Twenty Twelve (24 page)

Hey, man, I’ve been thinking about you a lot. How is your nose?

It hurts.

You need to put ice on it, man.
I’ve had a lot of bust-up noses in my time and ice is the only thing that will bring it down.

Rory sticks out his tongue. If Hawk is dangerous, how come people have punched him on the nose?

Who did it to you?

It’s a long story.
I had to leave home when I was fourteen and there was no one to look out for me.

R1234
I had to leave home when I was twelve.

Then you understand what it’s like, man.
No family to look out for you. No friends to watch your back. You get picked on.
A bloody nose is the least of your worries, right?

Rory remembers the torture inflicted by the kids at The Orchard. How they hid his shoes and spat in his cereal. How they threw lit matches into the hood of his parka on the way to school. How Josh McGreavy stamped on his hand until every finger except the smallest was broken.

I understand.

‘I am telling you in no uncertain terms that the boy has been abused.’ The doc is standing with her hands on her hips, the way Mama used to when she was good and mad
.

The prison officer shrugs. ‘Jail does strange things to a body, especially boys. They do all sorts of weird shit to themselves.’

Isaac is in the hospital bed in the very far corner, but he can hear every word
.

‘Three deep anal fissures,’ she says
.

‘Like I say, with no girls around there ain’t no telling what they’ll get up to.’

The doc leans forward. She may only be five foot nothing, but she means business
.

‘The boy has been repeatedly raped,’ she states
.

The officer flicks Isaac a look. ‘He say that, did he?’

‘He didn’t need to. The injuries speak for themselves.’

The officer rubs his nose with his knuckle. ‘The way I see it, there ain’t no evidence,’ he says
.

The doc crosses her hands over her chest. ‘I won’t let this rest. A prisoner was seriously hurt while in your care. If you won’t take action, then I’ll go to your superior officer, and if he won’t listen, I’ll go to the governor.’

‘Thing is, Miss Mulholland . . .’ he begins
.

‘Doctor Mulholland.’

‘Right, right.’The officer nods. ‘The thing is, you’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’

‘What has that got to do with anything?’

‘Well now, when you’ve been here as long as I have and got the same experience, you’ll understand the procedure,’ he says
.

‘Procedure?’The doc makes quotation marks in the air. ‘You’re telling me there’s a procedure for dealing with the brutal rape of a child while in the custody of the state?’

‘There’s a procedure for everything that happens in jail,’ he tells her. ‘Including allegations of criminal assault.’

‘Well, I’m all ears.’

The officer looks over at Isaac again and he can see the hatred burning in the man’s eyes
.

‘First the victim has to make a complaint,’ he says. ‘And from what you tell me, the prisoner has not done so. Without a complaint there is no victim, and without a victim there is nothing for me to investigate.’

‘That is ridiculous!’ the doc shouts
.

The officer throws up his arms and lets them slap his thighs. ‘My hands are tied, miss.’

He leaves the hospital wing, a small smirk on his lips, and the doc smacks the side of her head with a fist. Then she takes a deep breath and makes her way over to Isaac’s bed
.

‘I guess you heard all that?’ She fiddles with the chart attached to the metal frame
.

Isaac nods
.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who did this to you?’ she asks
.

He doesn’t answer
.

The doc sighs and sits on the bed. Even though she does it real gently, a pain shoots through Isaac almost as intense as his shame
.

‘I know you’re scared,’ she says, ‘but if you would just give me a name I can help you.’

I look away. If I wanted to tell her, I couldn’t. There are just too many to recall
.

The truck winds its way up the rugged terrain, endlessly twisting and turning. The hillside is little more than a green smudge on either side. The rain slows to an insistent drizzle and the clouds lighten.

As we reach the summit the truck slows and we pass the remains of another stone building, though the roof of this one has long since collapsed. The left wall is flanked by a small garden of gravestones, many having given up their fight against the elements and gravity. Only one stands proudly erect, seemingly impervious to time, its Celtic cross facing us in challenge. Ronnie makes a sign of the cross. An unthinking gesture. I’m about to say she doesn’t strike me as the religious type when she holds up a hand to stop me as Tiny cuts the engine. She points across the graveyard.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Hush.’ She puts a finger to her lips and continues pointing.

I follow the line down her arm and into the trees. At first all I can make out are boulders and moss and tangles of gorse. Then I see it. A hare. He stands tall, sniffing the air, his head and ears proud.

The driver’s door opens slowly and Tiny eases himself out, a rifle in his right hand. Soundlessly, he steps forward and brings the gun to his shoulder, looking down the sights.

Horrified, I realise he’s about to kill the defenceless creature and I stand and cup my hands around my mouth. ‘Go on,’ I shout.

The hare starts at the sound. Then the ring of Tiny’s bullet echoes through the sky. The hare falls backwards, his legs cycling in the air, a high-pitched squeal coming from his mouth. Tiny runs to him, takes aim above his head and fires. The hare’s legs thud to the ground.

‘What the hell do you think you were doing, Jo?’ Ronnie hisses.

‘It’s not right,’ is all I can manage.

Ronnie shoots me a look of disgust. ‘Do you eat meat?’

‘Yes,’ I murmur.

‘Then don’t be a fucking hypocrite,’ she says. ‘All you did was make sure the animal suffered when he didn’t need to.’

