Those We Left Behind (12 page)

FLANAGAN FOUND PAULA
Cunningham in the far corner of the coffee shop. Early lunchtime chatter all around, the smell of cooking food and sweet things. Her stomach rumbled, and she remembered she’d skipped breakfast that morning.

Cunningham stood as Flanagan approached, extended her hand. She already had a half-empty coffee cup on the table. Flanagan ordered a tea from a passing waitress. Cunningham declined another cup.

‘So, you needed more on Ciaran Devine,’ Flanagan said as she took a seat.

‘That’s right,’ Cunningham said. ‘Him and his brother.’

‘I’m not sure I can tell you anything that isn’t already on record.’

‘I’ve read everything I could get my hands on,’ Cunningham said. ‘But I wondered how you felt about him and his brother, personally. Setting the confession aside, did you have Ciaran for this?’

The hunger left Flanagan’s belly, her appetite frozen out by a sudden chill there. She hoped it didn’t show on her face. ‘It didn’t matter much what I thought personally. It wasn’t my case, remember, I just worked on it. It was the coordinating DCI who called the shots. In the end, all that mattered was the confession, and what the Public Prosecution Service could do with it.’

‘I understand that,’ Cunningham said. ‘I know these things are never black and white, this case more than most, but it’s your gut feeling I’m interested in.’

A pot of tea arrived. Flanagan left it to brew. ‘Has Ciaran said something?’

‘No, not directly. Do you remember the Rolstons’ son?’

‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘Daniel. I only spoke with him once. He was a bright boy. But very mixed up.’

‘He called at my house last night.’

‘What, just out of the blue?’

‘Yes. He was angry, and frightened, I think. I had to call the police. He’d gone by the time they came, but they tracked him down, gave him a warning.’

‘What did he want?’ Flanagan asked.

‘To tell me the police and the court had got it all wrong. That Ciaran hadn’t killed his father. It was Thomas. I suppose he thinks I can get something out of Ciaran, something the police couldn’t, but I don’t know why. Did Daniel say anything at the time of the investigation?’

‘Not on record. His statement barely came into things, the case seemed so clear cut, particularly with the confession. He didn’t have to give evidence during the trial. Everyone felt it would be too hard on him; it wouldn’t have made enough of a difference to justify putting him through that.’

‘Not on record, you said. What about off the record?’

Flanagan poured tea into her cup, followed by milk, watched the swirling clouds, and her own glinting reflection on the surface.

Cunningham waited.

No avoiding it, Flanagan spoke. ‘Yes, Daniel told me he believed Thomas had killed his father. He said Ciaran and he had become friends. That Thomas had been hurting him. I put that to Ciaran, of course, but his story never changed.’

‘You spent a lot of time with Ciaran,’ Cunningham said.

Flanagan shifted in her seat and reached for the cup. ‘That’s right.’

‘A lot more than most investigating officers would spend with a suspect.’

Steam rose from the cup and warmed Flanagan’s lips.

‘It took a long time for him to open up,’ she said. ‘Even with the confession, we needed to understand what exactly happened in that house. I spent hours and hours working with him. I needed to get his trust. Remember, he and his brother had been from institution to foster home and back again for most of their lives. I’m not sure how well Ciaran really knew his mother. A situation like that, the bond between siblings becomes incredibly strong. They build a wall around themselves. It becomes them against the world. I had to try to break through that.’

‘It looked like you managed,’ Cunningham said.

‘Eventually.’ Flanagan took a sip of tea. Stinging hot in her throat.

‘Tell me about it,’ Cunningham said. ‘Please.’

While Purdy talked to the Superintendent, Flanagan and Ciaran sat opposite each other in the interview room waiting for another social worker. She’d brought him two slices of buttered toast and a cup of milky tea. She watched as he picked the crusts off the bread.

‘I’ll cut them off next time,’ she said.

Ciaran didn’t answer. He licked melted butter off his fingers. The same fingers that had been slickened red only two days before.

Flanagan looked at her wristwatch, then up at the clock on the wall. The social worker was approaching ten minutes late.

