After wrapping up his call to Simon with promises to keep in touch, and the assurance he would be welcome in Stirling at any time, Connor took the gun back to the bedroom. He was about to put it away when he paused. He reached into the safe, found the kit and set about stripping and cleaning the gun, the act second nature to him, the ordered routine soothing, the clicks as he dumped the magazine, cleared the chamber and pulled the gun apart like the ticks of a clock in the silence of the flat.
And as he worked, he remembered . . .
He was three years into the job, a newly minted constable. He had been teamed with Sergeant Simon McCartney, who was three years older than Connor and acting as his mentor. It hadn’t taken long for a friendship to develop, Connor appreciating Simon’s dark sense of humour, Simon picking Connor’s brains on the best training programmes in the gym.
‘Sure you’re like the Hulk,’ he had told Connor once. ‘Just need to slap a bit of green paint on you and a pair of purple pants and you’d be all set. Not sure what your da’ would think of that right enough, but fuck him.’
Connor had sneered. His father had been good enough to attend his graduation ceremony, had even been civil to Karen. He had smiled at all the right moments, posed for photographs, shaken hands. But Connor saw the glances he’d sneaked at his son when he thought he wasn’t looking. There was no pride, only a hollow disappointment that Connor felt echoed the loss he tried not to feel. That day he’d known he had lost any chance of reconciling with his father, that they would be strangers for the rest of their days. Time grew a callus of indifference over the wound but still, Connor would sometimes think of that day, of the look on his father’s face, and wonder what it was he saw when he looked at his son.
The night had started simply enough, a standard cruise around the Greater Shankill area in North Belfast; a drive up the Shankill, then along Ballygomartin Road, past Woodvale Park, then a circuit of the Glencairn estate before looping back.
They’d stopped at the Tesco next to the park to grab a couple of cans of cola, Connor marvelling at the parents and children who wandered the aisles in pyjamas and dressing-gowns. Had they got ready for bed, then suddenly remembered they needed milk? Or had they been in their nightwear all day? He was paying when the call came in: reports of a domestic disturbance on Glencairn Street, a row of close-clustered terraced houses just across from Tesco. Connor exchanged a glance with Simon as they headed to the car, their shared concern passing between them unsaid. This was a tight-knit community and it was practically unheard of for someone to call the police to something that was happening behind closed doors.
Minutes later, they pulled up outside the house. It was just like any of the others on the street, if more run down – fading white paint peeling from pebbledashed walls, a low wall and rusting gate barricading it from the street. Simon paused as they approached the house, eyes lingering on the immaculate Subaru Impreza that was sitting half on the pavement.
‘Ah, shite, I know that car,’ he said, jutting his jaw towards the front door. ‘I know who lives here. Fuck.’
‘Who?’ Connor asked, the first sparks of adrenalin making his skin itch. He was suddenly very aware of the weight of his stab vest, and the equipment belt that hung around his waist. He had yet to draw his gun from its holster on the job, but would tonight be the night?
‘Jonny Hughes,’ Simon said, nodding. He saw Connor’s confused look and sighed. ‘Low-level drug-dealer. Got some pull with the UDA as his uncle was a commander during the Troubles. Thinks of himself as a bit of a—’
He was cut off by a deep voice barking from the house. ‘Catch yerself on, woman!’ a man roared. ‘Away and fuck I wasnae doin’ anything, just helping with—’
Something heavy crashed to the floor in the house, followed by raised voices. Simon and Connor exchanged glances and rushed up the path. Connor stood to the side as Simon took point, hammering on the front door.
‘Police!’ he shouted. Connor darted a glance up the street, his eye caught by the ripple of blinds and curtains being pulled aside. He felt a flutter of unease in his gut. Glencairn was a known Loyalist area of town, proud of patrolling and policing its own. The official police wouldn’t be welcome. And they knew how to deal with unwelcome guests.
‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance here. Open the door, please.’
