Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  Flanagan did her best to keep a friendly tone. ‘Well, the courts have to keep emotion out of—’

  ‘We had a dog one time, a wee mutt, as pleasant a thing as you ever met. Then one day it bit our youngest on the face. He was lucky, he could’ve lost an eye, but he wound up with just a bit of a scar on his cheek. Anyway, the night it happened, I took that dog, and I put it in the boot of my car along with a towel soaked in chloroform. Came back the next morning, it was dead. You think that was cruel?’

  Flanagan swallowed. ‘It’s not for me to—’

  ‘Yes, it was cruel,’ Thompson said. ‘But that dog never bit anyone again.’

  Flanagan cleared her throat and asked, ‘Shall we crack on?’ She took her notebook from her bag, opened it to the list of questions she’d drawn up, hoping she could use them to sweep up the mess Thompson was leaving behind. Now she focused on the page to avoid looking at him.

  ‘Can we start with the Milligan assault?’ She opened the file to the first photocopied A4 sheet. ‘That was, what, nine months ago? Now, I’ve got a list of interviewed witnesses – all male – who were at the bar that night. Seventeen in total. Sixteen of them said they were in the toilets when the assault happened, and they saw nothing. The seventeenth, the barman, said he was in a stockroom. And it just so happened the CCTV was switched off that night.’

  Thompson’s shoulders slumped. ‘That’s right. So?’

  ‘Well, there’s a floor plan of the bar in here. I believe the toilet is about ten feet by five, it has two urinals, one cubicle and a washbasin. You accepted the account of sixteen men who said they were all in there at the same time.’

  ‘You know where that bar is?’ Thompson asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you know what kind of street it’s on, the kind of area it’s in. I could walk up and down that street bare-bollock naked with my arse painted red and my hair on fire, and no one would see a bloody thing.’ Thompson smiled at his own imagery. ‘What, you think those witnesses would’ve suddenly remembered who put that poor bastard in intensive care if I’d just asked them a bit nicer?’

  ‘No, but I’ve questioned as many uncooperative witnesses as you have. There are ways and means, pressures to apply. I’d like to be sure you explored every possible avenue.’

  Thompson’s smile dropped away, his eyes darkened. ‘Just who the fuck do you think you are?’

  Flanagan opened her mouth to speak, but he slapped the table, rattling cups and cutlery. Ballantine flinched.

  ‘Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?’ Thompson said. ‘Accusing me.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of any—’

  He stood, his chair sliding into the wall with a clatter. People all around looked up from their sandwiches and drinks.

  ‘Thirty years,’ he said, his voice rising, his finger wagging at her. ‘Thirty fucking years I gave this bloody service. Now they’re done with me, they’re going to throw me away like a shitty rag. And now, here’s you.’

  Flanagan placed her hands flat on the table, adopted as soothing a tone as she could manage. ‘Please, why don’t you just sit down and we can—’

  ‘Who are you? Tell me that. Who the fuck are you to come here and accuse me of not doing my job?’ His hands shook. His eyes red and watery. ‘I think of everything I gave up for this. All the abuse I got on the streets. All those mornings I crawled on my hands and knees in the frost and the rain, looking under my car to see if some bastard had put a bomb there. What for? You tell me, what for?’

  Flanagan glanced around the room. Saw the other police officers look away. Ballantine stared at her notebook, her pen’s nib frozen half an inch from the paper.

  ‘Eighteen years, you said. If eighteen years isn’t enough to suck the will out of you, try thirty. See how you feel then. Tell me if you think it was worth it once your whole bloody life’s been wasted.’

  Thompson stood by the table, breathing hard, his hands opening and closing. Flanagan held his hateful stare, refused to look away. She watched his anger burn out, leaving a shell of a man in front of her.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, his gaze flicking around the silent room, the florid colour washing away from his sagging cheeks. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, his palm across his mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the words choking in his throat. He walked away.

