d come, what he’d expected. He took in the room, the house, his ex-wife. It was all operating smoothly, without him, the fifth wheel. He suddenly felt like the relative no one likes, the one they invite for Christmas out of obligation and a sense of duty. He found himself looking at his watch, wondering about the time.

  Two minutes later, Sarah came back and sat at the table. Again she never looked up. A hand flicked the lights out and the dining room went dark. Catherine edged in carrying a cake, her face lit by the glow of the candles.

  ‘Hap-py Birth-day …’ she intoned, the rest of the room joining in.

  Sarah beamed with the attention, her face illuminated as the cake was slid in front of her.

  ‘Make a wish,’ Catherine shouted, as the singing finished.

  The girl inhaled and blew with everything she had. A cheer greeted the blowing out of the last candle. Someone flicked the lights on again and Catherine began to cut the cake. She was struck by something, a change in the room, the atmosphere different.

  She looked up and saw that O’Neill was no longer there.

  TWENTY THREE

  Saturday evening, Bridge Street. O’Neill and Ward, parked up in an undercover transit. The van was filthy, dust everywhere, the rust holding it together. They sat in silence, both of them pretending Toner wasn’t twenty minutes late. Outside the Northern Whig two smokers were chatting about the football.

  ‘They were shit.’

  ‘Sure, so were we.’

  O’Neill glared out at Saturday night, which was slowly gathering momentum. Groups of lads marched towards bars, shirts untucked, hair gelled. Underage girls in short skirts and high heels flirted with bouncers, trying to get in. O’Neill pictured Jonathan McCarthy setting out the week before. He didn’t know he wouldn’t be coming home. Then again, no one ever did.

  O’Neill scanned the faces as they passed the van. Where was Marty Toner? Maybe he’d bottled it. He thought of McCarthy and Tierney, the junior lawyer and the junior gangster. How were they connected? Was McCarthy dealing? Supplying his yuppie mates with Tierney’s coke? Or did Tierney have him on the hook, blackmailing him, threatening his da’s good name?

  In the van beside him Ward sneezed with the dust. He’d barely spoken since he got in, his mind elsewhere. O’Neill thought about the George, about McCann and what was really going on. How out there had Special Branch been? He’d heard the whispers, knew the rumours. They’d traded on reputation, just like the Provos, all part of the game. Ward denied it, but he wondered if the DI had blood on his hands. McCann’s brother, the solicitor. Was Ward involved? Had he known and turned a blind eye? Let events take their course.

  A blonde girl stepped out of a taxi, her hair pulled back. O’Neill thought about Sam. He’d missed a call earlier. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. He went back to Tivoli Gardens, to the birthday party that afternoon.

  ‘Fucking Barbie,’ he muttered.

  Catherine and Sarah were doing fine. They didn’t need him, only the maintenance cheque. It was fatherhood by direct debit.

  Ward sat in the passenger seat, watching the street life. He’d spent the afternoon looking for Davy Price at his old address, then at the usual bars in Bangor, Newtownards, Comber. He’d called at the Sea Dog, Paddy Murphy’s, the Old Hotel. He saw Alec McAttackney, Peter McLean, but no Davy Price.

  O’Neill glanced at his watch. The kid had lost his nerve. He sighed and reached for his cigarettes.

  On Castle Place, Marty Toner stood in darkness of a doorway. He had his hood up, his face hidden, a fag in his mouth. He stared at the Transit van and the two cops, parked on Bridge Street. He shook his head; too busy. There were smokers, bouncers, the bus stop. A lot of people, a lot of eyes.

  ‘Frigging peelers,’ he whispered, ‘trying to get me killed.’ He sighed, tossed the fag and stepped into the early evening.

  O’Neill saw the tracksuit and squinted. ‘I think we’re on here.’

  The figure approached but didn’t stop. It kept going, head down, flicking them the finger on the way past.

  O’Neill smiled. ‘It’s him.’

  Ward watched him pass. ‘Where’s he going then? Ha
s he bottled it?’

  ‘No.’ O’Neill looked round. ‘Shit. It’s too busy. Or there’s someone he knows.’

  He pulled the van into the traffic, doing a U-turn at the end of Bridge Street. They followed the tracksuit down a side street where it was quieter, a through road, no shops or bars. O’Neill overtook him, drove twenty yards and pulled in. Marty checked over his shoulder before pulling the door and jumping into the back of the van.

  ‘Right homos.’

  O’Neill pressed the accelerator, causing him to fall against the back doors.

  ‘Mind your head there,’ he said, over his shoulder.

  They parked near St Ann’s Cathedral, beneath a hundred-foot Celtic cross, lit blue against the night sky. The Saturday night crowd was arriving in the Cathedral Quarter where overrated bars sold overpriced drinks to overdressed young ones.

  O’Neill climbed into the back of the van where Marty had perched on a milk crate. The kid looked at the tattered headphones, the mess of leads, the broken dials.

  ‘What’s this shit? You said CSI.’

  ‘Calm yourself.’

  ‘Does this even work?’

  ‘’Course it works.’ O’Neill pressed a button which lit a row of LEDs. ‘You see.’

  Marty looked round the van, unimpressed.

  ‘Right,’ O’Neill said. ‘Lift your shirt.’

  A snort. ‘Bet you say that to all the boys.’

  O’Neill shook his head.

  Beneath the tracksuit he was pasty and skinny. You could count the ribs. O’Neill could see old scars, long healed, signs of beatings. He imagined a childhood on the run, dodging the belt, the stick, whatever was handy. Marty caught him looking.

  ‘Pretty eh?’ The voice flat.

  O’Neill remembered what he’d said in the interview, about vandalizing the headstones, about how he only did his da’s. Hoody off, O’Neill saw how young he was. He’d a mouth like a sailor, but beneath it all he was a seventeen-year-old kid. Kneeling there, skin exposed, he looked vulnerable. Easily damaged, easily hurt. O’Neill thought about calling it off. What if something happened? What if he lost his nerve? What if they sussed him? O’Neill knew it would be on him. Whatever happened, he’d have to wear it. He wondered if he could carry a seventeen-year-old, have him on his conscience, the rest of his career.