Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

‘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.