by Claire Allan
‘Oh, God. Oh, God. Don’t … you can’t say any of what I told you in the paper. Tell me you won’t say any of that in the paper? They said if you did …’
Her sentence is cut short by the door to the relatives’ room opening and the arrival of a distinctly unimpressed DS King.
‘You shouldn’t be here, Ingrid,’ she says. ‘You know that. Come on, now. The nurse is looking for you.’ Her tone is very much like that of a schoolteacher.
I can’t refuse to leave the room, no matter how much I want to. I have to go back to have my blood pressure checked. Even though I’m sure it will be fine. As we walk back down the corridor, I hear DS King give two young officers a roasting, informing them that no one but next of kin should be allowed near the Doherty family. As she directs me through the double doors into the main cubicle area again, I catch a glimpse of DI David Bradley, DS King’s superior officer, walking down the corridor, his coat flapping around him, his face grim.
At least, I think, as I disappear behind the curtains and clamber back up on the trolley where I am supposed to be, I’ve not come face to face with him. This day has been stressful enough without getting a dressing down from the sanctimonious Bradley.
‘Whatever Bernie Doherty may or may not have said to you in that room, I’d remind you this is a sensitive ongoing police investigation and we would ask that details of the incident are not reported in the media,’ DS King says.
‘Have any arrests been made?’ I ask.
‘Not at this time. I’d suggest you direct any further questions through official channels. I’m not a spokesperson for the police.’
I nod. She’s told me all she needed to. There is nothing, legally, to stop me from printing details of what the Doherty family told me. Restrictions only come into play once an arrest has been made so as not to jeopardise legal proceedings. But for perhaps the first time in my career, I feel my nerve leave me. This is more serious than I ever thought it could be.
It was supposed to be a news story. An investigation into something from the past. It was never supposed to bring violence to anyone’s door. Were the same people behind Liam’s attack as were behind the attacks on my car, on my home? I imagine Liam Doherty, the frail man he has become, being held down while boiling water was poured over his skin. I imagine his skin blistering, melting off in sheets, and I feel sick.
‘You’ve gone very pale,’ DS King says just as I reach for one of the cardboard kidney bowls in the cubicle and empty my stomach contents into it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Ingrid
By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. My stomach and my throat hurt from the force of being sick. I feel sweaty and unkempt from the heat in the hospital. The plaster that has been put across my arm after a blood sample was taken has started to itch at my skin. I pull it off, revealing a dark bruise underneath.
I walk straight to the bathroom and strip off before standing under the shower and letting the almost too hot water pummel at my tired muscles. A police car had brought me home. DS King had tried, again, to persuade me to go elsewhere, but all I felt in that moment was the need to be in my own space.
But now, as the steaming hot water stings at my skin, I realise there’s no comfort here any more. No sense of being safe. Not on my own. I think of the warnings I’ve received, what has happened to Liam, how scared Jamesy sounded on the phone, and I’m scared. So scared.
I turn off the water and shiver as I walk, wrapped in a towel, to my bedroom, where I dry off and pull on fresh pyjamas and a pair of fluffy bedsocks. My anxiety only grows, so I double-lock my front door and push a chair from the dining area against it, I close the doors to my bedroom, to the bathroom, and pad through to the living room-cum-kitchen. I make a cup of tea but can’t bring myself to drink it.
Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, I lift my MacBook and power it up, going immediately to Facebook and Twitter to see what, if anything, is being said about the attack on Liam Doherty.
Twitter doesn’t carry much more than the official police line that a man has sustained a life-changing injury in a ‘brutal’ assault – but Facebook? Facebook is another story. An unofficial ‘Derry Scandal’ page features a litany of posts, each wilder than the last, from people who claim to be in the know, or people who are theorising about what happened.
I heard it was Liam Doherty. Dragged him out of the house. Whole street was watching and not a being stopped them. Animals. That’s what they are.
