Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  ‘Do you smoke?’ he asks, looking at me.

  I shake my head.

  He sighs. ‘Do you mind if I smoke? It calms me down.’

  I really don’t want him to smoke in my flat. I hate the smell of tobacco. It nauseates me and the last thing I want is for it to linger after he is gone.

  ‘I’d prefer you didn’t,’ I say.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says, defeated. ‘Look, as I was saying. People see me and they make their minds up in the first few minutes. There’s me, a bit of a scruff. Not always looking my best. Maybe a fag in my hand. Wandering the streets when most people are at work. They see me as a dole artist. A scrounger.’

  I shake my head when he looks at me, but I know that I’m fooling no one.

  ‘It’s fair enough, ye know. I struggle to keep a job. Bad with my nerves. Sometimes, when people find out what I saw, what we did, they kind of understand. And they soften a bit. ’Til they hear about Niall and his job, and his nice house and nice car. They think, well, that fellah saw it all too, and he’s not dossing about. They lose sympathy for me right and quick, you know. But here’s the thing, it never affected Niall the way it did me. He … well …’

  ‘He well what?’ I ask.

  Declan blinks slowly as if the memory is being played out on the inside of his eyelids there and then.

  ‘There was a stick. He had a stick. And he prodded her, ye know, to see if she was alive or something. I don’t know. I mean it was clear she was dead. She was face down. But he prodded her anyway and …’ He swallows. ‘That stick went right through, right into her brain. I can still remember the sound it made …’

  My stomach tightens. It must have been horrific.

  ‘Niall called for help. I threw up whatever was left of my lunch then I ran to find the grown-ups. I have never been so scared in all my life. But Niall, he seemed to take it in his stride, you know. Like it was no big deal. I mean, she was dead, and rotting and …

  ‘He waded into the water and pulled her to shore. I saw his shoulders shaking and I thought he was crying like I was.

  ‘I called to him to come back because I thought he might throw up, too. I knew, even then I knew, it would be bad if he was sick on her. You know, forensics and all that.’ Declan raised an eyebrow at me, and I nodded.

  ‘The thing is, Ingrid. When he turned back, he wasn’t crying at all. He was laughing. This mad, like hysterical or something laugh. But I swear he changed in that moment. Sometimes, I wonder had he changed long before that and I just hadn’t noticed.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ingrid

  I ask Declan what he means. Tell him it was probably just shock making his brother laugh. We’ve all done it in horrible situations. Emotion bubbles up one way or the other – and not always the right emotion.

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he says. ‘But I’m his twin and I just felt as though everything was different after.’

  ‘Well, it was a massive trauma,’ I reply. ‘You were only children. It was bound to change you.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe. But I don’t know. It’s hard to remember, but I’ve a feeling we were on different paths from before then. He became very serious. Angry even. Always clashing with me da. Before that, it had been fun. Us up there all the time, pretending we were explorers and the like. You must remember that, Ingrid. How we all played in the summer up there. We never showed you our den, though. No girls allowed,’ he says with a wink. ‘It was like our own wee world.’

  I do remember, although after Kelly had died, I don’t think I ever went near the place again. I was a timid child – scared of my own shadow, my mother said. But it had never been my shadow I’d been scared of. Before Kelly died, the bogeyman was just a myth; afterwards, he became real. And bad things really could happen.

  But before then? Yes, like most of the children from the estate, we had decamped to the country park around the reservoir on the seemingly endless hot summer days. We built dens. We played until the light started to fade and we never really worried about our safety. We lived in an innocent bubble – strange, really, when you think of the political landscape of Derry at the time. The Troubles sputtering to a violent, dark and scary end.

  ‘Well, Niall didn’t want to play those games any more. Said they were for babies. He didn’t want to hang about with me so much, either. Wasn’t cool to have your brother as your best friend, ye know?’ Declan raises his eyebrows and looks at me. ‘Maybe he knew I was going to end up with nothing to offer the world anyway and wanted to cut his losses,’ he sniffs before looking around the room. ‘Look, if I open the balcony door here and hang my head out of it, could I have a wee smoke? Just a couple of puffs? Feeling a bit jittery, ye know.’

