Ask No Questions

by Claire Allan

  He loves his ma. He really does. He loves her more than anyone in this world. She’s the only woman who has ever treated him with respect and never thought worse of him when he stumbled and wound up in trouble again.

  ‘I will, Ma. As soon as I’ve had a look up here. Why don’t you ask Niall to have a cup of tea with you? He’s still about, isn’t he? Is he watching one of those Sunday morning politics shows and pretending to be some big brainbox?’

  ‘No, he’s not here. He’s worse than you. Off out this morning all wrapped up. Said he had to go and take that Ingrid Devlin somewhere. He wanted to show her something. I said why couldn’t the wee girl wait ’til that storm had passed, and he laughed at me. The cheek of him. You know what he said to me? “I’m not made of sugar, Ma. I won’t melt.” He looked all delighted with himself.

  ‘You don’t think there’s something going between the two of them, because I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, what happened to poor Liam Doherty was bad enough – and wasn’t it off the back of that story she did for that paper she works for?’

  Declan notices his ma’s tone has changed again. She is worried. She is twisting her hands.

  ‘Don’t be going up into that attic, son. Come and have a wee cup of tea with me. There’s treacle scone there. I know that’s your favourite.’

  But he can’t. He has to get up into the attic now more than before. And then he has to track down Niall and find out where the hell he has taken Ingrid on a morning like this and he has to make sure he can get Ingrid to understand exactly what is going on.

  ‘I’ll get a cup of tea in a wee bit,’ he tells his ma, doing his best not to show her just how rattled he is. ‘Just let me look up here first. Sure, don’t I have the ladder down and all?’

  She nods. ‘Okay, son,’ she says.

  She is a meek woman, he knows that. She wouldn’t argue.

  ‘You would tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn’t you?’ she asks.

  He reassures her he’s fine. If only she knew it isn’t him she should be worrying about.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Ingrid

  ‘Jesus Christ, Niall. You scared the heart out of me,’ I swear, my heart thumping.

  Treat it as normal. Don’t show him I’m scared.

  I try to turn and pull myself loose from his grasp, but I lose my footing on the slick leaves and mud and start to slide down the hill. I feel his hands grab at my arms, squeezing so tightly I know he will leave a bruise.

  Looking up, straight into his eyes, I know there is a pleading in my expression. He pulls my arms, drags me closer to him.

  ‘I did warn you,’ he says. ‘Something tells me you aren’t one for walking about in the woods much. There are so many hazards.’

  ‘I don’t have much call for it,’ I stutter, righting myself and trying to regain my composure.

  It dawns on me that despite the caring person he has appeared to be, or how much I have felt a growing attraction to him, I don’t know him – and certainly not enough to trust him. I’m scared, I realise, and wish that I was anywhere else but here.

  ‘You have to be careful, you know,’ he says as he lets go of me.

  I can’t speak, so I just watch as he starts to descend the hill sideways, one careful footstep after another. He reaches up to take my hand and help me towards him.

  ‘It’s just down here. Where we found her. We were walking towards Glenowen.’

  His pace has slowed, his voice is low and I struggle to hear him over the howl of the wind, yet I don’t want to get closer to him. Not now.

  ‘I picked up a stick,’ he says. ‘I can’t really remember why. I might have been using it as a pretend rifle, or a lightsabre, or just using it to batter the leaves from the trees.’

  Even though I know it has been twenty-five years since Kelly Doherty’s body was found on the muddy riverbank, there is a part of me that feels nervous as we approach the spot. As if she might still be there. Maybe some echo of her is. The wind roars through the trees as if warning us away. The sky seems darker, the clouds heavy with the threat of rain.

  ‘Did you usually walk this way? Was it not quicker to go back the way you came?’ I ask.

  Niall doesn’t answer. He has walked a few steps on, closer to the water. It’s overgrown now, fenced in, but I can still see the muddy bank.

