Dark Dawn (15 page)

Life was a game to them. It had to be. The only commandment that mattered was
Thou shalt not get caught.
And it wasn’t just the peelers you had to worry about. In fact, the police were the least of your worries. Everywhere on walls you saw the letters UTH – Up the Hoods. FTIRA – Fuck the IRA. There was not one of them didn’t know someone who had been done by the Provies, given a hiding, been told to leave the country, or worse. O’Neill thought about Janty Morgan. He must have arrested him half a dozen times. He thought about Morgan’s backchat, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. It was as if he knew this was it. This was as good as it got. You took the money and ran, and you kept running, until eventually, some day, a hand would reach out and grab you and that would be it. Game over.

Earlier that evening O’Neill had called at the Royal Victoria Hospital to talk to the surgeon who headed up the Orthopaedic Unit. Mr Winters was in his early fifties and for the past ten years had been running the reconstructive team. He was a minor celebrity in the world of knee surgery. Practice makes perfect, O’Neill supposed. They had coffee in the empty canteen of the hospital, a couple of ghosts, existing at odd hours, in spaces vacated by normal, everyday life. They swapped stories, talking about their experience of Belfast’s hoods. Winters was quiet, reflective.

‘They’re pretty subdued by the time they get to me. They will have been medicated in the ambulance and stabilized on the ward. Then they’re prepped for surgery. It’s sunk in by then. After the shock. Being shot seems to be better than taking a beating. For them, I mean. Not me. A bullet-hole might not look like much . . .’ Winters paused, remembering who he was talking to. ‘I imagine being shot’s quicker, maybe less personal. After a beating, when you talk to them before surgery they’re always quiet. They’ve seen enough to know what their life’ll be like when they come out. The crutches, the walking sticks. The pins and plates. The pieces of metal. Then there’s the aching joints. Not to mention arthritis by the time you’re thirty.’

Winters took a drink of his coffee and rubbed his chin.

‘I don’t think it’s the physical injury though. That’s not the real damage.’

‘What do you mean?’ O’Neill asked.

‘Well, it’s as if there’s a change in them. They become sullen. Silent. Resigned. You see it in the follow-up appointments. It’s as if they give up. As if the beating is like some final, irrevocable proof. The world, telling them that they really
are
just a piece of shit, that they’re completely worthless, that their life means nothing. People can come along, beat you half to death, and no one says anything about it. When they wake up from the surgery you can see it in their eyes – that expression – no matter how well things go in the operation. It’s there six weeks later, and at the six-month visit. It’s as if, deep down, they always suspected that they were nothing. And now, there’s no denying it. They have the proof.’

Back at Musgrave Street O’Neill closed the file and reopened it at page one. He remembered Ward’s words when he first joined CID.

‘Sisyphus, son . . .’

O’Neill thought about all the drug players they’d pulled in over Laganview. He thought about the hoods that uniform had stopped. Records the length of your arm, every last one of them. He wondered what the police’s job was in this whole game. They did nothing more than guard the great revolving door – nick them, question them, charge them. Six months later, you were picking up the same people, off the same streets, for the same shit.

O’Neill stretched upwards before hunching back over the Laganview file. He’d have time to go through it once more, before eight o’clock, when he’d head back to the empty flat in Stranmillis.

It was Tuesday night and Marty and Petesy were in the Holy Lands doing their paper round.

Petesy had been walking about with a face on him all night. The plan had been to go round to Micky’s after and smoke a few joints. They were going to bring the gear. Micky’s mum was due back from Benidorm tomorrow so it wasn’t a big one, just a few of the lads. Micky’d nicked a copy of the new
Grand Theft Auto
from the Virgin in town. A night of carjacking, shooting cops and picking up prostitutes. All from the comfort of your own home.

Marty had been bored so he called round earlier in the day but Micky wouldn’t let him in. The ski-masks had scared the shit out of him and he still had bruised ribs from where he’d been hit at the door.

‘Tonight’s off,’ Micky told him.

‘What are you talking about? Because of Friday?’

Marty and Petesy had sat round the back of the petrol station for two hours before going home. They only heard about the visitors the next day.

‘They held a fucking knife to Locksy,’ Micky said. ‘I can’t be having it. My ma will do her nut. She’ll turf me out. You can’t come round. It’s too much.’

Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He remembered the cheering when he’d arrived at the party on Friday night. Micky had practically thrown his arms round him and now he didn’t want to see him.

‘Aye, Micky? Yous are all happy enough to score some gear. Happy to have us take the risks. Get fucked on the pills that we bring. What? And now you don’t want to know? It’s all different, is that it? Well, away and fuck youself.’ A bit of spit flew out of Marty’s mouth as he gave off.

‘Wise up, Marty. It’s not like that. This is only for a wee while. When things—’

Marty turned and walked away.

He walked to the edge of the estate and sat near the bank of the Lagan, looking over at the train-tracks on the far side. The Dublin train went along that route, every couple of hours. Marty wondered what things were like down South. He lit a Regal and began tossing stones into the river. He was on his second cigarette when Locksy came up behind him and sat down. He had a plaster down his right cheek from where the knife had opened him.

‘All right, mate?’ Locksy said. ‘Give us a toke.’

Marty passed the cigarette. Locksy sucked on the butt, took it out of his mouth and had another quick toke before handing it back. The two boys sat for a while, neither speaking. Eventually Marty broke the silence.

‘Sorry about Friday night.’

‘Aghh. Don’t worry about it. They’re fucking cunts.’

‘Yeah.’ Marty took a draw on the cigarette. ‘Micky reckoned it was me and Petesy’s fault.’

‘I wouldn’t sweat it. Round here, sooner or later everybody gets a turn. It could have been worse, he could’ve really started drawing on me with that fucking knife.’

Locksy’s face was smooth. He wasn’t properly shaving yet. His eyes looked towards the horizon and the Castlereagh Hills in the distance.

‘Micky’s a bit freaked out,’ Marty said.

‘Micky’s always freaked out. The guy’s a fruit. I wouldn’t worry. Best you can hope for is what happened the other night. When they come for you, if you’re lucky, you’re not there. Micky thinks Friday was a nightmare. He’s wrong. It was a fucking result. That’s what it was.’

Marty pulled out the packet of Regal and offered one to Locksy. They sat by the edge of the river, smoking together. Further along the bank they could hear the rumble of diggers flattening the old Belfast gasworks. The site was being levelled and workmen were erecting blue fence panels to seal it off. The place had lain derelict for years but they were building a hotel and some offices once the weather got better in spring. Marty spat on the ground in front of him. When he had finished his fag he stood up, telling Locksy he’d see him later, he had to collect some more gear for that night.

Later, walking round the Holy Lands, Marty could tell Friday had spooked Petesy. He came out of their first call, a gram of coke on Damascus Street, and found him pacing the pavement. Marty looked at him. Petesy might as well have had a sign on him saying
dodgy
in foot-high letters.

‘There’s a fucking parked car over there,’ Petesy said, his voice shaking. ‘The black one. Guy’s been sitting for ten minutes.’

‘All right. Calm down.’

Marty was casual. He looked up the street, taking in the car without making it obvious. A man was trying not to look out at them, talking into his mobile phone. He was in his late twenties and had a shaved head and a gold earring. Marty could make out a tattoo on his neck which crawled up and out of his collar.

‘OK, Petesy. Walk slowly – and be ready to bolt.’

They started down Damascus Street. Suddenly a door burst open in front of them.

A blonde girl came bouncing out, almost running into Petesy. She was wearing thick foundation, four-inch heels and a short black skirt. She bounded over to the car and got in, leaning over to kiss the driver. The car fired to life and peeled off down the street, its bass blaring.

Marty breathed a sigh of relief. Petesy was all over the place. He wasn’t thinking and he was getting inside Marty’s head now and all.

Normally Petesy was totally cool. He could disappear at the drop of a hat. Even in broad daylight, he’d slide into a doorway, duck behind a hedge or just sit on a wall. He’d look bored, blend in, cloak himself in casual indifference. People walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Tonight though, he wasn’t at the races. Pacing up and down. Jesus Christ, Marty thought, it was only a matter of time before he came out of a house to see the peelers with Petesy up against a wagon. He was so wired he’d probably get Marty lifted and all. He decided to bring him with him. They’d go in together and at least then he could keep an eye on him.

