Those We Left Behind

by Stuart Neville

  ‘Shh,’ Thomas hisses, but he can barely contain his own laughter.

  Like little boys playing hide-and-seek.

  Like children.

  Another cop at the window, peering in alongside the other, the light from their torches moving from one dust-shrouded object to the next.

  Ciaran snorts, and he feels Thomas’s hand slip over his mouth.

  ‘Stop it,’ Thomas whispers.

  Still Ciaran shakes in his arms.

  ‘Stop.’

  The policemen leave the window. Ciaran listens. Hears footsteps pass the front door and fade. Ciaran breathes hard, recovering from his fit of laughter.

  ‘Quiet,’ Thomas says. ‘They haven’t gone yet.’

  Soon lights flicker against the bushes through the window over the sink. Footsteps and voices approaching the back door. A rattle as one of the cops tries the handle. Then they appear at the window, hands cupped around eyes, torchlight bouncing across the room once more.

  One of the beams dances close to the brothers’ hiding place. Thomas pulls Ciaran back, further still, until they press against the wall. Ciaran feels the damp of the brickwork seep through his shirt. He shivers.

  ‘Nothing here,’ one of the cops says, his voice muffled by the glass. ‘Come on. Might make the Chinese before it closes. Otherwise it’s bloody sandwiches from the filling station.’

  ‘Aye, let’s go,’ the other cop says.

  They leave the window, go back in the direction they came from, their footsteps receding.

  Thomas releases Ciaran from his embrace, crawls away from him, out from under the stairs. He stays on his hands and knees as he crosses to the front window. Placing his fingers on the rotten wooden sill, he peeks through the glass.

  Ciaran comes to his side, looks out. The cops trudge back towards the makeshift gate, discussing the Chinese takeaway’s menu, and whether or not their chips are any good.

  As one helps the other back over the wall, Ciaran stands and says, ‘Told you.’

  ‘Get down,’ Thomas says. ‘If they look back this way, they’ll see you.’

  Ciaran lowers himself to the floor, sits down cross-legged.

  ‘In the morning, when it gets light,’ Ciaran says, ‘can we go to the beach?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Thomas says.

  59

  FLANAGAN SQUEEZED ALISTAIR’S hand.

  ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said. ‘It’ll hurt like hell, and you’ll have to take it easy for a while, but you’re going to be okay. You were very lucky.’

  ‘Funny, I don’t feel lucky,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  The monitor above the bed kept a mute watch over them both, lines zigzagging across its face, a clip on Alistair’s finger tethering him to the machine.

  ‘I suppose not,’ she said.

  ‘Are the kids all right?’

  ‘They’re a bit shaken up. Worried about you. But they’re fine. Your sister has them.’

  Alistair went quiet, closed his eyes, but Flanagan knew he was not chasing sleep.

  ‘Talk to me,’ she said.

  He shook his head.

  Flanagan reached out, wrapped her fingers around his forearm. ‘For Christ’s sake, this isn’t the time for keeping—’

  ‘You brought this to our door,’ he said.

  She took a breath, went to retort, but decided to hold back, give him room to say what he wanted to say. She owed him that much.

  ‘Jesus, our children. They were right there. What if those crazy bastards had decided to hurt them? How would you live with yourself?’

  Flanagan let go of his wrist, brought her hands together in her lap, looked down at the floor.

  ‘I struggle enough with worrying about you,’ he said, ‘if you’re going to come home at night, or if you’re going to get shot or stabbed or God knows what. But I thought that was as far as it went. I never thought it would come home with you. I never thought you’d put our children in danger.’

  ‘I didn’t put—’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said, the words spat at her with such venom that she recoiled in her seat. ‘You did this. Those men came to our home, our children’s home, for you. And I am so fucking angry at you right now and I don’t know what to do.’

  His tears came then, shocking them both.

  Flanagan stood, brought her fingertips to his cheek. ‘Alistair, please, I’m sorry.’

