Some of the shops were shuttered and closed, and most open for business remained dark, with signs saying CASH ONLY in the windows, ghost workers illuminated in the pale light of halogen torches. The large supermarket, where he got Fryer’s tobacco, and the pound of chuck steak he told Christopher they needed, were still lit. They must have a backup generator for the place. That could only last so long.
He found the Reebok trainers John Fryer demanded and the Celtic FC replica top he told him to buy in a sport’s shop. Christopher checked the price. John said the trainers were cheap but John was from a different era. Unfortunately for Christopher, John’s trainers had become retro cool while he was locked away. They were not cheap anymore. The Celtic top was more expensive than the trainers. Total rip off. But John Fryer said only the trainers would do and they needed the Celtic top, so he would have to fork out. Outside a darkened electronics and lighting store (Light Fantastic), Christopher thumbed through the last of the cash in his wallet, not a lot left. He could see the battery powered strobe Fryer told him to look for; the sort of flashing light that could be fixed to the side of a home, or the post of a security fence. Like the meat, this was part of the plan to get inside Jim Dempsey’s later, and a brilliant idea. But a pricey one, after this there would be almost nothing left of Christopher’s cash, and no more in the bank.
Christopher nodded, but still did not enter the shop. Only right he should be broke, all great artists were. His reward would be the masterpiece of chaos that was in the making. He returned his wallet to his jacket pocket and made a move toward the entrance, but stopped. The gun, hard and heavy, was on his hand. No real need for it, but he’d packed it all the same. Daddy’s voice, sudden and intimate, spoke.
He pointed a rifle at you, son.
Christopher flinched; Daddy had been quiet all day, yesterday too. With his return, Christopher now remembered a snippet from his dream this morning. Daddy’s voice had been different then, choking and rasping, as only a hanged man could sound. And he had been angry, said nasty things. Christopher closed his eyes. Today Daddy sounded fresh as rain. And as always, he was correct.
‘Aye, he did,’ said Christopher. John Fryer, on his feet at the dining room table, his Armalite levied at Christopher, finger on the trigger.
And he had something to say about your Granny. Questioned your God given mission.
‘Can I trust him?’ asked Christopher. Before Daddy could reply, another voice spoke, this one to his right side, not in his head. He felt, as much as heard Daddy slip away, like fine sand escaping his fingers. Christopher clenched his jaw, opened his eyes, unable to keep the blade from his words.
‘What?’ he hissed. It was a child, maybe ten, her mongoloid eyes looking at him with amusement. She had her fair hair tied with a green ribbon, left hand a box with flyers, a bucket with a coin slot in the lid in the other.
‘Wanna donate to the Irish language mister?’ the retard said. She shook the bucket of money, her tongue escaping from the side of her mouth with the exertion. Christopher snatched a flyer, rooted in his pocket and gave her a handful of copper shrapnel. She smiled, but didn’t thank him.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said, turning back to Light Fantastic.
‘Who was you speaking to there?’ she said. Christopher glanced round, there was no one watching. He lowered his face to hers, hands on his thighs. She was still smiling, her eyes twinkling.
‘I was speaking with God. And he said you need to learn some manners. Now fuck off,’ said Christopher.
Ten minutes later, he threw his purchases on the back seat of the black taxi, reached for the keys and found a balled up piece of glossy paper in his pocket, the flyer from the mongoloid. Christopher frowned, smoothed it out.
Lean Leat go Liofacht 2016! Irish Summer School Saturday 10th July to Monday 12th July. Ages 5 to 10. Culturlann Centre, Falls Road, Ireland.
He knew the place, headquarters of Belfast’s Gaeltacht or Irish speaking quarter, not far from here, further down the Falls Road. The retard kid was probably one of their pupils. The place would be full of them this weekend, ugly wee gibberish talkers like her. Christopher tapped the open page with the nail of his index finger, each touch counting the beat of his thoughts, an idea germinating, terrible, beautiful. He could taste the stale, oily air of the underground car park, hear the muffled hum and honk of traffic from the road outside, but his mind was elsewhere. He was in the armoury, back the house in Bangor, doing an inventory. The plastic explosive he had scavenged from the arms dump was barely enough fireworks for what was planned for Jim Dempsey’s cronies and Uncle Cecil in the next few days, and the almond smelling 808 was barely enough to blow a dustbin lid off. He had detonators, but what good were they with nothing to detonate? Oh for the want of a nail.
