Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Fuck it,’ she said, and went to the kitchen.

  Three minutes later she felt the cold prickle of tonic bubbles on her lip, the hot bite of the vodka in her throat. Half the glass gone in two swallows.

  Cunningham did not remember falling asleep, only the sickly shock of waking, her mobile phone trilling and vibrating on the coffee table. She reached for it, clumsy fingers knocking it to the floor. After a few more seconds of fumbling she squinted at the display, trying to make sense of the number. She didn’t recognise it. She pressed answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  Her voice hoarse, the L softened by the alcohol. She swallowed, ran her tongue around her mouth. Don’t sound drunk, she told herself, a futile command.

  ‘Hello, Paula?’ A man’s voice, rattle and bustle in the background.

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘Tom Wheatley.’ He waited for some sort of acknowledgement as her sleep- and drink-blunted mind tried to catch up. ‘From the hostel,’ he said eventually, and the Liverpool accent registered.

  ‘Oh,’ Cunningham said. ‘Oh? What . . .’ She swallowed again. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Coming up to one,’ he said, his tone apologetic. ‘Sorry to call you this late. Sounds like I woke you. But I thought you’d want to know.’

  She turned her mouth away and coughed, then asked, ‘Know what?’

  ‘You remember that little spat in the common room earlier? Between Ciaran’s brother and the other lad.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Robbie Agnew, a nasty little git, just between you and me. Anyway, he didn’t come back for nine tonight. It’s not the first time, he’s had a few warnings already. But I got a call about eleven from the A&E ward at the Royal. He’d been found just up the road, seven kinds of shit beaten out of him.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Cunningham said, clarity creeping in behind her eyes. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad enough, but he’ll be all right. Nothing broken, cuts and bruises, and he’s lost a couple of teeth. They’ll probably let him out tomorrow. The police took a statement. He said he’d no idea who did it, just some guys jumped him and gave him a hiding for no reason.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘Not for a second,’ Wheatley said. ‘I asked him flat out if it was the Devine brothers. He just went quiet for a second, then he said no, it wasn’t them, he didn’t know who it was. Then he clammed up. Thing is, this Agnew lad, he can handle himself. I certainly wouldn’t tackle him. Whoever did this to him, the Devines or not, has some balls.’

  ‘Did you say anything to the police?’ Cunningham asked.

  ‘No, not much point. A bit of suspicion from me isn’t really grounds for them to lift Ciaran or Thomas. Anyway, I thought I’d better let you know. Ciaran seems like a decent enough young fella. It’d be a shame for him to land back inside over a toe-rag like Robbie Agnew.’

  ‘Yeah, thank you,’ Cunningham said. ‘I’ve a meeting with Ciaran in the morning. I’ll see if I can get anything out of him.’

  Wheatley apologised once again for waking her and hung up. Cunningham dropped her phone to the couch beside her. Angus sighed and pushed at her thigh with his paws. She reached across and scratched his belly as his tail thumped against the cushions.

  One-fifteen now. She should go to bed, even if it was cold and empty, and get some proper sleep.

  Bubbles still rose in the glass on the coffee table, the ice not yet melted.

  Cunningham reached for it.

  12

  DANIEL ROLSTON HAD worked at the call centre for six months, the only real job he’d ever had. He hated it. The centre took up the entire eleventh floor of a tower block overlooking the River Lagan. If Daniel walked from his portioned-off workstation to the windows, he’d be able to look down on the Waterfront Hall, and across to the crystal dome of the Victoria Square shopping mall. Further in the distance, the high rise of the Divis Tower to the west of the city, the mountains beyond.

  But he did not look out of the windows. Instead, his attention remained fixed on his monitor.

  Another notification popped up on the display: a name, telephone number, a link to open the customer’s details. Someone who had only a few moments before supplied their personal information to a website that provided car insurance quotes. If he clicked on the link, the person’s details would appear on his screen and he would hear a ringtone in the earpiece of his headset as the system called the customer, and he would ask them if the quotes they’d received had met their expectations, and could he clarify any of the deals, perhaps see if he could better any of them?

  As often as not, the customer would be annoyed at the intrusion, tell him firmly but politely that they had only wanted a price and hadn’t expected to be bothered with a phone call. Sometimes the customer would swear and hang up. But occasionally, enough times to make the exercise worthwhile, the customer would feel pressured into agreeing to a purchase and he would take the long number on the face of their debit card, please, thank you, I’ll get that organised for you right now if you’ll hold for just a moment.

  But Daniel did not click the link. After a few seconds, the notification would disappear and reappear on another member of staff’s screen. He was well ahead of his calls-per-hour quota so he could afford to ignore a few sales leads for the moment.

  He entered the car’s registration number into the form and waited while the circle spun in front of his eyes, telling him the system was working, digging for the information he had requested.

  There.

  Name: Paula Jessica Cunningham.

  Daniel checked the date of birth, counted in his head. She’d turned thirty-six four months ago.

  Single. No other drivers named on her policy; she’d removed an Alexandra Stephanie Pierson when she’d last renewed. Claimed for a windscreen replacement two years ago. Three points for a speeding offence that were about to expire. Clean apart from that.

