Controlled Explosions Read online

  ‘He’s in ward eight,’ said Johnson, passing Bob an envelope. ‘Send him our best. He can take his notice as sick leave.’

  ‘He’s out? Just like that?’

  Johnson gave him a look. It said – I know you wanted this. And Bob had, God help him, sometimes he had wanted PJ gone. Wanted it on the day in 1972 when they’d sent a Belfast Catholic to fill the vacant place left by Robinson getting blown to bits. Wanted it when PJ’s wife had gone and he’d refused to cooperate, refused to believe there were no signs of forced disappearance. Refused to see what was there, if only you looked.

  ‘Make your choice, Bobby boy. It’s this way or the high way.’

  Bob found he was nodding. He would do it. Of course he would.

  ‘Head on home after,’ said Johnson. ‘Pick up some flowers for Linda, she’ll like that.’ Bob couldn’t bear the way he said it. The network. The old boys. In it together. He stood up, taking the envelope in his hand. That was how you got through the job – you did what you were told. You never asked was it right, because that way you’d never have any peace, ever again.

  Bob made his way down the corridors of the police station. He put out his hands to the walls, the carpet tiles fraying and falling off, as if they might close in on him. It was hot still, so hot, a stale, sweaty layer of it pressing all over your skin.

  Outside in the car park he breathed in, but the air was no better – smoky, with the tang of burnt-out fires. The sky was burning red too, the exact shade of blood. What was it Linda used to say to Ian? Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight. It would be hot again tomorrow.

  ‘… has to be soon, he’s getting spooked, I think …’

  Bob turned instinctively at the sound of the voice. For a moment he was confused – who was she talking to? – then he realised the Corry girl had a mobile phone tucked up in her hand, hidden under her fall of hair. She started for a second, then recovered. ‘Give me a minute,’ she said into the phone, and then, to Bob: ‘Sergeant Hamilton. I’m awful sorry to hear about DC Maguire. Is he all right?’

  ‘Bullet in the leg. I’m away down to see him now.’

  ‘Tell him I was asking for him, will you?’

  He looked at her. Her face was flushed, as if he’d caught her out, but she had herself in hand all the same. A cool customer. ‘I will. Goodnight, miss.’

  ‘It’s DC.’

  He felt the anger rise. ‘I have to head on.’

  She stepped forward, pushing back her fair hair where it had fallen loose around her face. ‘Sergeant – can I ask you something? How long have you worked with DI Johnson?’

  ‘Nigh on thirty years or so. We started out together.’

  ‘You trust him?’

  He looked at her. Apart from the hair, she was composed, her black suit neat and pressed. No sign she’d been working all day in the oven of the police station. Cold and sharp as a nail. ‘With my life,’ he said.

  ‘Has he ever asked you to do anything you felt wasn’t right?’

  Yes. This. Fire a good man when he’s down. ‘Miss Corry. It’s not appropriate for us to be having this discussion about a senior officer.’

  She just looked at him. ‘It’s Detective Constable Corry. And I’m afraid that if you won’t have it now, you’ll be having it later, with some more … significant people than me. Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say.’

  ‘Bob. Did you not wonder how those kids had a list of police home addresses? It’s not such an easy thing to get hold of, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I think you do. Am I making myself clear here, Bob? I’m trying to help you.’

  He looked away. ‘Excuse me. I have to go.’

  PJ was on the secure ward, the one with soldiers outside. If anyone got wind there was a police officer in hospital, it wouldn’t be beneath the IRA to smuggle in guns, finish the job. Even in this so-called ceasefire. Bob showed his pass to the very young, very nervous squaddie on the door, whose gun was nearly bigger than himself. ‘Thanks, Sergeant, that’s fine.’ Liverpool accent. Shaving cuts on his neck. All this might be over soon. Hospitals without guards. Getting into your car without checking beneath it. A new world. And Bob would have to be part of it, since he wasn’t on the list. It was hard to take in, life on this side of the mirror. Bob pushed open the swing doors.

