Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

After the appointment he’d walked round the town for two hours. He’d tried to go for a pint in the Kitchen but it wasn’t there any more. It had been knocked down and was a building site for a new shopping centre that would stretch half the length of Victoria Street. At home Lynch lay in front of the TV, flicking between programmes. The choice was between cooking and DIY. Some chef ran round a kitchen telling people to fuck off every ten seconds. On the other channel people were renovating some house they’d bought, plotting how to make their millions on the property market. At half ten Lynch had had enough. He popped two pills and went to bed.

Awake at four in the morning, Lynch went downstairs to make a cup of tea. There was no milk. He thought about taking it black, before dismissing the idea. On the small table lay a job application, staring up at him accusingly. The work was on a building site that needed labourers. Lynch had filled in his name and address. For a moment he’d felt lifted, like he was getting somewhere, even just putting pen to paper. It wasn’t long before he came unstuck. There were large blank boxes: Previous Experience, Employment History, References. He wondered what he was supposed to do with them.

Lynch went through to the lounge and lay down on the sofa. There was an old black-and-white war film on TV. American GIs were trying to capture an island from the Japs. The soldiers were cleanshaven and wore neatly pressed uniforms. It was war as it was supposed to be. Well ordered. Us and them. When guys got shot they threw their arms in the air and fell over. There was no blood, no screaming, no pleading for their lives. There was no one begging to be let off, telling you to wise up, that they had a wife, that they had kids, please. . Television had a lot to answer for, thought Lynch. He turned the volume low in the hope that he might doze off.

At 8.15 he awoke and put his jacket on to go out for milk. As Lynch stuck his head out of the door he noticed there had been a break in the rain. The next shower didn’t seem far away though. Across the street a young girl was struggling to squeeze a buggy out of her front door. When Lynch couldn’t sleep he had watched her silhouette, pacing the floor at all hours of the morning. She was slim with bobbed blonde hair. The make-up did a good job of covering the shadows under her eyes. Lynch hadn’t seen any sign of the father in the two months he’d been in the Markets. He jogged over and held the gate open for her as she steered the pram through.

‘Thanks. It’s like driving a frigging tank, this thing.’

‘How old is the wee one?’

‘Five months.’

‘He’s cute.’

‘He’s a she.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Lynch raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Ciara.’

The two of them walked in silence for a few yards. She was on her way to the Health Centre. Lynch knew her routine. He knew the routine of almost everyone on the street. He couldn’t help it. Memorizing people, their habits, their movements. The girl went to the Health Centre every Thursday. On Mondays and Fridays her mother came, just after nine, to clean the house and help with the child. There was no father, at least none that had been anywhere near the house. Lynch feigned ignorance.

‘So where yous off to now then?’

‘Health Visitor. Nosy cow. It’s like being under surveillance. If you don’t go and see them, they think you’re killing your own child.’

‘Still,’ Lynch said. ‘It can’t be easy.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Is her da not around to help out?’

‘Her da’s an arsehole. Frigged off when he found out I was pregnant. Wanted an abortion. And before you start, I’m not like the rest of those wee girls, getting pregnant to get myself a house and all that. I was working before I had her.’

Lynch didn’t reply.

‘Anyway. It’s just as well he frigged off. Couldn’t have handled the lack of sleep. I’m up half the night.’

‘Don’t start me off,’ Lynch said, rolling his eyes. ‘Who would have thought getting a bit of kip could be so difficult?’

‘You tried gin? Works for me every time.’

Lynch laughed. The girl smiled at him sidewards, enjoying a bit of adult company.

‘A right pair of zombies, we must look,’ he joked.

‘Hey, speak for yourself, mate.’

Lynch smiled. It was good to be out walking, talking to someone, doing something normal. He introduced himself. Her name was Marie-Therese. He wondered about asking her if she fancied a cup of tea or something. A cafe somewhere. After she got done with the Health Visitor.

At the end of the street two men leaned against a parked car. As Lynch and the girl approached they got up and stood shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking the pavement. Lynch had never spoken to either of them, but he knew Tierney and Molloy by sight and reputation. The girl started to speak.

‘So what are you-’

‘Listen, love, you head on there. I’ll catch you later.’

The girl looked up and recognized the two men. She immediately stopped talking and put her head down, pushing the buggy onwards. The men parted to let her pass, looking her up and down, like she was something they might eat. Molloy spoke.

‘A bit young for an old fucker like you, don’t you think? Now a good-looking guy like me. .’

Lynch didn’t respond. He kept his hands in his pockets, sizing up Molloy and Tierney. Molloy was the bigger of the two of them. He knew he could put Tierney down pretty quickly, then concentrate on the other one. He couldn’t tell yet if they were holding. If they were it was a different story altogether.

‘Mr McCann has sent for you.’ Molloy gestured at a grey Ford, parked at the kerb. ‘Get in the car.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Lynch said.

He didn’t move. He stared at Molloy, seeing that he was calling the shots.

‘Listen, Clint Eastwood.’ Tierney chipped in. ‘We’re not asking you. Get in the fucking car.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to McCann.’

‘We don’t give a fuck what you’ve got to say.’ Tierney had a mouth on him. Molloy was more deliberate, weighing things up.

Lynch didn’t move. They weren’t holding. If they were, they’d have shown something by now.

‘You might have moved into the Markets with Hughesy,’ Tierney continued, ‘and you might have done your time together. The big heroes. Up in the Maze. The Cause and all that.’

Lynch half-listened to Tierney, keeping his eyes fixed on Molloy.

‘You see, Hughesy’s gone, he’s not here any more. And when he goes, so does your pass for the Markets.’

Lynch had known this was coming. Tierney was doing all the talking, but it was Molloy that counted. He was the one to worry about.

‘You need to come and see Mr McCann,’ Molloy said. ‘Need to have a chat with him. There are no freeloaders here. Everyone has to earn their keep.’

‘I’m retired.’

‘Retired!’ Tierney exclaimed. ‘Away and fuck yourself. Retired? Don’t make me laugh.’

Tierney was a slabber all right, but Lynch had heard the stories and knew he could back it up. Meanwhile, Molloy was trying to do the same thing Lynch had done earlier: figure out if he was carrying.

Lynch took his hands out of his pockets. With his right hand he reached round into the belt at the small of his back. There was nothing there, but Lynch kept his hand hidden, holding on to the leather.

Molloy saw it and his eyes narrowed. He knew the stories, knew that Lynch had several bodies on him. The Lynch Man. The Lyncher. Molloy knew he wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t shirk at putting a bullet into either of them. Lynch found himself sliding into character. The passive face, the eyes taking on an empty, hollow stare. Molloy looked at him. He thought he was bluffing, but he couldn’t be sure.