Those We Left Behind (5 page)

Flanagan stood behind the unattended desk in the custody suite, watching the CCTV feed from the boy’s cell. She observed as he woke and dragged himself upright, looked away while he used the toilet.

Ciaran returned to the vinyl-covered pad that served as a mattress and sat with his head in his hands. Flanagan wondered at the turmoil that raged between his fingers, inside that young skull. The impossible wish to take it back, the terrible future he had made for himself.

‘You’d never believe it to look at him,’ a voice behind her said.

She turned to see the overnight custody sergeant, John Richie, wheeling a trolley laden with several trays of buttered toast and mugs of steaming tea. He rolled it to the desk then folded his arms, watching the screen. End-of-shift fatigue darkened his eyes.

‘How’s he been?’ Flanagan asked.

‘Quiet,’ Richie said. ‘Not a peep out of him. Same for the brother.’ He shook his head. ‘A kid like that. You’d never think he had it in him. The older one, maybe, but not him.’

‘Nothing’s for sure yet,’ Flanagan said.

‘But you have the confession.’

‘True, but I’m not accepting it for now. There’s still work to do.’

‘What, you think he’ll change his story?’

Flanagan nodded towards the trolley. ‘Do you mind if I take his breakfast to him?’

Richie pursed his lips. ‘I’m supposed to bring the food.’

Flanagan gave him a smile. ‘I’m just helping out, chipping in, team spirit and all that.’

Richie sighed and said. ‘Yeah, all right, if you want.’

Flanagan lifted a tray from the trolley and followed Richie into the block. He stopped at the door to Ciaran’s cell, opened the hatch to peer through, then slipped the key into the lock. Flanagan thanked him as he stepped aside. He closed the door over, leaving it ajar by a few inches.

Ciaran watched her enter, frozen in place, as Richie’s footsteps receded along the corridor.

‘Breakfast,’ Flanagan said. ‘You hungry?’

Ciaran did not answer.

She set the tray down next to the boy, tea lapping the rim of the mug, then sat on the far side of it.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘this isn’t an interview. Nothing’s being recorded. No lawyers or social workers needed. Strictly speaking, the custody officer should bring you your breakfast. I just wanted to see if you were okay.’

Ciaran sat quite still, his hands in his lap. He stared at the floor, as if to look at her might burn his eyes.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

He reached for a piece of toast, took a bite. Flanagan kept her silence as he chewed, and when he took a sip of tea.

‘It needs more milk,’ he said. ‘I like it milky.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll remember for next time. ‘Did you get much sleep?’

Ciaran shrugged and took another sip. After he swallowed, he asked, ‘Can I see Thomas today?’

‘No, not until the investigation’s complete.’

Ciaran returned the mug to the tray, pushed it back towards her.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

‘Don’t want it,’ Ciaran said.

‘All right,’ she said. She lifted the tray and moved it to the floor, leaving nothing but air between them. She allowed a stretch of time to pass before she spoke again.

‘Why did you kill Mr Rolston?’ she asked.

Ciaran’s lips tightened.

‘Like I said, this isn’t an interview. I’m not recording anything you say. I’m not taking notes. I just want to understand. Why did you want to hurt Mr Rolston?’

Ciaran took a breath. Flanagan tried not to tense.

‘Mr Rolston did things to Thomas,’ he said.

‘What kind of things?’ she asked.

‘He came into our bedroom at night,’ Ciaran said. ‘After everyone was asleep. He held Thomas down. He put his hand over Thomas’s mouth so he wouldn’t make any noise.’

He recited the words as if reading them from a page. As if he’d practised them.

‘Did you see this happen?’ Flanagan asked.

‘I heard it.’

‘How often?’

‘Every night, near the end. It didn’t happen when we first went to live there. It was a few months before it started.’

‘Did Mr Rolston ever touch you?’

‘No,’ Ciaran said. ‘Only Thomas.’

‘So you hurt Mr Rolston because of what he did to Thomas.’

Ciaran nodded.

‘Will you say that on record? Later this morning, when the social worker’s here, and I interview you under caution, will you say all that?’

Ciaran did not reply.

‘Have a think about it.’ She reached for Ciaran’s hand. ‘All right? Just think about it.’

His skin soft on hers. Shocking and warm. She squeezed his fingers. The bones beneath the flesh. Seconds passed before she realised he was holding his breath.

‘The best thing you can do for you and your brother is tell the truth,’ she said. ‘Will you do that? It’ll be easier for everyone. For you and Thomas. And for the Rolstons.’

Ciaran remained silent, breathing only when she released his hand. She got to her feet, the skin of her fingers cold where his had been, and looked at the watch on her wrist. ‘We’ll be starting in about half an hour. Think about what you want to say.’

She closed the door behind her.

Richie watched her as she passed. He nodded towards where the bank of CCTV screens was hidden on the other side of the desk.

‘That boy doesn’t need his hand holding,’ Richie said. ‘What he really needs is a good kicking.’

Flanagan did not respond as she exited the custody suite.