After three calls Petesy started to relax. He liked going inside, liked looking at the posters on people’s walls. He reckoned every second place had the mad one of Jack Nicholson from
The Shining,
his crazy face sticking through the door. Petesy liked the books piled up on people’s desks.
Wherever Green is Worn. People’s History of America. Utopia.
He wondered what they were all about. He thought about sitting in someone’s flat, reading one, maybe having a spliff while he was at it. He wanted to know what was so fascinating that people would sit for hours, just reading. He imagined being a student, going to Queen’s. All the birds. It would be just like school, except without the boring stuff. He’d heard that if you didn’t like the teacher, you could just get up and walk out. He’d learn about other countries. About America. He had a cousin in New York who had been there on 9/11 when the planes hit them buildings. Now
that
was a terrorist attack. None of this blowing up a bookies or shooting a peeler rubbish.

In a flat on Cairo Street two guys were buying some blow. In one of the armchairs a girl was lounging, reading a magazine. She wore ripped jeans and had long brown hair. Petesy thought she looked like that bird from
Lord of the Rings.
She had a small nose and skinny features, offset by a pair of dark brown eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at her, as if something was forcing him. Sure, he knew girls that were wee rides, ones you’d want to have a go at, but this one . . . she was really beautiful.

Petesy caught himself staring and looked away. After a few seconds he glanced back and saw her looking at him. He gave a faint smile and she smiled back. Petesy felt like he’d been lifted off the carpet. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her things, to tell her—

‘Hey.’ Marty was half way out the door. ‘Time to go.’

Petesy followed him out of the flat. He wasn’t brave enough to turn round but he thought he could feel the girl’s eyes on him as he walked out the door.

That was the last call of the night. Marty was happy. He was trying not to think about Sean Molloy or Johnny Tierney, focusing on the fact it was Tuesday and he already had two hundred quid in his pocket. Their fifty-fifty split would mean a hundred each. Petesy barely spoke as they walked out of the Holy Lands and down the Ormeau Road.

‘Two hundred tonight.’

‘Right,’ Petesy said quietly.

‘Not bad for a few hours’ work.’

‘Aye.’

‘Reckon we’ll double up by the end of the week.’

‘Aye.’

‘I think I’m a fruit.’

‘Aye.’

Marty stopped walking.

‘OK. Enough. Will you frigging wise up? This is like working with a zombie. If you don’t want to come out, just say so. There are plenty of other guys who’d like to make a bit of money.’

‘They don’t all have cousins in the Ardoyne though, do they?’

The two of them walked on in silence. Marty stopped at the Shell garage and bought a can of Coke. He handed Petesy a Mars bar he’d nicked while the manager wasn’t looking. He smiled at Petesy.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’

Petesy didn’t laugh. He carried the Mars bar in his hand, not eating it. Finally he spoke.

‘How hard do you think it would be to go to Queen’s?’

Marty spat out a mouthful of Coke. He wiped his chin, laughing.

‘What the fuck would they want with you?’

‘What’s wrong with me?’

Petesy was sullen. Marty tried to backtrack.

‘It’s not that. I mean, what the fuck would you want with them? Have you seen the state of these students? Sitting around all day. All their fucking books. Homework and everything. Didn’t you get enough of that shite at St Matthew’s?’

‘
This
is fucking boring. The same every day. Sitting round. Nicking stuff. The PlayStation. Going round the Holy Lands. Getting wasted. I don’t want to spend all day just waiting until Johnny Tierney gets his hands on us. Besides . . .’

‘What the fuck’s wrong with it?’ Marty snapped back.

Petesy paused. ‘I don’t know. I mean, it’s just . . .’

‘What else do you think there is, Petesy?’

Marty was hurt. It wasn’t Petesy slagging off what they did, it was the idea of him not wanting to hang about any more. Petesy was his mate. His best mate. Micky could go fuck himself. So could the rest of them. He’d always have Petesy though. Least that’s what he’d thought. Butch and fucking Sundance.

‘Fine,’ Marty said. ‘Fuck off then. See if I fucking care.’

‘Don’t worry. You’ll still be able to get the gear off my cousin.’

‘Do you think I give a fuck about that?’ Marty stormed off, throwing his can of Coke on to the main road. A car blared its horn. Marty gave it the finger and walked on.