  I can’t say that I’m scared of what he might do if I say no, but I don’t want any trouble.

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘But out the door. Let me get you a saucer to stub the butt out on.’

  ‘You’re a star, Ingrid Devlin. You always were a class act,’ he says, pulling a small tin from the pocket at the front of his shirt – the one item of clothing that hadn’t been soaked right through – and rolling himself a cigarette.

  I watch as his long, thin fingers fold the paper, sprinkle in tobacco and maybe something else before he licks the edges of it with the very tip of his tongue and seals it. My skin prickles. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. My body is on high alert.

  Maybe I’m more scared of Declan than I’m willing to admit to myself. I seem to be scared of a lot of things just now. People smashing car windows and breaking into my flat. The feeling that something is off-kilter with the world.

  He lights the cigarette, inhales deeply before blowing a long stream of smoke out of the balcony door, not that that gets rid of the smell. Smoke blows back into the room on the wind.

  ‘I don’t want to think bad of him,’ Declan says after a pause. ‘He’s my brother and I love him, but I also think something’s not quite right with him. It’s almost … well, it’s hard to explain, but it’s almost as if he doesn’t feel things the way other people do. Can’t feel sorry for people. Or happy for people. Shit, what’s the word I’m thinking of?’

  He stares out into the night sky. The rain is still coming down in sheets. I want him to close the balcony door, keep the place warm and dry. And safe.

  ‘Empathy?’ I offer as he turns his head to look directly at me. He looks so ridiculous in my white robe, his skinny legs peeping out from under it.

  ‘Yes! That’s it. Empathy,’ he says. ‘I always knew you were good with big words! He lacks empathy. Sometimes I think he has done so well in life because he doesn’t ever think about how other people think or feel, or worry about the consequences of his actions.’

  I watch as the ash builds at the end of the cigarette, threatening to drop onto my cream carpet. I blink myself back into the present. Into this talk about empathy.

  ‘But he’s a primary school teacher,’ I say. ‘Seems an odd career choice for someone who doesn’t seem to care about other people.’

  I think of the pictures I’ve seen on Niall’s Facebook page. A very proud, devoted teacher staring back at me.

  ‘I used to joke with him that he liked a captive audience. Well, he likes an audience who have to do exactly what he says even more.’

  I don’t know what to think. I try to cast my mind back to all those years ago. To the aftermath of what happened. But it just comes to me in pieces, fragments of colourless memories. He sounded perfectly nice in the messages we’ve exchanged this week, but I know people can easily hide behind words on a screen.

  ‘You’re meeting him this weekend, then?’ Declan asks.

  I nod. ‘Friday evening for a coffee.’

  He nods, too. ‘I don’t suppose me telling you to stay away from him would make any difference?’

  I don’t like where this is going. It must show in my body language, because Declan takes one last long drag of his cigarette and tosses the butt into the rainy night, ignorin
g the saucer I’d given him to act as a de facto ashtray. He waves his hands as if shooing the smoke out of the room then closes the door.

  ‘I feel like a total prick for asking,’ he says. ‘But I’m only watching out for you. I like you, Ingrid,’ he says, his face colouring. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I can deal with him,’ I say, knowing that there’s no question of my professionalism slipping. He’s too vital a source for the book for me to change my mind about meeting him. Declan looks crestfallen. ‘But thank you for giving me the heads-up,’ I tell him. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He opens his mouth and I’m sure he’s about to say something just as the alarm beeps on the tumble dryer to indicate it’s finished drying his trousers.

  ‘I’ll just get those,’ I say.

  ‘And I suppose I should be heading on home,’ he says, sighing. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just, you’re a good person, Ingrid, and I didn’t – I mean I don’t – want you getting yourself mixed up in something.’

