by Claire Allan
Chapter Fifty
Declan
Declan slips the bracelet into his pocket and closes the box back up, pushing it back into the corner. As he makes his way down the ladder, he hears the front door open and then slam close.
‘Frankie, is that you?’ His ma’s voice rings out again.
‘Who else would it be?’ his da answers, but it isn’t in a joky way.
There is an anger to his tone that takes Declan right back to that night. He stops, waiting at the top of the stairs, trying to gauge what has his da angry.
‘Did you know, Kathleen?’ he asks.
‘Know what?’
Declan recognises his mother’s tone of voice, the one she used to use when his da needed placating, as he so often did back then in those angry years, before he got support. Knocked the drink on the head. Found a forgiving God who assured him he wasn’t going straight to hell.
‘That Niall was off meeting that Devlin girl! I was told at Mass my car had been seen up in the country park. And herself’s car, too.’
Declan freezes. The country park. Why would they be there? What was Niall at?
‘No, I didn’t know, but I think he’s a bit long in the tooth for me to be checking his every move anyway. So what if he’s meeting her? It’s probably to do with Jamesy Harte being murdered. I’ve no time for that man and what he did, but still, it feels sad, doesn’t it?’
‘I told him to stay away from her,’ his da bites back. Angrier. Louder.
If that bastard raises a hand to his ma, Declan won’t be long raising his own hand to him and knocking him out cold. He’s not a frightened ten-year-old any more. He has spent too long being frightened of his da. And frightened of his brother. Both of them sauntering around as if they don’t have a care in the world.
‘Is he stupid or something? Does he have a death wish? Because God alone knows that Devlin one must have. How many times does she have to be told?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ his ma answers.
Declan hears the tremor in her voice.
‘Don’t lie, Kathleen. You’re not as stupid as you look. You know as well as I do what happened back then …’
His da’s voice drops to a whisper and Declan strains to hear it, but he can’t. He closes his eyes as if the act of closing off one of his senses will make the others work harder, but it’s just mumbling – and then his ma crying and the slam of the front door again.
A sob from his ma lets him know it’s his da who has gone out.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he hears her sob. ‘Jesus Christ, I didn’t know. God forgive me, but I didn’t know.’
He thunders down the stairs. ‘What didn’t you know?’ he asks her, but she looks as if she is folding in on herself with grief.
Has his da really known all this time about Niall and done nothing? Has his da been covering up for Niall, even now, doing whatever he needs to do to stop the renewed interest in this case?
His da, he knows, is still able to summon up some heavies at a moment’s notice. Many people still feel a loyalty to Frankie Heaney. He still holds some sway. If he’d wanted a car window broken, or tyres slashed, he wouldn’t have struggled to find someone to do it. If he’d wanted to rough someone up, he could have found someone only too willing to do it for him.
His ma can’t speak. She is shaking her head and he wants to comfort her, but if this is what his da is capable of, and his brother, and both are in the country park with an unsuspecting Ingrid … His stomach turns.
He reaches for his jacket at the bottom of the stairs and pulls his phone from the pocket. With shaking hands, and thick, useless fingers, he paws at his phone, trying to unlock it and find her number. He needs to warn her. He needs to get her away from Niall.
Chapter Fifty-One
Ingrid
I’d wanted to crack this story. Of course I had – but not like this. It was never meant to be like this. Niall’s grip on me is firm and there is a wildness in his eyes.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ he says suddenly. ‘Shit! Ingrid, tell me,’ he says, shaking me so that I almost lose my footing, my boots sliding in the mud. ‘Tell me you won’t tell anyone. I need you to tell me that now!’
‘People will understand,’ I tell him, knowing that they won’t.
People never understand when it comes to the murder of a child. It is beyond the realm of comprehension and understanding. But I have to say whatever it takes to get out of this park and away from Niall.
