‘There’s a place called Coleman’s bog in Monaghan. There is a cottage there, used to be…’ his voice drifted off, his eyes closed and he stumbled, heading for the hole, but saved himself at the last second, and stood upright, but his arms were now limp by his side, the gun loose in his hand.
‘Used to be, but maybe not now. Find it, there was a path, it went from there into the bog, deep into the bog. Follow it until the land turns to water. There is a flat rock, where God never wanted it to be, and under it is the boy McKenna. I killed him, it was my turn… Bring him home to his mother. Shhhhh Shhhe’s waiting,’ said Fryer, swaying, his face white as a clown.
Sheen took another step, he was almost at the edge, gun still raised. Fryer nodded to him, and then he cast his rifle into the blackness below with a single, lazy flick of his wrist.
‘Ava! Ava, I am a police officer, come to me now, you are safe,’ shouted Sheen. Ava looked up at Fryer just once then walked hastily round the hole, stood by Sheen’s side. She had a plastic bag full of what looked like diamonds in her hand.
‘Run Ava,’ said Sheen. ‘Run as fast as you can, back the way you came and do not stop until you reach the bottom of the mountain. Go!’ he said and she did, darting off. Sheen counted the seconds, waiting for her to get over the crest of the hill.
‘Did you leave that bomb, did you kill my brother?’ asked Sheen, crying now. Fryer nodded, then shook his head.
‘Maybe I did; I did so much but don’t remember now. All I know is McKenna. I’m sorry,’ he said. Sheen blinked away the tears and stared into John Fryer’s eyes, and in his mind he heard a car door close and his feet hitting the street as he chased the football. He squeezed his eyes shut, put his finger on the trigger, and pressed.
Nothing, no blast, no kick. He opened his eyes, looked at the gun. His index finger was only partly covering the split lip of the trigger, the central plastic safety catch still locked in place. Aoife’s words, replayed but too late.
Safe Action trigger, two-stage. Basically, if you accidently flick the side of the trigger, nothing happens.
Fryer stared at him, slowly shook his head. ‘Time’s up mate,’ he said. Sheen stepped back as Fryer stepped forwards into thin air, and then he was gone, instantly swallowed whole by the darkness. Sheen dropped the gun, turned and ran. He got three paces. The hillside was rocked by an explosion, strong enough to kick him off his feet. He landed face first; coarse grass scratched his cheeks and forehead as small stones rained on him. A brick landed with a thud inches from his right ear. He raised both hands and held them helplessly over his head. He looked back. Smoke drifted from the hole. Sheen got up and cautiously walked back to the edge. He cupped his hands, tasted the acrid smoke, chemicals and burnt meat.
‘Fryer!’ he yelled into the pit.
‘John Fryer!’ he shouted again. A mocking echo was his only reply. It shrieked Fryer’s name, the voice of a condemned soul crying out from the abyss.
Part 5:
Blood Is The Rose.
Chapter 1
Belfast, Northern Ireland, present day, three weeks later. Monday 1st August.
‘Ava?’ Aoife’s voice was slurred and full of dope but this was the first time she had opened her eyes for him, and he had visited her every day in the Royal Victoria Hospital. First in the Intensive Care Unit, and when her condition moved from critical to stable, in this small room off the main High Dependency Unit. An armed officer had stood guard twenty four seven since she was admitted. Paddy had insisted, bugger the budget.
He took her hand and gave it a very gentle squeeze. And leaned in; resting his elbows on the crenelated blanket that covered Aoife’s lower body.
‘Aoife, this is Sheen, can you hear me?’ he whispered. She turned her eyes to the sound of his voice, rheumy and half comprehending, blinked once, and then she repeated the name of her daughter, her voice croaky and dry. It was not the first time; the nurses on duty had reported that Aoife asked the same thing each time she awoke, and each time she had been told that her daughter was safe. He needed her awake, they needed to talk. There was more than Ava’s well-being to worry about. Sheen carefully squeezed her hand again as her eyelids started to sink. Once again they opened, like the ever sleepy cartoon dog from the shows he had watched as a kid.
‘Ava’s safe. She has been staying with Marie. She told me to let you know that you owe her big time, said Ava eats like a horse,’ said Sheen, smiling. Aoife smiled back, slowly, eyes blinking. She licked her lips.
