by Ryan Casey
He looked over to his right and he saw another headstone. Another person he cared about. Another person he’d lost.
He walked over to it and poured some water on the withered flowers in front of it. He read the headstone, as much as it hurt him, and as much as it brought home the raw reality of everything that’d happened.
In Loving Memory
Brad Richards.
R.I.P.
Brad was another person who shouldn’t have died. He was a loyal officer. An officer who’d had his battles, sure, but an officer who reminded Brian of himself, in a way. As much as Brian hated to face up to it, Brad mirrored him, in a way. He made him realise what kind of person he could be if he kept going down a certain path. A destructive path.
But Brad had sorted things out. He’d turned his life around.
And he’d had it snatched away from him way too young.
“Don’t know what you’re nosying at,” Brian muttered. “Came to visit Cassy, not you.”
Again, Brian didn’t hear anything but silence. Just more leaves rustling against one another, birdsong battling for supremacy. And as much as that silence pained him, in a way, it comforted him too.
Because he’d survived.
He’d survived so many times, and for that reason, he’d brought so many people to justice.
That hadn’t stopped, right up until his final case. Sammi and Michael Reed were both charged with murder and withholding information. Will Reed was charged with assaulting a police officer, reduced from attempted murder, and Karen Reed was left alone, haunted and broken by her screw-up of a family. But that was nothing compared to the pain Elaine Schumer and her family had been put through.
In a bitter, brutal way, Elaine Schumer had got her justice after all.
Brian walked away from the graves. He put down the watering can by the side of the churchyard and turned back around to look at them. At that moment, the sun peeked through the clouds, and whether through coincidence or divine intervention—probably the former, ’cause Brian didn’t believe in that rubbish—it illuminated Cassy and Brad’s headstones.
Brian smiled. “I’ve got to go now,” he said. “I hope I found you some justice in the end.”
He took a deep breath and walked away.
He wouldn’t be coming back here for a long time.
He wouldn’t be breathing British air for a long time.
Not because he was being arrested.
But because he’d finally retired.
He pulled out his badge. He was supposed to be returning it to the station. He chuckled. “Not a bloody chance I’m going back there.”
He tossed it over towards Cassy and Brad’s graves.
Then he smiled, walked towards the bus stop, and got ready for his final day as a British citizen.
He was running away from everything, for good.
And never before had running felt so good on his bulky bloody knees.
Forty-Nine
Three months later…
Three months into retirement and Brian McDone was bored shitless already.
He leaned back on the sunbed and felt the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. He was clammy as hell, the seagulls above were noisy as hell, and worst of all, it was half-term, so the beaches were filled-as-hell with idiots and their idiot kids. He loved Las Palmas, sure. Off-season, it was pretty much paradise. The rest of the time, yeah. Give him the grimness of Preston again any day.
Just don’t tell Hannah he said that.
He heard a cry and his stomach sank. He opened his eyes, squinting into the sunlight, and looked to his right.
Sam covered in sand. Literally covered in the stuff. Drooling it. Legs bathed in it. His little nose was sunburned. He did not look happy.
“Come on then, you,” Brian said, rolling off his sunbed and onto the sand. “You want to see how to build a sandcastle? Daddy’ll show you how to build a sandcastle.”
Brian scooped some of the sand into Sam’s bucket and formed a perfect castle. He watched his son look on with total fixation and curiosity.
“There you go, see. Good, eh?”
Sam looked up at him. “Dat’s wubbish.”
Then he crashed his spade into the sandcastle and giggled.
Brian chuckled along too. He ruffled Sam’s hair. “That’s my boy.”
Then he looked up from Sam and saw Hannah lying there, book in her hands.
“He’s getting better at the whole sandcastle thing,” Brian said.
Hannah looked over, sunglasses covering most of her face, and smiled. “Clearly takes after his mummy on the creativity front.”
“You saying I’m not creative?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Brian shrugged. “Can’t argue with that really. But hey. My lack of creativity scored us a nice police pension to live on. So you can’t really complain, can you?”
Hannah opened her mouth in mock shock.
Brian climbed back onto his sunbed, lifting Sam with him.
Truth be told, he’d found it difficult at first. Difficult adapting to life away from England. Difficult adapting to life away from the police. He lived with the constant fear that his actions were going to catch up with him, too. After all, Marlow had covered for him. He’d framed Stan Walker for the murder of the chief constable. However right or wrong that was, Stan Walker had killed a lot of people. He deserved to be inside. It was justice.
Brian probably deserved to be inside, too. But he’d done his fair share of cleaning up so many messes that he figured he deserved at least some time away with his family.
He cuddled Sam tighter. He was sweaty, and so too was Brian. But as he held him and stared at the waves, at the people splashing around in them, the sun simmering against the water, Brian felt at peace. Finally, he was far, far away from the trap of the police. Finally, he was able to live his own life, however long that’d be for. Finally, he was able to let the idea of justice go and just enjoy a normal life.
“I’ll always look out for you, young man,” Brian whispered, as he lifted his son above him. “Always.”
Sam grinned back at him. He didn’t know what Brian had said, but he didn’t need to. Brian had a feeling he’d understand one day.
Just as Brian was about to put Sam down and settle in for another hour or two of boring sunbathing, he heard a shout over to the right.
A man in black snatched a woman’s handbag. He tugged it from her hands and started jogging away, down the beach.
Brian thought about just staying put. He thought about waiting here because there was nothing he could do to help.
But then he lurched from his seat and ran after the man.
He might’ve left police justice back in England.
But true justice wasn’t going anywhere.
Never.
Thank you for reading the McDone series!
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About the Author
Ryan Casey is the author of over a dozen novels and a highly successful serial. He primarily writes post apocalyptic fiction, and also has a series of mystery novels. Across all genres, Casey's work is renowned for its dark, page-turning suspense, unforgettably complex characters, and knockout twists.
Casey lives in the United Kingdom. He has a BA degree in English with Creative Writing from the University of Birmingham, and has been writing stories for as long as he can remember. In his spare time,
he enjoys American serial television, is a slave to Pitchfork's Best New Music section, and wastes far too much of his life playing Football Manager games.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Ryan Casey
Cover design by Cormar Creative
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Higher Bank Books