Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  She carried on burying her toes in the rug. “I don’t know, Martin,” she said at last. She looked up at him. Her eyes were wary, but there was something soft and needy in there too. “I just know I can’t be on my own with this. We have to do this together.”

  He only realised he’d been holding his breath when he was able to let it out. He stood up and put one big hand on each of her slender shoulders. “I’m here for you, Beth. I’m here for you and Ben. There is nothing in the world that means more to me than this family. You know that, don’t you?”

  She looked down, but she didn’t move away. “OK,” she said. “So we stay, and we do this together.”

  “Yes,” Martin agreed.

  “So perhaps you should move back in.”

  Something like pain started to spread from Martin’s gut upwards around his heart. He felt his eyes smarting with tears. He tried to relax his grip on her shoulders. “If that’s what you want,” he managed to say.

  “The spare room,” she clarified. “I’m not ready...”

  “No,” he agreed quickly. “But I’ll be here, we’ll be a family.”

  She nodded. “Do you need to get stuff from the flat?” she asked. “Do it while Ben’s out. He’ll be back from Jusef’s soon.”

  Martin couldn’t restrain the smile that was spreading over his face. “I’ll go round there now and grab a few things. I can’t wait to see his face.”

  When he got to the flat, Martin was already wishing good riddance to the whole place. Goodbye bachelor flat! Goodbye city-view balcony! Goodbye fake pebble fire! He was going back to his family home. Somewhere inside, a voice was telling him to go steady. He’d got his hopes up before now and had them dashed. It was the hope that killed you, he knew. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out with a stab of alarm. Please, not Beth telling him she’d changed her mind.

  No, it wasn’t Beth. He hadn’t put this number into his address book, but he recognised it. It was Gallagher. Martin hesitated, staring at the phone. Was it better to answer it and find out what the bastard had to say? Or should he just let it go, keep everything quiet, just lie low until it had all blown over? Before he could decide, the phone went to answerphone.

  He carried on picking up clothes and toiletries, just the things he’d need for the next week. The phone buzzed again: an answerphone message. He sat on the edge of the bed and tapped through the menu to get to the message.

  Hi Martin, I was hoping to catch you. Just a reminder about the rally tomorrow. 2pm at Osborne Gardens. I’ll be expecting to see you there. Cheers now.

  Martin hit delete. He lay back and stared at the ceiling. Why? Why was Gallagher chasing him? Why did he want to keep tabs on him? Was it Ben? His mind was so fogged with emotion he could hardly think. He tried to remember the first call. It was before Marilyn died. She’d been speaking to Gallagher at that point; that was what she’d said wasn’t it? But surely she’d not said anything to him about Ben? Martin wished he’d written it all down. He wished his memory wasn’t so messed up.

  He had no hard evidence that Gallagher had anything to do with her death. Even that stuff about the job, it could have been all in her head. But the hotel?

  And why was Gallagher chasing him? It just went round and round in circles. It could be nothing, just what he said, keeping tabs on old colleagues, drumming up support. The safest thing was to play it that way, go to the rally, act like there was no problem between them. Or was it? Maybe he should keep his distance, let it blow over. God, he wished he knew. But for Beth’s sake, for Ben’s sake, he had to act like he knew what to do. At least tonight, he’d be sleeping in the house with them both, and nothing would get past him, nothing would stop him from keeping them safe.

  Twenty Five

  The morning had started off overcast, but by mid afternoon the sun was out.

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” Lester Gallagher said as he surveyed the crowd in the square.

  “There’s a stop the war rally the other side of town,” Steve explained.

  Gallagher laughed. “Right. The bastards can only stop one thing at a time I guess. Oh hang on, spoke too soon, there’s a bunch of them.” He pointed to a small group carrying a large hand-painted banner: GREENWAY – NO WAY!

  Steve glanced up. “Catchy,” he said, dismissively, before looking back at his phone. “Oh yeah, I picked up a message from your mate McLean.”