  Flanagan closed the file and put her notebook back in her bag as murmurs rippled around the canteen. Ballantine stowed away her notebook and pen, got to her feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Flanagan asked. ‘I haven’t finished my coffee.’

  She lifted her cup, took a sip. She would not leave until the last drop was gone, no matter how hard they stared.

  6

  THE PHOTOGRAPHERS HAVE left. No one pays any attention as Ciaran and Paula use the pedestrian crossing. She presses the button at the first section, the word WAIT lighting up until the shrill beep-beep-beeping and the green man tells them to go. At the second set, she keeps her hands by her sides.

  After a while, she says, ‘You’d better do the needful or we’ll be here all day.’

  For a moment, Ciaran wonders what she means, but then he understands. He reaches across and puts his finger on the white plastic button. He feels the gouges in the otherwise smooth plastic, and something gritty and sticky. He wipes the tip of his finger on his jeans.

  They cross the final section and walk around the building. Through the windows Ciaran sees the Sainsbury’s supermarket, all shiny bright oranges and whites. The worms return to his stomach, nagging and itching with worry.

  The high ceiling, the aisles that stretch away as far as he can see. Such a big place, so few walls and doors.

  He takes a breath, holds it in his chest as Paula guides him through into the main building. The noise comes all jangly rushing from the entrance to the supermarket. Voices and machines, electronic screeching beep-beep-beep, children shouting mummy-I-want-I-want-I-want.

  And the people. So many faces, and Ciaran knows none of them. They stream in and out of the shops, push and shove and bustle, counting money out of their pockets and purses, clutching bags, talking and laughing, voices hard and scratchy in his ears.

  He stops walking. Hard panicky breath, in-out-in-out-in-out until his head goes light. Paula carries on a few steps before noticing.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asks.

  He tries to keep his words free of the shaky in his throat. ‘Can we go back to the hostel?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just. I want to go back.’

  ‘The café’s only down here,’ she says. ‘We’ll be there in a minute and you can get a cup of tea.’

  He takes a step back, his thighs quivery with fear. ‘I don’t want a cup of tea.’

  She takes a step forward. ‘A Coke, then. What about a sandwich?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t want anything.’

  She smiles, beckons, her teeth shining and sharp, her nails red. ‘Give it fifteen minutes. That’s all, just time for a cup of tea. Come on.’

  His fingers curl. He jams his hands down deep into his pockets. ‘You can’t make me.’

  Her smile softens, her sharp teeth hidden. ‘That’s right. No one can make you do anything. Anything you do, you choose to do it for yourself. No one else is responsible but you.’

  Ciaran wants to scream at her, tell her she’s wrong, show her she’s wrong. But screaming never does any good. No one likes it when he screams. So he swallows instead. ‘I want to go back. I want to call my brother.’

  ‘Ciaran, let’s—’

  ‘I want to call my brother.’

  Paula flinches and steps back. People stare. How loud had he spoken? He can feel the words burn, even after they’ve left his mouth. What had he shown of himself?

  ‘Don’t raise your voice to me, Ciaran,’ she says.

  He feels heat in his eyes, a thickening in his throat. He doesn’t want to cr
y like a baby. Not here. Not in front of this woman. Thomas wouldn’t want him to cry. Thomas would shake him and tell him he’s a big boy now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ciaran says. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Mean what?’

  ‘To . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘To get angry?’

  He closes his eyes, wishes all the people away. They’re still there when he opens them again. ‘I want to call my brother,’ he says.

  Paula stays quiet for a moment, then nods and walks past him. ‘All right.’

  Ciaran follows her, the heat spreading out from his eyes across his face.

  A man lingers by the supermarket’s off-licence. The same man who had been watching at the hostel, a notepad and pen in his hands. He’s young, only a couple of years older than Ciaran. His face is familiar. Ciaran thinks about it as he and Paula walk back towards the road and across to the hostel. Neither of them speak on the way.

  By the time they get back, Ciaran remembers who it was.

