Those We Left Behind (9 page)

CIARAN WALKS INTO
the hotel lobby. People everywhere. It’s all modern, all stone and glass, a fake fireplace, leather couches and armchairs, books on shelves that no one has ever read. The city outside, rumbling and screeching. Noise upon noise.

He crosses to the desk, a wall of dark polished wood. A pretty woman behind it smiles as he approaches. He stops a few feet from her. She keeps looking at him, her eyebrows raised. Her name tag says ‘Sarah’. He wants to run.

After a while, Sarah asks, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I want to see Thomas,’ Ciaran says.

Her smile flickers off and on again. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas . . .’

‘Thomas Devine,’ Ciaran says. ‘My brother.’

‘Is he a guest?’ Sarah asks.

‘No,’ Ciaran says. ‘He works in the kitchen.’

Sarah’s smile goes away. ‘Just a moment,’ she says before moving along the desk. She lifts a phone, stabs at a few numbers, and waits. Ciaran can’t hear what she says. She puts the phone down and points to the couches by the fake fireplace, tells him to wait.

Ciaran does as he’s told, like a good boy.

It takes a long time for Thomas to come. He wears a white top, a chequered hat on his head, black trousers. He looks strange to Ciaran. And angry.

Thomas doesn’t say anything, just takes Ciaran’s arm and leads him to the exit. Outside, Thomas walks towards the side street beside the hotel, dragging Ciaran behind, his fingers squeezing tight through Ciaran’s sleeve. Ciaran knows he’s done a bad thing, but he isn’t sure what. Thomas finds a deep doorway, shoves Ciaran into a metal shutter so that they’re hidden from the street. Ciaran wants to cry.

‘What are you doing?’ Thomas asks.

‘I wanted to—’

Thomas slaps Ciaran’s forehead with his palm, knocks his head against the shutter.

‘Why’d you come here? Why’d you come to my work?’

Another slap. The shutter rattles off the back of Ciaran’s head again.

‘I wanted to see you,’ Ciaran says.

His eyes are hot. He wants to go to the toilet. Thomas’s teeth flash. It’s been so long since Ciaran felt them on his skin. He doesn’t want to feel them now.

‘You could’ve called my mobile,’ Thomas says.

‘You didn’t answer,’ Ciaran says. His bladder aches.

‘Then you could’ve left a message.’

‘But I wanted to see you.’

Thomas pushes Ciaran back, grabs a handful of his hair, closes his teeth on Ciaran’s neck. Pressure there, the heat of his breath, and wet. They stay like that for a while, Ciaran frozen, Thomas ready to bite. Then Thomas moves his mouth away.

He cups Ciaran’s face in his hands, comes close, his lips against Ciaran’s cheek.

‘Listen to me,’ Thomas says. ‘You don’t come to my work. They don’t allow people to just call in. Do you understand? It’s okay, I’m not angry. You didn’t know. Just don’t do it again. All right?’

‘All right,’ Ciaran says.

‘Good boy. Now what’s wrong?’

‘Paula. The probation woman.’

‘What about her?’

‘I had to go and see her. She asked about that boy. The one from yesterday.’

Thomas wets his lips with his tongue. ‘What’s he got to do with us?’

‘She said I could go back to Hydebank. She said you could go to prison. She said we wouldn’t be able to see each other.’

Ciaran feels a hot, fat tear roll down his cheek. Thomas wipes it away.

‘That’s not going to happen,’ Thomas says. ‘Listen to me. That is not going to happen. I won’t let it happen. Ever.’

‘But she said—’

Thomas pulls Ciaran close, embraces him, arms tight like a trap around Ciaran’s body. Lips against his ear.

‘I love you,’ Thomas says. ‘And you love me. They will not separate us again. Never. I promise you. Do you believe me?’

Ciaran nods. Thomas’s arms relax and slip away.

‘Say it.’

‘I believe you.’

‘Good,’ Thomas says. ‘Has she got you a job lined up?’

‘I have to go somewhere today,’ Ciaran says. ‘A gardening place. She gave me a card.’

‘All right,’ Thomas says. ‘You go there, you talk to them, you be polite and friendly. Tell them you’ll work hard. You need a job so they’ll know you’re being good. All right? It’s important for them to think you’re being good. I’ve been good these last two years while I’ve waited for you. And you’re a good boy, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.

‘All right. I’m on the evening shift tomorrow, so I don’t have to be in till six. We’ll go for a spin in the morning. Maybe go to the seaside. What do you think?’

‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.

Thomas hugs him, kisses his cheek, leaves him there.

Alone, Ciaran allows the tears to come. Just a few, then he wipes his face clean. His groin aches from holding on. He had feared he might wet himself there on the street. Then Thomas would have surely used his teeth. But Ciaran held it in. Now he turns in the doorway, opens his fly, and lets it go, shame burning in him.

