The Troubles With It All

Colm woke to find he had once again he had fallen asleep in front of the paraffin heater, he had burnt a hole in his only pair of woollen socks and he was late for work. Great fucking start. He rushed out the door, gratefully feeling a Mars Bar he had left half-eaten in his jacket pocket as he reached for his keys. He did a cursory check under his car for bombs before starting the engine; one day he would regret not being more thorough. If Colm got too caught up in what could happen to him, a Catholic police detective in a Protestant town in 1980s Northern Ireland with a serial killer on the loose, he would never get out of bed, or up from beside the paraffin heater, and he certainly couldn’t do his job. He had enough trouble asserting any authority in his new job without showing signs of weakness. And it would suit everyone all too well if he failed.

He arrived at the station by way of the army checkpoint, got his now daily filthy look from one of Thatcher’s Finest as he presented his warrant card – the Jocks weren’t switched on enough to twig the difference between Fenian and Proddy, between those people trying to keep the peace and those determined to disturb it; they were all the same to him, Micks out to kill each other. Colm had made up time on his journey thanks to a lack of burning buses to dodge around; he crossed himself as he made his way over to his desk, it was only a delay on the inevitable. As Colm made his coffee, going without the usual addition of Jim Beam, he was pleased to see Mackie hard at work on the case. Jaime was nowhere to be seen but when Mackie got off the phone, he said that Jaime was at the hospital meeting with Dr. Stone about yesterday’s autopsy report; perhaps Colm was finally getting through to these layabouts.

Colm mulled over his case notes, trying to connect the dots: Homosexual victims – classical music – diversion??? – severed hands - IRA – informants. His head swam with formless ideas and disjointed images; the bullet hole in Ian Molloy’s head, the disembodied hands, the young O’Neill girl hanging from the tree - No, wrong case, sort your head out you fucking eejit. Colm inwardly cursed himself, trying to rid his brain of any thoughts of the missing girl now found; it wasn’t his case, not his business, a distraction. So what if he had found the body? He had done his duty, and that was the end of things. Colm knew he had a weakness for women in trouble, especially those bearing it up nobly with dark eyes, a sharp tongue, and a stiff upper lip – maybe he had more in common with those jumped-up Monarchist pricks across the water than he liked to admit.

Colm took a sip of his coffee, managing to spill it on his only remaining ironed shirt, Colm was not used to feeling so clumsy and useless, he was off his game. His phone rang as he was making a poor attempt to soak up the stain and Colm waited two rings to answer it, mentally marking it as a turning point in his day, pull your finger out son or you’re for it, he warned himself.

“Sergeant Murphy,” he started, more officiously than was his way.

“James Mallon here. From the Confidential Telephone line.”

“What you got for me?”

“You won’t like it,”

“I rarely do, Jim. Come on mate, don’t get me all revved up without taking me for a ride,”

Jim coughed awkwardly on the other end of the line, bloody Proddy tight-arses, couldn’t take a joke.

“Well come on then, man,” Colm was getting impatient now.

“It’s about Lucy O’Neill, her -,”

“Not my case, bucko” Colm insisted, trying to convince himself more than anything.

“I know but I can’t get hold of anyone else. And I heard you went to get her body.”

“Yes, I did,” Colm tried to pushed down the image of her neck, the bruises, her finger wedged between the rope and her throat in a failed attempt to save herself, “Fine, fine. Give me what you have.”

“Well her husband, ex-husband, he’s been found dead, or so the caller claimed,”

“Emmett O’Neill is in prison.”

“Not anymore sir, escaped early hours of this morning, I checked with the warden myself,”

“No one escapes the Maze, are you sure? We haven’t heard anything.”

“Probably only called the Belfast lads, and I suppose…“

“I suppose, they didn’t feel it pertinent to let us know information about our own sodding case.”

“Something like that, yes sir.” The shared loathing for the pompous gits of the Belfast Royal Ulster Constabulary was something that overcame barriers of religion and rank, bringing Colm together with his fellow officers in Carrickfergus, it’s tough being the little guy but it sure does help squad unity.

“Okay, where did the caller say the body was?” Colm scrambled for a pen and paper.

“Oh it’s your people’s heartland. Falls Road. 33” Colm dropped the pencil, watching it roll onto the floor.

“Are you sure? That’s where O’Brien lived. Before the IRA stripped the house of any trace of him that is”

“Is that the poofter from your psycho case?”

“We tend not to refer to it like that in our case notes”

“No, of course, sir. I just meant –“

Colm had wasted enough of this call, listening to PC Proddy Amateur Hour.

“You’ve been very helpful, Jim.” Colm said as quickly as he could, hanging up and simultaneously grabbing his jacket.

“Mackie, follow me!” Colm bellowed, more loudly than he had meant to, the anticipation of the day ahead making his skin burn up. Jaime had come back from the hospital and was filling the kettle in the poky kitchen unit and the kettle crashed onto the surface when Colm shouted.

“Jaime, come on, you too. Gear up boys, we’re going back up the Falls.”

Their faces went white but they followed him swiftly and without argument, pulling on riot gear in a spiky silence. Colm admired his newly dry-cleaned jacket as they trudged outside and chose the armoured Landrover with the fewest bullet dents, it had taken three goes but now you couldn’t see any of the blood stains on the sleeves, and the smell of gun powder was now completely gone.