Blood Will Be Born

by Donnelly, Gary

  ‘Shit,’ she whispered, turned off the radio. She glanced at the scrap of paper she’d jotted the case details on from the duty desk. The victim’s name was Moore, also from Tiger’s Bay. She made the connection. It must be Cecil Moore’s mother, he had no other relatives she knew of; now mutilated, killed. There was going to be trouble.

  Someone had just lit a fuse under the powder keg.

  Chapter 5.

  A wet gust of wind smacked Sheen in the face as he exited the airport through the automatic sliding doors.

  Christ, it’s cold here, he thought, and this is July.

  Another gust followed, coating his face in dank mist. Sheen ran a hand over his eyes, the better to see. The fog broiled around the line of private taxi cabs to his right, their headlights on.

  This place was wild.

  His Chief Inspector’s voice again, ‘And another thing Sheen, don’t come crying if it buckets down on you all summer long. Shitty weather over there, s’why it’s so green, mate.’

  Sheen had checked his phone, nothing from the elusive Aoife McCusker, the name that had been e-mailed to him as his meet and greet. He had her number and had given her a call after collecting his luggage, got no reply, left no message. He wrote a quick text telling McCusker that he had arrived, made his own way into Belfast and would be at his hotel. The wind delivered a damp upper cut, actually wetting his chin, water trickling horribly under his collar. He thought about the airport shuttle bus which would take him into the centre of Belfast, then looked at his big suitcase, the heavy leather carry on satchel which rested on top of it and decided no. Sod this. The PSNI had promised him a ride and they could pay for one. He wheeled his luggage towards the line of waiting taxis, and the driver of the first cab in line rolled out and was round the car without being prompted. The boot of the cab popped open as he did so.

  He was lean, with thinning white hair, a grey moustache, dense but trimmed, pale grey eyes set under a high forehead. He lifted the heft of Sheen’s luggage, without breaking the rolling sweep of this run, and deposited it into the deep hold of his saloon. He slipped back into the driver’s seat, Sheen’s signal to get into the car or lose his luggage forever.

  ‘City centre, sir?’ He must have outsider written all over him.

  From the back of the cab Sheen gave the name and street address of the hotel he had reserved in Belfast. The driver responded with a small nod, navigated out of the airport and emerged on to a two lane road, shrouded in hill fog. On either side, boggy hinterland dotted with sheep.

  ‘If its Harland and Wolff shipyard you were expecting to see, you should have opted for the City Airport,’ said the driver. Sheen smiled, nodded at him through the rear view.

  ‘Been here before?’ asked the driver.

  ‘No, first time,’ lied Sheen. Sheen’s father had forbidden him from returning to Belfast. Over my dead body son, losing one child is enough for any man. Sheen respected the old man enough not to argue, and he was right. One dead child is one too many. But the old man had passed away, so too was his prohibition. As soon as Dad was buried and mourned he put his transfer in for the PSNI. Over his dead body it was to be.

  ‘Belfast International should really be called Antrim international, that’s the nearest town. But politics and all that, you know,’ said the driver, not a question.

  The two lane road and fields gave way to a four lane motorway, the M2 according to the blue sign that flashed by. It plunged steeply down, cut a line from north to south, Belfast’s harbour in the basin below. On Sheen’s right he could see the sheer rock face of Cave Hill, and beyond, the smooth green side of the Black Mountain, and the slopes of Divis behind cupping Belfast from the north and west. As they descended, the vista of the city spread open, place names Sheen knew well, though if he’d ever visited them he could not recall.

  To his west, the republican heartland of the Falls Road, tooth and jowl with the loyalist Shankill, and further west the Glen Road, and Poleglass; Catholic and nationalist. East and over the River Lagan were loyalist heartlands; the Newtownards Road, Castlereagh. To the north was a patchwork of political and religious territories, including Tiger’s Bay, the Crumlin Road and Ardoyne; places that saw the worst sectarian murders of the Troubles, and now a seat of new conflict and standoff between nationalist residents and loyalist Orange Order marchers.

