Controlled Explosions (5 page)

Bob couldn’t move when it happened. Even when PJ fell, sliding down the hill, and the crack of the gunshot was followed closely by the crack of his leg breaking, and his blood began to feed the thirsty ground, even then Bob couldn’t do a thing.

PJ was making a noise he’d never heard come out of a person before, not even during the fire that time, not even on the day Robinson died, and a different figure was running out of the grove of trees behind them. Too far away, running too fast, there was no way to catch them … her. Because Bob could now see it was a young girl, probably still at school, clutching a very old shotgun and with her hair wild about her head. He recognised the uniform she had on – it was the same school PJ’s own daughter went to. The sun seemed to flame in her fair hair. As if she was on fire, too.

‘Sir?’ The officer was beside him, urgent, panicked. ‘Sir, what do we do? It’s your call, sir.’ A good lad, that. Bob really should learn his name. But was there any point if he was getting put out soon? His mind stretched ahead, a prison guard uniform, back at the bottom of the heap, the pay cut …

Very slowly, Bob reached for his radio. ‘Back-up requested to Richhill Farm – we have female remains, two fleeing suspects, possibly underage, and an officer shot.’ He paused for a minute, and on the hill, PJ had gone silent, and that was somehow worse than the screaming. ‘As quick as possible, please.’

From the front of the farm, there was the sound of an engine starting up.

‘Catriona,’ said Aidan, flicking his cigarette. ‘Her da’s in the Ra, aye?’ They were trailing through the town in the heat, the waves of it rolling up from the tarmac. Paula was walking as slowly as she could. She hoped some of those bitches from school would see her. Aidan was quite the heartthrob at St Clare’s, not that he’d ever gone steady with anyone.

‘Supposed to be, yeah.’

‘Red Hugh, they call him. Red Hugh O’Keeffe.’

‘Do they?’

‘Aye. And your da put him away three years ago. He’s in the Maze, so he is.’

‘Did he?’ Paula never knew anything about what her father did all day. He’d made sure of it. How did Aidan find these things out?

‘Aye.’

‘What are you, like, Sherlock Holmes?’

Aidan flicked back his hair so she could see the pale underneath of his wrist, just for a second. She imagined how it would feel, the pulse of the blood beating there. ‘They let me hang out at the paper, like. In the office.’

She didn’t know what to say to that. John O’Hara had been shot in that office, when Aidan was only seven. He’d been there to see it, watch his dad die in front of him. Someone else was editor now but they never had the heart to send him away. Aidan was going off to do journalism in Dublin, never wanted anything else out of life. She still had no idea what she might do. She liked Sociology, but only the crime bits, and English and Biology, but they didn’t let you do that combination. Saoirse knew she would be a doctor, was going to do all the A-levels you needed for that. Everyone knew where they were going to end up – except Paula. She couldn’t imagine what her life would be like when she grew up.

‘So. That’s probably why she’s being such a bitch to you.’ Aidan tapped away his cigarette ash.

‘But why’s she started now? I mean, she was always a bitch, but she used to leave me alone before this.’

‘I dunno, Maguire.’

That name again. ‘Should I tell Dad?’

‘Are you scared of her?’

‘No. But that boy with her … I think he’s her brother. He’s freaky. And that thing in my bag, that’s really weird.’

‘Aye. Well, I can … if you want you can walk home with me for the next week. Then she’ll be out of your hair till next year. Won’t she?’

‘Yeah. OK.’ She acted like it was no big deal. So did he. They kept on walking, heading for home.

Johnson said, ‘Tell me again what happened.’

Bob rubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt crumbly, dry as the ground around that farm. ‘There were two of them. Red Hugh’s weans. Seventeen and nineteen, they are.’

‘And the boy shot at DC Maguire?’

‘The girl. The younger one.’

‘I see. And you let her escape.’

‘We … we didn’t know she was there. She got round to a car, drove off.’

Johnson looked cool and collected. No sweat on his forehead, his collar stiff as if he’d just ironed it an hour before. He was behind his desk and hadn’t asked Bob to take a seat. That was deliberate, Bob was sure.

‘And DC Maguire? What’s his prognosis?’

‘He’s in surgery. The bullet went through his leg.’

The ambulance had found them in time, thank the Lord, and PJ had been escorted off. He’d been breathing and awake, though his face was white as the walls and his blood was still soaking into the parched ground.

‘And you’ve got the boy in the cells. The girl’s brother.’