  I cross the room with his warm, dry clothes. His hand brushes mine as he takes his clothes from me. He looks directly at me. There is something in his expression I can’t put my finger on. A darkness, perhaps. He blinks, long, dark lashes – wasted on a man, my mother would’ve said – brushing the top of his cheeks. The intensity of his gaze is back on me and I see he is moving closer.

  I step back, but his hand is on my cheek. His skin is rough, calloused. I can feel adrenaline start to surge in my veins. The fight or flight impulse is getting ready to kick in. But this is Declan. Declan doesn’t hurt people. I return his gaze, willing him not to make the move it feels like he is getting ready to make.

  Unexpectedly, I feel tears well in my eyes. As I blink, one falls, rolling down my cheek, and I exhale a long, shuddering breath.

  He blinks. Pulls his hand away as if he has been burned. Shaking his head, he mutters that he’ll just get dressed and heads for the bathroom.

  He doesn’t come back into the living room when he is done. I just hear the door close as he leaves the building.

  I don’t go after him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ingrid

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I haven’t felt settled since Declan left and I’ve barely slept. It takes extra time in front of the mirror and a more liberal application than usual of concealer and Touche Éclat under my eyes to make me look half human.

  I opt for an extra shot in my morning coffee, which might add to my jittery feelings, but I need it – otherwise I fear I might fall asleep at my desk.

  Thankfully, work has been busy and that has given me little time to focus on the growing bubble of unease in the pit of my stomach. My story with the Doherty family has gained traction and is being widely shared around local social media accounts. I’ve been asked to speak on local BBC Radio about it, and my editor, Jane, has emailed me to congratulate me and say she is now ‘super excited’ to work on the book with me.

  Ryan is keeping his distance, which is unusual for him. I imagine he’s brooding about that awful incident with Liam yesterday in reception. But as much as he will be annoyed at how close he came to losing his lead story and annoying the close-knit Creggan community, he knows that I did the right thing. He knows sales of the paper will be up.

  In fact, the wholesalers have put out extra copies to newsagents in Creggan and the city centre. Our website hits are soaring and our Facebook page is hopping with people offering their condolences to the Dohertys. They are sharing their memories of that time, calling Jamesy Harte all the names under the sun. Some are threatening to chase him down and ‘do what should have been done years ago’.

  I’ve been kept busy moderating the whole thing. Hiding those threatening comments. Replying to incoming messages to say no, we do not know Jamesy Harte’s whereabouts and even if we did, we would not release it to the public. That it is a matter of public safety.

  I know I’m lying about not knowing his whereabouts but it’s the right thing to do.

  By the time 5 p.m. approaches, I’m tired and my nerves about meeting Niall have started to kick in.

  He has sent me a message – told me he’ll be in Derry for about six and asked can we meet at seven. We’ve agreed to meet at Starbucks in the Foyleside Shopping Centre, where it’s big enough for me to slip off anonymously into the crowds afterwards.

  I’m packing up my things, planning to go home first and touch up my make-up (simply because I still look like an extra from Night of the Living Dead). I’ll change into my jeans, a jumper. My comfy boots. I’ll wrap up so that I look the opposite of alluring. I’ll be wary.

  I’m just about to leave, when my mobile rings. I consider rejecting the call, but my nosiness gets the better of me and I dig it out of my bag to see Jamesy Harte’s name flash up on the screen. My stomach lurches. I answer, not saying his name. I don’t want to draw any attention to the fact I’m talking to him – certainly not at work, anyway.

  ‘Ingrid?’ he says, a panicked tone to his voice. ‘I’ve just seen the Doherty piece online. Saw the Facebook comments. Ingrid. People want to track me down, Ingrid. They want to kill me! Why did you write it? I thought you believed me!’ His panic has quickly given way to disappointment.

  I walk quickly from the office to where no one can hear me. ‘I can’t control what people say online. You must know that,’ I say. ‘And this was always going to get people wound up. You couldn’t have expected different?’

  ‘I expected you to tell people you believed I was set up,’ he says, his voice cracking.