A moment of unnatural silence, punctuated by curses and the sound of fast footfalls. Simon raised his hand to hammer at the door again, but before he could there was the jingling clunk of a lock being released and a chain being slid aside. The door swung open to reveal an unremarkable-looking man in a Rangers T-shirt, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat beading across his forehead. An expensive pair of glasses perched on a nose that had clearly been broken at least once. He adjusted them with large, blunt fingers and peered out of the house.
‘Evening, officers,’ he said, his voice casual, his eyes not. ‘How can I help?’
Simon took the lead. ‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance at this address, sir, and we just heard raised voices, then what sounded like something falling over. Everything all right here?’
‘Ah, yeah, sorry about that,’ Hughes said, eyes dark and hard as eight balls behind his glasses. ‘The wife and I were movin’ me bookshelf, managed to drop the bloody thing. I may have lost the rag a bit, shouted and the like. Sorry.’
Simon returned Hughes’s cold gaze. ‘You mind if we come in and take a look, sir?’ He moved forward a half-step, forcing Hughes back into the house.
‘Well, actually, boys, it’s not a—’
‘It’ll only take a minute, sir,’ Connor said, as he stepped onto the centre of the path. He saw Hughes’s gaze dance across him, evaluating. Something told him that, if it was to get physical, Hughes would be a problem. ‘Really, sir, we’ll be in and out,’ he added, trying to focus past the dark excitement that was fizzing through his veins. ‘Best to sort this out now, eh?’
Hughes hesitated, then dropped his chin to his chest, accepting the inevitable. ‘Come on away in, then,’ he said. ‘But watch out, the place is a fuckin’ mess.’
They navigated their way along a small hallway, with a steep flight of stairs at the end, and into a cramped living room. As Hughes had said, an upturned bookcase lay on the floor, books spilt around it.
Connor took a slow look around the room, nodding to the wall opposite where the bookcase had been and a fist-shaped dent in the plasterboard that spread splintering cracks of white across the dark purple paint. ‘What happened there, sir?’ he asked. ‘Surely a book didn’t do that Mr, ah . . .’
‘Hughes,’ he said, confirming his identity. ‘Jonny Hughes. It wasn’t a book. Like I said, I lost my rag a bit and I, ah . . .’
Simon made a point of looking around the room. ‘You mentioned your wife, sir. Where is she?’
Hughes’s expression darkened. ‘Think she went to make a cup of tea, like,’ he said. ‘Amy! You through there?’
A door at the far end of the living room opened, and a tall, slender woman in jogging bottoms and a sports top was framed in front of a small, well-lit kitchen. Her eyes darted between the three men, a cold calculation taking place, and she stepped into the room.
‘Aw, we didn’t make enough noise to get the police involved, did we? Sorry, boys, my stupid fault, just let the thing slip out of my hand.’
Connor nodded, studying her. Like Hughes’s, her forehead was beaded with sweat, her breath short and shallow as though she was recovering from heavy exertion. No signs of the two of them having been in a fight but, still, something niggled at Connor, something he had seen but not . . .
‘So, you boys need anything else? All just like we said, right?’
Simon and Connor exchanged a look. The story checked out. Neither of them seemed to be in physical distress, and it was clear no one was going to be making accusations or pressing charges. Nothing more to be done.
And yet . . .
‘There’s no one else here, is there, Mr Hughes?’ Simon asked. ‘Not got a friend in to help you with the redecorating?’
Hughes twisted his lips into an approximation of a smile. ‘Naw, no one daft enough to help out. But feel free to have a look. Got nothing to hide, me.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Hughes,’ Simon said. ‘Just keep it down, okay? And next time you want to move a bookcase, get some help.’
‘Sure, lads, no problem,’ he said as they turned and headed for the door. Connor lingered for a second, his eyes catching on the fist-shaped dent in the wall. Then he left.
They walked out of the front door, watched as Hughes swung it shut. Got back into the car and studied the house for a moment, the Hugheses’ silhouettes playing against the blinds of the front window.
‘So, what do you think?’ Connor asked.
