Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  The interview room door burst inward and four uniformed men rushed through, leg and arm restraints in hand. Flanagan backed away, let them take Ciaran. Like a boy caught in an avalanche. The solicitor fell from his chair to the floor, papers scattering. They worked with practised and dreadful efficiency. Within moments they had Ciaran face down on the floor, a knee between his shoulder blades, a hand pressing his head down into the linoleum, careful of his teeth. Velcro straps bound his calves, more holding his hands behind his back.

  Then all was still and quiet, the solicitor and Flanagan backed into opposite corners, the only sound Ciaran’s gasping breath.

  ‘Get him to his cell,’ Flanagan said.

  The four officers lifted him, face down, carried him head first towards the door. Ballantine stepped aside to let them past. She looked back at Flanagan, wide-eyed.

  ‘What now?’ Ballantine asked as the solicitor rushed past her.

  Flanagan did not reply. Ballantine followed her all the way to the canteen.

  ‘What about the brother, ma’am?’ she asked.

  ‘We let him sweat,’ Flanagan said, as she filled a paper cup full of coffee. ‘Let him wonder what Ciaran’s telling us. Let the worry set in.’

  Ballantine fetched a tea for herself and joined Flanagan at the nearest table. ‘Aren’t you going to interview him?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Flanagan said. ‘Maybe not. Won’t make much difference. He’ll give us a string of no comments. It’s Ciaran I need to work on.’

  ‘But he’ll do the same,’ Ballantine said. ‘He’ll do what the solicitor tells him, just say no comment to everything.’

  ‘No. Away from the solicitor. On his own.’

  ‘And then nothing he says is usable.’

  ‘True, but that’s not the point. The point is to chip away at this loyalty he has to Thomas. Wear it down until it breaks. Then he’ll talk in front of the solicitor, under caution. Then he’ll give up his brother.’

  ‘And how are you going to do that?’ Ballantine asked.

  Flanagan did not answer. She drank her coffee in silence.

  43

  IT’S GETTING DARK outside. If Ciaran rolls onto his back and cranes his neck, he can see through the small cell window. The light above is hard on his eyes, like glass fingers reaching inside his skull. He doesn’t know how long has passed since they put him in here. Feels like hours.

  He screamed for a long time, he remembers that.

  Lying face down on the thin vinyl-covered mattresses they had placed on the floor, hands strapped behind his back, his ankles bound. He had thrashed and kicked as much as the strapping would allow, tried to bash his head against the concrete, but the mattresses had softened each blow. All he’d managed was to strain his neck, his shoulders, his lower back, his thighs. Eventually, he gave up and lay still.

  Then a long stretch of nothing, the only noise that which echoed within his head. Bad thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

  Thoughts of Daniel Rolston bleeding in an alley.

  Thoughts of Thomas’s teeth.

  Thoughts of Serena Flanagan’s body. Her arms holding him, and the warm blades of her mouth.

  Not very long ago, two uniformed police officers entered the cell. He lifted his head to see them.

  ‘You calmed down any?’ one of them asked.

  Ciaran exhaled, let his body go limp.

  ‘Good,’ the policeman said. ‘You feeling okay? Do you want to see a doctor?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Ciaran said.

  They said nothing more, left him there on the floor and closed the door behind them.

  Now Ciaran’s tongue moves behind his lips. He looks for the anger and the hate that had devoured him earlier that day, finds nothing but a sadness he can’t quite grasp.

  He startles at the sound of the door unlocking. He lifts his head again and sees Serena Flanagan step through carrying a tray. His heart kicks in his chest. Cold sparks in his stomach. He rolls to his side, humiliation swamping him.

  She sets the tray on the bench that serves as a bed.

  ‘Tea and toast,’ she says. ‘I remember how you like it. Lots of milk, lots of butter.’

  Ciaran knows the two policemen are waiting outside to rush in if he does anything. He can’t see or hear them, but he knows all the same.

  ‘If you stay calm,’ she says, ‘I’ll ask the officers to undo the strappings so you can eat. Will you try to stay calm for me?’

  Years compress like an accordion and Ciaran is a child again. Alone and terrified in a cell like this one. This woman his only friend. The sole focus of his being. The one constant in his days, his only reason to keep breathing.

  Ciaran rolls onto his other side, his back to her. He wants the toilet. He hopes he can hang on. He couldn’t bear to sink any lower.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  He wants to feel angry. He wants to hate her. But he can’t.

  ‘I’m okay,’ he says, his voice thin and whispery.

  ‘Are you still angry?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘It’s okay to be angry,’ she says. ‘Everyone gets angry sometimes. But it’s not okay to hurt yourself. Or anyone else.’

  Ciaran closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what she wants him to say.

  ‘I understand why you’re upset,’ she says. ‘I know how important your brother is to you, and I’m not trying to drive you apart. But you must see why I got this order.’

  ‘Are you sending me back to jail?’ Ciaran asks.

