‘Thomas Devine was never convicted of murder,’ Purdy said.
‘—you’re telling me there’s not enough evidence?’
‘Paula, please stop,’ Hughes said.
‘No, I won’t stop, this is—’
Hughes’s voice rang between the walls of the boardroom. ‘Shut your mouth right now or I will take this case away from you.’
Cunningham closed her eyes and exhaled, tried to breathe away the anger. It didn’t work: the rage still sparked in her. But when she opened her eyes again, she could at least pretend to be calm.
‘All right,’ Hughes said, ‘now settle yourself.’
Cunningham nodded her assent.
‘Good.’ Hughes spoke to Purdy. ‘So I take it you’re not recommending Ciaran’s licence be revoked.’
‘No, I’m not,’ Purdy said. ‘I think it would do more harm than good at this stage.’
‘Paula, you disagree?’
‘I strongly disagree,’ she said. ‘Ciaran Devine and his brother are clearly a danger to themselves and to others. I believe Thomas Devine killed Daniel Rolston and Ciaran is covering for him purely out of loyalty. I also believe Thomas Devine posted a threatening note through my door.’
Hughes leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘But it’s not Thomas Devine we’re talking about sending back to prison. Even if your suspicions are proven to be true, it’s Thomas who’s the danger, not Ciaran.’
‘That’s not the point,’ Cunningham said, but Hughes raised a hand to silence her.
‘Now, both of you disagree on whether or not Ciaran’s licence should be revoked, so it looks like it’s up to me to make the decision.’
Cunningham’s stomach felt heavy inside. She sat back, closed her notebook, resigned to the outcome.
‘As I understand it, the Crime Prevention Order that DCI Flanagan got at court is still in effect. The Devine brothers are prohibited from seeing each other. And, in your opinion, Paula, it’s Thomas Devine who presents a danger, not Ciaran. So I’m inclined to side with DSI Purdy on this, and I’m not going to recommend that Ciaran’s licence be revoked.’
Cunningham got to her feet and gathered her things.
As she went to the door, she said, ‘I just pray to God you don’t regret this.’
49
FLANAGAN SAW DCI Conn approach through the crowd outside the church. She braced herself.
‘You were told to stay away from Julie Walker,’ he said.
‘Penny Walker was my friend, and I’ve as much right to go to her funeral as anyone else.’
She had stood at the back of the church for the service, crammed in with those who arrived too late to get a seat. The two coffins stood side by side at the top of the central aisle, flowers arranged on each. At the end of the first pew, Julie Walker and her boyfriend, both of them standing with their heads bowed.
Flanagan had swallowed her anger as the minister segued from his sermon to a droning hymn.
‘At least stay out of Miss Walker’s sight,’ Conn said as mourners brushed past him. ‘Show a little sensitivity.’
‘I’ll try,’ Flanagan said, though in truth she didn’t care one jot about sparing Julie Walker’s feelings.
She remained among the stragglers, well away from the procession that moved away from the church at the top of the hill and down the slope to the terraces of graves. Penny had been quietly religious, rarely discussing her faith, but Flanagan knew she attended Sunday morning services here, dragging poor Ronnie along with her at Christmas and Easter.
Some of the members of the support group clustered near the front of the crowd. Flanagan had succeeded in remaining unnoticed by them. They would wonder why they hadn’t seen her. She would never have to explain; she would not go back to the group again, tainted as it now was by the manner of Penny’s death.
The procession paused as pallbearers swapped places, men young and old locking arms beneath the caskets. The older of them stoical, the younger with fear on their faces. Alistair had once told Flanagan about the first time he had carried a coffin at the age of nineteen, and how he had lain awake the night before his grandfather’s funeral, terrified of slipping and falling while performing this sacred duty, how he pictured the coffin crashing to the ground in front of the horrified mourners.
‘It was fine in the end,’ he had said, ‘but I had a hell of a bruise on my shoulder the next day.’