  PJ was all alone in the eight-person ward. He was staring at the wall, his leg covered in plaster, hoicked up in a metal cage. There was no sign of the daughter, for which Bob was deeply grateful. He couldn’t have dealt with her today, looking at him with her mother’s eyes in her face. PJ barely acknowledged Bob sitting down.

  ‘Well, PJ. Anything you need?’

  ‘Aye, a femur that’s not banjaxed.’

  ‘I’m sorry for what happened.’

  ‘What did you do with them? Red Hugh’s weans?’

  ‘The girl’s under age, so it’ll be young offenders for her. At least they caught up to her in time … Paula OK?’

  PJ looked away. ‘She’ll be grand. She’s been through worse.’

  True. Bob paused for a moment. ‘The brother’s remanded in custody. He could be seeing his da in the Maze before too long.’

  ‘What about the – remains?’

  Bob tried to speak gently. ‘It’s their mother, we think. She’d been shot in the head. Been there a few weeks.’

  ‘And he killed her? Her own son?’

  ‘Looks that way. God knows how they’ve kept going, the girl’s only the same age as your Paula. She’s at her school.’

  PJ frowned at the mention of his girl. ‘They always said we should move house. Too dangerous, staying in the one place. I thought it’d be OK. But Paula …’ He tailed off.

  Bob heard the distant sounds of the hospital, beeps and running feet, and if you listened hard enough, crying. Hearts breaking. After the baked heat of outside, there was a chill in here that settled on your skin like mist. Bob wondered how it would be to lie in bed here with that trussed-up wean outside and wait for someone to come and shoot you. He knew exactly why PJ had never moved house, even though RUC officers were supposed to shift about every few years, for security. He was waiting in case she came back. Margaret. Bob could have told him what he knew, but he never would. He’d promised.

  ‘So what’s the craic?’ PJ scratched at his thigh. ‘You’re here with some work for me, I hope. I’m going spare.’

  ‘PJ,’ said Bob, sitting up straight in his plastic chair. The envelope was sweaty in his hand. ‘I’m very sorry. Believe me.’

  Paula lay awake on the camp bed in Saoirse’s room. On either side of her, Saoirse and her younger sister Niamh slept in single beds. Niamh’s side of the room was all boy bands, puppies, posters of the cast of Friends. Saoirse’s had pictures of Noah Wyle, and diagrams of the human body she’d drawn on in highlighter pen to help with her exam revision. The house was full of people, all together, all safe, all asleep. Except for Paula.

  She stared up at the ceiling, which the girls had decorated in softly glowing stars. It was hard to sleep on the camp bed, but that wasn’t what kept her awake. She was thinking of her dad, shot in the leg. How she’d nearly lost him too, really lost everything. She was thinking of Catriona, and what the other girl had been living with all this time – her mother dead in the shed, they said, killed by her brother – and now she was going to prison, they said. She was thinking of her own mother and that was dangerous; those were the kinds of thoughts that once you started you couldn’t stop and they’d pull you under sure as a strong current in the sea. She was thinking of Saoirse, sound asleep, and how she’d spent the evening trying to cheer Paula up, putting on stupid videos of The Little Mermaid and Annie and singing along like they were eight; of Pat, who’d come straight to the hospital when she heard, all tears and hugs; and Aidan … Aidan. How he’d pulled her into him when the van came round the corner and the policemen jumped out in their body armour and helmets, shoutin
g at Catriona to get away, get back. The feel of his arms round her back, shaking. She could still feel his kiss on her mouth, as if he’d stamped it there. And the gun in Catriona’s hand. Nearly every RUC family had been attacked at one time or another, but still. This was her house. This was her family.

  In the dark, her fists were clenched. She was thinking this: as soon as I can, I’m going to leave. I’m going to leave and I am never going to come back.

  But now there was Aidan. She wasn’t going to think about that. She had to try to keep at least one thought straight in her head. And maybe, after everything they’d been through, he might feel the same.

  Bob was sitting in the car outside his house. It was dark, the orange of street lights shining over the little cul-de-sac. Linda asleep in the room upstairs, Ian downstairs in his adapted bed, with the low sides to make it easier to move him. He’d been sent home with an oxygen tank. He was hooked up to it, to life, his chest moving up and down in the dark. Bob’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He couldn’t go inside, to the smell of sickness and the sound of Ian’s wet breath. He just couldn’t.