The man at the gardening place isn’t friendly, but he isn’t angry either. He tells Ciaran he can start on Monday, to be ready for the van at seven every weekday morning. Three other boys from the hostel work for him. They’ll all go together. It’ll be hard work, he says. Ciaran says that’s all right, he wants to work hard. The man seems pleased. He wants Ciaran’s National Insurance number. Ciaran doesn’t know what that is. The man says never mind, he’ll get it from Mr Wheatley at the hostel.

The taxi ride back into the city takes a long time. Rush hour, the driver says. He curses at the traffic and punches the face of the steering wheel, making the horn blare.

Ciaran stops noticing the buildings and the pedestrians as they creep past. He thinks about his mother. He remembers her as a shadow, a scent, a disturbance of light. There used to be a photograph of her. A young, thin, dark-haired woman, sitting outside a tent in a field full of tents. She wore a red checked shirt, muddy jeans, wellington boots. A cigarette held between her fingers.

The last time he saw it, Ciaran had been sitting alone on the bed in the room he and Thomas shared. He couldn’t quite remember who the foster carer was. An older couple, he thought, but it was hard to see from all these years away.

He had the photograph in one hand, the fingertips of the other tracing her outline, touching her face, trying to remember what her voice sounded like. Music, Ciaran thought. Probably like music, the gentle kind.

How old was he then? Maybe seven. He remembered the dirt beneath his nails and the smudges his fingers left on the photograph’s gloss.

Then Thomas walked in. One of the foster carers had taken him away a few minutes earlier, said she needed a word with him. Ciaran didn’t know how long he was gone, but when he came back, Thomas’s face told him to be afraid. Anger there, and hate, black beneath his skin. Ciaran could almost feel the teeth already.

Thomas sat down on the bed opposite, his hands balled into fists on his knees, breathing hard. His nostrils flared.

Ciaran stayed very still, waiting. His throat dried, but he was afraid to swallow.

Eventually, Thomas reached his hand across the space between them. Ciaran knew not to pull away. That would only make it worse. Thomas gripped the photograph between his forefinger and thumb, took it from Ciaran’s hand. He turned it towards himself, studied the image of their mother. The tent, the checked shirt, the hair dark as his own. Ciaran could see the words written in pen on the back: ‘Trip to Tipp 93’. He did not know what they meant.

‘She’s fucking dead,’ Thomas said.

A bad word. Thomas almost never said bad words. Ciaran began to shake.

‘A heart attack or something. Because of the drugs. Fucking stupid bitch.’

Thomas took the photograph in both hands. Tore it down the middle. Placed one piece on top of the other and tore again. And again and again. So many pieces scattered on the floor.

‘So that’s that,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you want to go to the park? Mr Breen said we could.’

Yes, Mr and Mrs Breen, Ciaran remembered now. He had liked them, but Thomas had said he shouldn’t. He said they were all the same, people like them.

They went to the park. In a far corner, high up in a tangle of overgrown bushes, they found a nest. Two adult birds circled overhead, crying out in alarm. A clutch of chicks inside the nest, blind and chirping, their beaks open.

Ciaran watched Thomas kill them all.

Mr Wheatley is waiting at his office door when Ciaran gets back.

‘How’d it go?’ he asks.

‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.

‘Just okay? Did he give you a job?’

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.

‘Good,’ Mr Wheatley says. ‘Well done. Work hard and make the most of it.’

‘Yeah.’

Ciaran stands there in the hall, Mr Wheatley in his office doorway, each of them looking at the other. Ciaran doesn’t know what to do next. Perhaps he should say something, but he can’t think of a single word.

Mr Wheatley nods, says, ‘All right, then. See you later.’

Ciaran walks up the stairs towards his room. On the second landing he sees that boy, Robbie Agnew, coming out of the bathroom. His face bruised and cut. Swelling over one eye. Ciaran hears the sound of a cistern filling beyond the door.

Robbie stares at Ciaran for a moment, frozen there, his mouth open. Then he drops his gaze to the floor. He’s shaking. He opens the bathroom door and steps back inside.

Ciaran goes to his room, closes the door behind him, sits on his bed.

He thinks of Thomas and the baby birds crushed beneath his feet.

FLANAGAN SAT AT
her desk, the telephone’s handset in one hand, the fingers of the other hovering over the keypad.

Don’t do it, her better mind said.

The anger that had sparked into flame while she spoke with Julie Walker had not abated through the afternoon. It smouldered in her like a hot coal. None of it made sense. The only logical answer she had could bear no logic whatsoever. But still it lingered in her mind.

Flanagan closed her eyes, gave a silent curse, and hit the key.

‘Ladas Drive, please,’ she said. When the call was answered, she asked if DCI Conn had returned from the scene. The duty officer put her through to his office.

Conn spoke with the distracted tone of someone interrupted in his work. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

Flanagan swallowed and said, ‘I wondered how you were getting on with the Walker case.’

