Dark Dawn (8 page)

He thought about Wilson’s warning. About not calling this a punishment beating. The political ramifications. The need to be careful. The Chief Inspector might get his wish, after all.

O’Neill sighed and prised himself up from his desk. He went outside to the car park. Two white Land Rovers sat in the shadow of the station wall. He lit a cigarette. Three uniforms stood by the back of one of the Land Rovers, sharing a story.

The door from the lock-up opened and Sam Jennings walked out. She had her hat pulled down, her short blonde ponytail peeking out the back.

‘Hey, John,’ she said. ‘Or should I say, Detective Sergeant O’Neill?’

‘That’s right.’ O’Neill lifted three fingers, tapping imaginary stripes on his shoulder. ‘You need to stand up when I walk in the room.’

‘Hah. You forget I knew you when you didn’t know your radio from your pepper spray.’

‘Fair point.’

Jennings glanced over at the three male uniforms at the back of the wagon. She saw her shift stretching out in front of her. Stuck in the Land Rover, taking a ribbing for chatting up CID. From what she could tell, Musgrave Street was a boys’ club. She felt as if she was being watched, that the guys on her shift were still waiting to see if she could cut it when things turned rough. It had been the same in Dungannon. A load of lads waiting to see if she wasn’t another empty uniform. The PSNI playing politics, filling another bullshit equality quota.

‘So how’s Musgrave Street working out?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You got a good shift?’

Jennings raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘I’ll let you know. There are a few cowboys round here, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Guys who think they’re hard lads, that they can do whatever they want.’

‘Yeah? Just keep your head down. And anyway, what was wrong with Dungannon? Last I heard, you were entering boxing competitions.’

‘Listen. It’s official. Dungannon’s been pacified. I thought I’d come to the big smoke. Show you boys how it’s done.’

‘And how are the Belfast streets treating you?’

‘Yeah. They’re lovely. Spent most of yesterday being told to fuck off by twelve year olds.’

Uniform had been ordered to stop and question any young ones within a three-mile radius of Laganview.

‘Yeah, that was my fault,’ O’Neill answered. ‘The Belfast hood though – there’s a lot of spirit there.’

‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’

O’Neill felt the memories coming back from Police College. Sam was quick. She had an answer for everything and plenty of street smarts. She glanced over again at the Land Rover.

‘And what about you? How is . . .’ Sam hung over the name, not quite able to remember.

‘Catherine?’ O’Neill hesitated for a second. ‘Bit of choppy water there.’

‘Sorry to hear that. You have a wee girl, don’t you?’

A loud whistle came from the Land Rover across the car park.

‘I’ve got to go, John. Listen, we should catch up though . . .’

She was off before O’Neill had time to answer.

He watched as they piled into the back of the Land Rover, swinging the doors shut behind them. The engine fired to life and the wagon reversed out of its space. Inside, Jennings looked out from behind a small rectangle of blacked-out glass. She watched as O’Neill took a final drag from his cigarette, tossed it aside and walked back into the station.

Marty stared at the blonde in her underwear. She looked straight into his eyes and pouted invitingly. He reached out towards her.

Suddenly Petesy grabbed him and yanked him down, behind the magazine rack.

‘Petesy, what the fuck?’

‘Shut up,’ Petesy whispered. ‘Fucking Johnny Tierney just walked past.’

In front of the Spar, Tierney stopped and took out twenty Regal Kingsize. He lit one and walked on. Marty and Petesy crept up to the display of birthday cards. They peered out over pictures of cats, dogs and orang-utans, in various states of confusion. Tierney was across the street, outside Tony Loughrin’s house. He had his hands cupped against the window, trying to see inside.

‘What does he want at Locksy’s?’ Petesy asked.

‘How the fuck should I know?’

Locksy had been in the same year as them at school. He had been obsessed with Man United, and when they had a kick-about he would provide a running commentary. ‘Giggsy to Keane, Keane to Cantona, Cantona
shoots!’
He’d been dealing for Tierney for three months now.

Marty pulled Petesy outside and they made a run for it, going down an entry beside the Spar and along a back street.

