Liam pushed past the shorter detective with a growl. “I’ll throw you in a minute.”
Craig was bringing up the rear, still speaking to the group.
“If anyone needs us we’ll be on the road. By the way, you’re driving, Liam.”
“Right then. We’re taking my new car.”
Craig didn’t care whose car they took just as long as they got to Tyrone ASAP. He wanted to see inside the mysterious forest building, preferably without alerting any teenage boys.
****
The Therapist’s Office. The Lisburn Road. South Belfast. 6 p.m.
John was dreading this second therapy session even more than the first one. Amanda Beresford having finally got Natalie to admit that she was part of a family unit and a wife and mother, he’d been trying to persuade her ever since of the importance of democracy in their marriage and drawn a complete blank.
He wasn’t surprised then to see the psychologist experiencing a similar difficulty now, and marvelled at Beresford’s ability to reiterate the same idea several times using different intonations, without sounding angry or sarcastic even once. He’d failed to manage it after his third repetition at home.
He listened back in to the exchange between the two women, glancing from the soft eyed therapist to his wife, and watching as Natalie’s sharp blue eyes rolled when the words,
“Democracy means opinions being listened to respectfully and reaching consensus agreement. Or, if agreement can’t be reached, taking turns in having the lead.”
Natalie sat forward confrontationally on the therapist’s extra comfortable sofa, the move over from their original chairs suggesting hope.
“But what if I don’t want to take turns?”
Beresford answered patiently. “That can cause strain in a marriage and confusion for the child.”
“But I always lead in theatre and the patient always survives.”
The psychologist countered. “And your husband always leads in his work-”
Natalie interrupted, smiling triumphantly as if she was about to score match point.
“Yes, but his patients are dead, so it doesn’t matter if he makes a mistake cutting them. It does if I do, therefore I should always lead!”
The argument had gone around so many times that John was beginning to feel dizzy, so he surprised everyone by halting the debate with a loud, “STOP!”
Both women turned to look at him, Amanda Beresford curiously, as if she was fascinated to hear what he might say, but Natalie was just plain irate.
“You can’t tell me to shut up!”
“I didn’t. I simply said stop the debate.” John turned towards his wife on the settee. “Natalie, can I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
He gave a tut.
“Oh, OK, then. Go ahead and ask.”
The pathologist felt surprisingly calm, despite the bomb that he was about to detonate.
“Do you like being married to me?”
Natalie gawped at him, momentarily taken aback. “What?”
“Answer the question, please.”
After a moment’s blustering, the surgeon grudgingly replied. “OK. Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have married you otherwise, or,” she added matter-of-factly, in a way that in anyone else would have said their romantic feelings were stone-dead, but in Natalie merely demonstrated the logic with which she lived her life, “I would have left you by now if I didn’t.”
Good to know.
John sighed at her bluntness and carried on. “So, it’s not that you don’t want to be with me. Good.” Although there were times when he wondered how he felt, but that subject could wait for a few years. “But… do you like the reality of marriage? The living in the same house, doing things together, all of that stuff?”
To his shock she smiled, as if remembering something pleasurable.
“Yes… yes, I think I do.”
She thought back to her single life, with all its microwaved dinners for one and tiny tables beside the washrooms in restaurants, and became more definite.
“Yes, I definitely do.”
The pathologist nodded again. “Good. OK, so you like the reality of being married to me, and I know you enjoy being a mother, so…”
He thought for a moment, frowning as if his thought process was difficult, and it was; he was trying to separate an abstract concept from real life and that was a challenge, even for his overly developed brain.
Eventually John was ready to ask his final question, and he noticed Amanda Beresford scribbling in her pad and smiling to herself. He made a mental note to ask her what she’d written when the session was done.
“OK, final question. Very quickly, Natalie, can you tell me what comes into your mind when you hear the word marriage?”
Her response was snapped back.
“Control.”
“By whom?”
“The man.”
It echoed her comment of the day before.
Beresford jumped in.
“Does John dominate you?”
The pathologist’s eyes widened at the question, but Natalie’s immediate, “No”, put his mind at rest. Until Beresford’s next question.
“Did your father dominate your mother?”
There was no reply.
John would have laughed if the idea hadn’t shocked him so much; his father-in-law was the most placid man he had ever met. If anything, it was his mother-in-law who ruled the roost, to the point where some might have called her husband hen-pecked.
His brown eyes widened; was that Natalie’s model for a perfect marriage? A passive man that she could control? John could feel himself rearing up in his seat; he might be quiet, but he was damned if he’d be a pushover, and if Natalie tried to dominate him then she would have a fight on her hands.
With the couple deep in their own thoughts, Beresford held up the note that she’d written earlier, and they saw that it contained virtually the same words as Natalie had just said.
The therapist took back the lead.
“This is good progress. Thank you for those helpful questions, Mister Winter. You’ve just confirmed that your wife loves you, and loves being married to you-”
Natalie cut in. “I’m not sure I said loved.”
