Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  I snort. ‘Yes. I can see how tying my hands from doing my job properly makes me very lucky.’

  ‘Christ but you’re insufferable at times,’ he says. ‘As you can imagine, the new edicts haven’t gone down the best with your colleagues, so if you want my advice, you’d keep your head down out there. I’ve no need to remind you that for every journalism job out there, there are numerous prospective reporters just chomping at the bit to get the chance at a staff position.’

  ‘Are you threatening my job here?’ I ask him.

  He pauses, steeples his fingers and looks directly up at me. ‘No, Ingrid. I’m not. But you need to be careful you don’t destroy your career yourself.’

  ‘You need to be careful, too,’ I tell him. ‘Because if things get nasty for me, they can get nasty for you. I’ve not been on my own all of these nights here. We’ve had some adventures.’

  I’m ashamed of myself for dragging our affair into it. For being that woman who issues such threats. But I’m angry.

  Not waiting for his reply, I get up to leave. If I didn’t think it would set tongues wagging further, I’d slam the door to his office as hard as I could on the way out. Instead, I plaster on a look of nonchalance, even though inside I’m seething, and close the door gently before walking back to my desk as if I don’t have a care in the world.

  Chapter Twenty

  Declan

  Declan is having a good day. It has taken him a while to recognise the unfamiliar feeling of something close to contentment for what it is, but today he doesn’t feel mired in the drudgery of his own life. It could be because his dole money has landed in and while he doesn’t exactly feel flush, it’s nice to have the knowledge that there’s a few quid in his pocket.

  He has treated himself to a haircut and a hot-towel shave, and has taken his washing to his ma’s to run through her machine. He throws her a few quid for the cost of the electricity, which he knows she will slip back in his pocket later with a wink that says ‘Don’t be so silly, son.’

  He spent some time this morning cleaning his flat. He hadn’t realised just how messy it had become, or how stale the air was until he had pushed open his windows and let the cold autumn air flood his living room. He’s going to get himself under control, he promises himself. Stop smoking the grass. Stop drinking – or at least cut down on the drinking.

  He picked up a parcel from the food bank yesterday, which has taken the bare look off his cupboards, and he vows he’ll spend some of his dole on some fresh fruit and veg. He’s been feeling so sluggish lately that he can feel himself spiralling and is afraid of how low he will go this time if he doesn’t get a grip.

  It’s amazing, he tells himself, how looking after himself, and his home, has the power to lift his mood so quickly. His flat will never make it into the interior pages of the Ulster Tatler or the like, but at least it looks clean now. More homely. Dust motes no longer dance in mass formation in the air as the autumn sun shines through the windows.

  He’s not sure what has brought about this change in him, but he thinks it might, just might, have something to do with his meeting with Ingrid last week. He thinks that he might message her again. Offer to take her to the exact spot where he and Niall found Kelly’s body. Tell her as much as he can about that day, what he remembers.

  He has an urge, no, a need to see her again. He can’t get the thought of her out of his head. Her blonde hair, her blue eyes. The way she had spoken to him so kindly as they’d sat opposite each other in the café. At one stage she had reached out and touched his hand, and he had revelled in the warmth of it. Ingrid Devlin was a walking reminder of a better time in his life. Of innocent, happy days before Kelly died. Seeing her again has sparked something in him and he can’t stop thinking about her.

  His ma hands him a cup of tea and he sits opposite her at the kitchen table as the last load of washing runs through the tumble dryer.

  ‘Your brother’s coming down again this weekend,’ she says, and he feels something uneasy start to bud in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘That’s not like him,’ he says. ‘What brings him down again?’

  ‘I thought he’d have told you,’ she says, reaching for a Rich Tea biscuit and taking a bite.

  He watches as crumbs fall to the table and she brushes them into a neat pile immediately.

  ‘We’re not as close we used to be, Ma. You know that.’

  ‘I don’t know where I went wrong with you boys,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘You were thick as thieves as children and now it’s like you can’t stand to be near each other.’

