Those We Left Behind Read Free Page B

retreated into the corner, what remained of David Rolston. One arm hooked up and over his head at an unnatural angle making him look like a rag doll that had been thrown in a childish rage. Skull fragments. Flaps of skin, strands of hair. One eye gone, the other open and dull.
    On the stained carpet, between his splayed legs, a cast iron bookend in the shape of a cat. Its pair remained on the dresser beside the body, books spilling onto the floor.
    ‘Dear Christ,’ Purdy said. ‘Children did this. Children.’
    Flanagan’s hand went to her stomach, an instinctive motion. She had not yet told anyone other than her husband that she was pregnant. She said a silent prayer that this horror would not seep through her flesh and touch the growing life within.
    Flanagan first met Ciaran Devine in his cell at Antrim Serious Crime Suite. The doctor had finished his examination, passed her in the corridor. A custody officer held the cell door open for her. Ciaran was sitting on the bench that served as a bed when she entered.
    So small.
    He looked up at her, startlement in his eyes. He had not expected a woman, she realised. His blood-soaked clothes had been removed, replaced by standard issue dark navy sweatshirt and joggers. Too big for his skinny frame, they sagged on him, the cuffs draping over his hands, revealing only his fingers. Slip-on plimsolls like Flanagan had worn as a child at school gym classes. Blond hair cut close to his scalp.
    The custody sergeant had told Flanagan about the bruises, both fresh and fading, on Ciaran’s arms. Some of them like teeth marks. Self-harm, the custody sergeant had said. The boy had a history of it. Young for that, the sergeant observed. Flanagan told him biting was the most common form of self-harm amongst younger children. The custody sergeant had shrugged and said, young for killing people too.
    Ciaran’s hands shook. Tears ready to come at any moment. He had been as calm as could be expected so far, the custody sergeant had told her, even when he was booked in. But Flanagan could tell the boy’s composure was a thin veil that might slip or be torn away in an instant. The staff in the custody suite had a nervous resolve about their work. They hated to have children locked up. So many dangers, so much to go wrong.
    Flanagan took a breath, reminded herself once more that Ciaran was a child undergoing an experience more terrifying than most adults would ever have to endure. She gave him a shallow smile and spoke with the friendly but firm voice she had practised and refined over many hours.
    ‘Ciaran, I’m Detective Sergeant Serena Flanagan. I’ll be interviewing you in a little while, once your social worker gets here. Right now, I have to take a DNA sample.’
    She showed him the clear plastic tube in her hand, the cotton swab inside.
    ‘Is that all right?’ she asked.
    He blinked, and a tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Where’s Thomas?’ he asked.
    Not even a whisper, barely a croak in his throat.
    ‘Thomas is in another block, in a cell like this one.’
    ‘Can I see him?’
    Flanagan shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, you can’t.’
    Ciaran’s control began to break. His hands danced in his lap, fingers grabbing at air, at cloth, at skin. His shoulders rose and fell as his breathing quickened. Panic creeping in, taking over. Panic blots out reason, lashes out, causes harm. It must be held at bay.
    Flanagan crossed the cell to him, hunkered down so her eyes were level with his.
    ‘Ciaran, listen to me. I know you’re frightened, but I need you to try to stay calm. I know this is a scary place, but you’re safe here. You’re going to be all right, I promise. I’ll make sure of it.’
    ‘I want Thomas,’ he said, his voice a despairing whine.
    ‘You can’t see him, I’m sorry.’
    He brought his hands to his face, bent over, curling in on himself. Weeping like the lost child he was. Even though she knew he had been involved in the most brutal violence, even though