Phelan Brown looked somewhere between his early seventies and dead already. He sat opposite them on a high backed chair that looked as though it could be raised and lowered automatically. He was wearing a brown polyester cardigan which, like the sallow skin of his sagging cheeks, seemed to be one size too big. A long cigarette was burning in the glass ash tray on the arm of the chair, filling the room with its stinking, bluish smoke. He caught her looking up at the cross on the wall. She noticed his brown eyes were tinged with yellow.
‘My son made that, took him years,’ he said, gesturing to the cross, then to the photo on the wall.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said.
‘I’d rather have my boy,’ he replied, lifting the cigarette and drawing in the smoke.
‘We understand you called emergency services this morning,’ said Sheen. Phelan took another drag, set his cigarette on the grooved lip of the ash tray and nodded once. He told them that he had just settled into the chair by his bed to complete the crossword, sometime between eleven and twelve. Did not know exactly when, he had little use for the clock.
‘I had two candles set up by the bed, but the light was no good at all, so I moved over to blow them out, but I couldn’t do it first time,’ he said. His voice was a hoarse half whisper. Phelan took another suck on his smoke, this time holding the half-finished cigarette between his first two fingers.
‘Did you hear something?’ she asked.
‘I thought it was a firework going off, but quieter, like it had been set off inside,’ he said. Aoife thought about Cara the dog, lying prostrate in a pool of blood.
‘How many bangs did you hear?’ she asked.
‘Not sure,’ he said, then produced a big white cotton hanky from his cardigan and coughed three times, a dry bark. She saw the pain in his face, as he smacked his lips, withdrawing the hanky.
‘Can I get you some water,’ she asked. Phelan Brown shook his head, his eyes pinching closed as he smoked.
‘I thought it was just kids, you know, they’re forever setting off bangers. Used to be Halloween, but it’s started to happen all the time. The police should do something,’ he said. Aoife nodded, willing him to get to the point.
‘It took me a few seconds to get over to the front windy. Was dark, nothing to see, I had already turned away, and then I saw this guy, from the corner of my eye,’ he said, squashing the last of his smoke into the ashtray.
‘Description?’ said Sheen. Brown shrugged his coat hanger shoulders, shook his head, his hound dog jowls quivering.
‘I’ll tell you what I saw, but you won’t believe me,’ he said. ‘Your man was dressed up pretending to be a peeler, RUC uniform, the hat, everything,’ he said.
‘A police officer? Was he armed?’ Aoife glanced at Sheen. This was new, and important. A renegade copper was not on their radar, this could explain the fact that Fryer’s accomplice was a ghost, the only forensics they had was a boot print, maybe a single hair.
‘Probably, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Can you give us a better description, build, hair colour, white, mixed race, age?’ she asked.
‘Smallish, smaller than thon fella,’ said Brown, nodding at Sheen.
‘But big set, big barrel chest, walked like a hard man,’ he said. ‘Not sure about age, younger than me, older than you? Probably white, but it was dark, you know? The hat covered his face, no idea about hair,’ said Brown.
‘This is good, Mr. Brown, this is really good, is there anything else you can remember, any detail at all, it might be important,’ she said. Phelan Brown looked suddenly weary. He paused, produced a packet of Regal King Size and a lighter from his other cardigan pocket, got another smoke started and set it down.
‘Your man walked out of my view, I waited, and then I saw another guy, coming from the same direction as the peeler. He was running, looked like a wee scumbag, you know the type,’ he said. Aoife shook her head, she wanted his words. Brown’s idea of a trouble maker was probably a teddy boy in drain pipe trousers and a razor comb.
‘Obviously he was white. Wearing a Celtic top, had a baseball cap on. Couldn’t see his mug, but he looked young, younger than the other one. He was leaner, no fat on him,’ he said. The baseball cap was a match for Fryer’s mystery visitor at the Heights, but in Belfast, a young man wearing a baseball cap and a Celtic top, was not much to go on.
