Matt McGuire - Dark Dawn

‘I ordered for you,’ Lynch said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

O’Neill didn’t recognize the label on the beer. It was some foreign brand, white with red writing — Tyskie. Lynch lifted a bottle, tipping it towards the other man, before taking a drink.

‘I don’t normally drink with murderers,’ O’Neill said.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t normally drink with peelers. You should try that though,’ he gestured to the bottle. ‘Foreign stuff. It’s not bad. That’s Belfast for you these days. It’s all exotic imports. Used to be you’d be lucky to get more than a pint of Harp.’

‘Those would be the good old days, I suppose?’ O’Neill asked sarcastically.

‘That would depend on who you were talking to.’

The two men sat in silence, sizing each other up.

‘Ward on his way?’ Lynch asked.

O’Neill didn’t answer.

‘Told you to wait, didn’t he? But that’s not really your style, is it?’

O’Neill remained silent, staring at Lynch who raised his bottle and took another drink.

‘You know, when I was in the Maze, I used to dream about stuff like this. Simple things. Sitting in a bar. A cold beer. It got so that it was the most amazing thing I’d ever tasted. That’s what happens, when you’re lying there alone, staring at the ceiling, thinking about something for so long.’

Lynch paused.

‘It’s funny. Things are never the same in real life. It’s never like they tell you it’s going to be. Not like you imagined it. Never like they promise.’

‘Try telling it to the families of the three people you killed.’

Lynch sighed and looked around the room. O’Neill was trying to get under his skin. What he didn’t know was that Lynch had seen those three people every single day since he’d been released. He’d be sitting watching TV and suddenly, out of nowhere, they’d be there in his head. Asking him, ‘Why me? What did I do? How are you sitting there watching TV?’ The questions. Over and over again. Lynch pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

‘You know one or two things about disappointment though, don’t you, Detective? About life not always turning out like you’d planned.’

O’Neill was growing tired of the philosophy.

‘What do you want, Lynch?’

The other man looked him in the eye.

‘I want to save your life.’ Lynch paused. ‘I want to be on the other side, just for a change.’

‘Very noble. I’m not sure-’

‘Listen. There’s a contract out on you. You’re a target. Whatever you’re doing, it’s pissing folk off. You’ve been sticking your nose where you shouldn’t be.’

‘Laganview?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say. But I’ll tell you this. You’ve upset a few people and they don’t like it. Word’s been sent down. You’ve got to go.’

‘So what are you then, the friendly warning?’

‘Not really my style, O’Neill. Ask Ward, he’ll tell you. I’m the doer, not the talker. My face is the last thing you see, before the lights go out.’

Lynch’s voice was casual, as if he was stating the most ordinary, everyday fact. It was this, more than anything, that convinced O’Neill he was telling the truth.

‘Who the fuck are you threatening?’

‘I’m not threatening. I’m just telling.’

O’Neill thought about arresting him there and then, charging him with threatening the life of a police officer. It would be his word against Lynch’s, however. There were no witnesses, no one to corroborate the story. It wouldn’t go anywhere and it wouldn’t get him anywhere near Laganview. He thought about why Lynch had brought him to Mint. Why here? He could have walked into the Last Stop and sat down. They could have spoken anywhere. Or could they? From what Ward said, Lynch wasn’t the sort of person who issued warnings. O’Neill looked across the table.

‘The plan’s changed, hasn’t it? In your head anyway. I mean, you’re sitting here, talking to me. We could have done this anywhere. There’s CCTV all over this place. Plenty of witnesses, plenty of folk to see us talking. You’d be the first in the frame if anything happened to me.’

‘Very good, Detective.’

‘But there’s more. It’s this place, Mint. You want to be seen talking to me — you want certain people to see. Whatever your game is, you’re now just as likely to get shot as I am.’

Lynch raised an eyebrow and nodded slowly.

‘Perhaps the PSNI aren’t as stupid as people say they are,’ he noted. ‘Hell, if there’s hope for you, there’s hope for us all.’

‘So why? Why the change of heart?’

Lynch gave a small shrug.

‘A man’s got to have a creed,’ O’Neill prompted.

‘You’re right there. As for why, that’s a tough question. Why is a psychologist’s question, not a peeler’s. Why is not something you need to worry about; you just stick with the who.’

O’Neill had all the pieces. Laganview. The George. McCann. Now this place. They were all connected.

‘So how does it all fit?’

‘You’re the detective, O’Neill. You tell me.’ Lynch drained his beer and made to get up and leave. ‘I will say one thing though. Sometimes the answer’s right there, right in front of your face. In fact, it can be so close, you look right past it.’

Lynch got up. ‘Do me a favour and tell Ward I had to rush off.’

O’Neill watched him weave his way through the bar and out the door. What the fuck just happened? He took the untouched bottle in front of him and lifted it to his mouth. A young waitress in a short skirt swooped up to the table. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair and a thick Eastern-European accent.

‘Is this finished?’ she asked, reaching for Lynch’s bottle.

‘Yes, it. .’

O’Neill’s voice trailed off mid-sentence. He looked at the girl, then at the bottle of beer in his hand.

‘Where you from, love?’

‘Czech Republic,’ the girl answered defensively.

‘And what about this?’ Lynch held up the bottle of Tyskie.

‘Is Polish. We have others if you prefer.’

O’Neill looked at the bottle. ‘No. It’s fine.’

The kid at Laganview hadn’t shown up anywhere because he didn’t have a record. He didn’t have a record because he was a foreigner. No one had reported him missing because he wasn’t here long enough for anyone to know him. Czech Republic, Poland, Lithuania. O’Neill wondered how often all these young ones phoned home. The boys would be the worst. His folks might not even know he was missing.

And what about the beating? He was murdered, but they had tried to make it look like a punishment beating. O’Neill’s eyes searched the room. He caught sight of the doorway and the bouncer, with his shaved head looking out towards the street. He remembered Lynch and his nod of recognition as he’d walked in.

Ward appeared at the table, flustered, breathing hard.

‘Thought I told you to wait.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you in the car. Let’s go.’

On their way out the door, O’Neill pretended to drop his lighter. He bent down to pick it up, glancing at the bouncer’s footwear. He was wearing some kind of black Army boot, with thick soles and canvas uppers.

At the end of the alley he stopped under the pretence of lighting a cigarette. He looked back at Mint and observed the bouncer in the doorway, the way he held himself, the way he owned the space around the door. He was ex-Army, O’Neill was almost certain.

When the two detectives turned the corner, Ivan Walczak stepped away from the door. He walked across the alley, away from the other doorman and the people entering the bar. The bouncer flipped open his mobile phone and dialled a number. Someone answered. Walczak looked both ways, up and down the lane, before speaking.