  ‘You didn’t go wrong, Ma. Our lives are very different is all,’ he says, and she offers him a pitying look in response.

  ‘I suppose,’ she says. ‘But, Declan, you’re still young, you know. You’ve a lot of living left to do. If you just … you know …’

  Her sentence trails off as if she has already exhausted all the ‘if you justs’ over the years.

  ‘I know,’ he says, because he does know.

  If he could stop letting that niggle of doubt and self-hatred in. If he could simply stop fucking up his own life.

  He pauses. ‘So, Niall didn’t say why he was coming down?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, he did. He told me. He’s been talking to that Ingrid Devlin one, too. I think he’s meeting her. I’ve not told your father. You know he won’t like it. I can’t say I like it, either,’ she says.

  Declan feels the fragile casing of his good day start to crack. It could shatter at any second.

  ‘Seems neither of you boys listen to me when I warn you to stay away from her. There’s no need to go digging up the past. Let it alone.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ingrid

  There’s a crick in my neck, which I’m trying my very hardest to ease by rolling my shoulders and kneading my tightened muscles. Day has turned to night without me even noticing; although to be fair, in the dimly lit newsroom it’s quite a common occurrence for time to pass, seasons to change even, without us paying attention.

  I’ve been in my glorious bubble all afternoon. That place where nothing exists except for me and the tip-tap of my fingers on the keyboard – words coming to life on the screen in front of me, creating a story. Giving people a voice. I know that may sound self-aggrandising, but it’s what I love most about my job.

  I know this is a good piece. Dammit, I know it’s a brilliant piece. It is respectful, heart-rending, and contains just enough salacious detail to keep the public reading. It’s a balancing act, but one I think I’ve managed well.

  I grimace as I lift the coffee cup from my desk and put it to my lips. It’s stone cold. I’m not sure how long it has been sitting, but I know by the growing pressure behind my eyes that I need a caffeine injection, and quickly. I file my story, sending it through the system to Ryan to read and edit, and get up, taking my cup with me and heading for the staff kitchen.

  Of course, I’m only a couple of steps from my desk, when my phone rings with that single beep of an internal call. Surely Ryan can’t have read the piece and found fault with it already … Briefly, I contemplate ignoring the call and going to get my coffee anyway, but I know curiosity will nag at me until I find out who it is and what they want. So I answer, and am surprised to hear Lisa from reception on the other end of the line.

  ‘Ingrid,’ she says in a tone which I’m familiar with.

  It’s the ‘appease the public at any cost’ tone, which she uses when someone has been giving her a hard time over the phone or, worse still, at her reception desk.

  ‘There’s a Liam Doherty here to see you. I’ve told him that the paper is just about to go to print and you’re very busy, but he is really quite insistent.’

  I hear a deep male voice in the background, in full rant.

  ‘I don’t care how busy she is. I don’t care if she’s the bloody Queen of Sheba. I want to see her and see her now. And I’ll tell you this much, you can either get her to come out here and talk to me, or I�
��ll force my own way through – and there’s not a one of you will stop me.’

  ‘Mr Doherty, if you just give me a moment, I’m speaking to her right now to see if she’s available,’ I hear Lisa say.

  ‘If she’s speaking to you on the other end of that phone then she’s available. No ifs and buts about it.’

  He is becoming irate. His voice is louder and can now be heard through the heavy fire doors that separate us from the reception office.

  Tommy and Jim lift their heads, look towards the door and then at me.

  ‘Can you tell Mr Doherty I’ll be out in a minute,’ I say to Lisa, but there’s a shake in my voice.

  I’ve no idea why he’s here, but more than that, I’ve no idea why he is so angry. Sure, he didn’t seem to be falling over himself with joy at my presence in his house, but he didn’t seem to be against the idea, either. He’d been content enough to let Bernie do the talking. I feel the headache kick in just a little more and fumble in my desk drawer for two paracetamol tablets, which I down with a slug of the cold coffee, grimacing as I do so.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Trina asks, glancing between me and the door. ‘Maybe you should get one of the lads to go out with you.’

