by Matt McGuire
‘Stewart Street, Cooke Street, Rutland Street.’
‘He has three addresses?’
‘Aye.’
‘What numbers?’
‘Thirty-seven, eighty-two, forty-six.’
O’Neill memorized the details.
‘Listen, give me an hour. I’ll make some calls. Lie low you hear, don’t be—’
The line went dead.
O’Neill turned the computer on and began to type search warrants for each address. It was after seven and they wouldn’t get approved until the morning. Ward was right about informants, having folk on the street, having eyes and ears. O’Neill focused on the task, making sure everything was right. The smallest detail wrong and it would be an illegal search and some smart-arse lawyer would blow you out of the water. He looked at his watch. He’d get these finished, then see about Toner and what favours he could call in.
Two miles away Marty Toner hid in an alley off Botanic Avenue. He needed to go home, get the sports bag, secure his dough. It was dangerous going back. Folk knew him, they’d recognize him, all it would take was a phone call. Nah, he’d wait until it was dark. In the meantime, some food.
He watched folk coming out of Julie’s Kitchen carrying takeaways, boxes of chicken and chips. It was too risky, he’d have to wait, he might be seen. He watched a lone student walk out with long hair and a Nirvana T-shirt, carrying some food. Marty followed him down Cromwell Road, smelling salt and vinegar and chips.
‘Here,’ he said, when they’d gone a hundred yards.
The student turned, half stoned.
‘Twenty quid for your dinner.’
The guy thought it was joke, that he was going to jump him, nick his food. ‘Serious,’ Marty said, sensing the distrust, holding out a banknote.
The student reached for the money before handing over his grub and heading back to the chippy.
In an entry off Cromwell Road, Marty found a backyard and climbed the wall. It was cold and starting to drizzle. He wolfed the box of chicken wings, then the chips, scraping the salt of the bottom with his fingers and licking them. It was two days since he’d eaten properly.
He tossed the box away and looked at his phone. It had been an hour. He tried O’Neill but there was no answer.
The rain came on again, heavier now. Marty huddled against the wall, pulling his hood up and a piece of cardboard round his legs. He started to shiver and wished he’d more clothes, his gloves maybe, his hat and all. It would be dark soon, safer, he’d make his move.
Marty gripped his mobile in one hand, his fingers blue with cold. After a while, he started to shake, teeth first, then his hands. His eyes felt heavy and he began to drift off.
The phone vibrated, jolting him awake.
It was a text. Petesy: All sorted. Got a plan. Come get me.
THIRTY ONE
Earlier that day Ward had driven past Queen’s University and up the Malone Road. As he climbed the hill the road got wider, the houses bigger, the trees leafier. He found himself in Osbourne Park, where the solicitor Michael McCann had lived. He pulled into the kerb and switched off the engine. It was mid-afternoon and a trickle of kids wandered home in grammar school uniforms.
Ward looked at number eighty-eight, at the driveway where Michael McCann’s life had ended. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
It was 1992 again, the night of the shooting. RUC Land Rovers blocked the street. Officers were upbeat, busy at their work, enjoying the job. Word had got round – it was Michael McCann, the Provo lawyer. There was a sense of justice, of a late equalizer, of being back in the game. You could read people’s thoughts – he was asking for it, deserved what he got, slap it up him.
Ward was thirty-five, in Special Branch a month. He bent down to look at the car, the door riddled, glass in a million pieces. He imagined putting it back together, an impossible jigsaw, one you’d never finish.
He’d driven from Tenant Street with Pat Kennedy. The Sarge didn’t speak the whole way up. At the scene, Kennedy was disinterested, like he knew what had happened and didn’t need to look. After a while, he drifted off. Ward saw him with Davy Price, away from the rest, sharing a quiet word.
Fourteen years later, Ward tried to remember whether he knew at the time. Had he chosen to look the other way? Did that make him as guilty as the rest? Sure he’d done things – the lying, the cheating folk, the beating of suspects. Twenty-five years in the dirt, no one came out clean. Ward heard the old lines, the justifications, the explanations – there was a war on, it was gloves off, what did folk expect.
