Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  “We’ve hardly had a chance to speak,” Gallagher said. He put a hand on Martin’s arm. It was more than a casual grip. “No time to remember the good old days.”

  Suddenly Martin felt very still inside. Was this it - the confrontation? He stood up straight and looked down at Gallagher. “I’ve really no interest in the past,” he said slowly. “What happened back then is over and done.”

  Gallagher was looking at him intently. His eyes were restless, jumping side to side as if he wanted to see inside Martin’s head. “Is that right?” he said at last. “Seems to me you’ve been taking a bit of interest in the past just lately.”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” Martin said, his tone like a full stop.

  Gallagher laughed unpleasantly.

  “Lester Gallagher?” A man’s voice interrupted them.

  Gallagher turned and pasted a hearty smile on his face. “In person,” he said, holding out a hand.

  The man ignored the hand and held up a warrant card. “I’m Detective Inspector McIntyre and this is Detective Sergeant Brownlowe.”

  Gallagher’s smile stayed fixed. He moved his hand to make an open gesture. “Well, it’s always a pleasure,” he said smoothly. “I do appreciate the job your boys...” he turned to DS Brownlowe, “and girls, are doing keeping things in order here.”

  Martin watched the female detective. She was tall and she looked strong and her face betrayed her open distaste.

  “I was just saying to my friend here,” Gallagher said, waving in Martin’s direction, “I’m not sure why it’s legal to give out leaflets like this. Isn’t that defamation?” He laughed as though he’d made a sophisticated joke. Neither of the police officers smiled.

  Martin watched DI McIntyre’s cold eyes slide over him.

  “That’s really not our field, Mr Gallagher,” DS Brownlowe said. “We’re from the murder squad.”

  Martin’s heart thumped, knocking the air out of him. He sucked in a quick breath and watched Gallagher. Behind him, the TV camera was still rolling.

  “Murder?” Gallagher said, giving the word a melodramatic twist. “I don’t think things are quite that heated here just yet,” he said with an attempt at a laugh.

  “It’s about the murder of Marilyn Souter, Mr Gallagher.”

  Martin was breathing hard. Maybe they had him. Maybe they had the bastard.

  Gallagher’s eyes narrowed and colour began to seep up his neck. “I heard about that” he said sombrely. “Saw it on the TV. Terrible business.” He shook his head in an attitude of sympathy.

  The police officers watched him. “Yet you didn’t come forward, Mr Gallagher,” said DS Brownlowe. “You didn’t think to identify your former employee when the appeal went out?”

  Gallagher shook his head, with an air of confusion. “I didn’t have a chance,” he said. “Her father...”

  “The thing is, Mr Gallagher,” said DI McIntyre, “we need to speak to you urgently.” He let his eyes roll lazily over the crowd.

  “Well, I can’t speak to you now,” said Gallagher, his face reddening. “Can’t you see that? What are you thinking of, approaching me here? This is...”

  “I can see you’re quite busy,” DI McIntyre cut in smoothly. “Later this afternoon will be fine. Five o’clock shall we say? Down at the station.”

  Martin watched the inspector’s gaze lift over Gallagher’s head, momentarily making contact with the TV camera. And then he turned on his heel and the two of them melted into the crowd. Martin locked eyes with Gallagher. The veneer of civility was gone. He could see the naked threat in his face. Martin backed off, then turned away to cut through the crowd and find his car. He wanted to get home; no, it was more than that. With a sudden feeling of urgency and dread, he knew he had to get home.

  Twenty Six

  The van had come to a halt, but the kid was still screaming in pain.

  The woman was frantic, putting her arms around him, but it only made the kid scream more.

  In between screams, he whimpered like a dog. “Mum, it really hurts. It really, really hurts.” The kid rolled onto his side, moaning and crying, his face against the metal floor of the van.

  Jango peered through the hatch. “What the fuck is going on back there? Why’s the kid screaming?”

  Farren was squatting at the cab end of the van. He moved onto his knees, towards the back door of the van, towards the boy.