I heard it was a fellah tarred and feathered for messing around with some wee young one. And the person who told me wouldn’t be one for making up stories. Dirty beast whoever he is. They should’ve cut his balls off, too.
Jesus! The rumours on this page. Derry people love a good gossip. Would you remember there’s a human being at the centre of this, and his family, too. For the love of God, don’t be spreading your nonsense.
Couldn’t have been Liam Doherty. Wee Kelly’s da? Why would anyone target him? You’d never find a nicer man. That family have suffered enough. Please, God, it’s not him and it’s someone who deserves it.
I heard it was just some tout that the dissidents wanted to teach a lesson to.
Naw, I’m telling you now. My ma lives across the street and it was definitely the Doherty house. But no one was dragged out into the street. First anyone knew of it was Bernie running screaming for help into the street. My ma says she was hysterical.
Maybe Bernie had enough of him. I think she’s losing the plot. Never been right in the head since that wain died.
So, it wasn’t all out there. That was something. And there was no mention of my car being targeted, even though I know a number of people saw the commotion at Foyleside. Then again, I’m not of any significance compared with the Dohertys. Nor am I arrogant enough to think I would garner an ounce of the sympathy or interest they would.
I close my laptop and jump as my phone rings. Ryan’s name flashes up. I’m torn between wanting to answer the call and wanting to reject it. I know he will have heard what has happened. Ryan always hears about things. He has his ear close to the ground in Creggan at the moment anyway. I know he’ll lecture me. Tell me I should’ve left well enough alone.
And yet, feeling scared and vulnerable in my own home, I also want to hear his voice. Our relationship, if you can call it that, might be very dysfunctional, but I still find some comfort in him.
I take a deep breath and answer the call, surprising myself to find that even on saying hello, my voice has a wobble to it.
‘I take it you’ve heard about Liam Doherty,’ he says. He’s brusque and to the point.
‘I have,’ I say.
‘I knew this was a bad idea. Dragging all this up, asking questions. We’ve put them in the line of fire.’
I bristle. ‘We haven’t reported anything that wasn’t already out there and we’ve certainly not printed anything that would have warranted this attack on Liam. The piece was well-received.’
Already I’m tired of this conversation. I wanted some comfort from him, not irrational blame.
He sighs. ‘Do we know who’s behind this? Is it Harte? Have you spoken to him?’
‘I spoke to him earlier. This afternoon. Look, I would be 99 per cent sure this has nothing to do with him,’ I say. ‘He’s too terrified to come anywhere near Derry. And I don’t think he’d have the wherewithal to arrange anything or be a part of anything. I believe there was a gang involved,’ I say, keeping quiet for now about my chat with Bernie.
I can almost hear the cogs whirring in his head.
‘Have you been up to Creggan? Are you going there?’
‘I’d thought you’d want me to stay out of it,’ I say, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. ‘You don’t want us “dragging it all up”, remember? So no, I’ve no plans to go to Creggan.’
‘Things have already been dragged up and put on display,’ he says, his tone sharp. ‘This is the here and now. It has just happened. We should have a reporter on the scen
e.’
‘Then call one of the boys, or Trina. I’m home and I’m in my pyjamas and I’m not going out again.’
I know I’m not coming across as particularly professional, but then again, I’ve done an awful lot of things that cannot possibly fall into the domain of ‘professional’ when it comes to Ryan.
‘It’s not like you to walk away from a story,’ he says.
‘I’m not walking away from it. I know exactly what happened. I’ve spoken to Bernie Doherty and her son. And my car has been targeted again, so I’m right in the middle of the story.’ I spit the words at him, angry that he is goading me.
‘You’ve spoken to Bernie Doherty! When? What did she tell you?’
He hasn’t asked about my car or about me. If he wasn’t my boss, I would tell him to fuck off.
‘I saw her at the hospital. I was taken there, by the police, after I took a panic attack.’
I recall the look on Bernie’s face, the fear. Her telling me I couldn’t say anything. There was something so raw and real in her expression that I feel a need to protect her.
