From the other side, the noise of thrown furniture, screaming rage, animal fury.
‘Fuck,’ she said.
25
THEY LET DANIEL go at six that evening. No further action so long as he accepted the caution. They’d taken him to the police station on Victoria Street, by the shopping mall in the city centre. He’d spent most of the day in a cell, had been calm and compliant all along, even when they stopped in the street to arrest him. The other two people at the bus stop had tried to look uninterested in what was happening, looking anywhere but at Daniel. But they could have looked all they wanted. He didn’t care.
The policemen had been polite and friendly. Daniel had watched many reality shows on television following the police on traffic patrols and drug raids. The criminals on the television always fought, always wound up face down on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs, sometimes their legs strapped together to stop them kicking. Sometimes they were even pepper-sprayed, leaving them screaming in agony and fury as their eyes streamed and snot bubbled from their noses. Daniel didn’t understand why. It wasn’t that bad being arrested.
At five minutes past six, Daniel left the station and crossed the road to the bright yellow ornamental fountain at the shopping mall’s eastern entrance. The pub beside it had already filled with workers from the surrounding office buildings having a drink to celebrate the end of their week’s labour. After a moment’s thought, he decided to join them.
Three and a half hours later, pleasingly drunk, Daniel let himself in to the flat. He found Niamh in the bedroom stowing a last few items into their biggest suitcase.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked from the doorway.
‘I’m going to Mum and Dad’s for the weekend.’
‘All the way to Strabane? At this time?’ He looked at his wrist, realised he wasn’t wearing his watch.
‘If there’s a late bus, I can be there by midnight,’ she said, zipping the case closed. ‘If there’s not, I’ll stay in a hotel and go in the morning.’
He wiped his hand across his mouth, wondering what there was to drink in the flat. ‘But you’ll be back on Sunday, won’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Probably not.’
‘So when?’
‘Maybe never.’ She would not look at him. ‘Probably never.’
‘But I need you.’
Niamh sniffed, covered her eyes with one hand as if shielding them from the light. ‘I’m not what you need. What you need is counselling. You need to talk to someone who can help you move on. That’s not me. I can’t live like this. I can’t live in fear of you.’
‘Fear?’
‘The way you’ve been. That side of you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve gotten physical. You’ve pushed me. How do I know you won’t go further next time?’
‘I’d never hurt you,’ he said. ‘Never. You know that.’
‘But I don’t know that. I really don’t.’
She hoisted the suitcase off the bed and crossed the room to him. He did not move.
‘I want to get past,’ she said. ‘I’ve ordered a taxi to the bus station. It’ll be waiting.’
Daniel felt numb from his chest to his stomach. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Not now.’
She did not make eye contact. ‘Let me past.’
‘You’re killing me.’ The words felt thick in his throat. ‘Do you know that? You’re killing me.’
‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ she said. ‘Please let me past.’
‘No, love, please don’t—’
Daniel saw the flash of the keys in her hand, felt the hard pain in his cheek as she stabbed at him. He fell back into the hall, clutching at the wet heat on his face. Niamh staggered past, the suitcase thudding against her thigh. Before he could recover, she was gone, the apartment door slamming closed behind her. He called her name once, then dropped to the floor, his back against the wall. Blood streamed through his fingers, onto his shirt, red streaks down his chest towards his belly.
‘Shit,’ he said.
He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and crawled to the bathroom at the far end of the hall, leaving a trail of penny-sized red dots on the laminate wood flooring. At the sink, he pulled himself up onto his feet and saw his bloodied face in the mirror. He turned the tap and scooped handfuls of water up to his face, washed the red smears away. A quarter-inch rip beneath his right eye, the skin around pink and puffy. His eyelid flickered of its own accord. Not as bad as it felt. He wondered if he should go to the hospital, see if it needed a stitch.
‘No,’ he said aloud.
He grabbed a facecloth from the top of the radiator, soaked it beneath the tap, wrung it out, then pressed it against his cheek. As he held the cloth there with his left hand, red seeping from beneath it, he studied his reflection in the mirror. He formed his right hand into a fist, drew it back, felt the strength gather in his arm and shoulder.