  He opened his eyes, looked up at her. ‘I know I’m not being fair to you, but that’s the way I feel. Let me be angry.’

  She bent down and kissed him, his eyelids first, tasting salt, then his cheek, then his lips. He reached up, put his arm around her shoulders. They stayed like that for a time, freezing out the bustle and chatter of the hospital, the electronic whirr of the machinery around the bed, until Flanagan knew only the warmth of him, the softness of his lips, the coarse hair of his beard, the sudden but familiar scent of him cutting through the clinical smells of the ward.

  Her phone rang, breaking it all.

  Flanagan leaned back, said, ‘I have to take this.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’

  She took the phone from her pocket, checked the display. Purdy’s mobile. She left the side ward, stepped into the darkened corridor, brought the phone to her ear.

  ‘I heard from Newcastle,’ Purdy said.

  ‘And?’

  At the station, a nurse looked up from her lamplit paperwork. Men and women snored and moaned in the general wards behind her. She pointed to the doors at the far end of the hallway. Flanagan nodded and headed towards them.

  ‘A patrol had a look, but the place is all locked up. No sign of a forced entry, all the windows and doors intact. Our boys aren’t there.’

  Flanagan hit the button on the wall to release the double doors. They wheezed open, and she stepped through. She paced the floor in front of the elevator bank.

  ‘Are they sure?’ she asked. ‘Did they look inside?’

  ‘They’re sure,’ Purdy said. ‘They had a good look through the windows, I’m told. No sign of any disturbance whatsoever.’

  ‘Didn’t they go into the house?’

  She heard Purdy suppress a sigh.

  ‘How could they? The place is locked up tight. They’d no warrant and no grounds to force entry. The Devines aren’t there. It was a good shout, Serena, but it was wrong. I’ll let you know if anything changes.’

  ‘All right,’ Flanagan said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Okay. Now, how’s Alistair?’

  ‘He’s stable and out of ICU. Listen, I need to go.’

  Flanagan hung up before Purdy could answer. She pressed the call button by the door to be readmitted to the ward, watched the nurse through the glass as she reached for the release. The doors opened, and Flanagan went back to Alistair’s side ward, whispering her thanks to the nurse as she passed.

  She pushed the door to Alistair’s room open an inch or two and put her eye to the gap. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his breath whistling in his nose, his eyes moving beneath the lids. Within moments the whistling in his nose turned to a throaty snore.

  Flanagan allowed the door to ease closed, then rested her forehead against the cool painted wood. I should go in to him, she thought, hold his hand while he sleeps. Be there for him when he wakes.

  Or I should go to my children.

  These are the things I should do.

  Flanagan turned and walked back past the nurses’ station, along the hall, to the double doors. Once more, she pressed the green button. Once more, she walked through.

  Her mobile phone, still in her hand.

  She called the direct line to her station. Hit the elevator’s down button.

  ‘This is DCI Flanagan,’ she said. ‘Put me through to Newcastle.’

  60

  CIARAN WATCHES SPIDERS through the glass. Dozens of them outside, webs spun into the corners of the frames. Fat black things. A moth is snare
d, and its struggles bring out the killer from its secret place. The spider carries the moth towards its corner, where it turns it, wraps it up tight, stores it for later.

  Thomas dozes in a chair with his feet up on the table. Crusts and crumbs of bread litter the tabletop. The rest of the loaf is wrapped up tight. For later.

  Ciaran can’t imagine a later, a time after now, any more than the spiders can picture their own future. He wonders if there will be a tomorrow.

  He doesn’t think so.

  The world is grey, crossing the border between the night and the morning. And cold. Ciaran has been shivering for hours. Thomas wouldn’t let him light a fire in the old wood burner, said someone would see the smoke and come looking.

  But at least now he can see, dim as it is. The kitchen with its old enamel sink, the cupboards with tattered curtains instead of doors. He folds one back, sees the collection of cups and plates that had been here when he was a child. A Superman bowl, plate and cup set that Mum had bought in a pound shop, thinking he would like it. He didn’t, really, but he never told her so.