There’d been a lot of talk, accusations, a lot bandied about – collusion, murder, state-sanctioned death. He thought back, but it was all blank, a brick wall, a dead end. He couldn’t remember what he knew and what he didn’t know, what he felt and what he didn’t feel. One thing he was sure of. There were no altar boys, no innocents, not on any side.
Ward turned the key and started the car. He drove to the motorway, heading out the M1 towards Ballymena, the Bellaghy Road and Dunloy. It was almost dark when he stepped from the car, the last hue of light fading in the west. A low mist had settled on the fields, a silence upon the land. Ward walked slowly towards the tree that Pat Kennedy’s car had been wrapped round four days earlier.
But for the fresh soil and the lacerated trunk you’d never know. There were no flowers, no messages, no fuss. Pat wouldn’t have wanted any. Ward approached the tree, running his hand along the scars. He wondered how long it would take for the trunk to weather, to toughen under the elements and hide the wounds of four days ago.
He looked at the night, gathering round him. In the distance a cowshed echoed with a low communal groan. The fields were barren, the mud damp, the ground waiting. Winter was on its way out, spring a while away. Ward thought about Eileen, Pat’s widow. The funeral was next week. He should call to see her, seeing as he was up this far. What would he say though? What could he tell her? How did you get it all to make sense?
He got back in the car and turned towards Belfast.
That evening Ward did another round of the pubs, looking for Davy Price. He wasn’t at the Sea Dog, wasn’t at Paddy Murphy’s. There were familiar faces, a succession of shrugged shoulders.
‘Davy about? Didn’t even know.’
‘Thought he was in Iraq?’
‘Fighting the Tali-whatsits.’
He drove past Price’s house but the lights were off. He called at the neigbours, who were suspicious until he showed his warrant card. They hadn’t seen him all week. He was back for a day then disappeared. They assumed he was off to the desert again, back to Afghanistan, was that it?
Ward needed to find him. He thought about the Europa Hotel, the look in his eye, like he’d nothing to lose. Maybe Price was right, there was only one thing McCann understood, one thing he deserved, one thing that made sense.
In the pitch black, driving the back roads to his house, he tried to unravel it. The dog barked as he pulled into the driveway and got out, still unsure where he stood.
THIRTY TWO
It was after eight when O’Neill left Musgrave Street. He’d spent two hours on the warrants to search Tierney’s three addresses. They’d go up the line first thing tomorrow. Any luck they’d be in business by ten.
He’d called witness protection and got Gary Smith. There was nothing he could do until tomorrow. The kid was O’Neill’s problem until then.
He sighed and tried Toner on his mobile, but there was no answer. He hung up and dialled again, same result. O’Neill put the phone down. He’d done his part and would check in tomorrow morning, first thing.
At the flat in Stranmillis he’d just lifted the lid on a beef Chow Mein when his mobile vibrated.
It was a text from Sam: You up?
He sent a reply: Sure.
They split the food and afterwards went to bed and made love. Sam fell asleep straight away, leaving O’Neill lying there, staring at the damp on the ceiling. He must have drifted off because his m
obile woke him, rattling quietly on the bedside table.
He looked at the screen – Catherine.
It was 2 a.m.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, receiver to his ear.
‘You’re what’s wrong.’ She’d had a glass of wine, maybe two.
He got out of bed so as not to wake Sam.
‘Hang on,’ he whispered, pulling his boxers on, padding to the living room, closing the door behind him.
‘Is it Sarah? Is she OK?’
‘Oh, so you care now?’
At least two glasses. She was angry, on edge, spoiling for a fight.
‘What were you playing at?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t “what” me.’
He knew where she was heading but wasn’t going to help.
‘Running off. Leaving her. She’s seven. Do you know that? Or were you gone by that stage of “Happy Birthday”.’
‘I didn’t run off.’
