Those We Left Behind by Stuart Neville Read Free Book Online Page A

has fallen asleep. Ciaran listens to his deep, steady breathing for a time before he slips off the bed. The alarm clock says 19:35. He leaves the bedroom, explores the flat.
    There is a small table in the kitchen. A laptop computer sits on it. Ciaran knows how to use a computer. He had classes when he was inside. He opens the lid, presses the power button.
    The computer asks for a password.
    Ciaran thinks for a moment, then enters his own name.
    The computer rejects the password.
    Ciaran thinks again. He tries once more, swapping the letter I for the digit 1. C–1–A–R–A–N.
    The computer’s desktop appears, along with its rows of icons. Ciaran finds the one for the internet browser and clicks on it. Google is the home page.
    He types a name into the search field, concentrating on each letter.
    Serena Flanagan.
    A page of results, most of them news stories from the BBC, the
News Letter
, the
Belfast Telegraph
. He reads the headlines as best he can, remembering what he learned in Hydebank, taking his time. Some describe a big case and a shooting at a shopping centre in town. He clicks on a link. There’s a photograph of the place where it happened: Victoria Square. Ciaran doesn’t know it. Maybe it opened after he went away.
    A hand on his shoulder. Ciaran’s heart leaps. He looks around and up. Thomas standing over him.
    Thomas says, ‘What are you doing?’
    Ciaran closes the laptop. ‘Just looking.’
    ‘That woman cop,’ Thomas says.
    Ciaran drops his gaze to the floor. ‘Yes.’
    ‘That’s all right,’ Thomas says. ‘Look if you want. But I need to get you back soon. Ten minutes, all right?’
    He walks away, leaving Ciaran alone with the computer and the dead things that live on inside his head.

 
     
     
SUNDAY 25TH MARCH 2007
    Flanagan stood behind the unattended desk in the custody suite, watching the CCTV feed from the boy’s cell. She observed as he woke and dragged himself upright, looked away while he used the toilet.
    Ciaran returned to the vinyl-covered pad that served as a mattress and sat with his head in his hands. Flanagan wondered at the turmoil that raged between his fingers, inside that young skull. The impossible wish to take it back, the terrible future he had made for himself.
    ‘You’d never believe it to look at him,’ a voice behind her said.
    She turned to see the overnight custody sergeant, John Richie, wheeling a trolley laden with several trays of buttered toast and mugs of steaming tea. He rolled it to the desk then folded his arms, watching the screen. End-of-shift fatigue darkened his eyes.
    ‘How’s he been?’ Flanagan asked.
    ‘Quiet,’ Richie said. ‘Not a peep out of him. Same for the brother.’ He shook his head. ‘A kid like that. You’d never think he had it in him. The older one, maybe, but not him.’
    ‘Nothing’s for sure yet,’ Flanagan said.
    ‘But you have the confession.’
    ‘True, but I’m not accepting it for now. There’s still work to do.’
    ‘What, you think he’ll change his story?’
    Flanagan nodded towards the trolley. ‘Do you mind if I take his breakfast to him?’
    Richie pursed his lips. ‘I’m supposed to bring the food.’
    Flanagan gave him a smile. ‘I’m just helping out, chipping in, team spirit and all that.’
    Richie sighed and said. ‘Yeah, all right, if you want.’
    Flanagan lifted a tray from the trolley and followed Richie into the block. He stopped at the door to Ciaran’s cell, opened the hatch to peer through, then slipped the key into the lock. Flanagan thanked him as he stepped aside. He closed the door over, leaving it ajar by a few inches.
    Ciaran watched her enter, frozen in place, as Richie’s footsteps receded along the corridor.
    ‘Breakfast,’ Flanagan said. ‘You hungry?’
    Ciaran did not answer.
    She set the tray down next to the boy, tea lapping the rim of the mug, then sat on the far side of it.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘this isn’t an interview. Nothing’s being