Those We Left Behind (19 page)

FLANAGAN HAD LIFTED
Thomas at the hotel. The manager and reception staff had watched with horror as he was cuffed and read his rights there in front of the guests.

Thomas said nothing until he was in the car. ‘You’ve probably cost me my job. You know that, don’t you?’

Flanagan didn’t answer. She didn’t much care.

They waited in the station car park for a call to say Ciaran had been processed at the custody suite and taken to an interview room. Then Thomas was booked in and brought to a cell.

Not a word in all that time, but Flanagan could feel the rage and hate pulsing from him. Even as the cell door swung closed he stood at its centre, staring back at her until the metal separated them.

Now here was Ciaran, his gaze also fixed on her, but something entirely different behind his eyes. Something that cut into her sharper and deeper than the surgeon’s scalpel that had taken the cancer from her breast months before.

‘Ciaran, do you know why you’re here?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran said.

Wells, the solicitor, touched his arm, leaned in, and whispered.

‘No comment,’ Ciaran said.

‘You’re here because Daniel Rolston was killed the night before last in an alley in Stranmillis. Now, you don’t need me to go over your history with Daniel, do you?’

‘No comment.’

‘How you confessed to killing his father. How his mother committed suicide as a result.’

‘Just a minute,’ Wells said. ‘As far as I’m aware, there was never a direct link proven between the father’s killing and the mother’s suicide. That’s not relevant here.’

Flanagan ignored him. ‘Now, we know you and Thomas had an altercation with Daniel on Saturday morning. We have CCTV footage. There’s no question. You and your brother can be clearly seen.’

She took the top sheet from the stack on the table, turned it face up. A still image from the footage. Ciaran held between Thomas and Daniel. She turned another page, set it beside the first.

‘The video shows Daniel striking Thomas.’

And another.

‘Thomas falling to the floor.’

Another.

‘You helping Thomas up.’

Another.

‘Before Daniel is taken away by the security guards.’

She let Ciaran study the images for a time, watched his eyes move from one to the other. An echo of sadness there. Regret, perhaps?

‘Tell me what happened,’ Flanagan said.

Ciaran went to speak, but the solicitor touched his arm. The same arm that bore the teeth marks she’d seen the evening before.

‘No comment,’ Ciaran said.

‘Daniel came to see you,’ Flanagan said. ‘He came looking for you. What did he want?’

‘No comment.’

‘What did he say to you?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did he ask you about his father?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did he say he thinks Thomas killed his father, that you confessed to protect Thomas?’

‘That’s not true,’ Ciaran said. He pulled his arm away from the solicitor. ‘I killed Mr Rolston.’

‘Daniel didn’t think so,’ Flanagan said. ‘He told your probation officer he thought Thomas did it. Is that why Thomas killed Daniel?’

‘He didn’t.’

‘Let me tell you what I think happened. I think Daniel was getting too close to the truth. I think Thomas was getting scared. And when Daniel tackled you at the shopping centre, that was the last straw, wasn’t it? He had to do something. Am I right?’

Ciaran covered his eyes with his hands. ‘No comment.’

‘Stop covering for your brother. You spent seven years in Hydebank. Are you going to give him the rest of your life?’

‘No comment.’ His voice a whisper.

‘Ciaran, you can be free of him. Just tell me the truth, tell me what really happened. Then he’ll be gone. He’ll never touch you again. I promise.’

His hands shook. ‘No comment.’

‘All right,’ Flanagan said. She allowed the room’s dull quiet to settle over them for a few moments before she said, ‘I have something to give you.’

She took the envelope from her pocket, held it in front of Ciaran.

He looked at her hand, asked, ‘What’s that?’

‘Please take it,’ she said.

Ciaran reached for the envelope, took it from her.

‘It’s a Crime Prevention Order,’ Flanagan said. ‘It says you’re not allowed to associate with Thomas unless it’s under direct supervision by your probation officer or someone specifically approved by me. I applied for the order in court this morning.’

Ciaran sat back in his chair. Stared at her. A cold hardness there now.

‘After you leave here,’ Flanagan said, ‘you’ll be allowed no contact with Thomas without prior arrangement with Miss Cunningham.’

‘No,’ Ciaran said, a slight shake of his head.

‘That’s the court’s decision,’ Flanagan said.

The shake of his head became slower, wider, along with a rocking motion.

‘No,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry, that’s all—’

The slap of his palm against his cheek reverberated in the room. He grabbed a handful of his own hair, pulled hard. Slapped himself again.