  ‘Not yet,’ Serena says. ‘First thing tomorrow morning I have a Risk Management Meeting with your probation officer and her area manager. They might want to go to the parole commissioner and ask for your release licence to be revoked. Then you’d have to go back to Hydebank. But I can ask them not to do that. If you’ll talk to me. Not under caution, not officially, just talk like we’re doing now. If you do that, I’ll ask for your licence not to be revoked. Fair enough?’

  Ciaran doesn’t answer.

  He hears her stand and come close, feels the pressure on the mattresses shift as she kneels down beside him. He can smell her now, soap and flowers and something else, the scent filling his head like it did seven years ago.

  ‘Will you talk to me?’ she asks.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You,’ she says. ‘And Thomas.’

  ‘All right.’

  He feels her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. She takes a breath. ‘You know, you spent two years in Hydebank without Thomas, and you managed. You can take a little time away from him now, can’t you?’

  Ciaran wants to tell her what those two years were really like. The fear constantly ringing inside him. The sense of being alone and adrift amongst the other boys. How at night he often imagined the feeling of a belt or a strip of bed sheet tightening around his neck. Ciaran knew how to do it, still knows, just tie one end to a door handle and sit down. That’s all. If not for Thomas’s visits, for the words and promises his brother whispered to him every time, Ciaran doesn’t know what he would have done.

  ‘Where is Thomas?’ he asks.

  ‘In another cell,’ she says. ‘Not in this block.’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Under supervision. Depending on how things go between now and then.’

  ‘I want to see him tonight.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  Ciaran folds in on himself, gathers in his knees, his chin, curls like a question mark around his own frightened heart.

  ‘You don’t have to be afraid,’ she says. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You’re safe here. You don’t need Thomas. He can’t hurt you while you’re with me. I’ll look after you.’

  Can’t hurt me.

  The words resonate in Ciaran’s mind as her hand returns to his shoulder. He closes his eyes. Focuses on the pressure there on his skin, the feel of hers through the fabric of the sweatshirt. Her fingertips move t
o his collar, then to the bare skin of his neck. He opens his eyes, turns his head to look up at her. His gaze holds hers for a moment.

  Only for a moment, a crackling instant, then her fingers lift away like startled birds.

  He can barely breathe.

  Can’t hurt me.

  Don’t need him.

  That possibility glints like a candle flame in the darkness. The flame sputters, flickers, almost dies.

  Then it steadies and glows.

  Ciaran opens his mouth to speak, but the other policewoman appears at the door of the cell. ‘Ma’am?’ she says. ‘Is everything all right?’

  Serena moves away from him.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll call you if I need anything.’

  The other policewoman hesitates, looks at Ciaran, looks at Serena, and backs out of the doorway.

  Quiet for a while, then Serena says, ‘Okay, I’m going to leave you now. The other officers will undo those strappings. You eat the toast and drink the tea. I’ll come back in an hour. While I’m gone, I want you to think very hard about what I’ve said. About what you’re going to say to me. All right?’

  Ciaran nods.

  Serena stands and walks to the door. She pauses there and says, ‘You don’t need him.’

  He watches her leave and the two uniformed officers enter. They undo the straps while he lies very still.

  One of them says, ‘Good boy,’ and pats his shoulder. ‘Maybe get some sleep.’

  The cell door closes and locks.

  44

  BALLANTINE WAITED ALONG the corridor. Flanagan didn’t slow her pace on the way to the temporary office she’d been given.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Flanagan pretended she didn’t hear as she reached her door.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  Louder. More insistent.

  Flanagan exhaled and turned to the detective sergeant’s voice. ‘What?’

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  Flanagan opened her office door, stood back to allow Ballantine to enter, then followed her in. ‘Well?’ she asked as she closed the door behind her.

  Ballantine stood at the desk, her arms folded, her fingers curling around her elbows, her gaze on the floor.

  ‘Come on,’ Flanagan said. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

  ‘I saw the way you touched him,’ Ballantine said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The way you were stroking his neck.’

  ‘Stroking?’ Flanagan forced an indignant laugh. ‘I wasn’t stroking anything. I put my hand on his shoulder while I was speaking with him. A friendly gesture to relax him. To get him to talk to me.’

  Ballantine shook her head, but kept her eyes downward. ‘You were touching his neck. In an intimate way, with your fingertips.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘It’s inappropriate,’ Ballantine said. ‘He’s a very vulnerable young man, and you’re playing games with him.’

  ‘Enough,’ Flanagan said, the edge of her voice sharpening.

  ‘You can’t exploit his feelings for you like—’

  ‘I said, enough!’

  Ballantine fell silent. She hadn’t looked at Flanagan once.

  ‘Now, I want you to continue questioning Thomas Devine. You know the areas I want covered, you know which approaches to take. We probably won’t have him or his brother here for long, so there’s no time for this nonsense. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘Go and do your job.’

  Ballantine left without another word. Flanagan watched the door for a time before she said, ‘Fuck.’

  Anger burst in her, a childish rage. She walked a circle around the room, her fists clenched, wishing she had something or someone to punch. Instead she kicked the chair in front of her desk, barely budging it. Then she pushed it over, kicked it again.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said once more.

  Stop it, she commanded herself. Grow up. She opened her hands, felt the heat where her nails had dug into the palms, brought them together as if to offer up a prayer.

