Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  28

  CIARAN KNOWS THOMAS is angry with him even though it isn’t his fault. He glows with it, like the anger is burning up his insides. His breathing is hard, a ragged sound trapped in the car with them. As Thomas presses a tissue to his bleeding lip he keeps looking out through the windows, around the car park, as if searching for Daniel. All jerky and fidgety, hands ready to lash out.

  ‘What happened?’ Thomas asks.

  ‘I was having breakfast,’ Ciaran says. ‘You said you were working, and I didn’t want to sit in the hostel all day.’

  ‘I don’t start till eleven. I called at the hostel and that manager told me you were over here. What was Daniel doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just sat down in front of me.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He talked about us. About what happened to Mr Rolston.’

  Thomas’s voice is quiet and brittle, words like broken glass. ‘What about it?’

  ‘He wanted me to say I didn’t do it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I told him it was me.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Thomas reaches across and squeezes Ciaran’s shoulder. His fingers are hard and sharp like needles. ‘Good boy.’

  ‘He said his mum killed herself. Just like our mum.’

  ‘The drugs killed our mum. Anyway, that’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘I told him I was sorry,’ Ciaran says, expecting more anger from Thomas, but there is none. ‘I don’t think he noticed, but I said it.’

  ‘There’s some things you can’t apologise for.’

  Ciaran already knows that. Doesn’t mean he can’t try, but he keeps that thought to himself.

  ‘I never really thought about it before,’ Ciaran says. ‘Not while we were inside. Not until now.’

  ‘Thought about what?’ Thomas asks.

  ‘About the ones we left behind. Daniel. Mrs Rolston. What we did to Mr Rolston, we did it to them too. Just because we left them behind, it doesn’t mean we didn’t hurt them too.’

  Ciaran feels a sudden terror for what Thomas will do.

  He closes his eyes and waits for teeth on his skin.

  Instead, Thomas squeezes Ciaran’s shoulder once more. ‘It’s all right. No real harm done. But here’s the question.’

  Ciaran opens his eyes, swallows, and asks, ‘What?’

  ‘What do we do about Daniel?’ Thomas asks.

  29

  FLANAGAN FOUND DCI Conn in his office at Ladas Drive station. Alistair had wanted the family to go out together, maybe to the zoo, or a drive to Bangor, but she had told him she had paperwork to catch up on. Guilt at the lie had felt like needles in her skin, but she told it anyway.

  Conn looked up from his computer keyboard. Anger flashed on his face for a moment before he caught it, masked it.

  ‘Serena,’ he said. ‘What brings you here on a Saturday morning?’

  She lingered in the doorway. ‘I just wondered how the Walker case was going.’

  ‘It’s more or less wrapped up,’ he said, looking at his computer monitor. ‘Just waiting for the coroner to put a bow on it, then I’m all done.’

  ‘Did you talk to Julie?’

  Conn exhaled through his nose. ‘We took a statement, yes.’

  ‘I mean, did you interview her?’

  ‘We took a statement,’ Conn repeated, his voice hardening.

  Flanagan felt the building anger radiate from him. She spoke slowly, keeping her tone light and respectful. ‘What about the boyfriend?’

  ‘We also took a brief statement from him, even though it wasn’t really necessary.’

  She stepped into the room, approached his desk. ‘Could I take a look at them?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just to satisfy my curiosity.’

  Conn sat back, the muscles in his jaw bunching as he thought. Eventually, he opened the file on his desk, removed four printed A4 pages, and passed them across. Flanagan took them, said thank you, and began to read.

  Three pages for Julie’s statement. Less than half a page for Barry Timmons. More or less what she’d already heard. Julie Walker woken by the single shot, finding her mother and father dead, calling 999. Barry Timmons woken in the early hours by a phone call from his distressed girlfriend. Flanagan handed the pages back.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Listen, would you mind if I had a chat with them?’

  He looked up from the pages. ‘Yes, I would bloody mind.’

  ‘I’d make it quick. Treat it as a follow-up to the statements, nothing more.’

