Hope Dies Last

by Deborah Finn

  “Come on, Holls,” he called, picking up her lead. He patted his coat pocket to check he had bags in there. He guessed he could just chuck it overboard when they were on the boat. Perhaps he could train her to go in one place. That’d make it easier. Stop any accidents, or stop anyone wanting to throw Holly overboard instead.

  He clipped on her lead and they headed outside into the dawning light. There was a mist down, and the street was silent. The place could almost look good, if it wasn’t for the polystyrene kebab cartons and empty fag packets and broken umbrellas. Farren pulled on Holly’s lead as she stopped to sniff.

  “Don’t do that, Holly,” he said. “You never know what shit people leave behind.”

  She stopped to squat and pee on the rubbish and Farren whistled. They walked up the back lane, then into the old quarry that was a park now. He took Holly off the lead and threw her ball. She’d not get any exercise on the boat, he thought. He wondered how fast it would go. Maybe she could swim sometimes. Swimming always had her knackered afterwards.

  They headed out past the quarry and into Moorfields, where the houses were neat, but the streets were narrow and poky. The houses were really small inside. One of Farren’s mates had come to live here when his girlfriend had a baby. Farren had gone round to take him out, to wet the baby’s head and all that. When he’d got in the front room he spent all his time knocking into things, he’d knocked over a big vase of flowers and then he’d smashed his shin on this coffee table that was taking up most of the room. When they’d given him the baby to hold, he’d nearly lost it. All he could do was stand still and hope the kid would stop crying.

  Past Moorfields, the houses got bigger and the streets got wider. They were semis now, big red brick things, facing the park. Farren crossed the road into the park and let Holly off her lead again. He threw the ball and she chased. She was getting tired now. She didn’t always drop the ball at his feet straightaway, waiting for him to throw again. Sometimes she jogged along beside him, holding the ball. She dropped it at his feet and he bent down to pick it up. When he straightened up, he realised where he was, and he realised why he’d come here.

  He threw the ball and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He’d fastened the keys onto his own keyring, but he wasn’t going to need them in Spain. He wasn’t going to need them anymore. Once he was on that boat, then it didn’t matter anymore if they got out, or if she remembered his face. He’d be long gone. He separated the two keys from his own, and looked at them.

  He could just put them through the letter box, but what good was that? He had to know where to look. He couldn’t see the bloke, though. He couldn’t talk to him. Maybe he could write him a note? He felt in his pockets. He had nothing to write on, only a plastic nappy bag. He found a little sharpie marker pen in his inside pocket. It wasn’t the best, but it would do.

  He went to a bench and laid the bag down on it. He wrote the address of the greenway site on the bag. The pen didn’t work that well on the plastic, but when he went over it a few times, it wasn’t so bad. It would have to do anyway. It was the best he could do.

  He called Holly and walked up to the railing. He looped her lead through a railing and clipped it onto her collar. “You wait there, Holly. You be quiet now. I’ll be right back.”

  He went out of the park and along the pavement, back to the blue door that he recognised. There was a scooter by the front door and a football lying in the front garden. Farren watched the house. He couldn’t see anyone inside. The curtains were open, but there were no lights on. He’d just do it fast, and then he’d be off, and that would be that.

  He walked halfway up the path and heard a noise from inside the house. It sounded like someone talking. Forget posting them through the letter box. He dropped the bag on the path with the keys inside and he was back on the pavement within a second. He looked around. There was no one here. No one had seen him.

  He whistled as he ran back across the road. He felt good. He’d done the right thing. His conscience was clear. Now all he had to do was get Holly, get his bag from the flat, and get down to the quay. Life was good.