  Profession: Civil servant. Probation officer. Daniel had guessed that much as he lay awake thinking about her the night before.

  Two telephone numbers, a landline and a mobile. He checked her address. East of the city, Sydenham, the warren of two-up-two-down terraced houses that stood beneath the airport’s flight path. He imagined the glasses rattling in her cupboards as jets descended overhead.

  Daniel grabbed his notebook from the backpack that sat tucked under his desk, began scribbling down the information. He could have sent the page to the printer at the far side of the office, but the risk was too great. Taking data off the premises meant instant dismissal.

  Next, he opened the credit history page, copied and pasted her name and address across. A few seconds of processing, and he had her financial life laid out before him.

  Two credit cards, three store cards, accounts at two different banks, and a mortgage at a third. A year ago she’d allowed her cards to ride close to their limits, then a late payment on her mortgage, before she’d got it under control and began chipping away at the balances. Nothing unusual. Almost every credit report he looked at showed something similar. Certainly not enough to prevent her getting a monthly payment plan for her car insurance, which she had.

  A new notification appeared on his screen. Not a sales lead this time, but a note from the company’s internal messaging system. He clicked the link to open the message.

  Melanie Sherry, the Human Resources manager, asking if he could pop into her office when he had a free minute.

  Daniel said, ‘Shit.’

  He took off his headset, packed his notebook away, and changed his system status to say he was away from his desk. Melanie’s office lay on the corner nearest the river. He knocked her door and entered.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said, her tone as bright as it had been the day she’d interviewed him for the job, and every bit as artificial. ‘Have a wee seat.’

  She was one of those cheery people who described everything as wee. Have a wee cup of tea. Sign this wee company contract. Blow your wee fucking head off with a wee s
hotgun if you have one to hand. He blinked the image out of his mind and sat down facing her across the glass desk.

  ‘How’s things, Daniel?’ she asked, her lips stretched into a mile-wide smile.

  ‘All right,’ he said.

  ‘You feeling okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘You went home early yesterday. And you were late in this morning. What did you say, a bad tummy?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He gave her a smile. ‘It’s cleared up now.’

  ‘Good.’ Her smile broadened in response to his. ‘How are you feeling in general?’

  He shrugged. ‘All right.’

  ‘No wee problems at home or anything?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  Melanie’s smile dimmed a fraction as she turned over the sheet of paper that had been lying face down on her desk. ‘It’s just I’ve had a wee bit of feedback. I’m afraid it’s not entirely positive.’

  Sweat moistened the small of Daniel’s back. ‘Oh?’

  Her smile remained fixed in place, but a crease appeared between her eyebrows, a tone of parental concern in her voice. ‘Did you have a wee confrontation with Chris Greely a couple of days ago?’

  ‘No,’ Daniel said, though he had no idea why. She clearly had a report from Greely in front of her. ‘Yes. I mean, I’m not sure. Depends what you mean by “confrontation”, I suppose.’

  Still, that smile. ‘What I mean is, you had a wee argument with Chris outside the kitchen. He says you gave him a wee shove.’ She mimed the gesture with her hand. ‘Do you remember that?’

  Daniel remembered it all right. Greely had been in charge of Daniel’s team that week. He tackled Daniel about his numbers, why they were down on previous weeks. He wouldn’t leave it alone, kept cornering him, nagging him about it. Daniel had thought about doing much worse to Greely than a shove.

  As a kid, he had always been on the receiving end of the casual violence that young boys mete out to each other. The strong and the weak claiming their places. A spotty, pudgy kid like him never stood a chance. But now he was grown, now he was big enough, and recently the urge to do harm had come upon him more often. That urge had become action for the first time when Greely came at him once too often. He regretted it instantly, yet there remained a warm satisfaction in seeing the fright on Greely’s face.

  Then he remembered pushing Niamh last night, another urge unchecked, and any warmth drained away.

  Daniel swallowed and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t remember pushing anyone. We did have a few words, but nothing serious. At least, I didn’t think so, anyway.’

  ‘Chris doesn’t see it like that, I’m afraid. He was a wee bit upset about the whole thing. You know, I should really be talking to you about a termination of your contract.’ Her smile tightened and broadened until he thought her lower jaw might fall off onto the desk. ‘But your performance here has been excellent ever since you started. It’s just the last couple of weeks haven’t been so good.’ She leaned forward. ‘Now, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to take a wee break. Take the rest of today off and we’ll see you Monday week. How’s that sound?’

  ‘I’d rather not. I’m saving my leave.’

  ‘Take them as unpaid days. They won’t count towards your leave.’

  ‘Do I have a choice in this?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  Daniel returned to his desk and packed away his things. Paula Cunningham’s information still showed on his screen. He stared at the fragments of her life for a few seconds. Then he hit the print button on both pages.

  When he crossed to the Xerox machine, his backpack slung over his shoulder, Chris Greely stood reading the pages as they emerged from the printer’s mouth.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘None of your business,’ Daniel said as he folded the pages and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

  ‘You’re not supposed to take customer data out of here.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘What are you going to do? Tell on me?’