The sound of suppressed coughs and hundreds of shuffling feet all around as the pallbearers began the final leg of their short journey. The Walkers had a family plot on the south-western edge of the graveyard. Green felt covered the mound of excavated earth beside it. A small digger parked beneath a tree a respectful distance away, a man in overalls leaning against it.
Flanagan could not make out the minister’s words over the grave. She watched Julie Walker, the dryness of her eyes, Barry Timmons on her arm. Barry’s face hollowed by fear. Flanagan felt a small stab of pity for him. He was not made for murder. One day he would crack under the pressure of his conscience; it was only a question of how many weeks, months or years that would take. Flanagan hoped he would go to the police and tell the truth rather than harm himself. But Barry Timmons looked like a coward, and she felt in her gut that he would take the coward’s way.
‘God help him,’ Flanagan whispered under her breath.
The larger coffin was lowered first, then the smaller. A sob escaped Flanagan, surprising her. Grief at her friend being taken before she was ready. The grief slowly turned to anger. She resisted the shift at her centre for as long as she could, but it was no good.
A line formed as friends of the family went to express their condolences to the Walkers’ sole surviving child. One after the other, hands were shaken, shoulders patted, heads bowed. With little thought of her actions, Flanagan joined the queue that wound down towards the graveside.
In a few minutes she was twenty feet away from Julie Walker, and DCI Conn had spotted her once more. He picked his way through the thinning crowd to Flanagan’s side.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, leaning in close, his voice low.
‘Paying my respects,’ Flanagan said as the line advanced.
He gripped her elbow. ‘Come on.’
‘Get your hand off me.’
His fingers tightened on her arm. ‘I told you to stay away, now for God’s sake—’
‘Let go of me,’ Flanagan said, ‘or I will break your fucking nose right here in front of everybody.’
Conn stood silent for a moment, breathing hard. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this,’ he said before turning and walking back towards the church.
Less than a minute passed before Flanagan came face to face with Julie. The younger woman automatically extended her hand before realising who stood before her. Flanagan closed her fingers hard around Julie’s, felt the sudden tension.
‘It shouldn’t have been like this,’ Flanagan said. ‘There was no need for it.’
Julie’s gaze, her eyes laced with red, flitted across the mourners around them. ‘I’d rather you hadn’t come,’ she said.
‘I guessed so,’ Flanagan said, ‘but I came anyway.’
‘All right. Now you can go.’
‘There’ll be no investigation,’ Flanagan said. She gave Barry a glance. As he looked away, she said, ‘Not unless something changes. Not unless someone tells the truth. Otherwise, well done. You got away with it. Not many do.’
Julie couldn’t meet Flanagan’s stare. ‘Please leave now.’
‘Yes, I’m going. I just wanted to make sure you know what I know. You got away with it, but you didn’t go unnoticed. This will haunt you for the rest of your days. How will you live with it?’
Julie’s features hardened as her eyes flashed. ‘Please just fuck off.’
A hush all around, then a wave of murmurs.
Flanagan gave Barry Timmons a last smile before heading towards the church gates, ignoring the attention of those who watched her leave.
50
USING A TROWEL, Ciaran makes a hole in the loose earth about the size of his fist. Emmet presses the root ball down and in, the flowers wavering as he compacts the soil around them. Ciaran has lost count of how many they’ve planted. Dozens and dozens.
The sun is out and warm on his back, and its light reflects off the petals. Orange and pink glares that linger in his vision.
‘You all right?’ Emmet asks.
Ciaran says, ‘Yeah,’ and digs another hole.
‘You weren’t chatty yesterday, but you’re even quieter today.’
Ciaran shrugs, keeps his eyes averted from Emmet’s.
‘Did you sleep last night? You look knackered.’
‘I’m okay,’ Ciaran says, his voice harder than he’d intended.
Emmet remains quiet for a while, but watchful. Then he asks, ‘Is it true what the others said about you?’
‘What others?’ Ciaran asks.
‘The boys in the van. They were talking about you on the way to pick you up.’
Ciaran lays the trowel on the earth. ‘What did they say?’
‘That you’re the kid who was all over the news years ago. The kid who killed his foster carer.’
