Belfast Noir

by Adrian McKinty

  Lavin walked toward the BMW with a jaunty lope and opened the back door. “Get in.”

  Ed did as he was told. Lavin got in after him, forcing him to shift across the seat until he was wedged against the massive shoulder of the other man sharing the backseat. A driver kept his eyes on the road, but the passenger, a man Ed recognised from photos as Willie Lynch, half turned and gave him an appraising once-over.

  “Carrying anything on ye I need know about?”

  “No.”

  “Check him, Egg,” Willie said, as the car moved off down the street.

  The man to his left, Egg, turned. “Lift yer hands.”

  Ed did as he was asked. Despite the lack of space, Egg patted him down expertly, searching him for guns, phones, and wires: anything that might suggest he was not who he claimed to be.

  “Clean.”

  Ed lowered his hands.

  “Sorry about that,” Willie said, smiling. “Ye can’t be too careful round these parts.”

  Ed said nothing. He had long ago figured out that a taciturn persona would be easier to sell: nobody likes talkers.

  They left Island Street, and Ed expected them to head for the A2, past the airport. They didn’t. Instead, the BMW toured the streets of Sydenham, hard lefts and rights, until Ed lost any sense of north, south, east, or west. He tried to note street names as terraced houses gave way to country roads, lampposts to trees, and soon Belfast was retreating in the rearview mirror. But still the flags, hanging like sleeping sentries. B-roads turned to narrow lanes, their signposts lost in hedgerows, white flashes in the dark.

  “How long have ye known Craig then?” Willie asked.

  “Awhile.”

  “Aye?”

  Ed shrugged, placed his hands on his knees, and held them there. Craig Ellis was somewhere on the continent, Spain they’d heard, shacked up with some barmaid who wasn’t fussy about who shared her bed. Intel said he was burning a hole through the money they’d paid him and was a risk to his cover. Ed was not in the least surprised. Men like Craig had no loyalty, they could be bought easily, turned easier. Had it been left up to Ed, Craig would have never seen the light of day again, but cooler heads had prevailed.

  Willie was persistent: “Haven’t seen Craig in a while, have we?” He addressed this to Lavin though his eye never left Ed’s face.

  Ed met his gaze. There was nothing to be done about it now. If there was doubt there was doubt.

  “Where’d ye know him from?”

  “Germany.”

  “Oh aye?”

  “Through Freddie.”

  “Know Freddie, do ye?”

  Ed kept his voice neutral. This was a test, of sorts. Everyone knew Freddie in the business. Small, Dutch, heavily tattooed. He was a pervert, universally disliked, but such an expert facilitator that his predilections were tolerated—to a point.

  “I bought a foundation bitch from him.”

  “Yeah, from Freddie, which bitch?”

  “US import, papers carry back to Zebo.”

  “Don’t they all.”

  Lavin eased back slightly, but Willie’s eyes bored right through him. “Red nose, light, and fast.”

  “That’s her.”

  “Wondered where she’d gone. How’d you meet Freddie?”

  “Wennqvist introduced us.”

  “Wenn did?”

  You bloody idiot, stop talking, Ed thought, stop talking: adding a name was a mistake—fuck names—never use names. He’d been told, hadn’t he? What the fuck was he doing? Wennqvist: shit, what did he know about him? Born in Finland in 1958, married, divorced, three children, two girls and a boy. None of the kids had anything to do with him. Records for armed robbery, assault, assault again, fraud, handling stolen goods, was shot in the gut in 1988, arrested for—

  “When was this, when’d you meet Wenn?”

  “Ach, years ago now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Before the cancer.”

  “That’s right, the poor fuck. Fag?”

  This time Ed took the proffered cigarette and accepted a light. It was shocking how sweet and smooth the first drag went, how easily his body accepted that which he had rejected so long ago.

  “That bitch was quality,” Willie said, settling back in the front seat. He laughed and the mood lightened. “So, you’re looking to put new blood in your line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hard to get quality these days, too many fucking curs, bred by amateurs. Killing the game, killing the fucking game.”

  “Not us though.” Lavin elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “Only thing we got is quality.”