  Belfast; this was the town of his birth, about which he had read and researched obsessively, but of which he had no real memories. Somewhere deep inside himself, his childhood was locked in a room. Perhaps Belfast was the key. Or perhaps those memories were a bag of ashes; dust in the wind and never to be known.

  White letters that spelt out a slogan, now in view on the side of the Black Mountain: VIVA GAZA

  ‘What’s that about?’ asked Sheen. The driver glanced at Sheen and followed his gaze to the mountain in the distance.

  ‘That’s a political thing. One lot like to support Israel, the others support the Palestinians. It’s crackers when you think about, but there you go.’

  ‘What ever happened to Brits Out?’ asked Sheen. The driver coughed out a laugh.

  ‘Aye, well I suppose that there’s progress, you know?’ They shared a laugh and then shared their silence. In the harbour below Sheen spotted the iconic yellow cranes, and thought of the sea, and docks. That was one place, one memory, more than any other, he wanted to know. Sailortown: Try as he might, he could not recall it.

  ‘Say again,’ said the driver. Sheen was not aware he had spoken.

  ‘Sailortown?’ said Sheen, turned it into a question.

  ‘Aye?’ said the driver. The concrete bollards adjacent to the carriageway created weird acoustics in the car and Sheen closed his window.

  ‘Have you ever heard of it?’ asked Sheen.

  ’Over there,’ said the driver, nodding to the left. Sheen could see nothing but the concrete high side of the motorway as they sped on, into the centre of the city.

  ‘Not a lot left of it now, redevelopment and all,’ continued the driver.

  ‘I was at Uni with a Belfast lad, he was from there. He always said I should look him up, if I was ever to visit.’ The new born lie slipped from him like a calf from a cow.

  ‘You in a hurry?’ asked the driver and he flicked on his left indicator before Sheen replied, cut across the lanes, down a slip road. Green signs with white letters spelled the various options. Small, on the far left was a sign with a littler arrow, appearing to suggest they do a 360 degree turn at the end of the road. The destination: Sailortown.

  ‘I’ll take you on a quick run past. It’s practically on route,’ said the driver.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to go to any trouble,’ said Sheen.

  ‘No trouble sir. And no extra charge, in case you were wondering.’ He smiled, his face lit like a child’s crayon drawing of the sun. They emerged on a deserted street lined with warehouses, the rumble of cobbles beneath the wheels. They navigated a maze of streets and pulled to a stop.

  ‘This is it, or what’s left of it.’

  Sheen got out of the car and looked up and down the dockside street. It was warmer now he was down in the city, bright morning sunshine pleasantly heating his face. The tide was out and the only water was a lonely trickle ten or more feet below, ensconced by mud flats. The terraced houses were derelict, windows and front doors protected by shiny stainless steel covers, red stickers that warned against trespassing. He could hear the hum from the motorway, the cry of gulls, and the wind. He tasted the fresh yet stagnant whiff of the dock, breathed it in, but it conjured no images or episodes. On the corner, was Muldoon’s Pub (Your friendly local, ceol and craic!). Outside was a dented aluminium table with two chairs containing what had to be the last two locals, both unshaven and smoking cigarettes. The door was closed and windows shuttered.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Sheen. The driver answered through the open passenger window.

  ‘Not all of it. But there’s not much more of Sailortown than this left.’ Sheen r
eturned to the car and got in.

  ‘This was all built on reclaimed land you know, a lot of the original residents came from across Ireland and settled in this wee district during the Potato Famine. It was very mixed, different than other parts of Belfast. Did you know that?’ Sheen said he did not. The driver went on, enjoying being teacher.

  ‘Place has been in decline since the ‘50s, then, after the bomb here in the early ‘90s that was really it. Terrible, it sort of killed off what remained of the community, not just the kids who got murdered.’ The bomb that had killed his brother, he had been in Belfast for less than an hour and already it was mentioned. The past, it was an invisible presence here, a ghost in the works. Which meant the truth was here, all he had to do was look.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’ he said. The driver turned from the front seat, appraised Sheen momentarily.

