Blood Will Be Born

by Donnelly, Gary

  ‘Someone must have a sick sense of humour,’ said Sheen. Paddy paused, his brow creased, and then a smile slowly spread over his face, and he shook his head.

  ‘Or you do more like,’ he said, grinning, ‘I get it; it was a booby trap.’ Paddy glanced at her. His smile evaporated, he turned back to Sheen. ‘You two might want to take a walk up to the top of the hill, I bet you can see the whole of Belfast, on a clear morning like this,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll pass, but thanks. Good to meet you Paddy,’ said Sheen.

  ‘And you. Aoife, good to have you on side,’ he said, then turned and went back into his tented domain.

  ‘Thanks sir,’ she said. She looked down at the death markers. Never mind a walk to the top of the hill; the whole of Belfast was right here as far as she could make out; the past, the present and probably future.

  ‘Don’t think badly of me, Aoife, but I could do with some food. There was a little Italian café near my hotel, have we time for a break?’ Sheen asked. Despite her immediate impulse to say she was not hungry, her stomach responded at his mention of breakfast, despite all the grotesque horrors the day had already delivered.

  ‘I think we can do better than that, how does an Ulster Fry sound?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said, and they started back down the path. She thought about the bra, the sick joke and then Esther Moore’s mutilated back, the letters etched deeply into her flesh. She stopped.

  ‘When MacBride pulled up Esther Moore’s dress, and we saw what was carved into her, was she wearing a bra?’ Sheen told her he did not see one.

  ‘Coincidence, don’t you think?’ she said.

  ‘Some priest once told me coincidences are put there by God to remind us he’s about,’ said Sheen.

  ‘You believe that?’ said Aoife. Sheen did not answer immediately.

  ‘I believe what my DCI in London said. ‘Coincidences happen because there’s no such thing as a smart murderer.’’ said Sheen.

  Chapter 14.

  T.K One was on the Andersonstown Road in west Belfast and to Sheen, it looked like an illegal drinking den, but the front of house man was friendly, and the place smelled heavenly; fried bacon, salty and rich, eggs, warm and thick in the air.

  Aoife ordered an Ulster Fry for them both. Drinks first, steaming hot and smelling just fine. Coffee for her, tea for Sheen, served in a big tin pot. He transferred most of it into a massive builder’s mug. One slurp raised him up.

  ‘I think I upset you earlier,’ she said.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ he replied. Then, ‘When did you upset me?’

  ‘On the mountain, a throwaway comment about you not knowing your own history,’ she said. Sheen studied his tea. Yes, he knew what she meant, but had no idea he had been so transparent.

  ‘I am a touchy sod when it comes to memory, not my Irish history,’ he said with a smile. Aoife watched him, said nothing. When he looked back on their first real conversation, he marvelled at how easy he had found it to speak to her; effortless when so much else was hard work.

  ‘The thing is, I can’t remember. Or should I say I can’t access some of my memories. Like when you have a word right on the tip of your tongue, you know that you know it, whatever it is, but you can’t get to it. It’s like it’s there, but not there at the same time.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. Sheen thought she clearly did not. He ran his palm over his cheek, the first rasping tug of new stubble, sharp as glass.

  ‘I know that I was born here. I know that I lived here until I was seven, and that I went to Saint Aidan’s Primary School.’

  ‘That’s in the Markets area. It’s close to your hotel, you know?’

  ‘I know it,’ he replied, but the words weighed heavy on his tongue, like they did not belong. ‘I know a lot of details, but I don’t actually remember them. Sometimes, over the years, I get cues from smells, sounds, like keys that unlock those old doors; there it is a fully formed little memory.’ The consultant said that his amnesia was probably psychological, not physiological, though the two were linked. After what had happened to his brother, Sheen’s mind had cauterised itself, wrapped the red police tape across the synapses and neural pathways leading to Belfast and made it a No Entry point.

