Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  The details always change slightly, but he is always the same. The man dressed in black. Looking up at me as I stare out of my childhood bedroom window, raising his hand to gesture at me to come to him.

  Over the years I’ve convinced myself that he isn’t real. He was never real. That I had never seen him outside my dreams, that he had never beckoned me to him, holding one hand up. But sometimes, I wonder. I try to pick out a detail in his build, or his clothes, or the glint of his eyes that will allow me to place him.

  For all the good it will do. I can hardly go to the police and decry someone as a murderer because of dreams that haunted me and a memory I no longer trust.

  Pulling my hands through my hair, damp with sweat, I glance at my clock again and decide it would be best just to get up. Change my bed sheets. Grab a shower. Wait until it’s reasonable to phone my mechanic and arrange for my car to be collected. If I keep busy, I can push the dream out of my head. I can tell myself that the bogeyman in the black suit isn’t real. And he certainly isn’t coming for me.

  ‘You’re late today,’ Trina, one of my colleagues at The Chronicle, says, raising her eyes from her computer screen and glancing at the clock.

  It’s not as if I’m not painfully aware that I should have been here at least forty-five minutes ago, but it took a while to get through to my mechanic. It took longer to try to feel calm enough to leave the flat and come into work in the first place. This has got under my skin and I don’t like it. I’m not used to feeling rattled.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asks.

  I like Trina. She’s one of life’s good people. Our lives are very different outside work – she is married with two young girls – but we each harbour an unspoken respect for each others’ life choices. Still, I can’t bring myself to tell her the whole truth.

  ‘Car trouble,’ I tell her, pulling my coat off and hanging it on the back of my chair. ‘I had to get a taxi.’

  There’s no tremor in my voice and I tell myself that’s a good thing. If I can fake being calm and in control, maybe I’ll actually start to feel that way.

  ‘Oh, I hope it’s not too expensive to fix,’ Trina says, lifting her coffee cup and nodding towards mine. ‘Do you want a coffee? I’m making one.’

  I smile and nod. ‘Yes, actually. I’d really love one. Thank you.’

  I don’t tell her about my bad night’s sleep. I don’t want to get drawn into any conversation that might lead to awkward questions being asked.

  ‘Black, no sugar?’ she asks, and I nod again.

  She turns on her heel to go to the kitchen. Tommy yells after her that he’ll have a cuppa if she’s making one and she asks him what his last slave died of. But her tone is light and I know she’ll come back with a tray of hot drinks for everyone.

  I switch my computer on, listen to it whirring slowly to life. I look around my desk and something nips at me. I’m not a tidy freak by any means, but my desk looks more dishevelled than normal and the top drawer on my locker is slightly ajar. I start to wonder if someone has been going through my things, then chide myself for being paranoid.

  Nonetheless, opening it, I try to assess if anything is missing or has been moved, but I can’t see any obvious signs. I look at my desk again, at the sheaves of paper I’ve left sitting around. At my pen pot. At a couple of old editions of The Chronicle, folded and waiting to be put in the recycling. I lift the papers, expecting to find my contacts book underneath it, but it isn’t there.

  I lift all the other sheets of paper looking for it. I check my bag. And then double-check my top drawer. I start to feel a little on edge. My contacts book contains the phone numbers and email addresses of all the people I’ve had cause to interview or speak to over the course of my journalism career. It’s more reliable than any online equivalent. It won’t outdate or be vulnerable to hacking attempts. It’s my bible and I’d be lost without it.

  ‘Did anyone borrow my contacts book?’ I call out, resisting the urge to use the word ‘steal’. ‘Because it doesn’t appear to be on my desk.’

  I’m met with silence. When I look up, I see a few people are shaking their heads, shrugging their shoulders. Trina walks back into the room, carrying a tray of mugs. I ask her, but she hasn’t seen it, either.

  ‘Did you look in your out tray?’

  I nod, because I’ve looked everywhere. Someone is lying to me, but I’m not sure who. I want to stand up and ask again, louder this time maybe, but I doubt anyone would own up. So instead I just say to the room, as calmly as I can, ‘Perhaps if any of you find it, you could return it to my desk and we’ll say no more.’