  ‘Gerard,’ he said, and reached into the space between them and handed Sheen a business card with his full name, company logo and mobile phone number. Sheen took the card, nodded. The man’s hands were veined, knuckles prominent, nails clean and clipped.

  ‘My name’s Sheen, Gerard, and I need a driver on call this weekend, someone reliable, discrete. I can pay you well, might only be a few runs,’ he said. Gerard’s pale grey eyes remained on Sheen, and he did not reply. Sheen added, ‘All above board, purely for my convenience,’ he said. Gerard nodded ever so slightly.

  ‘I work for the company, and I’m on duty this weekend, their calls will have to come first. And if they find out, they won’t be happy,’ said Gerard. Sheen reached into his pocket, got his wallet and took out the money he had drawn down in Stanstead before getting on the plane. He left himself two twenties and a ten and held the rest of the sheets to Gerard.

  ‘Discretion is my middle name; I don’t want you to get into a jam. If you are busy, I can wait,’ he said. Gerard moved his gaze to the notes in Sheen’s hand, returned his eyes to Sheen. He nodded, and blinked, took the money from Sheen and secreted it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘If you call, I will come. Agreed.’ he said

  Before Sheen could say anything else, Gerard turned in his seat and started up the engine and quickly pulled the salon though a tight U turn. He took the same route back to the motorway. As they climbed the slip road, Sheen looked back, at the sorry line of houses, at the slouching ruin of Muldoon’s. A single gull was perched at the apex of the warehouse at the end of the street. Beyond, Sheen could see the well planned newness of a Belfast reborn. The gull spread its gigantic wings, flapped once, flew away. Sheen watched the remains of Sailortown until it dropped out of sight. He was thinking about his dead brother, about finding the man who left the car bomb, about reclaiming some justice from the past, no matter what the cost.

  Chapter 6.

  Aoife quickly spotted Sheen sitting in the lobby of his chain hotel in the Markets area in the centre of Belfast. He was folded into the armchair in the corner, reading a copy of the Daily Mail, probably free from the airport. He had his back to the wall, a good view of the front door (had he been looking) and a line of sight on the window to the street. All points covered and no way to be approached from behind; that was a copper’s choice.

  Plus he didn’t look local, but not in the same way the aged American coupled seated on the chairs beside him stood out with their knee length socks and shorts. Aoife thought he was probably plenty tough, wide at the shoulder; lean doorman powerful, a look accentuated by his appalling tan leather jacket. No, it was the poise and suppleness that betrayed his otherness. The relaxed way he hung his shoulders, the ease in his limbs, like they were attached to his torso by thick rubber bands. Belfast boys were more hunched and defensive; they sat with a crouch, duck and cover built in. A pose that waited for things to happen because in Belfast they always did, the last resort usually rolled out as the first choice.

  Closer now, she could almost see his face. It was still half concealed behind the newspaper. He had his own hair, most of it, face clean shaven. He glanced up, looked right at her, surprise, then annoyance, in his eyes; very fast, then gone. There was a trace of something else too, that vanished as he started to smile as he stood up; a flash of something cold.

  ‘You must be McCusker?’ he said. He was old style policeman tall, not a giant, but big enough to have a natural dominance over most. Aoife stood her ground, raised her chin.

  ‘Which means that you are Detective Inspector Owen Sheen from the Metropolitan Police,’ she said. He took her hand in his and gave a good squeeze, pumping it twice. Big hand, warm, and dry, and a firm grip, but not too tight. Up close his face was well worn, though not weathered, and while well shy of movie star stunning he was nonetheless a handsome man, maybe the most dangerous sort, intriguing.

  ‘Good spot, you picked me out easily. It’s just Sheen by the way,’ he said.

  ‘In which case, it’s just Aoife, only my PE teacher called me by my surname,’ she said and returned his smile. He nodded.

  ‘Weren’t you supposed to meet me at the airport?’ he said. She paused, just for a beat before answering.

  ‘I planned to, but,’ Sheen interrupted her, waved the newspaper between them.

