04-The Final Silence

by Stuart Neville

He didn’t stand a chance.

  57

  THE SPARKLE’S NERVE endings jangled beneath his skin, from head to toe, a rush of power and pleasure like he hadn’t felt in decades. The screams. The floods of frightened people.

  All for him.

  All flocking to his luminescence.

  No one had paid attention when he first took the pistol from his bag. These sheep were all too busy gawping at their mobile phones, more absorbed in their shiny little screens than in the world around them.

  He had picked out the child first. A small boy, not much more than a toddler, walking with his parents. A runt. Like the Sparkle had been. He had aimed at the centre of the boy’s chest, squeezed the trigger, and … nothing.

  The safety catch. He had thumbed the lever, but by then the small boy and his family had been swallowed by the crowds. There, a young man in a tracksuit, all elbows and knees and spots, the kind of boy who drove too fast in a pathetic souped-up little car, horrible music throbbing from within.

  Of course, the Sparkle could never know such things about people, but it amused him to imagine the life he was about to end.

  It was like simply reaching out and knocking the young man down. He felt the shot in his ears, and in his wrist, as the pistol jerked. And then the boy lay flat on the floor. And the people went very quiet, as if these hundreds of human beings were trapped in a vacuum. Then they screamed. And then they ran.

  Wonderful.

  The Sparkle shivered with pleasure. He had told that cop Lennon that killing was never the point. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps it had been the point all along.

  One way to find out.

  He scanned the swarming crowds, seeking another. But they were rushing away from him, showing only their backs, so he couldn’t decide. Maybe a woman or a little girl. But there were so many. So many. If only he could touch them all.

  The Sparkle felt heat in his eyes, a thickening in his throat. He wanted to weep with the joy of it. The simple beauty of the act. Choose someone, he thought. Anyone.

  Then through the tears, he saw a man fighting against the tide of people. A smart, neat young man in a suit and a tie. The man shouted something, but the Sparkle could not hear. The man broke free of the people, arms wheeling as he staggered forward, his shoes skidding on the polished floor.

  The Sparkle took aim.

  The young man stopped. His eyes wide.

  A surge of peace and happiness, a calmness that radiated from the Sparkle’s core to his furthest extremities.

  The young man had something in his hand. He raised it up, a dark thing.

  The Sparkle heard a shot, felt something sear the air by his head. He squeezed the trigger, flinched as the empty cartridge bounced off his cheek. A piece of the young man’s shoulder came away in a constellation of red. The young man fell down, whatever had been in his hand clattering away. His legs twitched.

  Then the Sparkle saw clearly what had fallen from the young man’s hand. A pistol much like the one he himself held, smoke ribboning from its muzzle.

  Why did this young man have a gun? Was he a policeman?

  ‘Howard Monaghan.’

  The Sparkle blinked. His own name seemed strange to him at the best of times. Why had someone called it here? Had he really heard it? Or was it one of the spectres that haunted his skull?

  ‘Howard Monaghan, put the gun down.’

  A woman’s voice. He turned his head towards it.

  The female cop he’d seen on television. She held a pistol in both hands, aimed at him. The police had been waiting for him. But why? How?

  He raised his hands above his head, the gun still held in his right, pointed towards the floors above, his finger outside the trigger guard.

  She advanced towards him. ‘Howard, put the gun down, or I will shoot.’

  The other cop behind her. The Sparkle smiled, felt a warm tear roll down his cheek.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ he said.

  Lennon held no weapon. He kept his hands out, away from his sides, ready.

  Another man broke free of the crowds, a pistol raised. The Sparkle noticed the wire hanging from his ear, snaking into his clothing.

  The woman cop spoke again. Told him to put the gun down. Or else. What was her name? Yes, Flanagan, that was it.

  ‘Yes, I’ll put it down,’ the Sparkle said. ‘But I want to tell you something first.’

  ‘I will shoot you,’ Flanagan said again.

  ‘No you won’t,’ the Sparkle said. ‘You can’t. This isn’t America. I’m not pointing it at anyone. I’m not touching the trigger.’

  ‘Put it down now.’