Ciaran held Emmet’s stare. ‘That’s right.’
‘Jesus,’ Emmet says. ‘But you’re not like that any more. Are you?’
Ciaran does not reply. He picks up the trowel and starts digging again.
‘All right,’ Emmet says, ‘no need to get the arse with me. I’ll just keep my mouth shut.’
Ciaran has been distracted all morning. The day before, the digging had soothed his mind, flushed it out. Today it does not. Today Ciaran only thinks about her and how she left him in that cell and didn’t come back like she promised.
She promised she would take him to the seaside, back to the old house.
The promise was a lie.
Just like Thomas had always said. No one can be trusted. They are the deceivers, all of them. They will cheat Us and hurt Us always. If They are not Us then They are against Us.
Waves of anger keep creeping up on Ciaran, so fierce they make him shake. Earlier, he said he needed a toilet break. The foreman had looked him up and down as if he was a fly crushed against the wall, then told him to be quick. Ciaran had gone to the portable toilet and locked himself in. He had covered his mouth with his hands and screamed, felt the pressure build in his head until he thought his skull might crack open.
It was not only her betrayal, her abandoning him, that caused the anger: it was that piece of paper that said he couldn’t see Thomas. Now he feels alone and frightened.
Ciaran doesn’t know what else to do, so he works.
His back and shoulders are sore from digging, but he ignores the discomfort. He feels no relief when the foreman calls the lunch break. He remains crouched, keeps digging as Emmet stands.
‘You not coming?’ Emmet asks.
‘I’ve no lunch with me,’ Ciaran says.
‘I know. Have you any money?’
Ciaran puts his hand in his pocket, retrieves a few pounds in change.
‘There’s a shop down the way,’ Emmet says. ‘Go and get yourself something.’
Ciaran hesitates. He doesn’t like going to shops.
‘I told you, you’re not having any of mine.’
As Emmet walks away, Ciaran’s stomach growls. He gets to his feet and calls after Emmet. ‘Which way?’
Emmet stops and points to the street behind Ciaran. ‘Down there and turn right, I think.’
Ciaran nods a thank-you and slips the gloves from his hands. He walks in the direction Emmet pointed, past rows of houses built of beige brick. Small gardens, some neat and tidy, others overgrown and strewn with rubbish. A dog barks at him from a window. He turns right and keeps walking. After thirty yards or so he realises there’s no shop.
He stops, looks around, and walks back the way he came.
At the end of the street, he pauses to get his bearings. The site and his workmates should be to his left. He turns right, looking for a sign, a flash of colour amongst the dreary homes. The road curves first one way, and then the other. A minute or so has passed when he stops, looks around again, turning in a circle. The houses all look the same.
Ciaran realises he can’t remember which way he came. He’d lost track when he turned around. Fear rises in him. He doesn’t even know what this place is called, let alone where it is. No one around to help him. He can’t manage on his own. Thomas is right, Ciaran can’t do anything for himself.
He should run. But which way?
Ciaran’s breathing quickens, shallow gasps as his heart beats faster. He needs to run, get out of here. But which way? Thomas, which way do I go?
Thomas isn’t here. Just choose a direction. That’s all. Just choose.
Ciaran runs.
A jog at first, then faster. Fast as he can go. Legs and arms turning churning quickly-slickly. The scared driving him on.
As the road curves he stumbles off the footpath, between the parked cars, his boots slapping on the tarmac. His eyes are hot. Tears stream towards his temples, blown back by the breeze as he cuts through the air.
A car ahead, heading straight for Ciaran, but he doesn’t see it, not really, not until it’s close and he hears the tyres bite into the road as it slows.
Ciaran knows this car. As it stops just feet from him, he knows it, but he keeps running until his hands touch the bonnet. He stops there, breathless, feeling the engine’s rumble through the metal and paint.
Tears come now, free and uncontrolled, waves hot on his skin, salty on his lips.
The driver opens the door and gets out.
Comes around to the front.
Thomas takes Ciaran in his arms.
They have been driving for half an hour before Ciaran speaks.
‘What happened to your hand?’
