Maeve Phillips had thought she was dead. Opening her eyes to the dark, she whimpered. No, not dead. Not yet. Tensing her arm, she tried to move. She could feel the cool cotton of a sheet, damp from her perspiration. Silently she prayed for someone to take her away. She thought death would be a welcome release.
A soft scratching in the ceiling above her head kept her awake.
Gulping down tears of pain, Maeve remained powerless against the night-time creatures that were invading her mind.
Kosovo, 1999
The mice were everywhere. The boy was more afraid now. Not of the mice. Of the captain, and that creepy doctor. He was even afraid of the boy who had drawn a finger across his throat in a death threat.
Suddenly a mouse ran across his face. He shouted out. The soldiers in the room curled up laughing. He felt his face heat up.
His soldier friend came and sat on his bed.
‘I’m going home soon, so you need to be a bit braver.’
‘I go with you?’
‘No, son.’
Son? The soldier had called him son again. The boy smiled. ‘Please. I go with you.’ He pursed his lips in a sulk.
‘Not possible. You know what? You remind me of my baby daughter with that pout of yours. I’ve two little girls waiting for me at home.’
The boy said nothing, but a feeling of intense jealousy flushed his cheeks.
‘Look, you’re a strong boy. You’ll get plenty of work in Pristina. But I will miss you.’
The soldier flicked his name badge from his shirt. The boy held his breath.
‘Here, have this. Remember, I’m your friend. You can pretend to be a big strong warrior.’
Smiling widely, the boy took the badge, pride pumping through his heart. Maybe his friend would change his mind. Take him home with him.
The smile died on his lips when the soldier stood up, saying, ‘I hope there’s a good family somewhere who will take you in.’
The boy’s heart deflated. No one wanted him.
The soldier pulled his rifle to his shoulder and kicked out at the fleeing mice as he left the room.
Feeling the stiff green canvas in his hand, the boy traced his fingers over the thick stitches of the soldier’s name. He wondered about the strange little family the soldier had brought him to visit last night. Would they take him in? Probably not. They looked too poor. But his soldier friend had given them money to buy food. He’d even got the boy to take a photograph of them all. Would he show it to his baby daughter when he got home?
Jumping out of the bunk, he stepped straight down on top of a mouse. He hated the chicken farm.
He had to get out of here.
Soon.
Day Six
Saturday 16 May 2015
Fifty-Four
‘What’s this?’ Jackie asked.
Boyd raised himself on his elbow then flopped back down on the bed. His brain hopped around in his skull. Through the open door he saw Jackie in the living room, wearing one of his shirts open to the waist, naked underneath, with his wallet in her hand.
‘What’s what?’ he asked.
‘This?’ She held up a plastic evidence bag.
Boyd jumped out of bed, the thud of his feet on the floor resonating in his head. He pulled his trousers on over his boxers and moved towards her.
‘What gives you the right to go through my things?’ He swiped the bag from her and then his wallet. Scrunching the plastic bag back into the leather, he said, ‘Get dressed.’
She placed a hand on his shoulder, pulled him close and ran her bare leg up along his.
Pushing her away, Boyd turned and reached for the kettle. ‘I’ve to go to work.’
He turned on the tap, the flow of water drowning out Jackie swearing and stamping through to the bedroom. He almost didn’t hear the doorbell.
‘Shit. Could that be McNally?’ he said.
‘If it is, he’s a greater detective than you are.’
Jackie was dragging on her skin-tight jeans. Boyd lunged into the bedroom and grabbed her by the elbow.
‘It better not be. What are you playing at?’
‘Pity you weren’t this riled last night.’ She twisted away from his grip and pulled her top on over her head.
Hastily he zipped up his trousers and dragged on a shirt.
‘Coward,’ she said, smoothing down her hair.
The bell shrieked out a persistent ring.
‘Open the fucking door!’ Jackie shouted as she searched for her bag.
Sighing loudly, Boyd did as he was told.
A man he’d only ever seen in a mug shot stood outside. Darkly tanned, hair slicked back and wearing a black three-piece suit despite the morning heat. Jamie McNally reached in and punched Boyd in the face. He was slammed back against the wall and watched through a swelling eye as McNally stormed into his home.
Gathering his wits quickly, Boyd followed. ‘I didn’t invite scum into my house. Get out or I’ll arrest you. Both of you.’
Gripping Jackie by the wrist, McNally stuck his face into Boyd’s, but Boyd grabbed his tie and pulled him closer.
‘Get your hands off her and get the fuck out of Ragmullin. Otherwise, I promise I’ll have you behind bars. Assault of a detective, breaking and—’
‘You and whose fucking army?’ McNally broke free of Boyd’s grasp and pursed his lips into a snarl. ‘I’m back to help out a friend because you lot can’t do your fucking job. Do ya fucking hear me?’
As spittle landed on his face, Boyd couldn’t stop himself; he lashed out, catching McNally on the side of the head.
Before McNally could fall to the floor, Jackie clasped his arm and pushed him towards the door.
‘I’ll get you, you skinny fuck-face,’ McNally said over his shoulder.
‘You need to listen, Marcus,’ Jackie said. ‘Listen to what’s being said.’ And she followed McNally.
‘Jackie! Wait! Where…’
But she was gone. With McNally. Had she a choice? Maybe he should have done more to protect her. Fuck.
After slamming the door, Boyd leaned against it. He didn’t know what to make of the confrontation, and despite his confused feelings for Jackie, he feared for her. Why hadn’t he arrested McNally? Shit.
Glancing at his reflection in the hall mirror, he knew he was going to have a serious black eye.
He headed to the shower.
Fifty-Five
Lottie walked into the office.
‘Boyd!’ she yelled.
‘Yes?’ He entered, phone in hand.
‘What happened to your face?’
‘What’re you on about?’
Grabbing him by his shirtsleeve, she careened him back out the door and down the stairs to the deserted locker room. Leaning against her battered locker, she folded her arms and glared.
‘You’ve been drinking,’ she said with a sniff. ‘I can smell it. You’ve got the beginnings of a black eye and you’re twisting your hands like it’s going out of fashion.’
It unsettled her that he wouldn’t look at her. His lips remained sealed.
‘Talk to me,’ she said.
‘I’ve fucked up.’ Boyd took a step back and sat on the wooden bench in the centre of the room.
Lottie unfolded her arms and sat beside him. ‘That’s a new one.’