  Thirty Seven

  Gallagher crawled in through the broken fence. The rabble of protestors were long gone and there was no one near the site, but he felt better going in the back way. He jogged across the rubble strewn yard and into the warehouse. He stopped just inside the door and pulled the whisky bottle out of his pocket. He felt the knife in there. On his way over, he’d seen a kid throwing rocks at a boarded up house. He’d offered him twenty quid to get him a knife. The kid had argued him up to forty quid. He’d waited, half expecting some kind of trap, but the kid had come back with a beauty. Gallagher touched the blade very lightly as he knocked back a good slug of whisky. The blade was sharp. It’d be over in seconds.

  He switched on the torchlight on his phone and made his way over to the stairway. He stumbled on a rock and fell down half a dozen stairs, landing with a crack on his right knee.

  “Fucking hell!” he cursed, rolling over onto his side. “Jesus fuck!” He lay there, waiting for the pain to subside, and slowly it did. It wasn’t broken then. He pulled himself up onto his feet. He tested his weight on his right leg. The knee hurt, but it held. He went carefully down the next set of steps and onto the corridor. It seemed hotter down here. He pulled down his hood, his hand touching his face as he did so. He realised he didn’t have the balaclava. He stopped for a second, and then realised it didn’t matter anymore.

  He limped along the corridor and fished in his pocket for the keys. He opened the door. He heard them scrabbling inside, off to their usual corner. He stepped into the room and pushed the door shut behind him. He turned and looked at her.

  The woman let out a strangled moan when she saw his face. She knew what that meant. He saw her clamp her hand over the child’s eyes.

  “Don’t look, Ben,” she said.

  The kid turned and buried his face into her side.

  “Please just let him go,” she whimpered. “He doesn’t know anything. Please let him go.”

  She was begging him. The stupid little tart was begging, as if that mattered, as if anything she said could change the way it had to be.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he said. He slumped to the floor and sat with his back against the wall. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket and took off the cap. He held it out to her. “You want a slug, before...you know...”

  She shook her head, lowering it to her chest. Her shoulders were heaving.

  He took the knife out of his pocket. He held it up, turning it so that the blade caught the light. It was well balanced in his hand. It was a comfortable knife to hold. It’d do the job alright.

  He looked back at the woman and sighed. “You played it all wrong,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  She lifted her head slightly.

  “Why’d you want to side with that bitch? Why would you want to do that, for fuck’s sake? Against me?”

  “We weren’t against you,” she said. “We’re not against you now.”

  He laughed. “You don’t give up, do you? Got to give you that.” He held up the bottle as if toasting her. “It’s a shame it had to come to this.” He looked down at the blade in his hand and her eyes followed his gaze. She gave a little moan and wrapped both arms around the boy.

  “That’s no good,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  She rocked, holding the boy close to her. She was humming something, like a lullaby. Suddenly it made him mad.

  “Shut up,” he shouted at her. She ignored him and carried on rocking and humming. The two of them; all wrapped up in each other. It was disgusting. He scrambled to his feet and hobbled over to them.

  “Shut up,” he roared as he gripped her shoulder and pulled her away from the boy. He slammed her against the wall so that her head hit the stone.

  “Mummy!” the boy cried.

  “Close your eyes,
Ben,” she whimpered. “I love you, baby.”

  “Shut up,” Gallagher shouted again. He lifted the blade to her throat. His hand was shaking. “You shut the fuck up now. Do you hear me?”

  “No,” the boy yelled. He slithered across the floor and grabbed Gallagher’s leg, pulling at him. Gallagher kicked out, catching him in the mouth. The boy tumbled over, moaning. “Leave my mum alone,” he wailed. And then he scrambled back. He was hammering on Gallagher’s back. “Leave her alone!”

  It was maddening, those stupid little hands. So fucking feeble. Gallagher swung round and shoved the boy away. He slipped on the slimy floor and fell over. He knocked the bucket with his arm so it fell over, releasing its stench into the room.

  “Look what the fuck you’ve done,” Gallagher roared. He pointed the knife at the boy. The boy shuffled backwards until his back was pressed against the wall. His eyes were fixed on Gallagher. His eyes were huge. It felt like they were pulling him in. In just a couple of steps, Gallagher was beside him. The tip of the knife was against the boy’s heart. He heard the woman scrambling.