  The woman jumped in front of him. She was holding up her hands ready to push him off. Her fingers were all covered in blood and scratches from where she’d hung onto the van as it was moving off.

  “Don’t you come near him.” Her voice was like a growl.

  Farren moved back again, keeping his eyes on her. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just want to help,” he said.

  “Right!” she spat, scornfully. Her eyes were huge and dark. She was wearing a vest top, and he could see the cords of muscles moving in her arms.

  “I mean it,” he said. He pointed to the kid. “I heard it go when I had hold of his arm. It’s dislocated.”

  She sucked her lips together, as if she was feeling the pain herself.

  “I think it’s his shoulder,” Farren went on. “I’ve done it in first aid. I used to be the first aider for me club,” he said.

  Her eyebrows lowered. She was breathing hard, trying to take it in. She looked back for a moment at her son. He was rocking and moaning. “Where does it hurt, Ben?” she asked.

  “All over,” he whimpered.

  “I know, baby,” she said. “Can you point to where it hurts the most?”

  The kid lifted himself a little off the van floor. His left arm was against his body, and his hand was hanging limp. With his right hand, he pointed at his left shoulder.

  “That’s where it hurts?” Beth asked.

  The kid nodded. “Mum, can’t you fix it?” he sobbed. “It really hurts.”

  The woman looked at Farren. He was waiting. He hadn’t moved. “You’ve done this before?” she asked.

  “Twice,” he said. “There was a kid in the club who had a problem with his shoulder and it was always popping out, like.”

  “Well then it won’t be the same with Ben? If it popped out easily, then it probably went back in easily too.”

  “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? He’s in a lot of pain.” Farren looked away from her accusing eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said.

  The woman turned to the kid. “He says he can help with your shoulder, Ben.”

  He nodded. “I’m scared, Mum.”

  “I know, baby,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

  She moved aside, just enough for Farren to get closer to the kid. She lifted a hand like a barrier as he got close. “If you hurt him again, I swear I’ll pick out your eyes with my fingernails. Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Farren said. He looked at the boy lying on the floor.

  The boy looked back at him. He looked terrified. He had waves of tears rolling out of his eyes. “Don’t hurt me,” he said.

  Farren felt like shit. He was just a little kid. “It’ll hurt for a second, but then it’ll be fine. Honest,” he said. “I need you to sit up. I don’t know how to do it with you lying down.”

  The kid started to pull himself up. The woman helped him. She got him upright and held onto his hand. “Hold my hand, baby. Squeeze it hard.”

  Farren moved towards him, and the kid flinched. “No,” he called out and began to cry harder. “Is it really going to hurt?”

  “It’ll be done in a second, lad. Honest. Just let me do it. Come on.”

  The kid nodded and closed his eyes. Farren could see his knuckles go white where he was squeezing his mother’s hand. Farren could feel his own breath, tight in his chest. He was sweating. He went over the movements in his mind, mimicking it with his own arm. “Alright,” he said at last.

  “Your arm’s almost in the starting position,” he said. He got hold of the lower arm. The boy’s skin was so soft. His
arm was so small. It felt like a baby’s arm. He moved it as gently as he could, so that the arm was bent, the hand facing forwards.

  “Now, I’m just going to twist your arm out to the side, just a little bit. OK, be brave now,” he said.

  The kid made a loud humming noise and squeezed his mother’s hand.

  “Now I just push it back and lift it up,” said Farren moving quickly.

  There was a satisfying ‘clunk’ and Farren sat back with a sigh of relief. The humming noise stopped suddenly.

  “Is it fixed?” Farren asked.

  The kid opened his eyes and slowly moved his arm, then he clenched his fingers and opened them again. He looked at his mother. “I think it’s alright,” he said.

  The woman gave a little gasp. She pulled the kid’s head onto her chest and kissed the top of his head. “It doesn’t hurt?” she asked, pushing him away to look in his eyes.

  “It feels a bit funny,” the kid said. “But it’s alright.”

  The woman wrapped her arms tightly around the kid. She turned and looked directly at Farren. “OK,” she said. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Now you can let us go,” she said.