  ‘I’m not here to tell people what to think,’ I say, but I know that will sound like nothing more than a cop-out to him. ‘I present the evidence and people can draw their own conclusions from that.’

  ‘So, you’ll publish my side of this as well, then?’ he says, his voice hopeful.

  ‘In my book, yes,’ I tell him.

  There is a deep sigh. ‘No. No, Ingrid. That won’t help. I might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but I know books don’t write themselves overnight. Those words … what he said … He wishes I’d rot in hell, Ingrid. But I didn’t do it … and I’m so tired of people thinking I did. I’m not a monster.’

  ‘Jamesy, I know this must be really tough. But at the moment we have to go with how things stand. And the court did find you guilty.’ I feel cruel uttering those words, but it is the truth. I can’t change that.

  ‘The court got it wrong. Everyone got it wrong. Don’t you understand?’ he pleads. ‘I was inside for seventeen years. I have lost what should’ve been the best years of my life to these lies. All the years I could’ve been someone.

  ‘Maybe I’d have met someone. Got married. Given my mammy grandchildren. Who knows? Don’t you think I wanted that, too? A normal life. Didn’t I deserve that? But now … now there’s another angry mob baying for my blood. What if they find me, Ingrid? What if they track me down?’

  The panic has returned to his voice.

  ‘I know it’s scary,’ I tell him. ‘But there’s no reason why they would find you now if they haven’t found you before. You’re far enough from Derry, but could you speak to someone if you feel unsafe? Do you have a probation officer, or social worker? Someone like that. They would be able to give you better guidance than I can.

  ‘There was always going to be some backlash and when your appeal is formally launched, it might get worse. Try to remember, this world is a strange one now. There are a lot of keyboard warriors on Facebook. All bluff and no substance.’

  ‘You don’t know that!’

  His voice is borderline hysterical now. I can hear him moving about as if he’s pacing up and down the room. ‘And I know what they’ll do. They’ll have me lynched. I know it. I know it.’

  ‘Try to stay calm,’ I tell him, aware my words are completely inadequate.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say!’ he yells, and I’m sure he’s crying.

&n
bsp; I feel wretched. And worried for him. But I remind myself this is not my fault. I only reported on a family’s grief. I did my job. And I will give him his voice, even though I’ve been warned off doing so.

  He ends the call before I have the chance to speak again, leaving me staring at the phone, unsure if I’ve been cut off or have lost signal. I feel a headache start.

  Sighing, I glance at my watch and realise I’d better get a move on to be in town in time to meet with Niall. Wryly, I wonder how long it will take before I have him baying for my blood, too.

  Niall, unsurprisingly, looks like his profile picture. Groomed. Tanned. Wearing a suit that accentuates a physique no doubt earned from hours in the gym. He is the polar opposite to his twin brother. There are no heavy lines scoring across his face. His eyes are bright. His skin has a healthy glow.

  He is dictionary definition handsome, but immediately I wonder just how high maintenance he would be. It could get annoying if I was in a relationship with him. I immediately push that notion to the back of my mind. I don’t want a relationship with Niall Heaney. I want to talk to him about Kelly and I also want to keep a safe distance. Declan’s warnings have been playing through my mind all day.

  He spots me and his face breaks into a wide smile. His perfectly straight white teeth are almost too dazzling. Standing up, he reaches to me for a hug.

  ‘Ingrid! Well, this is lovely. It’s so nice to see you. You’re looking well.’

  I think of how I’m wrapped up like an immersion tank in my Puffa jacket and smile. ‘Winter chic,’ I say. ‘It’s a brutal night out there.’

  He nods, still standing. ‘The drive down from Belfast was a bit hairy in places but sure, I’m here now. Let me get you a coffee. Latte? Cappuccino?’

  ‘A cappuccino, please,’ I answer and sit down, unwrapping myself from my scarf and coat while waiting for him.

  I decide to take my notebook and my phone out of my bag. Make it clear from the outset that this is purely a professional meeting.