Belfast Noir

by Adrian McKinty

  Where? they were shouting at him. Where’s that fucking graffiti, you cunt!

  One of the spides who had used to give him grief in the subway had become a wine buddy. (And innocent grief too, it seemed now in comparison.) He told Milky about a mate of his who had been kneecapped one time for taking the wrong person’s car. Worse than kneecapped: he had the whole eight joints done: knees, ankles, wrists, and elbows. Bastards had to stop in the middle of it to reload. One of them was eating a Yorkie bar.

  The day they let him out of hospital he stole a car and in the middle of that night drove it to the door of the man who had given the order for him to be shot. He wedged one crutch against the horn and hopped off up the street on the other.

  That was all you could do, show the fuckers you weren’t beat.

  Milky asked around—quietly, for once—and found out where the top man lived. He took the bus out and—holy fuck—let’s just say he hadn’t done too badly doing what he hadn’t been asked to do all these years. Reminded Milky of when he was a kid (Milky was a kid once), a house—mansion, him and his brothers called it (Milky was a kid with brothers)—big orchard out the back. They used to take a tree each in apple season, climb up into it, and strip it from the inside.

  There were three cars in the top man’s drive, an Audi, a—actually, Milky had no idea what the second was, but like an Audi, and like an Audi expensive—and a Land Rover, or Range Rover, with a couple of guys sitting in it. They were too far away for him to see if they were two of the ones who had used his face as an eraser.

  He took the bus up twice more before he worked out how to get in: a tree overhanging the railings at one end of the long garden. Whoever did the gardening needed sacked.

  The fourth time he caught the bus it was night. The Land Rover or Range Rover was in the driveway again when he passed on the far side on the street, the two guys in it both, by the looks of them, asleep. Fifty yards up the road he doubled back and crossed to the other side. The tree was wee buns compared to the apple trees Milky had used to climb in and out of as a wee lad.

  He let a couple of hours go by, time enough for his eyes to adjust, get the lie of the land. An extension ran right along the back of the house, about twenty feet away, flat roof, spotlight mounted on the wall above it. Milky chose a twig within easy reach: one hand to yank, one hand to muffle the snap. He wedged his back against the trunk and threw. It didn’t have to be especially accurate to break the spotlight’s beam. The guys from the Land Rover or Range Rover came round and thrashed about a bit below him in the garish light. As soon as they were gone Milky did it again. They came back again.

  The third time they started saying maybe it was the light. They got a ladder, one of them climbed up. He took out the bulb, put it back in. Must be the wiring! he shouted down. We’ll check it in the morning.

  So when Milky climbed out of the tree and up there and the light came on, they moved so slowly that he had the bulb out before they arrived.

  I told you it was the wiring.

  Milky leaned across the table. You see, just because I act the prick, people think I’m stupid. I’m not stupid.

  Not stupid, but tired all the same. He fell asleep up there. When he woke there were voices, far off. It was the middle of the morning. He could see someone down in the garden. He climbed off the roof and stood in the open doorway. Whoever was down there had no idea he was behind them. He walked inside. Black-and-white floor tiles, chrome. Like an abattoir. He took a bite of an apple he found in a crystal fruit bowl and spat it out. He picked up a little paring knife. He turned with it in his hand. There was a teenage boy standing there. Son, grandson, Milky couldn’t have worked it out. His hair was bleached. He had a stud in his ear, another in his nose.

  He looked at Milky a long moment. Who the fuck are you?

  I’m Milky.

  The boy’s lip curled. Well, you’re fucking dead, he said.

  I don’t think so, Milky told me he said to him, then: It doesn’t sound like much, does it, a paring knife?

  I stopped writing, dropped the pencil in fact. I didn’t pick it up.

  Tell me you’re spoofing.

  He shook his head, reached for the cigarette box again.

  I pulled it back out of his way. What were you thinking?

  For a moment his forefinger and thumb went toward his ear, or to a point a front tooth’s drop below it.

  He had a nasty mouth on him, he said. Speaking to me like that.