  ‘Why are your memories blocked?’ she asked. Aoife paused, but her pale blue eyes remained on his face, uninhibited. ‘I know you lost someone. It was the Sailortown bomb, right?’ she asked gently. A memory, played out in his mind’s eye, one of the very few, familiar and awful. He was flat on his face, lying on the street, his ears ringing, hands stinging from the fall he had taken, and stretching before him was the giant terrain of the concrete road surface. There were a dozen small fires, including the ball he had been chasing, punctured and burning with an orange flame. Debris floated down from above, charred Belfast confetti, coating his seven year old’s hands and arms like black snowflakes.

  ‘Yeah Sailortown,’ said Sheen, his chest suddenly felt tight, his palms greasy, but he kept his voice cool. ‘My brother, Kevin, he took the brunt of the car bomb blast; we had been playing football with other kids on the street. He never had a chance. Afterwards, things changed and the family broke up, within the year my father and I had moved away to London.’

  ‘Where your memories begin,’ she said.

  ‘Where I start to remember them anyway,’ he said.

  ‘So is that why you are back here, to rediscover yourself?’ she asked. Breakfast arrived, a welcome distraction. Sheen did not reply.

  ‘So, does this breakfast give you any triggers, or what did you call them? Clues?’ she asked.

  ‘Cues,’ said Sheen, knife and fork in hand, tucking in. ‘It’s reminded me just how bloody hungry I am,’ said Sheen through a mouthful of food. The rashers of bacon looked thick and properly charred to crispy perfection; two fried eggs cooked just right, sausage, fried soda and wheaten bread, golden and giving off a warm, wondrous smell. Sheen speared a sausage and popped it in his mouth. It burst richly between his teeth, delicious. They ate, no talking. Sheen wiped grease and brown sauce from the corner of his mouth with the napkin and sat back with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘So that was the life and times of Owen Sheen, abridged version,’ Sheen said.

  ‘You haven’t told me if you have a wife, or kids,’ she said. She had cleaned her plate too. Same eyes on his, same brave stare, a trace of playfulness. Sheen, whose London apartment was so empty and utilitarian, found himself for once pleased with the reply he could give.

  ‘No wife. And no kids, well none that I know of,’ said Sheen, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘So you have come back to the land of your birth, just like John Wayne in the The Quiet Man. Only you are a cockney, not a yank. Are you over here looking to settle down with a Colleen? Or I wonder, do you have a dark secret you are running away from like John Thornton, Sheen? Did you kill a man in the ring?’

  ‘Nothing so Hollywood to be honest,’ he said, but he felt his neck flush, and not at her tease about wanting a woman.

  ‘So it’s all business, but a detective looking for cues, rather than clues. Or maybe you are back looking for other answers; I know if I were you, I’d want some. They never got anyone for the Sailortown bomb.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Sheen. His mouth was suddenly parchment dry, the room around them felt too close and too loud.

  ‘The Historical Offences job is a chance to deal with the past. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in uncovering some of my own in the process. Can you blame me?’ He could hear the argument trying to crowd his tone, swallowed it down. She was taking a genuine interest, and Sheen wanted it, wanted to talk, keep those calm, pale eyes on him, watch as her long slim fingers touched the lip of her coffee cup.

  ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I’d probably want the same myself,’ she said. For an awful second Sheen thought she was going to reach over and hold his hand when she said it, but she did not. He folded his arms, cleared his throat.

  ‘What about you? Married, ki
ds?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated,’ she said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Sheen.

  ‘I have a little girl, Ava, she’s nine. I am her legal guardian, but Ava’s not mine. Her Dad was my step brother. He died before she was born; drugs, twenty five years old,’ she said. Her voice was steady, her eyes blinked rapidly.

  ‘Sounds like a tough deal,’ he said.

  ‘Kieran got the deal he chose. Sounds harsh, but he made bad choices and got involved with bad people. He was offered help, but he kept going back to the scag,’ she said.

  ‘So Ava is Kieran’s daughter?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right, so why am I her legal guardian?’ she said, pre-empting his question about her biological mother. Sheen nodded.