‘No,’ he said again.
Daniel Rolston had better things to do with his anger.
Early light woke him as it crept between the open blinds of the bedroom. A grinding ache pulsed inside his head, keeping time with the throb in his cheek. He’d drunk most of a bottle of wine after he’d left the bathroom and had no recollection of climbing onto the bed. Stains covered the pillowcase and duvet cover, deep red to dark brown. His vision in that eye seemed diminished, smaller, as if the swelling had constricted not only the flesh but also the light allowed to find his retina.
Daniel was already on his way to the bathroom when he felt the first tightening of his stomach, the first loosening in his throat. He retched over the toilet bowl until his sides ached and his nostrils stung, his belly emptied.
It took another thirty minutes to clean himself up, change, and head out. The other passengers on the bus stole glances at the cut and the swelling. Probably assumed he’d been in some bar fight. Didn’t look the type, they probably thought. Not a clean-cut young man like him. He smiled at the idea.
The bus stopped at the shopping centre opposite the hostel. As Daniel stepped off the bus, he checked the time on his mobile. Just after nine. Still early.
Time to wait. Time to watch.
26
CIARAN COUNTS THE money out onto the bed. Fourteen pounds and eighty-seven pence. Thomas gave him some yesterday. Told him he could buy anything he wanted.
Ciaran wants a bacon sandwich.
The shopping centre is just across the road. Two minutes’ walk. Ciaran can do that. There’s a café at the Marks & Spencer store. He can get a cup of milky tea and a bacon sandwich. Or he could stay here, hungry and alone. Thomas is working all day, so he can’t come and take Ciaran out in his car. Ciaran sits on the bed beside the money and looks around the room. Can he sit here all day? If he has to, then yes.
But he doesn’t have to. Ciaran can do what he wants.
That idea is so shiny bright in his mind he should say it out loud.
‘I can do what I want.’
A whisper, really, but true all the same.
Ciaran doesn’t know how much a bacon sandwich and a cup of milky tea costs, but he thinks fourteen pounds will be enough. He stands, gathers the money up, and stuffs it into his pocket. Downstairs, he sees Mr Wheatley at his office door.
‘You going out?’ he asks.
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘Anywhere interesting?’
Ciaran points. ‘Across the road. To buy food.’
‘I see.’ Mr Wheatley nods. ‘Are you okay on your own? I can come with you, if you like.’
‘I can go on my own,’ Ciaran says. He goes to leave, then thinks of something important to say to Mr Wheatley. He turns back. ‘I can do what I want.’
Mr Wheatley smiles. ‘That’s right. Within reason.’
Ciaran remembers what to do at the crossings. Press the button, wait for the green man. Soon the chitter-chatter racket of the shopping centre is all around him. Parents and childr
en. Whole families, and people on their own. Just like him.
Ciaran is terrified. There’s too much noisy noise. Too many people, too close to him. His hands shake so he keeps them in his pockets. His legs feel like they can’t hold him upright. He keeps walking just to keep from falling over. Paula told him the Marks & Spencer was at the far end. Not far at all if he just keeps moving.
There, the café is an island in front of the store, tables and chairs surrounding a counter. Like the canteen at Hydebank. Ciaran knows how to do this. He goes to the counter, takes a tray, puts a plate on it. The bacon sandwiches are already made, wrapped in plastic. He brings it to the lady at the till. She takes the sandwich, says she’s going to heat it for him. With a quiver in his voice that he can’t hide, he asks her for a cup of tea. Lots of milk. She looks at him strangely. She knows he doesn’t belong here. He swallows. Remembers he can be here, can buy this food, if he so chooses.
‘I can do what I want,’ he says.
The lady looks at him for a moment, then smiles an uncertain smile. Ciaran realises she’s afraid of him. He doesn’t like how that feels.
