Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  Cunningham stood, reached across the table, took Ciaran’s hand, pulled it away from his mouth, and squeezed.

  No response.

  She squeezed harder. Then harder still, applying more and more pressure until Ciaran had no choice but to look up. His eyes locked with hers, froze her in place. She did not know how long passed, did not break the lock he had on her until the sound of her own sharp breathing cut through to her consciousness.

  Still he stared back.

  ‘Ciaran, listen to me. Are you listening?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, clearer than any word he’d spoken since he entered this room.

  ‘I am not a police officer. I couldn’t make you tell me what happened to Robbie Agnew even if you knew. That’s not the point. The point is: if you get in trouble, you’ll have to go back inside. Do you understand? If you or your brother hurt that boy, there’d be no choice. You’d have to go away again. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And if your brother committed an assault, if he was tried and found guilty, he’d have to go to prison. Not Hydebank. A real prison. You wouldn’t be able to see him. Do you understand?’

  Ciaran remained still and silent. His gaze boring into her. She eased the pressure of her hand on his, but kept hold of his fingers.

  ‘That boy says he doesn’t know who attacked him. So long as he doesn’t change his mind, this doesn’t have to go any further. But if anything like this happens again, you know the consequences.’

  Cunningham released his hand. He let it hang there, as if suspended by a puppeteer’s string.

  ‘Can I go now?’ he asked.

  14

  FLANAGAN BARELY TASTED the sandwich she ate in her car. Sunlight had crept over the station walls and swamped the car park, warming the interior of her Volkswagen Golf. Quiet here, the radio a low babble, it almost felt peaceful. Her only regret was buying a supermarket sandwich instead of something decent. She could have gone to the station canteen, but yesterday’s experience with DCI Thompson over at Ladas Drive had put her off the notion. Silence was better. Over recent months, she’d come to appreciate the peace of being alone. The calmness of it, no one’s needs to address but her own.

  Selfish, perhaps. But Flanagan felt she owed herself a little self-absorption.

  Her memory had been flitting through the days before her children were born, when she and Alistair had only each other and the world. A weekend trip to Ghent in Belgium, both of them drunk as lords, staggering from bar to bar, stopping on a bridge across a canal, watching the reflection of the town’s lights glimmer on the water. A smile might have been on her lips when the words from the radio snagged her conscious mind and made her reach for the volume control.

  ‘. . . found by a family member who heard what she believed to be a gunshot in the early hours. Police and ambulance services were called to the scene, but the as yet unnamed couple were pronounced dead this morning. A police spokeswoman said that while the investigation is at a very early stage, they are currently seeking no one else in connection with the deaths.’

  The street name. It was the street name that had caught Flanagan’s ear. She held her breath as she listened, telling herself she had misheard, willing the newsreader to repeat some other address.

  ‘Neighbours on Mill Street said the dead couple had lived there for many years, and were well known and liked in the area.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Flanagan said.

  The remains of the sandwich scattered in the footwell as she jammed her key into the ignition.

  Flanagan had to abandon her car at the end of the narrow street, blocking in another vehicle. From here, she couldn’t quite tell which of the row of terraced houses was sealed off, which had men and women in white forensic overalls clustering in its garden.

  For a moment, as she drew closer, half jogging, she thought it was another home, not the one she feared. But then she moved out into the road, got a better angle, and saw that it was. She stopped, let out a shuddering sigh.

  ‘Oh, Penny, no,’ she said.

  No one paid attention as Flanagan approached the police line. She waved to a young uniformed constable on the other side. ‘What happened?’

  He walked to the tape, saying, ‘Sorry, you’ll have to move along.’

  Flanagan produced her warrant card.

  The constable blushed. ‘Sorry, ma’am. I don’t really know anything, I’ve been stuck here since I arrived.’

  Flanagan lifted the tape, went to duck beneath it, felt the constable’s hand on her shoulder. He called to someone beyond her vision. ‘Sir? Sir!’

  DCI Brian Conn appeared from behind a marked van.

  ‘You can’t come in . . .’ He slowed his step as recognition broke on his face. ‘Serena? What are you doing here?’

  ‘They’re friends of mine,’ she said, her voice quivering as she held back her emotions.

  ‘I see,’ Conn said. He looked to the constable, signalled him to leave them alone. ‘I’m sorry. Even so, you shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘The daughter says she was woken around two a.m. by what she thought was a gunshot from the next bedroom, her parents’ room. She got up, went in, found the mother lying on the bed, a pillow over her face, and the father sitting in a chair with the rifle in his hands – a .22, he had a licence for it. That’s exactly how the first uniform crew on the scene found them. There were sleeping pills on the bedside locker. No signs of a struggle, so it looks like the wife knocked herself out with some pills, he smothered her with the pillow, then turned the rifle on himself.’