‘Here, try to drink some water,’ he said, held a half-filled plastic beaker for her, fat straw standing propped within. Each time he visited he had brought her fresh mineral water, cold, plus applied a lip salve. She gave him a small nod, and managed a sip, and a swallow, then another. He pulled the straw from her lips, told her to take it easy. It would be some time before Aoife was back on solid food. She winced as she swallowed, then looked at the thick cast that covered her left arm and shoulder, before doing a slow take of the little room. Her eyes rested on the far wall where Sheen’s jacket was hanging from one of the hooks.
‘My coat?’ she asked. After Ava, this was her priority. He knew why.
‘They found Cecil Moore’s phone in your pocket, Aoife. It was bagged, with your clothes as evidence. I don’t have it,’ he said. Aoife closed her eyes, and her heart monitor picked up a little pace, beeping more rapidly as it did so.
‘Aoife, I know he had something on you,’ said Sheen. Her eyes remained closed. He did not want her to shut him out, and any more excitement might bring a nurse to them, so he told her.
‘I got to the phone Aoife, after I heard it had been found on you,’ and she opened her eyes, watched him, alert now, a mix of fear and hope.
‘I paid one of the technical support team who were at the scene. It was a risk, but I deleted everything on it, and I took the SIM,’ he said. Risky was an understatement. So far the man he had paid had kept his mouth shut, but there had been a lot of questions.
Her eyes were wide open, she squeezed his hand once.
‘I need you to tell me what I should do. Paddy Laverty is a meticulous guy; he is asking questions, especially from me. Should I make it disappear?’ he asked. Aoife closed her eyes, squeezed his hand, harder this time, and nodded. Her heart rate spiked. A nurse walked past the door, paused briefly, looked at the monitor. Sheen smiled and nodded. She walked on. Sheen looked back at Aoife, her eyes were open again.
‘Then it’s gone,’ he said. The small chip was stowed away in little pocket of his jeans where it had been since the 12th of July.
‘Christopher?’ she asked, her voice less husky now, but still slow and thick.
‘He’s alive, but only just. There are guys who stepped on landmines in Afghanistan with a better chance of playing Sunday league footy. He will likely end up in the Heights, secure unit. Can you can believe it?’ said Sheen. Aoife nodded.
‘So chaos did not come to Northern Ireland after all,’ she said. Then she added, ‘By the way. what day is it?’
‘It’s been nearly three weeks, Aoife. It’s the start of August. You’ve been awake a few times, but we nearly lost you,’ he said. She stared at him, mouth a little open. He read the surprise, but also the fear, and the loss; time she had not known and could not regain. He understood.
‘The trouble subsided, but Christopher and Fryer did manage to suspend the Northern Irish Assembly,’ he said. She asked him to explain, and he quickly did. Unionists claimed that Fryer, who was never a Dissident, had therefore never really left the PIRA, and was still representing them when he killed first Jim Dempsey, and then shot dead a PSNI officer outside the Culturlann. They refused to do any further business with republicans in Stormont until someone proved that the IRA had really been disbanded and has gone away.
‘So Christopher and Fryer brought down the Government after all, just not the way they had intended,’ she said, smiling ruefully. Aoife closed her eyes, and kept them closed, her breathing turned slower, deeper. Sheen p
laced her hand on the blanket. There was more to tell, but that was enough for one day. Aoife’s eyes fluttered open as Sheen stood up.
‘Is Paddy pissed off, did he discipline us Sheen, for going against his order?’ she asked. Sheen gave her his very best relax and don’t worry smile, but did not answer her directly.
‘He has insisted on an armed guard down the corridor twenty four seven. Those boys are killing it for over time, so he can’t be that upset,’ said Sheen. She smiled weakly, her eyes closed again, and Sheen listened as her heart monitor dropped to the dreamy beat of a settling slumber. He stretched, checked his watch and decided that he had time for one more visit before he met with his new Serious Historical Offences Team.
