I Hear the Sirens in the Street

12: A MESSAGE

A week went by without any developments. Like the majority of murder cases in Northern Ireland this one was starting to die. No new information from America. No eyewitness testimony. No calls on the Confidential Telephone. Mr O’Rourke had last been seen in Dunmurry. He’d got some Irish money, checked out of his crummy B&B and then he’d turned up dead. In another week or so the Chief would tell me to put the O’Rourke case on the back burner. A week after that, we’d move it to the yellow folders: open but not actively pursuing …

It was a Wednesday. The rain was hard and cold and coming at a forty-five-degree angle from the mountains. The sound of shotguns somewhere up country woke me at seven. I listened for a moment or two but there was no return fire and it was probably just a farmer going after foxes.

I put on the radio.

The local news was bad. An army base in Lurgan had been attacked with mortars, a firebomb had destroyed a bus depot in Armagh and an off-duty police reservist had been shot dead at the wheel of his tractor in Fermanagh.

The national news was about the Falklands War. Ships were still sailing south, the Pope wanted a peaceful resolution, the Americans were doing something, the EEC was calling for sanctions against Argentina.

I lay under the sheets for a while and finally wrapped myself in the duvet and dragged my ass downstairs.

I called my mother. She said she was just going off to play bridge. Dad was also on his way out, going birding up the Giant’s Causeway.

“What do you see up there?” I asked, faking interest.

“Buzzards, kestrels, peregrines, sparrowhawks, gannets, occasional black and common guillemots, razorbills, eider ducks, purple sandpipers, colonies of fulmar, kittiwakes, Manx shear-waters, puffins, twites.”

“You’re making half those up.”

“I am not.”

“There’s no such bird as a fulmar or a twite. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Fulmar from the Norse ‘full’, meaning foul, ‘mar’ meaning gull, ‘fulmar’, because of their oily bills. They’re a type of seagull. Highly pelagic birds …”

“Which means?”

“They spend most of their life out at sea, like albatrosses.”

“And a twite?”

“A small passerine bird in the finch family.”

We both knew that I didn’t know what a passerine bird was, but an explanation would weary me. “I have to go, Dad.”

“Okay, son, see you, take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

I hung up and put on Radio Albania to get a Maoist version of the world news. I put Veda bread in the toaster and made a Nescafé. I ate the toast at the kitchen table and thought about my folks. They’d never spoken about why they’d only ever had one kid. I hadn’t been deprived of love, but I’d just never really connected with either of them. Dad was into fishing, bird watching, hare coursing, fell walking, hiking, that kind of thing, and as a wean I’d thought that I was interested in it too, but I was only fooling myself. When I told them I was going to be a cop they neither approved or disapproved. If I’d told them I was going to be a terrorist I probably would have gotten the same reaction.

I carried the coffee into the living room.

I put on all three bars of the electric heater and stared out stupidly at the front garden. Radio Albania’s spin on the Falklands War was that it was a struggle between two fascist regimes in an attempt to repress revolt among their own working classes.

I trudged back into the kitchen, changed the channel to Radio Four to get confirmation that this really was a Wednesday. I had accumulated a lot of leave and in a deal with Dalziel in clerical I was taking two Wednesdays a month off until my leave was back down to manageable levels.

I made another cup of coffee and when I discovered that it was indeed a Wednesday I retired to the living room with a Toffee Crisp and my novel.

I was reading a book called Shoeless Joe which had gotten a good review in the Irish Times and was about a man obsessed by baseball and J.D. Salinger – but not in a creepy Mark David Chapman way.

The phone rang.

I trudged into the hall and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Duffy?”

“It is.”

“Can you be at the shelter in Victoria Cemetery in ten minutes?” a woman asked. A young woman, with an odd voice. English. Old fashioned. So old fashioned it sounded like she was doing an accent or something.

“Sorry?”

“Can you be at the Victoria Cemetery shelter in ten minutes?” she repeated.

“I can, but I’m not going to be.”

“I’ve got information about one of your cases.”

“Come down my office, love, anytime,” I said.

“I’d like to meet with you in person.”

“I don’t do graveyards. It’ll have to have to be at the office.”

“This will be worth your while, Duffy. It’s information about a case.”

“Listen, honey, they pay me the same wages whether I solve the cases or not.”

The lass, whoever she was, thought about that for a second or two and then hung up.

She didn’t call back.

I looked out the window at the starlings for ten seconds. One of the little bastards shat on my morning paper.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, ran upstairs, pulled on a pair of jeans and gutties. I threw a raincoat over my Thin Lizzy T-shirt and shoved my Smith and Wesson .38 service piece in the right hand coat pocket.

“I don’t like it,” I said to myself and sprinted out the front door.