‘What’s your favourite thing to eat?’ she asked.

Ciaran shrugged, took a bite of toast.

‘There must be something,’ Flanagan said.

He shrugged again, chewed.

‘What about burgers? Sausages? Crisps?’

Ciaran took a breath. Flanagan held hers. He did not speak.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘I like chip butties.’

‘Ah.’ Flanagan nodded respectfully. ‘Red or brown sauce?’

‘No sauce,’ Ciaran said. ‘Just salt and vinegar.’

‘I like red sauce on mine. Do you know what my husband likes on his?’

‘What?’ Ciaran asked.

‘Mayonnaise.’

Ciaran’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

‘I know,’ Flanagan said.

Ciaran smiled. Flanagan’s heart floated in her chest.

A knock on the door, and she went to it. Purdy waited on the other side.

Flanagan stepped through, pulled the door closed behind her. ‘Well?’

‘He gave us another twelve hours, starting at five-thirty,’ Purdy said. ‘Unless you turn up something remarkable, those boys will be charged before dawn tomorrow morning.’

Flanagan shook her head. ‘That’s not enough time.’

‘It’s all you’ve got,’ Purdy said, walking away. ‘Make the most of it.’

The social worker dashed along the corridor, apologising as she approached. Flanagan brought her into the interview room. Once the audio recorder was running, as soon as Ciaran was cautioned, the child whose smile had thrilled her so had vanished. Instead, here was this boy who repeated the same answers to the same questions until Flanagan wanted to shake him.

She ended the interview after forty-five minutes, sent the social worker on her way, and signed Ciaran back into the custody suite.

Outside in the car park, Flanagan called Alistair from her mobile.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s looking like an all-nighter here.’

‘You can’t,’ Alistair said. ‘Not in your condition. What about the baby?’

‘I’ll be fine. And so will the baby.’

Her hand went to her stomach. This thing in her belly, not much bigger than a peanut.

‘Just you worry about Ruth,’ she said. ‘Give her a kiss for me.’

‘All right. But take it easy.’

‘You too,’ she said. ‘Love you.’

‘Love you too.’

Warmed by those last words, Flanagan walked from the station to the chippie one street over. She ordered two chip butties, one with red sauce, the other with salt and vinegar, along with a can each of Coke and Fanta, and brought them back to Ciaran’s cell. She sat beside him on the mattress, the cell door open, and handed the plain buttie to him. He took it from her fingers, breathed in the aroma of fried potato and malt vinegar.

‘Did you get Thomas one?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘Just you and me.’

Ciaran held the bread roll in his thin fingers, chips squeezing out from within. He hesitated, then took a bite, big enough to puff his cheeks out. Flanagan did the same. They sat side by side in the cell and ate in silence until every bite was gone.

Only when she’d drained the last swallow of cola from the can did Flanagan realise that Ciaran was leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder. She suppressed the urge to put an arm around him, to gather him in. But nor did she move away.

He took a breath, held it in his chest. A word unspoken.

‘What?’ Flanagan asked.

‘What’s it like in jail?’ he asked, the fear rippling beneath his voice.

‘It won’t be a proper jail,’ she said. ‘It’s a young offenders centre. Hydebank. It’ll be tough, but it won’t be prison. It’s probably not that different from places you and Thomas have stayed before.’

‘Will I be there for the rest of my life?’

Flanagan closed her eyes against the ache his question caused. If his confession was real, he didn’t deserve her pity, child or not. But it was there, regardless.

‘There’s no fixed sentence for a child,’ Flanagan said. ‘It’ll be years, but if you’re good, you’ll be out before you’re twenty. You’ll still have your life ahead of you.’

‘Will Thomas be there too?’

‘Yes,’ Flanagan said. ‘But he’ll get out before you do.’

She felt him tense against her arm. ‘So I’ll be on my own?’

‘He’ll be able to visit you.’

He began to shake, and now Flanagan did put her arm around him. He leaned in to her, chewed on his thumbnail.

‘Thomas is nearly fifteen, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran said.