Christopher’s finger tapped, his eyes far away, looking for what he knew, in his gut anyway, he was going to find, the answer that would let him create something spectacular, and awful, the thing that would tip the balance and create a landslide, carry Belfast, the whole worm eaten country, into the pit. During the Troubles, there had been such events, seminal moments, points of no return. This would be even bigger but only if he could find what he needed.
Christopher’s finger stopped tapping; a smile creased his face, cold as a crack in packed ice. The cans of petrol, standing in the armoury, their purpose now clear. When he had purchased them, he had not understood. But Daddy had known. And it was Daddy who had told him to bring them home.
What was it the mong had asked him?
Wanna donate to the Irish language mister?
‘I believe I do,’ said Christopher, his smile widening. He put the key in the ignition, gunned the engine; blue smoke belched, its big sound filling the low space. He reached to close the door and stopped, hand on the half open window. Christopher got out and approached what he had seen resting in the darkened corner, the taxi’s engine still rattling. Before Daddy spoke, Christopher had already seen its purpose; a sign, if any more were needed that his was meant to be.
You need that for the new mission, you can borrow it.
Resting against the wall on its plastic hand grips, was a two wheeled trolley, the kind used by premises staff to move heavy items. Also the kind of thing used by delivery men. Hanging off one handle was a white cotton coat and hat, the kind Christopher had seen fish mongers wear.
‘I see it Daddy, I see it,’ he said. It was heavy, solid steel and Christopher grunted as he lifted it up and into the back of the taxi. It fitted, barely, wedged on the floor between the back doors. Christopher stood back and scanned the back of the cab; unless someone went snooping it was hidden from view. He threw the cotton coat and hat over it. Christopher jumped in and slammed the door, noted that the trolley was also invisible when looking in the rear view. He crunched the taxi into reverse and pulled out. When Daddy spoke, he hit the brakes, the squeal piercing in the concrete bunker.
This spectacular is on a need to know basis, and John Fryer does not need to know. Do you understand?
Christopher said yes, he did. Need to know only. Daddy asked him if he was ready, whether he had the stomach and heart for what must come?
‘Thy will be done, Daddy, thy will be done,’ said Christopher as he drove the taxi from the underground shadows into the daylight of a Falls Road afternoon.
Chapter 22.
The first thing Sheen did after Gerard had dropped him back at his hotel was swallow three pain killers. Then he set to work on his idea board. He had just pinned the last photograph to the board when there was a knock on his door. He limped over and put his eye to the peep hole, and saw Aoife outside and did a double take. He saw Aoife’s face in extreme close up. There was a red crease encased by tender looking bruised flesh on one side of her forehead. Sheen opened the door.
‘What happened to your face?’ she said.
Sheen stood aside to let her enter, which she did. ‘You first,’ he said, pointing to her forehead.
‘I walked into a door,
actually,’ she replied. She looked him in the eye and Sheen could see no lie there.
‘Seriously?’ he said. She pulled off her coat and dropped it on the bed next to his leather jacket.
‘Aye, I was in SecuriTel’s main office. I got the recording, opened the door to leave, and turned to say something to the creep that gave me it. The door was on one of those weighted spring things, very quiet,’ she said, then pointed to her forehead, looking honestly embarrassed.
‘You’re a bloody muppet mate,’ he laughed.
‘Probably, but you didn’t get that lip walking into a door. What’s the story, Sheen? Did Nelson, or one of Moore’s boys come and see you?’ Sheen gave her a questioning look, and then shook his head again, no longer smiling. She meant that skin head meat packer who had been skulking about the Tiger’s Bay community centre earlier.