‘Why don’t we walk back to the cars,’ I say. ‘It’s so cold here and I’m wet through. We can talk somewhere warm and dry at least. I can help you.’
It’s only a little lie – one designed to make sure we both get away safely. It’s for the right reasons.
To my relief, he nods, defeated, and for the first time since he and his brother came back into my life, I see the resemblance between them again. It’s in the slumping of Niall’s shoulders, as if he is carrying the weight of the world on them. The same weight Declan has always looked as if he were carrying.
We walk in silence, the air thick with everything that has been said and that still needs to be said. I’m afraid to speak, to do anything that might drag Niall from his silent reverie and back into the moment.
When my phone rings I jump, fumbling in my pocket to try to silence it, but my hands are too useless in my gloves. They won’t swipe across the screen. Niall stops, turns and looks at me.
‘You can answer it, you know,’ he says.
‘It’s okay. I don’t need to,’ I say. My teeth are starting to chatter with the cold now. ‘It won’t be important. I can call whoever it is later.’
The ringing stops and inwardly I sigh with relief, as we continue on our walk to the cars. However, the relief is short-lived when my phone starts to ring again. Again, I fumble to try to turn it off.
‘Just bloody answer it,’ Niall shouts, stopping and staring at me.
He is agitated, his eyes wild.
I take it from my pocket and see that it is Declan’s number on the screen. How much of all this has he known? Has guilt been the source of his self-destruction? My hands shaking, I pull off one glove. Swiping my finger across the screen, I hold it to my ear and I’m aware that Niall’s eyes never leave mine. I don’t want him to know who I’m talking to, so I do my best to turn the speaker volume down. I can barely hear the voice on the other end.
‘Ingrid?’
There’s an urgency to Declan’s voice, but the last thing I need is to get caught up in a conversation with him. Not now. Not here.
‘Yes. Actually, I’m a little busy right now. Can I call you back in a bit?’ I’m aware my voice sounds funny, as if I’m speaking the lines from a play.
‘Ingrid, are you with Niall? At the reservoir?’
‘Yes,’ I say faux cheerfully. ‘That’s right.’
‘And he’s okay? Everything okay?’
‘Well, you know. Things could be better,’ I say, my voice light still, even though Niall is starting to look agitated again. He’s obviously keen to get moving.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Can you get back to the car? I’ll meet you there. Try to keep calm.’
‘I can certainly try to do that,’ I say. ‘I’ll call you later, if that’s okay.’
‘Ingrid,’ he says, ‘stay safe. I thought I was doing the right thing … I didn’t think he would …’ His voice trails off.
Glancing up at Niall, who is still staring at me, my heart sinks further.
‘Okay. I know what you mean. We’ll chat later,’ I say and end the call.
‘Anyone important?’ Niall asks.
‘A work thing. Nothing that can’t wait,’ I say.
‘Was it Ryan Murray?’ he asks.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘No. Nothing to do with him.’
Our strange stand-off is broken by the sound of a voice, deep and loud, calling Niall’s name. He looks at me, his eyes wide. Reaching out to grab me again, he steps c
loser, but I step back. It’s getting harder and harder to stay calm.
‘No. Ingrid, get over here. You don’t understand,’ he says, and his voice is angry now. Scared.
The voice rings out again. He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and when he looks up, I can see that he is shaking. The overconfident alpha male I have come to know over the last few days has been reduced to a terrified little boy.
‘Please,’ he says, and reaches out a third time.
This time he grabs me by the wrist and starts to pull me back in the direction from where we’ve come.
‘You have to come with me.’
But I don’t want to. I want to get to my car and I want to get home.
The voice rings out again, closer this time. It’s not Declan, I know that. It’s deep, angry.
‘What’s going on?’ I blurt. ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s my da,’ he says. ‘Come on! You don’t understand.’
He pulls so hard on my wrist that it hurts and I slip again on the leaves, crashing to my knees.
‘Get up!’ he shouts. ‘You have to get up.’