  When calm had returned, or as near as she was likely to get, Flanagan breathed deep and thought about how she would use the remaining hours with Ciaran Devine. She looked at her watch and cursed again before lifting her mobile.

  As she listened to the dial tone, a sense of déjà vu swamped her. Seven years ago, she made the same call for the same reason, like her life had turned in one long, wide circle.

  When Alistair answered, she said, ‘I’ll be late home.’

  ‘So much for easing back in,’ he said, his voice sounding kind but exasperated.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just this case. I’ve only so long to interview the DP before I have to let him go.’

  ‘I understand,’ Alistair said. ‘What time do you reckon?’

  ‘I don’t know. Late. Maybe all night.’

  Silence for a few seconds, then, ‘The kids were asking for you.’

  Flanagan covered her eyes with her free hand. ‘Are they all right? How was school?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ he asked. ‘Or are you just asking to be polite?’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t use them against me like that. It’s not fair.’

  ‘Not fair? Are you . . .’

  Alistair exhaled as he cut the sentence short before he said something hurtful. She silently thanked him for it.

  ‘Sneak in and give them a kiss for me,’ she said.

  ‘You could always come home and do it yourself,’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to,’ she said. ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure, we’ll see you when we see you.’

  ‘Okay. I love you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, and the line died.

  45

  CIARAN DREAMS.

  Hundreds of faces flash through his wandering mind. He knows few of them.

  Thomas is calling from far away. Ciaran can’t see him.

  He is alone in a darkened corridor. Thomas’s voice reverberates between the dull painted walls and scuffed vinyl tiles on the floor.

  Where is this place? A hospital? A prison? A school? Whatever it is, Ciaran doesn’t like it. It smells of toilets and disinfectant. He can feel how empty it is. This place should be full of people, bustling, working, talking. Instead it is quiet.

  Apart from Thomas’s voice, rising and falling.

  Ciaran walks, realises he is barefoot, feels the tiles kiss his soles. He follows the voice around one corner, then another, and another.

  It’s darker here, deeper inside the building. Colder, the air heavier.

  Up ahead, he sees a door with a window. Mesh in the glass like at the Young Offenders Centre. Light glowing sickly pale from within. The voice seeps between the door and its frame, carried by the light.

  There are other doors along this corridor but Ciaran knows there are terrible things behind them. Bloody and painful things.

  Ciaran draws closer. He sees a shape in the window: Thomas, watching him approach, his mouth moving.

  Ciaran reaches the door. He touches the glass. He can no longer hear Thomas’s voice, but his brother’s lips move regardless. The glass steams up from his breath. Ciaran sees the teeth behind the lips, glistening yellow-white.

  Inside the room, beyond Thomas, is a bed. A hospital bed, a woman upon it.

  Ciaran knows her, even though he hasn’t seen her in many years. Except for dreams like this. His mother watching him, a smile on her lips.

  Thomas is gone. Only a door between Ciaran and his mother. All he has to do is reach for the handle and turn it. Walk through to her.

  That’s all.

  The handle is slippery on his skin. He can’t grip it. It’s too difficult. He tries and tries as his mother’s eyes plead for him to come to her. Finally, he gets hold of the metal, presses down, and the door is gone and he is inside with her.

&nb
sp; She lifts her arms to him, hands and fingers outstretched, come to Mummy.

  He crosses the space between them without taking a step and is swallowed in her embrace. There on the bed, he melts into her, their arms and legs entangled and he is a child again, an infant, and she is the only woman in the whole wide world.

  Her lips and breath on his infant ear: You don’t need him.

  I do, he says.

  You don’t.

  I do, he’s the big boy, I’m the baby, he has to look after me.

  You don’t need him. I won’t let him hurt you again.

  Ciaran opens his eyes to look at his mother. She has eyes just like Serena Flanagan’s. And the same mouth and skin. And the smell like clean air and summer.

  You don’t need him, she says.

  Then she is gone in a hard and burning light and Ciaran is falling, landing, jerking awake on the cell floor. He rolls onto his side, his arms cover his face, ready for his brother’s teeth.

  ‘Ciaran,’ she says.

  Serena Flanagan’s voice.

  He lowers his arms, finds her through the punishing brightness of the cell’s fluorescent lighting.

  ‘Are you ready to talk some more?’ she asks.

  As the confusion drifts away, Ciaran sits up on the mattress. His mouth is dry. He watches her, remembering the feel of her dream-embrace. He swallows.

  ‘Ciaran?’

  Ciaran says, ‘I don’t need him.’

  46

  ‘THAT’S RIGHT,’ FLANAGAN said.

  He stared up at her from the floor, his eyes wide.

  Just a child, Flanagan thought.

  No, a grown man. Remember that, she thought. Whatever happens, remember that.

  ‘Can I sit down?’

  Flanagan waited for an answer. When none came, she went to the bench and sat down. The tiled concrete cold on her thighs, the mattress still on the floor with the others. Ciaran wrapped his arms around his knees.

  ‘Tell me about before,’ she said.

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before things went bad. When you and Thomas lived with your mother, before you were taken into care. Before your father died.’