‘Whatever.’
‘I didn’t. Did you ask Sarah?’
‘Oh, she never said anything. Don’t worry about that.’
O’Neill felt a flicker of pride at the girl’s loyalty.
‘A friend of Amanda’s was in the park. She recognized Sarah, watched you go off somewhere while your daughter fell off the monkey bars.’
O’Neill bristled but held back.
‘She was there for ten minutes, crying her eyes out—’
‘It wasn’t ten minutes.’
‘Oh, so you remember now.’
‘Catherine—’
‘Don’t “Catherine” me.’
‘Look—’
‘No, you look. If you can’t take your daughter to the park without running off after someone, then maybe you shouldn’t take her at all.’
He told himself it was the wine talking.
‘I’m going to see my solicitor tomorrow. See about getting the custody looked at. If you’re not interested in acting like a father then we won’t ask you to.’
‘So what? You going to ask Sensible Shoes?’
‘What?’
‘Mr School Teacher. Andrew, Glen, whatever his name is.’
‘He’s none of your business, John. I’m none of your business. You gave up the right to have an opinion on me twelve months ago.’
‘I gave up?’ he said, voice raised. ‘Think you’ll find this was all you – you wanted it, you suggested it, you were the one who said, “Let’s have a break.” So don’t start taking the moral high ground with me. Last time I checked you were the one in a three-bedroom house, going out on dates, swanning round the town with every Tom, Dick and Harry.’
He said it, baiting her.
‘For your information …’ Catherine paused, about to defend herself but thinking better.
The phone went dead.
O’Neill sat on the sofa in the dark. Eventually, he got up and went back to the bedroom. Sam was in the same position, facing the wall, her back to him. He slid in, pulling the covers up, staring at the ceiling.
After a while she spoke. ‘You want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
She breathed quietly, listening to him beside her. ‘Sure?’
‘Just leave it,’ he snapped.
‘Be easier if you weren’t yelling on a phone in the middle of the night.’
‘Really? You think so?’
Sam sat up, riled. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I mean, what do you want here? A quick shag after a hard day? You’re stressed out, job’s too much. Help you sleep, then up in the morning and out.’
She was up and out of bed, pulling her jeans on.
‘Fuck you, John.’
‘You already did that remember.’
‘You are an arsehole, you know that? I don’t know what I want. But I’ll tell you what I don’t want. Some guy who thinks he’s the only one in the world who knows anything, the only person who has feelings, the only person who gives a shit.’
She pulled her jumper on, put her feet into her trainers and walked out. O’Neill heard the front door slam. After a few seconds, the house sunk back into a dark pervading silence.
THIRTY THREE
Marty walked towards Petesy’s granny’s. He’d told himself he should have known better. His mate would have the answer, he was the only one who cared, he would figure it out. He pictured them down south somewhere, in Dublin or Cork or Wexford. They’d have Marty’s money, get themselves passports, get shot of Ireland altogether.
He walked along Ormeau Avenue, down Cromac Street, turning towards the Markets. He said a silent goodbye to the Spar, to the offy, to the Maxol garage. Belfast could go swing. He walked to the Albert Bridge, for a last look at Lagan Weir, lit up beneath the night sky. The river flowed below him, black and pitiless on its way out to the sea. Marty looked up, thinking about what was out there, the places he would go, the stuff he would see. A small plane buzzed by, on its way into George Best Airport. The cranes stood still over the Titanic Quarter, the city holding its breath.
‘So long river,’ he whispered to himself. ‘So long Tierney, so long Molloy, so long McCann.’ Marty paused for a second. ‘So long Ma, so long Holy Lands, so long Waterfront Hall. So long to the lot of you. Don’t miss me too much.’
He turned and headed off the bridge, off to see Petesy and his new life, a million miles from this place and all the things it had never given him.
***
Marty walked carefully through the Markets, watching cars, listening for voices. The police had done this to him, made him afraid, made him feel hunted. He’d had enough. No more.
