flared.
Ciaran stayed very still, waiting. His throat dried, but he was afraid to swallow.
Eventually, Thomas reached his hand across the space between them. Ciaran knew not to pull away. That would only make it worse. Thomas gripped the photograph between his forefinger and thumb, took it from Ciaran’s hand. He turned it towards himself, studied the image of their mother. The tent, the checked shirt, the hair dark as his own. Ciaran could see the words written in pen on the back: ‘Trip to Tipp 93’. He did not know what they meant.
‘She’s fucking dead,’ Thomas said.
A bad word. Thomas almost never said bad words. Ciaran began to shake.
‘A heart attack or something. Because of the drugs. Fucking stupid bitch.’
Thomas took the photograph in both hands. Tore it down the middle. Placed one piece on top of the other and tore again. And again and again. So many pieces scattered on the floor.
‘So that’s that,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you want to go to the park? Mr Breen said we could.’
Yes, Mr and Mrs Breen, Ciaran remembered now. He had liked them, but Thomas had said he shouldn’t. He said they were all the same, people like them.
They went to the park. In a far corner, high up in a tangle of overgrown bushes, they found a nest. Two adult birds circled overhead, crying out in alarm. A clutch of chicks inside the nest, blind and chirping, their beaks open.
Ciaran watched Thomas kill them all.
Mr Wheatley is waiting at his office door when Ciaran gets back.
‘How’d it go?’ he asks.
‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.
‘Just okay? Did he give you a job?’
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘Good,’ Mr Wheatley says. ‘Well done. Work hard and make the most of it.’
‘Yeah.’
Ciaran stands there in the hall, Mr Wheatley in his office doorway, each of them looking at the other. Ciaran doesn’t know what to do next. Perhaps he should say something, but he can’t think of a single word.
Mr Wheatley nods, says, ‘All right, then. See you later.’
Ciaran walks up the stairs towards his room. On the second landing he sees that boy, Robbie Agnew, coming out of the bathroom. His face bruised and cut. Swelling over one eye. Ciaran hears the sound of a cistern filling beyond the door.
Robbie stares at Ciaran for a moment, frozen there, his mouth open. Then he drops his gaze to the floor. He’s shaking. He opens the bathroom door and steps back inside.
Ciaran goes to his room, closes the door behind him, sits on his bed.
He thinks of Thomas and the baby birds crushed beneath his feet.
16
FLANAGAN SAT AT her desk, the telephone’s handset in one hand, the fingers of the other hovering over the keypad.
Don’t do it, her better mind said.
The anger that had sparked into flame while she spoke with Julie Walker had not abated through the afternoon. It smouldered in her like a hot coal. None of it made sense. The only logical answer she had could bear no logic whatsoever. But still it lingered in her mind.
Flanagan closed her eyes, gave a silent curse, and hit the key.
‘Ladas Drive, please,’ she said. When the call was answered, she asked if DCI Conn had returned from the scene. The duty officer put her through to his office.
Conn spoke with the distracted tone of someone interrupted in his work. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
Flanagan swallowed and said, ‘I wondered how you were getting on with the Walker case.’
‘Okay, I suppose. It’s mostly paperwork. Once the coroner’s report is in, it’s just a matter of pushing forms at the PPS.’
‘Have you spoken with Julie Walker? Or the boyfriend?’
‘I’ve scheduled statements for tomorrow afternoon,’ Conn said.
Flanagan swallowed again. Pressed her fingertips against her forehead. ‘I mean, an interview.’
‘What, as a suspect?’
‘Well, maybe not as such, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Some things don’t add up.’
‘Like?’
‘Well, for one thing, why would Penny and Ronnie arrange a weekend away if they
Ciaran stayed very still, waiting. His throat dried, but he was afraid to swallow.
Eventually, Thomas reached his hand across the space between them. Ciaran knew not to pull away. That would only make it worse. Thomas gripped the photograph between his forefinger and thumb, took it from Ciaran’s hand. He turned it towards himself, studied the image of their mother. The tent, the checked shirt, the hair dark as his own. Ciaran could see the words written in pen on the back: ‘Trip to Tipp 93’. He did not know what they meant.
‘She’s fucking dead,’ Thomas said.
A bad word. Thomas almost never said bad words. Ciaran began to shake.
‘A heart attack or something. Because of the drugs. Fucking stupid bitch.’
Thomas took the photograph in both hands. Tore it down the middle. Placed one piece on top of the other and tore again. And again and again. So many pieces scattered on the floor.
‘So that’s that,’ Thomas said. ‘Do you want to go to the park? Mr Breen said we could.’
Yes, Mr and Mrs Breen, Ciaran remembered now. He had liked them, but Thomas had said he shouldn’t. He said they were all the same, people like them.
They went to the park. In a far corner, high up in a tangle of overgrown bushes, they found a nest. Two adult birds circled overhead, crying out in alarm. A clutch of chicks inside the nest, blind and chirping, their beaks open.
Ciaran watched Thomas kill them all.
Mr Wheatley is waiting at his office door when Ciaran gets back.
‘How’d it go?’ he asks.
‘Okay,’ Ciaran says.
‘Just okay? Did he give you a job?’
‘Yeah,’ Ciaran says.
‘Good,’ Mr Wheatley says. ‘Well done. Work hard and make the most of it.’
‘Yeah.’
Ciaran stands there in the hall, Mr Wheatley in his office doorway, each of them looking at the other. Ciaran doesn’t know what to do next. Perhaps he should say something, but he can’t think of a single word.
Mr Wheatley nods, says, ‘All right, then. See you later.’
Ciaran walks up the stairs towards his room. On the second landing he sees that boy, Robbie Agnew, coming out of the bathroom. His face bruised and cut. Swelling over one eye. Ciaran hears the sound of a cistern filling beyond the door.
Robbie stares at Ciaran for a moment, frozen there, his mouth open. Then he drops his gaze to the floor. He’s shaking. He opens the bathroom door and steps back inside.
Ciaran goes to his room, closes the door behind him, sits on his bed.
He thinks of Thomas and the baby birds crushed beneath his feet.
16
FLANAGAN SAT AT her desk, the telephone’s handset in one hand, the fingers of the other hovering over the keypad.
Don’t do it, her better mind said.
The anger that had sparked into flame while she spoke with Julie Walker had not abated through the afternoon. It smouldered in her like a hot coal. None of it made sense. The only logical answer she had could bear no logic whatsoever. But still it lingered in her mind.
Flanagan closed her eyes, gave a silent curse, and hit the key.
‘Ladas Drive, please,’ she said. When the call was answered, she asked if DCI Conn had returned from the scene. The duty officer put her through to his office.
Conn spoke with the distracted tone of someone interrupted in his work. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
Flanagan swallowed and said, ‘I wondered how you were getting on with the Walker case.’
‘Okay, I suppose. It’s mostly paperwork. Once the coroner’s report is in, it’s just a matter of pushing forms at the PPS.’
‘Have you spoken with Julie Walker? Or the boyfriend?’
‘I’ve scheduled statements for tomorrow afternoon,’ Conn said.
Flanagan swallowed again. Pressed her fingertips against her forehead. ‘I mean, an interview.’
‘What, as a suspect?’
‘Well, maybe not as such, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Some things don’t add up.’
‘Like?’
‘Well, for one thing, why would Penny and Ronnie arrange a weekend away if they
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