  ‘I will. But I want to tell you a secret first. About Graham Carlisle.’

  ‘Graham Carlisle is dead,’ Flanagan said. Ten feet away now.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was killed last night by his wife.’

  The Sparkle turned his attention to Lennon. ‘Is that true, Jack? Is he dead?’

  ‘It’s true,’ Lennon said. ‘How do you think we knew you’d be here?’

  ‘Did he tell you what a bad boy he’d been?’

  ‘We know all about him,’ Lennon said. ‘Now don’t be stupid. Put the gun down.’

  A needling anger in the Sparkle’s gut. Like a child who’d missed out on blowing out the candles on their own birthday cake.

  The Sparkle shrugged. ‘Well, that’s that. It’s over, Jack, isn’t it?’

  Lennon walked to the side, along the railing, past the elevator bank. Getting closer. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s over. Now put the gun down so no one else gets hurt.’

  ‘I should’ve killed more,’ the Sparkle said. ‘Now it’s over, and it’s not enough. I wanted more.’

  Lennon at the top of the stairs, two arms’ lengths away. Flanagan at the other side, the pistol in her steady hands.

  ‘You’ve done plenty,’ Lennon said. ‘Now let’s stop it here.’

  ‘All right,’ the Sparkle said. ‘But just one more.’

  Time to let the lightning out. Time to level the world, scour its surface clean. Time to burn.

  He pressed the muzzle to his temple.

  58

  ‘NO!’ LENNON SHOUTED, throwing himself forward before he was conscious of his own movement.

  His shoulder connected with the Sparkle’s flank. He heard the pistol’s boom, felt the burn of the muzzle flare on his cheek. The Sparkle’s body slammed against the railing, crushed by Lennon’s weight and momentum. Lennon might have heard a wheeze of expelled air from the smaller man but for the high whine the gunshot had left in his ear.

  The pistol bounced end-over-end across the floor. Hands grappled for Lennon’s throat. He tucked his chin down tight to his chest, wrapped his arms around the Sparkle’s torso, and squeezed. Like wrestling a frightened dog, snapping and clawing as he tried to bring it under control.

  ‘Get away from him, Jack!’

  Flanagan’s voice from miles away, barely audible through the whine and the teeth snapping at Lennon’s ears. No strength, no balance, all he had was his weight. He used it to keep the Sparkle pinned against the railing. But it wasn’t enough.

  The Sparkle got his feet under him and pushed back. Lennon resisted, but he didn’t have the power. He staggered back towards the stairway, the Sparkle’s feet tangled in his. His fingers dug into the other man’s clothing as the floor disappeared from beneath him. The world turned around them both, nothing but air rushing past, then the punishing edges of the steps against Lennon’s back. He tensed his neck and shoulders, but he couldn’t save himself from the blow to the back of his skull.

  All went black for a moment, then he was aware of his descent, the stairs hammering against his shoulders, his knees, his neck, the Sparkle coming with him, both tumbling down the glass-walled spiral.

  They came to rest between the two levels, Lennon on his back, head down, feet kicking at air, black stars in his vision. The Sparkle lay across his chest, gasping. He rolled onto his stomach, keeping Lennon
pinned, brought his mouth close enough to feel his breath.

  Lennon tried to lift his head. He felt a warm trickle on his scalp. He saw the Sparkle’s teeth, felt the fists grabbing bunches of his hair. His neck jerked through no will of his own, up, then down, an explosion in his skull. Then another. The world skewed, snapped in and out of focus. He brought his hands up, reached for the Sparkle’s face, forced his thumbs into the other man’s eyes.

  The Sparkle shook his head, dislodged Lennon’s grasp. Then slammed his head down, his forehead connecting with Lennon’s cheekbone. Blood consumed Lennon’s sight in that eye. Through the other he saw the Sparkle’s teeth once more, this time snapping at his flesh. He felt pressure then pain in his other cheek, something pulling and tearing.

  Lennon’s consciousness blinked in and out like a faltering radio signal. As the Sparkle’s hands closed on his throat, as the blood blinded him, Lennon barely registered Flanagan’s presence over the other man’s shoulder.