“The sentiment was there. Equally, she loves being a mother and she doesn’t feel controlled by you. That’s the reality of your marriage. But in the abstract, Ms Ingrams sees marriage as a prison or trap, one where the woman is dominated and loses her identity. I believe that it is fear of that abstract that is making her constantly struggle for control in her real married life.”
Natalie waved a hand rudely in front of her face. “Hellooo… I am here you know.”
John snorted. “It would be hard to forget.”
She threw him a sharp glance.
“Well, I’m being discussed in the abstract as well, you know, just like my so-called abstract idea about marriage is.”
The therapist turned her whole body to face her.
“I do believe that your constant need for attention might require a whole session’s work.”
Now there was Beresford’s sarcastic tone.
While Natalie sulked, the psychologist continued.
“Overall, we now know that we need to explore where that fear is coming from, and work to eradicate it from your marriage and family life.”
John interjected, determined to make a point. Beresford needed to know that Natalie’s fears weren’t based in either her parent’s marriage or their own.
“Well, it’s not coming from her parent’s marriage either. If anything, her mum is the bossy one there. So, I’ve no idea where this fear of control is coming from.”
Natalie’s sharp glance narrowed to a squint.
The therapist nodded. “We can explore that at our next session.” She rose and ushered them to the door. “Meanwhile, please work on today’s ideas together and I’ll see you next week at the same time.”
John left the room opti
mistic that there was hope for a more peaceful future, even as his loving, but never ever to be dominated, wife grumbled her way to the car.
****
7 p.m.
The telephone call was brief and uncomfortable, the pecking order of their youth firmly re-established by its end. Strange how difficult it was to break early childhood conditioning, where the elder child was always the boss and the younger simply tagged along behind. Apart from sporadic attempts at rebellion in his teens and twenties, Dermot Canavan had always followed his brother’s lead, except for this one time, this single project that had been just his and Ellie’s first, even if as soon as Niall had discovered it he’d taken over and behaved as if it had always been his idea.
Dermot stared down at his smart-phone, his blue eyes bright with tears. Blood or love? Niall or Ellie? He was being pulled in opposite directions and he didn’t know which to choose. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and let his mind rush back to childhood, recalling the times when Niall had stood stoically between his father and him, absorbing first the blows and then the endless abuse, until they were finally grown and able to resist. Niall had protected him so many times, could he really abandon him with just a phone call now?
That was the question Niall Canavan had just asked as well, entreating his baby brother to return home one last time before he embarked on his new life abroad. One final walk through the wainscoted corridors of their antecedents, one more deep breath of the fresh forest air. Dermot had almost felt the mahogany panes firm beneath his fingers and smelt the heady forest spruce as they’d talked.
Suddenly he shuddered, recalling what had brought them to this point. How two intelligent and outwardly normal men could have become so emotionally damaged that no amount of wealth could make them feel whole, and in their pursuit of even more of it they had damaged boys just like they’d once been. Not damaged them in the same way, that was true, but still damaged them and some possibly beyond repair, despite their self-serving rationalisations that the teenagers had already been too broken to help and at least they were putting a roof over their heads.
He knew why they’d done it of course, just as Niall did, and, as hard as multiple therapists had tried to keep the memories from resurfacing, Dermot’s mind flooded with them now. He rested back in his chair with his eyes still closed, and gave in completely to the thoughts and images, too tired to fight them this time.
The nineteen-eighties across the world had been a decade of bad fashion and some decent music, although definitely not a lot. The nineteen-eighties in Northern Ireland was a time when people could be murdered for stepping outside their own front door, and no-one was certain how long they were going to live. Or at least… that was the excuse their father had used for what he’d done back then. Regardless of whether others had got hurt or not, the pursuit of pleasure had become his reason for living, and he’d travelled every road, no matter how twisted, towards that end.
Drugs, drink, sex without limits, hedonism, cruelty to others, nothing had been out of bounds for him as long as it did the trick, and that included his two young sons, his intent seemingly being to drag them as far down as himself. Declan Canavan the third; the Marquis de Sade of Tyrone.
Perhaps if their mother had lived beyond his infancy they would have had a different life, although she would have needed to have been a very strong woman to halt their father in full flow. Sometimes, in his darkest hours, Dermot wondered if she’d really died of cancer as they’d been told, or if their father’s perversions had finally driven her to take her own life.
Dermot’s eyes squeezed tighter as he remembered the first time that his father had seen them watching, and he felt as if he was going to be sick. It had been a night when two young boys in a dark mansion had huddled in the same bed for comfort, until they’d been awoken by the screams. He couldn’t remember which of them had woken first but they’d clambered out of bed together to follow the piercing sounds, out of the house and into the gardens and then down the hidden path that led to Killeter Forest. Then further again, towards the clearing where they were never allowed to play, where they’d hidden themselves to watch open-mouthed from behind a tree.