  Conn got to his feet, rested his knuckles on the desk as he leaned towards her. ‘Let me make this very clear. You will not talk to Julie Walker or Barry Timmons. If you do, I’ll have the ACC on you so fast your head will spin.’ His expression softened a fraction. ‘Look, I know the Walkers were friends of yours, and you’re upset at what happened, but you can’t let that push you into making an accusation with nothing to back it up.’

  Flanagan nodded, smiled, and left the office.

  By the time she got to her car, she had made her decision.

  Barry Timmons was a lecturer at Queen’s University and rented a house nearby. Flanagan guessed Julie would stay with him while her home remained a crime scene. She parked her Golf opposite the Queen’s Film Theatre, in the shadow of the Lanyon building, and walked the short distance to University Street with its rows of terraced houses. Most of them bore To Let signs, waiting for the influx of students that would come with the new academic year. The area felt ghostly quiet without the bustle of students, as if an evacuation had taken place.

  She found Barry’s house close to the University Road end, tidier than the other properties along this street, the front door and window frames newly painted, wooden venetian blinds behind the glass. A leafy green pot plant on the sill of the living room window.

  Flanagan knocked and waited.

  She was not here officially, she thought, but as a friend. If she wanted to show her support for the orphaned daughter of a couple she had grown close to, then DCI Conn could have nothing to say about it.

  No answer. She knocked again.

  A sickly relief accompanied the realisation that no one was home. What was she doing here? What good could she do? Conn would be furious, as would the Assistant Chief Constable, not to mention DSI Purdy. Flanagan imagined being called into his office on Monday morning, the bollocking he would give her.

  ‘All right,’ she said, and turned away from the door, heading back to University Road. Maybe if she got back home to Moira in time, the day wouldn’t be wasted. She and Alistair could still get out somewhere with the kids.

  Across University Road, through the stream of traffic headed for the city centre, she saw Julie Walker and Barry Timmons seated at the window of a café. Flanagan stood still on the pavement and watched for a few moments. Deep in conversation, their heads close together.

  Leave them be, Flanagan thought. Go home to your family.

  Then she thought of Penny Walker and a pillow held tight to her face.

  Flanagan went to the pedestrian crossing, waited for the green man, keeping the couple in her sight. She crossed the road, walked towards the café. Julie and Barry were oblivious to anything but whatever it was they discussed. Flanagan stood no more than six feet away, only a pane of glass between her and them. They did not notice her attention as they talked.

  Or rather, Julie talked.

  Her forefinger extended, punctuating her words, stabbing the air inches from Barry’s face. He wept, Flanagan saw, his cheeks wet with tears. Rocking back and forth slightly, a gentle self-comforting motion. Contained rage on Julie’s face.

  Barry went to say something, but Julie’s finger prodded at his chest, her anger reaching a new height. She must have spoken too loudly, because now she lifted her head, looked around the café to make sure no one heard, then glanced out of the window.

  She saw Flanagan, and the fury drained from her face, replaced by fear. Barry turned his tea
rful gaze towards the window, saw what had silenced his girlfriend. He sniffed, removed his glasses, and wiped at his eyes and cheeks with the heel of his hand.

  Flanagan entered the café and approached their table, keeping her expression friendly. She indicated one of the unoccupied leather-bound tub chairs and asked, ‘May I?’

  Barry turned his face away. Julie nodded.

  Flanagan sat down. ‘I called over at your house, but no one was home. Lucky I saw you through the window.’

  ‘What can we do for you?’ Julie asked.

  ‘I’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

  Julie looked to Barry, who looked at his lap. She turned back to Flanagan. ‘I didn’t think you were working on my parents’ case.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Flanagan said. ‘It’s just for my own curiosity, completely off the record.’

  ‘Now isn’t the best time,’ Julie said. ‘If it’s not official, I’d rather not—’

  ‘It’ll only take a few minutes. A couple of questions and I’ll be out of your way.’

  Julie sat quiet for a moment, then said, ‘All right. So long as you’re quick.’

