The Cold, Cold Ground by Adrian McKinty

decline. While the mercury remains level the bomb is safe, thus it could sit under a car for days or even weeks. As soon as it was driven, however, eventually you’d encounter a hill …
    I looked out the window.
    This is what death would look like.
    Victoria Council Estate, a grim appendage of consumptive Carrickfergus, itself a distension of the dying city of Belfast. Grey, wet, unloved. A ghetto supermarket, a bookies, a derelict house and on the gable terrace a massive mural of crossed AK-47s above the Red Hand of Ulster.
    The downslope grew steeper. I held my breath as Dolly made her point:
    When I was young and in my prime,
I left my home in Caroline,
Now all I do is sit and pine,
For all the folks I left behind …
    I clenched my fists.
Counted. One. Two. Three.
The road flattened out.
The bomb had not gone off.
There was no bomb. The danger had passed.
I pulled into the car park in front of the newsagents.
Reborn.
My whole life ahead of me …
Until the next fuck up.

6: THE LONG BAD SATURDAY
    I turned off the engine and sat in my little existential prison before going outside into the bigger existential prison of Northern Ireland.
    The car park was empty and I checked under the car just to be on the safe side. Nothing, of course.
    I said hi to Oscar McDowell and perused the front pages.
    â€œLiz Taylor Collapses” was the headline in the
Sun
and the
Daily Mirror
. “Ripper Trial Final Days” was the offering from the
Daily Mail
. “Royal Wedding Mix Up” was the lead in the
Daily Express
. A couple of the Irish papers covered the Frankie Hughes riot and were speculating about which of the hunger strikers would die next, while the others led with the ex-Mrs Burton.
    â€œWhat happened to Liz Taylor?” I asked Oscar.
    â€œBuy the paper and find out,” he said.
    I bought a packet of Marlboro Lights, a Mars bar and a Coke instead.
    Oscar gave me a funny look with my change.
    â€œWhat?” I said.
    He examined his shoes, cleared his throat.
    â€œYou’re a copper, aren’t you, Sean?”
    â€œYeah,” I said suspiciously.
    â€œLook, is there … is there nothing you can do about the boys?”
    â€œWhat boys?”
    â€œI’m fed up with it. We barely scrape by here. No one has any money any more. Magazine subscriptions are off by fifty per cent since ICI closed. And you can’t tell them that … You know what I’m talking about.”
    I did. He was talking about the protection money he had to pay every week to the paramilitaries. The money he gave straight out of his till to the local hoods so they wouldn’t burn him out.
    Oscar was in his sixties. Everything about him radiated exhaustion. He should have sold up and moved to the sun years ago.
    â€œWhat’s the going rate these days?” I asked.
    â€œBobby asks for a hundred pound a week. I can’t do it. Not in this economy. It’s impossible! Can you have a word with them, Sean? Make them see sense? Can you?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œThere’s nothing I can do, Oscar. If you were willing to testify that would be one thing, but you’re not willing to testify, are you?”
    He shook his head. “Not on your life!”
    â€œWell then, like I say, nothing I can do.”
    â€œThere must be some kind of back channel, Sean, you know, where you can just talk to them. Just tell them that they are charging far too much for this economy. If I go out of business, everybody loses.”
    â€œI can’t meet them. Internal Affairs would say it was collusion.”
    â€œI don’t mean a formal meeting or anything, I’m only saying that in the course of your duties, if you happen to come across those particular gentlemen, perhaps you can drop a wee hint or two.”
    I picked up my Mars bar, smokes and Coke.
    â€œI suppose the Bobby you’re referring to is Bobby Cameron on Coronation Road?” I asked.
    â€œYou heard no names from