  I kept my hand on the cigarettes then pushed them back across the table.

  Milky had his arms folded. His lips were drawn tight.

  You can keep the rest of the box, I said.

  You know, if yon boy ever gets out they’ll kill him, the guard told me on my way back to reception. Safest place for him is in here, you know that, don’t you?

  His mate gave me back the fanzine in its Ziploc bag. My wee brother was a goth, he said.

  Good for him, I replied.

  He raised an eyebrow and the other guard told him there was no use bothering with some people.

  * * *

  I had a couple of hours still before getting my plane out of City Airport.

  I got the taxi to drop me in town and went down to the subway. The useable city was spreading down toward the docks, or where the docks used to be. It was all trendy pubs and boutique hotels now. Soon they’d do something with this too, turn it into an arcade, a bar maybe.

  I walked from one end of it to the other, three, four times, but there was twenty-odd years’ worth of other shit scrawled and sprayed up there, even supposing Milky’s story was true.

  Even supposing.

  THE RESERVOIR

  BY IAN MCDONALD

  Holywood

  He wears the suit like a man who does not wear suits. It falls badly around him, ill-fitted, too short in the sleeve, too long in the leg, too low in the crotch, too tight around the thighs. A grey suit. A supermarket suit. An F&F suit. He is a short, thickset man, carrying weight on his upper belly, heart-attack fat, uncomfortable not just in the suit but in the skin beneath.

  He slips into the church. The bride has processed. Every eye is on her. An usher cuts him off as he heads for the side aisle. Hand on his chest.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Whispering, because you don’t say fuck in church. Whispering, because you don’t want the bride to look around.

  “Come to see my daughter get wed. What else?”

  “You’re not coming in here.”

  “You going to try and stop me, and wreck her day?”

  “If she sees you, her day’s already wrecked.”

  “My Emma loves her da. Which is more than she ever did you, when she had that weekend with you when Ross was away at the Everton game.”

  The usher’s mouth works like he’s catching flies. Snatch an order of service, slide past. A wave of consternation moves down the church. Heads turn in each row he passes. Whispers. It’s him. Can’t be. It is. Fuck, aye, it is. In a suit. Where’d he come from? I thought he was gone for good. I thought he was in England. I thought he was in Spain, I thought he was dead.

  But it’s true. He’s back. In a suit.

  In the front row: Karen. She hears the whispers and he sees her freeze, knowing she has to look round, knowing what she will see if she does. Dreading that. Then she freezes, and so he can study her. The line of her jaw, the set of her cheekbones, the corners of her eyes, lifted and frozen with Botox. Good toxins, friendly poisons. The Botox battles the ultraviolet: her skin brown and crackled as parchment from the tanning salon. Still the Sunbed Queen of Lord Street. Still firm-skinned, firm-bodied. Still a toned bird. Pilates Monday, Body-pump Tuesday, Hot Yoga Wednesday, ’80s Retro-Aerobics Thursday, Beach Body Friday, nails and hair with Lee Saturday, Sunday sweat out the Saturday hangover in the sauna. Saturday night was always going-out night on the road. To be so deeply into yourself; to be so knowledgeable and careful of every part of your body that you know what’s right with it and wh
at’s wrong with it and what needs doing to it. He still can’t understand that. There had been lads in jail deep, deep into gym, so obsessed with their bodies, and those of their gym buddies, it had almost been sexual. He could never understand that either.

  That white suit shows off the tan. Skirt still way too short. And that ape Jim with her. He’d been that ape once. She went for a type. But he never had the neck tattoo. That’s never classy. At least it’s not a spiderweb. Psychos get the spiderweb.

