The Cold, Cold Ground

turning up the Jordanstown Road or going straight on, he cut across the busy Shore Road and went to the public toilets at the park.
    I waited for him to come back out.
    He didn’t come back out.
    The wind was whipping up the boats in the lough and forcing spray onto the highway. It was freezing and the rain was running down the back of my neck.
    I saw that there was an exit to the toilets on the park side so I crossed over the Shore Road and waited under the branches of a small confederacy of white oak trees.
    At least with the rain there will be no rioting tonight, I said to myself. And I’ll bet that the power workers’ wives forced their hubbies to keep the light and heat on too. The minutes ticked past. This is why peelers need a book. A wee paperback to stick in your pocket.
    I stood there for a good fifteen minutes. “Has he fallen down the bloody hole?” I muttered. And then I began to have a darker suspicion.
    We were on the trail of a killer after all …
    I took the service revolver out of my raincoat pocket andchecked there were six .38 rounds in the cylinder. I stepped out from under the branches and began walking towards the bogs.
    I got half way there and saw someone leave the toilets from the Shore Road side and walk briskly to a parked car I hadn’t noticed before. A Volkswagen Beetle. I began to run, but he began running too to get out of the rain.
    He got in the Beetle and it drove off in the direction of the M5 motorway and the sliproads for Belfast.
    “Jesus! You bloody blew it, Duffy!” I cursed myself. You wanted to be dry so you stood under the trees rather than a place where you would be equidistant between both exits. “You bloody idiot!” I said to the rain and the crashing surf.
    Didn’t even get a licence plate, although if it was Shane and Shane’s car it would be easy enough to check.
    “All right, all right, let’s see what you were doing in the bog for the last twenty five minutes,” I said, keeping my gun ahead of me as I went inside.
    For some reason I’d been expecting a junkie but of course it was a fruit instead.
    He was about nineteen or twenty, blue eyes, pale skin, black hair in a sort of Elvis quiff. High cheekbones and his fingernails were lacquered red. He was far too attractive not to be a poofter and he was wearing a leather jacket, jeans and converse high tops – standard rentboy garb.
    He looked at the .38 and I put it away.
    “Ahh, you’re a policeman,” he said nonchalantly.
    “Well, I ain’t your fairy godmother.”
    He took a step towards me. “Look at you, coming on so tough,” he said.
    “Aren’t you the brave lad? What’s your name, son?”
    “John Smith. You can call me Johnnie.”
    He didn’t seem at all concerned that I could possibly shoot him or kneecap him. This toilet must be a well-known queer hang-out. I checked the graffiti on the wall: the usual Fuck ThePope, Remember 1690, UVF, UDA, UFF, but not as much of it as you would expect so close to Rathcoole.
    “Who was that that was just in here?” I asked.
    “His name?”
    “Aye, his name.”
    “I’ve seen him around, peeler, but I don’t know his name. Not really my type.”
    “What was he doing in here?”
    The kid smiled. “You know what he was doing.”
    “Don’t play games with me, pal, I’ll fucking slap you round the head.”
    “Is that how you get your kicks?”
    “All right, sunshine, enough of the smart remarks. Spread ’em up against the wall,” I said.
    “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that tonight.”
    I pushed his face against the tiles, patted him down and searched him. He had about 100 quid in one of his jacket pockets, a tiny bag of cannabis resin wrapped in cling film in the other. Not enough to get him on a distribution wrap and certainly not worth the hassle of the paperwork.
    “Where did you get this?” I asked him.
    He didn’t reply. I pulled out the .38 again and shoved the barrel against his cheek. “Where did you get it?”
    “From him,” he said. “The one you were talking about.”
    I nodded and put the cannabis in my raincoat pocket.
    “What did he want from you?” I asked.
    The kid turned round and stared at me.
    A long searching look. Even in the darkness his eyes were very blue. He took a step closer and moved the revolver with a finger so that it was no longer pointing at him.
    “The same thing you want,” he said.
    He slipped a hand behind my neck, pushed me forward and kissed me on the lips. I pulled back,