The graveyard was on the other side of Coronation Road, over a little burn and across a slash of waste ground known as the Cricket Field – the de facto play area for every unsupervised wean in the estate.

The sky was black.

The wind and rain had picked up a little.

I jumped the stream and scrambled up the bank into the Cricket Field: burnt-out cars and a gang of feral boys throwing cans and bottles into a bonfire.

“Hey, mister, have ye got any fags?” one of the wee muckers asked.

“No!” I replied and hopped the graveyard wall.

I circled to where I could see the concrete shelter that had been built to give protection to the council gravediggers while they waited for funeral services to be concluded. This part of Carrick was on a high flat escarpment exposed to polar winds, Atlantic storms and Irish Sea gales. I’d been to half a dozen funerals here and it had been pissing down at every one of them.

I had envied the men in the shelter, although I had never actually been in it myself. It was large and could easily accommodate a dozen people. If I remembered correctly there were several wooden benches that ran along the wall. There were no doors to get into it as it was open to the elements on the south side like a bus shelter.

If I could circle due south through the petrified forest of graves I could easily see if someone was waiting in there or not.

I ran at a crouch through the Celtic crosses and granite headstones and the various family plots and monuments.

I made it to the perimeter wall on Victoria Road due south of the building. I looked across the cemetery and squinted to see into the shelter and moved a little closer and looked again.

No one was there.

I walked a few paces forward until I was behind a large monument to a family called Beggs who had all been killed in a house fire in the ’30s.

I watched the cemetery gates and the shelter.

No one came in, nobody left.

There appeared to be no one else here but me.

Rain was pouring down the back of my neck.

It was cold.

And yet I knew that the place was not deserted.

She was here, whoever she was.

She had called me from the phone box on Victoria Road and now she was here, waiting for me.

Why?

I put my hand in my pocket and clicked back the hammer on the revolver and stepped out from behind the Beggs family headstone.

I walked slowly to the graveyard shelter, scanning to the left and right and whirling one-eighty behind me. I raised my weapon and carried it two-handed in front of me.

She was here. She was watching. I could feel it.

I entered the shelter and turned round to look back at the graveyard.

Nothing moved but there were many hiding places behind the trees, the tombstones and the stone walls.

There was no glint from a pair of binoculars or a rifle scope.

“I came. Isn’t that what you wanted?” I said aloud.

A crow cawed.

A car drove past on Victoria Road.

I sat on a long bench that had been vandalised down to a couple of wooden slats.

I stared out at the dreary rows of headstones, Celtic crosses and monuments.

Nope. There was nothing and nobody.

She was more patient than me and that was not a good thing. Impatient coppers got themselves killed in this country.

Thunder rumbled over the lough.

The rain grew heavier. Rivers of water were gushing down the Antrim Plateau and forming little pools in the cemetery. I pulled out me Marlboros and lit a cigarette.

I walked to the edge of the shelter and looked out. Worms by the hundred were disgorging themselves from their human feast and writhing on the emerald grass.

Grass so green here that it hurt to look at it.

Why? Why had she called me? What was this about? Had I disrupted her plans by coming over the wall and not through the gates? Had she got cold feet? Was it just a regular crank call?

I sat there, waited, watched.

She waited too.

The sky darkened.

Magpies descended to feast on the snails and earthworms.

“Hello!” I yelled out into the weather. “Hello!”

Silence.

I turned and walked back and it was only then that I noticed the envelope duct-taped to the back of the bench.

I immediately looked away and lit another cigarette.

When the cigarette was done, I turned round with my back to the exposed south entrance. If she was watching she wouldn’t know what I was doing. Perhaps she would think that I was pissing against the wall.

I took out a pair of latex gloves from inside my raincoat pocket and put them on.

I checked for wires or booby traps and finding none ripped the envelope off. I examined it. It was a green greeting card envelope. Keeping my back facing south, I opened it. Inside there was a Hallmark greeting card with a shamrock on the cover.

I opened it. “Happy Saint Patrick’s Day” was the message printed inside.

At first I thought there was no message at all but then I saw it opposite the greeting.

“1CR1312”, she had written in capital letters in black pen on the top of the page.

You could, perhaps, have mistaken it for a serial number.

I noticed that actually there was a space between the 3 and the 1 so that really it read: “1CR 13 12.”

Even a non-Bible-reading Papist like me knew what it was.

It was a verse from the New Testament.

Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 12.

And not only that – it was something familiar. Something I should know.

The answers would be in my King James Bible back home. My house was only two minutes away, but there was something I had to do here first.

I put the card back in the envelope and retaped it to the seat back.

I pretended to zip up my fly, then I turned round and lit another cigarette.

