John Brennan - Dead And Buried

He looked up. ‘Now. Before we do anything else, Patrick, you tell me how it happened.’

Patrick was again white-faced, fidgeting, trembling – a kid again.

‘Listen, Con, just—’

‘You tell me now,’ Conor said.

So Patrick told him. He was just doing a bit of work, he said – he never meant for anything like this to happen.

‘What work?’ Conor pressed. ‘Work for who?’

‘For Jack Marsh.’

That figured. Marsh. A name he knew. A name everyone knew. He’d used to be a redcap, British military police, Conor had heard, but he wasn’t police any more. You couldn’t exactly say he’d gone off the rails – by all accounts he’d been bent from day one – but now he didn’t even bother to hide it. Didn’t have to hide it. No one could touch Jack Marsh in Belfast. He held the city in the palm of his hand.

So why wouldn’t a chancer like Patrick wind up on Marsh’s payroll? A bit of work. Conor didn’t want to know what that meant.

‘And?’

Patrick shrugged. It looked like the kid didn’t want to talk about it – didn’t even want to think about it. Tough.

‘What happened?’

‘He went for me. Lost his rag. Didn’t know I was – didn’t know I was packing,’ Patrick said, his hand straying to the butt of the gun tucked in the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms.

You fucking liar, Conor thought. Colm Murphy, fifteen years a Provo commander – a soldier, a man of discipline, and, more than that, a man with a calling – a man with more on his mind than the crooked property deals and blackmail shakedowns that the likes of Jack Marsh made their money from – and he lets himself get called out by a snot-nosed little bastard like Patrick Cameron?

But Conor let the kid go on talking.

‘I didn’t mean it to happen,’ Patrick said again.

‘When you carry a gun,’ Conor said, ‘these things tend to happen whether you mean them or not.’ He paused, squeezed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. What time was it? Maybe five, or quarter to. But he’d learned to live with sleeplessness. You just had to decide not to be tired. It was just a choice you made. ‘So. You shot him,’ he prompted.

Patrick’s wide-eyed gaze drifted to the corpse on the floor. Thinking, Conor guessed, of who Colm was, and who he, Patrick, was – wondering, maybe, how the hell all this happened. Maybe David felt the same way as he stood over the body of Goliath, Conor thought. Only that was the end of that story, and this was just the beginning of this one. ‘I guess I did.’ Conor noticed that Patrick had to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep it from quivering. He knew the kid was thinking the same thing he was: what happens now?

Because you couldn’t kill a man like Colm Murphy and just walk away. It wasn’t like a gangland hit, a kingpin knocked off in a turf war – it wasn’t just business. Murphy didn’t live in a world where everything had a price and a ten grand kickback to the right person bought you absolution. Murphy’s world was tough, sure – but the people who moved in it mattered to him, and he mattered to them – hell, Murphy was a god on the Falls Road, on Conway Street, on Workman Avenue. Every Republican in Belfast loved the man, and even the people who hated him at least hated him good and hard.

Murphy would be missed. Conor thought of the Lieutenant, Lefty McLeod. If he knew what Patrick Cameron had done – if any of Murphy’s boys knew…

When Conor was a kid, he’d heard that Neil Burke, a lad a couple of years above him at school, seventeen or eighteen he would’ve been, had been picked up by Murphy’s boys one afternoon and driven out to an industrial estate beyond Ballynafoy. They killed him, shot him dead – but before they did that they ran roofing nails through the palms of his hands.

Burke had nicked the wrong guy’s car and gone joyriding with it in the wrong part of town. That was all it took, sometimes. They called it justice. Maybe they even thought it was justice.

But what they did to Neil Burke would be nothing compared to what they’d do to the man who killed Colm Murphy. Come to that, Conor thought, Jack Marsh wasn’t likely to be too happy, either, about one of his hirelings putting so much heat his way.

Patrick was staring at him with wide wet eyes. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets to hide his shakes but Conor could see him shaking anyway. Trembling all over.

‘What’ll we do, Con?’ he quavered.

Conor ran a hand through his sandy hair. Here and now, he told himself. Focus on what’s here in front of you.

‘I guess we have a job to do,’ he said.

He was stooping to pull aside the tarp covering Murphy’s body when he heard Patrick say, ‘I mean I didn’t even know it was Murphy’s house.’

Conor’s head jerked up. ‘What’s that?’

‘It was just a house, I mean a big house, sure, and a nice car in the drive, but still, I just thought it was—’

‘You went to his house? Is that where this happened?’

‘Jack just said there was some money there or something, a good few grand, and a cut of it for me if I could lay my hands on it…’ Patrick was gabbling now, his tongue running loose as his fear built. ‘He came out, in the garden. I swear I thought no one was home, I thought it was empty, God I swear I didn’t even know it was his house—’

‘Wait.’ Conor raised a hand. He could feel the blood thump in his temples. ‘So. You went to his house to rob him. And when he didn’t like it, when he didn’t let you just waltz away with his money, you shot him. Have I got that, Patrick?’ Patrick just stared at him. ‘You know,’ Conor said, ‘that Colm Murphy has a wife and three kids in that house? What were you thinking, Patrick? Were you ready to kill them too?’

In half a voice Patrick muttered, ‘It’d be no worse than some of the things Murphy did in his time.’

Conor had never hit anyone in his life but in that moment he was damn near to breaking Patrick Cameron’s neck for him. He breathed hard out through his nose. Then he turned decisively away and walked towards the workbench that ran along the left wall of the outhouse. He could feel Patrick watching him as he spooled a length of electric flex off its wheel.

‘What’re you doing, Con?’

‘See the furnace?’ Conor gestured without turning round. The black furnace stood in the opposite corner. ‘See the size of it? It’s four foot across, three foot deep.’

Patrick didn’t answer. Conor heard him swallow and shuffle his feet. He tried to concentrate on unwinding the flex.

‘What would you say Colm was, Patrick? Six-three, six-four?’ He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so angry. He cursed himself: it was a brutal anger, a stupid anger – but still. Colm Murphy was dead and Conor wanted Patrick to pay. ‘Death,’ he said, turning round at last, ‘hasn’t made him any smaller.’ He leaned across the bench and slotted the plug of a powerpack into the plug socket in the wall.

Patrick’s mouth was hanging open.

‘There’s plenty of time.’ Conor gestured again at the furnace. ‘The thing takes a while to get hot enough.’

‘You mean we have to—’

‘Not we ,’ said Conor, hating himself even as he said it, even as he reached under the bench to draw out the powersaw they used for heavy ops, bull bones, horse bones. ‘Not me. You, Patrick. You .’

He flicked the switch on the plug socket from white to red. The powersaw began to sing.

Within two minutes their green veterinary overalls were soaked through. His hands and forearms were a brazen blood red – Patrick’s a deeper red even than that.

At first, Conor could hear the kid whimpering as they worked – and it was work, this, with the heaviness of the saw, the stubborn bulk of flesh and bone, and the mounting heat from the thrumming furnace. Conor helped where he could: now redirecting the swaying saw-blade – ‘Not there; here, here the cut’ll be cleaner’ – now wiping Patrick’s face with his cuff when the sweat and tears and blood ran into his eyes and made him blind. And Conor was kidding himself if he thought the wetness on his own face, the salty taste on his own lips, was nothing but sweat.