‘Nothing like that,’ he sighed. What the hell, she was no mug and the truth, as Billy Murphy had just instructed him, was just the truth.
‘I got hit with a bottle on the back of the skull, blanked out for a second or two and woke up with my face on the concrete. Got this and a rose on my head for the trouble,’ he said, pushing his tongue against the swell on his lip, making it protrude momentarily. Aoife looked at it, and then her eyes narrowed.
‘Was it those football hooligans? The Celtic and Rangers lot that I saw throwing bricks and bottles near the Albert Bridge on my way back?’ she said. Sheen raised his eyes to the ceiling in a way he hoped looked both resigned and bashful. It was a gift and he was happy to accept it under the circumstances.
‘Honestly, I doubt they had me marked as a target, I just got in the way,’ he said.
‘Bollocks to that, you were assaulted Sheen. If you can ID one of them we can have them for this, on top of anything else they have been lifted for,’ she said.
‘And what good will that do us, the case? I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and frankly, I should have known better,’ he said. She moved a step closer.
‘Let me see. You said you passed out, you’re probably concussed,’ she said, now taking his hand in hers and leading him to the bed. It was cool and lithe. Sheen obediently followed and sat down.
‘No I am not,’ he said. She was standing in front of him, her chest at his eye level. He could see the trace of a white bra under the thin cotton of her shirt, her holster and weapon snug under her arm, shielded by the gentle swell of her left breast. Her fingers went to his head.
‘Oi! Steady on!’ he shouted, flinched.
‘Sorry! Sorry, I just needed to check the skin was not broken,’ she said.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘No, you must be Irish with this thick head, but there’s an evil bruise. It needs iced,’ she said.
He pointed to the plastic glass he had filled from the ice machine near the lifts on the bedside table where he had set it. In fact, he had not applied anything to his head since leaving Billy Murphy at Muldoon’s. She worked her fingers down the side of his head, both her palms loitering cool and smooth on the side of his face, rasping against the dusting of stubble now formed and then she removed them, the caress of her touch gone.
‘Maybe this will shake a few memories loose, then,’ she said and stepped out of his space. As she did, Sheen’s thoughts filled with the name Billy Murphy had gifted him; John Fryer. Aoife’s warmth was whisked away, like smoke up a chimney.
‘Maybe so,’ said Sheen. ‘This is what I have done so far,’ he said, pointing at the wall opposite the bed.
He had replaced a reproduction oil depicting Victorian Belfast with the large cork notice board. A line of A4 white paper ran from left to right and on it Sheen had started a timeline, starting with the death of Esther Moore on the far left on Friday afternoon and progressing forward. Colour pictures of the crime scenes were pinned to pages, notes and headings orbited the prints.
‘Tells us where we are, and gives us, gives me an overview of the scene details, these things are often important,’ he said. ‘What about the recording? Not Moore, I take it?’ he asked.
‘Not Moore, though we have a voice at least,’ she said.
‘Still, I say we take a trip down to interview Moore ourselves. What Irwin does not know won’t hurt him,’ said Sheen.
‘No,’ she snapped. Sheen paused, surprised at her abrupt response. She looked back at him sheepishly.
‘There’s no need, because I just visited him. Thought I should check, on his alibi, so I went down there. His pub is close enough to SecuriTel, it made sense. He’s golden, and the oily bastard was not giving up a grain, there is no point going near him,’ she said. Sheen stared at her for a second, looked at the gash on her forehead.
‘Bit stupid, going there alone,’ he said. A bit underhand more like. Underhand like slinking off to Muldoon’s to pursue a hidden agenda?
‘Because I am a woman, is that what you mean?’ she said.
‘Because Moore is a dangerous guy, you said so yourself, and because we are supposed to be working this case together,’ he said.
‘Snap decision, one of those things, I didn’t have time to come and get you,’ she said.
‘I’m not competing against you,’ he said.
‘Get real, Sheen. Irwin plans to throw me to the dogs at the first opportunity, having you turn up was a bonus,’ she said.