‘That’s it. I let my curtain fall and went over to the bed. Called 999 on the mobile. You know when the police showed up? Nearly three hours later. Some young guy was in here earlier, he said that I should have reported gun shots, they would have come sooner,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Mr. Brown did you go to sleep immediately?’ she asked.
‘Awake,’ he replied.
‘Please think, was there anything else, something you might have seen, or heard, anything that could give us a better clue on who these people are?’ she asked. Brown shook his head. He paused.
‘This is probably nothing,’ he said. ‘A few minutes later I heard a car, but it was bigger, you know, like a heavy vehicle engine, it started up and idled for a few seconds then it must have driven off. This is a cul-de-sac, so you get used to the sounds of the neighbour’s cars, this was different,’ he said.
‘A motorbike, maybe?’ said Sheen.
‘Or a Land Rover, like one the police use?’ said Aoife. She felt Sheen look at her as she asked this question. He understood what she had meant, if it was a copper involved, a police Land Rover would be perfect as a getaway vehicle.
‘Definitely not,’ said Brown quickly, answering both questions. Her excitement ebbed, but she was not going to give up, Brown was the best eyewitness in this case so far.
‘I’d say it was a black hack,’ he said nodding, looking pleased.
‘A taxi cab?’ asked Sheen.
‘Aye, that’s what I just said mate, a black hack,’ said Brown, looking at Sheen like he had lost his mind. He turned his attention to Aoife, she managed to suppress the smile that was playing at the sides of her mouth.
‘You know what I’m meaning?’ he asked. Aoife nodded; it made sense. A black taxi was perfect, even better than driving a police vehicle. Ubiquitous and all but invisible, hard to notice in a place where every third vehicle on the road looked virtually identical. Like wearing a Celtic top, or a baseball cap.
‘Thank you, Mr. Brown, you have been very helpful,’ she said, standing up.
‘Not sure I have. In my day I would have went out and tackled them myself, but my day is well and truly gone,’ he said, raising himself up.
‘We can see ourselves out,’ said Sheen.
‘No doubt, but I’m seeing you out,’ he replied. Sheen opened the front door and thanked Brown for his time. Aoife stood on the threshold. There was a holy water font hanging on the inside of the door frame, its contents full. She turned around; Brown was leaning on the yellow radiator in the hall.
‘You know, Mr. Brown, the RUC’s gone, we are the PSNI, different times,’ she said. She was picking him up on his comment about the man dressed as a peeler. Brown had said he was wearing an RUC uniform, not PSNI. It was a small thing, but it mattered. For things to change, new messages had to be repeated.
‘You must think I’m not wise, I know who you are. I am a committed peace processor you know, I wasn’t messing with you when I said he was wearing an RUC uniform. That’s exactly what your man was wearing, the old bottle green, I remember it well. They put my door in enough times looking for my son,’ he said. Aoife nodded, thanked him, and turned to go but stopped. Phelan Brown may need a body transplant but his brain was working just fine. He was standing in the doorway, the front door half closed.
‘Mr. Brown, you said something else earlier, you said that this man was pretending. Why did you say that, because of the RUC uniform?’ she asked.
‘That was part of it, but mostly because of what he had on his feet. He was wearing a pair of white trainers, no peeler that ever came to my door wore white trainers, yo
u included,’ he said. ‘I heard what happened to Jim Dempsey. You just remember that I called the police last night, there were other people I could have called first, but I called you,’ he said, reaching inside the door. Phelan Brown flicked his fingers at her, cold water rained in fat drops on her blazer and the top of her head. The holy water; a blessing. ‘Now go and catch these boys,’ he said, and closed the door.
She quickly made the sign of the cross and walked after Sheen.
Chapter 4.
It was half eight on Sunday morning. Fryer sat in the black taxi, parked on the Falls Road, outside the Culturlann Irish language and Cultural Centre. His hands were caked with dried blood that was not his own. An orange plastic bag stuffed with money rested on the passenger seat beside him. It was crammed with bundles of mostly Sterling, also some Euros and Dollars. To pass the time he had counted three bundles. Each was a thousand. There were a lot of bundles, enough to make him a rich man.