  No one answers and I swallow down my frustration. Instead, I sip from the coffee mug, ever grateful to feel the caffeine start to flood my system. Even if there’s a chance it will also start to make me feel more jittery than I already am.

  My mechanic has told me he’s very busy and he’ll get round to fixing my car when he can, but it might not be until next week. He raised a very bushy eyebrow when he saw the graffiti on the bonnet, but thankfully didn’t ask any questions. Maybe he’s one of a select group of people who wonder why this hasn’t happened to me sooner. People who believe I’m the gutter press.

  My phone rings and I answer only to hear Ryan’s voice. He wants me in his office. Now. Once again, it doesn’t sound as if it’s likely to be a fun conversation. I take a long drink of my coffee, which burns as it slides down my throat, before going to see him.

  I barely have the door closed before he asks me if I know anything about the broken glass in the car park.

  ‘It was where your car is usually parked. Must have happened overnight. Is your car okay?’

  I blush. I can’t hide the fact I don’t have it with me today, but nor am I willing to tell him the truth.

  ‘Short of a problem with the clutch, my car is fine. But it will be in the garage for a bit.’

  ‘So, the broken glass has nothing to do with you?’ His left eyebrow is raised so high, it’s not that far from his hairline.

  ‘Why would it?’ I ask, deciding a brazen approach is the best way forwards.

  ‘I’m not sure, Ingrid, but I can’t help but feel you’re not being totally honest.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ I tell him. ‘Is that all you were looking to talk to me about?’

  His voice softens. ‘Ingrid, this is me you’re talking to. Let me take off my boss hat for a moment or two. As your … erm … friend … are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me? I can help you, you know. Keep you safe.’

  This is Ryan Murray on a full charm offensive. It’s almost as if he can switch on the extra twinkle in his eyes. It dawns on me that even though I have looked up to Ryan for years, and even though our relationship isn’t always strictly professional, I don’t trust him entirely. Something I can’t quite put my finger on is nagging at me.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve told you what you need to know. If you want to call the garage and ask them to confirm that it’s my clutch that’s banjaxed then feel free.’

  ‘No. No. I’ll take you at your word,’ he says, just like I knew he would.

  ‘Grand,’ I say, fake smile plastered on. ‘Is there anything else you need?’

  His twinkle has dimmed just a little. ‘No. Just go and get started on your work.’

  Before I leave, I turn to him. ‘Ryan, you didn’t lift my contacts book from my desk, did you? It seems to be missing.’

  He nods. ‘Actually, I think you must have left it here earlier this week. I found it on my desk this morning.’

  He lifts some of his paperwork and I see my black hardback notebook. I am simultaneously relieved and suspicious that it is on his desk, because I’m as sure as I can be that I did not bring it into his office at any stage. I would have no reason to.

  I take it from him, my mind going into overdrive. I don’t know why, but I have a strong suspicion that he knows more than he’s willing to admit about what exactly happened to my car.


  Chapter Ten

  Declan

  Why did he have to bump into Ingrid Devlin there in the middle of the street when he was looking rough as a badger’s arse? He lit a cigarette directly off the back of another one, tried not to think about the fact he only had four left in the packet and was short of money to buy more. Maybe he’d ask Paddy in the shop to sub him a fiver for one of those cheap packets he sold under the counter.

  ‘You shouldn’t be smoking them!’ his ma was always telling him. ‘You shouldn’t be smoking at all, but especially not those. You never know what’s actually in them. Rat poison or arsenic or something.’

  Most of the time he is able to let her rants wash over him, thankfully. But sometimes he wants to tell her that cheap fags are all he can afford, that and the occasional bag of grass when he wants to forget his worries. He tries not to drink so much these days. It doesn’t agree with him. But the grass makes him forget, for a wee while at least. Maybe he’ll ask his dealer to sub him some of that, too. He’s good for it. He pays his debts as soon as his dole lands in his account.

