Dark Dawn by Matt McGuire

and recognized the two men. She immediately stopped talking and put her head down, pushing the buggy onwards. The men parted to let her pass, looking her up and down, like she was something they might eat. Molloy spoke.
    ‘A bit young for an old fucker like you, don’t you think? Now a good-looking guy like me . . .’
    Lynch didn’t respond. He kept his hands in his pockets, sizing up Molloy and Tierney. Molloy was the bigger of the two of them. He knew he could put Tierney down pretty quickly, then concentrate on the other one. He couldn’t tell yet if they were holding. If they were it was a different story altogether.
    ‘Mr McCann has sent for you.’ Molloy gestured at a grey Ford, parked at the kerb. ‘Get in the car.’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Lynch said.
    He didn’t move. He stared at Molloy, seeing that he was calling the shots.
    ‘Listen, Clint Eastwood.’ Tierney chipped in. ‘We’re not asking you. Get in the fucking car.’
    ‘I’ve nothing to say to McCann.’
    ‘We don’t give a fuck what you’ve got to say.’ Tierney had a mouth on him. Molloy was more deliberate, weighing things up.
    Lynch didn’t move. They weren’t holding. If they were, they’d have shown something by now.
    ‘You might have moved into the Markets with Hughesy,’ Tierney continued, ‘and you might have done your time together. The big heroes. Up in the Maze. The Cause and all that.’
    Lynch half-listened to Tierney, keeping his eyes fixed on Molloy.
    ‘You see, Hughesy’s gone, he’s not here any more. And when
he
goes, so does your pass for the Markets.’
    Lynch had known this was coming. Tierney was doing all the talking, but it was Molloy that counted. He was the one to worry about.
    ‘You need to come and see Mr McCann,’ Molloy said. ‘Need to have a chat with him. There are no freeloaders here. Everyone has to earn their keep.’
    ‘I’m retired.’
    ‘Retired!’ Tierney exclaimed. ‘Away and fuck yourself. Retired? Don’t make me laugh.’
    Tierney was a slabber all right, but Lynch had heard the stories and knew he could back it up. Meanwhile, Molloy was trying to do the same thing Lynch had done earlier: figure out if he was carrying.
    Lynch took his hands out of his pockets. With his right hand he reached round into the belt at the small of his back. There was nothing there, but Lynch kept his hand hidden, holding on to the leather.
    Molloy saw it and his eyes narrowed. He knew the stories, knew that Lynch had several bodies on him. The Lynch Man. The Lyncher. Molloy knew he wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t shirk at putting a bullet into either of them. Lynch found himself sliding into character. The passive face, the eyes taking on an empty, hollow stare. Molloy looked at him. He thought he was bluffing, but he couldn’t be sure.
    ‘Come on, Tierney,’ Molloy said, putting his hand on his partner’s shoulder. ‘This one’ll keep.’
    The two men turned and went towards their car. Tierney was still slabbering.
    ‘I’d go out and buy a lottery ticket if I was you, Lynch. ’Cause I’ll tell you, this must be your lucky day or something.’
    The two men got into the car and drove off, leaving Lynch standing by the kerb.
    After weeks of anticipation, weeks of waiting, weeks of wondering, it had begun. Lynch sighed, feeling some of the tension flow out of him. It had started. At least he knew that now.

SEVEN
    O’Neill sat at his desk in Musgrave Street, hunched over the Laganview file. He flicked through the pages. Paperwork. The holy commandment of police work. Thou shalt not shit without filling out a form. Paperwork covered the cracks. It meant you followed procedure. It was management’s way of keeping an eye on you. Their way of staying in the loop. O’Neill wondered what the world looked like from the third floor. Dunking biscuits into cups of tea, flicking through pages of neatly typed reports.
    It had been three days since the body turned up and there was a thick file on