  She might have a point. It can be intimidating facing an angry man, but at the same time I don’t want to show any sign of weakness. I can handle this.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s something and nothing,’ I bluff, but I’m uncharacteristically nervous.

  I straighten my skirt, put my hand to my hair to smooth it and take a deep breath.

  Liam Doherty looks even more wretched than he did at the house. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks flushed. He has the look of someone who has had a lot to drink, and as he comes closer, I realise he has the smell of someone who has had a lot to drink on him, too. I notice the car keys in his hand. Has he driven here?

  As soon as he notices me he becomes more animated, pointing a bony finger in my direction.

  ‘I want that story pulled,’ he says. ‘You’re not to run it. Do you hear? People have had their pound of flesh from us already and my girl’s life isn’t for sale. Bernie should never have spoken to you.’

  My stomach tightens as I think of the story I have just filed. Think of the hours I’ve put into it.

  ‘I’m afraid that the paper has already gone to print,’ I lie, my voice wavering.

  He steps around the reception desk towards me, everything about his stance oozing pain and aggression.

  ‘Well, then you can just get it back from print. Because it’s not to run. You can’t run it without my say-so.’

  I try to keep my ground and maintain an appearance of calm, when calm is the last thing I feel.

  ‘I’m really sorry you feel this way,’ I tell him. ‘Councillor Duffy told me he spoke to both you and Bernie at length about the story before I did the interview. I’m sure Bernie has told you that I have assured her that I will not sensationalise things one bit. Yes, it covers what happened, but it also allows your family to let the world know about Kelly as the little girl she was, not just the victim of a brutal murder.’

  He takes a step closer, leans against the high desk at reception. He is unsteady on his feet. I see a look of panic in Lisa’s eyes. Liam is dangerously close to me now. A swing of his hand and he could hit me square across the face. By the anger in his gaze, I’m not entirely sure that isn’t what he is going to do.

  ‘Councillor Duffy has no right to speak for my family. He can issue his “advice” all he wants about talking to the press. But I did not agree to this. No matter what anyone told you. And damn it, I still have some say over what happens when it comes to my family.’

  ‘Look, Bernie did tell me this was very difficult for you …’ I say, trying to soothe him.

  He laughs a brittle laugh, which quickly turns into a sound akin to a sob.

  ‘You’ve no idea. You’ll never have any idea. Is that bastard Ryan Murray here? Get him here and I’ll tell him exactly where he can shove his story.’

  ‘I’ll just ring through to him now …’ Lisa starts, but I raise a hand.

  The last thing I need is for Liam Doherty to start telling my boss just how unprofessional he thinks I am. As much of a pain in the arse as it will be, Ryan will pull the story. These are different times now. No one takes a publish-and-be-damned risk any more. Especially not Ryan, who has been trying to bury this story from the start.

  ‘Let’s see if Mr Doherty and I can have a little chat first,’ I say. ‘Perhaps we can go through to a quiet room and talk,’ I say in my most appeasing tone.

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he slurs. ‘She is not for sale and she is definitely not for sale to the bloody Chronicle!’ His anger falters, glassy eyes filling with tears. ‘She was my baby, Ingrid. You know that. You knew us. You were there!’

  His anger is replaced by pain and I feel my heart constrict.

  ‘We just want to help her be remembered,’ I say.

  He looks down at his shoes. One lace is loose – undone, just like the rest of him. I see his shoulders shudder as his body is wracked with sobs and guilt washes over me. So much guilt. But still, I know I have to do whatever I can to stop this story from being pulled.

  When Liam Doherty lifts his head again, he looks at me, his eyes pleading.

  ‘You’ll never understand. You’ll never feel the pain we do. And this – seeing it again. Reading it again …’ His voice trails off. ‘It doesn’t help anyone. I tried, believe me, I’ve tried to be okay with it, but I can’t be. She was murdered. Let me tell you about that,’ Liam says, to the room as much as to me. His voice is thick with pain. ‘My wee girl. My wee princess. She was the most beautiful wee baby I ever saw. The light of my life. Every single time I saw her, my heart felt full. She made my soul smile.