Despite what he had just done to get the money, Fryer cared little for the contents of the bag. The person he was waiting to set eyes on, however, she was a different matter. For her, he potentially cared a great deal. So here he was waiting and watching, when he should be lying low. He had not foreseen his Sunday morning beginning like this. Already, Fryer’s world had been transformed utterly, and he’d not even had a cup of tea.
Fryer had waited out the death of Saturday night at the dining room table. Same spot as the night before, same ash tray filling up. Pale dawn light had edged out the darkness beyond the curtained window, but as he set fire to another smoke, Fryer knew he would not sleep.
His mind was a washing machine, full of soiled laundry, and its cycle was not yet done, black thoughts turning again in his brain, as they had done all night. Jim Dempsey’s gurgling screams, his revenge served at last, but when replayed Fryer felt nothing at all. And though it had fed just hours before, Fryer knew the Moley would return. Whether Dempsey was living or dead, the Moley would want more blood. He reached into his pocket, felt the razor blade he found in the bathroom cabinet. Fryer had covered the blunt edge with a strip of sticky bandage, a makeshift finger grip, wrapped a waterproof plaster over the blade for a sheath. He had been caught out in the taxi last night when the Moley had visited. Next time, Fryer would be ready.
Slosh and turn.
Cara the big dog, panting out his last breaths as Fryer cradled his huge head. No way had Cara attacked Christopher. Not without the kill word. What sort of sick bastard would shoot a beautiful creature like Cara, just for the craic? What other reason could he have had? The kid’s voice, as though in answer, incoherent and full of sleep echoed down the stairs. Reminded Fryer of the dream chatter during his time in prison and then while residing at the Heights. In the dead of night the kid had let go one of those laughs of his, shrill and scream like, breaking the still of the house, Fryer had flinched.
Slosh and turn.
But most of all, it was Dempsey’s final words before Cara toppled him and finished him.
No! John, don’t! I have something else, you need to know.
What was it Dempsey thought was so valuable, he might trade his life for? Had Fryer been sold out, was that how he had ended up in the H Blocks, as he’d always suspected? Dempsey wasn’t going to tell Fryer any more tales, but Quigley the Accountant was the man to ask. If anyone banked secrets, apart from Dempsey, it would be him. And he knew where to find him; the money man ran a 7/11 convenience store on the corner of the Falls and Donegall Roads. And anyway, according to Dempsey, the Accountant had his money, his pension. Maybe that was a lie, but only one way to find out.
Slosh and turn.
Fryer stood up and stretched; his tendons and joints popped and snapped like an old ship on the swell of the tide. He reached for his Armalite on the table beside him, withdrew his hand. In the Sunday morning stillness, a gunshot would wake the dead. Plus, all he wanted was a quick chat. The Accountant was a clever man; he’d see sense, allow Fryer to make a withdrawal, money owed and information buried.
Fryer picked up the taxi keys from the small table by the front door.
The kid was in full voice once again, calling his Daddy’s name, dreaming away. It did not sound like a good one to Fryer. Good, maybe Cara had not died after all; maybe he was bearing down on him, hot breath on Christopher’s face. Fryer allowed himself a humourless laugh that dried up quickly; he knew better than most about bad dreams, the kid was lucky that his were confined to sleeping.
He opened the front door and sniffed the air; the damp odour of the dead leaves heaped beneath the hedge in the front garden, the paraffin whiff from an oil heater on the air, but nothing else in the half light. He clicked the front door closed, and then took a step out, cautiously checking the road in both directions from his raised vantage point. All was quiet and entirely empty.
In the driver’s seat of the taxi his fingers did their accustomed work. He popped the roll up between his lips and sparked it, then wiped the condensation from the driver’s side of the windscreen with the cuff of his tracksuit top. Fryer released the handbrake and the heavy taxi quickly rolled down the hill, swallowed whole by morning mist which had settled in the dip. After a few metres, he twisted the key and the engine whinnied, coughed and gunned to life, now a good distance from the kid’s home. Let him sleep, and let him dream.