FLANAGAN ARRIVED LATE
for the support group’s coffee night, but no one seemed to notice. A dozen or more women, most older than her, a few younger. All of them survivors.

The café had closed for the day, but been reopened exclusively for the group. The owner had lost an elder sister to breast cancer two years previously, and this small gesture eased the grief once a month. Coffee and tea were free of charge, and whatever cakes and pastries hadn’t been sold that day were for the taking. And if they were sold out, the owner provided more, quietly, at no cost. Flanagan suspected that was the main reason some of the women still came.

For most, though, it was the camaraderie of this circle of friends. And they
were
friends, from all ages and backgrounds, brought together by a disease that knew no prejudice. Protestant, Catholic, or otherwise, all of the labels these women carried through their daily lives were left at the door.

Flanagan saw Penny Walker at the table in the corner, talking with a younger woman she didn’t know. She checked her watch: a good ten minutes to catch up with Penny before the group discussion began. Flanagan lifted a coffee from the row of filled cups on the counter and crossed the room.

Penny saw her approach, stood and smiled, but a glassiness to her eyes caused a cold dread in Flanagan’s stomach. They embraced. The younger woman seemed to intuit that Penny and Flanagan had things to discuss. She melted away, joined the others.

‘So?’ Flanagan said, sitting down.

‘Not good,’ Penny said.

Penny Walker had been the first to befriend Flanagan after her diagnosis and surgery. A tall and slender woman of sixty-two, she had worked for the Arts Council of Northern Ireland before taking early retirement on medical grounds. She and Flanagan spoke at least once a week, often more. Had Flanagan been asked before her diagnosis if she would ever engage with a group like this, she would have said never. But now she found this gathering of women the only place she didn’t feel her disease was a chain around her neck, a leash by which others held her.

‘Oh no,’ Flanagan said.

‘It’s metastasised,’ Penny said. ‘My liver, now, and spreading.’

Flanagan reached for her friend’s hand.

‘Two to three months, I’m told, maybe more with chemo.’

‘Shit,’ Flanagan said. ‘Will you?’

‘No.’ Penny shook her head. ‘No more treatment. It’s time to let go.’

She said it with a hollow finality. Flanagan didn’t argue. Penny had looked permanently exhausted since Flanagan had first met her. She had reached the point so many of the terminally ill do, where surrender is more bearable than fighting on. Flanagan had wondered many times if she would ever have that choice to make, and if she would have the courage or the wisdom to choose correctly.

She reached for Penny’s cheek, touched it with her fingertips. Penny leaned her head into Flanagan’s hand.

‘You’ve been a good friend these last few months,’ Penny said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all,’ Flanagan said. ‘You helped me more than I helped you.’

Penny smiled. ‘Well, who else would do it?’

Flanagan had met Penny’s husband, Ronnie, a large dishevelled man who talked in rambling circles about books and music, the poetry of John Hewitt, the songs of Van Morrison, his visits to Belfast’s Maritime Club in the sixties. A good man, but childish in his emotions, Penny had said. He’d coped poorly with his wife’s illness, fretting over how he would manage without her. He had demanded that Penny teach him how to cook so that he could do it for himself in her absence, but he displayed little ability. Flanagan knew: she had once endured a lasagne he’d prepared. It had been in the Walkers’ beautiful little house in Hilden, the northern part of Lisburn, near the brewery that shared its name.

‘Will you tell the others?’ Flanagan asked.

‘This evening,’ she said, ‘near the end. I don’t want to bring everyone down.’

Flanagan understood. Bad news for one was bad news for all. Even within the few months she had lived with cancer, two women she had come to know had died. Every one who fell reminded those still standing that they could be next. They all waited for the illness to return, every ache or pain surely a signal of another growth. Flanagan was the same. She examined herself for more lumps at least once a day, often more. The terror of a recurrence had taken root in her mind, and no amount of reassurance from doctors or soothing words from counsellors would weed it out.

‘How’s Ronnie taking it?’ Flanagan asked.

‘Not well,’ Penny said. ‘Since his diagnosis he’s gotten more and more childish. Like he’s given up on himself.’

‘Diagnosis?’

Penny’s shoulders fell. ‘We haven’t told anybody yet. It seems too much to share. He has Alzheimer’s. Early stages, it only shows in the little things. He’ll make himself a cup of tea and forget to drink it. Sometimes I just find him standing in a room, staring into space. God help Julie. She’s going to have to care for him when I’m gone.’

Flanagan had met Penny’s daughter a few times. A pleasant woman, but with a constantly serious demeanour.

‘We’ve talked about it,’ Penny said. ‘When she and Barry get married, Ronnie will live with them for as long as they can cope. But it’s not fair, really, is it? She should be looking after kids of her own, not being saddled with her father. But she’s a good girl.’

Penny remained quiet for a few moments, her eyes glistening with memory, before she said, ‘You know, I can’t complain.’

Flanagan raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes you can. I bloody would.’