  “Don’t fucking move, woman,” he warned. “You come near me, this knife goes in.”

  He heard her crying, whimpering some pointless words.

  Gallagher leaned his face close up to the boy. The boy was filthy, but there was something about him that still looked fresh. It was amazing when you looked close, how smooth his skin was. You could see every eyelash growing neatly in a fringe around his eyes. No wrinkles, no crinkles, no bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. His mouth was hanging open, and you could see his little white teeth. He could see the pounding of his heart, as fast as a rabbit.

  The boy was just looking back at him. He wasn’t crying or begging. His brows were lowered in a question.

  Gallagher felt suddenly dizzy. It was like he was looking at himself, looking at that little boy in the mirror in that tenement flat bathroom, and he was saying: why would you do this to me?

  Martin pulled the door shut behind him. He couldn’t stand to be indoors anymore. He couldn’t just sit there and wait. He knew it was pointless driving round in his car, but at least the movement would make him feel like something was happening. There was a light drizzle now and he pulled his coat collar up. He pressed the remote to unlock the car as he walked down the path. The flash of the lights illuminated something on the path at the very moment that he stepped on it. He transferred his weight off it quickly and looked down.

  It was a plastic bag. The kind people used for picking up dog shit, but it didn’t contain dog shit, he knew that much. There was something hard inside. He hooked one finger into the top of the bag and lifted it up. It was dripping wet. The bag was heavy. It looked like a set of keys. His heart started to bang harder. Someone leaving keys outside his house; what did that mean?

  He went back to the house and unlocked the front door, flicked on the hallway light and dropped the bag onto the hall table. It was keys. Two big old heavy keys. He tipped them onto the table. There was no tag, no explanation. He turned the bag over and looked at it. It was kind of dirty. There was something on it that could have been writing that was washed out by the rain, or it might just have been dirt. You couldn’t tell.

  Martin paced to the other side of the hall and leaned against the wall, staring at the keys. What did it mean? Did it get him any closer? He walked through into the kitchen and picked up the phone. He dialled McIntyre’s number from memory. He told him what he’d found.

  “And there’s no indication what building they’re for or where they’re from?”

  “No, I’m telling you, there’s nothing. The bag is...” Martin looked at it hopelessly. “I don’t know, I can’t tell. It looks as if maybe there was something written on it, or it could just be dirt. Whatever it is, anyway, you can’t make anything out.”

  “OK,” McIntyre said. Martin could hear the disappointment in his voice. It wasn’t a big break. “I’ll send a car round to pick them up. It’ll be an hour or so. We’ve got everyone out looking for Gallagher.”

  “Nothing yet?” Martin asked.

  “No,” McIntyre said. “But we’ll find him. He can’t hide forever.”

  “He could be anywhere,” Martin said. “Back up in Scotland.”

  “He could be,” McIntyre agreed. “We’ve got an alert out. But somehow I don’t think he’s travelling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s gone to ground.”

  “You think he’s with Beth and Ben?”

  McIntyre made a non committal noise. “That, I really don’t know. We’re going over every inch of everywhere he’s been lately. That’s how it works. We’ll turn him up.”

  Martin sighed. It felt like it was back to square one. He wasn’t going to sit here and wait for an hour for a squad car to turn up. At least for that hour he could drive around, covering that same ground. He left the bag on the table and dropped the keys into his pocket, and headed back out of the door.

  Gallagher was swinging the light beam of the phone around the room, up over the walls and ceiling. He watched the dancing light as he swigged from the whisky bottle. He balanced the knife on a loose rock on the floor and spun it round like a pointer.

  “Round and round it goes, where it stops, nobody knows,” he said.

  The first few times, it stopped facing a wall, facing the door. The third time, it stopped with the tip of the blade facing Beth. Gallagher looked at it and shook his head.