Ten seconds later Tierney had Locksy by a combination of earring and ear. The fifteen year old groaned. His nose was broken and a red patch of blood was spreading down the front of his coveted Man United away strip. Tierney twisted the earring. Locksy screamed. He had opened the door, half-asleep, and been greeted by a punch in the face. The teenager had been in bed, recovering from the weekend. He knew not to answer the door, but he’d been dead to the world, and thought it was only Micky.

‘Where’s my money, you wee cunt?’

Locksy couldn’t speak, only yelp. His ear was on fire and felt as if it was being ripped from the side of his head.

‘Aaaah, Tierney! Wise up. My fucking ear.’

‘Your ear is the least of your fucking worries. Where’s my two hundred quid, you wee cunt? And don’t have me to ask twice.’

Tierney towered over the scrawny teenager trembling in his boxer shorts and white T-shirt. He picked Locksy up by the ear and marched him upstairs. Tierney knew what he was doing. Two hundred quid or not, he knew whatever happened to Locksy would make the rounds of the estate. People had short memories: they needed to keep being reminded that he wasn’t to be fucked with. It was about the two hundred quid, but it was about more than that. Cunts talk. At the moment they were talking about how Locksy’d taken the piss out of him, sold his gear and spent his money. That would change. It was one thing he was sure of.

In the bedroom Locksy grabbed a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the foot of his bed. He had no idea how much was left. He had been on his way to see Tierney when he bumped into Micky. It was Friday night and they had meant to check in once they’d taken the pills, but the Es had kicked in and they’d ended up forgetting.

Locksy pulled a roll of crumpled notes out of the pocket, wincing at the size of it. He was well short and he knew it. Tierney held the money and counted it silently. As he flipped the last note, he punched Locksy round the head.

‘A hundred and thirty quid? What do I look like? The fucking Northern Bank?’

He then punched Locksy in the stomach, sending the teenager to the floor.

‘Please, Tierney,’ Locksy groaned. ‘I’ll pay you back. I swear.’ Locksy had seen what Tierney had done to Jackie Magennis and knew he could be a real nasty fucker. There were no two ways about it.

Tierney kicked the fifteen year old in the ribs, then again, and again. Locksy curled up on his knees, gasping for air. The older man knelt down and grabbed the small hoop earring, ripping it from the teenager’s ear. The boy screamed, clutching the side of his head. He hunkered into an even smaller ball, fearful about what might come next.

‘This is your last chance, Locksy. Do you hear me? Otherwise you’ll end up like that cunt down by the river. You owe me, son. And don’t have me to come looking for you again.’

There was a party at Micky’s on Saturday night. He’d been spreading the word and everyone was going to be there. Marty was flush from his trip to the Holy Lands with Petesy the night before and still had a load of Es. It would be mental. Earlier in the day three different people, folk he hardly knew, had asked if he was going to the party. Word had started to spread. Marty Toner was somebody to know.

That morning Marty had gone into the city centre to get himself a new jersey. He’d heard that Cara was going to be at Micky’s. He was after a black Ralph Lauren number. A hundred and twenty quid’s worth. He hung around outside Debenhams, waiting until the security guard was talking to the girl on the make-up counter before slipping in. As he strode behind them he heard the sleazy bastard introducing himself. She must have been half his age and leaned over the counter, enjoying the attention.

In the menswear section Marty marched straight to the labels and, without breaking stride, took a Ralph Lauren from the shelf. The guards were always on the lookout in that part of the shop and he kept walking to the back, where they kept the underwear and dressing gowns. It was pensioners’ stuff and there wasn’t too much nicking went on back there. He bent down, pretending to tie his shoe and snapped the electronic tag off with his Stanley knife. Marty put the jumper on and zipped his tracksuit over the top. He strolled out casually, smiling at the guard as he passed.

‘All right Paul, big lad? Ever get those crabs sorted out?’

The guard frowned. The girl looked at her admirer, her face curling downward in disgust.

Marty felt invincible. Security guards? Dozy fuckers.

Outside he took off his tracksuit top, catching sight of himself in the mirrored windows of Castlecourt. He put his hand in his jeans pocket and felt the two hundred pounds he had made with Petesy the night before. Happy days, he thought.