  Ape Jim is fast for an ape. Three fingers on his chest.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “Everybody asks me this. In here.” The pew behind. “Don’t you worry, I’m not going to show her up. I’m not going to embarrass her or anything. Mother of the bride? She’s the important one here. Marriage’ll be over in six months, but at least Karen’ll have had her big day. So I’m not going to make a fuss. And I’m not going to tell her about how you killed Robbie Wright.” With every word his voice had dropped. Now it was a whisper. “Everyone thought Andy Boyd did it. But it wasn’t. It was you.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Oh no, I can’t. I forgot. I was in England or Spain. I even heard I was in Australia. That would’ve been good. Weirdest was Dubai. That’s a good one. Dubai, or dead. But you killed him, Jim-bob. Smacked his skull open with a baseball bat for one hundred grams. It’s a strong bone, the skull. Has to be. Saw that on Discovery. You need some force to crack a skull. Smash it like a pumpkin. You’ve been working out. No, I won’t tell her. Has she told you about the quarter of a million?”

  Now he slides up the polished wood bench behind Karen, leans over the front of the pew to whisper in her ear.

  “Nice church. Good church. I’m glad she went for a proper church. Those modern ones, they look like a Lidl. And all they do is sing to those fucking ying-ching-ching guitars. This is good. Classy.”

  “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Like I said, come to see my daughter get wed. I’ve already had a wee word with Jim. You didn’t hang around.”

  “We all thought you were dead.”

  “Why would you think that? Most people thought I was in England. Anyway, I believe the legal limit to get someone declared dead is seven years. It’s only been five. You’re looking good, Karen. He’s got a good one.”

  “I’m not going to apologise or make excuses.”

  “Of course not. You’re a good-looking woman, Karen. Still got it. Still have needs; I understand that. I’ve always understood that. It never bothered me the way it would bother him. I wouldn’t have minded that personal trainer. Jim, well, he mightn’t be so understanding. Of your needs, and all that.”

  “Fuck you, you can’t—”

  “I did mention the money to him. I presume you told him. I mean, a quarter of a million, it’s kind of hard to keep that hidden in an open, caring, trusting relationship. Buys a good wedding, though.”

  “I never had—”

  “You did. You did. Don’t lie. It’s bad luck to lie on a wedding day. Actually, it’s not, I just made that up. You never could lie to me. You know, I think maybe I made a big mistake mentioning the money to Jim. Oops. They’re starting.”

  A chord. The congregation stands. A hymn. “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling.” No one knows the tune or understands the words. They mumble through three verses. The singing at weddings is always shite.

  * * *

  No West End musical, no St. Peter’s High Mass, is so tightly choreographed, so intensely scripted, as an East Belfast wedding. Recessional: Robbie Williams. “Angels.” Jesus, he whispers. Guests file out: bride’s side to the right, groom’s to the left. He waits, admiring the flowers, a thing he has never done before and which convinces no one. It keeps him away from questions. When the place is empty, that’s when he’ll slip out, while the next act of wedding script is being performed. He can get away in the confusion of the photographs. But steps instead into a smoke break: Emma and her bridesmaids beside the church railing, smoking furtively. As if God sees, as if it is sin. They are careful to keep ash off their dresses and lit ends away from light veils and lace.

  She sees him.

  “Daddy.”

  She takes him aside. Ross looks over, she exchanges eye-lines with him: It’s all right, I’ll handle this.

  “Why didn’t you say? Where were you? There’s no dinner for you.”

  “I’m sorry, love. I was away. Somewhere . . . else. I wanted to see you. See you get married. See everyone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? Facebook or something? Even just lift the phone.”

  “That’s not so easy where I was.”

  “Were you inside again?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “At least be in the pictures. Come on.”

  Ross looks over, the photographer looks over, Karen looks over. Time and efficiency. Bride and bride’s parents. They’re waiting; squinting in the bright sunshine, hot in their good dresses and cheap suits.

  “Emma, before I went . . . you wouldn’t have known, you were only, what was it? Jesus. Fifteen. Before I disappeared . . . there were things that weren’t right. With us. All of us. We weren’t good people. There were things going on you didn’t see. We kept them from you. Ross was in it too. Things were left unfinished. Hanging. I need to tie things up.”

  “Daddy, I know. Ross told me, but I knew then.”

  “He didn’t tell you, love.”