Thomas flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. His left hand is wrapped in a handkerchief stained with red blotches. He has blood on his sleeve and trouser leg.
‘Nothing,’ Thomas says. ‘I got bitten, that’s all.’
‘By what?’
‘A dog. But it’s all right. Forget about it.’
‘We’re not supposed to see each other.’
‘Yeah,’ Thomas says. ‘That bitch gave me a letter too. Fucking bitch. I told you, didn’t I? Always the same. All of them.’
‘I should go back to work. Lunchtime’s only forty-five minutes.’
‘They can’t treat us like that,’ Thomas says. ‘We can’t let them keep us apart.’
‘I want to go back to work.’
‘I should be at work too. But I’m not. Why were you crying?’
‘I was lost.’
‘Well, you’re all right now. I found you.’
‘I want to go back.’
The seatbelt grips Ciaran’s chest as Thomas brakes. The car skids and stops.
‘We can’t go back,’ Thomas says. His hands shake until he grips the steering wheel tight enough to steady them. ‘It’s all fucked now. That probation officer and that cop made sure of it. Fucking bitches.’
Ciaran wants to tell him to stop calling them that. But Ciaran can’t tell Thomas anything.
‘Two years I waited for you,’ Thomas says. ‘Two years so we could be together. And I was good all that time. Now you’re out and they’re trying to break us up.’
Thomas leans forward until his forehead rests against the wheel. He wraps his arms around his head.
‘I’m not well,’ he says. ‘These things in my head. They’re making me sick. Making me stupid. Since you came out, I’m losing control. I was good for two years. Now you’re back, and I’m losing it. I’m not thinking right. I shouldn’t have gone to her house. I shouldn’t have done that.’
Ciaran is afraid to ask, but he asks anyway. ‘Done what?’
Thomas sits back. Closes his eyes as he breathes in and out. He shakes his head like he’s freeing himself from something.
> ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘It’s all fucked now, anyway.’
‘It’s your fault,’ Ciaran says.
‘What?’
Ciaran regrets the words as they leave his tongue. He meant to only think it, not say it out loud.
‘What did you say?’ Thomas asks, a tremor in his voice.
‘Nothing.’ Ciaran stares straight ahead at the not-moving road.
Thomas’s right hand lashes out, striking Ciaran’s cheek. ‘What did you say?’
‘It didn’t have to be like this,’ Ciaran says. ‘But you made it like this. It’s your fault.’
Thomas sits very quiet and still for a time. His breathing the only sound in the car.
Eventually, he says, ‘Give me your arm.’
Ciaran shakes his head. ‘No.’
Thomas’s hand moves again, but he pulls it back, inhales. ‘Give me your arm. Now.’
‘No,’ Ciaran says.
Thomas grabs for Ciaran’s wrist, but Ciaran whips it out of his reach. He fumbles at the door handle as he undoes his seatbelt.
‘What are you doing?’ Thomas asks.
Ciaran opens the door and gets out. Ignores Thomas calling after him. As he walks along the road he hears the driver’s door open, feet scuffing the ground. A hand on his shoulder. He shakes it off and keeps walking.
‘Ciaran.’
He puts his head down, walks faster.
‘Ciaran, stop.’
The hand on his shoulder again. Ciaran swipes it away.
‘Stop, Ciaran. Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.’
Thomas passes Ciaran, turns to him, blocks his path.
Ciaran slaps his brother across the cheek. Hard.
Thomas rocks on his heels, stares back at Ciaran.
‘You did this,’ Ciaran says, the tears coming again, his palm stinging. ‘All of this. You did it.’
‘I did it all for you,’ Thomas says. ‘So we could be together. That bitch Flanagan had to go and—’
‘Don’t call her that,’ Ciaran says.
‘Why not? That’s what she is.’
‘Don’t,’ Ciaran says.
‘She’s a bitch.’ Hate twists Thomas’s face until Ciaran can barely recognise him. ‘Her and the probation woman. Both of them. Bitches. Just like Mum. They’re all the same.’
Those We Left Behind Page 21