  She called out something, but Lennon only saw her lips move.

  If the Sparkle heard, it didn’t show. The muscles in his jaws bulged as he squeezed harder.

  Thunder joined the whine in Lennon’s ears. He saw Flanagan’s lips move again. He saw Beattie push past her, an extended telescopic baton in his hand. He saw the Sparkle’s head rock with the force of the blow, and again, his eyelids fluttering and Lennon felt the Sparkle’s fingers slip away from his throat.

  Then they were face to face, the Sparkle’s cheek against his, the weight of his slender body on Lennon’s chest, the killer’s eyes and mouth open, and a childish giggle that Lennon felt resonate against him.

  59

  FLANAGAN FOUND LENNON in a curtained bay off the A&E ward, stretched out on a bed. One eye was swollen shut, a gauze pad taped beneath it, his face a patchwork of bruises and cuts.

  ‘How many stitches?’ she asked.

  ‘Five on my cheek,’ Lennon said, the words squeezed through tensed lips. ‘Another two on the back of my head. I’ve had worse.’

  ‘Did they give you anything for the pain?’

  A confused look on his face. He raised a finger to his ear.

  She repeated the question, louder.

  ‘I’ll manage without,’ Lennon said.

  ‘When will they let you go?’

  ‘The X-rays say my skull’s in one piece, but they’ll keep me overnight in case of concussion.’

  She pulled the curtain closed, sealing them off from the bustle and chatter of the ward. He followed her with his eyes, keeping his head still, as she came closer.

  ‘And what then?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘So long as I get my daughter back, that’s all that matters. What about Calvin?’

  ‘He’s out of surgery. He’ll be fine.’ Flanagan took a breath. ‘Listen, I want to apologise.’

  ‘No need,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Yes there is. I wanted an easy answer, a quick resolution. I should have paid attention to what you told me.’

  Lennon shook his head, the smallest of movements. ‘You acted on the information you had in front of you. I would have done the same.’

  Flanagan stood by the bed.

  ‘I’m going to help you,’ she said, ‘as far as I can. You deserve that pension you’ve been chasing. I can’t promise anything, but I’ve arranged a meeting with the ACC for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll go in front of the Ombudsman and the Policing Board if I have to.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a pity, really. I could always use a good officer on my team.’

  A hint of a smile on Lennon’s battered face. ‘You’d have kicked me off within a month.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I guess we’ll never know.’

  She went to the curtain, her hand on the slick material, ready to pull it back.

  ‘Dan Hewitt,’ Lennon said.

  Flanagan turned back.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He knows you’ve seen my file on him.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then watch your back,’ Lennon said. ‘He’s dangerous.’

  ‘Funny,’ Flanagan said. ‘He told me the same about you.’

  ‘I’m not sorry for what I did,’ Ida Carlisle said.

  The cell smelled of bleach and urine. The wall chilled Flanagan’s shoulders as she leaned against it. Ida sat on the thin vinyl-covered pad that served for a bed, her hands folded in her lap, a gauze pad taped to the wrist she’d tried to cut. She wore pyjamas made of paper.

  ‘You should be sorry,’ Flanagan said. ‘At least, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you. But I can’t.’

  ‘What time is it?’ Ida looked up to the impenetrable window, the blackness beyond.

  ‘Close to midnight,’ Flanagan said. ‘You should try to get some sleep. You’ll be up in front of the judge at nine.’

  ‘What will they do with me?’ Ida asked.

  ‘Hard to say. We’ll recommend leniency, but you’ll do time. There’s no avoiding that. But it’ll probably be low security.’

  ‘Will I be allowed to go to Rea’s funeral?’

  ‘Of course,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’ll escort you myself.’

  Ida smiled. ‘Thank you. You’re a good person.’

  Flanagan returned the smile. ‘So are you. You were just in a bad situation.’

  Ida dropped her gaze. ‘I’m not a good person. I thought I was, but I’m not. A good person would’ve stood up for her daughter.’

