Marty heard the words, vaguely somewhere in the distance.
Molloy started pointing back and forth between the two boys on the ground.
‘Eeeny — meeny — miny — mo — catch — a nigger — by the — toe. If he — screams — let him — go. Eeeny — meeny — miny — mo.’
His finger stopped on Petesy.
The two men dragged Marty away from his friend. One knelt on his back, pressing Marty’s face into the gravel. They would make him watch.
Molloy methodically straightened out Petesy’s legs. He stood back and took off his coat before stepping up and cocking the hurling stick over his shoulder. Then he swung it down, smashing the stick into Petesy’s legs.
Petesy screamed. It was a raw, animal sound. He screamed with each blow. Molloy hit him five or six times on each leg. Afterwards Petesy lay there gradually quietening to a series of moaning whimpers.
‘Not such a hard lad now, you wee cunt.’ Molloy laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally, mind you. It’s only business.’
The three men walked away, leaving the two boys on the waste-ground. They joked among themselves, making imitation screams, revelling in the pain they’d inflicted.
TWENTY-FOUR
O’Neill was going to church.
It was the first time in twenty years. He hadn’t seen the light. Laganview was nothing but darkness. It was almost two weeks and the body still didn’t have a name.
St Mark’s was tucked away in the city centre of Belfast, dropped among office blocks and apartments. It sat two streets back from the green copper dome of the City Hall. The building dated from the 1840s, when Dunvilles had the whiskey distillery next door. The distillery was long gone. O’Neill wondered how long before churches went the same way. Congregations were shrinking. He had heard of places across the water being turned into restaurants and nightclubs. Northern Ireland wouldn’t be far behind.
O’Neill was not desperate. He’d been desperate a week ago. Desperate was a distant memory. Everyone else was off the case. He was alone. Just him, the body and a total lack of suspects.
St Mark’s parish included the Markets and the lower Ormeau Road. The peelers had been stonewalled by everyone on the street. Even their regular informants knew nothing. O’Neill needed something, even if it was just a whisper — a rumour. Anything. Some kind of lead, something he could work from. He was still waiting on Forensics coming back with the footprints and wasn’t hopeful.
Outside St Mark’s a glass case contained notices of Mass times. There was a Polish Mass at 10 a.m. every Sunday. Above the sign was a question: Looking for answers? O’Neill ignored it and walked into the church.
The door thudded shut behind him, sealing O’Neill in the quiet of the building. He had stopped going to church when he was sixteen. He hated being told what to do. All that stand up, sit down. People droning their prayers like cattle.
Father Donal Mullan had been at St Mark’s for ten years. He had hoped to be retired in some country parish by now. Visits to the elderly. Cups of tea. ‘A wee bun there, Father?’ Instead, the Bishop had given him St Mark’s. Recruitment was at an all-time low. ‘All hands to the pump, Donal.’
Fr Mullan felt as if he’d done his fair share of pumping. He’d been in Belfast schools for over thirty years. O’Neill had been one of his pupils at St Malachy’s College. Mullan regarded the Catholic boys of Belfast as his own particular penance. He taught History and Religion, but his true love was Gaelic football.
‘Dribbling is for babies,’ he used to say. ‘Soccer? An English game. Grown men falling over themselves like a bunch of women.’
Inside the church, forty pews stretched out in front of O’Neill. The altar was a large stone table. Confession boxes were built into the wall along the side of the church. Above the three doors, small lights showed they were all engaged. The priest sat in the middle. A sinner on either side.
Two pensioners sat nearby waiting. O’Neill took a seat near the back. He looked at the pensioners, wondering what they could possibly be there for. He thought about the files they had on people at Musgrave Street. The assault, the robbery, the rape. He wondered did that stuff get an airing in the darkness and quiet of the confessional.
One of the doors opened and an old man walked out, head bowed, face penitent. O’Neill thought about what must have been said in those boxes over the last forty years. The bombings. The shootings. What did you get for killing a man? For following him home. Putting three bullets in him in front of his wife and two children. A few Hail Marys? A whole rosary? He suddenly had a deep loathing for the Catholic Church. Did they forgive these fuckers? Were slates wiped clean? Any SOCO would tell you, you can never entirely get rid of a bloodstain.
The last pensioner came out of the confessional. O’Neill waited. It was getting late. There’d be no one else coming. He got out of his seat and pulled the handle of the heavy door. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the dim lighting inside. In the box there was a kneeler and a chair. O’Neill sat.
He heard the priest in the adjacent box clearing his throat. The divider slid back and a gravelly Tyrone voice came through the wire mesh.
‘In the name of the Father, the Son and of the Holy Spirit. The Lord God is a just God and forgives the sins of the world. How long is it since your last confession?’
‘That’s a good question, Father.’
‘O’Neill.’
Mullan’s tone changed, reverting back to the streetwise school teacher.
‘Now there’s a voice I haven’t heard for a few years. Someone told me you’d joined the mighty Police Service of Northern Ireland. Is there something on your mind, O’Neill? You haven’t been beating up the suspects, have you?’
‘Just a visit. Thought I’d see how you’re doing. Catch up on old times.’
‘Oh aye. I’ve heard that one before.’
‘How’s the God business these days, Donal? Plenty of bums on seats? A lot of sinners, a lot of sins.’
‘Don’t mock, son. It doesn’t suit you.’
O’Neill could smell the waft of tobacco coming through the grille.
‘Still at the Dunhills, I see. You know those things’ll kill you.’
‘Well, I’ve got to do something to get out of here. Forty years in Belfast — a life sentence by any man’s reckoning.’
‘You’ve not seen the news then? The Promised Land. The new Northern Ireland.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
There was a pause in their conversation.
‘I need your help, Donal.’
‘You need my help? Or the PSNI needs my help? Because you see it’s interesting. The PSNI spend their days harassing my congregation and then they come round here asking for help?’
O’Neill had almost forgotten Mullan’s style. He was like a bantamweight boxer. A conversation was a sparring match. He had taught the same way. St Malachy’s had 700 teenage boys and they all had an answer for you. There wasn’t much choice.
‘You know about Laganview, Donal?’
‘Saw it on the news.’
‘I’m in the dark. Completely in the dark.’
‘We’re all in the dark, son. That’s how the world works.’
O’Neill knew Mullan was a strong Republican. According to him, Irish history taught its own lessons. It was a list of wrongs, a litany of sins against Irish Catholics, first by the British, and then by the Protestants in the North. Mullan used to tell them: ‘A creed. A man’s got to have a creed.’ O’Neill could feel the door closing on him and the priest retreating into his shell.
‘Do you remember Raymond Burns, Father?’
‘I remember you all, O’Neill. Every last one of you.’ Mullan sighed. ‘Burns was from the Ardoyne. A cheekier wee bastard you wouldn’t want to meet.’
‘Let me tell you about Raymond Burns. He has a wee brother, Jackie Burns, ten years younger. Wee Jackie is sixteen. Thinks he’s a big lad. Decided to have a go at nicking cars. He got away with it, or at least he did for a couple of months. One day he’s walking to the shops when a couple of men grab him off the street. Broad daylight. They know what he’s been doing and he needs to be taught a lesson. They put him down a manhole. And put the lid back on. Wee Jackie’s screaming. Begging. He’s claustrophobic, you see. But fuck it, down he goes. These wee bastards, you see, they never listen. Now those manhole covers are pretty thick. Six inches of heavy iron. It fairly muffles the screams.’