Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  Her body jolted and the boy stirred in her lap, then jerked suddenly awake. He sat up, banging into Gallagher’s arm. The boy’s skin was pale and he was sweating. His eyes were unfocused.

  “Mum,” he whimpered.

  “Shut up,” Gallagher said. He wanted to smack the boy, but he couldn’t. The boy’s eyes were shining. He was looking straight at Gallagher, but as if he didn’t see him. Gallagher had a strange feeling, as if the boy was looking inside him, right down to his bloody, beating heart. The boy reached up a hand. His hand was small and smeared with dirt, the nails and fingertips blackened as if they were rotting. The hand reached towards Gallagher’s face. It was fucking weird. Gallagher stumbled backwards.

  “Help!” the boy said then he fell back against the damp wall, his head lolling.

  “Get up!” Gallagher muttered at Beth.

  She got hold of the boy, gently lowering his head to her lap again. She didn’t get up.

  “I fucking told you to get up,” he roared. He smacked her across the head with the torch. He felt the thump against her skull transmitted through the rubber casing. He grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. The boy’s head dropped onto the stone floor. “When I tell you to do something, you fucking do it,” he yelled right into her face.

  Her eyes were closed. She was crying and shaking. She stank of sweat and piss and vomit. “You filthy bitch,” he muttered. He pushed her hard against the wall. “Not such a fine lady now, are you?”

  She was mumbling something but he couldn’t make it out. Gallagher slapped her face. “You fucking speak when I talk to you,” he said. He watched her head loll to the side, felt the pleasure of the sting on his palm.

  He stepped closer, pressed himself against her. “You like that?.”

  He pulled up her t shirt and yanked her bra up. Her face was turned away, her eyes closed. He squeezed one breast. He looked at her face as he squeezed it hard. “You like that?” he muttered. “Well, do you?”

  She was wearing tight lycra leggings. He grabbed the waistband and started tugging them down. “Let’s see what we’ve got down here.”

  There was the sound of a key in the lock, and Gallagher jumped away from her, staring wildly at the door. What the fuck was this? The key rattled for a moment, and then the door swung open. It was Farren. Stupid fucking ape, turning up now.

  Farren stepped into the room and looked around. Gallagher watched his eyes taking in the boy and the full bucket then he looked past Gallagher to the woman leaning against the wall. Gallagher glanced back to see her pulling down her t shirt. Then finally Farren’s eyes locked onto Gallagher.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Gallagher yelled.

  Farren held up a plastic shopping bag. He put it down carefully by the wall and faced Gallagher. Farren was standing very still. “Have you seen what’s going on up there?” he said, indicating upwards with a jerk of his head.

  Gallagher stared at him. “What?” he said “What’s going on?”

  “Outside the gate,” Farren said. “They’ve just arrived. I had to come in through the back, through the broken fence.”

  “Who’s just arrived?”

  “All them protestors.”

  “What?” Gallagher said again, his brain slow to process the information.

  “There’s TV and all,” said Farren. He was smiling. The fucking ape was smiling.

  “What the fuck is so funny?”

  “Nothing,” said Farren, with a casual shrug. “You can’t keep them in here,” he said nodding towards the woman and the boy. “There’s too much going on outside.”

  “TV?” Gallagher said. “Why? Why the fuck’s there TV? What’s going on?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Farren was casually opening the wrapper of a packet of chewing gum. “They’re pulling out.” He popped the gum in his mouth and chewed slowly. “Your money men.”

  “What?” Gallagher advanced a step towards Farren. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “That’s what they’re saying up there. The deal’s off. There’s not going to be no greenway after all.”

  “What?” Gallagher’s brows lowered. His eyes skittered around the dark room, looking for sense. He could find nothing. “That’s bullshit.” The scratching was starting up inside his skull. He couldn’t think.

  Farren shrugged. “That’s what they’re all saying. The TV’s there, interviewing people and that. You better get up there,” he said.