  ‘And then some monster caved her head in. Left her covered in bruises. Her perfect, beautiful, innocent wee body. And she would’ve cried out for me, or her mammy. I know she would have. And that monster, he would have let her. He didn’t care. Not about her, or us. He broke her and he broke us, too. Then he left her, in the rain and the cold and the dark. In the water. Did Bernie tell you Kelly was afraid of the dark? She was always asking me to leave the big light on. And she lay there in the dark for three days …’

  He dissolves into heavy sobs, which wrench free from his body with an almighty burst of noise. I see that Lisa is crying. A few staff members have come out of various back offices to see what the commotion is about and they stare at the spectacle with their eyes wide. Some are shaking their heads.

  ‘Please, just come through and sit down. We’ll get you a cup of tea. Call a taxi. You can’t drive in that state, Mr Doherty. Please. We can talk this through,’ I say.

  It seems hopelessly inadequate, but it’s all I can offer.

  He shakes his head but allows me to lead him through to an empty side office anyway, which is dusty, cold and unwelcoming. He sits down and puts his head in his hands while I nod to Lisa to make some sweet sugary tea. I’ll give him a chance to cry, I think. To let it all out. And then I’ll try to talk him round. As hard as this is, we do need the story. The story does need to be told.

  In the meantime, I just sit down across the table from him and listen to his sobs, mixed with the ticking of a clock that is telling the wrong time, and I wonder how long it takes to boil a kettle. It’s not that I don’t feel for him. Of course I do.

  When the door opens, my heart soars with relief. A cup of tea will help. It’ll settle him and bring him round. At least I hope it will.

  My relief is short-lived, however, when I notice it isn’t Lisa pushing her way through the door but Ryan. He looks at Liam Doherty then at me, and he shakes his head. A heavy ‘I told you so’ hangs in the air.

  ‘Mr Doherty,’ he says, prompting Liam to look up. ‘I believe you wanted to see me.’

  Mr Doherty brushes quickly at his cheeks, straightens himself. ‘I never want to see you, Murray,’ he snarls.
‘But I do want you to drop the story about my daughter. You’ve had your pound of flesh. Leave her in peace now. Leave us in peace now.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Liam,’ Ryan says, and there is a steeliness to his voice that makes my blood run cold.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ingrid

  Liam stands up, faces off with Ryan. I don’t know whether to keep sitting or stand up between the two of them.

  ‘I do not want this paper or any paper running this story. I do not want this paper to contact my family again under any circumstances,’ Liam says. He’s slurring his words, his voice shaking with emotion.

  ‘I’m afraid the page has already gone to print,’ Ryan says, and I’m surprised that his lie supports my own. ‘The presses are running.’

  ‘Well, stop them from running!’ Liam says. ‘We are withdrawing our consent and we do not permit you to use anything we said to you. You’re a powerful man, Murray. You can make that happen at least.’

  ‘Ingrid has put together a very sensitive and respectful piece,’ Ryan says. ‘It’s a piece that shows you and your wife to be very loving parents. There is nothing controversial in it. The story is very much about Kelly, not her killer.’

  There’s a moment’s silence. Liam looks directly at Ryan and then shakes his head slowly.

  ‘Is it not enough that you covered all this at the time? Was that not more than enough for you? We’ve stayed quiet. We stayed dignified. And believe me, there have been times when I’ve wanted to scream about our loss to the whole world. Can we not just have that dignity now?’

  ‘The paper is already away to print,’ Ryan says again.

  I know that’s not true. I know we have at least another hour before the presses roll.

  I watch as Liam Doherty deflates in front of me. He speaks, his voice quieter now but steady.

  ‘We couldn’t protect Kelly then. No matter how we tried. We didn’t do right by her then. We want to do right by her now. That’s all we want to do.’