At the end of the street he saw the light in Petesy’s bedroom. He had an urge to run, like it couldn’t happen fast enough. He hoped Petesy was packed, his bag at the door, ready to go. Marty jogged along the road, rounding the gate and approached the house.
He didn’t want to face Petesy’s granny so he started pinging stones at the upstair’s window. A car turned the corner at the end of the street and stopped in the middle of the road. Marty saw it and pinged a little faster.
‘Come on, Petesy.’
A car turned the other corner and also stopped, its headlights illuminating the street.
Marty watched the doors open, two figures get out. He snapped his head round. The same at the other car: two men on the street, waiting. Even in the dark, at this distance, he could make out the silhouettes of Tierney and Molloy.
They began to walk towards him, strolling casually.
Marty knew he should run. He wanted to hide, to curl in a ball, to make it go away. His heart weighed a ton.
He watched Tierney approach. He had a gun in his hand, a black pistol, by his side.
Tierney stopped ten feet away, nodded a greeting.
Marty found himself nodding back.
The man said two words.
‘Let’s go.’
They were on a motorway, speeding into the dark. Marty was in the back, sandwiched between two men he didn’t know. Molloy was driving, Tierney in the passenger seat. There was no talking. It felt rehearsed, decided, preordained.
Marty watched as exit signs rolled past – Lisburn, Hillsborough, Waringstown. All of them sounded good, like they had street lights, buildings, signs of life.
More exits – Dromore, Banbridge, Loughbrickland.
Marty wanted to get out. The men sat beside him like he had some disease, like they were afraid they might catch it.
Eventually, the car turned off the motorway. They made a right, drove for twenty minutes into the back of beyond. There was darkness all round, pitch black. Marty could feel his bowels loosen and he held on, determined not to shit himself.
The car kept driving, past isolated farmhouses, derelict buildings, far from civilization. Far from eyes that would see, ears that would hear. Far from any kind of voice, someone to speak up, to say, Hang on, he’s only a wee lad, seventeen for fuck’s sake.
Marty remembered the text message from Petesy. How did they get his phone? Was
he OK? He wanted to ask but kept quiet, not wanting to mention him.
The car slowed and turned through a gap in the hedge. The headlights swung round and there were pine trees, thirty foot tall, as far as the eye could see.
Molloy killed the engine and the lights died.
It was Tierney who spoke. ‘Out.’
The doors opened and Marty felt the pressure on either side lessen as the two men stepped out. A hand reached in and grabbed him by jersey, dragging him out. He was on his feet outside the car. He felt the grip loosen and, on instinct, without thought, he took off.
A hand grabbed him, but he slipped it and was away.
‘You wee bastard.’ A voice behind him.
Marty felt the sharp pine branches tearing his face, jagging his clothes, trying to slow him. He ducked and kept going.
Tierney: ‘You useless fuckers.’
There was the sound of a car boot slamming. He could see torches, four white beams, dancing through the trees. He ran then hunkered behind a tree. Do you hide? Do you climb? No, he thought, you run.
He darted out, a light on him, a gunshot. The air parted, a whisping sound near his head. Marty ducked and kept going, running at an angle, tree to tree.
Voices echoed behind. Cursing, swearing.
His chest burned and he slid behind a tree, crouching down, trying to get his bearings. The lights were still dancing, a hundred yards away, maybe more.
There was a weight in his pocket, his mobile. He took it out and saw the missed call. There was a number, no name. The peeler, he thought, and pressed Call.
Forty miles away, O’Neill’s mobile vibrated silently on the sofa. It was 3.06 a.m. He was in bed, stewing. He thought it would be Catherine, back for round two. Or else Sam, wanting to unload. He rolled over, turned his back to the door and closed his eyes.
Marty listened as the call went to answerphone. He had no time to hang up and stepped forward, leaving the tree, and picked his way across pine straw.
He looked back – there were no voices now, no torches. He wondered if they had given up. He looked round and saw he was in the open, five feet from the nearest tree.