  But he doesn’t think about that any more because his brother is waiting in the common room for him. Thomas, his only and best big brother is waiting for him, like he always said he would.

  7

  CUNNINGHAM WAITED ON the threshold of the lounge, watching, as Ciaran entered.

  Thomas stood with his back to the wall. Three other young men sat gathered around the television, watching a cartoon, mumbling and chuckling to each other.

  Ciaran stopped in the middle of the room, frozen in mid stride, as if locked in some spell. Thomas studied him for a moment, then pushed away from the wall, as thin and graceful as Ciaran was skinny and awkward. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around his brother.

  Ciaran wept, free and unashamed sobs. He returned his brother’s embrace, and Thomas squeezed tighter.

  The three seated boys moved their attention away from the television, sniggering at the display of emotion.

  Thomas turned his head towards them. ‘What are you looking at?’

  No anger in his voice, just a plain question.

  The biggest of the three boys held his stare while the other two turned back to the television. ‘I’m looking at you pair of homos,’ he said.

  Cunningham looked back over her shoulder to Tom Wheatley’s open office. She waved her hand and he looked up from his paperwork. She inclined her head towards the room. Wheatley got to his feet and came to Cunningham’s side.

  ‘Look all you want,’ Thomas said to the boy. ‘When you’re not looking, that’s when I’ll come for you.’

  The boy stood, the other two paying attention now.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You heard me. But I’ll tell you again if you want.’

  Wheatley stepped past Cunningham and into the room. ‘All right lads, settle down,’ he said, his Liverpool accent showing no sign of fading after years living in Northern Ireland. ‘We don’t need any drama.’

  The boy stared for a few seconds more, then returned to his seat, smirking to his friends.

  Wheatley came back to the doorway, nodded to Cunningham. ‘Call me if you need me.’

  She patted his arm as he passed.

  Ciaran brought his sobbing under control. ‘I have to stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Same as me when I got out,’ Thomas said. ‘Doesn’t matter. We can still see each other every day.’

  ‘They won’t let you come to my room,’ he said to Thomas. ‘I can only see you down here.’

  Thomas took Ciaran’s face in his hands, wiped the tears with his thumbs. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got the whole city. You can come to my place any time you want. They can’t stop you. So long as you’re back by nine.’

  ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Yeah. We can go in my car.’

  They embraced again, and Thomas said, ‘It’s all right. I’m here now. I’ll look after you.’

  Cunningham stepped inside, approached them.

  Thomas looked up from his brother’s shoulder, his face expressionless.

  ‘You must be Thomas,’ Cunningham said, though she knew full well.

  She felt Thomas’s gaze cut through her like an iced blade. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, a polite smile broke on his face. He moved away from Ciaran’s arms and extended his right hand towards her.

  ‘I’m Paula Cunningham,’ she said, ‘Ciaran’s probation officer.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said, giving her hand a firm but gentle shake.

  As if he’d rehearsed it, she thought. She watched Ciaran from the corner of her eye. He seemed to almost melt away, absorbed by the air around him. As if someone had cut out the shape of a boy from the world, leaving only a shadow behind.

  ‘I hear you’ve done well over the last couple of years,’ Cunningham said. ‘I think you’ll be a good example for Ciaran. I’d like you to see as much of each other as you can. Phil Lewis at Hydebank told me you were good for each other.’

  Thomas put a hand on Ciaran’s shoulder. Ciaran sparked back into life.

  ‘He’s my brother,’ Thomas said. ‘He’s all I’ve got. I’ll always look out for him.’

  He smiled again, his lips closed tight. Cunningham imagined him drawing a curved line beneath his nose. She pushed the thought away.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up. Remember, Ciaran, back here by nine, and I’ll see you at the office tomorrow at eleven. All right?’

  Ciaran nodded and looked at his feet.

  Thomas nudged his elbow. ‘Say thank you.’

  Ciaran said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Cunningham said as she backed towards the door.