  ‘She didn’t even look like a person. Just a thing. An object. Like, I don’t know, a doll, or a plastic bag, or rubbish or something. She was face down. You wouldn’t have known her. Her hair was darkened. And her dress was dirty. Even the parts of her legs I could see, they didn’t look like legs, not at first. They were a strange colour. Grey and blue and bloated. Still, I couldn’t really make out what I was seeing, or who she was. I think … well, don’t they say your brain can shut down almost when you experience something like that?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ I say, making sure to keep a few steps back from him.

  Crouching down, Niall reaches his hand to the wet ground and picks up a leaf, examining it closely. Not quite sure what to do or say next, I stand still, feeling the wind whip my hair around my face. I tuck the loose strands back under my hat.

  I think of her body. How small it must’ve been. How fragile, lying there at the water’s edge, her face down, mouth and nose filled with sludge and mud and water. I’ve seen enough. I want to go.

  Niall rubs at his face. If I’m not mistaken, and I really don’t think I am mistaken, he is rubbing away tears. My heart aches for him in that moment and trying to push my own fear aside, I reach out and touch his shoulder to guide him back to a safer place.

  He lets out a shuddering breath, stands up, and that intense look is back.

  ‘Ingrid,’ he begins, and his left hand brushes against my right cheek.

  His touch, though gloved, is gentle, but my body tenses.

  ‘Maybe we should head back to the cars,’ I say. ‘I don’t think this weather is getting any better. It might even be worse, if I’m not mistaken.’

  I am trying to keep eye contact with him, but it’s hard. It’s intimidating. I remind myself to be professional. To hang in there.

  He blinks. ‘I just think … well, the mind, it plays tricks on you, doesn’t it? I read an article about memory, how you can be convinced things happened one way when they couldn’t have. Memory is unreliable.’

  I shrug. The rain starts to fall heavier now. I can see it pooling in the wells of the muddy footprints we’ve left.

  ‘Do you believe in the bogeyman?’ he asks.

  It’s such a strange question, it makes me smile at first. I shake my head, then remember the memory I can’t quite place of the man on the street and his beckoning finger, and the way I didn’t know if it was a dream or real but how my heartbeat quickens every time I think of him.

  ‘When I was a child, yes,’ I tell him. ‘We all did. Didn’t we? That blasted “Who’s At The Window” song – it scared me stupid when I was wee. There was once when I was convinced I saw him, too. Not long after Kelly had died, I think. It’s all so muddled in my head. A man dressed in black in the street, in the middle of the night. He looked right up at my window.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’ Niall asks, his face stony.

  I shake my head. ‘He was in the shadows. I told my parents about it afterwards; they told me it was most likely just a bad dream.’

  He sighs. It’s a sigh that is laced with pain and regret. His body slumps.

  ‘I used to think it was a dream, too. I think it was easier that way,’ he says. ‘It was so hazy. I was so scared of what would happen if people found out. I’d be in so much trouble. The kind of trouble you can’t come back from.’

  ‘Niall.’ I say his name again, but he is lost in his thoughts.

  ‘I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. It wasn’t my fault, you see. I’d had a fight with my da and, well, you know what he was like then. He’d gone mad because I’d cut up one of his old shirts to make a Frankenstein costume. It wa
s an old, battered thing. Ma thought he wouldn’t mind, but of course he did. He’d pick a fight in an empty room when he got into that state.

  ‘I came home from collecting all my nuts and apples. Pure delighted with myself. And there was my da and all his cronies with him. All drinking and having a great time to themselves. He noticed the shirt right away and of course he couldn’t let it go. Even though his friends were there. All those big men and not a one of them telling him to go easy.

  ‘I remember it, you know. Me standing there shaking with fear while he put me in my place, roaring and shouting about what a wee bastard I was – and I think I was supposed to be grateful, because he didn’t lift his hand to me.’

  The rain is getting heavier, landing with heavy thuds on the ground, rattling what little leaves are left on the trees. The wind howls and wails, and I shiver as he speaks. I don’t know if it’s the cold or what he is telling me. I know this isn’t leading anywhere good.

