Little Bird: a serial killer thriller

by Sharon Dempsey

  He inhaled and then said quieter, ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this.’

  ‘No, but you have the power to stop it here and now. Don’t make it worse. Tell me where Anna is. Let me save her, please.’

  Brogan stepped forward, ‘It’s over,’ he said lifting the knife, like he knew his time was up, that he was ready to end it all. Their eyes met and in that second Declan could see Nelson Brogan in him, the pronounced forehead, the deep-set eyes. It was him all right. The father, apparent in the son.

  Then a loud crack of gunfire broke through the reverie.

  ‘Drop your weapon and put your hands behind your head!’

  The Calvary at last. Declan slumped back and let the pain of the knife wound finally catch up with him. Then the morning light caught the blade as Brogan pushed it into his own throat, blood spluttering out as he dropped to his knees. The door of the house opened and a woman ran out, her dressing gown flapping behind making her look like some sort of mythical winged creature. The aunt, he supposed. Everything felt so very far away. He was losing his grip, he needed to fight, just as he had done once before, to hold on. The woman was on her knees now, cradling Brogan’s head, roaring, ‘Rabbie, Rabbie, no, no. Not Rabbie.’

  Declan dragged himself closer. The wound was still bleeding but nothing was spilling out of him. He’d live if he got medical attention soon. Thomas King was radioing for help, but all Declan wanted was for him to find Anna.

  ‘Where is she?’ he shouted at Maude Briers, ‘If she is hurt, if she should die, and you know anything, it will be on your head.’ Desperation was giving him a final shot of power to drag himself closer.

  Maude lifted her head, ‘I don’t know, but check the old house, further up the glen. It’s where my mother came from, we still own it, but it’s only a shack now. Sometimes, as a boy Rabbie would go up there to lay traps and hunt animals.’

  Thomas ran towards them.

  ‘Go, go, to the glen further up the lane!’ Declan panted with the exertion of shouting – ‘There’s an old house, check it out. She might be there. I’m ok. Just go!’ he yelled at Thomas. There was nothing more he could do for Anna, but he prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, that it wasn’t too late. He could hear singing; it seemed far away, a hymn he thought and he listened to the words of damnation and redemption as he clung to consciousness, fearful of slipping away.

  52

  Brogan survived.

  The knife wound missed the carotid artery by millimetres but nicked his trachea. He almost died of air starvation, but they paramedics worked quickly. Declan thanked God when he heard. He wanted to see Brogan in court. To have him sentenced for what he’d done, to know the stench of his own sweat and piss after being locked up in a cell.

  Declan’s own injuries healed. Twenty-two staples along his side. More scars to add to the collection. It was touch and go as to whether or not he’d lose a kidney. Thankfully the damage was repairable.

  Those moments waiting to hear if King had found Anna alive, well, they felt like an eternity. He lay there in the gravel, bleeding, pain scorching through him, watching Maude Briers sing hymns while she rocked a bleeding Brogan in her arms like inerrant child.

  The cop car arrived, an ambulance too, sirens blazing and then word came through. Anna was safe. They’d done it. He cried with the relief. Tears pouring out of him, for Esme, for the other girls – Grace and Aisling, for Anna and for himself. He wanted to stay until he’d seen Anna rescued and brought from the old house but the paramedics took over. He found himself carted off on a trolley bed, that old helpless feeling of not having the power to walk away or to run for his life. The tears and the uncontrollable shaking continued until he was in the hospital, wrapped in blankets and being rush through to surgery. The relief of counting backwards knowing oblivion was coming, giving him a respite from the agony while surgeons fought to repair the damage Brogan had inflicted on him.

  When he came round that night, he could hear whispering voices, Lara, Izzy and a man’s voice he couldn’t quite place. He let the conversation flow around him while he contemplated what had happened, aware of bandages around his lower back, an IV stand dripping something into his veins.

  The voice again. King. It was Thomas King. He shifted in the bed, tried to lift his head.

  ‘Steady Declan, don’t be moving about. We’re here for you. The surgery went well.’ Izzy looked tired. Her blue grey eyes still arresting, her skin clear and luminous.

  He turned his head towards Thomas, ‘Anna, how is she?’

  ‘She’s just fine. Doing great.’

  Declan dropped his head back on the pillow. Relief surging through his every cell, recharging his will to live. He saw a look pass over Izzy’s face. She knew.

  53

  Anna rubbed at her neck. The bruising was fifty shades of purple. She stared at her sorry reflection in the mirror. The hospital lighting wasn’t exactly helping, but she looked like hell. There was a haunted look around her eyes that no amount of make-up could hide. Time, she told herself it’ll take time. She gently touched her cheekbone, where a gash had been sutured with neat precise little black stitches. The wound felt tight and itchy, a sign it was healing. It was tender to touch, still swollen and puffy. Her hair lay lank and wet around her shoulders. The shower had been intermittently hot but it had been a powerful spray and now at least she felt clean and fresh.

  Thomas had promised to buy her a pair of pajamas to save her from having to shuffle around in the hospital gown. Still, they said she could go home soon, maybe even tomorrow, if everything checked out ok. She’d make sure she was the model patient, anything to get home to her own bed. Anna smiled. Home. Belfast had got to her. In spite of everything that had happened, she liked this godforsaken place.