  Beyond the table, the old couch so battered and worn that Mum had covered it in throws with patterns made up of stars and moons and zodiac signs. Mum had liked that sort of thing. She read books about astrology and the power of the mind.

  Ciaran wonders why someone hadn’t taken all this away. All this worthless rubbish. What good could it be to anyone? He supposes whoever bought the house will clear it all out before they knock the place down and build new homes on the site.

  He feels a sudden grief for this building, and for the life he had here, however brief.

  And for his mother.

  One last look around, to remember.

  Beyond the foot of the stairs, a door leading to the living room. Ciaran opens it, steps through. The stained net curtains make the light all milky. In the corner, the old television, tipped onto its back. It was ancient back then, and barely worked. That and the VCR. The cabinet it stood upon housed the collection of videos Mum had bought from charity shops. Cheap, she said, because everyone wanted DVDs, but the old videotapes were just as good.

  Ciaran looks through them, fingering the spines of the cases. The Lion King, The Little Mermaid (Thomas said it was for girls, but Ciaran liked it), The Iron Giant, FernGully, Star Wars, Batman.

  Before Mum got sick, all three of them would watch films in here on a Saturday night. Ciaran liked the cartoons best, but Thomas liked the superheroes. Mum didn’t mind, so they took turns. Sometimes, if she had the money to buy it, she made popcorn, and they would eat it from her big flowery bowl.

  Ciaran wishes she hadn’t got sick. He wishes she hadn’t died and they could still watch films here together.

  Ciaran wishes he could go back and start again. Make everything different.

  He feels heat in his eyes, and a thickening in his throat.

  Before the tears can come, he leaves the room and mounts the stairs. There is mould, speckly black, on the wallpaper. The stairs creak under his weight.

  At the top are three doors, all open. In the middle is the bathroom. Tape is stretched over the toilet and basin, red letters shouting DO NOT USE. Ciaran and Thomas have gone out in the garden.

  To the left, Mum’s bedroom.

  Ciaran steps inside, breathes in the air. He had hoped he might still be able to smell her. He can’t: only damp and mould odours fill his head. Her bed, stripped bare, the mattress half on the floor. Empty wine bottles, coated with dust, on the dressing table she got from a dump. Clothes strewn on the floor.

  He goes to them, hunkers down, picks up a pink and white patterned blouse. He tries to remember it on her, but can’t. He brings it to his nose, inhales. Nothing.

  She is gone and gone and gone and gone.

  Like she’d never ever been at all.

  Again, tears threaten. He drops the blouse, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and gets to his feet.

  Across the way, the room he and Thomas shared. The inter-ior visible from here.

  Part of him wants to close that door, go back downstairs. But the other part of him wants to see. Needs to see.

  He crosses the small landing, pushes the door fully open.

  Memory sparks in his mind. Flashes of things he doesn’t want to remember.

  Two single beds at opposite sides, both stripped down. Plain wallpaper, emulsioned over. The scrawlings of two young boys in crayon and pencil and pen. Pictures, words, wild slashes. Some make sense, most don’t. Ciaran won’t read any of it. He knows his mind won’t withstand it.

  He remembers. Even though he can hardly bear it, Ciaran remembers.

  Thomas in the night, getting out of his bed, padding the few feet across the floor, climbing under Ciaran’s blankets. Thomas’s hard hands, sharp nails.

  And his teeth. Always his teeth.

  Biting hard.

  Do what I say or I’ll bite you again.

  Please don’t.

  Do it or I’ll bite you again.

  I’ll tell Mum.

  Tell Mum and I’ll kill her dead and it’ll be your fault for being a tell-tale-tit and then I’ll bite you anyway.

  Ciaran cannot hold the weight of the memory, and he sinks to his knees. The tears will come now whether he wants them or not. He weeps for the little boy who lay awake in that bed every night waiting for his brother who would surely come with his teeth and his nails.

  Time slips past unknown to him. He wraps his arms around himself, rocks, a child once again, helpless and afraid.