‘Domestic, most like,’ Simon replied. ‘You heard what he shouted as we arrived, “I wasnae doin’ anything.” Ten to one she’s caught him at it and hit him where it hurts, in the books.’
Connor thought back to the books lying piled on the floor. ‘Aye, what’s that all about?’ he asked.
‘Jonny thinks of himself as a bit of an intellectual,’ Simon replied, voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘He did a stretch for aggravated assault a while back, caught the reading bug in the prison library. Collects them, for the titles rather than the content, I think. Always carries a book with him, picked up the nickname the Librarian on the way.’
Connor grunted a laugh. ‘So what do we do now?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ Simon said. ‘Looks like just what they said, a domestic that got out of hand. No signs of violence between them. Seems like the wall got it worse from Jonny than she did so we can . . .’
The wall. The image of the dent flashing across his mind. The size of it. The shape. The way Amy Hughes was standing, left hand clasped across right. ‘He didn’t hit the wall,’ he said, more to himself than Simon. ‘She did. That’s why she was in the kitchen when we arrived. She was sorting her hand out.’
Simon smiled. ‘Hell hath no fury, eh? Ah, well, we’ll write it up, keep an eye on the place when we’re around. Nothing more we can do for now.’
They didn’t have to wait long. An hour later, they were heading back down Ballygomartin Road towards the Shankill, Woodvale Park a pool of darkness on their right, when the call came in. Glencairn Street again.
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ Simon hissed, as he hauled the car around and Connor hit the blues and twos. It was nearing the end of their shift, and this meant overtime neither of them would be paid for.
They pulled up to the house. Amy Hughes was stalking around the Impreza parked outside, keeping it between her and Jonny, who was brandishing a baseball bat. The windscreen had been shattered, the remnants of it twinkling like shards of amber in the sepia of the streetlights.
Connor was out of the car first, heading for Jonny, ignoring the jeering and whoops of the assembled crowd. This had gone beyond a domestic and curtain-twitching. It had moved outside, making it a spectator sport, and the neighbours had front-row seats. He tried not to think of who might be in that crowd, what they might be carrying. The Troubles were officially over, but animosity towards the police hadn’t dissipated. It was in the blood, no matter which side of the divide you were on. And, right now, he and Simon were the perfect target for a half-brick, a petrol bomb or whatever else could be pulled from a backstreet arsenal.
Back-up was on the way, but Connor knew he needed to end this. Quickly.
‘Mr Hughes? Put it down, sir, now,’ he said, reaching for his CS spray as he spoke.
Hughes looked at him, wild-eyed, nostrils flaring. A crack had spidered its way across the right lens of his glasses, the flesh behind the frame puffy and already turning an ugly purple. Hell hath no fury, right enough.
Simon looped around to the left, trying to outflank Hughes and keep the crowd back at the same time. More jeers and hoots, a kid trying to spark up a chorus of ‘Fuck the pigs’.
‘Mr Hughes,’ Connor said again, raising his voice. Not that it mattered. One look in Hughes’s eyes told him the man wasn’t listening. He wanted blood. And he didn’t look like he much cared whose it was.
‘Fuckin’ bitch!’ he spat across the car. ‘Look what ye did to ma fuckin’ motor. I’m gonnae—’
‘Oh, aye? Gonnae what, Jonny?’ Amy hissed back, cords in her neck straining, fists clenched. ‘Hit me again? That what you do with her? She like that? A bit of slapping around? The rough stuff? Must be something like that, as you’re shite at anything else, ya limp-dick fuck.’
Laughter exploded from the crowd, petrol to the rage burning in Hughes’s eyes. He surged forward, slipping around the right of the car on the side closest to the wall, too fast for Simon to catch. A roar of approval from the crowd as Amy danced backwards from the bonnet, ready to face him.
Connor stepped forwards, grabbing her arm. He threw her behind him, fresh laughter and whoops erupting from the crowd as she lost her balance and ended up on her backside. She cried out, more in shock than pain, and Hughes’s eyes darted between her and Connor. For a sliver of a second, Connor felt a surge of vertigo and sickness, the air now heavy with the promise of violence. Then, like a light being snapped off, the feeling was gone, replaced with something far darker and more dangerous.