  Greely pointed at Daniel’s pocket. ‘You’ll get sacked for that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Daniel moved close enough to smell Greely’s coffee breath. ‘And then I’ll have no real reason not to come back here and beat the living shit out of you, will I?’

  He left Greely at the printer, staring after him.

  13

  RECEPTION CALLED UP to tell Cunningham that Ciaran had arrived almost five minutes before he was due, but she already knew that. She’d seen him approach along North Street as she looked for the hundredth time out of the window nearest her desk. All morning, through the sluggish tides of her hangover, she’d been stealing glances instead of concentrating on her paperwork.

  It wasn’t Ciaran she was looking for. Rather, it was another young man, one she seemed to remember from the day before when she’d taken Ciaran to the shopping centre across from the hostel. He had watched them pass, and Ciaran had stared back. It had barely registered with Cunningham at the time, but this morning, when she had called in to the shop down the street for a coffee and a packet of mints on her way to the office, she had noticed him at the magazine shelves. She had not seen him look directly at her, only his head turning away as she glimpsed him in her peripheral vision. But still, his attention had been on her. She was certain of it.

  Cunningham made Ciaran wait until his allotted time before she took the stairs down to collect him. He stood when he saw her come through the secure door.

  ‘Have you signed in?’ she asked. ‘Good. Follow me.’

  She went back to the door, keyed in her security code, and held it open for Ciaran. She caught a scent as he walked by, one of those shower gel and deodorant brands that target young men. She pictured him choosing it in the supermarket aisle, driven by television ads that showed girls throwing themselves at boys who used the right products.

  He didn’t say a word on the way to the interview room. Even when she asked if he wanted a tea or coffee, he simply shook his head.

  Ciaran sat down when she asked him to, joined his hands on the tabletop, and didn’t lift his gaze from them as she took the seat opposite. She opened her notebook, placed it on top of his file, and readied her pen.

  ‘So what did you do yesterday evening?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  She kept her voice friendly, a soft smile fixed to her mouth. ‘Well, you did something. I saw you go off with your brother. Where’d you go?’

  ‘His flat.’

  ‘And what did you do there?’

  ‘Just talked.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Just stuff.’

  ‘Sounds interesting.’ She hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. ‘And you got back before nine, didn’t you?’

  Ciaran nodded.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Did Thomas tell you about his job?’

  Ciaran said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s good to have a job,’ Cunningham said. ‘It gives you something to do every day. A reason to get out of bed in the morning. And you’ll have your own money. You can spend it on whatever you like. Maybe driving lessons. You could get a car too, like Thomas has.’

  Ciaran shrugged.

  ‘I tried to get you an interview at the hotel Thomas works at, but they didn’t have any spaces. But I’ve something else you might like. I’m told you were good at gardening when you were at Hydebank.’

  She waited for some response, anything, but none came.

  ‘Well, I know a company that does commercial gardening. Landscaping, laying out lawns, flower beds, that kind of thing. They do it for housing associations, and companies that have grounds they want to keep tidy. They’re based just out of the city, but they’d send a van every day to pick you up. A few of the boys from your hostel work there. You could all go together. How does that sound?’

  She studied the tufts of dirty-blond hair on top of his head, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Ciaran, I asked you a
question. Would you like to work for a gardening company?’

  He shifted in his seat. ‘S’pose.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, and handed a card across the table. ‘Go and see Mr McClintock at four o’clock this afternoon. That’ll give you time to get back to the hostel and smarten up. Mr Wheatley at the hostel will give you money for a taxi. All right?’

  Ciaran nodded.

  Cunningham had a rising urge to shake the boy, tell him to open his mouth, say something, engage her with more than shrugs and nods. She took a breath before she spoke again.

  ‘Ciaran, before you came back to the hostel last night, did anything happen?’

  He looked up from his hands. Such blue eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said. Barely a whisper.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you remember Thomas had a few words with another boy in the common room?’

  A swallow. A shrug.

  ‘That boy, his name’s Robbie. Somebody attacked him last night. He had to go to hospital. He’ll be okay, but it was a pretty serious assault.’

  Ciaran’s breathing deepened, his shoulders rising and falling. He chewed at his nail until Cunningham saw a tiny glisten of red on his lips.

  ‘Ciaran, do you know anything about that?’

  The rasp of his breathing resonated between the walls of the interview room. His foot tapped on the floor, a jittering rhythm.

  ‘Ciaran?’

  He looked to the window.

  ‘Ciaran, answer me. Do you know anything about what happened to that boy?’

  He looked back to his lap.

  ‘Ciaran, please answer me.’

  Cunningham watched as the walls went up around him, as he closed her out. She knew she might as well have been a ghost as far as he was concerned. There, across the table from her, an empty space.

  An impulse hit her, too strong to be ignored. Even though she knew it wasn’t allowed, even though it went against every moment of her training, even though Edward Hughes would berate her for it, she acted on the impulse anyway.