‘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.
NINE
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.
Inside, a dark oak counter stretched the length of the bar. Black and white tiles covered the floor and a row of optics glistened with amber vials of whiskey — Black Bush, Paddy’s, Dunhill’s.
Lynch ordered a pint of Guinness and took it to a booth along the wall. From there he could sit quietly, inconspicuous. He could also look out across the whole room, an old habit, but one he never felt like changing, and especially not now.
He had hoped that a bit of normality, a few pints, might help reset the body clock. Failing that, it would at least give the sleeping pills a hand. He remembered Marie-Therese from a couple of mornings back: ‘Try gin.’ He smiled, thinking about her attitude, a two fingers to life and whatever it threw at you. She was just right. On the way to The George he’d walked past her house and considered asking her out for a drink. It was too blatant though. It needed to be something casual, to look spontaneous. During the day, that was the way to go. A cup of coffee. Just talking. No obvious subtext.
Every few minutes the snug at the back of the bar erupted in shouting and roars of laughter. There was a group of men and by the sound of it they were well on their way. Lynch looked round the bar, recognizing a number of faces from the Markets. The old man with the Jack Russell had nodded as he had walked in. Lynch liked seeing him, liked the thought of him and his dog, doing everything together. That was loyalty. Real loyalty. The dog never left his side. Right then it was curled up at the foot of his bar stool.
At the back of the pub the snug let out another roar. Lynch looked round. The group were hidden by the glass partition that topped the seats. He couldn’t make out any faces. He couldn’t make out Sean Molloy, busy holding court. He couldn’t make out Johnny Tierney, banging his empty glass down, ordering someone to get a round in. The rest of the pub were oblivious, or were acting that way. See no evil, hear no evil. Lynch could tell from the fake indifference that whoever was back there had carte blanche to do whatever they wanted. No one was going to say boo to them.
He was about to get up and leave when a half-drunk pint appeared beside him. It was the dog man. The wee Jack Russell trotted over after him.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Work away.’
The old man groaned as he shifted into the seat. He introduced himself with a wheezing, raspy voice. Arthur McNally. He was five foot nothing and well into his seventies. He motioned to the dog.
‘Sit down there, Sammy.’ He turned to Lynch. ‘Has me run ragged, this boy. It’s like he gets younger, every year I get older.’
Wee Arthur was a talker, which suited Lynch fine. He was more than happy listening. It was good to sit there, soaking up someone else’s thoughts instead of suffocating in your own. The old man ranged round, talking about the football, how Cliftonville were rubbish, again, and all the building work that was going on round the town. He hardly recognized Belfast any more. Lynch asked him when the pub round the corner, The Kitchen, had disappeared. For ten minutes they added to the rumble of conversation rolling round the pub. Lynch went to buy himself another pint and got one in for his new friend, making a joke about Care in the Community.