‘Niall, stop! You’re hurting me. You’re scaring me!’ I can’t pretend this is normal any more. I can’t pretend I’m not petrified.
But he doesn’t seem to hear me.
‘You don’t understand,’ he wails. ‘You have to come with me. If he sees you … Come on! I know where we can hide.’
He is pleading with me now, pulling me back to my feet.
‘Let me go!’ I shout and pull away from him, breaking the hold.
‘You stupid bitch!’ he shouts. ‘You don’t get it! You won’t be safe. He has a fierce temper. Kelly, come on!’
It’s her name that makes me freeze to the spot.
When I look back at him, I see a man reliving a childhood trauma right in front of my eyes.
The voice, his father’s voice, rings out again and I see him flinch. He hauls me along the path, babbling all the time.
‘She was only trying to get away, just like you. She was trying to run. But he didn’t care. He grabbed her, threw her to the ground as if she were a piece of dirt, and it was my fault. It was all my fault. But I knew if I opened my mouth and told anyone what he did, he would kill me. Him and his cronies, they would kill me. Those big brave men. They’d do whatever they had to do to protect him. He told me that. He told me “Son or no son, you’re dead if you speak.” I had no doubt that he meant it.’
Shock hits me with such force that I struggle to breathe, but as I turn to run, I find myself face to face with Frankie Heaney, his expression a snarl.
‘You were warned, wee girl. You can’t say you weren’t warned.’
Chapter Fifty-Two
Ingrid
Frankie Heaney’s face radiates anger. His brow furrowed, his muscles tense. He does not shout. He probably knows he doesn’t need to. There is enough menace in his low, quiet voice to get his message across.
My eyes dart around him, trying to figure out if there is a way I can push past him and run to my car. So it had been him. He had pushed her and he had let Jamesy Harte take the blame. As had Niall. And Declan, what had he known?
‘Mr Heaney,’ I say, knowing that I am about to lie. ‘I’m not sure what it is that you’re talking about. Is this about Kelly? About the vandalism to my car?’
He reaches out his hand and pokes one long, bony finger at my chest. Jabbing and bruising, pushing me backwards.
‘You just couldn’t keep your nose out of it. There’s no story here, Ingrid,’ he says. ‘There never was. Not beyond what the courts found. Kelly Heaney was murdered by Jamesy Harte and now he’s dead, too.’
‘Murdered,’ I say, my voice barely audible. ‘Jamesy was murdered.’
‘He’ll not be missed,’ Frankie Heaney scowls. ‘He should’ve kept himself to himself when he got out.’
‘Da.’
I hear Niall behind me.
‘This is nothing to do with Ingrid. Just let us get back to our cars.’
His voice is pleading. All of his cockiness and self-assured bravado has seeped into the muddy ground with the rain.
‘You’re right there, son,’ Frankie says, not shifting his gaze from mine. ‘This has nothing to do with Ingrid here and yet, she can’t seem to leave it alone. We’ve tried to tell her.’
‘She will!’ Niall says, his voice thick with fear. ‘Won’t you, Ingrid? You’ll drop all this and you won’t mention it again.’
I see the cockiness that had been in Niall’s expression now mirrored in his father’s. Frankie Heaney feels powerful here. With his threatening tone and his jabbing finger, and his trembling son who is too terrified to stand up to him. Frankie Heaney is a bully. A dangerous man. He’s not the reformed character he claims to be. His tendency to violence, I can see, lurks not too far under the surface.
I realise, in that moment, that it doesn’t matter what I say. If I stand up for what I believe, tell Frankie Heaney and his threats to go to hell, he will do whatever it takes to silence me. Just like I fear he did what he needed to do to silence Jamesy, and Liam, too.
And if I agree to drop it, let Jamesy and Liam down, let Kelly down, too, I know that he will never believe me. He doesn’t want any of this getting out – and he’ll make sure it doesn’t. I’ll forever be looking over my shoulder for when he decides to make certain of my silence.