Excitement.
Hughes raised the baseball bat above his head, ready to open Connor’s head with it. But Connor was ready, the situation unfolding in his mind in a giddying kaleidoscope of snapshot images. He took a step left, away from the swing, then jabbed his fist into Hughes’s exposed ribs. Not much, just a tap. It was enough to tip his balance and he staggered, bouncing off the low boundary wall of the front garden, skidding across its surface, then hitting the ground. He was on his knees in an instant, teeth bared.
‘Fucker,’ he said, his voice as hard as the pavement he crouched on. ‘I am going to end you.’
Connor took a half-step back, giving Hughes all the space he needed. He rushed forward, the baseball bat forgotten, nothing in him but rage now. Connor heard Simon cry out, ignored it. Stepped forward into Hughes’s path then went low, sweeping his legs out from under him. He landed roughly, chin cracking off the ground as his glasses skittered across the pavement. The crowd roared again: the neighbourhood big man with his UDA connections finally brought low. Connor sprang on him, got a knee on his back and hauled his arms roughly behind him. ‘Jonny Hughes, I am arresting you for—’
His world exploded into a cacophony of screams that stabbed into his ear. Hot breath on his neck as Amy leapt on him, hissing, clawing, biting. She reached round, her hands curled into claws, scrabbling for Connor’s eyes. ‘Leave him the fuck alone!’ she screamed. ‘If you’ve hurt him—’
Instinctively, Connor snatched for the hand clawing at his face. Grabbed it and twisted. Heard something pop, then Amy’s scream climbing from fury to agony.
He shrugged her off and turned his attention back to Jonny, who was thrashing beneath him but unable to move against Connor’s bulk. He finished cuffing him and hauled him to his feet. With his glasses gone, Hughes glared at Connor with a naked, feral hatred. ‘I’m gonnae make your life a fuckin’ horror show, son,’ he whispered. Then he spat into Connor’s face.
The report was routine, the problem of Connor almost breaking Amy’s wrist countered by the fact that she was assaulting him at the time. Jonny and Amy Hughes were charged with assaulting a police officer and breach of the peace. And that was the end of the matter.
Or so Connor thought.
Three weeks later, he came home after a shift, Karen already there, curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, the smell of her lasagne drifting from the kitchen, a package on the coffee-table in front of her.
He set down his kitbag. ‘What’s that?’
‘That?’ she said, a puzzled look on her face. ‘I don’t know. It was delivered to the school today for me, must be a mistake.’ She handed it to him. ‘Not something I ordered, strange they’d send it to the school though.’
It was a typical Amazon delivery package, a plain cardboard sleeve around the item inside. He opened it and slid out the book. With it was a printed card, Amazon’s version of a dedication. As he read it, Connor felt the world tip and lurch: ‘I promised you a horror show. Here it is. Hope you like it. L.’
He swallowed his fury and looked at Karen, who was studying him closely. ‘You okay, Connor?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone pale.’
He forced a smile, felt numb lips stretch away from his teeth. Hughes. And the obvious message? I know who you are. I know where your girlfriend works. I can get either of you at any time.
Connor snapped the slide back onto the barrel of the gun, pulled the trigger, then slid it back, resetting the mechanism with a satisfying clunk. He looked at the gun for a moment, memories he didn’t want to face churning to the surface. Of what he had done. What it had cost him. What he had become.
He packed up his cleaning kit and put it back into the safe, then locked the gun into the darkness with all his other memories of Belfast. It was over. Jonny Hughes, the Librarian, was dead. The book found at the murder scene was a coincidence, nothing more.
Let the past lie.
He stood up, tired, the weight of the past draining him. Looked out of the window and decided he was in no mood to tackle his gran’s house today. Headed for the living room to find his phone and call Jen. A day with her would help. He would check her flat as agreed, then suggest a drink. He was still musing on how he would tell her about Paulie as he scrolled to her number, not knowing the point was already moot.