Borderlands (32 page)

I was
interviewed as part of the investigation into the death of Liam McKelvey.
During the interview I admitted to my attack on the boy and accepted
responsibility for the various breaks in procedure I had made during the
preceding weeks. I was suspended with pay for two weeks for negligence. I have
not yet decided if I will make the break permanent. Jason Holmes was likewise
suspended for his role in the McKelvey affair. But someone higher up than
either of us had evidently decided that it was better to pin the whole lot on
Harvey rather than tarnish the reputation of the force further by implicating
the man who had solved the murders of Angela Cashell, Terry Boyle, Emily Costello,
Thomas Powell and, at last, Mary Knox.

I met
Christine Cashell several days later. She was serving in the local chemist's,
where I was buying painkillers. She smiled at me when I approached the counter.
I asked her how her parents were doing.

"Mum's
great. Never better," she said. "I couldn't tell you about Dad. He
and Mum had a row about something and she threw him out. Again," she
added, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation.

"Will
he be back?" I asked, suspecting that her father's departure had affected
her more deeply than she was prepared to admit.

"Maybe,"
she shrugged.

Kate
Costello was in hospital for several days. On 4th January, Debbie drove me to
Letterkenny General to visit her. Afterwards, I sat in the hospital cafe with
her father for twenty-five minutes, talking of the weather, which had begun to
improve. I asked about Emily and he told me that the funeral arrangements were
being postponed until Kate was out of hospital. He did not mention the events
in the hotel until I got up to leave.

"Thanks,
Benedict," he said, as I signalled my intention to go.

"No
problem. Doing my job, sir."

"No.
Thanks for what you told her. Kate told me. About Powell. I don't know how you
made that up on the spur of the moment; it
was ...
it was
inspired." He smiled lightly, almost apologetically. "I won't forget
it; it goes no further than us."

For a
moment I wanted to pursue what he had said, to tease out the meaning and be
sure I understood it. I looked at him, alone now without his wife, and wondered
what I could say. In the end, I simply straightened up, pulled my coat around
me, and walked down the echoing corridor, out into the freshening air.

The
following day, I visited Thomas Powell in Finnside. I sat in the room, a bunch
of flowers in my hand, and watched him sleep. He had suffered another stroke,
late on the evening he was told of his son's death, and had hardly recovered
any strength since. The blankets on his bed were so heavy that they disguised
the movement of his ribcage as he breathed. His room smelt stale and cold,
like a crypt. The only movement discernible in the man was a continual
twitching of his eyelids which, though shut, fluttered endlessly.

Miriam
Powell walked into the room just before I left. Seeing me sitting beside the
bed, she went and stood outside, her back against the wall, and waited for me
to leave. As I did so, she passed me, so closely that my hand accidentally
touched the exposed skin of her arm. I inhaled the air in her wake, but could
not smell the scent of coconut. She wore a new, stronger perfume. I believe she
intends to continue building on the political career her late husband began.

Early on
the morning of 3rd March, unable to sleep, I sat in the kitchen watching with
horrified fascination as the US policy of "shock and awe" was finally
unveiled and Baghdad burned. Eventually, sick to the stomach, I flicked off the
TV and sat in the kitchen in darkness, listening to the noise of thaw-water
dripping from the eaves outside. I gradually became aware that Frank was whining
and yelping from the shed. The thought of what had to be done had lain heavy on
my mind since New Year and I knew that the stay of execution he had received
was almost over. I ate a bowl of cereal slowly. Then I loaded one bullet in my
gun, and rolled up an old towel with which to muffle the shot.

Unlocking
the back door, I stepped out into the coldness of the dawn. All around me was
the sound of water dripping, from the eaves of the house, from the hedge and
trees.

Frank had
somehow escaped from the shed once again. Now he lay at the back door of the
house, his body flat against the ground, the fur on his back raised, his single
long ear under his snout. But he was not looking at me. I followed his gaze to
his food dish, and there, in the shadows of the cherry tree near the top of the
garden, stood a wild cat.

It was
nearly the size of a collie, its body compact and hard, its dark fur sleek and
shining in the morning light. It was poised to flee, muscles tensed, legs bent,
its hard golden eyes trained on me. It considered me for a moment, raising its
head slightly to sniff the air. Then it dipped its head again into Frank's food
bowl and ate the remains of his dinner from the previous night.

I shifted
my gun from one hand to the other, considering whether I had any chance of
firing a shot. The cat lifted its head again and looked at me with disdain. The
dawn sun was spreading slowly across the lawn now. The animal snarled once,
lightly, baring its teeth, then it turned and padded up through the hedgerow
and into the field beyond.

During that
month, it hunted freely both in the North and the Republic, eluding naturalist
and hunter alike, slaughtering livestock with impunity, making the borderland
its own.

Then, in
the early spring, it disappeared.

I wish to
acknowledge the support of my friends and colleagues in St Columb's College,
particularly Bob McKimm, Tom Costigan, Ruth Byrne and Nuala McGonagle, who read
early drafts of the novel. Thanks also to Sister Perpetua McNulty, Patricia
Hughes, Jude Collins, Paul Wilkins, Martin Meenan and Alex Mullan, who each
encouraged my writing in his or her own way.

During the
writing of this novel, I received wonderful advice and encouragement from Peter
Buckman of The Ampersand Agency. Also, thanks to Billy Patton, Gerard McGirr,
Eoghan Barr, Marcas O'Murchu and Lifford Gardai for their assistance with
various aspects of this book. Finally, thanks to David Torrans of No Alibis
Bookshop.

I owe a
massive debt of gratitude to all involved with Macmillan New Writing: Mike
Barnard, Sophie Portas and, most particularly, Will Atkins for his editorial
work and his tremendous efforts on my behalf.

Thanks to
my family: Carmel and Michael, Joe and Susan, Dermot and Lynda, and the girls:
Catherine, Ciara, Ellen, Anna and Elena. Thanks also to Paul, Rosaleen and the
O'Neill family.

Special
thanks to my parents, Laurence and Katrina McGilloway, for more than I could
list. And last, but certainly not least, this book is for my sons, Ben and Tom,
who make it all worthwhile, and my wife and best friend, Tanya, with love and
immense gratitude.