  ‘You know I saw your mother the evening she died,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She told me that she and your father were planning a weekend away. She’d booked a cottage that morning. If they hadn’t died, your parents would be in Portstewart right now.’

  ‘But they did die,’ Julie said, her face expressionless. ‘So they’re not.’

  ‘What strikes me as odd,’ Flanagan said, ‘is why your mother would book a cottage that she never intended to use. If she and your father planned to die that night, why make plans for the weekend?’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t plan it. Maybe it was spur of the moment. They just did it without thinking it through.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Flanagan said. ‘You know, I liked your father. Ronnie was a good man. The Alzheimer’s diagnosis must have been a blow. For your parents, of course, but you too. He would’ve become quite a burden, wouldn’t he? How do you think he would have managed without your mother?’

  ‘Not well,’ Julie said. ‘That’s why he did it, I suppose.’

  ‘Put a pillow over his wife’s face and smothered her.’

  Julie paled. Barry’s eyes brimmed.

  ‘That’s right,’ Julie said.

  ‘It’s not easy to kill a human being,’ Flanagan said. ‘Even if they’re unconscious from sleeping pills. Even if they can’t struggle too much. It’s a very difficult line to cross. Most of us can’t do it. We just aren’t wired that way. Only a very few can end another’s life, and fewer still can suffer the guilt. Mr Timmons.’

  Barry looked up, shame on his face, as if she had caught him in some unspeakable act.

  ‘You said in your statement that you were at home alone all Wednesday evening.’

  He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you got a phone call from Julie some time after two in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. Then I drove straight over.’

  ‘And you found the bodies of Mr and Mrs Walker in their bedroom.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long do you think it took for Penny Walker to die?’

  He shook his head, confusion on his face. ‘What?’

  ‘How long would a man have to hold a pillow over an unconscious woman’s face until she suffocated?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How much pressure would he have to apply to make sure she couldn’t breathe?’

  ‘Stop it,’ Julie said.

  ‘I wonder if she moved,’ Flanagan said, keeping her gaze hard on Barry. ‘Even unconscious, did her body fight to live? When that man put his weight on the pillow, maybe he thought she would lie there like a doll.’

  ‘Please stop it,’ Julie said.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t expect her to resist. How would he know what it’s like to kill someone?’

  For a moment, no more, Flanagan saw a pleading in Barry’s eyes. As if begging for release. Then he looked away, and she knew for certain.

  ‘Please leave us alone,’ Julie said, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘Thank you for your time.’ She stood, put a hand on Barry’s shoulder. ‘Remember, when it comes right down to it, the truth is all you have left.’

  ‘Go,’ Julie said. ‘Please.’

  Flanagan left them there, fear of the consequences already growing in her.

  30

  DANIEL ROLSTON HAD been drinking since the morning. He had jumped onto the first bus that stopped and found himself in the city centre. Not long after eleven, he wandered into a bar on Chichester Street and ordered a pint of lager. It was gone in minutes, and he asked for another. The barman looked at the cut beneath his eye and asked if he was all right. Daniel did not answer the question, repeated his request for another drink. The barman obliged.

  As lunchtime clientele began to fill the bar, Daniel neared the end of his fourth pint. Lifted the glass to get the barman’s attention, relishing the buzz in his head.

  ‘Maybe you should have something to eat,’ the barman said. ‘A glass of water, too.’

  ‘No,’ Daniel said. ‘Just give me another.’

  ‘I’ll get you a sandwich. On the house.’

  ‘No. Another pint. Please.’

  ‘All right,’ the barman said. ‘One more, but after that, I want you out the door.’

  Daniel nodded and handed over his money.

  As he left the bar, the noise of the city rushed in on him, the cars, the people, the undying clamour of it all. He marched past the front of the City Hall, hating the kids who gathered there, mouthy little bastards all of them. He bumped shoulders with some tracksuit-wearing knuckle-dragger who shouted after him to watch where he was going. Daniel spun to the angry voice, saw the confidence drain from the boy’s face at the sight of him. He kept walking, headed south, around the City Hall, past the upmarket restaurants and fashionable bars, out of the city centre, towards Shaftesbury Square and beyond, until he made his way to the northern end of Botanic Avenue. If he kept walking, he’d come to Botanic Gardens, the trees and the grass there, the flowers. As the sun warmed him, that seemed a wonderful place to be.