  Flanagan looked towards the house, a happy home into which she’d been welcomed many times over the last few months. ‘I just saw Penny last night,’ she said. ‘She’d had bad news, but she was strong. I didn’t expect anything like this. Not her.’

  ‘The daughter says the husband was worried about how he’d cope without his wife,’ Conn said. ‘He didn’t know if he could look after himself. I’m guessing he didn’t want to find out.’

  Flanagan gave a dry laugh. ‘He was learning to cook. For Christ’s sake, Ronnie, you could have tried.’

  Conn put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Listen, I’m sorry about your friends. But I need to get on here, and you’ve no reason to be on this side of the tape. So . . .’

  Flanagan nodded, turned to walk away, but stopped. ‘Wait, is Julie – the daughter – is she here?’

  Conn pointed to a marked police minibus in the gateway to the small business park across the road. Flanagan saw moving forms through the tinted windows. ‘Her boyfriend’s with her.’

  ‘Can I speak with her?’ Flanagan asked.

  Conn shoved his hands down into his pockets, exhaled through loose lips. ‘All right, go on. But don’t be long, okay?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flanagan said, and walked towards the minibus. She went to the far side and found the sliding door open. Inside, Julie Walker, early-thirties, still in her nightclothes, a coat over her shoulders. A slender woman, not quite pretty. Beside her, a man of around forty, wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a shabby suit.

  ‘Julie, I’m Serena Flanagan. We’ve met once or twice. I don’t know if you remember. I’m a friend of your mother’s.’

  Julie looked back at Flanagan, her eyes red and wet, a vacant expression on her face. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Flanagan said. She pointed to the seat opposite the couple. ‘May I?’

  Julie nodded, and Flanagan climbed into the van.

  ‘Barry Timmons,’ the man said. He put an arm around Julie’s shoulders.

  Flanagan smiled and nodded.

  ‘Wait,’ Julie said, studying Flanagan’s face. ‘You’re the policewoman. From that support group Mum went to.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’m not here officially. I heard a report on the news, and I knew it was Penny and Ronnie. I saw your mother last night. She told me the cancer had spread.’

/>   ‘Yes.’ Julie nodded. ‘She told me last week. She didn’t say anything to Dad until yesterday afternoon. I was at work. He had locked himself away in his study by the time I got home. I could hear his music playing. That old jazz he listened to. I knocked the door after Mum went to her meeting, asked if he wanted me to make him a bit of toast or anything, but he told me to . . . go away. I mean, he swore at me. He’d never done that before.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Flanagan said. ‘Your mother seemed so at peace with things last night.’

  ‘I thought the same,’ Julie said, her gaze on the tissue in her hands. ‘We had a talk when she came home from the meeting. About how she wanted things handled, when the time came. The funeral, all that. I asked her about Dad. She just said not to worry about him, he’d be fine.’

  She looked up at Flanagan. ‘I think they planned this. I think they knew when there was nothing more to be done for Mum, they would just make it easier for themselves.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Flanagan said. ‘I suppose we’ll never know. It’s funny, Penny told me she’d booked a cottage up in Portstewart for the weekend. She and your father were going to have one last trip together.’

  Something moved behind Julie Walker’s eyes before she looked away. Flanagan felt a cold finger on her heart and said no more.

  They sat quiet for a time, only the whisper of Barry’s hand making circles on Julie’s back. He stared out through the window to the street beyond.

  ‘Well,’ Flanagan said, ‘I just wanted you to know I’m here if there’s anything you need. Anything at all. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  She reached out and stroked Julie’s hand, then climbed out of the van. As she walked back towards the tape, the tears came. Grief driving them first, then something else. It had started as an itch in her mind the moment she got into the van, then had grown in those few minutes to a quiet rage, the source of which she could not identify.

  DI Conn was talking to the constable who had stopped her when she arrived. Flanagan approached. The constable had the good sense to walk away. Conn’s expression turned from impatience to concern when he saw Flanagan’s tears. She wiped at her cheeks and sniffed.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Flanagan said. ‘It’s just . . .’

  Conn stared at her for a moment, then said, ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Flanagan said, truthfully.

  She turned away, ducked under the tape, ignoring Conn’s calls as she walked back to her car, that senseless fury burning in her all the way.

  15

  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.