  Farren looked at her, but said nothing. She was trying to be brave. His eyes flicked to the kid, hanging onto his mum.

  The side door of the van slid open, and Jango stood there, silhouetted against the sunshine. “Yeah, that’s not happening, lady,” he said.

  Farren climbed out of the opening, pushing Jango out of his way. He closed the door behind him. He pushed Jango a few yards from the van.

  “This is fucking sick,” he said. “It’s a kid. A kid and his mum.” He looked around at the disused air field. “Are we just going to start piling them up here, or what?”

  Jango shrugged. “We better call the man and find out what to do.”

  “Just keep smiling,” Steve muttered.

  “I am smiling, my face is killing me with smiling,” Gallagher said.

  Steve laughed. “I know. It’s going alright,” Steve said. “The bit with the cops was sticky, but that business with the kids straight after, that was alright. We want to wrap it up before the Stop the War bunch gets here.”

  “What else is there to do?”

  “Just a few more press shots. Come over here and meet Samir. He’s opening up a Volvo dealership. He’s got a stand over here. And he’s got some pretty girls to get the cameras flashing.”

  “Alright,” Gallagher said. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out and checked the screen. “I’ll just take this call and then I’ll be over,” he said. He turned and walked away a distance before accepting the call.

  “Jango, I told you not to call until it was done. Is it done?”

  “It’s Farren,” came the voice on the other end. “We’ve got a complication.”

  Gallagher looked up at the sky and tried to swallow the fury that surged up through his chest. He ground the words out slowly. “What complication?”

  “It’s not just the kid. We’ve got the mother as well.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Gallagher lowered the phone and looked around him for a moment. He desperately needed to hit something, but there was press all around, assistants hovering on the horizon. He lifted the phone to his ear again. “Alright,” he said at last. “Where’ve you got them?”

  “In the back of the van. We’re at the airfield. Where are we supposed to take them?” Farren asked. “Should we bring them round to your place?” he added facetiously.

  “Not if you value your life,” Gallagher said. He glanced round, saw Steve watching him. He raised a hand to gesture he’d be just a minute. “Jango has the keys to the greenway site,” Gallagher said. Take them there. There’s vaults down below. No one can hear a thing.”

  He snapped the phone shut and put the phone in his pocket. He discreetly wiped the sweat from his palm on the leg of his trousers. His head was buzzing as if it was full of flies. He desperately needed a drink. He walked over to Steve and the guy with the car franchise and put a smile on his face.

  “Hi, how you doing? Samir is it?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Great to meet you,” the guy said.

  “Can we just get a few pictures in front of the car?” Steve said. “And can we get the girls in?” he suggested. The cameras flashed and Gallagher smiled and he shook Samir’s hand. He didn’t care about the girls in their hotpants and he didn’t give a flying fuck about Volvos. Every camera flash was like a pinprick in his eyes.

  Finally, he was able to walk away. Steve was at his side.

  “My head’s killing me. Have you got any tablets?”

  “Yeah, there’s something in the car. We can wind up now anyway. Lester, the thing with the police, I’m starting to see footage online.”

  “It’s harassment, that’s what it is,” Gallagher spat out. He nodded and smiled at random strangers as they traversed the emptying park, heading towards the car.

  “It’s that Sheraton business, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Gallagher grunted.

  “But you knew her, then? The one that got herself killed.”

  “Yeah. She used to be my PA, like fucking years ago. It’s ancient history.”

  “How many years ago?”

  “I don’t know,” Gallagher said. “What does it matter? Ten years, something like that.”

  “Ten years,” Steve repeated, nodding his head. His face relaxed a bit. “We can work that; that’s alright. We’ll put out a statement of condolence, the usual stuff, thinking of her family at this sad time, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Yeah, alright, whatever,” said Gallagher. “Now, get me something for my fucking head.”

  “He says you’ve got the key to some building in the greenway, whatever that is?”

  Jango nodded. “Them old warehouses, you know. Where we met him the other day, inside that gate.”

  “That place is all falling down.”

  “Yeah, that’s why they’re pulling it down.”