  “The ACC?”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. He switched to his notebook and flicked back a couple of pages. “He said, where are we, oh yeah: just to let you know that a witness has identified persons of interest on the fifth floor.” Steve looked over the top of his glasses at Gallagher. “Does that mean something to you?”

  Gallagher felt a spasm deep in his gut. “Is that all he said?”

  Steve glanced at his notes, squinted as he tried to recall. “It didn’t sound like it was anything important. He said he was just giving you the heads up.”

  “No more than that?”

  “Is it that Sheraton business?”

  “Yeah,” Gallagher said brusquely. “It’s nothing to do with us. Come on, let’s do this.”

  “Alright,” Steve agreed. “It’s the interview first. You’re going to be miked up. Don’t do a Gordon on us, alright. Make sure that microphone is off before you say another word.”

  Gallagher nodded. “Yeah, that’s all I need.”

  He stepped out of the car to the sound of cheering. Only faintly buried at the back was a deeper sound of disapproval. He smiled. His hands were talcum powder dry as he worked his way along the line, shaking hands as he headed to the news broadcast tent.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he said repeatedly. He paused by a woman carrying a West Highland terrier. “Does he bite?” he asked.

  “She,” the woman said. “Her name’s Pansy. She doesn’t bite.”

  “She better not with a name like that,” he joked. He leaned over to pose next to the dog as the woman took a photo of them all on her phone.

  He moved on. Not too presidential, Steve had said. What did that even mean?

  Oh, there she was: Sally Baxter. God, she really was huge. Why did she wear heels? Everything about her was so glossed over and smooth; she really was larger than life.

  With a final wave to the crowd, Gallagher stepped onto the carpeted area. It was covered in cables, duct taped into place. He watched his step.

  Immediately, the sound guy was there with the microphone, clipping it onto his lapel. The guy spoke into the microphone, checked his box, looked over to the guy at the desk, then he walked away. No hello, goodbye, just nothing. Like he was no one. Gallagher shook his head.

  “Hello Lester,” said Sally Baxter. “How’s it going?”

  “Hi Sally,” he said. “We’re not live yet, are we?”

  “Not yet,” she said, as she shuffled a bit of paperwork.

  “Well then, off the record...” he began quietly.

  She looked up sharply then and he winked. “Ha ha, gotcha,” he laughed.

  She shook her head with a weary smile and looked over his head, towards someone working behind him. She raised a hand, jabbing a finger in some kind of communication.

  “OK, let’s run through it,” she said to him. “Mostly, we’re just going to be capturing the rally. We’ll be out and about doing a vox pop, and we’ll capture your address to the crowd. The interview segment will be just a couple of minutes covering the latest polls and the main issues. We’ll do that before the rest of it.”

  “Great!” he said. “When do we start?”

  She looked around. “Are we ready? Yeah? Can I just get you to stand on this mark, Lester? OK. Let’s roll...”

  Farren pulled the handbrake on the van and took off his seat belt. “I don’t fucking like this,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve said it like a million times.”

  “It’s a kid though. What are we doing snatching a kid?”

  “Look, mate,” said Jango. “We’re in the shit
, right up to here, alright? If the man says we rob the mail train, then we rob the fucking mail train.”

  Farren jerked his hands out wide. “I’d have no problem robbing the fucking mail train. I don’t want to have nothing to do with snatching kids. Is he some kind of fucking nonce?”

  Jango screwed up his face. “Nah! It’s nothing like that.”

  “How do you know? You’re not exactly his right hand man, are you? Not since you did for grandma.” He looked out of the window. “Dickhead,” he muttered.

  “You calling me a dickhead?” Jango asked, jutting his chin towards Farren.

  “Yeah,” said Farren, turning back and pushing his face right up to Jango’s. “I am. You want to make something of it? You offed someone’s grandma, you twat.”

  “She’d fucking seen us,” Jango shouted. “She knew us. She could have ID’s us to the bizzies.”