  ‘I ran out of the house,’ he continues. ‘It was late. I didn’t think there were any children still about,’ he says. ‘I was so angry and upset. I don’t think I’d have recognised my goalkeeping hero, Packie Bonner, if he had appeared in front of me. I just wanted to get away.

  ‘I heard a man’s voice calling after me – could’ve been my da, but I wasn’t for stopping to find out. I ran all the way here, well, up towards the den, you know. I was so angry, Ingrid. So fucking angry with him. I wanted to hurt him and his pals. I wanted to break something. I didn’t know …’

  He pauses and my heart is beating so loudly now. Between that and the wind, I can barely hear him. While I want to know what he is going to say next, knowing it will be of help to solve the mystery, there is still a part of me that wants to put my fingers in my ears. I can’t bear to hear what I think is coming next.

  ‘Niall …’ I’m saying his name, but I don’t know why. He isn’t listening to me. He is in his own world, in the centre of his own storm.

  ‘I didn’t know …’ he repeats. ‘She was on her way home, in the dark. I couldn’t understand why she was on her own, but she said she’d just dropped her wee friend off at home, and was heading home herself. When she saw me upset, she was like a wee dog nipping at my ankles.

  ‘I told her to go home, that her mammy and daddy would be worried about her. I told her loads of times. But she followed me, asking me what was wrong. I remember that, her eyes widening when she heard the angry voice calling my name. She asked if I was in trouble. I told her it was none of her business. But she was persistent.

  ‘She followed me right up into our den and I was angry at her, because I didn’t want her to know where it was. She was such a pain in the arse. And there she was, standing in the middle of my safe space, and she was asking questions.’ He mimics a child’s voice. ‘Why are you crying? Did you get in trouble? What’s wrong? And I was just so very, very angry.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Declan

  A single light bulb hanging from a wire from one of the rafters casts a soft glow around the attic. It’s freezing up here, Declan thinks, and he can hear the house creak and the slates rattle as the storm rages outside. He uses the light from his phone to see into the darker corners of the attic until he spots the old artificial Christmas tree surrounded by boxes of baubles and tinsel and tangled lights. Pushing those out of the way, he finds a large brown cardboard box, on which he sees ‘Boys’ stuff’ written in thick black marker in his mother’s handwriting.

  He pulls the box forwards and picks at the end of the thick tape holding it closed until he gets enough purchase to pull it back. His mother has stored things methodically. There is a box of sports medals, garnered at every sports day and summer scheme the twins attended over the years. There are badges from the Boy Scouts, lovingly unpicked from uniforms the boys had long outgrown and stored in a Tupperware box. Photo albums stacked neatly on top of each other. A few football sticker books he had no idea she had kept. And nestled at the bottom, two shoeboxes, wrapped in brown paper and too much Sellotape, with his name on one, Niall’s on another.

  On both, in block capitals, they had written ‘1999 Time Capsule. Do Not Open!’ Declan remembered how he’d hated putting it together. He’d rolled his eyes at his mother. He was fifteen. He was in his too cool for school stage, facing detention after detention, sneaky cigarettes out of his bedroom window. He thought it babyish, stupid to put together a time capsule. He’d done a half-hearted job. He knew that.

  He could still remember what he threw in his. A copy of The Chronicle. His Oasis CD, which he’d outgrown and no longer listened to. Some badges he’d taken off his school bag, bearing names of bands he liked – or thought he should like. Nirvana, Radiohead, Stereophonics. The battered Casio watch that no longer worked and his old Tamagotchi that he had been religious about taking care of for six months before moving on to the next craze.

  He knew Niall had made more of an effort with his, because Niall always made more of an effort with everything. He’d started to come out of his angry young man phase and instead had become an overachiever, much to his chagrin. Niall had written a letter to his future self, which Declan had rolled his eyes at. He’d put in a school report, his prefect badge, one of his old Action Men, a Liverpool FC key ring, and other bits and pieces.

  As Declan tears open the brown paper around his brother’s box, he hopes he has remembered correctly. He hopes that there, among the items his brother could not give away but wanted to hide, he will find a small bracelet. Beads of brightly coloured plastic bound together on elastic. Worth nothing, but everything.