He had a clear run from Bangor into west Belfast, found the 7/11 still shuttered, no car parked outside. Best to keep moving, there was more chance of being seen if he stopped. Fryer took the taxi into the adjacent warren of terraced and semidetached houses, the St. James’ Road area.
His old haunt.
He drove past the house in which his son Kieran had once slept as a baby. Fryer stopped and reversed and looked at the front door, now double glazed glass, painted light blue in his memory. This was where he used to steal in at night and take Kieran in his arms, rocking the baby boy in the darkness, feeling safe from the Brits patrolling the streets, looking for men like him. Feeling safe; the Moley could never touch him when he nursed the little beacon of light that was his baby boy. Was Kieran’s mother still there? He thought not, the place looked totally different, and even if she was, she held nothing for him.
Kieran was gone, dead, his light snuffed out.
Fryer started moving and the taxi took him deeper, deeper into the ladder of streets, this time pulling up outside a house on a tree lined avenue, the high fronted homes here telling of more prosperous days long gone. It took Fryer a few seconds to register, then it came to him, like a weighted and bloated corpse bobbing to the surface of his mind.
This was the home of the retarded boy, McKenna. Fryer could not remember his first name. He had forgotten that, hard to believe it, but it was true, even now, sitting outside the home where he and Mooney had laid in wait that day before picking him up off the street.
On cue, the PVC front door of the house juddered, and then opened. A grey haired woman, dressed in a blue towel dressing gown, a lit cigarette in one hand staggered out, and then steadied. Fryer remained stock still, watching. He doubted she could see him from this angle. He did not want to take the chance.
It was McKenna’s mother. Drink worn and haggard, but it was definitely her.
Her eyes were half closed and black streaks of mascara were smeared in lines on each side of her face, a washed up Cleopatra. In her other hand was an empty bottle of Teacher’s whiskey. She slowly descended the steps leading to the small front garden, and lifted the lid of the blue wheeled bin, tossed the bottle in. Fryer heard it clink and clank as it landed on other glass. She turned. Her bony shoulders sawed at her thin dressing gown as she climbed the steps, and shut her front door. Inside that house she probably had a framed photo of her son, on a table or on the mantel piece, maybe black and white. Maybe she talked to it as one drink turned to ten night after night, but never enough.
She’d been a teacher, smart. Made a lot of noise about her son’s disappearance, went to the papers. But in the mid-‘70s o
ne missing youth was no big deal, a drop in the ocean of loss and violence in a city gone bad. There were other noises too, her son was an informer, he had run off to England and she knew it, he was a rat, he got what he deserved. There was writing on the walls that said so. Fryer had daubed some of it himself. In a place like St James, tout was a label that stuck, never forgotten or forgiven.
Fryer sat in the taxi and waited, listening to the tick of the engine cooling and the sound of small summer birds singing and answering one another, celebrating the dawn, all things made new. He ran his fingers over the raised Braille of his scarred forearms, reading the lines, too many to name, his past engraved, no longer hearing the birds. He gunned the engine and pulled away, this time telling the taxi where he wanted it to go.
Fryer watched the Accountant’s big Peugeot salon car slow and turn left into the narrow entry that was creased between the 7/11 store and the kebab shop on the corner of the Falls Road where he had parked and waited. It was barely wide enough but he took the turn with the well-oiled assurance of a man slipping into a favourite pair of shoes. The car disappeared from sight.
Fryer had seconds to observe the driver and make sure it was the man he wanted, but that was all it took. The Accountant looked older, of course, had lost most of his hair, but it was him. That same look of inherent tidiness was unmistakable, remaining hair neatly clippered, his face clean shaven. Fryer saw a shirt with a collar and tie, square wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked like a pharmacist; all he needed was the white coat. He used to wear the brown smock of the grocer and maybe still did.
Blood Will Be Born Page 19