‘Well?’ Frankie Heaney asks, still jabbing, stepping closer, his breath rancid on my face, his frame wider, taller than mine.
He looks down at me and I wince.
‘Please, Ingrid,’ I hear Niall plead. ‘Just tell him you’ll let all this go.’
I also know one other thing. I’m sick of letting bullies win. From Ryan Murray and his smug manipulation, to this man in front of me who somehow thinks he has a right to get away with killing a child. And not only get away with killing her, but also with letting her body lie in cold water for days while her family endured hell.
A fiery rage rises up inside me. As Frankie Heaney tries to jab at me again, call me ‘wee girl’ again, warn me off again, I grab that finger and bend it back so far that he cries out.
‘Go to hell,’ I tell him in as low and menacing a voice as I can manage. Two can play at his game.
‘You stupid bitch!’ he shouts, his free hand reaching round to grab at my hat, maul at my hair, try to drag me down.
I feel the strands pull from my scalp, like scalding hot needles. My neck is at an unnatural angle. I try to kick out, to disarm him with a knee to his groin, but the ground is too wet and too slippery, and I lose my footing, his fist still grasping my hair.
‘All I ever asked anyone to do was to keep their stupid mouths shut,’ Frankie is shouting. ‘You’re not going to ruin this now.’
I’m aware of the rain and the wind, and Niall shouting, and his father not even speaking. He’s pushing my head back, turning me so he can bury my face in the mud, the leaves and the dirt; and the wind is still howling, the banshee is still calling and I can’t breathe.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Declan
Declan can’t just wait in the house for Niall to come back. He can’t just assume everything will be okay, because he knows full well what his brother is capable of now, and he knows that his da isn’t much better. Is it any wonder he’s a mess himself? Yet, they’re the ones who swan about as if they don’t have a care in the world.
His ma is still crying and he feels awful for leaving her, but he knows that – while his da is out, at least – she is safe. She will be fine.
He pulls on his coat and hat and heads for the door.
‘I’ll be back in a bit, Ma. Lock the door and put the chain on. Don’t let anyone in. Not even Da,’ he calls without looking back and walks towards the country park before breaking into a run.
He feels it in his bones that something is very wrong. Just as he did that night.
From the moment he and Niall had got home that night, everything had felt off. There was te
nsion in the air, along with the smell of beer and cigarettes and the sound of big men mouthing off and acting like they ruled the world.
He’d known better than to become involved in any of it and had gone straight to his room, where he’d sat on the floor dividing his spoils into neat piles of nuts and apples and withered grapes – deflated after being torn from their stalks.
He’d heard the argument start between his da and Niall earlier. He’d pulled his knees to his chest and wished that just once, his da didn’t have to ruin everything, or that just for once, Niall would learn to keep his mouth shut and not rattle his da’s cage.
The slam of the door had followed. Declan had looked out of the window and willed Niall to run faster, because he could hear his father roaring at his ma, saying he was going out to find ‘that wee bastard’ and ‘teach him a lesson’. Declan could hear the loud voices of his da’s friends – angry men with sour faces – jumping to the beat of his da’s drum. All these big men who had nothing better to be doing with their time than chase a wee boy. He willed his brother to run away and never look back.
The door to their room had been thrown open with such force the handle slammed against the wall, cracking a hole in the plaster. The change of energy in the room had been enough to push Declan flat against the wall, without his da so much as taking a step inside.
‘Where would he go?’ his da shouted.
Declan had blinked, unable to find his voice, the fear weighing so heavy on his chest.
‘That spoiled wee shite of a brother of yours – and don’t tell me you don’t know, Declan Heaney, or believe me, it won’t just be him who feels the leather of my belt.’
His father may well have been slurring his words, but his intention was clear, and Declan was ashamed that he wasn’t brave enough to stand up to him.
‘The rezzie,’ he whispered.