  ‘Ava’s biological mother was given a one way ticket back to Trinidad when she completed her prison term in Maghaberry for drug smuggling. She will never be back in the country and made it apparent that she wanted nothing to do with Ava after she was born. If Ava had not been carried and born in prison, more than likely she would have been born an addict. She released her for adoption, my Mum took her.’ Aoife sighed, dropped her eyes to the table and lifted a sachet of sugar, started to twist it. ‘Mum died of breast cancer five years ago, so here we are,’ she said.

  ‘Sounds like a lot of shit has come your way these last few years.’

  ‘That’s one way of seeing it. But my Mum did not suffer and linger, and I still have Ava,’ she said. He felt the sincerity in her words about the little girl, but not in the reasoning about her mother. She was still raw, and angry, maybe always would be. He understood. Both at crime scenes and in conversation this morning, Aoife had impressed him.

  ‘While we are revealing all, Sheen, I want you to know that I slept with my former boss and everyone thinks I did it for a promotion. His name was Charlie Donaldson; he’s head of Community Relations. Now divorced, my fault, I do regret it, don’t plan to repeat the same mistake,’ she said, and flashed him a brief smile. Sheen let out a laugh, shook his head. And absurd impulse to take her hand in his. Christ Jesus.

  ‘I appreciate your candour. For the record, I am not interested in gossip, but forewarned is fore armed,’ he said.

  ‘Bollocks, Sheen, we are all interested in gossip, that’s why it spreads so well. Better to get in first with the truth,’ she said, pushed back her chair and excused herself. She appeared a few moments later, pulled on her coat.

  ‘Bills paid, let’s go,’ said Aoife. He was going to protest, decided there was no point.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said. His eyes rested on hers. She pulled away, led him through the crowded restaurant, exited. Aoife was reading something on her phone.

  ‘News?’ said Sheen.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied, and Sheen could hear the tremor of excitement in her voice. ‘Looks like Esther Moore did push her panic button yesterday afternoon. Irwin had it checked out, came back as a positive,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody hell, they should have sent a message through to emergency services,’ said Sheen.

  ‘And they were about to. But someone called it in as a false alarm,’ she said.

  ‘They have a recording?’ asked Sheen

  ‘Yes, but Irwin says the person on duty at the SecuriTel doesn’t know how to download the recording from their system as a voice file and email it us. Unbelievable! Ava could do it if she was there,’ she said. They got in her car, she crunched into reverse and drove out onto the Andersonstown Road. ‘We need to go to their office. I’ll take a recording there. And show the edjit on duty how to email it. Unbelievable,’ she repeated.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ agreed Sheen. He did not have the first idea of how to complete the task she had just outlined.

  ‘That’s more than likely our murderer speaking. Who did he ID himself as, Mickey Mouse from the gas board?’ asked Sheen.

  ‘He identified himself as Cecil Moore,’ she said.

  ‘Smart, it was enough to call the dogs off,’ said Sheen. It could be a turning point. But he also knew that Irwin had sent her after the recording because it was a glorified tea run, it would take time, and Sheen had other things on his mind, things that he could spend that time on.

  ‘Mind if you drop me back at the hotel? I need to sort out a few things, get some of my photographs printed up, start to get my thoughts organised a bit. It’s how I like to work,’ he said.

  She nodded, eyes on the road, but her thoughts already blatantly far away. They accelerated along the M1 motorway, headed back into the city centre. ‘Yeah, no worries, whatever you want. This won’t take me very long. I’ll pick you up in an hour or so,’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ said Sheen. He glanced left and saw the boggy undulations of Milltown Cemetery; grave upon grave marked by marble headstones that winked silently at him, reflecting the sunlight, each momentarily dazzling his eye as the car sped on. It was where his brother’s bones lay, beneath his mother’s. Bobby Sands, the IRA hunger striker and his comrades were also buried here. It was the scene of a loyalist attack on a three coffin IRA funeral in 1988 that led to two terrible weeks of violence. The place had almost collapsed into civil war and ethnic cleansing. It looked peaceful now, the buffering waves of wind crashed softly against the car. He felt warm wetness on his fingertips. He removed his left hand from his pocket. A bead of fresh blood in the middle of his thumb pad; it was from Gerard’s card, sharp as a pin. He pressed it away.