On Thursday they had made their usual trip into the Holy Lands, a grid of fifteen streets, made up of three-storey terrace houses. It was Belfast’s student village, a five-minute walk from Queen’s University and the pubs round Shaftesbury Square. Landlords packed as many twenty year olds into damp, mouldy houses as they could legally get away with.

Marty and Petesy had been dealing there for three months. They’d grown bored with hanging out at the bottom of the Ormeau Road, waiting for folk they knew to walk by.

‘Those students are loaded,’ Marty told Petesy.

They started walking round the Holy Lands, approaching anyone who looked a bit scruffy, asking if they wanted to score. An hour later they’d sold their last six quarters.

They knew Johnny Tierney was also on the lookout for them so the Holy Lands were a safer bet as well. They’d be on the move, not standing round like a couple of sitting ducks. The Holy Lands put a bit of distance between them and the lower Ormeau. You weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting to get jumped.

After a few weeks Marty and Petesy had regulars. Nine or ten addresses. Marty called it their paper round. He walked out of the Holy Lands shouting, ‘Tele-eeagh!’ imitating the newspaper vendors that sold the
Belfast Telegraph
in the town. They had made over two hundred quid in less than three hours.

The students were mostly culchies, guys from Fermanagh, Tyrone and Derry. Gaelic football flags hung on the walls in living rooms. Petesy kept watch outside while Marty went in. After a couple of weeks people knew him and were pleased to see him.

‘Marty mate, what about you?’

In a house on Fitzroy Avenue two guys were buying coke. Marty looked at the thick books piled up on the desk. He wondered why anyone would want to read something like that.

‘What are all the books for then?’ he asked.

‘Law,’ one of the students replied.

Marty laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. You might be a useful guy to know some day.’

The guy didn’t get it. Or didn’t think it was funny. For a split second Marty felt like some kind of servant. As if, despite the fake enthusiasm, he wasn’t really wanted. Like he was making the place dirty. Like he was some form of necessary evil. The student pulled out his wallet and handed over the money. Marty took it without saying anything. He gave him the gram of coke and left.

The George was the nearest pub to the Markets. A cold breeze came off the river, whipping into two men who stood smoking outside. Joe Lynch walked past, hearing them mutter about the weather and the fucking smoking ban.

Inside, a dark oak counter stretched the length of the bar. Black and white tiles covered the floor and a row of optics glistened with amber vials of whiskey – Black Bush, Paddy’s, Dunhill’s.

Lynch ordered a pint of Guinness and took it to a booth along the wall. From there he could sit quietly, inconspicuous. He could also look out across the whole room, an old habit, but one he never felt like changing, and especially not now.

He had hoped that a bit of normality, a few pints, might help reset the body clock. Failing that, it would at least give the sleeping pills a hand. He remembered Marie-Therese from a couple of mornings back: ‘Try gin.’ He smiled, thinking about her attitude, a two fingers to life and whatever it threw at you. She was just right. On the way to The George he’d walked past her house and considered asking her out for a drink. It was too blatant though. It needed to be something casual, to look spontaneous. During the day, that was the way to go. A cup of coffee. Just talking. No obvious subtext.

Every few minutes the snug at the back of the bar erupted in shouting and roars of laughter. There was a group of men and by the sound of it they were well on their way. Lynch looked round the bar, recognizing a number of faces from the Markets. The old man with the Jack Russell had nodded as he had walked in. Lynch liked seeing him, liked the thought of him and his dog, doing everything together. That was loyalty. Real loyalty. The dog never left his side. Right then it was curled up at the foot of his bar stool.

At the back of the pub the snug let out another roar. Lynch looked round. The group were hidden by the glass partition that topped the seats. He couldn’t make out any faces. He couldn’t make out Sean Molloy, busy holding court. He couldn’t make out Johnny Tierney, banging his empty glass down, ordering someone to get a round in. The rest of the pub were oblivious, or were acting that way. See no evil, hear no evil. Lynch could tell from the fake indifference that whoever was back there had carte blanche to do whatever they wanted. No one was going to say boo to them.

He was about to get up and leave when a half-drunk pint appeared beside him. It was the dog man. The wee Jack Russell trotted over after him.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Work away.’

The old man groaned as he shifted into the seat. He introduced himself with a wheezing, raspy voice. Arthur McNally. He was five foot nothing and well into his seventies. He motioned to the dog.