  “Oh, give over,” said Farren, turning away in disgust. “She’d never have picked us out. They never do.”

  “Well, why did you follow her then? What did you think I was going to do? Wave at her?”

  Farren sighed. “I don’t know. I think we should get out of here. Go down south for a bit. Or Birmingham. I know people in Birmingham.”

  “I don’t want to go to fucking Birmingham.”

  “It’s good,” said Farren. “I’ve had some good nights out there.”

  “Hang on,” said Jango, leaning forward. “There’s the kid.”

  The door of the house had opened, and a boy had walked down the path and jumped onto the low brick wall, instead of walking through the garden gate.

  “Is that the same one?” Farren asked.

  “What do you mean? Of course it’s the same one.”

  “Look at the photo and check, would you?” said Farren. “Maybe they’ve got more than one kid. Maybe it’s some other kid come round the house.”

  Jango sighed, but pulled up the photos on his phone. “Here you check it,” he said, handing over the phone.

  Farren looked repeatedly between the pictures and the kid. At last he sighed, and handed back the phone. “It’s the same kid.”

  “So what do we do now?” Jango asked.

  “You’re asking me?” Farren said, swinging around. “I’m no fucking nonce. I don’t know. Haven’t you got a bag of sweets or something? Isn’t that what you do? Here little kiddie, come and get a sweetie off the nice man.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Jango, rolling his eyes.

  “I think he’s waiting for someone,” said Farren. “We can’t snatch him if he’s with someone else. That’s what the man said.”

  “Yeah. Oh, hang on. He’s on the move.”

  They watched the boy run across the road. He had a football under his arm, and as soon as he got onto the pavement, he dropped it and started pushing it along, trying little stepovers.

  “He’s alright,” said Farren, admiring his moves.

  “He’s going to the park,” said Jango. “We should pull ahead and park up, just by that bit where the hedge is high. We’re screened there. If we park this way round, with the sliding door by the pavement, we can just wait til he comes alongside and pull him in. It’ll be done in a second.”

  Farren heaved a great sigh. “Alright. You drive. I’m not leaving you in the back with him.”

  “Sure.” Farren could see the look of relief spreading over Jango’s face. He could hardly hide a smile.

  “I’m only doing it because you’re a dickhead,” he said.

  “Whatever,” Jango agreed. “Shift your arse.”

  Farren jumped down from the driver’s seat and walked around to the sliding door. He opened it, got inside, and slid it shut again. He banged on the plywood partition and felt the van jolt into motion. Farren positioned himself so he could see through the tiny hatch in the plywood. He saw the dense hedge. A few cars were parked there, but not many because it wasn’t near an opening to the park. There was plenty of space to pull in. The van pulled to a stop, but Jango kept the engine running. He turned around in the driver’s seat, speaking into the hatch.

  “Can you see him?”

  “Yeah.” Farren could see the boy just rounding the corner. He was still kicking at his ball, his attention all on the ground. “OK,” Farren said, as he lifted the latch on the door and slid it gently open. He shook his head as if to clear it. His heart was beating harder than when he went into a fight. He could hear the kid now. He was humming to himself. No, he was talking, giving a little running commentary on his moves. “Shit,” Farren muttered. He shook his head again, trying to focus on the task.

  The kid kept coming forward, then almost as if he knew, he stepped over the ball and turned around, heading away from the van. He shouted something.

  “What the fuck?” said Jango. “Who’s he talking to?”

  “No one,” said Farren. “He’s talking to himself. Look, he’s coming back,” he said, as the boy reversed direction once more. “He’s playing both sides.”

  When the boy was just five feet away, Farren stepped down from the van onto the pavement.

  “Hey!” he said to the boy.

  The boy looked up at him and stopped, resting his foot on top of the ball. “Yeah?” he said.

  Farren reached out to grab the boy’s arm, but the boy was quick. He stepped back, but there was nowhere to go, with the dense hedge behind him. Farren saw the boy starting to wheel round, and then everything seemed to happen very slowly.