  Off? The deal couldn’t be off. He had everything sunk into this deal. “I have to go and sort it out,” he said, but he didn’t move.

  “You better go out the back way,” Farren advised.

  Gallagher looked at Farren, looked at his jaw slowly chewing on that gum. It made no fucking sense. He turned and looked at the woman as if he could hardly remember why she was there.

  “I’ll sort these out,” said Farren.

  “No.” Gallagher whipped round, his face twisted up. “You’re not coming in here again.”

  Farren held his gaze, eye to eye, his face impassive.

  “Give me your keys,” Gallagher snarled. He held out his palm, ready to receive them.

  Farren carried on chewing his gum. Finally he spoke. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “What?”

  “We can take it in turns,” Farren suggested. “You won’t be able to do this on your own.”

  Gallagher stared at him. Was this bastard trying to make a fool of him? Or maybe he was right. What if he had to get rid of them? He might need the ape for that. He could do the woman, smack her round the head, chuck her in the river. He looked at the kid. The kid’s eyes rolled towards him and fixed on his face. It was like looking into his own eyes. He had a flash of memory: the tenement flat, looking at his face in the scratched mirror in the bathroom, his mother drunk on the floor.

  He looked away. “Alright then,” he said to Farren. “You can make yourself useful. That bucket needs emptying. And the kid’s sick.”

  “I know,” said Farren calmly. “I got some stuff from the chemist.”

  Gallagher grunted. He looked back at the woman. She’d sunk down and was cradling the boy again. Gallagher edged towards the door. That bastard Farren was watching him, every step. He stepped out into the corridor and made his way to the stairs. When he got to the main hall he could hear the noise outside. The doorway was screened from view from the road, and he stepped outside and listened. Someone was yelling through a megaphone. He couldn’t make it all out but he could hear the tone of celebration, he could hear the repeated claim of victory. What the fuck was going on? At that moment, Gallagher’s phone picked up a signal. The phone burst into life with messages coming in. Gallagher scrolled through them: some from Steve, some from head office, and some from his own office in a panic to get him back to Havelock Mill. It was true. The consortium was falling apart. No way! He knew it could happen fast. It only took one person to lose their nerve. He felt the sweat springing up all over his body, his heart pumping faster. He’d fight it, he’d pull it back. This project was going to make his name. It was going to bust him through to the next level. No fucking way was this scheme going down.

  Gallagher grabbed his bike and wheeled it round the corner. He wasn’t going near that crowd. He needed to get the facts and he needed to smack a few heads. He set off toward the back of the site, where the fence was cut.

  The street was dark, despite the streetlights. The steady rain had everyone looking down at the pavement. Weak light spilled out from the police station. It was a sizeable group of reporters gathered there, Martin thought. Was it enough to raise the pressure on the police, on Gallagher? Martin felt sick. He hadn’t eaten and he couldn’t eat. He’d tried earlier on, but he couldn’t swallow and he’d spat out the mouthful of sandwich and thrown the rest of it in the bin. He looked at Alastair Souter.

  “Alright?” he asked.

  The older man nodded, and cleared his throat with a cough. He raised a sheet of notes in front of
him, and then sighed and lowered them to his side.

  “You all know that my daughter, Marilyn Souter, was murdered. Her body was dumped on a train line in an effort to disguise her murder. But we know that it was murder.”

  Cameras flashed and reporters held up recording devices towards the older man.

  “The police believe that Marilyn met her end in the Sheraton Hotel in this city. At first, they believed she was murdered on the seventh floor, but now it is thought she met her end in a room on the fifth floor.”

  “Do you think the police are doing enough, Mr Souter?” a reporter shouted.

  Alastair Souter considered his words. “I think the police could focus their energies on the most likely leads.”

  “And what are they?”

  “People who knew Marilyn, people who had a history with her, people who were on the fifth floor that evening.”

