‘They’re pretty subdued by the time they get to me. They will have been medicated in the ambulance and stabilized on the ward. Then they’re prepped for surgery. It’s sunk in by then. After the shock. Being shot seems to be better than taking a beating. For them, I mean. Not me. A bullet-hole might not look like much. .’ Winters paused, remembering who he was talking to. ‘I imagine being shot’s quicker, maybe less personal. After a beating, when you talk to them before surgery they’re always quiet. They’ve seen enough to know what their life’ll be like when they come out. The crutches, the walking sticks. The pins and plates. The pieces of metal. Then there’s the aching joints. Not to mention arthritis by the time you’re thirty.’
Winters took a drink of his coffee and rubbed his chin.
‘I don’t think it’s the physical injury though. That’s not the real damage.’
‘What do you mean?’ O’Neill asked.
‘Well, it’s as if there’s a change in them. They become sullen. Silent. Resigned. You see it in the follow-up appointments. It’s as if they give up. As if the beating is like some final, irrevocable proof. The world, telling them that they really are just a piece of shit, that they’re completely worthless, that their life means nothing. People can come along, beat you half to death, and no one says anything about it. When they wake up from the surgery you can see it in their eyes — that expression — no matter how well things go in the operation. It’s there six weeks later, and at the six-month visit. It’s as if, deep down, they always suspected that they were nothing. And now, there’s no denying it. They have the proof.’
Back at Musgrave Street O’Neill closed the file and reopened it at page one. He remembered Ward’s words when he first joined CID.
‘Sisyphus, son. .’
O’Neill thought about all the drug players they’d pulled in over Laganview. He thought about the hoods that uniform had stopped. Records the length of your arm, every last one of them. He wondered what the police’s job was in this whole game. They did nothing more than guard the great revolving door — nick them, question them, charge them. Six months later, you were picking up the same people, off the same streets, for the same shit.
O’Neill stretched upwards before hunching back over the Laganview file. He’d have time to go through it once more, before eight o’clock, when he’d head back to the empty flat in Stranmillis.
SEVENTEEN
It was Tuesday night and Marty and Petesy were in the Holy Lands doing their paper round.
Petesy had been walking about with a face on him all night. The plan had been to go round to Micky’s after and smoke a few joints. They were going to bring the gear. Micky’s mum was due back from Benidorm tomorrow so it wasn’t a big one, just a few of the lads. Micky’d nicked a copy of the new Grand Theft Auto from the Virgin in town. A night of carjacking, shooting cops and picking up prostitutes. All from the comfort of your own home.
Marty had been bored so he called round earlier in the day but Micky wouldn’t let him in. The ski-masks had scared the shit out of him and he still had bruised ribs from where he’d been hit at the door.
‘Tonight’s off,’ Micky told him.
‘What are you talking about? Because of Friday?’
Marty and Petesy had sat round the back of the petrol station for two hours before going home. They only heard about the visitors the next day.
‘They held a fucking knife to Locksy,’ Micky said. ‘I can’t be having it. My ma will do her nut. She’ll turf me out. You can’t come round. It’s too much.’
Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He remembered the cheering when he’d arrived at the party on Friday night. Micky had practically thrown his arms round him and now he didn’t want to see him.
‘Aye, Micky? Yous are all happy enough to score some gear. Happy to have us take the risks. Get fucked on the pills that we bring. What? And now you don’t want to know? It’s all different, is that it? Well, away and fuck youself.’ A bit of spit flew out of Marty’s mouth as he gave off.
‘Wise up, Marty. It’s not like that. This is only for a wee while. When things-’
Marty turned and walked away.
He walked to the edge of the estate and sat near the bank of the Lagan, looking over at the train-tracks on the far side. The Dublin train went along that route, every couple of hours. Marty wondered what things were like down South. He lit a Regal and began tossing stones into the river. He was on his second cigarette when Locksy came up behind him and sat down. He had a plaster down his right cheek from where the knife had opened him.
‘All right, mate?’ Locksy said. ‘Give us a toke.’
Marty passed the cigarette. Locksy sucked on the butt, took it out of his mouth and had another quick toke before handing it back. The two boys sat for a while, neither speaking. Eventually Marty broke the silence.
‘Sorry about Friday night.’
‘Aghh. Don’t worry about it. They’re fucking cunts.’
‘Yeah.’ Marty took a draw on the cigarette. ‘Micky reckoned it was me and Petesy’s fault.’
‘I wouldn’t sweat it. Round here, sooner or later everybody gets a turn. It could have been worse, he could’ve really started drawing on me with that fucking knife.’
Locksy’s face was smooth. He wasn’t properly shaving yet. His eyes looked towards the horizon and the Castlereagh Hills in the distance.
‘Micky’s a bit freaked out,’ Marty said.
‘Micky’s always freaked out. The guy’s a fruit. I wouldn’t worry. Best you can hope for is what happened the other night. When they come for you, if you’re lucky, you’re not there. Micky thinks Friday was a nightmare. He’s wrong. It was a fucking result. That’s what it was.’
Marty pulled out the packet of Regal and offered one to Locksy. They sat by the edge of the river, smoking together. Further along the bank they could hear the rumble of diggers flattening the old Belfast gasworks. The site was being levelled and workmen were erecting blue fence panels to seal it off. The place had lain derelict for years but they were building a hotel and some offices once the weather got better in spring. Marty spat on the ground in front of him. When he had finished his fag he stood up, telling Locksy he’d see him later, he had to collect some more gear for that night.
Later, walking round the Holy Lands, Marty could tell Friday had spooked Petesy. He came out of their first call, a gram of coke on Damascus Street, and found him pacing the pavement. Marty looked at him. Petesy might as well have had a sign on him saying dodgy in foot-high letters.
‘There’s a fucking parked car over there,’ Petesy said, his voice shaking. ‘The black one. Guy’s been sitting for ten minutes.’
‘All right. Calm down.’
Marty was casual. He looked up the street, taking in the car without making it obvious. A man was trying not to look out at them, talking into his mobile phone. He was in his late twenties and had a shaved head and a gold earring. Marty could make out a tattoo on his neck which crawled up and out of his collar.
‘OK, Petesy. Walk slowly — and be ready to bolt.’
They started down Damascus Street. Suddenly a door burst open in front of them.
A blonde girl came bouncing out, almost running into Petesy. She was wearing thick foundation, four-inch heels and a short black skirt. She bounded over to the car and got in, leaning over to kiss the driver. The car fired to life and peeled off down the street, its bass blaring.
Marty breathed a sigh of relief. Petesy was all over the place. He wasn’t thinking and he was getting inside Marty’s head now and all.