  Flanagan went to her side and sat down. She took Ida’s hand in hers. ‘Like I said, a bad situation.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Monaghan? He’ll recover, and he’ll be charged with Rea’s murder. It’ll take some time to figure out what we do with the book, whether there’s enough in that to prosecute him, but he’ll answer for what he did to your daughter. I can promise you that.’

  Ida touched a finger beneath Flanagan’s chin. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘I’m okay. Tired. But I’ll live.’

  ‘Have you told your husband?’

  ‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight.’

  ‘I bet he’s a nice man,’ Ida said.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Then he’ll want to know. He deserves to know. And I expect he’ll be everything you need him to be. He’ll hold your hand through it all. That’s what good men do.’

  Flanagan pulled her close, wrapped her arms around her.

  The drive home took less than thirty minutes. She had texted Alistair as she got into her car to say she was on her way. She opened the Volkswagen’s windows, used the chill of rushing night air to blow the fatigue from her mind.

  Flanagan knew she should have spent the journey going over the conversation she was about to have with her husband, but her thoughts lingered with Ida Carlisle, and her poor daughter. She wondered who Rea Carlisle was in life. In most murder cases she had got to know the victims, as if they were old friends that had slipped away from her orbit and suddenly returned. But not Rea. Flanagan had been too fixated on Lennon, too eager to see it done.

  She resolved to get to know Rea. She owed her and her mother that much.

  When she got home, Alistair was waiting for her at the kitchen table, pouring a glass of his favourite beer, an American pale ale that cost too much. He had fixed her a gin and tonic. A slice of cucumber trapped between the ice, bubbles clinging to its surface.

  He got to his feet, brought the glass to her. She took it from him and set it on the table. His back stiffened with surprise when she kissed him, then his body softened as they embraced.

  When they parted, he asked, ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Just because,’ she said. ‘How’re the kids?’

  ‘They’re okay. They’ve been asking for you, but I said you’d see them in the morning. Bit of trouble convincing Eli to go to sleep, but fine other than that. I didn’t let them see the news.’

  ‘Good,’ Flanagan said. She
lifted her drink and sat down. Alistair did the same.

  He watched her from across the table.

  ‘How bad was it today?’

  ‘Bad enough,’ she said.

  ‘Could you have been hurt?’ he asked. He tried to hide the tremor in his voice, and she loved him for it.

  ‘It’s always a possibility,’ she said. ‘You know that. But I wasn’t, and that’s what matters.’

  His expression hardened, but his voice remained kind. ‘What matters is the children. I live with this constant fear that one of these mornings I’m going to have to wake them up and tell them you’re not coming home.’

  Flanagan saw the shake in his hands, the brimming of his eyes.

  She said, ‘Darling, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  60

  LENNON LINGERED AT the rear of the crowd. Far enough back that he didn’t have to hear the sobs of Roscoe Patterson’s widow and children at the graveside. Grey clouds billowed over the cemetery, bringing with them a light drizzle.

  He knew many of the faces. He’d arrested most of them at one time or another. And some recognised him through the stitches and the bruising. He ignored the hateful glares.

  As the mourners dispersed, he sought out Dixie Stoops. He found him shaking the hands and slapping the backs of Rodney Crozier and Dandy Andy Rankin, a pair of men Lennon had witnessed trying to kill each other two and a half years before.

  Rankin turned as he approached, looked him up and down. ‘Jesus, a funeral brings the shit to the surface, doesn’t it?’

  ‘How’s the ticker, Dandy?’ Lennon asked.

  ‘Shove it up your arse,’ Rankin said as he nudged Crozier’s elbow, and they both walked away, leaving Lennon alone with Dixie.

  ‘Sad day,’ Dixie said.

  Lennon nodded. ‘I’m sorry it happened. And I wanted to thank you for your help. Howard Monaghan would’ve got away if you hadn’t identified him.’

  ‘Aye,’ Dixie said, ‘and Roscoe wouldn’t have got killed if I hadn’t named him. I’ve got to live with that now.’

  ‘I imagine you live with worse already.’

  Dixie looked to the city skyline. ‘That’s true. You’ll never know the half of it.’

  Lennon allowed Dixie to face his memories for a few seconds before he asked, ‘Were you able to do that favour for me?’