‘Forget Irwin. You thought to check the alarm company, not me. This is your town, you have the edge, and so far you have come closest to giving us the break we need,’ he said.
‘I don’t think my big idea will take us far, not unless we have a named suspect’s voice to compare it with.’ She took out her phone and played him the recording. Sheen nodded to the board, happy to focus on the case.
‘Then let me speak you through this,’ he said. No reply, Sheen carried on. ‘The headline for me is one word: Contradiction,’ he said.
‘Why?’ said Aoife. Sheen pointed at the image of Mrs. Moore.
‘When I first saw Esther Moore this morning, and the way she was posed, it made me think of something, could not place it at the time. Now I see it. There was a spate of torture killings here in the 1970s, mostly Catholics. One guy was dumped in Tiger’s bay. He had his throat cut with a butcher’s knife; the cut was so deep it almost severed his head from his body. They carved UDA into him, a sick taunt, or a way of claiming the victim,’ he said. ‘His body was laid out prostrate, with arms outstretched, like in prayer, a final insult after death to their Catholic victim,’ said Sheen.
‘So let’s say she was laid out in a similar way. So what?’ said Aoife.
‘Not similar, she was arranged in exactly the same way,’ he said.
‘So what are we saying? Some extreme Dissident group is dishing up the worst of the past and serving it back to Cecil Moore?’ she said.
‘I don’t believe this is the work of Dissidents. Mrs. Moore was laid out as though in worship, but not because of her religion or politics. She was prostrate before the words on the wall, written in her own blood,’ he said.
‘The Nietzsche quote: From Chaos Comes Order,’ she said.
‘Nietzsche was a nihilist, in its purest form, they think we have no loyalties, we are without purpose, apart from maybe to destroy, and then die,’ he said.
‘The killer laid Mrs. Moore in worship of nothing. That is the point, the contradiction. She is a loyalist who has been served up in worship of the absence of loyalty,’ he said. ‘This killer has taken something from the past that was fixed and darkly full of meaning,’ he said.
‘And he has turned it round. Killed a loyalist’s mother like loyalists once killed random, despised Catholics,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Now take a look at this,’ he said, and jabbed his finger on one of the printed images from the substation. Aoife shook her head slowly, the crease formed between her eyebrows, right on cue.
‘What exactly am I supposed to be seeing here?’ she said.
‘Look at the graffiti,’ said Sheen.
‘That�
��s weird,’ she said.
‘Why?’ said Sheen. She had clocked it, he knew she would.
‘It’s confused, jumbled up,’ she said.
‘It’s a mess, chaotic,’ he said. He ran his finger slowly over the image, reading the acronyms there as he did so. ‘PIRA, UVF, UDA, INLA,’ he said.
‘All paramilitary groups, active in the Troubles, but from both sides,’ she said.
‘It’s a mixing pot, all the players in one place, all the old loyalties merged and melted. There’s no doubt that it has been done by one person, and I think this was the work of the killer, the man who planted the bomb,’ he said.
‘Look, did you notice this?’ he asked, his finger traced the shape of the letter A, then followed the path of the circle which enclosed it. She squinted, and then nodded as Sheen’s finger completed its orbit.
‘Yeah, I see something, not sure,’ she said.
‘I recognise it from the streets round Highbury, from when I was a kid,’ said Sheen. ‘A for Anarchy sign, the punks used to paint it on their leather jackets, remember?’ She shook her head. Sheen had a few years on her, he needed to explain.
‘Anarchy’s the message, chaos over the IRA, the UVF above all the old allegiances. Chaos rules over all I suppose,’ he said. She turned and walked over to the bed, sat down on the corner and started to shake her head again.
‘It’s creative, but this is not police work, not as I know it. You think this joker is serving up the past, mixing it, making it confused? That’s not a motive,’ she said.
‘It could as easily be glue sniffing teenagers spraying the contents of their frazzled brains on the side of the substation followed by a Dissident head case planting a bomb some time later. Sheen shook his head. She was wrong.
Blood Will Be Born Page 13