‘You know, if Thomas had done this, it’d be very different. He’d go to Hydebank, just like you, but he’d be held longer. Very probably, he’d move to a real prison, to Maghaberry, when he turned twenty-one. But if you took the blame for him, because you’re younger, the judge would go easier on you. And even lighter still on Thomas.’

Ciaran became still and silent, not even a breath.

‘You’d do anything Thomas asked you to, wouldn’t you?’

He seemed to shrink in her embrace, as if retreating from the world. She ran her fingertips over his short-cropped hair.

‘You’d say you killed someone if he asked you to, wouldn’t you?’

He turned his face downward and away so she couldn’t see him. His shoulders hitched.

Flanagan let the air out her lungs in a weary exhalation. ‘Oh, sweetheart, it’s going to be a long night.’

A CHILLED BREEZE
comes in off the sea as Ciaran sits on the bench beside Thomas, eating the chip buttie his brother bought for him. Thomas eats nothing. Sunlight reflects off the water, a sheet of solid grey, like storm clouds stretching away from them. Ciaran had forgotten the smell of salt on the air, the sound of waves on sand. He savours them now.

They had arrived late morning and walked the length of the beach twice before seeking food. Once they’d found the nearest chip shop, they came back to the waterfront and settled on a bench beneath the grand buildings and sloping gardens of the Slieve Donard hotel. Elderly couples walk arm in arm along the sand, dogs and their owners play, a few children shout and run through the foaming edge of the tide.

Ciaran should feel happy, but Thomas is thoughtful. Thomas never spends thought on good things. He is restless, his fingers tapping on his thighs, the soles of his shoes grinding on the fine layer of sand that coats the concrete under their feet.

‘When your supervision’s up,’ Thomas says, ‘we’ll go away somewhere. Maybe to England. Somewhere decent, somewhere nobody knows us.’

Ciaran is too busy eating to think of a reply.

‘Where would you want to go?’ Thomas asks.

‘Dunno,’ Ciaran says. ‘America, maybe.’

‘You can’t just go to America to live,’ Thomas says. ‘You need a visa or a green card or something. We don’t even have passports. If we get passports, we can go somewhere in Europe. Germany or France. Maybe even Spain. They’ve nice beaches there. Would you like that?’

‘I can’t speak foreign,’ Ciaran says.

‘Me neither,’ Thomas says. ‘It’ll have to be England, then. Maybe Scotland. Not Wales, though.’

Ciaran doesn’t ask why. Thomas looks back out to sea.

‘Mum’s old house is near here,’ Ciaran says.

Thomas turns to him again. ‘Yeah. Just up the coast a bit.’

‘Can we go there?’

‘No,’ Thomas says.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to. Besides, it’s not ours any more. Not since I sold it. It was a dump anyway. It’s all fenced off now. I suppose they’ll knock it down soon. I’m surprised you even remember that place.’

Ciaran remembers. The only clear memories he has of his mother are located in that house. He can’t recall his father: his first memory is the funeral. The weeping carried on the breeze through the graveyard. They lived in another house then, but it had to be sold, and the two boys and their mother moved to the old farmhouse by the sea. It had belonged to her parents, and Ciaran remembered her telling him how she and his father had planned to fix it up, to make it a holiday home for them all.

How happy they would have been, she said. And then it was all gone, stolen from them by a teenager in a hijacked car.

The land surrounding the house was sold off acre by acre to keep them going, until it stood alone behind its walls, cold and damp, the air seeming to creep through the rooms and hallways in ghostly currents. They would huddle around the fire in the kitchen every evening, sometimes sharing a blanket. Teresa staring into the flames, her soul drifting farther and farther away.

At first, she would hug her boys and tell them everything was going to be all right. But that lasted only a few months. After a while, she barely spoke to them at all. She kept them fed, made sure they had clothes to wear. But if Thomas didn’t want to go to school, she wouldn’t argue. And if Thomas stayed home, then so would Ciaran. The brothers would leave her in the house and walk the quarter-mile to the beach. Running through the fields and grass-capped dunes, they would laugh and chase each other until they were too cold or too hungry to stay out any longer. Then their laughter would die in their throats as they headed back to the house.