‘Okay, I suppose. It’s mostly paperwork. Once the coroner’s report is in, it’s just a matter of pushing forms at the PPS.’

‘Have you spoken with Julie Walker? Or the boyfriend?’

‘I’ve scheduled statements for tomorrow afternoon,’ Conn said.

Flanagan swallowed again. Pressed her fingertips against her forehead. ‘I mean, an interview.’

‘What, as a suspect?’

‘Well, maybe not as such, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Some things don’t add up.’

‘Like?’

‘Well, for one thing, why would Penny and Ronnie arrange a weekend away if they planned to do this?’

‘I suppose we’ll never know,’ Conn said, the edge of his voice sharpening. ‘Is that it?’

‘I mentioned it to Julie, and she seemed . . . thrown by it.’

‘Thrown by it,’ he echoed.

‘It was just a feeling I had,’ she said, hating the words as she spoke them.

‘Just a feeling.’

‘Surely it’s worth following up on.’

Flanagan listened to the hiss in the earpiece, waiting.

Eventually, Conn said, ‘First of all, I’m not going to question a grieving young woman on the strength of a feeling. Second, I don’t much appreciate you sticking your nose into my case. I know they were friends of yours, but that’s no excuse.’

‘I’m sorry, I just thought—’

‘Next time, keep your thoughts to yourself. Goodbye.’

A distorted rattle and click in the earpiece as he hung up.

Flanagan returned the handset to the cradle and stared at it. Only a matter of time before the call came.

Less than half an hour passed before the phone rang.

Flanagan went to DSI Purdy’s office as soon as she was summoned. She could feel his rage from the doorway.

‘Sit down,’ he said through thin lips.

He made her wait while he typed an email. Long enough for her to know she was in trouble.

When he’d finished, Purdy said, ‘Four days back. Only four days. And already you’ve pissed off two fellow DCIs.’

‘I have that knack,’ Flanagan said, hoping levity might ease things. She was wrong.

‘DCI Thompson went straight to the ACC, said you were accusing him of negligence.’

‘I accused him of no such thing,’ Flanagan said. ‘I only asked if he’d explored every avenue with those witnesses.’

‘You’re lucky he didn’t call his Federation rep. Jesus, imagine the shit that’d be falling on our heads right now.’

‘I was hoping he’d give me some pointers on this mess he’s leaving behind.’

Purdy shook his head. ‘Bad idea. Thompson’s a lazy git, and a miserable shite too, he always has been. You might as well have asked that wall for help.’

‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’ll not trouble him again.’

‘Good. But that was only the first call I got from the ACC today.’

Flanagan braced herself.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Brian Conn,’ Purdy said. ‘Do you think he’s incompetent?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you think he’s lazy?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Do you think he’s a frigging idiot?’

‘No, sir.’

Purdy leaned forward. ‘Then why in the name of Christ did you walk onto his crime scene? Why did you call him up and tell him how to do his job?’

Flanagan took a breath as she chose her words. ‘You’re quite right, I should have approached it—’

‘You shouldn’t have approached anything,’ Purdy said, his voice rising. ‘You had no business getting involved in the first place.’

‘The victims were friends of mine.’

‘There was only one victim there, one victim and a suicide. And it doesn’t matter two shites if they were friends of yours or not. You didn’t just walk into this job yesterday. You know better than to barge into someone else’s case like that. And you sure as hell don’t go throwing around those kinds of accusations while you’re at it.’

Flanagan met Purdy’s hard stare. ‘I didn’t make any accusations. I just asked DCI Conn if he might consider questioning Julie Walker. But I acknowledge that I let my personal feelings get the better of me. I apologise. I will call DCI Conn in the morning and apologise to him too. And the ACC, if you think it’s necessary.’

Purdy sat back in his chair, his expression softening. ‘Okay, you do that.’

‘But . . .’

Purdy took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘But what?’

‘But I strongly recommend that DCI Conn question Julie Walker and her boyfriend, look for any inconsistencies in their stories.’

‘That’ll be DCI Conn’s choice, and no such suggestion will come from you. Understood?’

‘But it doesn’t add up,’ Flanagan said. ‘That they’d do this. It doesn’t make sense.’

He tossed his glasses onto the desk. ‘In all your career, have you ever seen a single murder – or a suicide, for that matter – that made sense?’

‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘But Penny Walker told me she’d booked a weekend away only that morning. If they were planning this, why would she book a cottage by the seaside?’

‘You’re reaching,’ Purdy said.

‘But surely if they wanted to end things like this, they’d at least do it while they were alone at the cottage, not at home with their daughter sleeping in the next room.’

‘Reaching.’

‘But—’

‘Go home,’ Purdy said. ‘Make your apologies in the morning, then that’s the end of it.’

Flanagan swallowed her growing anger and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

She left Purdy’s office, went back to her own, gathered her things, and left the building. She went to her car, got in, locked the doors, and cried for her friend Penny Walker.