Free Cold by John Sweeney

serious.’
    He denied hitting the boy, full stop. Emin, he explained, was originally from Albania, almost fully grown – more a man than a boy – and profoundly deaf and dumb. He knew no sign language, and his frustration because he couldn’t communicate with anyone led him to terrifying outbursts of anger. He had arrived on the Eurostar; there were no contact details for his family back in Albania. He was entirely alone in the world. Of all the carers at the home, only Joe was comfortable in his presence, on account of Joe of being bigger than him.
    The boy, almost sixteen now, had a history of physical violence – punching, headbutting, spitting – and was clearly very troubled. In the previous fortnight he had attacked two other carers at the children’s home who were still on sick leave, and on the night in question it had been necessary for Joe to restrain him, for the safety of the other staff but especially a young Moroccan boy of twelve years of age, who had just got off the Eurostar unaccompanied. The police had brought him to the home only a few hours before. Emin had picked a fight with the Moroccan boy, Joe explained. To stop Emin from bullying the smaller boy, he had had to restrain him.
    ‘I had to hold Emin. He was . . .’ Joe stopped as Alison picked up a phone on the glass table.
    ‘Just a moment, Mr Tiplady . . . Hello, I specifically asked for sparkling water . . . Yes, please, straight away . . . Carry on, Mr Tiplady.’
    ‘. . . trouble.’
    ‘You say that, Mr Tiplady, but what about the video?’ said Alison.
    ‘What video?’ asked Joe.
    ‘Two of your colleagues have tendered written submissions to this tribunal that the video clearly showed you using inappropriate force against Emin.’
    ‘What video?’ repeated Joe.
    ‘It appears that the video has been mislaid,’ said Mr Stephens, smiling all the while. ‘Nevertheless, two of your colleagues were able to view it, and we are minded to accept their statements as admissible for the purposes of this fact-finding hearing.’
    ‘Isn’t this the preliminary?’
    ‘No. It’s the fact-finder,’ said Alison.
    ‘Who watched the video?’ asked Joe.
    ‘Your colleagues have exercised the right to anonymity.’
    ‘There was no video,’ said Joe.
    Alison gestured for him to pause. She picked up the phone again and repeated her request for sparkling water, then nodded for Joe to continue.
    ‘The logbook will prove the video wasn’t working.’
    ‘Have you got a copy of the logbook?’ asked Alison.
    ‘No, but the day manager has one.’
    ‘No record of an active logbook, Mr Tiplady,’ said Mr Stephens. ‘No record whatsoever.’
    The phrase hit him like a sandbag. No record . No record of an active detonator.
    His mind went back to the cemetery in West Belfast, the sky grey and overcast, clouds scudding towards the Isle of Man. Declan Donnelly walked up the steep incline towards him through a corridor of Republican graves, his tweed overcoat flapping in the breeze, his hands deep in his pockets.
    As he neared Joe, Donnelly’s right hand moved out of his pocket an inch or so, and Joe could clearly see his fingers gripping the stock of a Taurus pistol. The outline of the muzzle waved at Joe through the lining of Donnelly’s coat, suggesting that he take a seat on the metal bench with a view of the city and the lough beyond. Joe sat down and the muzzle shape stayed trained on him. Donnelly, never a fit man, was out of breath.
    ‘So,’ wheezed Donnelly.
    ‘You asked to see me, Declan, and here I am,’ said Joe.
    ‘We’ve got a tout in the London Special Branch.’
    Joe knew where this might be going, and knew it would not be good for him.
    ‘He’s human scum, our tout. A bent copper, the most bent in all of Scotland Yard. One of our people clocked him running errands for a London gangster. We did the gangster a favour and now we own the copper. He got sight of the intelligence report on the failed bomb