Sheen reached down and gently smoothed the crease between her eyebrows. She did not need to know the rest, not now. After a tip off, Paddy had searched her locker in Ladas Drive. Found a quarter kilo of uncut cocaine, just as the caller said they would. She was currently suspended, full pay, pending investigation. Having Cecil Moore’s phone in her pocket helped complete a picture that already did not look good. Moore had managed to trap her yet again, even from beyond the grave. He hesitated, tasted her soft smell in the air. She’d warned him to never again take something from her she was not prepared to give. He was about to pull away, then instead, kissed her tenderly on the mouth.
Chapter 2.
Sheen let the door of Muldoon’s rattle close behind him; loud enough to cheat the music, and that, as before, was playing at a fair volume. A large yellow sign had been fixed to the pub’s outer wall: Property Acquired for Redevelopment. Similar posters were attached to the disused warehouses and half derelict homes outside.
The pub was all but empty, the stalls to his left were dark and silent, the pool table stood in shade on its small stage, cues fixed to the wall. No happy hour in Muldoon’s this Monday afternoon; and soon to be last orders if the sign out front was to be believed. Sheen traced his steps between the hazy squares of coloured light on the floor. The two regulars were on their stools, in shared study of The Racing Times, pencils in hand. As he got closer, Sheen could hear the muttered patter of their deliberations, punctuated by sips from the pints.
The bar man, Colm, emerged from under the bar. He gave Sheen a nod. ‘Stout?’ he asked, and Sheen agreed. He squinted into the deeper shadows at the end of the bar and saw the man he had come here for. Billy Murphy’s tweed hat was peeking over the lip of his Irish News, a headline about the stalled Stormont Assembly on the front page. Sheen smiled. He set a twenty on the bar where Colm was drawing his beer, glass at an angle.
‘And two large Bushmills, please,’ he said. Sheen took a stool beside Billy.
‘Well, they say that a bad penny always turns up,’ said Billy, the paper still held up covering his face. He slowly folded it closed and set it next to his part finished pint. He looked at Sheen, his magnified eyes blinking slowly; an ancient turtle appraising a fool in his presence.
‘Hello Billy,’ said Sheen. Billy replied with a twitch of his head and then flicked the closed paper at his elbow with the tips of his fingers.
’Suppose we have you to thank for this mess?’ he said. Colm set the pint of stout and Bushmills down in front of Sheen, plus change, an alarming amount of it, given the drinks he had just ordered. Sheen thanked him, then slid the big measure of amber over to Billy, who grunted, and nodded appreciatively.
‘I think we have John Fryer to thank for that, or more accurately, politicians who are out to make hay from the death of a police officer and Jim Dempsey,’ said Sheen. He took a draw from his pint, cold and dark and good. Billy did not reply. Elvis crooned out In The Ghetto. Sheen reached into the small pocket of his jeans where an artefact from the hunt for Fryer and Christopher weeks before was secreted away. He had left another in an envelope for Ava, gave it to Marie with strict instructions that only Aoife open it.
‘So, John Fryer just jumped down that well on the mountain did he?’ asked Billy. Sheen drained half his beer in a wide swallow. He could sit here all afternoon with this frosty, friendly man.
‘He really did. He could have killed me; he was wearing a suicide bag. But he chose not to,’ said Sheen. In his mind he replayed the moment he tried to pull the trigger. The sound of the dry click as the gun refused. Then that awful, sinking feeling; he’d tried to kill a man. And yet, Fryer had been selfless, shielded Sheen from a death which was too late for him to avoid.
‘What a hero,’ said Billy, and then he finished his pint, setting it down hard on the bar. Colm looked over, and then went about his business.
‘Did he admit it? I assume you asked him,’ said Billy. Sheen went to his whiskey, raised it a little so the light from the windows was trapped in the glass like molten rock.
‘Said he didn’t remember. Other things yes, but not Sailortown,’ said Sheen.
‘You believed that? Jesus, you probably do believe in the Leprechaun after all, like you told my wife,’ said Billy, shaking his head.
‘I think it was the truth for him,’ said Sheen.
‘It was him alright,’ said Billy. His face was set. ‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ he said.
‘Billy, I am sorry about your nephew. Nothing I could have done would have brought him home. I understand that now,’ said Sheen. Billy did not reply, he pushed his stool back and jumped down, walked away along the length of the bar.