  Daniel stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of cheap vodka, paid the extra few pence for a plastic bag to conceal it. The purchase left him with less than ten pounds on his person. He had less than a hundred in his current account. Not that he cared much.

  A few minutes’ walk took Daniel to the park, its open lawns, tree-shaded paths, the Palm House as its centrepiece. He found a bench with a view of a green where a gathering of people threw balls and sticks while their dogs chased and gambolled.

  Happy people, he thought, every reason to enjoy a Saturday afternoon in the park. He would never be one of them, Daniel knew that: a normal contented life was lost to him long ago.

  He twisted the bottle cap, breaking the seal, and took a deep swallow of vodka. His stomach threatened to expel the liquid, and he doubled over, coughing and spitting, but kept the vodka inside. The second mouthful went down a little more easily. The third easier still. He did not remember the fourth.

  A hard hand shook Daniel from a dream of mangled flesh and bone, of horrors upon horrors, death walking among the living, cutting them down as it went.

  He opened his eyes, blinking at the sun, now low in the sky. His mind scrambled and tripped, trying to piece the real world together from the scattered fragments of his drunken sleep. He swallowed, his mouth dry and sour tasting, then a wet burp forced him to cough.

  ‘Come on, son,’ someone said. ‘Wakey, wakey.’

  Daniel blinked, said, ‘What?’

  Another voice. ‘Time to go home, young fella. Up you get.’

  A hand taking his arm, pulling him upright. A policeman, and another.

  ‘Can you stay on your feet?’ one of them asked.

  Daniel w
asn’t sure. He tried and flopped back down onto the bench. His trousers clung to his thighs, and he felt a spear of humiliation knowing that he had wet himself.

  The policemen each took an arm, hoisted him up again.

  ‘Right,’ the older of them said, ‘I’m giving you one chance to stay on your feet and walk away. If you can’t, then I have to place you under arrest. You’ll have to spend the night in a cell to sleep it off. Do you understand?’

  Daniel laughed. He wanted to say he’d seen enough of police cells to do him for a good long time, but somehow he couldn’t make the words come out in the right order.

  ‘Now, start walking,’ the policeman said, nudging him in the direction of the park’s southern exit.

  The policeman emptied the remainder of the vodka onto the grass and tossed the bottle into a bin. ‘Get yourself a taxi, if you can find one who’ll take you in that state.’

  Time stretched and bent as Daniel walked, clinging to fences and walls as he went. A car horn blared as he staggered into the road. He fell onto its bonnet, was carried a few yards, but somehow managed to slide off and onto his feet without slamming into the ground. The driver got out of the car, called after him as he lurched away.

  The sun had sunk lower, barely showing above the rooftops, and Daniel felt suddenly cold. He looked around, realised he had no idea where he was. Just another street of redbrick two-up two-downs of which there were hundreds, probably thousands, in Belfast. Not even a flag on a lamp post to tell him what kind of area it was. But it couldn’t be far from the park, he thought, maybe Stranmillis.

  He felt his stomach tighten. His mouth opened through no will of his own, and he doubled over, leaning on a garden wall. The sound of a knuckle rapping on glass. He looked up, saw an elderly woman open her living room window and lean out.

  ‘Don’t you be boaking in front of my house. I’m not clearing that up. Go on and do it somewhere else.’

  Daniel stumbled on, one hand on his stomach, the other on the garden walls and fences to keep him on his feet. At the end of the block he turned the corner, found the alleyway that ran between one terrace and the next. He walked into the cool shadows, deeper, until he couldn’t hold back any more. The force of it doubled him over, spraying vodka on the ground. He collapsed against a yard wall, supporting himself with his shoulder as he retched again and again.