  Farren stepped forward and got a grip on the boy’s upper arm. The boy dropped to the floor, pulling Farren off balance. His knee hit the pavement but he didn’t let go, and he yanked the boy’s arm hard. There was a strange noise, or was it a feeling, he wasn’t sure; it was like a ‘thunk’ that ran through the boy’s arm. And then the boy screamed in pain, but the scream turned into a word as he shouted “MUM!”

  And at that moment, the woman appeared around the corner. She was jogging. She stumbled for a step and her face opened into a howl of horror, and then she was sprinting at them. Farren grabbed the boy hard and pulled him through the open door.

  “GO!” he yelled at Jango, as he pushed the kid towards the back of the van, and at the same instant the woman slammed into the open doorway. Farren tried to shove her out the doorway, but she was hanging on.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Jango yelled.

  “Just GO!” Farren yelled. The woman was still hanging onto the van as it picked up speed. She was being dragged along. For a flash of a second, Farren caught sight of a pedestrian’s shocked face as the van flew by. He grabbed the woman and pulled her inside and slammed the van door shut.

  Martin picked up a leaflet from a protestor. The protestors were being kept at some distance from the detailed architect’s model of the development. The model was surrounded by display boards that showed images of somewhere that looked more Mediterranean than north west England. Martin glanced at the leaflet. They weren’t objecting to the architecture, which frankly he thought they might, as it was the usual generic mix that left him with that vague malaise of not knowing where he was. It could be anywhere in England. No, they were objecting to the impact on local shops, the increasing dependence on multinational chains, the loss of local character, the increase in traffic. He thought they had a point.

  Martin walked over to the model and bent down to take a closer look at the detail. It was as hideous as he thought.

  “Martin!”

  He recognised the voice before he looked up. He felt a wave of instinctive disgust wash over his body. He schooled his face to be neutral.

  “Good to see you,” said Lester Gallagher. He was all dressed up in an expensive suit, a little tight over his waistline. He was a little shorter than Martin, and he’d got a bit broader over the last few years. He nodded towards the model. “Well, what do you think of the project? It’s come on a bit, eh?”

  Gallagher was offering an outstretched hand. Behind him there was a TV camera. Martin held out his hand and let it be shake
n.

  He looked down at the model, wondering how he could dodge the question. “Is it going to go through?” he asked.

  “I’ve every confidence...” Gallagher began.

  “But there’s an inquiry, isn’t there?” Martin cut in.

  “Yes,” Gallagher agreed, his smile a little tighter. “It’s pretty much inevitable in a project of this size. You know that.”

  Martin nodded. That much was true. He turned over the leaflet and saw a cartoon of Gallagher stuffing the planning committee into his back pocket. He bit back a smile.

  Gallagher put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s have a little chat,” he said to Martin. He held up his hand, waving the camera back as he lead Martin to a quiet spot, a few feet away. He nodded down at the leaflet in Martin’s hand. “It’s libellous, that is,” he said.

  Martin glanced up, saw the TV camera still rolling at a distance. He didn’t want to get into this. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

  Gallagher took the leaflet from his hands and screwed it up. “I don’t know why they’re allowed to give them out. Shouldn’t that be against the law?” he asked. Gallagher looked around, expecting someone to agree with him. Martin looked at the ground. Suddenly, he desperately wanted nothing more than to get away. Why had he come here? He’d felt compelled. Perhaps if he just did this thing, turned up to the rally, then that would be the end of it. But now that he was here, it seemed stupid. He just wanted to get back to Beth and Ben.

  “I can’t stay long,” he said.

  “No?” Gallagher said, turning back to him. Martin could feel the force of the man’s focus on him. “Got to get back to the kids? How many kids have you got now?”

  It felt as if his heart stood still for a moment. “Just the one,” he said.

  “Boy or girl?”

  “Boy,” Martin said.

  “How old is he?”

  Martin looked around, looking towards the exit. “He’s ten. Anyway, I really better get going.”