  “Have you got any names, Mr Souter?”

  Alastair Souter raised his gaze above the assembled journalists. He stared out into the darkened street. “Ten years ago, she had everything to live for. Marilyn was clever. She was popular. She was doing well in her career. What happened?”

  The cameras flashed again, but Souter hardly seemed to notice them now.

  “She left her job at Gallagher Holdings and she never explained why. That was the start of it. That was when everything went wrong for my girl. She disappeared from her own life, as if she couldn’t bear to live it anymore.”

  He looked at the reporters now. “Just weeks ago, she reappeared. She started talking to people she’d known ten years before. Maybe she was trying to put things right.”

  “Who did she speak to, Mr Souter?”

  Alastair Souter took a breath and steadied himself. He looked straight into the cameras. “We know she spoke to Lester Gallagher.”

  The camera flashes lit up the steps. “Gallagher was at the Sheraton, Mr Souter. Are you accusing Lester Gallagher?”

  “I believe he was staying on the fifth floor,” Alastair Souter said. He folded his notes. “That’s all,” he said. There were shouted questions, more camera flashes. Alastair Souter turned to Martin. Martin nodded at him and walked with him down the steps, through the photographers who followed for a few yards, before returning to the pack.

  Souter’s shoulders were sagging now, as though it had drained what energy he had left. He looked at Martin. “Did I do it right?” he asked. “Is it enough?”

  Martin glanced back at the journalists calling in their stories. “It had better be.”

  Thirty Two

  Martin drove through the wet city on autopilot, stopping at red lights, moving on green. By the time he reached his street, he couldn’t remember how he’d got there. He pulled up outside the house and briefly rested his head on the steering wheel. He was so tired. He felt like he’d run a marathon, his body was so used up by the adrenaline and fear.

  He opened the car door and climbed out. He saw a shadow at the door of the house. His heart jumped.

  “Beth?” he cried, though in the instant the sound left his mouth, he knew it wasn’t. The shape was wrong. This was someone taller. The figure moved off the step and onto the path, walking into the streetlight. It was McIntyre, closely followed by Brownlowe.

  Martin nodded grimly. The statement had had some effect then. Martin raised his chin defiantly as they approached.

  “So?” he said. “You saw it then? Are you going to do something now?”

  The inspector didn’t acknowledge his words. “I’d like you to come back to the station with me, Mr Halton,” he said. “You can come voluntarily, or I can arrest you now. At this stage, you still have a choice.”

  “I.... what?” Martin stuttered. “You’re arresting me?” He waited, but the inspector made no response. “Oh for fuck’s sake, what is wrong with you?”

  “Are you coming voluntarily?” McIntyre asked.

  “Jesus Christ, man,” Martin shouted. “What is it going to take before you see what’s in front of your eyes? It’s Gallagher! Why aren’t you arresting Gallagher?”

  “I’ll ask you once more, Mr Halton,” the inspector said. “Are you coming voluntarily?”

  Martin closed his eyes, trying to calm down. “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

  The inspector gestured toward the unmarked police car that was parked across the road. Martin glanced towards his house.

  “Can I at least go in and check the house? Make sure there’s no sign of Beth or Ben, check the answer phone.”

  McIntyre thought for a moment and nodded. Martin made his way up the path and as he unlocked the door, he realised that McIntyre was following him.

  “Be my guest,” he said sarcastically, gesturing McIntyre into the house ahead of him. Brownlowe was waiting at the pavement.

  Martin checked the messages on the landline: just the usual cold calling and something from his sister about sponsoring a charity walk. He deleted them all. Beth’s phone was plugged in and charging. He went through the messages, but there was nothing of interest. Martin sighed and turned around. McIntyre was flicking through some post that Martin had left on a side table.

  “Feel free,” Martin said.

  McIntyre looked up at him. “These letters are addressed to you.”

  “Yeah. Because they’re my letters,” Martin said.