  He sits back in his armchair and takes a long drag of his cigarette. He knows they’re crap. There’s an acrid quality to the smoke that he does his best to ignore.

  Fuck, he thinks again. His jeans had been dirty, his face in need of a shave, and he was sure he didn’t smell the best when he had seen her. Ingrid fucking Devlin, looking beautiful. Her hair soft, her skin … he didn’t want to think about how soft her skin would feel. How good it would feel to touch her. Caress her. Fuck her.

  He feels himself start to get hard. He’ll think about her later. When he’s in bed. When he can block out the feelings of shame at her seeing just what a disaster he’s made of his life. Practically begging her to buy him a cup of tea and a sausage roll. Has he no pride left?

  He laughs, a short, harsh laugh. He hasn’t had pride in a long time. He has little to be proud of. Living alone, surviving fortnight to fortnight. Always intending to get a job. Never quite managing it. He’s not lazy, he tells himself. Declan Heaney is not afraid of hard work. He’s just broken. Troubled.

  His life changed forever that day, twenty-five years ago. Shouldn’t he be over it now? He sucks on his cigarette again. But people keep reminding him of it. Even Ingrid fucking Devlin. He’d have given anything to have her notice him back at school. Here she is and that murder is all she is interested in. What he saw that day. Not who he is. Not his hopes or his struggles. Everything in his life has been framed by those moments on the banks of the rezzie.

  Then again, his brother, Niall, was able to get over it. Wasn’t he? Saint Niall in his smart suits and with his posh voice. He lost all trace of his Creggan roots as soon as he could – now, his accent has more hints of snobby Belfast than the lyrical Derry twang.

  It’s been a while since he has spoken to Niall. Maybe he should phone him and give him the heads-up that Ingrid might want to talk to him. No, he doesn’t want to speak to Niall. He doesn’t want to talk to him about Ingrid. He can picture it now already, Niall on the charm offensive, and he bets he would be just the kind of man Ingrid Devlin would go for. Polished and proper. Not wondering whether he should buy fags or grass on tick again.

  Trying to ignore the beeping that warns him his electricity is running low and he’ll need to top up the meter, Declan Heaney takes another drag on his cigarette. Maybe all those carcinogens in the cheap fags will do him a favour and finish him off sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ingrid

  Saturday, 19 October 2019

  The train is cold as it trundles along the north coast, through Castlerock, past Benone. There aren’t many people on the beaches today. Just a few tourists, by the look of it. Hunting out the Game of Thrones locations, no doubt.

  I wrap my scarf a little tighter around my neck and wish that I’d put on my thermal tights instead of ordinary opaques. I also wish my car wasn’t in the garage so that I could have driven up to meet Jamesy Harte instead of having to rely on the fairly archaic rail system that exists outside Belfast.

  I’ve been told I’m a control freak. I like to do things my way. I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with that. My way hasn’t let me down too often in the past, but the upshot of it is that I feel out of sorts when things can’t happen the way I would like. When I have to rely on other people instead of doing everything under my own steam.

  I sigh, look down at my laptop again, read over the old newspaper stories that I’d scanned and saved. I glance at the old picture of Jamesy as he was then. I didn’t realise he had been so young when it had happened. Just twenty-two. My hazy childhood memory had him as a grown-up, therefore an ‘old person’ in my head. He isn’t even old now. He’ll be in his late forties, with still a lot of life left to live. But he’s lost so much.

  I study his picture from 1994. I wonder how he’ll look now. Older, obviously. More serious. The picture from the paper shows him as I remember him. There was a softness to him. A gullible air. In those non-PC days, he was referred to as ‘a bit slow’ by those who knew him. ‘Not the sharpest knife in the drawer’ by others.

  Maybe that made it all the easier to pin the blame on him for what happened to Kelly. Or maybe he actually did kill her.

  I’ve met murderers before. I’ve been charmed by them. Mostly I know how to keep my distance, not to believe all they say. But in my experience, the most dangerous people of all are those who can lie so convincingly, with such emotion, that they can pull the wool over your eyes.