  “Aye,” Willie said. “Pup you’re going to see tonight, pure quality. You won’t get another like him on either side of the border, I can promise you that. Not even eighteen months old and he’s a stone-cold killer.”

  “Stone-cold,” Lavin said triumphantly. “Never backs down, pure game.”

  “Pure game,” Willie agreed.

  Ed forced his shoulders to relax.

  They took a left, drove along a road for another few miles, hung another left then another, finally turning onto a narrow country road that rose through unfamiliar hills. There were very few signs that Ed could see, and virtually no houses. Up and up the BMW went, the driver changing down through the gears as he navigated the twists and turns. At a set of stone pillars, he swung right and drove over a cattle grid and followed a long rutted lane barely wide enough for the car down to a small stone cottage. Ed had been so intent on not fucking up the conversation that he wasn’t sure where he was now.

  The BMW stopped and the driver tooted the horn. After a moment the front door opened and a fat man, wearing a T-shirt that was several sizes too small for him, peered out. He waved a hand, went back inside, and shut the door.

  They waited. Floodlights went on to the rear of the cottage. Ed saw a number of roofs outlined against the night sky.

  “Let’s go,” Willie said.

  Lavin got out, and Ed followed. Willie shut the door and hitched up his jeans. Egg and the driver stayed where they were.

  “Are y’not coming, Egg?” Lavin said, bending at the waist and tapping the glass. There was a mocking note to his voice that made Ed glance at the big man, who stared resolutely ahead.

  “Leave him be,” Willie said, and began to walk toward a side gate.

  Lavin laughed, and elbowed Ed again. “Dogs put the shit up him.”

  “Come on ahead,” Willie called.

  Ed turned his head: the fat man stood at the gate, waiting.

  The fat man, introduced to Ed as Hecky, led them through a small yard to a barn from which a multitude of dogs barked.

  He unlocked the door, dragged it open, and hit a light switch. The smell hit Ed hard and he found he had to breathe in shallow sips to keep his gag reflex in check.

  On either side of the shed: dogs.

  Ed counted at least twenty. Standing there chained to rings embedded in the walls. Each dog wore a heavy-duty chain around its neck, looped twice in some cases. Ed could only imagine the effort required to move, yet the dogs strained toward the men, barking with excitement.

  “The lad I’m gonna show ye took out Clancy’s Diamond back in September, twenty-four minutes. Never seen anything like it, one latch and that was it, never let go. Near ripped his fucking leg off. Clancy called it before Diamond was killed, but y’could see he was beat from the off. Heard he’s gone cold since.”

  “Not the dog, it’s Clancy, the useless fuck, gone soft,” Lavin scoffed. “Diamond was game, I’m tellin’ ye, Clancy called it too early.”

  “Diamond was no match for Blue.”

  “Go on out of that, ever see Clancy’s old dog? Diamond’s sire, that was his name? I watched him go near two hours with Antrim Jim’s Spike, best fucking fight I ever saw. Fuckers couldn’t stand up and they were still biting.”

  “I was there,” Willie said. “Game dog all right, even with a broken jaw and a punctured lung, he didn’t quit.”
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br />   Ed said nothing. He watched Hecky move past the leaping dogs and unchain one near the back of the shed. He walked it back toward them and hoisted it up onto a steel table just inside the door.

  “Feast yer eyes,” he said proudly, “on Blue.”

  Ed ran his hands over dog: he was a bull cross, heavily muscled, with a broad skull and a wide chest. His coat was short, steel-grey, closer to blue. His ears had been cropped into tight triangular points, scarred along the edges so the skin felt like piecrust. Ed’s fingers traced scars all over the dog’s body; some were fresh, others old and healed. He cupped the dogs balls, checked both were dropped. At each touch Blue wagged his tail furiously. When Ed prized open his massive jaw to check his teeth were intact, Blue licked his hands and tried to lick his face.

  Ed stood back. Willie and Lavin were watching him carefully.

  “He looks good.”

  “Have him on full training. Fucker would swing on a jack line half the day if you let him.” Hecky jerked his head behind him to where a well-chewed tyre hung motionless from a rope in the ceiling. This, Ed knew, was where dogs like Blue developed their jaw muscles.

