Normally Petesy was totally cool. He could disappear at the drop of a hat. Even in broad daylight, he’d slide into a doorway, duck behind a hedge or just sit on a wall. He’d look bored, blend in, cloak himself in casual indifference. People walked past him like he wasn’t even there. Tonight though, he wasn’t at the races. Pacing up and down. Jesus Christ, Marty thought, it was only a matter of time before he came out of a house to see the peelers with Petesy up against a wagon. He was so wired he’d probably get Marty lifted and all. He decided to bring him with him. They’d go in together and at least then he could keep an eye on him.
After three calls Petesy started to relax. He liked going inside, liked looking at the posters on people’s walls. He reckoned every second place had the mad one of Jack Nicholson from The Shining, his crazy face sticking through the door. Petesy liked the books piled up on people’s desks. Wherever Green is Worn. People’s History of America. Utopia. He wondered what they were all about. He thought about sitting in someone’s flat, reading one, maybe having a spliff while he was at it. He wanted to know what was so fascinating that people would sit for hours, just reading. He imagined being a student, going to Queen’s. All the birds. It would be just like school, except without the boring stuff. He’d heard that if you didn’t like the teacher, you could just get up and walk out. He’d learn about other countries. About America. He had a cousin in New York who had been there on 9/11 when the planes hit them buildings. Now that was a terrorist attack. None of this blowing up a bookies or shooting a peeler rubbish.
In a flat on Cairo Street two guys were buying some blow. In one of the armchairs a girl was lounging, reading a magazine. She wore ripped jeans and had long brown hair. Petesy thought she looked like that bird from Lord of the Rings. She had a small nose and skinny features, offset by a pair of dark brown eyes. He couldn’t stop looking at her, as if something was forcing him. Sure, he knew girls that were wee rides, ones you’d want to have a go at, but this one. . she was really beautiful.
Petesy caught himself staring and looked away. After a few seconds he glanced back and saw her looking at him. He gave a faint smile and she smiled back. Petesy felt like he’d been lifted off the carpet. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her things, to tell her-
‘Hey.’ Marty was half way out the door. ‘Time to go.’
Petesy followed him out of the flat. He wasn’t brave enough to turn round but he thought he could feel the girl’s eyes on him as he walked out the door.
That was the last call of the night. Marty was happy. He was trying not to think about Sean Molloy or Johnny Tierney, focusing on the fact it was Tuesday and he already had two hundred quid in his pocket. Their fifty-fifty split would mean a hundred each. Petesy barely spoke as they walked out of the Holy Lands and down the Ormeau Road.
‘Two hundred tonight.’
‘Right,’ Petesy said quietly.
‘Not bad for a few hours’ work.’
‘Aye.’
‘Reckon we’ll double up by the end of the week.’
‘Aye.’
‘I think I’m a fruit.’
‘Aye.’
Marty stopped walking.
‘OK. Enough. Will you frigging wise up? This is like working with a zombie. If you don’t want to come out, just say so. There are plenty of other guys who’d like to make a bit of money.’
‘They don’t all have cousins in the Ardoyne though, do they?’
The two of them walked on in silence. Marty stopped at the Shell garage and bought a can of Coke. He handed Petesy a Mars bar he’d nicked while the manager wasn’t looking. He smiled at Petesy.
‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’
Petesy didn’t laugh. He carried the Mars bar in his hand, not eating it. Finally he spoke.
‘How hard do you think it would be to go to Queen’s?’
Marty spat out a mouthful of Coke. He wiped his chin, laughing.
‘What the fuck would they want with you?’
‘What’s wrong with me?’
Petesy was sullen. Marty tried to backtrack.
‘It’s not that. I mean, what the fuck would you want with them? Have you seen the state of these students? Sitting around all day. All their fucking books. Homework and everything. Didn’t you get enough of that shite at St Matthew’s?’
‘This is fucking boring. The same every day. Sitting round. Nicking stuff. The PlayStation. Going round the Holy Lands. Getting wasted. I don’t want to spend all day just waiting until Johnny Tierney gets his hands on us. Besides. .’
‘What the fuck’s wrong with it?’ Marty snapped back.
Petesy paused. ‘I don’t know. I mean, it’s just. .’
‘What else do you think there is, Petesy?’
Marty was hurt. It wasn’t Petesy slagging off what they did, it was the idea of him not wanting to hang about any more. Petesy was his mate. His best mate. Micky could go fuck himself. So could the rest of them. He’d always have Petesy though. Least that’s what he’d thought. Butch and fucking Sundance.
‘Fine,’ Marty said. ‘Fuck off then. See if I fucking care.’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll still be able to get the gear off my cousin.’
‘Do you think I give a fuck about that?’ Marty stormed off, throwing his can of Coke on to the main road. A car blared its horn. Marty gave it the finger and walked on.
Petesy stood by the road, holding the Mars bar by his side as his friend strode off on his own.
EIGHTEEN
Tuesday night dissolved into Wednesday morning. O’Neill lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He’d been watching the clock since twelve. It was almost three. The smell of Chinese food wafted in from the empty cartons in the living room. O’Neill had sat for an hour, rereading the forensics. Taking police paperwork home was a serious offence but what the hell, the ship was sinking anyway. Since the break with Catherine it had given him something to do. Stopped him thinking too much.
The one-bedroom flat was identical to when O’Neill had first moved in. There were no pictures and no plants. A pile of dishes rose out of the sink. Beside the bed sat an unframed photograph, curling at the edges. It was Sarah on the beach at Portstewart. She wore a woollen hat with her hair falling halfway across her face. He had another one of the three of them, but he had put it away in a drawer. He had told himself to wise up, to stop kidding himself. He knew ‘a break’ meant Catherine didn’t have the guts six months ago to tell him it was over. Divorced at thirty-four, O’Neill thought. Well done, son. All he needed was a drink problem and a dodgy past and they’d make him a character in some crime novel.
To stop the self-analysis, O’Neill thought about the case. CCTV from the area round Laganview had given them nothing. There was no murder weapon. No witnesses. And still no ID. The autopsy had found wooden splinters in the head wound. It was pine. Heat-treated. Containing traces of methane bromide. Baseball bats and hurling sticks were made of ash which was strong and flexible. Pickaxe handles were hard wood, something like hickory. Pine was soft, cheap. It tended to be used in furniture or packing material. Forensics had taken samples of all the wood near the body — fence-posts, internal beams, cable drums. The splinters matched some nearby pallets. The heat-treatment and methane bromide confirmed it. They were to prevent Asian longhorn beetles coming in through packing crates from China. Apparently they were munching their way across the forests of Europe.
‘Bloody foreigners,’ O’Neill had said sarcastically.
The question was, how did it all relate? What did it say about the murder? Whoever did it didn’t bring the weapon with them. They grabbed the nearest thing at hand. It took away a degree of premeditation. Perhaps they hadn’t intended to kill the kid. Just having some fun and things got out of hand. Maybe they found out something from him and that tipped them over the edge. Something he said which meant he had to go. It was all theory, all conjecture. O’Neill needed more than that.