‘Aye. Yes.’ They’d caught up with the young fella in the woods, handcuffed him. He’d been shouting terrible things, you bastards, you effing traitors, you dirty Brit-licking scum. But they had him.

‘That’s something, I suppose.’ Bob wondered who would do the interview. So far Johnson hadn’t said. ‘And the body?’

Bob said, ‘It’s their ma, we think. Red Hugh’s missus. The boy’s not talking so far, though.’

Johnson turned, buttoning his smart suit. Not like Bob’s, acrylic out of Burton’s, creased and shiny in the heat. ‘Well, we better change that. Come with me.’

Red Hugh’s boy was slumped in the plastic chair. He wore sports gear like all the kids had now, the stripes going down the side of his legs.

‘Is this his first arrest?’ asked Johnson.

‘Aye,’ said Bob. ‘He’s been keeping his head down.’

‘Doesn’t look old enough to build bombs.’

‘He’s nineteen, sir.’

‘That’s good.’ Johnson put his hand to the door. ‘That means we can stick him in the adult jail with his crazy da.’

He marched in, barrelling the door aside. It was important, how you walked in. Show them you mean business, that you’ve no respect for their fake army of murderers. It was one of the first things he and Johnson had learned. One of the things Ian Robinson had taught them.

‘Peadar,’ said Johnson. ‘That’s your name, is it?’

The boy shrugged. ‘Aye.’

‘Peadar O’Keeffe. Red Hugh’s your da.’

Another shrug.

‘Son, we know you’ve been planting those devices on the parade routes. That’s ten years you’re looking at right there. But we can be reasonable people, if you tell us why we found a body in your shed.’

‘Cos she’s dead, I reckon.’

Smart-arse. Johnson leaned forward. He was almost smiling. Bob wondered if Johnson missed this now he was the boss, the rush of it, just you and them and the desk between you, and one of you was going to win. ‘Is it your mammy, Peadar? Your mammy’s dead?’

He shrugged again. ‘Suppose so.’

‘She’d been shot in the head, so we hear. Now who’d do a thing like that? It wouldn’t be the same person who shot our colleague, would it?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Your sister. Isn’t that right? Catriona?’

‘Aye, that’s her name.’ He looked bored, picking flecks of paints off his hands.

‘Where is she, Peadar?’

‘How would I know? If you’re telling me you can’t even catch up to a wee girl, youse aren’t much fecking use as a police force, are youse?’

‘Oh, we’ll catch up to her, don’t you worry. What I’m wondering is what will happen when we do. She’s armed, and she’s a murder suspect – our officers would need to be very careful with her. They’ll have their own guns. Only, ours are a lot bigger.’

Bob glanced at Johnson from the corner of his eye. Was he threatening to kill a teenage girl? There’d been a lot of talk over the years about the RUC’s Shoot to Kill policy. In truth it was more that when you’d been shot at enough times, you stopped worrying about the rules and started wondering how long you had before a bullet found its mark, in your chest maybe, or the back of your head.

Peadar had gone very still. Sounding bored again, he said: ‘Catriona never shot that gun until today.’

‘So she didn’t kill your mammy.’

‘Course not. She’s only a wean.’

‘So who did?’

Nothing. Peadar folded his arms. He looked casual but Bob knew the pose: he’d run out of road and he knew it.

Johnson leaned in with a big shark smile on his gub: he knew it too. ‘Peadar, did your da shoot your mammy? Red Hugh?’

‘Don’t call him that.’

‘All right. But did he shoot her?’

‘No. He’s in jail, duh.’

‘Then who did, Peadar?’

A moment’s silence. Then, bored again: ‘I did, you fecking eejits.’

Johnson leaned back as if he’d always known it. ‘Why would you kill your mammy, son?’

‘She was going to give you lot more evidence. Keep Da inside longer. She didn’t want him back. He’ll be out under the Agreement, see. Then he can do his job – getting rid of the imperialist Brits. And you lot, you fucking Huns. So I shut her up.’

Johnson slapped the table lightly. Job done. He turned to Bob as if to say,
that’s how you do it
. ‘Mind your language, son. We’ll be charging you formally. You just sit tight for a minute. Sergeant Hamilton, would you step outside?’

There was a creak, the boy was leaning back in his chair. ‘Youse better catch up to her soon. My sister.’

‘And why’s that?’

He smiled. ‘You didn’t find the list, then?’

For a moment, Bob thought the boy was talking about
the
list – the one he was so afraid of, the one he’d been imagining for months now.