  ‘No, I can see you have had your hands full,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said. Sheen showed her the front page. Big headline: BUTCHERED. Under it a grainy photograph, showing what appeared to be the body of an elderly woman, her head hatched out to disguise the full details, much of that blurred section of the image in red.

  ‘I probably would have left me at the airport too, if I had to deal with that,’ said Sheen.

  Aoife quickly scanned the short report looking for a clue on who compromised their crime scene. Her lips moved as she sped through the text. No mention of Esther Moore by name, but alluded to, location given. Then she found what she needed, smaller print at the bottom left of the image. Sheen answered her question just as she saw the by line, referencing the source.

  ‘It was uploaded on Freeroller, last night,’ he said.

  ‘Freeloader?’ she replied, incredulous, not confused.

  ‘Anti-social micro blogging site, all off shore, based out of Eastern Europe-’

  ‘We know about it,’ she said. ‘Revenge porn, cyber bullying, it’s on our radar-’ She stopped. Yesterday, meaning it was posted before the body was discovered this morning, before it became a sealed off crime scene.

  ‘He posted it online? The killer?’ she asked.

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Sheen. ‘Not a subscriber myself, but I have a feeling after this morning, there are going to be a lot of new ones. Said the image was posted by @TedDead81,’ said Sheen. He took the paper from her and flicked to the third page. He started to read.

  “‘The sick post was uploaded by someone using the tag name @TedDead81, thought to be a reference to the ten IRA and republican prisoners who died on hunger strike in 1981 in the Maze Prison. Mainstream republicans have condemned the attack and called for calm, leaving suggestions that the butchery was the work of a Dissident republican splinter group, perhaps new to the stage and eager to make their mark in blood. Cecil Moore, speaking near the scene of the crime, said the sectarian murder of innocent Protestants was nothing new, recalling the massacre of ten Protestant workmen in 1976 in Kingsmill at the hands of the IRA,”’ continued Sheen.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. The Internet was the new gable wall, where political slogans had been replaced with instant uploads. Her phone rang; Irwin. Now she was really late, and if she had managed to see the front pages, by now he probably had too. ‘We need to go, Irwin is at the crime scene, he wants to meet you,’ she said.

  ‘We? No, listen, I’m here for-’

  ‘The Serious Historical Offences Team, I know. But until you start next week, Historical remains with Serious Crimes, meaning you are too,’ she said. The look on Sheen’s face almost raised a smile on her own.

  ‘PSNI are armed, right? I don’t have a gun, I’ve barely even been trained,’ he said.r />
  ‘I’ll keep you safe,’ she said, patted her jacket. They exited into sunlight. The Church bells from across the street started to toll a wedding melody as she led the way to her car.

  ‘Welcome to Belfast Sheen,’ she said, ‘let’s go and meet the dead, what do you say?’ Sheen fell into the passenger seat beside her. She started to smile, but when he glanced she saw that the coldness had returned to his eyes, enough for her smile to fall away.

  Chapter 7.

  As Aoife McCusker awoke in her bed, John Fryer stubbed out his roll up in an ash tray which was overloaded with butts. His throat burned. He reached for his pouch and started the makings of another. He was in the kid’s house in Bangor, twenty miles up the coast and a million light years away from the Heights and the streets of west Belfast Fryer had once stalked. The sort of quiet suburban street Fryer expected a peeler and his family to live, but the house was a mess, sparsely furnished and filthy. Apart from a big framed picture of what Fryer took to be the kid’s Da in his RUC uniform. Looked like a self-righteous cunt. It was fixed over the mantel piece, brass frame gleaming.

  When they arrived in the night the kid took him upstairs to what he said was the armoury. Not exactly, but evidently the kid had found the arms dump. They had two one pound blocks of Semtex plastic; looked like orange plastacine. A finger of very old Nobel 808, sweating in its grease paper, its marzipan smell filled the room. There were a handful of detonators, three ancient timers from New York parking meters. 24 HOUR TIME LIMIT printed on their outer edge, and a reminder USE QUARTERS ONLY.