‘She was in shock. She wasn’t making much sense, to be honest, but by all accounts, he’s in a bad way. And for all I know the people behind that are the same ones who have been targeting me, so there is not one single chance in hell that I am going anywhere near Creggan tonight.’
To my shame, my voice breaks as I finish talking and the sob I’ve been holding in rises up and explodes from my mouth. It’s as if Bernie’s fear has invaded every cell in my body. I can feel it. I can imagine the horror she endured. Her helplessness. What these people are capable of, it’s inhuman. If those men could do that to Liam Doherty, and make his poor, broken wife watch, then what other horrific acts could they be responsible for?
I can’t seem to pull myself together, even though I’m mortified that Ryan is hearing me so vulnerable. This is the last thing I want.
‘Ingrid.’
His voice is softer now and for a second I wonder if he will have some comfort for me, after all.
He doesn’t. Of course.
‘I don’t want to say I told you so, but—’ he says.
‘Then don’t say it, Ryan. You don’t have to be an arrogant arsehole all the time.’
‘I’m not trying to be an arsehole,’ he protests. ‘You’ve had an horrific evening by the sound of it. Anyone would understand if you wanted to walk away from the story now. It’s not admitting defeat. I’ll speak to one of the freelancers. They can take over for tonight. We’ll talk again on Monday.’
‘Thanks,’ I say weakly.
‘Do you want me to come over?’ he asks. ‘I can feed Jen a line about something. I can try and distract you?’
I know what Ryan’s idea of distraction is and it’s the very last thing I want.
‘No. No, I’m grand. I’m going to try and sleep,’ I tell him, and we say our goodbyes.
I mull over his words. He doesn’t seem to realise that no matter how terrified I am, there is no way I’m walking away from this story; if he thinks that, he is sorely mistaken. I might want to run, but I know now, after what has happened tonight, that there is something huge going on here. Something bigger than Jamesy Harte trying to challenge his conviction.
That level of brutality is only ever born out of anger and fear. Someone is trying to get the message across, loud and clear, that Kelly Doherty’s death should be consigned to history – no matter what questions may be asked these days, no matter a family’s desire to grieve. No matter what. Someone is spooked. Someone is angry.
Which leads me to believe that someone is hiding something.
My phone rings again. I want to ignore it, but the tone is no less shrill and loud than it was before, so I pick it up to reject the call. My heart thuds, almost loud enough to drown out the noise of the phone, as I see Jamesy Harte’s name flash up on the screen.
Chapter Thirty
Ingrid
My finger hovers over the answer button as I try to prepare myself for the conversation we’re about to have.
I know I have to answer, even if every sinew in my body is telling me that I don’t want to. I may be feeling overwhelmed and scared, but I need to talk to him. I think I need to hear that he is okay. I press the answer icon, put him on loudspeaker and hold the phone in front of me.
‘What’s happened to him?’ Jamesy says before I even have the chance to say hello; his voice is slightly slurred as if he’s been drinking.
‘Mr Doherty? He’s been assaulted. That’s as much as I know,’ I lie.
I can hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the call. ‘Is it serious? The police say “life-changing” injury, what does that mean?’
‘I know what you know, Jamesy. I’m not working tonight.’
I almost tell him I’m at home but decide against it. I won’t give any more information than I need to. Fear is needling at me.
‘Can’t you find out? Call one of your contacts?’
‘That’s not how it works,’ I say, the third lie tripping off my tongue much easier than the first two. ‘There are official channels …’
‘Ingrid, maybe I’m not the sharpest tool in the box, but I’m not an eejit. I know people like you hear things. You’ve your sources. There must be rumours about who did it. It’s Derry. There’s always rumours.’
‘Jamesy,’ I say, forcing a steadiness into my voice that I most certainly do not feel, ‘I am telling you what I know. I don’t know who, or why.’
Jamesy sniffs. ‘Well, maybe he was just getting a taste of his own medicine.’