  “Well?” Lavin leaned in.

  “He’s a grand-looking dog,” Ed said, putting his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know if he’s what I’m looking for.”

  Hecky turned his head and spat, disgusted. “Hold him there, Willie.”

  Willie did as he was asked. Hecky walked behind the shed and pulled a sheet of tarpaulin from a set of cages on the back wall. He unlocked one, reached in, and pulled a whimpering dog from the shadows.

  “You wait and see.” Lavin said, grinning wildly. “Wait until you see what this fucker can do.”

  Ed swallowed. The dog Hecky carried by the scruff was a small beagle, battered and scarred, eyes rolling wildly in its head.

  “Let’s go.”

  They left the shed and crossed the yard to another smaller enclosure. Lavin opened the door and hit the lights. Ed stared at a small sand-filled arena, enclosed on all sides by wood pallets nailed together.

  Hecky pitched the beagle into the sand pit. The dog ran around in a blind panic, before backing itself into the corner holding one paw up, licking its lips frantically. There was dried blood on the boards, Ed noticed, scratch marks and evidence of worse.

  Hecky took Blue from Willie. “Don’t even need to face them, this fucker’s good to go at a drop.” With that he lowered Blue to the floor, threw his leg back over the pallets, and winked at Ed.

  It didn’t last long. Blue rushed the beagle head-on. The beagle tried to run, but there was nowhere for it to go. Blue, using his superior body strength, flipped him, and before the beagle could rise he had latched onto the side of his neck. The beagle scrabbled his paws against Blue’s chest, screaming in agony, teeth slashing and snapping, aiming for any part of Blue he could reach. Blue didn’t seem to notice; he shook his head, growling excitedly, patches of the beagle’s skin ripped and tore. Blood sprayed across the sand.

  “Let him have it,” Willie said, when it looked as though Hecky might intervene.

  The screaming drove Blue into a frenzied madness. He dragged his opponent round the ring, shaking his massive head from side to side, jerking until the cries went from high to piercing, then stopped.

  Lavin laughed like a maniac and slapped Ed on the shoulder. “What did I tell ye?”

  Blue dragged the dead dog around the bloodstained sand, whining and growling with delight, his tail whipping back and forth.

  “Pure game,” Lavin said.

  “How much?” Ed asked.

  Hecky spat and scratched his belly. He mentioned a price.

  Ed slipped his hand into his pocket and took out his wallet. He counted out a large number of bills and passed them over. Hecky licked his thumb and counted them rapidly. He passed one note back to Ed, “For luck,” folded the rest, and put them in his back pocket.

  Willie held out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ed shook.

  The dog was his.

  Three Months Later

  Ed stared at the coded text message on his mobile screen, pressed delete, and pocketed the phone as behind him, Lavin, whinging and complaining to Willie, approached his car. Lavin had lost a ton on the previous fight when Sadie, a pale gold pit bull bred by Antrim Jim, rallied and defeated her attacker with almost ninety-four minutes on the clock. Both dogs had died in the ring from blood loss and shock, but the bitch had lived long enough to be declared the victor, so Lavin was pissed.

  “Can’t fucking believe it,” Lavin said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Shut the fuck up about it, will ye?” Willie said.

  Ed ignored them. He wiped Blue down with a special medicated rag, feeling the dog’s muscles rippling under his ministrations. Blue’s tongue lolled from his mouth, his hazel eyes sparkled with good health.

  “Knew I shouldn’t bet against Jim, fucker has those dogs of his amped up on some shit, wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Ed wished they would go away and leave him in peace. His nerves were bad enough as it was. Everything they had worked for, all the planning and practice, the subterfuge, everything hinged on this day going smoothly, and Lavin bitching in his ear was not a welcome distraction.

  He gave Blue another once-over, lifted him down from the boot, and put him into his cage to rest. He was scheduled to fight a two-year-old UK import, owned by a couple from down Limerick way. Ed had seen the opposition, a square-headed brindle pit. He was a nice-looking dog, but too fat and weak in the hips—Ed knew Blue could take him. So, it seemed, did everyone else: Blue was odds-on favourite, with plenty of money trading hands.