  At that time of night, he was back at the station in ten minutes. He didn’t know what he was going to do. Sit at his desk, look through the notes from today, try to make sense of what had happened. Of the farm, and those kids, and Johnson, and PJ … He nodded to the desk sergeant, who was reading a thriller under the desk, and went up to the incident room, expecting it to be empty.

  ‘Sergeant Hamilton!’ Helen Corry was there, along with two men he didn’t recognise, both in suits. They were sitting around her desk, talking in low voices, and jumped as if he’d disturbed them in something illegal.

  ‘What are you doing here, miss?’

  ‘I’m working late. These are some … colleagues from Belfast.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bob stood there. For some reason he was very aware of the gun in his holster.

  Then Corry was up and moving across the room to him. She was still in the suit from earlier, her hair hanging loose. She looked no older than the girl from the farm today. ‘Bob, you shouldn’t be here.’ Her voice was low and urgent. ‘Go now and we’ll say no more. I know you’ve nothing to do with it.’

  ‘With what?’ Bob didn’t bother to lower his voice. The two men were up now, moving in a way that showed they had combat training, their hands shifting to their holsters as well.

  ‘Look, there’s not much time, but if you go …’

  ‘I’m going nowhere.’

  There was a noise. Footsteps in the corridor. The whistle of a tune: ‘The Sash My Father Wore’.

  For a moment Helen Corry looked regretful. ‘I did try,’ she said. ‘Remember I tried to help you.’

  Then the door was opening and Johnson was coming in, dressed in slacks and a shirt like he’d just come from home, papers under his arm. He stopped when he saw them all, Bob and Helen Corry and the strangers. ‘What’s going on?’

  The Corry girl faced him. Her voice was clear, her chin raised. ‘DI Johnson. I’m afraid these men are here from Professional Standards. We need to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, girl. How dare you call me in for this? I’m going home.’

  ‘No, you aren’t.’ Steel in her voice, for all her youth. ‘We know all about it, Alec. We know it was you.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Peadar O’Keeffe, he didn’t get the addresses out of thin air, or know the parades that were going ahead before they were even announced … did he? Somebody gave him the information. We know it was you.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Johnson made as if to brush past her, then the men were moving, and then something had changed. Bob didn’t know what for a moment. He watched Johnson’s papers fall slowly to the grey office carpet, like the flap of a bird’s wings. Then he saw what Johnson was holding in his hand.

  Afterwards, when they were done with all the interviews and the paperwork and talking to more men in suits in small, hot rooms, Bob would never speak about what happened that night. But he knew in himself: he hadn’t seen the Corry girl blink once. Not even with the gun pointing between her eyes. The other men had theirs drawn too, but it was too late, they were on the wrong side of her, Johnson was too close.

  ‘Let’s not do this, Alec,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘And what would you know about it?’ He was shaking. His voice, his hand. The gun. ‘Slip of a girl like you. Coming in here saying we’re doing it all wrong. Lassie, we’ve been doing this job since you were in nappies. Men have died, good men. Blown to bits by your kind. And now you want to destroy us, drag our good name through the mud … People like you, you should be down on your knees thanking the RUC for what we did. We kept you safe in your bed all these years.’

  ‘But why the bombs, Alec? What good does that do?’ Still she didn’t falter. Even though the gun was so close it almost brushed the skin of her face.

  ‘Making us cancel our parades. Ask for permission to walk when we’ve been doing it three hundred years. Letting those – those murderers out of jail when we put them there. It isn’t right.’

  ‘So you thought you’d stir things up a bit.’

  ‘They’re scum, these people. We’re letting them walk free – bombers, killers. They’d kill you as soon as look at you, and we’re going to let them run the country? It’s treachery, is what it is.’

  ‘Was that the idea … show everyone the Catholics won’t stop bombing, so we shouldn’t share power with them? Go back to the bad old days?’