  I’m not sure that Jamesy Harte has the wherewithal to be so manipulative. But no other murderer has had the impact on my life that he has. He was the near miss. The scary figure. The proof that it’s not just strangers who are dangerous. He became a man to be feared. And I did fear him. For years.

  As the train pulls into the station at Coleraine and I prepare to take the final leg of my journey by taxi to Portstewart. The fear that has been ingrained in me for the last twenty-five years rises up in me. I have to focus on my breathing. I am here to do a job and this man, who will sit opposite me, is no threat to me at this time. I will be okay.

  We’ve agreed to meet in a café, and not a very salubrious one at that. Neon cardboard stars with handwritten prices battle condensation on the inner windows to advertise the fare on offer. ‘Tea’s and Coffee’s’ are cheap and cheerful, and possess unnecessary apostrophes. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to get a green tea or a chai latte here – and I’m right.

  I take a seat on a slightly wobbly walnut chair and order a pot of tea and a scone. Though the café itself is dank, dark and in need of some TLC, the waitress is warm and welcoming and calls me ‘pet’ at the end of every sentence.

  ‘Awful day out there, isn’t it, pet?’ she asks as she busies herself behind the counter, dropping three teabags into a small metal teapot, and setting a mug and a side plate on a tray.

  ‘It is. Cold, too. I don’t imagine you’ve many people about on days like this,’ I say, finding comfort in the distraction of small talk.

  ‘You’d be surprised. There’s some who love a walk along the promenade in all weathers. They come in here in their wet coats with their runny noses and heat themselves up again while they dry off. The smell of wet coat and wet dog can be fierce in here, pet,’ she laughs.

  I smile a little.

  ‘What brings you here yourself?’ she asks.

  ‘Work,’ I tell her. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

  She raises a not-so-perfectly drawn-on eyebrow. ‘Jesus, times must be tough if this is where work gets done these days, pet. Not that I’m trying to get rid of business, but there are better places to make a good first impression.’ She laughs, loud and brash.

  ‘I’ll be grand where I am,’ I say and open my laptop in front of me.

  I don’t want to continue the conversation. I don’t need her to be too interested in why I’m here and what I’m doing. This has to be on the quiet.

  She settles herself
, sniffs and plonks an anaemic-looking scone on a side plate along with two pats of butter then brings the lot over to me. The tea is as dark as tar as I pour, overflowing and running down the spout, spilling onto the table. I hate strong tea, but I don’t ask her to remake it. I just add as much milk as I can without turning it cold and sip gingerly from it, the ashy tang of the scalded leaves burning my tongue.

  I hear the door open letting in the noise from the street and an influx of cold air. I turn my head and look to see a man. Tall, thin and wrapped up against the cold. He stares at me and I feel uncomfortable in his gaze. This isn’t Jamesy Harte. Or at least it’s not the Jamesy Harte I remember from my childhood, or from the pictures I’d looked at on the train.

  ‘Ingrid?’ he asks, his voice soft.

  There’s a familiarity to his tone that I can’t deny.

  ‘Jim?’ I ask, just as he had instructed.

  No one calls him Jamesy any more, apparently. Not to his face. ‘People hear my name and they’ve already made up their mind about me,’ he’d said.

  He nods, a flash of nervousness crossing his face, before sitting down opposite me. I realise he’s as scared as I am.

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask him and he nods.

  But I don’t want the waitress, no matter how nice she is, to come to our table, so I get up and go to the counter and order it there, waiting for it to be ready and carrying it back myself. With a shaking hand, I place the tea on the table, then I sit down. My mouth is dry and I can feel my body tense up. A moment or two passes. I’m at a loss for words. What do you say when you come face to face with your nightmare?

  I sag with relief when the door opens again and a sodden family, loud and complaining about being out in the cold, bundle in and start to discuss what to order at the top of their voices. I feel marginally less nervous when there are more people around and I pull myself together enough to speak.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ I say as I try to find something recognisable from my childhood in his features. ‘You’ve changed.’