Watch as a fire in the centre had flickered gold and orange across the women’s naked bodies, making them gleam and glisten like creatures from another world, and keep watching then as the five men had approached them, larger and stronger and excited, their faces terrifyingly obscured by deer’s heads.
He remembered shutting his eyes tight and grasping Niall’s hand, so petrified that’d he’d been frozen where he’d stood and felt urine trickling slowly down the inside of his pyjama legs. Wishing himself back in bed with every fibre of his being, while Niall had observed everything that was happening without flinching or glancing away, not even when one of the men who’d turned to look at them had removed his mask, revealing himself to be their father, smiling at them unashamedly before returning once more to his pursuit.
That had been the beginning; their father alternately hostile and loving and gradually initiating them into his perverted life, until by the time he had died in two-thousand-and-eight it had just seemed natural for them to carry on. After all, the women were consenting adults and knew to expect Niall’s roughness, so where could be the harm? But the violence had never sat well with him, and when he’d met Ellie a year later he’d stopped joining in Niall’s nocturnal games.
It was then that they’d had the idea of drug dealing, their path to a future escape. But Niall had found out about it quickly and once he had he’d insisted on joining in, extending their small operation to a much larger one, and finding what he’d said was an even better game than before. And a better use for the clearing and heads.
Dermot opened his eyes reluctantly, grimacing at the memories of recruiting: the wandering boys, the homeless boys, the restless, greedy, discontent boys, all so young, all voracious in their appetite for material things and freedom, and all eager to sell drugs for them if that was what it took to keep their new lives. Until some of them hadn’t been… and the boys’ club that they’d based in their father’s old hunting lodge had begun to develop laws of its own. Boys who wouldn’t sell drugs had to die, boys who defied the self-appointed teen leaders who’d emerged by their sheer brutality had to die, boys who wouldn’t do what the pack dictated on everything had to die, and Niall had seemed to revel in it all. King of his own brutal kingdom, just as their father had been.
Dermot shook his head in denial. He’d always hated the killing but even if Niall hadn’t what could they have done? It wasn’t really their fault. How could they have stopped them? Two men against a swarm of adolescent boys.
But he knew it was a lie, an attempt at justification. They could have stopped them many times, but easy money had become their God, and the occasional death at the teenagers’ own hands had seemed a small price to pay. Law of the jungle; the survival of the fittest.
They’d finally become men so damaged that no amount of wealth or pleasure could ever make them feel whole. Their father would be so proud.
The first dead boy in two thousand and nine had been a shock, but they’d got rid of his body, and the ringleader afterwards. Throwing him back onto the streets of Belfast where they’d found him, with threats of his own death if he ever mentioned what he’d done. And oh, how he’d done it. The same animal heads and the same clearing, but this time used for a mass hysteric killing, instead of simply for group sex. Dermot shivered at the thought. Simply group sex; the adult no longer shocked by what the child had seen.
But the shock of the first death hadn’t stopped them and more greed had followed, and more boys had come, replacements for those who were murdered or grew too old. If they were short on volunteers kidnapping became acceptable, anything to maintain the numbers and ensure that their supply chain never failed. And then the next dead boy in twenty-ten, and two more to follow, until the final last one, the fifth, just days before, the second time that Niall had sadistically insisting on leaving
the bodies for some tourist to find.
That had been the end for him. Almost. He’d still felt obliged to help supply a few last boys this week to fill the loss. But he was done now for good. He couldn’t condemn any more children to that life, not if he ever hoped to look his own child in the eye.
Dermot allowed himself a small smile at the thought of her. Milly was his chance to feel clean again, to redeem that sensitive frightened boy that still lay deep inside. Maybe that was who Ellie had seen in him when they’d met and maybe she wanted to see him again? But how could she until he put things finally to rest?
The thought made up his mind and spurred him to his car to begin the long drive home, just one last visit to the land that had made him before he began his new life.
Chapter Nineteen
Tyrone. 8.30 p.m.
Joey was shocked when the door burst open and ten boys in their late teens stormed into the room, kicking books and toys to each side as they did so and then forming a tight group at the front, with one tall boy clearly taking the lead. As Joey gazed up at the leader’s high, sharp cheekbones and blond hair, he recognised him as one of the six who had been outside the van and wanted to punch him hard in the face. He made do with a small smile as he remembered Harry kicking the youth hard in the head.
Just then his thoughts were drowned out by a shout from a burly carrot-haired boy.
“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!”
The high-pitched buzz from the younger boys ceased instantly, to be replaced by a scuffing and shuffling of feet. The movements brought a second order.
“And stand still!”
This one was less of a shout, enabling Joey to hear the red-head’s voice. It had the unwavering tones of post-puberty, saying that the boy was nearly grown. The almost-adult continued speaking.
“You first ten kids get ready to follow Ian.” He indicated a shorter, wiry boy with sandy hair. “Do what he tells you, when he tells you. Understand?”
The Running of the Deer Page 33