  ‘Well, they won’t! We’re going into government with murderers! You’ll see what’ll happen. There’s a wave of blood about to break over us, lassie, and we’re walking right into it.’

  ‘But this was you, Alec. You may have used those young kids, but it was all you. People could have been hurt. Officers, and their families. Innocent people. Weans, even. You’re as bad as the IRA.’

  There was movement; she’d got to him. Johnson made an angry noise in his throat, stepped closer to her. For a moment, the girl closed her eyes. Bob didn’t know what he was doing until he’d done it. He was standing behind Johnson, so close he could see the strands of white in his old friend’s hair, the lines on his face. They’d both changed. Long, long years of bloodshed behind them. ‘It’s over, Alec,’ he said, his voice rusty. ‘For God’s sake let her go. It’s over.’

  Johnson turned slowly, and as he saw the gun Bob was pointing at him, a strange look came over his face. Almost like peace. ‘You made your choice then, Bobby boy.’

  ‘There is no choice.’ Bob cleared his throat. ‘There’s only backwards, or this. I know that now.’

  As the two men grabbed Johnson’s arms and cuffed him, Helen Corry met Bob’s eyes, and he thought he saw something new there. It might have been respect.

  The music was loud. Spice Girls, ‘Stop’. Saoirse was over with some girls from school, bopping in a big protective ring. Paula saw him by the bar; went to buy a peach schnapps and lime, her favourite drink.

  ‘Hiya.’ He had a fag hanging out of his mouth; she breathed in the smell. She had on her Boots 17 silver Disco Queen nail varnish and a short skirt and a shiny top. She’d so much Impulse body spray on it could have knocked out a horse at twenty paces – or so Saoirse had informed her as they were getting ready.

  ‘Hi.’ She leaned her elbows on the bar, wrinkling her nose at the spilled-beer smell.

  ‘Your da OK?’

  She shrugged. ‘He says he is. His leg’s not good.’

  ‘Ma wants you to come and stay. She’s worried, with that … with Catriona and all.’

  She looked away, embarrassed. Trying not to remember it, the darts of fear in her stomach, the heat rising up from the pavement and the sheen of the gun … but wanting to remember it too, the feel of his arms and his mouth and … ‘I’m OK. I’m going to Saoirse’s for a few days, like. And you … you …’ She couldn’t say it. You saved me. If he hadn’t kissed her when he
had, held her back for those few seconds, who knew what would have happened.

  Aidan couldn’t meet her eyes either. She wondered if he was thinking it too. ‘Fair enough.’

  The music changed, just like that. Robbie Williams, ‘Angels’. And it was dark and the lights swirled and it smelled of smoke and perfume and aftershave, and all across the room couples were moving in to each other.

  She shut her eyes for a second. ‘I love this song.’

  ‘Ah no, you don’t.’

  ‘What? It’s nice!’

  ‘It’s shite is what it is.’ He paused, stubbing out his cigarette under his foot. ‘Wanna dance?’

  She pretended for a minute she was thinking about it, like she might say no. But she couldn’t help smiling. ‘OK.’

  Keep reading for an exclusive extract from

  The next in the thrilling Paula Maguire series

  Prologue

  I’m dead.

  I don’t mind. I want to be dead. Nothing could be worse than staying alive, not like this. But all the same I’m running away.

  I can feel the blood between my toes, my feet slipping on the roots and branches. They’ve taken my clothes from me. You’re dead, they say. No one will miss you. You’re evil. The world is better off without you.

  And I know they’re right, but I’m running anyway.

  I know they will catch me – I’m lost, no idea where I’m going, and after what they’ve done I can hardly stand, but I’m running. In the dark the forest is full of eyes, and branches claw my face like scratching hands. Overhead, the moon is as white as a face with the flesh stripped back.

  My own warm blood is splashing on my skin. My heart is bursting in my chest. You have no heart, they told me. You are dead inside. You are scum. Yes, yes, it’s all true, but, but, but. I can hear them nearby in the trees. The high voice of the wee girl. Saying my name. I know they’ll find me, panting and stumbling, but I can’t stop. I am so afraid. I’ve never been afraid like this.