  “Uh oh,” he said, and looked up at Beth. “Your turn,” he said. She was sitting with her back against the wall, her head down. The boy was on the opposite side of the room. Neither of them had said anything for an hour. He looked over at the boy. “This is all your fault, you know,” he said.

  The boy glanced up at him then. “Me?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Gallagher said. He picked up the knife and pointed it at Beth. “Now she’s going to die, and it’s all your fault.”

  He saw the boy swallowing hard. He was fighting back tears, refusing to cry. He looked Gallagher in the eye. He shook his head.

  “What?” Gallagher asked. “You’re saying I’m wrong?”

  “You’re just a.... you’re a.... bastard,” the boy spat out.

  Gallagher laughed. “I am that, boy,” Gallagher said. “You too. Like father, like son eh?”

  He could see the confusion flashing across the boy’s eyes. “My dad’s not a bastard,” he said. “He’s going to kill you.”

  Gallagher turned to look at Beth. “Have you not told him?”

  “Told me what?” the boy asked.

  “Do you think she’s your mum?” Gallagher asked, pointing the knife at Beth. He could see the boy’s lip starting to tremble. “She’s not your mum. I killed your mum. I killed her with a steak knife,” he said, laughing. “That was a shit knife. This is a much better one,” he said, holding up the blade to admire it.

  “You’re stupid,” the boy blurted out. “You’re a stupid, horrible old man.”

  “Just don’t listen to him, Ben.”

  “Why?” Gallagher said, turning to Beth. “He might hear the truth?”

  “He’s just talking rubbish, Ben.”

  “I know,” the boy said. But Gallagher could hear the doubt in his voice.

  “Why do you think you’re here?” he asked the boy. “Why did I pick on you, eh?”

  The boy shrugged, refusing to look up at him. Gallagher laughed and moved closer. He got right up to him and bent over, pushing his face right into the boy’s.

  “We share something, you and me,” Gallagher said.

  Ben’s eyes flicked sideways, looking at him, curious despite himself.

  “You want to know what it is? What we have in common?” Gallagher brought the tip of the blade to Ben’s forearm. He stroked it along the skin for a couple of inches. The boy didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Gallagher smiled. The blade was so sharp he hadn’t even felt the cut. He watched the boy’s eyes widen in horror as he saw the red blood oozing from
the cut. “That’s it,” Gallagher said. “We share blood, you and me.”

  The boy’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “And that’s why you’re dangerous,” Gallagher said. “That’s why I can’t let you live.”

  Thirty Eight

  The rain was heavier now. Martin flicked the windscreen wipers on. He’d driven past Gallagher’s house. There was nothing to be seen there apart from a squad car and a few determined photographers. The crime scene tape kept them at a distance, huddled together on the pavement. He’d driven past Havelock Mill. He’d parked outside for a while, looking up at the illuminated glass tower. He could see people sitting at desks, typing away, picking things up and moving around in their offices. It was as though everything was normal. He sat in the car with the rain running down the windscreen. It was as though those people were in a different world; it was as though he was a ghost.

  He drove past the park where the rally had been held. He went over every second of it. Gallagher had talked to him. He’d chatted and made jokes about things, and all the time he’d known what was happening. And Martin... what a fool. He’d played right into Gallagher’s hands. The phrase drifted through his mind: if anything happens to them, I’ll never forgive myself. He’d heard people say that, but he’d never understood that anyone might really mean it. But he did. He would never forgive himself for this.

  The feeling welled up inside his chest. It felt like it would burst him open. He pulled the car over to the side and parked. He leaned his head on the steering wheel. He wanted to cry, but tears weren’t coming. It was unbearable. He kept catching little images at the corner of his mind: the time Ben fell over into his birthday cake, the curve of his cheek when he was asleep, the way he rubbed his own earlobes when he was watching TV. It was too painful. It was like he was remembering him, as if he was already gone. He wasn’t remembering Ben. Ben was still out there, and he was going to find him.