  Almost without him noticing, another pair of arms joins them. A cold embrace, Thomas’s chest on his back. Then Thomas stands, takes his hand, leads him to the bed, lays him down. Ciaran faces the wall. Thomas’s weight settles in behind him. They embrace like so many times before, one body curving with the other, arms and legs tangling.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Thomas says. ‘I’ll look after you. I always do.’

  ‘Can we go to the beach now?’ Ciaran asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas says.

  61

  FLANAGAN WAITED IN the station’s reception area, the duty officer eyeing her from beyond the glass. She checked her watch. The officers who’d checked the house were due in from patrol at five. It was quarter past now. The clock above the reception desk concurred.

  Her gaze travelled across the familiar range of public information posters that were pinned to the noticeboards. Warnings of the dangers of alcohol abuse, appeals for good citizens to inform on the criminals amongst them, illustrations of the catastrophic consequences of speeding.

  As she read the messages beneath each glaring image, her eyes grew heavy and her head nodded forward. She jerked awake, inhaled sharp, cool air. Ignored the duty officer’s curious yet disapproving stare.

  The drive from Belfast had taken an hour and a half, including the detour she took to Moira to change out of her bloody clothes. She had examined the flowering bruises around her abdomen, tender to the touch. Fatigue had nagged at her on the way, and she resorted to winding the windows down and whooping and singing at the top of her voice to keep herself awake. Only the thought of strong coffee at the end of her journey kept her focused on her destination.

  Of course, when she asked for some, the duty officer told her the vending machine wasn’t working.

  ‘Haven’t you got a kitchen and a kettle?’ she had asked.

  The duty officer had bristled and said, ‘Yes, for the staff at this station.’

  Flanagan’s head dropped again, and once more jerked upward as if pulled by a string from above.

  A telephone rang, and the duty officer answered it. Flanagan strained to hear what he was saying. After a few moments, he hung up and called, ‘They’re on their way now, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flanagan said as she got to her feet.

  The doors leading into the station whirred as they unlocked, and two uniformed officers stepped through.

  The older of them introduced himself as Sergeant Robert Nelson,
and his colleague as Constable Sean Meehan. Flanagan showed them her warrant card and they nodded in deference to a superior, even though she had no authority over them.

  ‘You checked out a property along the coast during the night,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Nelson said. ‘There was no one there. It looked like there hadn’t been for years. I’m guessing some developer bought the place and ran out of money before they could do anything with it.’

  ‘But you didn’t go inside,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘We went over the wall and had a look through the windows on the ground floor,’ Nelson said. ‘Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t even have done that without a warrant, seeing as it’s private property. The windows were thick with dust, but we could see inside well enough to tell you there hasn’t been a sinner in that place for years.’

  Flanagan thought for a moment. Nelson seemed as sure as he could be that the house had not been disturbed. But she needed to be sure.

  ‘I need you to take me there,’ she said.

  The officers looked at each other, then Nelson spoke once more. ‘No can do, I’m sorry. I’ve got a pile of paperwork to get through, then I’ve to get home and let the wife away to work. I’m taking the kids to school. I’m sure someone from the next shift can take you.’

  Meehan sighed and opened his mouth for the first time. ‘I can do it, so long as we don’t take too long. My girlfriend’s expecting me home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flanagan said. ‘So, shall we go?’

  Meehan said little on the drive, and Flanagan was glad of it. The further from town they travelled, the more the certainty that had brought her here crumbled into doubt. These officers weren’t fools. They had done the task that had been asked of them, and now guilt grated on her for implying by her arrival that they hadn’t.

  Winding roads criss-crossed between countryside and shore as they travelled north, passing through Dundrum, then south skirting the army base at Ballykinler.

  Eventually, Meehan said, ‘Up here,’ and steered into a single-track lane that ran between clusters of trees, leaves glowing red and brown in the early light. A walled property appeared, its gateway barred by a chain link fence adorned with warnings to keep out. Just as they had described.