‘Ciaran, stop.’

Flanagan looked to Ballantine, who stood and exited the room. The solicitor put an arm around Ciaran’s shoulder, whispered to him to calm down. Ciaran jerked his body loose. Flanagan reached across the table, tried to take Ciaran’s hands. He pulled away, made a fist with one hand, drew it back, slammed it into his own jaw. Again, and again.

‘Stop, Ciaran, please.’

Flanagan came around the table, tried to take him in her arms, but he writhed within her embrace, broke free. Blow after blow, fists, open hands, his head jerking with the force of them. The harder Flanagan tried to seize his arms, the harder he fought himself. Blood on his lips, smeared on his bared teeth.

The interview room door burst inward and four uniformed men rushed through, leg and arm restraints in hand. Flanagan backed away, let them take Ciaran. Like a boy caught in an avalanche. The solicitor fell from his chair to the floor, papers scattering. They worked with practised and dreadful efficiency. Within moments they had Ciaran face down on the floor, a knee between his shoulder blades, a hand pressing his head down into the linoleum, careful of his teeth. Velcro straps bound his calves, more holding his hands behind his back.

Then all was still and quiet, the solicitor and Flanagan backed into opposite corners, the only sound Ciaran’s gasping breath.

‘Get him to his cell,’ Flanagan said.

The four officers lifted him, face down, carried him head first towards the door. Ballantine stepped aside to let them past. She looked back at Flanagan, wide-eyed.

‘What now?’ Ballantine asked as the solicitor rushed past her.

Flanagan did not reply. Ballantine followed her all the way to the canteen.

‘What about the brother, ma’am?’ she asked.

‘We let him sweat,’ Flanagan said, as she filled a paper cup full of coffee. ‘Let him wonder what Ciaran’s telling us. Let the worry set in.’

Ballantine fetched a tea for herself and joined Flanagan at the nearest table. ‘Aren’t you going to interview him?’

‘Maybe,’ Flanagan said. ‘Maybe not. Won’t make much difference. He’ll give us a string of no comments. It’s Ciaran I need to work on.’

‘But he’ll do the same,’ Ballantine said. ‘He’ll do what the solicitor tells him, just say no comment to everything.’

‘No. Away from the solicitor. On his own.’

‘And then nothing he says is usable.’

‘True, but that’s not the point. The point is to chip away at this loyalty he has to Thomas. Wear it down until it breaks. Then he’ll talk in front of the solicitor, under caution. Then he’ll give up his brother.’

‘And how are you going to do that?’ Ballantine asked.

Flanagan did not answer. She drank her coffee in silence.

IT’S GETTING DARK
outside. If Ciaran rolls onto his back and cranes his neck, he can see through the small cell window. The light above is hard on his eyes, like glass fingers reaching inside his skull. He doesn’t know how long has passed since they put him in here. Feels like hours.

He screamed for a long time, he remembers that.

Lying face down on the thin vinyl-covered mattresses they had placed on the floor, hands strapped behind his back, his ankles bound. He had thrashed and kicked as much as the strapping would allow, tried to bash his head against the concrete, but the mattresses had softened each blow. All he’d managed was to strain his neck, his shoulders, his lower back, his thighs. Eventually, he gave up and lay still.

Then a long stretch of nothing, the only noise that which echoed within his head. Bad thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

Thoughts of Daniel Rolston bleeding in an alley.

Thoughts of Thomas’s teeth.

Thoughts of Serena Flanagan’s body. Her arms holding him, and the warm blades of her mouth.

Not very long ago, two uniformed police officers entered the cell. He lifted his head to see them.

‘You calmed down any?’ one of them asked.

Ciaran exhaled, let his body go limp.

‘Good,’ the policeman said. ‘You feeling okay? Do you want to see a doctor?’

‘I’m all right,’ Ciaran said.

They said nothing more, left him there on the floor and closed the door behind them.

Now Ciaran’s tongue moves behind his lips. He looks for the anger and the hate that had devoured him earlier that day, finds nothing but a sadness he can’t quite grasp.

He startles at the sound of the door unlocking. He lifts his head again and sees Serena Flanagan step through carrying a tray. His heart kicks in his chest. Cold sparks in his stomach. He rolls to his side, humiliation swamping him.

She sets the tray on the bench that serves as a bed.

‘Tea and toast,’ she says. ‘I remember how you like it. Lots of milk, lots of butter.’