The sandwich and the tea cost much less than fourteen pounds. The lady gives Ciaran his change, and he finds a free table. It feels like all the other people are watching him. He knows it isn’t true, but he feels it anyway. His hands are shaking so much he almost drops the sandwich as he brings it to his mouth. It tastes good. Tea spills over the rim as he lifts the cup. The cup rattles in the saucer when he puts it back down.
A man across the way, a man Ciaran doesn’t know at all, asks, ‘Rough night, was it?’
The man winks. Ciaran doesn’t know why this man is talking to him. He does not reply, turns his gaze away. He hears the man say something about bloody foreigners to the lady beside him.
Ciaran chews and sips, the fear subsiding a little, until someone sits down in the chair across the table.
‘Hello Ciaran,’ Daniel Rolston says.
Ciaran stops chewing, a wad of bread and bacon on his tongue. Every part of him jingly-jangles, like he wants to run or hit out or cry. Daniel has a cut beneath his right eye. The flesh is red and swollen. The cut glistens with new blood. Some of it is smeared around Daniel’s cheek.
‘Are you looking at this?’ Daniel asks.
Ciaran looks away.
‘My girlfriend did it. My own fault, if I’m honest. I’ve been really shitty to her this last while. She was right to leave me. Go on and eat your breakfast.’
Ciaran swallows the food in his mouth. He doesn’t want any more.
‘Where’s your brother?’ Daniel asks. ‘I was watching for the both of you from the car park across the road. I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to come out on your own. But here you are.’
Ciaran wonders if he could get up and leave. But maybe Daniel would start shouting. Then Ciaran would have to run. He stays in his seat.
‘I asked you a question, Ciaran. Where’s your brother?’
‘At work,’ Ciaran says.
‘I see. I got fired from my job yesterday. It’s been a pretty fucking awful week all round. Pretty fucking shitty. And how have you been?’
Daniel’s eyes glisten, teardrops ready to fall from them. Ciaran feels like he should answer, but he doesn’t know what to say.
‘You were never very chatty, were you? Even when we got to be friends. Do you remember? You used to come to my room without Thomas, before he got home from school, and we’d hang out. Just you and me. You didn’t say much, but you never hurt me. Not like Thomas did.’
Ciaran remembers. Thomas was going to a different school, and he had to take two buses to get back to the Rolstons’ house. They were still trying to find a space for Ciaran, so he had to stay at home. Forty-five minutes of every weekday, it was just Daniel and Ciaran. Daniel let Ciaran use his PlayStation, though he wasn’t very good at it. Daniel helped him.
When Ciaran asked Thomas not to hurt Daniel any more, Thomas bit him hard. He didn’t ask again.
‘You know,’ Daniel says, ‘I think that’s why it happened. I think Thomas saw you and me were getting to be friends, and he couldn’t stand it. He thought I’d take you away from him. So he had to do something.’
Ciaran wants to go. He gathers things onto his tray, starts to rise. Daniel takes his wrist. His hand is harder and stronger than Ciaran thought it would be.
‘Sit down, Ciaran.’
‘I want to go back to the hostel,’ Ciaran says.
‘Sit down, now, or I will beat the shit out of you right here in front of these people.’
‘I can do what I want,’ Ciaran says.
Daniel pulls Ciaran’s arm, takes his balance, making him stumble into the table. Tea slops over the rim of the cup.
‘Sit. The fuck. Down.’
Ciaran does as he’s told. Like a good boy.
‘Now, where was I?’ Daniel keeps hold of Ciaran’s wrist. ‘Oh yes. It was the bit about you killing my father. Except you didn’t, did you? It was Thomas. Then the both of you cooked up this story about my father abusing your brother. He talked you into saying you did it. You took the blame for him so he wouldn’t have to spend so long inside. Isn’t that right?’
‘No,’ Ciaran says, his voice a wet whisper in his throat.
‘That’s what happened. Don’t lie to me. Not now. Not after all this time. Tell me Thomas did it.’ He squeezes Ciaran’s wrist. ‘Tell me.’
‘No.’
Daniel squeezes harder, hurting now. Tears rolling. ‘It was never you. It was always him. And my dad never touched him. You know my mum killed herself?’