‘What list’s that, son?’ Johnson spoke casually, on his way out the door, but Bob had known him long enough to hear the tension underneath.

‘Have a wee look at what was in the shed. We know where you live. Where all of you live. She’ll be on her way to one of your houses right now.’

Johnson shut the door, and then someone was running up the corridor. The officer from earlier. Bob wished again he knew his name. ‘Sir! We’ve tracked the girl’s car.’

‘She’s on her way to an officer’s home?’ Johnson spoke casually again.

Bob was moving slowly, like a diver on the bottom of the sea. ‘It’s me. It’s my house, isn’t it?’ He thought of Ian. Linda would be on her way home with him now, in the car adapted for his wheelchair. He could see it all so clearly it was as if it had already happened: the girl with the gun, Linda slowing down, thinking maybe she needed help, and she’d help anyone, Linda would … he was rooted to the spot again.

The officer was still speaking, his words getting louder and faster. ‘Sir, it’s not you. It’s DC Maguire. The girl’s gone to his house. They know he’s Catholic. They’ve got his address. She has a gun.’

The relief was like the dazzle of the sun. ‘But PJ’s not there. He’s in the hospital. We can get there in time and …’

Johnson spoke. ‘Does he not have a daughter?’

Paula was disappointed when they reached her road. She’d have to go in now, let him leave. ‘So … see you Saturday maybe.’

‘Yeah. Might be there.’

She scuffed her Kickers along the dry pavement. There was something else to say, there had to be, but she had no idea what it was.

Aidan wasn’t looking at her. He was finishing his cigarette, dropping the butt under the sole of his DM, crushing it. He said nothing.

She glanced at the house; her dad wouldn’t be home for hours. She’d have to go in alone, maybe eat a Pot Noodle, watch TV. The house would be cool inside, and lonely, but never empty. Her mother was still in every room, after all.

She put her hand on the gate. ‘Well, I better head in, s’pose.’

‘Maguire.’

Her heart blurred in her chest. ‘Yeah?’

‘Come here a minute.’

She couldn’t look at him. It was all too much, the sun beating down and him in his uniform, the cigarette dropped from his mouth, his hair falling over his head, his tie loose, and the smell of him, tobacco and aftershave and a tiny bit of sweat. ‘What?’

‘Paula.’

She still couldn’t look. He put his finger under her chin, lifted it. He was taller than she was, just by a few inches.

Oh my God oh my God.

Aidan was suddenly closer than he’d ever been, and his mouth was on hers, warm and soft, tasting of bubblegum. It took her a few seconds to kiss back – she was stunned, reeling. Aidan, who she’d known forever. This was how he tasted. This was how he smelled. This was the sound of his breathing. That was his mouth, pressed on hers.

He broke away. ‘I …’

She felt like she’d just woken up, confused, fuzzy. ‘What …’ They stared at each other for a moment, dazed.

Nearer and nearer came a sound everyone in Northern Ireland was born knowing, as well as you knew the pulse of your own blood in your ears. Sirens. Coming closer. Aidan was peering down the street, frowning, shading his eyes against the sun. ‘Is that not that girl from your school?’

‘Catriona?’ Paula looked to the sound of running feet, and there she was, her blond hair flying, still in her school uniform. She was holding something in her hand. ‘Is that …?’

‘Shit!’ Aidan was suddenly tense, grabbing her arm. ‘It’s a gun. She’s got a fecking gun.’

Paula had never seen a gun before, not up close, just when you passed the police in the street. But Aidan had, of course. He’d seen guns when they shot his dad.

Catriona ran at them so fast it seemed she wasn’t going to stop. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. The light glinted on the gun. She stopped in front of them. Paula felt Aidan’s arm tremble – he was shaking. A stab of fear went through her, but somehow her voice was calm. ‘What’s going on, Catriona?’

‘Why didn’t you help me?’ The girl was almost crying. ‘Why didn’t you listen?’

‘What do you mean?’ She tried to speak quietly.

‘I kept trying to ask you, talk to you … I thought you’d understand … your ma’s gone too, everyone says she’s dead … and he killed her. I was trying to tell you.’

‘Who killed who?’ Still Paula managed to sound OK. She reached for Aidan’s arm, squeezed it. Trying to tell him it was going to be all right, though she was far from sure herself.

‘He killed my ma. She’s dead, in the freezer. He made the bombs … I don’t know what to do. I kept trying to tell you, but he followed me everywhere, he even put that thing in your bag …’