  “I trust him. I just married him.”

  He winces. “He didn’t, because he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he doesn’t know it. Emma, love, did he fix his little straightener-up before he went down that aisle? Cut himself a little line or two for wedding-day bravery?”

  For a moment, Emma is close to tears. She glances over at Ross, he sees her distress. In a second he will come over. That confrontation will happen, but it’s not for now.

  “Don’t answer that, love. I’ll come around later. After the speeches and the photos. I won’t be in the photographs, you know?”

  “Come on, Emma!” Karen calls. When Emma looks back, her daddy is gone.

  * * *

  He doesn’t smoke: never has. Lungs. Even secondary smoke makes them feel as if they are turning to stone. People always remarked on that. He doesn’t smoke. Only a fool would smoke, though a final fool smokes to look hard. But the smoking space is where you meet people. The hotel has a tasteful little gazebo: wooden uprights and cross members covered in climbing wisteria so you think you’re in Los Angeles and not Moneyreagh. There’s even a gas heater. His bald patch feels like it’s frying in its own grease. Bald patch. It’s all bald patch now. Monopatch. This is a clear night. Belfast is a sulphur-glow beyond the dark treeline, defeating all but the brightest stars. You’re not really in the country out here.

  That’s a right racket coming from the room. The mobile disco is still cranking out the tunes for the old dolls. “Birdie Song,” “Pride of Erin Waltz,” “Tennessee Waltz.” He’s always loved that one. His ma used to sing it round the house. They’ll get onto the kids’ bangers when the old ones have gone. Four-to-the-floor, bang bang bang bang. There’ll be a fight. There’s always a fight at weddings like these. He’s avoided a few. Not this time. There will be blood tonight. That’s the entire point.

  He’s not surprised none of the bridesmaids know about him. Karen with a new man in a new house in a new area; Emma with new friends. Best they didn’t. He would hate them to think other of Emma because of who he was. The bridesmaids are chubby and lippy and if he was thirty years younger he would have a swing at them, probably all of them together. Make it sound exotic and daring. Book a room to make it look a little less trashy. They stay for a flirt, a drink and smoke, and go back to the party.

  “Da.”

  Emma always called him Daddy. Kier called him Da.

  “I waited out here because I knew you’d be out for a fag eventually. It’s simpler if I don’t go inside.”


  “You came back.”

  “I didn’t get round everyone I needed to get round this morning.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Oh, I know. Still, you gave her away really good.”

  “It should have been you.”

  “It should have been all sorts of things, Kier. Does he have any respect for you at all, son?”

  “Who?”

  “Ross. The Beast from the East. I hear he calls himself that.”

  “It’s true. But he’s not . . . you.”

  “Glad to hear it. It should have been you.”

  “I do all right. We’re still making money.”

  “Selling shit.”

  “You had the cocaine.”

  “I did. Can’t deny that. I can give you any number of excuses—it was a one-off, I was just easing over the transition, adjusting to the Good Friday world—but the moment I touched it I knew I was fucking scum. You don’t even have to put it into yourself to know it will feel like dirt. In your veins. Dirt in your veins. Crack now, isn’t it?”

  “Ross wants to move into crystal meth. It’s cheaper and easier.”

  “Listen to yourself. You make it sound like Tesco home delivery. Meth: now that fucking is dirt. That’s like someone shit in your heart.”

  “Is it worse than getting protection from the wee shops, like you did? They was honest, hard-working people. With crack it’s only players involved.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a fine moral hair you’re splitting there. But I’ll tell you this about the drugs: it showed us what we really were. We thought we were heroes and soldiers and protecting the community and getting on like we’re out of some Andy McNab book or Vin fucking Diesel movie, but all it takes is a half-kilo of white shit to show that we are thugs. Cheap fucking thugs.”

  “What did you do with that cocaine?”

  “I never touched a gram of it, son.”

  “You ran off with it to England.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Ross.”

  “And you believe him? Maybe he should be the Beast. You’re too fucking stupid.”