  The cold, slippery feeling would not leave her stomach as she drove home.

  8

  THE CAR IS red and old and smells stinky of cigarettes, but Ciaran knows Thomas doesn’t smoke. Thomas guides the car through evening traffic, heading towards town. Joy bubbles inside Ciaran, but he keeps it secret. Thomas has taught him to bury his feelings deep, wrap them up tight in a bundle, not to let anyone use them to hurt him or his brother.

  ‘What do you think of her?’ Thomas asks.

  Ciaran doesn’t answer straight away. He’s not sure of the right thing to say.

  After a while, he says, ‘She’s all right.’

  Thomas nods. ‘Yeah. She seems all right. But watch her. They’re all the same. Probation officers. They all want to send you back inside so you’re not their problem any more. Mine wanted to send me back too, I could tell, all the questions he kept asking me. He pretended he cared about me, but he was a liar. They all are. I played along until my supervision was up and I didn’t have to bother with him any more. You do the same. Do what she tells you, but don’t trust her.’

  Ciaran stays quiet.

  ‘You don’t want to go back inside, do you?’ Thomas asks.

  ‘No,’ Ciaran says.

  ‘If they send you back, I might not be allowed to come and visit you.’

  Ciaran chews at his thumbnail.

  ‘You don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Ciaran says.

  ‘She’ll send you back. So you have to be careful.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘It’s like that cop you liked, what was her name?’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ Ciaran says, but he does. He hopes Thomas is too busy watching the road to see the lie on him.

  ‘Yeah, well, she was the same. They’re nice to you, pretend they’re your friend. But they’ll turn on you. They always do. You listening?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.

  Soon, Thomas pulls into a side street. He goes quiet as he navigates through the rows of terraced and semi-detached houses, most of them old. He halts at an ugly square block of a building, red bricks, three storeys.

  ‘Here we are,’ he says.

  Ciaran gets out of the car and follows Thomas to the building’s entrance. A row of buttons on a panel, numbers next to each of them. T
he door looks like the doors they have at Hydebank and the hostel, wire mesh embedded in glass. Thomas opens it with his key and steps inside. Vinyl tiles on the floor and stairs, cold and echoing. Like the places where Ciaran and Thomas spent almost all their lives.

  Thomas climbs the stairs. Ciaran follows, four flights, up to the second floor. The door says 2C. They go inside. The first room Ciaran sees is the one where Thomas sleeps. The bed is neatly made. The walls are bare.

  Thomas lies down on the bed, stretches out. He lifts his hand up to Ciaran.

  Ciaran lies down, his back to Thomas. Thomas’s chest presses against him, his legs behind his. Their hands join, their fingers tied together. All is silent for a while, only the sound of their breath. Not even the noise of traffic.

  No boys in the corridors or rooms, no shouting, no staff barking at them.

  Thomas’s lips warm at Ciaran’s ear. ‘We’ll be all right,’ he says.

  Ciaran closes his eyes.

  ‘Just you and me,’ Thomas says. ‘Like it was before. No one else. I’m going to keep you safe. And you’re going to keep me safe. Nobody’s going to hurt us. All those bastards out there, they can’t touch us. And if they try . . .’

  The thought hangs in the air above them, unspoken.

  Ciaran takes a breath and says, ‘I saw Daniel today.’

  Thomas’s body stiffens. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Rolston’s son.’

  Quiet for a time, then, ‘Where?’

  ‘At the shopping centre. He was watching me.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you see him again, you call me straight away. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Ciaran says.

  ‘We’re safe now. Just remember that. We’re safe.’

  Ciaran can’t hold it back any more. The tears come, hot and thick, wetting the pillow against his cheek. Thomas holds him tighter, whispers beautiful words that glitter in Ciaran’s mind like silver.

  Thomas has fallen asleep. Ciaran listens to his deep, steady breathing for a time before he slips off the bed. The alarm clock says 19:35. He leaves the bedroom, explores the flat.