‘My mum died too,’ Ciaran says, his gaze fixed on Daniel’s hand.
Daniel’s fingers relax as he weeps. Tears drop fat and heavy on the table. His shoulders judder. He whines, a high desperate sound that comes from somewhere down inside him.
People look. Ciaran’s face burns.
‘You destroyed us, you and your brother. My whole family. Thomas might as well have killed all three of us.’
‘It wasn’t Thomas,’ Ciaran says.
‘Stop it!’ Daniel slaps the table. Cutlery rattles. More tea spills. ‘Just fucking stop it. The one thing in the world you could do to help me is tell the truth, and you won’t even give me that, will you? Just the fucking truth.’
Ciaran wants to tell Daniel so many things, but he doesn’t know how.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ciaran says.
‘Are you? Then tell me the truth.’
Ciaran goes to speak, but he hears someone say his name. He looks around.
Thomas, alone in the crowd, staring at him from across the barrier that separates the café from the rest of the shopping centre.
‘What’s going on?’ Thomas asks.
27
DANIEL TURNED HIS head and saw him through the tears.
Thomas Devine, big as life. Just standing there as if he had every right to live and breathe among human beings. Daniel let go of Ciaran’s wrist. Saw the fear on the younger man’s face.
Daniel stood, the chair scraping back and rattling into the others behind.
‘Ciaran, come with me,’ Thomas said.
Ciaran didn’t hesitate. At his brother’s word, he left the table, followed the barrier to the gap, and went to Thomas’s side. Thomas took his arm and led him away.
‘Wait,’ Daniel said. They didn’t. ‘Wait.’
He followed them as Thomas quickened his pace, pulling Ciaran behind him.
‘Stop,’ Daniel called. ‘Fucking stop.’
He reached out, took Ciaran’s free arm, planted his feet on the tiled floor. Stretched Ciaran between them. Thomas halted, turned, said, ‘Let go.’
‘No,’ Daniel said. ‘You can’t run away from me.’
‘Let go of my brother. Now. Please.’
Daniel jerked Ciaran’s arm, pulling him away from Thomas. He noticed the security guard’s attention on him, saw the uniformed man lift a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
Thomas stood quite s
till, glaring back at Daniel. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Let him go.’
‘Not until you—’
Thomas was quick, covering the ground between them in a blink, his hand on Daniel’s, prising the fingers loose. Almost eye to eye. So close Daniel could smell him. And, oh, he remembered that smell.
Daniel could recall little of it later on when his mind had cleared. Only the first impulse to swing, the deep savage pleasure of his fist connecting with Thomas’s cheek. He pieced it together eventually, pulling fragments of memory from the confusion.
The first blow sent Thomas staggering, then Daniel was swinging at air, one fist following the other in meaningless arcs. Ciaran called something, Daniel couldn’t tell what through the rushing in his ears. Another punch landed and put Thomas on the floor, his lip bleeding. Daniel saw Thomas shake his head, signalling something to Ciaran.
His hands outstretched, his teeth bared, a howl escaping his mouth, Daniel was about to fall on Thomas when the security guards rushed him, one at each arm, dragging him away. Ciaran went to Thomas’s side, helped him to his feet. Daniel saw the hate in Thomas’s eyes as the brothers marched towards the exit.
‘You can’t run away from me for ever,’ Daniel called after them. ‘I’ll be back. I’ll get the truth from you. I swear on my father’s grave I will.’
One of the guards talked into his radio handset, something about the police.
Daniel threw his weight to one side, then the other. The guard who’d asked for the police tripped over his own feet, tumbled onto his back. The other guard put his arm up to shield himself from the swing of Daniel’s free hand, then Daniel was spinning in clear air.
He regained his balance and ran, blindly through the crowd at first, then towards the far exit. The guards called from behind but Daniel kept going, the people parting before him.
He kept running until the shopping centre was lost around the bend in the road, until his lungs ached, until his legs could carry him no further. Then he staggered to the nearest wall, leaned against it as he vomited up the last watery contents of his stomach.
Those We Left Behind Page 13