She jumps over the side of the truck and makes her way to Tiny, her boots swishing in the wet grass.

Tiny bends forward with a grunt, picks up the dead animal and throws it into the back of the truck where it lands inches from my feet. The bullet wound to the head is small and clean, a neat hole between the eyes. The wound to the flank, however, is ragged, the hare’s fur ripped open and spewing blood.

‘Lucky for you he didn’t get away, city girl,’ says Tiny, a raindrop shivering under his nose. ‘Otherwise I’d have had to shoot you.’ He lets out a hoarse shout of laughter that releases the drop of water. I watch it fall onto the hare’s back with a gentle plop.

‘All right then.’ Tiny nods in approval, wipes a slick of blood from his hands down his jeans and gets back in the cab.

‘Don’t do anything else stupid,’ Ronnie warns me.

Carole-Ann had followed the trail of the man who gave Tommy the rucksack to a ground-floor flat in Leyton.

Clem was parked on the street outside, waiting for backup, when he spotted a man in his rearview mirror. No hat or dark glasses, but something in his manner was familiar.

He punched at his speed dial.

‘Are you there?’ asked Carole-Ann.

‘Yeah, and I think our man has just arrived.’

Clem watched him turn off the street at the gate and pat his pocket for keys.

‘The flat is registered to a Paul Ronald,’ said Carole-Ann. ‘I’ve spoken to the landlord and he described his tenant as mid-twenties, slim build, sandy brown hair.’

The description fitted. ‘It’s him,’ said Clem. ‘And for a man who died on Christmas Day, he’s looking remarkably perky.’

Clem got out of the car and arrived at the gate as the man put his key in the lock.

‘Paul Ronald,’ he called out.

The man turned to the sound of Clem’s voice.

‘I need a word,’ said Clem.

The man hesitated for a second, assessing the situation, then opened his front door and dived inside. Clem leapt forward and, as the man tried to slam the door behind him, got a hand to it and prevented the deadlock catching.

‘Armed police!’ he shouted, but knew it was meaningless. The man had already worked it out.

Clem took out his gun and stepped inside. The hallway was a mess of trainers, bags and recycling boxes overflowing with glass bottles and jars. Carefully, Clem stepped over the detritus, weapon held out in front of him.

He knew he should wait for backup and the bomb squad. He remembered the guys blown to smithereens by booby traps. Christ, this was like bloody Groundhog Day.

He stood very still and listened. There was a scrabbling sound through the partition wall. There was no direct access from the hall. In order to get to it, Clem would have to go through another room, presumably the living room.

He nudged the door with his foot. He was right about the layout, but the term living room was a complete misnomer. Everything in here spelled death. A battered sofa was covered in tins of peroxide and measuring jugs. Wires were scattered across the floor, tangled up with pliers, screwdrivers and rolls of gaffer tape. The glass coffee table tucked in the corner was littered with nails, screws and razor blades. Clem thought of poor Tommy Frasier carrying his payload and checked his revulsion.

The noise came again, from behind a closed door on the far side. Clem cocked his finger around the trigger of his weapon and crept towards it. Then he opened it with his foot and stepped inside.

As Clem had suspected, it was the kitchen and the man was standing on the draining board, his back to the door, struggling with the locks on the window, clearly about to attempt his escape.

‘Put your hands on your head,’ Clem instructed.

The man froze.

‘I’m armed,’ said Clem. ‘Put your hands on your head and turn around slowly.’

The man did as he was told and gulped at the sight of Clem’s gun trained on him.

‘Get down from there,’ said Clem. ‘Slowly. Very slowly.’

The man crouched on the draining board, washing-up water pooling around his trainers, then made a small jump onto the floor, the rubber of his Nikes making a soft squelch.

‘Stay exactly where you are,’ ordered Clem and he made his way around the man, reaching into his pocket for hand restraints.

‘Leave your right hand on your head and put your left behind your back,’ said Clem. The man obeyed and Clem secured the plastic restraint around his wrist.

In a moment, Clem would have the man under control. It would be tempting to beat him to a pulp when he was helpless. After all, he had taken advantage of Tommy’s vulnerability. But Clem wouldn’t do that. Instead he would take him back for interrogation and make him squeal.

‘Now bring your right hand down slowly,’ Clem instructed.

As if in slow motion, the man let his arm fall by his side. Clem reached for the hand, ready to bind it to its mate.

Without warning, the man snatched it away and dived towards a drawer.

‘Don’t move,’ Clem shouted, but the man’s hand was already inside. Then he spun back to face Clem, brandishing a kitchen knife. A ray of sunlight coming through the window made the steel sparkle.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Clem.

The man’s forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat and his hand shook.

‘That is no match for this gun,’ said Clem. ‘So why don’t you just put it down?’

The man shivered.

‘I don’t want to have to shoot you, but I will.’

The man’s shoulders slumped as if he knew the game was up. In the time it would take for him to strike at Clem, a bullet would be twice as quick, and at this range the damage inflicted would be fatal.

‘Throw it in the corner,’ Clem indicated with a jerk of his head.

The man looked defeated and let his hand fall; then he stood, head flopped onto his chest, knife held loosely in his palm. ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ he said.

‘It never is, son,’ Clem replied.

The man looked up at Clem, eyes glassy with tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he plunged the blade into his neck then dragged it across his throat.