Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

After the hospital O’Neill had run Peter Kennedy through the Police National Computer. He found a string of minor offences: possession, affray, shoplifting. He looked at each offence, seeing that Kennedy had twice been arrested along with someone else: Martin Toner. He’d pulled Toner’s file. The mug shot showed a fifteen year old, staring defiantly at the camera. O’Neill recognized him. It was the same kid he’d passed in the corridor of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Toner’s record was longer than Kennedy’s. It featured similar offences: theft, assault, possession. They were both registered to the same school. O’Neill phoned the Principal who hadn’t seen either of them for over a year. ‘Thick as thieves, those two.’ His voice didn’t suggest he wanted to see either of them any time soon.

Toner was registered at an address near the bottom of the Castlereagh Road. O’Neill ran it through the computer. The occupier was a Siobhan Toner. Thirty-six years old. She also had a record: theft, drunk and disorderly, affray. Two years ago she’d received a suspended sentence on condition of attending an alcohol rehabilitation programme.

O’Neill staked out the address. Just after four he watched Toner come out of the house. The teenager wore a white hooded tracksuit and a baseball cap pulled so low it almost covered his eyes. When he walked, his shoulders rocked slowly from side to side with the classic hood’s swagger.

The detective thought about lifting him there and then but held back. He couldn’t make his move yet. People would see. If there was any hope of getting something out of the boy, no one must see. The kid would never risk being labelled ‘Toner the Tout’. If he did, it wouldn’t be long before he was joining his mate in the RVH.

He made his move on the Albert bridge. With Toner in the car O’Neill did a U-turn and headed up the Newtownards Road, out of Belfast.

‘Not going to the station?’ Marty asked, gazing out the window, his voice distant.

‘Not today,’ O’Neill replied.

‘You’re not some kind of fruit, are you?’

O’Neill smiled at the backchat.

‘You should be so lucky.’

They continued up the Newtownards Road in silence. Rows of terrace houses gave way to larger, suburban homes. At the edge of the city the carriageway skirted past the Loyalist Ballybeen estate. O’Neill saw the boy glance at the red, white and blue kerbstones. They drove past the estate, the carriageway rising as they left Belfast. For a moment the car felt like a plane taking off. O’Neill was about to mention it but stopped, wondering if Toner had ever been on a plane. He doubted it.

‘So where the fuck are you taking me then?’

O’Neill didn’t answer.

At the top of the hill Marty made out a small town on the other side. A sign read Welcome to Newtownards. Drive Carefully. The car slowed at a large roundabout with a shopping centre squatting on the other side. The car park was busy with folk doing laps, searching for a parking space. O’Neill drove in and turned towards the Burger King. He went to the drive-thru and ordered two Whopper meals with Coke.

He took the last exit from the roundabout and began driving along a country road, away from the town. After a few turns the car started to climb a hill. At the top was a gothic tower over 100 feet tall. Scrabo Tower was built by the Victorians and looked like a cross between a chesspiece and something from Lord of the Rings. O’Neill pulled into a deserted car park from where it was a few hundred metres up a path to the base of the tower. He opened the car door.

‘I’m eating. You can sit here on your tod if you want.’

O’Neill got out of the car and walked up the path. After a few seconds Toner followed, walking up the hill ten yards behind the cop.

At the base of the tower was a flat piece of grass with three benches. Each had a small brass plaque, dedicated to someone. You could see for miles. On one side was an expanse of water, Strangford Lough. Two arms of land reached down either side of the large inlet. On the horizon, a low winter sun was starting to dip below the grey band of cloud. Newtownards stretched out to the left. You couldn’t make out Belfast, which was out of sight, hidden behind the Castlereagh hills.

On the nearby golf course, an old boy in an Argyle sweater was teeing off. He made a swipe, topping the ball which scuttled away into some gorse. The man was 200 yards away and out of earshot. It didn’t stop Marty though.

‘You’re shee-ite. And so’s your jumper.’

‘Sit down,’ O’Neill said to him.

He opened up the brown paper bag and handed the teenager a small square box with a burger in it. Marty took it suspiciously.

‘What?’ O’Neill asked. ‘You’re going to tell me you’re a vegetarian?’

The boy smiled slightly, taking a bite of the burger. He took several chews before speaking with his mouth full.

‘You can buy all the burgers you want. I’m not telling you fuck all.’

‘Dead on,’ said O’Neill. ‘It’s your call. I mean, it wasn’t my best mate that just got seven shades of shite beaten out of him.’

The two sat eating in silence. Marty took the pickle out of his burger and flicked it away.

‘Frigging pickles.’

They watched the golfer poke around in the gorse looking for his ball. He scraped it out with a club before standing up to take his shot. This one was much better. The small white dot bobbled down the fairway, coming to rest just beside the green.

‘I spoke to Mr Johnson at St Matthew’s. He said he hadn’t seen you for over a year.’

‘School? Don’t make me laugh.’

‘He remembered you though. Said you were a hell of a footballer. Hattrick in the Belfast Schools Cup. He said Glentoran had been looking at you. There was even a chance you could have gone across the water.’

Marty smiled. He remembered the hat-trick as if it was yesterday, the boys jumping on him down the back of the bus on their way home.

‘I know what you’ve been up to, you and Petesy. You’ve been working. Out there grafting.’

Marty sat up straight. He could get done here if he wasn’t careful.

‘Out on your own. Fuck Molloy and Tierney and those boys, right? Yeah. You’ve got yourselves some gear and gone it alone.’

O’Neill was fishing, voicing his theory as to why Peter Kennedy might have been done. He seemed to be on the money so far.

‘We have almost nothing on you. That’s how I know. You and Peter have been at this a while, but you’ve managed to keep a low profile. Stay under the radar.’

O’Neill paused, taking another bite of his burger. He looked at the open space in front of him. The golfer had arrived at his ball on the green, 500 yards away.

‘Bet you he gets it in two,’ O’Neill said.

They watched as the small figure knocked his ball on the green. He walked over and tapped the ball towards the hole. It didn’t disappear.

‘Hey. What do I know about golf?’ O’Neill mused. Then: ‘Thing is, Marty, you’re doing what you’ve got to do. That’s all. The problem’s not you. It’s not Peter. The problem is the guy in the Hugo Boss suit, standing in the toilet of a nightclub, hoovering a gram up his. . Or the wee student at Queen’s, skinning up, dropping a few Es, then back to his lectures on Monday.’

O’Neill paused.

‘None of these guys are lying in the RVH like your mate. None of them are getting a baseball bat taken to them. None of them will be on walking sticks the rest of their life. I mean, sure, we could arrest you. Lock you up. But so what, right? Out here, we’re the least of your worries.’

O’Neill stopped talking. They sat there in silence, looking at the expanse of land stretching out below them. He was deliberately quiet, trying to get the kid to speak, to say something. After a minute Marty spoke.