I did up the collar on my coat and walked out of the shelter towards the cemetery exit. I didn’t look to the left or right, instead I hurried on down Coronation Road and only when I was at Mrs Bridewell’s house did I stop and turn and look: two kids playing kerby, a woman pushing a pram, a stray dog sleeping in the middle of the street; no one else, no strangers, no unknown cars.

I ran up the path and knocked on Mrs Bridewell’s door.

She opened it almost immediately. She had curlers in and she was smoking a cigarette. She was wearing a pink bathrobe, pink fuzzy slippers and no make up. She seemed about twenty. She was really very good-looking.

“Oh, Mr Duffy, I thought it was the milk man come back to replace those bottles that the—”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Bridewell, but your front bedroom must have an unobstructed view of the graveyard – from mine the big chestnut tree at the cricket field is in the way.”

“We can see into the graveyard – what’s this all about?”

“Do you mind if I run up there? We’ve been getting reports about vandals spray-painting the shelter and stealing flowers from the graves and I think I just saw one of the little buggers go in there.”

“Of course. Of course. That’s shocking, so it is. I’ve complained about them weans to the police but nobody ever pays any mind.”

I ran upstairs to her bedroom. Her husband wasn’t here as he was still over in England looking for work. The bedroom smelled of lavender, there was a white chest of drawers, the bed sheets were peach, the wallpaper had flowers on it. A black lacy bra was sitting at the top of a laundry basket. It distracted me for a second, before the bra’s owner followed me into the room.

“Why didn’t you just wait for him in the cemetery?” she asked.

“It’s a she. And if she sees me in the graveyard she won’t do anything, will she? But if I can catch her in the act from up here, then Bob’s your uncle, I’ll have physical evidence and we can haul her up before the magistrate.”

“Won’t it just be your word against hers? You should have brought a camera,” Mrs Bridewell said, which was her way of letting me know that she was not going to be dragged into this. Like everyone else on Coronation Road, testifying against criminals – be they paramilitary mafia or mere teenage vandal – was not an option.

“Aye, but the beak will always take the word of a peeler over a wee mucker any day of the week.”

I took up a position at the window.

I could spy out the whole graveyard from up here and could easily see if someone approached the shelter even through the heavy rain. It was possible that she’d already gone to check if I’d taken her envelope in that brief window between me leaving the cemetery and reaching here, but I doubted it. She was the careful type. She’d wait until she knew I was long gone.

If she was still there at all. The really smart play on her part would be to leave the envelope and never come back. But most people weren’t like that. That took real dedication. Or years of training. If she didn’t come back at all it might be reasonable to infer that she was a spook.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Mrs Bridewell asked.

“Love a cup.”

“I’ll just go downstairs,” she said.

“Where are the kids?” I was going to ask, but of course they were at school.

It was just me and her.

Steady lad, I told myself.

I opened the window and stared across Coronation Road towards the graveyard.

Mrs Bridewell came back in with a stool and a pair of binoculars.

“They’re me Dad’s ten-by-fifties, they’re good,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll get you that tea,” she added, with a Mona Lisa half-smile.

“Ta.”

Our eyes locked. I noticed that she had fixed her hair.

I am weak, I thought.

I am a weak man.

A stupid man.

She nodded, turned and went downstairs.

If my mystery caller didn’t show up it would mean big trouble here in the Bridewell household.

I focused the binocs and gazed through them towards the shelter.

A pigeon, a friggin’ seagull. Nothing else.

I scanned along the graves and the stone wall. Nada.

Mrs Bridewell came back with the tea and chocolate digestives. The tea was in a Manchester United mug, the biscuits were on a Manchester United plate.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome. So this is what they call a stakeout then, is it?”

I grinned. “I suppose, although its hardly The French Connection, is it? Catching a teen graffiti artist won’t get me a promotion.”

“You’ve done more than enough, Mr Duffy. There’s many round here that were dead proud of you last year but they wouldn’t say it to your face, cos, you know …”

I’m Catholic? I’m a cop? Both?

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

She put her hand on my shoulder.

Oh, Jesus.

“Listen, uh, Mrs Bridewell, you wouldn’t have a copy of the King James Bible handy, would you?”

“Pardon?”

“The King James Bible – I need to look something up.”

The hand fled from my shoulder and tapped the back of her hair.

“Of course!” she said, a touch indignantly. “Of course we have a Bible, just hold on a minute there and I’ll get it.”

I took a sip of tea and resumed scanning the graveyard.

I ate a chocolate biscuit.

And there she was!

She was wearing a black knit cap, a black leather jacket, blue jeans, white Adidas gutties. Her back was to me, but I could tell that she was of medium height, and limber.

I put down the binoculars and ran out of the bedroom.