The social workers started to call. Asking after the boys. Why had they missed so much school? How was their health? Were they eating properly?

Teresa would make tearful apologies and promise to do better, to make them go to school, to be a better mother.

A man came twice or three times a week. A small man with dead eyes. Sometimes he would go no further than the doorstep, other times he would follow Teresa to her bedroom. But he always left a small package behind.

‘Mummy’s medicine,’ she said, when Ciaran asked.

One morning Ciaran and Thomas woke late in the room they shared. They walked downstairs together and found Teresa slumped over the kitchen table, her eyes half closed and glassy, drool pooling on the wood.

The needle still in her arm.

They stood and watched their mother for a time, listening to the shallow wheezes from her chest. She smelled of urine and excrement. Her bare feet rested in a puddle.

Eventually, Thomas said, ‘I should get a doctor.’

They had no telephone, no car. Ciaran had to wait half an hour before Thomas came back with a neighbour who had called an ambulance. In that time, he sat opposite his mother, counting the puncture marks on her skin.

They spent the night in a shelter, and Ciaran never entered the house again.

He wonders if the table is still there, and the syringe sitting on top of it.

‘The other night,’ Thomas says, ‘why were you looking up that woman cop on my computer?’

Ciaran stops chewing for a moment, feels something fold in on itself low down in his stomach.

‘Well?’

Ciaran swallows. Takes another bite. Thomas takes the buttie from his fingers and tosses it away onto the sand. Seagulls swoop and feast. Ciaran wipes his empty hands on his jeans.

‘Answer me,’ Thomas says.

‘I don’t know,’ Ciaran says, his voice very small. ‘I wanted to know if she was still in the police. Maybe if she’d been in the news for anything. Something. I don’t know.’

‘She was a bitch,’ Thomas says.

Ciaran forces his hands down into the pockets of his hoodie to keep them still.

‘She’s probably still a bitch,’ Thomas says. ‘She tried to get between us. To break us apart. And you almost let her. I told you a million times, you can’t trust people like that. Not cops, not probation officers, not social workers, not foster carers. They’re all the same. They’ll make out they’re on your side, that they’re only trying to help you. But all they care about is putting you away. That woman cop, she let you think she was your friend, didn’t she?’

Ciaran looks out to sea, picks out the hazy shape of a freighter on the horizon.

‘Didn’t she?’

‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.

‘And what did she do in the end? She made sure you went away for seven years. What kind of friend does that? So why were you looking her up?’

‘Just because,’ Ciaran says. Anger has sharpened his voice.

Thomas’s hand where Ciaran’s neck meets his shoulder, squeezing tight. ‘Don’t get thick with me. We’re only talking. Right?’

‘Right,’ Ciaran says, breathing the anger out.

‘What would you do if you found her?’

The question sends Ciaran’s mind into a spin. He couldn’t speak the answer even if he knew it. Thomas’s hand moves to the back of his neck. Slow, soothing motions, like he knows the chaos he’s caused.

‘Would you talk to her?’ Thomas asks.

‘Dunno.’

‘Would you hurt her?’

‘No.’

‘Would you try to kiss her?’

‘No!’ A shout, carried away from them on the breeze. Ciaran pulls away from his brother’s hand.

Thomas grins. ‘She’s married. She has kids. What would she want with you?’

Ciaran wants to tell Thomas to shut his fucking mouth, but he doesn’t dare. Instead, he bites his knuckle, hopes the pain will chase the anger out of him.

The grin slides away from Thomas’s face. ‘You know, if you ever went near her, she’d put you back inside. No question. She’d go to that probation woman, and they’d say you were a risk. You’d be back inside, and I don’t know if I could wait for you like I did these last few years.’

Ciaran’s eyes are hot, but he will not cry. He will not.

Thomas leans in close, his warm damp hand wrapped around the back of Ciaran’s neck, his lips against Ciaran’s ear. ‘Do you want to hear a secret?’

Ciaran closes his eyes.

‘I know where she lives.’

Thomas stands and walks away across the sand.