He has sounded sad before. Scared. But here is the bitterness of a man whose own life was taken from him.
‘Jamesy, I know you must be upset,’ I soothe. His bitterness towards Liam makes me uneasy. ‘I know you’ve been robbed of your freedom for years, but surely you can’t think Liam Doherty deserves any of this.’
I can hear heavy footsteps as if Jamesy is pacing up and down his room. He sounds agitated. His breathing is heavy. I hear him take a drag on a cigarette.
‘He’s not as broken as he looks,’ Jamesy says at last.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Liam Doherty knows more than he was letting on about who set me up. I’m not surprised, after all these years, it’s come back to haunt him.’
‘You think he knows you were set up?’ I ask, incredulous. Surely it was in Liam Doherty’s interest – more than anyone else’s – to have his daughter’s real murderer brought to justice.
‘Aye,’ Jamesy says before coughing and taking another drag from his cigarette.
‘But why would he stay quiet all these years? You’re not suggesting he was involved in her death himself?’
The very thought seems so alien to me. Liam, for all his roaring and shouting, doesn’t seem like a man capable of harming his own child. He’s a broken man.
‘No. No. He didn’t do it. But that doesn’t make him innocent, either.’
I remember how angry Liam was when he called into the Chronicle offices – how he wanted the story pulled. How he said he hoped Jamesy would rot in hell.
Except that he didn’t say that, did he? He said he hoped Kelly’s killer would rot in hell. He’d never actually used Jamesy’s name.
‘Who do you think did it?’ I ask him.
There is silence at the other end of the phone. The pacing has stopped. I listen, his breath just audible down the line.
‘Jamesy?’ I say again and wait for his answer.
But the line just goes dead.
I stand up and stretch before walking to the balcony doors, which look out over the inky black water of the River Foyle. The river is swollen, choppy. It’s a bitter night and there are no walkers along the quay. I watch as the patrol boat from Foyle Search and Rescue passes, on the lookout for any poor soul tempted to end it all by jumping into those murky waters. I wonder how the volunteers manage, dealing with people in crisis each and every day.
I pull the
curtains closed, to fend off the darkness in more ways than one, and then I pour myself two fingers of Jameson and throw it back, allowing the hot spice of the whiskey to burn then soothe my throat. Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll fall into a drunken sleep that won’t allow me to jump at every creak and rattle through the night.
I’m about to pour a second glass, when the buzzer for the door goes.
It buzzes a second time and I look at the grainy CCTV image, to see the familiar figure of Declan Heaney looking into the lens.
‘Ingrid?’ he asks. ‘It’s Declan. I’m just checking you’re okay. After what happened at the Dohertys’? I was just passing …’ he mumbles. ‘Can I come up?’
No, I think. I just want to drink myself into semi-oblivion and go to sleep.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ I say.
‘Sure, it’s only me,’ he says. ‘I won’t be long. Honest. I just wanted to have a quick chat. See if you’re okay. And here, I’ve heard a whisper about what happened at the Dohertys’. It might be a lead for you to follow. But look, if it makes you feel uncomfortable …’
I think of him. Harmless – lonely, too. Just like me, I suppose. I think of the contrast in his life compared to Niall’s and hit the button to let him in before quickly running to my room and changing into a pair of jeans and a jumper.
When I open the door, I’m glad to see he’s not in the same sorry state he was in when he last called. He seems sober. Or mostly sober. And while it’s clear he has been out in the rain, he isn’t soaked through.
‘Wild, isn’t it? That craic up in Creggan.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m told it was brutal. Derry rumours have them cutting his tongue out, but I don’t think that’s true.’
‘It isn’t,’ I say before thinking that I really shouldn’t say any more. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but I do know that’s not the case.’
He nods. He’s a little fidgety, his eyes darting around the room. He spots the Jameson bottle on the worktop and I curse myself for not putting it away.
‘On the hard stuff?’ he asks as he slips off his jacket and hangs it on the back of one of my dining chairs.