  It was the reason Declan never believed Jamesy Harte was guilty. The reason he hated his brother, and hated himself even more. Because he’d been too scared, always, to confront Niall about it. To ask him what had happened. To tell his brother he hated him for bringing him to play at the den on the day they found Kelly. Because he’d realised that Niall had known where she was all along. He’d left her there. It broke him to think his brother was capable of such horror.

  He could never be best friends with someone who had killed a person.

  And how else would Niall have got the bracelet if he hadn’t been the one to kill her?

  It was the day after she was found when everything had clicked into place for him. That was the day he realised what Niall had done. In that moment the bottom fell out of Declan’s world. Everything that he thought was true was destroyed.

  He’d been watching TV. The police appealing for information. An image of the cheap, tacky plastic bracelet flashed on screen. A solemn voice intoned that it was believed Kelly was wearing the bracelet on the night she had gone missing, but it hadn’t been found on her body.

  ‘God love them, but it’s probably lying at the bottom of the reservoir,’ his mammy had said.

  But Declan knew it wasn’t. He knew Niall had it. In his coat pocket. Declan had found it when he lifted his brother’s coat by accident the day after Halloween, slipping his hand into the pocket. He didn’t realise then, not yet, how important it was, or what it meant. Not until now, watching the TV.

  He thought of the rage his brother was in on the night he ran off. The silent procession of his da, Niall and two of his friends back down the street an hour later.

  His stomach lurched, right then, in front of the TV in his cosy living room, while he sat on the sofa beside his mammy. His brother upstairs.

  That was when Declan realised monsters existed and sometimes they existed right beside you. Sometimes they looked just like you. And Declan knew he could never, ever tell anyone, because losing his brother would be like losing a part of himself.

  But, it seems, he lost him anyway.

  And now, now he has to open up and tell the truth. For him, for Jamesy, for Ingrid. He might be angry with her, disappointed with her, but a large part of him still wants her enough to do what he needs to do to protect her. No matter the consequences in his own family. He has covered for Niall for too long.

 
Chapter Forty-Nine

  Ingrid

  I can no longer hear the noise around us. I can only hear what is happening right here and right now in the eye of our own storm. I can feel the adrenaline surge through my body, the fight or flight instinct telling me to run. It is almost painful not to, yet I have to hear what he is going to say next.

  ‘You hate me,’ he says suddenly, his voice quieter.

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘I was only ten,’ he says. ‘Just like you. You remember that, don’t you? We were so young. So stupid. So naive. Not like kids these days. I had no wit about me, my whole life ahead of me, and I was just so scared. I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell people. I did, but what would happen to me if I did? And my mum? And Declan? They didn’t deserve that. To have their lives destroyed. I know our life was far from perfect, but that would have blown it to pieces. I was young, but I knew that much.’

  I can’t find any words. I try, but nothing comes to me except that I am standing in front of a man who has kept the darkest secret anyone could keep for the past twenty-five years. He has built a successful life, while Kelly and her life stopped. I think of Bernie – broken, bloodied, terrified. I think of Liam Doherty lying in hospital. I think of Jamesy, torn to pieces on a railway line. So many lives destroyed.

  And this man in front of me is responsible and could’ve stopped it.

  It dawns on me, as he stands, tears trickling down his face, that maybe he has tried to stop it in his own way. Maybe he’s the one who has tried to kill this story, bury any mention of it. Maybe he knows who targeted my car. Who held Liam Doherty down. Who pulled Jamesy Harte from his bedsit in the middle of the night.

  ‘You can still do the right thing,’ I say, my voice shaky.

  He shakes his head. ‘No. No, Ingrid. You don’t understand. I can’t do the right thing. I can’t tell anyone and you can’t, either.’ He reaches for my arm. I feel his grip again. ‘Look at me, Ingrid. Do you understand? You can’t tell anyone. This is bigger than you and me. People will get hurt. You’ll get hurt.’