  Ed stretched and loosened his limbs.

  “Nervous?” Willie leaned against the car, sunburnt, reeking of cheap beer and cigarettes.

  “No.”

  “Good, that other yolk’s only a cur. Betting has Blue taking him in twenty minutes.”

  Ed nodded. He glanced over their heads toward the tree-lined lane. The sun was high above them, the air filled with the scent of honeysuckle.

  “You going to bring him out or what?” Lavin asked.

  “In a minute.”

  “You need to let him take a piss.”

  “Will ye let the man handle his own dog?” Willie said.

  Lavin flushed, and stalked off.

  By eleven the ring had been raked and men gathered around it. Ed’s stomach was in a heap as he let Blue out of his cage and rubbed his head. The dog’s body quivered with excitement; he licked Ed’s hands and nudged him for a tickle behind the ears, his favourite spot.

  People were watching. Blue was impressive, that was for sure, and as Ed led him to the ring, he could not help but feel more than a little bit proud of the conditioning he had put his dog through: hours running on a treadmill to build endurance, best of food; the best of everything. Blue was a champion, a true game dog.

  They approached the ring, focussed, confident, Blue out ahead, pulling like a steam train. There was blood in the air and he knew it. Ed spotted the owners of his opponent, standing by the generator just inside the shed. They knew, they had to know, their brindle was no match for Blue. Yet they would let him fight to the death.

  Ed smiled at them coldly. The last of the bets where made. Hecky, resplendent in a lemon-yellow vest, stained Bermuda shorts, white towelling socks, and brogues, collected fees, cursing and laughing, ever the show man.

  Ed waited.

  The brindle dog was brought into the pit and unmuzzled. The handler ran his hands over the dog, and tried to jazz him up by talking in his ear and slapping him on the chest.

  Lavin leaned over the rim of the pit and shook his head. “Fat fucker, look at him.”

  Ed stayed where he was; Blue whined.

  Hecky gathered the last of the cash and peered at him. “Are ye right?”

  Still Ed made no move. A few of the men glanced at him, puzzled.

  A shout went up.

  “Police!”

  Th
e reaction was instant; men scattered and ran for their respective vehicles, but it was no use, two vans pulled across the entrance to the lane and hooded men spilled out carrying baseball bats and clubs

  “That’s not the fucking peelers!” Hecky roared, lumbering toward the cottage at a pace that was surprising for a man of his size. Lavin and Willie glanced at each other and ran toward the BMW, which was closest to the gate.

  Lavin, always a cocky dimwit, tried to talk his way out of it, holding his hands before him. He approached the lead man, yapping high and fast. He took a straight swing that rearranged his jaw and scattered his teeth across the yard. Egg never made it out of the car. Neither did the driver. Willie, assessing the situation and catching on fast, turned and sprinted past where Ed was standing; he was almost to the trees when a sleek shadow raced along the grass, leapt from six feet out, and took him to the ground in a single fluid motion. The German shepherd released Willie, and then clamped his jaws on his upper arm. Willie screamed.

  Ed leaned down and scratched behind Blue’s ears to reassure him.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” the guy holding the brindle asked, staring at the mayhem around the yard. “These aren’t police.”

  “Stay where you are if you know what’s good for you,” Ed replied.

  Unlike Lavin, this man was no fool. He stayed exactly where he was as the group rounded up the last of the participants, herded them into the pen shed, and shut the door behind them.

  “Gentlemen,” Ed said, “my apologies . . . gentlemen and lady.” He bowed slightly toward the woman who was staring at him with terror and confusion in her eyes. “We are the DLA, for those of you who might not have heard of us, that’s the Dog Liberation Army.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Willie was holding his useless arm to his chest. His face was streaked in blood.

  One of the masked men jabbed him with the business end of his bat. “Shut your hole.”

  “What’s going on, folks, is that we’re here to right a great wrong.”

  “What wrong? What the fuck are ye on about?”

  “And to do this,” Ed continued, “we’re going to have us a little competition.”

  Stunned silence. Hecky, who hadn’t been able to make it to the cottage for his shotgun, groaned and looked like he was going to be sick. “You’re a dead man, Ed.”