‘It’s twelve years since I was first diagnosed,’ Penny said. I had seven years clear before the secondary, and that’s been kept at bay for five. And it’s been a good twelve years. I’ve travelled all over. I always wanted to, but there never seemed to be the time before I got sick. Work, then Julie when she came along, and Ronnie and all his oddities. And they were all excuses. The only thing ever stopped me getting on a plane was me. Now I’ve seen Paris, Rome, Barcelona, New York, you name it. Most of it without Ronnie dragging at my heels, thank God. I’ve lived more in the last twelve years than I did in the fifty before that. I think I can settle for what I’ve got.’

Flanagan reached over and took Penny in her arms, prayed she would have such strength if the time ever came for her.

When they separated, Penny said, ‘We’re going to take this weekend away. Me and Ronnie. We’ll head up to Portstewart before the students take it over. We had our honeymoon there, you know. I booked it this morning. A little cottage overlooking the Strand. We’ll have some good wine and some good food. Just one last time.’

Flanagan took Penny’s hands in hers. ‘It might not be the last time.’

‘No,’ Penny said with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. ‘There’ll never be another.’

Alistair was in bed reading when Flanagan got home. She looked in on Eli and Ruth on the way to the bedroom. Almost nine, Ruth had fallen asleep with a scattering of books around her. Flanagan cleared them away and turned off the light beside her daughter’s bed. Eli, five, a little bull of a boy, his legs hanging over the side of his bed. She gently hoisted him up and in, covered him with the duvet, then bent down to place a kiss on his cheek. He huffed, rubbed his palm across his face, and burrowed into the bedclothes.

In her own room, Flanagan removed the holster from her belt, opened the wardrobe, and placed the weapon inside the electronic safe that was bolted to the base. It whirred and clunked when she pressed the close button.

‘How was the meeting?’ Alistair asked, looking over his glasses as she draped her jacket over the chair by the window. He never spoke until her Glock 17 was stowed away, as if she was not his wife until she was unarmed and the evidence of her work’s dangers was hidden from view.

Flanagan sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Penny’s got two to three months.’

‘Jesus.’ Alistair put his book down and stroked her shoulder.

‘She’s very stoical about it. More than I could ever be.’

‘You don’t know how you’ll respond until you get there yourself. And with any luck, you never will.’

Flanagan kicked off her shoes and set about undoing her blouse. ‘But it’s always going to be there. Just hanging over me, waiting to drop.’

He nudged her with a knuckle. ‘That sounds like self-pity. Stop it.’

‘Oh, let me have a bit of a wallow.’

‘Never,’ he said. He leaned over and kissed her.

Flanagan exhaled, let the sorrow flow outward, deflating her body. That done, she undressed, pulled on her pyjamas, and slipped in beside her husband. Alistair picked up his book and found his place. He did not respond when she brought her body close to his. The paper rustled as he turned the page.

She rested her chin on his shoulder, her hand on his stomach, beneath his T-shirt. She splayed her fingers, felt the hairs move under and through them, his warm skin, the softness of the paunch he kept threatening to do something about.

Alistair cleared his throat and kept reading.

Flanagan brought her lips to his ear, kissed him, soft, feeling the warmth of her own breath. She kissed him again, and he turned his head to return the gesture. Lips warm, the tickle of his beard. Deeper and longer. She heard the book drop to the floor, and he turned his body towards hers.

She hooked a leg around his waist, pulled him in closer, her arm around his neck. His hips moved in reply to hers. The hardness of him pressed against her, through their nightclothes. Shy at first, then more insistent. Warmth there between them, and her hand followed, seeking him. He pulled away, but she drew him back. His hand moved from the small of her back, down, firm and eager.

Flanagan reached for his other hand, held it for a moment, her thumb kneading his palm, then brought it to her breast.

Alistair let it stay there for a time as the heat drained from him, as his body became still, his lips dry. He went to lift his fingers away, but Flanagan brought them back, tried to kiss him again. But it was too late. He had gone.

‘It’s past eleven,’ he said. ‘We’ve both got an early start.’

‘So?’ she said, keeping the anger and the hurt from her voice. ‘We’ll be baggy eyed, that’s all.’

He untangled himself from her and lay back on the bed. ‘I’m tired, love.’

‘You know, you don’t have to touch me there. I can keep my top on. You can—’

She watched as Alistair blinked, his mouth moving, seeking the words to reflect his heart. He sighed as his desire to tell her the truth was defeated by his quiet nature. In the end, he said, ‘I’m tired, love. Let’s get some sleep.’

He rolled over, his back to her, and pulled the duvet up to his chin.

‘It’s just a bit of scarring,’ Flanagan said, ‘hardly anything at all.’

He stayed silent.

‘I’m not some disfigured monster, for Christ’s sake.’

She listened to his breathing for a time until he said, ‘You know I don’t think that.’

‘Then why won’t you touch me?’

‘It’s just . . . I’m tired, darling, that’s all.’

He reached across to the bedside locker and flicked off the light, the darkness quieting them. Flanagan retreated to her side of the bed.

Eventually sleep outran her anger, falling on her warm and heavy. Alistair’s voice, soft against her ear, woke her.

‘You know I love you,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Flanagan said. ‘Same here.’

He kissed her once, leaving a cold place on her skin.