  ‘What was it that was written on Mrs. Moore’s wall, something in Latin?’

  ‘Rough translation: Out of Chaos Comes Order,’ she said, pumping the brakes as they approached a line of standing traffic.

  ‘Got any ideas?’ she asked. Sheen could feel something beginning to germinate, spreading small roots in his mind. But it was too soon to know what fruit it might yield, or how bitter it would be.

  ‘Nothing definite, but I’m already convinced it’s not true,’ he said. Aoife edged the car on, taking them from daylight into the shadow of the underpass.

  Chapter 15.

  Aoife sat in her car outside SecriTel’s main office in the Titanic quarter. She had just finished listening to the voice of their murderer, recorded from the call made from Esther Moore’s home. She pressed stop on her phone, shivered. Whoever made that call had probably just broken an old woman’s hand, and was about to murder her. Did Esther know she was about to die? Maybe not, but she must have known that help was not going to arrive after that call was made. Worst of all, the killer sounded like he was having fun.

  One thing she did know, the voice was definitely not Cecil Moore. She had spent many unpleasant hours in his presence during cross community meetings over parades and flags and paramilitary murals and funding. The man on the phone sounded younger, but there was something about the way he talked, the turn of phrase, or his accent, it rang a bell way far back in her mind. A cue as Sheen would say. The thought of accents brought her back to the creep she had just met, the one who needed her to be there to complete the simple task of e-mailing the voice recording.

  Danny Burgoyne (dirty grey track suit, a heart attack waiting to happen) had undressed her with his flat bovine eyes in SecuriTel’s control room, where he was the mysterious single Saturday worker, who just happened to be around when the request for the voice recording arrived. Serendipity was what he had called it, which to Aoife sounded dangerously close to a coincidence. His accent was not Belfast, maybe Donegal, or Leitrim, out of place. Like the unconvincing excuse he had given for not e-mailing the recording in the first place. She looked up to where a CCTV camera pointed into her car from the corner of the building. No doubt he was watching her now. What was it he had said?

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you DC McCusker, and so nice to do so in person. So much of my work is digital, I rarely get to see people in the flesh.’ Class A creep. Aoife started her car, drove away from the watching eye of the camera.

  She stopped short of the exit, checked the time,
and decided she had plenty. The voice was not Moore, but it did not mean, however, Moore had nothing more to give. She could get to him, and if she brought home a lead, Irwin would see what she was capable of, a chance to step out of Sheen’s shadow. In this business, a woman needed to make her own luck. She pulled away and drove in the direction of Tiger’s Bay. There was a match on, Celtic v Rangers, big day for a Belfast publican and good news for her. She knew where she’d find Cecil Moore.

  Chapter 16.

  After Aoife dropped Sheen at his hotel, he had made a quick run into the nearby city centre shopping area, where he had purchased the things he wanted from a stationary store: A large cork pin board, a block of A4 white paper, adhesive putty, a set of permanent marker pens, drawing pins and a small assortment of other stationary. He had also found a quiet self-service photo developer a few shops down where he printed a selection of images from his phone from the two crime scenes they had visited. He took care to shield them from passing eyes as they dried in the collection tray.

  Later he would draw together the disparate ideas which were already taking shape in his mind, form them into a visual narrative which he could reshape and rethink as the case evolved. This method had worked for him in the past, and he needed it to work in Belfast. The case had moved fast in several different directions. That, however, was for later. Right now he had another agenda to pursue, a private investigation. When he dumped his purchases in the hotel room he called Gerard, his personal chauffeur, who arrived promptly. Sheen told him to go back to Sailortown. Soon after he was once again parked outside Muldoon’s; still slumped like a washed up drunk at low tide near the water’s edge. Sheen said he needed to be back at the hotel in an hour.

  ‘I’ll stick around as long as I can for you. As agreed. But if I get another call through the company I’ll have to take it, but I’ll come back,’ said Gerard. Sheen opened the door and got out. Gerard beckoned him back with a twitch of his head. Sheen bent down.