Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

‘I’m not fucking going anywhere.’ His voice was almost a yelp.

‘Come on, Janty. Wise up. Sure you’ll be halfway down the road before they get near you.’

The group outside the pub saw the door open and became more agitated. One man ducked back inside. The Troubles weren’t so long gone that three men in an unknown car didn’t reek of something.

‘You see, Janty, it’s like that Van Morrison song. Things have changed. We don’t beat people up any more. We just talk to you and if you don’t want to talk, we let you go.’ O’Neill sang to himself, laughing. ‘Did your mama not tell you, there’d be days like this?’

The gang outside the pub had been joined by two more men, both of whom had tattooed forearms. The drinkers were gesturing towards the car, explaining the situation.

O’Neill leaned back and shouted out of Janty’s door: ‘Orange bastards!’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Morgan said. High-pitched. Desperate.

The gang of men started making their way across the street towards the car.

‘Ah, don’t worry about us, Janty. They might drag you out of the back, but we’ll get away OK.’

The men picked their way through the traffic, stopping cars, getting nearer the Mondeo. Janty had backed up across the seat, as far from the open door as possible. A tattooed arm reached into the car, trying to grab hold of his feet.

‘All right! All right! It was me. I done her,’ he screamed, kicking out at the hands.

O’Neill lifted the clutch, peeling rubber as the Mondeo shot off down the road. The car left an empty space that the rest of the men seemed to tumble into.

Two years later, thumbing through the file, O’Neill wished Laganview was that easy. There was no one he could lean on. No one to apply a bit of pressure to. Hell, he didn’t even have a name.

He walked into the coffee room and poured himself the third cup of the day. It was still only 8.30 a.m.

In the office next door DI Ward hunted through the bottom drawer of a steel filing cabinet. He pulled out a series of black notebooks, the ones he’d used in the eighties, back when he was in uniform.

He was looking for William Spender, the developer at Laganview. He knew he was in there somewhere. It was a complaint; although nothing ever came of it. Ward had been sent to interview him over allegations that he had threatened one of his neighbours. Something to do with an extension.

The investigation had been dropped. Out of nowhere, the neighbour retracted the complaint. Ward sat at his desk, thumbing through old notebooks, trying not to get sidetracked by the names and memories that leered out of the pages.

Next door, O’Neill continued to circle Laganview. The more he looked at the file, the less he believed it was a straight-up punishment beating. Punishment beatings were a warning, a signal that drug dealing wasn’t tolerated. A dead body was one way. Better though was a living, breathing victim. A daily testimony, in 3-D Technicolor. If the young ones saw their mate hobbling round on a pair of walking sticks, taking painkillers for the rest of his life, they would know what was coming to them. A punishment beating was about control. A way of making sure the hoods knew who was in charge. If you were dealing for someone and thought about ripping him off, there were going to be consequences. It wasn’t a crime of passion. Things didn’t get out of hand. O’Neill heard of incidents where they even called the ambulance, waiting until they heard the sirens before doing the guy’s knees.

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.