  “But not at this address.”

  Martin crossed his arms and looked away. “Are we going down the station or what?”

  “Mr Halton, I’d like to know why you have correspondence to another address.”

  “Is that really any of your business?”

  “I think you know it is.”

  Martin stared at the wall for a while. He felt trapped. McIntyre was treating him like he was guilty of something, and it was making him feel guilty. But he wasn’t. He had to hang onto that, and just play it straight. “We had a few problems, me and Beth,” he said. “I moved out for a while, but I’m back here now.”

  “When was that?”

  “When was what?”

  “When you moved back?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “A few days ago,” McIntyre echoed. “You moved back in a few days ago, and then your wife and child vanish.”

  “That’s right, Clouseau. Case closed. Well done.”

  “You have the keys to this flat?” McIntyre asked, tapping on an envelope.

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll make a little detour, shall we?” the inspector said. “Unless you object, of course. In which case it will take a little longer.”

  Martin snatched up his keys from the worktop. It was humiliating and it was infuriating. “You realise you’re wasting time,” he said. “Every hour they’re gone, you’re putting them in danger.”

  “It’s just round the corner,” the inspector said, ignoring Martin’s comment. “Convenient.”

  They drove there in the squad car, even though it would have been just as quick to walk. Martin selected the front door key from his keyring.

  “This leads straight into your flat, or into a communal area?” McIntyre asked.

  “To my flat,” Martin said. “I have the upper floor, so I’m the only person who uses the stairs.” He gestured the inspector forwards. “Please, can we make this quick?”

  Martin watched him make his way up the stairs and into the small living room. To him, the inspector looked like a man who had never done anything quickly in his life. He was like someone who had swallowed the rule of more haste, less speed. McIntyre glanced along Martin’s sparsely populated bookshelves, his eye wandering over the sofa and into what should have been the dining area but in reality had become the bike storage and servicing area. It was also the study zone, where Martin had a small desk, a large iMac, and a heap of unimportant paperwork. McIntyre glanced at the tenancy contract, the direct debit mandates, the pizza delivery advert. Then his fingers pinned down a page of handwritten notes. Immediately, Martin felt a plunging fear. He vaguely
remembered writing the notes, when he’d been confused and had been trying to think things through. It was about Marilyn, about telling Beth; he remembered that much, but he couldn’t remember the details. Shit! He’d probably even written stuff about the police, about Ben.

  The inspector read slowly through to the bottom of the bullet pointed list. He reached inside his overcoat, his hand searching for something in an inside pocket. He pulled out a small cellophane packet. Martin realised it was an evidence bag. He watched in silence as McIntyre carefully placed the list inside the bag and sealed it, then wrote the details across the top.

  Martin had a sudden sensation of vertigo, like falling into a tunnel. The edges of his vision were darkening. He reached out a hand and steadied himself against a wall, blinking away the darkness. The inspector looked at him. His eyes, already cold, had hardened.

  Lester Gallagher walked out of the corner shop with a bottle of whisky in a plastic bag. These streets were back to back, red brick terraces. No trees grew here, no gardens, just back yards. This is real, he thought, as he walked along the pavement. He owned half these houses. These people paid him rent, though they’d never recognise him, of course. It all went through the agent. But they were his people. He felt stronger with every step.

  Half way down the road there was a gap. There’d been a house fire a decade ago. A whole family had died. It wasn’t his fault, though people had tried to say it was. The electrics were sound and he’d been vindicated at the inquest. Now there was just a patch of grass with a couple of cheap, moulded benches. It was supposed to be a memorial garden. Some memorial.

  Gallagher sat on a bench and pulled out the bottle. He took a deep swig and felt it easing its way through his body. He’d have to go back to the office, he supposed. For the first time in his life, he felt tired at the thought. It was like someone had flicked a switch. His big project was going down the tubes, he was on his way back to smack heads and sort it out, and then something inside him had switched off.