  She roughly towel dried her hair and decided she would go looking for Declan. He was on the next floor somewhere. Possibly ward 8C. She had made sure to listen in to Thomas’ telephone conversations, trying to glean whatever information he was telling the boss. Every time she asked him stuff, he’d tell her not to worry her head. To get better and then deal with the shit storm waiting for them.

  She shuffled along the corridor in disposable slippers looking for ward 8C. A man passed by carrying a helium filled balloon with ‘sorry you’re sick’ scripted across it and a bunch of sad looking peach roses under his arm. He looked like a right gobshite as Thomas would say. The sign for ward 8C loomed up ahead. She’d barely walked twenty metres and she felt weak and light headed. Nearly there. She reached for the door and stopped just in time to catch a glimpse of Izzy and Lara through the window, sitting at the bedside. Declan was lying still, his eyes closed, hooked up to an IV stand. He looked content. A man at peace with himself, with his family around him. Of course, he would want them with him. Need them even. She was stupid to think otherwise. With immense effort, she turned and began the slow walk back to her hospital room, where she would allow herself to cry, big, heart-wrenching tears of pure self-pity.

  Epilogue

  The cemetery was huge. She had to go to the office and ask for coordinates of where to find the grave. A small crowd had gathered outside the crematorium, waiting for the coffin to be carried inside. Anna made her way down towards the rows and rows of graves. Some had elaborate headstones proclaiming angels watching over their loved ones, while a simple plaque placed at the foot of a tree marked other graves.

  There was so much she needed to tell him; with the nuclear fallout of the press expose on their relationship, the kidnap and her subsequent rescue, the apprehension of Brogan and the culmination of all their work, she had barely been able to consider the future. Now, she waited for his arrival, unsure of where they would go from here.

  She watched as a few people mulled around the graves of their loved ones. Some tidying up patches of earth, freshly dug, removing dead flowers and replacing them with fresh bunches. Others, standing in silent prayer. The morning sun hung low in the pale blue sky.

  Then she saw
his Volvo car pull up and watched as he maneuvered himself out of it. The slow mechanical whirr of the traction and the unfolding of himself into the wheelchair. He looked good, tired maybe, a bit drawn round the eyes, but still the sight of him made her heart quicken. She turned to greet him as he made his way down the slope towards the grave. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

  ‘Izzy told me I’d find you here.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s become a bit of a ritual. I like to start the day by checking on Esme’s grave.’

  Anna nodded. She knew there were no words of comfort to offer.

  ‘You look good,’ he smiled, his eyes taking her in.

  ‘So, how have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m healing. The stitches are out. It wasn’t as bad as it looked.’

  ‘What about you?’ his voice was low and Anna thought she could hear the concern laced in it.

  She paused, ‘I’m doing ok.’

  They both looked down at the grave. A headstone had been erected. A piece of dark grey polished granite, inscribed with Esme’s name, and date of her death. Nothing ornate, no platitudes, or prayers. The soil was still freshly turned. No grass had been planted yet.

  Anna thought of Camille’s grave back in Cardiff. Wondered if her dad still tended to it on a regular basis. She’d have to ask him next time she called him.

  ‘Izzy is moving out,’ Declan said.

  ‘She told me. Said I was to look after you. That you were a good man.’

  ‘Sounds like you two had quite a talk. Do you think you’ll be sticking around then?’

  Anna smiled, ‘For now. I’ve had the secondment extended. McKay has ideas of putting me in historical inquiries – outside eyes looking at old cases.’

  ‘The past,’ he said shaking his head, ‘It never really goes away in this place,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it feels like the legacy of bloodshed is still casting shadows over the future.’

  She couldn’t argue with him. His daughter lay beneath the earth, a terrible reminder of how the past had ricocheted into the present.

  Anna took his hand in hers, ‘We have to make sure those shadows are shortened, that better days are here to stay.’

  He kissed her hand, pulling her closer to him and looked lost in thought.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Anna asked.

  ‘That the dead want for nothing. Justice doesn’t affect them. Like funerals, it’s for the living. Without it I’d be left with nothing but bitterness and fury. I’m glad I don’t have to live that life.’

  The End

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  Acknowledgments

  There are many people who have been important to me while writing this book. First, writer, Louise Phillips, thank you for your support and mentoring. Your insights and generosity with your time, and editorial feedback were essential in helping me finish the book.

  I am grateful to Damian Smyth and the Arts Council NI’s Support for the Individual Artist Programme, which gave me both validation and a deadline.

  Thanks also to Neil Henry for his policing insights.

  Betsy and Fred, and all at Bloodhound, especially editor, Emma Mitchell, thank you for your professionalism and enthusiasm.

  To my Scribes and Scribblers, especially Jackie, Linda, Frances, Gary, Marianne, Kate and Eibhlinn. Thank you for sharing your stories with me and helping me grow as a writer. Thanks also to Witches with Wolves especially Mary Montague and to Jane Talbot from Women Aloud.

  To my PORT buddies, especially Neil, Danielle and Ginny, this book has been the reason I haven’t been reviewing documents as frequently as I would like.

  I won’t get away with not thanking my GPk gang. You girls are so important to me, especially Roma, Katie, Joan, Andrea and Carmel.

  Finally, to my family – Mum and Dad, Liam, Kate, Owen and Sarah, thank you.