  Farren rolled his shoulders, heard the cracking noises. He sighed. “Alright. That’s where we’re putting them. You drive. I’ll go in the back.”

  Jango looked over to the shed. “The old woman’s still in there,” he said.

  Farren raised his eyebrows. “Did you think she’d rise from the dead?”

  “No,” Jango said. “I mean...”

  “She’s gonna come back and fucking haunt you,” Farren said, shaking his head. “Drive!”

  He slid open the side door and looked inside. The woman and the boy were at the back end of the van, looking at the door. They jumped apart and stared at him. He pointed at the boy. “You,” he said. “You come sit up this end with me.”

  The woman put her arms around the boy. “He’s staying by me.”

  Farren climbed in and slid the door closed. “No, he’s not,” he said in a flat tone. He looked at the boy, looked him hard in the eye. “Come here,” he said.

  Slowly, the boy disentangled himself from his mother’s arms and moved towards the cab end of the van.

  “Sit there,” Farren said, pointing towards the corner. Farren sat between the boy and the side door, between the boy and his mother. He looked at the woman. “Don’t try anything,” he said.

  She was squatting on the van floor, her hands bracing when the van went round a corner. She was all tensed up, Farren thought. She looked like she was thinking of springing at him, and she was all of eight stone, he thought. “Sit down,” he said. “You don’t want to fall over and bang your head.”

  She looked at her son. “It’s going to be alright, Ben,” she said, and she tried to smile.

  Farren looked at the boy beside him. He remembered him kicking the ball along the pavement, the unafraid look on his face when he’d stepped out of the van. He was cowering now. Farren tipped his head towards the hatch. “How much longer?”

  “Five minutes.”

  He took a packet of chewing gum out of his jacket pocket and offered one to the
boy. He shook his head, keeping his eyes low. The woman wouldn’t even look at him. Farren leaned against the plywood partition and thought about living in Spain. He knew people who’d gone. They all said it was great. Plenty of work if you could make yourself handy, and there was sunshine and bars. Just like a holiday, but your whole life. He wondered if he could take Holly.

  The van stopped and he heard Jango unfastening his seat belt.

  “Is this it?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m just doing the gate.”

  The van bounced as he got out, and then again as he got back in. The door slammed and they moved off slowly. It felt like they were driving over rough ground or over rubble. They went forward for a while and then swung to the left, and then the handbrake went on, the engine went off.

  Farren looked at the woman. She was staring at him. Her eyes were focused like a cat watching its prey. What was she thinking? It was like a kitten attacking a pit bull. “OK,” he said. “We’re getting out now, and you’re going to go where I say. You got that?”

  She stared at him, but didn’t respond. He shook his head briefly, as if it didn’t matter either way. He looked down at the boy next to him. “Kid, you’re coming with me,” he said. He grabbed the back of the boy’s t shirt and opened the side door of the van. He jumped down and pulled the boy after him. The boy stumbled and Farren pulled him to his feet. He pulled the boy flat against him, and wrapped an arm around the boy’s throat. He backed off a couple of feet from the van. “Now you get out,” he told the woman.

  The woman climbed down. Her eyes were on her son. She was trying to smile at him, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Farren could feel the kid’s heartbeat banging away at 120 beats per minute.

  “Get it open then,” Farren said to Jango.

  Jango seemed to suddenly remember what he was supposed to do. He pulled out a set of keys and headed across the rubble strewn yard towards a four storey red brick warehouse and a metal door with peeling blue paint. He unlocked the heavy door and pulled it slowly open.

  “In here,” he shouted.

  Farren indicated with a nod of his head for the woman to go first. Her eyes moved all around. They were in something like a courtyard, with semi-demolished buildings on two sides and a mountain of rubble in front of them. On the other two sides, the warehouses remained solid. Any windows at ground level were boarded and barred. There was no line of sight to the street, but cars and trucks could be heard passing somewhere beyond the site. The afternoon light was fading. Farren watched her eyes flick over to the doorway, to the impenetrable darkness inside the building. He saw her make the calculation.