I almost collided with Mrs Bridewell coming up the stairs.

“She’s there, if I leg it I’ll get her!” I called out.

“Oh! Go on!” Mrs Bridewell said, excited by the hunt.

I opened the front door and sprinted up Coronation Road, turned left on Victoria Road and was through the cemetery gates in under forty-five seconds.

My girl had arrived at the shelter.

I took out the Smith and Wesson and marched towards her.

Rain was bouncing off the polished marble headstones and thunder rumbled to the west. It was quite the scene. If Mrs Bridewell were watching through the binocs she’d be well impressed.

“Hey you! Police!” I called out. “Put your hands up!”

She didn’t even turn to look at me. She ran out of the shelter and kept running towards the graveyard wall.

“Halt or I’ll shoot!” I yelled, but she didn’t believe me.

She kept on running.

My mind raced. There was no clear shot and if I did shoot her it would be an inquiry at the very least, and if she was just some harmless lunatic I’d be dismissed from the force or (if the Sinn Feiners made an issue of it) charged with involuntary manslaughter.

“Halt!” I screamed again.

Not for a second did she stop.

Fucker!

I let the hammer drop on the Smith and Wesson and ran after her.

Christ, she was fast. She ran between the headstones and down the row of sycamore trees that led to the back gate. She stumbled on a tree root that curved above the surface. She lost her balance, regained it, lost it again, spilled.

“Okay love, that’s enough fun and games!” I shouted at her.

I pulled out the trusty .38 again.

I thought I heard a crack.

It may have been a gunshot, it may have been a car backfiring.

I dived to the ground and scrambled behind a headstone.

“The bitch is shooting!” I exclaimed, caught my breath and carefully stood up behind the grave.

In the ten seconds I had taken to do all that, she had gotten to her feet and sprinted towards the cemetery wall.

“Jesus!”

I ran after her but before I’d covered half the distance she hopped the wall and vanished into the Barley Field.

I heard a motorcycle kick and then saw a green Kawasaki 125 trail bike zoom across the field. It jumped a stream and cut down the lane to Victoria Road. It drove straight across the road heading into Downshire Estate. By the time I made it to the wall I couldn’t even hear it any more.

I jogged home and called it in.

“Female motorcyclist in black leather jacket heading through Downshire Estate, Carrickfergus on green Kawasaki trail bike. Indeterminate age, possibly dangerous.”

It was unlikely that they’d catch her but you never knew.

The doorbell rang.

I opened it.

Mrs Bridewell looked concerned. She had evidently watched the whole thing through the binoculars.

“Are you all right, Mr Duffy?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I took a spill is all.”

“Them vandals are getting more brazen every day. They have no respect for the law. I have half a mind to tell Bobby Cameron.”

Bobby Cameron was the local UDA commander. His method would be to kneecap the next kid who was found with a spray can.

“No, no, there’s no need for that! I’m sure we’ll find the culprit. I’ve called it in.”

“They’re putting out an APB? Like on Kojak?”

“Exactly like Kojak.”

She quivered for a moment in the rain.

“Oh, Mr Duffy,” she said, and folded into my arms. “I was so worried.”

I held her for a moment.

She cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said. “I suppose I better go get the weans.”

“Yes. Of course.”

She walked back down the path.

As I watched her arse jiggle away in that yellow dress I saw a black woman walking down the street from the other direction. She was tall and elegant, wearing jeans and a green sweater.

I had never seen a black person before in Carrickfergus and contextually it was pretty surprising. Because of the Troubles Northern Ireland had had virtually no immigration. I mean, why would anyone emigrate to a war zone that had bad weather, bad people, bad food and sky-high unemployment? Carrickfergus was as ethnically complex and diverse as a joint Ku Klux Klan-Nazi Party rally.

I stared at the woman for a second.

It wasn’t nice but I couldn’t help myself.

She must have felt my gaze because she turned to look at me and smiled.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied, in an African accent.

I went back inside #113 and closed the front door.

I checked with the emergency dispatcher at Carrick Station.

No motorcycle.

I asked them to patch it up to central command.

They said they would.

Every RUC and British Army patrol that came across a green motorcycle for the next twenty hours would stop the bike and question the rider.

In theory it sounded good. But presumably the bike would be burnt out at the first opportunity and never ridden again.

The whole thing was baffling. Was it just a crank? Some kid fucking with me? I went back to the graveyard to see if the envelope was still there but she’d lifted it. Didn’t matter. I remembered the verse. I ran the bath, poured myself a vodka and lime and dug out the King James Bible. I looked up Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, chapter 13, verse 12.

Of course I recognised the passage: “For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”

What’s that all about? I asked myself repeatedly for the next two hours and got no answers at all.