Ciaran knows the two policemen are waiting outside to rush in if he does anything. He can’t see or hear them, but he knows all the same.

‘If you stay calm,’ she says, ‘I’ll ask the officers to undo the strappings so you can eat. Will you try to stay calm for me?’

Years compress like an accordion and Ciaran is a child again. Alone and terrified in a cell like this one. This woman his only friend. The sole focus of his being. The one constant in his days, his only reason to keep breathing.

Ciaran rolls onto his other side, his back to her. He wants the toilet. He hopes he can hang on. He couldn’t bear to sink any lower.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

He wants to feel angry. He wants to hate her. But he can’t.

‘I’m okay,’ he says, his voice thin and whispery.

‘Are you still angry?’

‘Dunno.’

‘It’s okay to be angry,’ she says. ‘Everyone gets angry sometimes. But it’s not okay to hurt yourself. Or anyone else.’

Ciaran closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what she wants him to say.

‘I understand why you’re upset,’ she says. ‘I know how important your brother is to you, and I’m not trying to drive you apart. But you must see why I got this order.’

‘Are you sending me back to jail?’ Ciaran asks.

‘Not yet,’ Serena says. ‘First thing tomorrow morning I have a Risk Management Meeting with your probation officer and her area manager. They might want to go to the parole commissioner and ask for your release licence to be revoked. Then you’d have to go back to Hydebank. But I can ask them not to do that. If you’ll talk to me. Not under caution, not officially, just talk like we’re doing now. If you do that, I’ll ask for your licence not to be revoked. Fair enough?’

Ciaran doesn’t answer.

He hears her stand and come close, feels the pressure on the mattresses shift as she kneels down beside him. He can smell her now, soap and flowers and something else, the scent filling his head like it did seven years ago.

‘Will you talk to me?’ she asks.

‘What about?’

‘You,’ she says. ‘And Thomas.’

‘All right.’

He feels her hand on his shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ she says. She takes a breath. ‘You know, you spent two years in Hydebank without Thomas, and you managed. You can take a little time away from him now, can’t you?’

Ciaran wants to tell her what those two years were really like. The fear constantly ringing inside him. The sense of being alone and adrift amongst the other boys. How at night he often imagined the feeling of a belt or a strip of bed sheet tightening around his neck. Ciaran knew how to do it, still knows, just tie one end to a door handle and sit down. That’s all. If not for Thomas’s visits, for the words and promises his brother whispered to him every time, Ciaran doesn’t know what he would have done.

‘Where is Thomas?’ he asks.

‘In another cell,’ she says. ‘Not in this block.’

‘I want to see him.’

‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Under supervision. Depending on how things go between now and then.’

‘I want to see him tonight.’

‘That’s not going to happen.’

Ciaran folds in on himself, gathers in his knees, his chin, curls like a question mark around his own frightened heart.

‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ she says. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You’re safe here. You don’t need Thomas. He can’t hurt you while you’re with me. I’ll look after you.’

Can’t hurt me.

The words resonate in Ciaran’s mind as her hand returns to his shoulder. He closes his eyes. Focuses on the pressure there on his skin, the feel of hers through the fabric of the sweatshirt. Her fingertips move to his collar, then to the bare skin of his neck. He opens his eyes, turns his head to look up at her. His gaze holds hers for a moment.

Only for a moment, a crackling instant, then her fingers lift away like startled birds.

He can barely breathe.

Can’t hurt me.

Don’t need him.

That possibility glints like a candle flame in the darkness. The flame sputters, flickers, almost dies.

Then it steadies and glows.

Ciaran opens his mouth to speak, but the other policewoman appears at the door of the cell. ‘Ma’am?’ she says. ‘Is everything all right?’

Serena moves away from him.

‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you if I need anything.’

The other policewoman hesitates, looks at Ciaran, looks at Serena, and backs out of the doorway.

Quiet for a while, then Serena says, ‘Okay, I’m going to leave you now. The other officers will undo those strappings. You eat the toast and drink the tea. I’ll come back in an hour. While I’m gone, I want you to think very hard about what I’ve said. About what you’re going to say to me. All right?’

Ciaran nods.

Serena stands and walks to the door. She pauses there and says, ‘You don’t need him.’

He watches her leave and the two uniformed officers enter. They undo the straps while he lies very still.

One of them says, ‘Good boy,’ and pats his shoulder. ‘Maybe get some sleep.’

The cell door closes and locks.