‘Going for a pish. I’ll see you about Seamus,’ he said, his voice was thick and cracking, head down. Sheen watched him stride off, turn the corner at the end of the bar. So much for goodbyes.
‘Slainte Billy,’ said Sheen and drained the Bushmills in one gulp, the liquid igniting in his stomach and spreading through him instantly. He stood up, took the stone from his pocket. If he saw Billy again, it was not going to be in this pub. Billy probably lived in a council house, soon to be relocated to somewhere like Poleglass, a million miles away from all he had ever known and loved in Sailortown. Sheen called over to Colm, asked him for a pen. He took Billy’s Irish News, set the Bushmills on the front page and wrote a message in the blank margin:
My name’s not Seamus. Thank you, Billy.
Sheen checked to make sure the two punters and Colm were not looking, saw it was all clear and quickly dropped the diamond into the whiskey. It fell to the bottom of the glass with a faint plink. Sheen made his way outside, breathed the stagnant freshness of the dockside air. He reached inside the small pocket again; pulled out the SIM card he had stolen from Cecil Moore’s phone and walked over to the edge of the quay. He bent it between his thumb and index finger, and then folded it until it split in two and threw the bits into the muddy water. It was Aoife’s secret and he would protect it while she could not.
Sheen stared into the filthy water where the SIM had already disappeared and then glanced back at the decrepit shell of Muldoon’s. Soon enough, all this would be gone, and with it the last remnants of a Belfast childhood he could not know. Sheen turned from the water, walked away. He didn’t look back. It was the past, a land he no longer needed to know.
Author’s Note
BLOOD WILL BE BORN is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental, and any reference to real events is done so through the lens of fictional storytelling. That said, Belfast is a real place and many of the events in the book do take place in real locations. You can visit the Culturlann when you are next in Belfast. However, I have taken the liberty of changing things when and where it best suited my story. Hopefully readers who live in the real places mentioned will allow me this creative licence.
Other places such as Belfast Heights and Lincoln View are as fictional as the plot itself.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my family for their ceaseless support and words of encouragement. When I found it hard to believe, my wife Sacha, daughter Leila and son Jack kept the faith and knew it would happen. My three sisters Jennifer, Leann and Rosemary, my sister in law Nina and my parents were always there an
d never doubted, thanks guys.
My mother in law Geri Dogmetchi gave valuable practical assistance as well as moral support. Thank you for the forensic science books and masterclass, for firmly guiding me to Crimefest 2016 in Bristol and insisting I throw caution to the wind and Pitch an Agent with BLOOD WILL BE BORN. Thanks for introducing me to Scott Bradfield’s Online Novel Writing Course at the City Lit. Without Scott’s capitalised, brilliantly caustic feedback and his command to Write Every Day, this would be something I still talk about doing, some day.
Thank you to my first readers, your insightful feedback and positive encouragement was invaluable; Dervinder Guram, Han Bee, David Bailey, Charlie Hawes, and Geri. Thanks to Donal McCann for his skills as a photographer, and friend, in giving me a new public face, so much better than the real thing. Thanks to my friend Kenan Aksu for showing me the way back, no hurries, no worries.
Thanks to Endeavour Press for taking a chance on an unpublished scribbler, and to Toby who suggested I send a submission your way.
About the Author
Photo © 2017 Donal McCann Photography
Gary Donnelly is a writer and teacher who was born and raised in west Belfast. After attending a state comprehensive school, he read History at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge and has lived and worked in London since the late 1990s. In his time he has been a Belfast cemetery manager, a business conference organiser in the City, a council gardener in Neasdon, and gained a further degree in Psychology, which he teaches in north London. Gary is married to the lovely Sacha and has two non-returnable children. He can cook up a storm and play a mean guitar (after a few drinks).
BLOOD WILL BE BORN is his debut novel and the first book in the DI Owen Sheen series. Adrian McKinty, the Edgar Award winning Irish crime novelist had this to say about the book: "A twisty, violent, cop thriller set in post conflict Belfast where hard men lurk in pubs and back alleys awaiting their chance to meet out the old kind of justice from the dark days of the Troubles. Brilliant. Gary Donnelly is an exciting new voice in Northern Irish noir."
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