Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

‘I want to talk to you about Ashfield Drive.’

He’d done it himself and watched as the implications slowly dawned on people’s faces. You didn’t need to raise your voice. They knew who you were, what you were capable of, and now you had an address. Sometimes folk didn’t believe you, so you gave them more. The sister, the mother and father, the cousin. Skegoneill Road, Eia Street, Henderson Avenue. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. .

Lynch stood in the bedroom, surprised at how easily the old patterns, the familiar logic of intimidation and threat, re-formed in his head.

Would O’Neill back down? For some reason Lynch didn’t think so. Anyway, it didn’t matter. He knew McCann would never buy it. He wanted the peeler gone, off the street, eliminated. It wasn’t a discussion, it was an order. There was only one way this was going to go down.

That night in the Markets, Lynch crashed on to his bed and fell sound asleep. The job had given him a focus, a purpose. He had been filling his head with the minutiae of O’Neill’s routine and it had worked like a drug. When the alarm went off at seven he felt as if he’d slept for a week.

Lynch had decided on the spot. It would be outside the flat in Stranmillis, just as O’Neill arrived back from work. McCann could have someone at The George, watching the Mondeo. They would call when it pulled up and again as it left. Lynch would lie in wait, ambush him as he put the key in the door. It would be late, which meant little chance of witnesses and plenty of time to disappear.

Before leaving the house, Lynch took the shoe-box out from under his bed. He lifted out the tea-towel and unwrapped the Browning. He kneeled on the floor and took the pistol apart and cleaned it. He worked slowly and methodically, wiping and oiling each piece, before reassembling the weapon. This had been a ritual from years ago, before heading out on a job. The last thing you wanted was a gun jamming or a misfire at the critical moment. He knew two trigger men who had been shot themselves because of it.

At 11 p.m. Lynch was in position. There was an empty house on the opposite side of the street, three doors down from O’Neill’s flat. A hedge, 6 foot high, hid a small front garden. He hunkered down and waited. O’Neill was outside The George for the third day in a row. He had gotten sloppy, either that or he was desperate. It didn’t really matter, it was going to be the end of him. After an hour and a half, Lynch’s phone vibrated in his pocket. O’Neill was on his way.

Three miles away, the Mondeo pulled out of May Street and away from the bar. O’Neill was tired and had gotten nowhere in the last three days. Even taking the kid out to Scrabo, choked up as he was, hadn’t given him anything.

He drove up the Ormeau Road, away from the city, away from the station, away from The George. He thought about not going home, just driving through the night, getting out of there. It was a romantic idea, like something from the movies. He heard Ward’s voice in his head: ‘Too much TV.’

Eventually O’Neill found a parking space and stepped out of the car, glancing up and down the street. It was dead quiet. There was no one around, not even the odd student, heading back from the pub.

O’Neill was lost in his thoughts, trying to imagine life after CID. Would he carry a reputation, forever be one of the ones that didn’t make it? As he approached the door he heard a twig snap behind him. He ducked instinctively and turned his head. A figure emerged from behind a hedge across the street.

The guy swayed, almost tripping down the step. He had long hair and ripped jeans and a Dead Kennedys T-shirt. He stopped and fumbled through his pockets, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. Another drunk student. It was the price you paid for living in South Belfast.

O’Neill turned and climbed the three steps to the door, hesitating before knocking. The door opened six inches and a shaft of light spilled out on to the porch. Sam Jennings looked down at him.

‘Evening, Detective,’ she said.

O’Neill looked up at Jennings.

‘I’ll not ask how you got my address then.’

O’Neill wondered for a second why he was there, but who was he kidding? He knew why. He knew it looked sleazy. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t just turn up, unannounced with some puppy-dog face. At least you’re not drunk, he thought.

Jennings pulled the door back. O’Neill was about to speak, to try and explain himself, to tell her what. .

‘I guess you better come in then,’ she said.

For three hours Lynch sat on, opposite the flat in Stranmillis. After the first hour he knew O’Neill wasn’t coming but he stayed, tucked behind the hedge, turning things over. He thought about O’Neill. Had someone tipped him off? Had McCann tried to set him up? Lynch pictured him, sitting in The George. The bar would be empty, having closed two hours ago. McCann would be there though, one way or the other, waiting near the pay-phone. He thought about Marie-Therese, imagining what she’d say if she could see him, hiding behind a hedge, about to do someone for a few grand. Would she care where the money had come from?

Lynch looked at his watch. It was after three. O’Neill wasn’t coming. He stood up and checked the street. The coast was clear. He stretched his legs, pulled his hat low and headed home.

At eight the next morning Lynch left the house. A cold mist hung over the Lagan and had spread out into the Markets. He could see his breath in front of him. He walked with his head down and hands deep in pockets.

He glanced at Marie-Therese’s house. The light was on in the front room. He thought of calling in and asking her right out about coming away. He could lie. Say he won it. It was a family holiday and would go to waste otherwise. A wee bit of sunshine? Take the chill off your bones? He caught himself smiling, unsure at first, but slowly warming to the idea.

The week before, he had bumped into her in the town and they’d gone to Bewley’s for coffee. They got on well and Lynch asked her questions, happy to sit there and listen to someone else’s life. Marie-Therese enjoyed the company, enjoyed talking to another adult. Someone who wasn’t obsessed with babies. She was a natural storyteller and liked making people laugh. They left, agreeing that it had been fun and that they should do it again.

Lynch looked at the sliver of light, shining through the curtains. He would ask her later. Wait until she was leaving the house and bump into her. Keep it casual.

He turned his eyes down the street and saw the Mondeo parked near the bottom. The registration read KXI. . He didn’t need the rest. It was O’Neill. They were after him.

The front seat of the car was back a ways, but Lynch could still see the top of a head. Without breaking stride, he took a hard right down a side entry. He paused, out of sight of the car, and listened. The door opened immediately and he heard O’Neill’s voice and a faint crackle of static. He had back-up. It would be swinging round behind to cut him off.

Lynch instinctively reached to the small of his back. He was halfway there before his mind caught up. He didn’t have the Browning. He looked down the entry, wondering if he could make it home. It was too far.

He stepped back and ran at the entry wall, shimmying up six foot and dropping silently down on the other side. He checked the yard door and saw it was secured with a large deadbolt.

In the yard Lynch stood still, his back pressed against the wall. He could hear a set of footsteps, coming down the entry. O’Neill had stopped running and was walking slowly and cautiously. Lynch could hear him pressing his hand against each yard door as he went.

Lynch heard the door of the next yard swing open, followed by a foot pivoting on wet concrete. O’Neill would be sweeping his gun over the empty space. The sound was followed by a couple more steps. Lynch felt his heart racing in his chest. It was loud and he was sure it could be heard from the other side of the wall. He forced himself to slow his breath. O’Neill was close; the only thing separating them was half a foot of red brick. Lynch stood stock still. He could almost feel O’Neill’s hand stretching out towards the door. The wood panels moved a millimetre before catching on the deadbolt. The door rattled but held firm.