Free The Midnight Choir by Gene Kerrigan Page A

that,’ he said. Then he gestured towards Buckley and said, ‘He’s the good cop’ as he punched the Provo very hard in the stomach.
    The Provo yelled and bent sharply and Sergeant Joyce grabbed his hair, forced his head down and at the same time drove his knee into the side of the Provo’s face. The prisoner gave a muffled scream as he lost his balance and went down on his back. Joyce stood over him. He lifted his right foot and stamped on the Provo’s chest and stomach, again and again. Then he kicked him in the side as he rolled over, howling.
    Leaning across Sergeant Joyce, Detective Buckley bent forward and aimed a punch at the suspect’s face. Unbalanced, as Joyce jostled him, Buckley’s punch missed. Joyce lashed out and kicked the prone man twice in the back.
    Harry Synnott ran from the room, hurried down the corridor and up the stairs to the station superintendent’s office. He opened the door to the outer office, found the superintendent talking to a secretary and blurted out, ‘The prisoner, sir – they’re beating him up, they’re out of control!’
    The superintendent looked at Synnott. He made a soothing gesture.
    ‘Calm down, garda. Take it easy.’
    ‘No, sir, it’s—’
    The superintendent’s tone was even, a slight flush to his cheeks. He said, ‘Return to your duty, garda.’ He held Synnott’s stare. ‘You have a job to do. Pull yourself together and do it.’
    Synnott was panting. He took a breath and said. ‘Sir, I don’t think—’ but he was speaking to the superintendent’s back. His superior slammed the inner-office door behind him.
    The secretary didn’t look at Synnott. He was very carefully inserting a yellow form into his typewriter, twisting the roller slowly, adjusting the paper so that it was perfectly square.
    Synnott left the office and stood in the corridor. He leaned back until his shoulders were touching the wall. Then he lowered his arms, palms flat against the wall, aware that his hands were trembling.
    If Harry Synnott felt anything for the Provo prisoner it was loathing. Unless garda intelligence was way off target, this was the piece of shit who’d put a bullet in Maura Sheelin. Synnott had been at the funeral, he’d watched the parents, pale and wide-eyed, Maura’s three younger brothers and the teenage sister who adored her, all of them trying to hold themselves together and failing.
    It wasn’t the prisoner’s welfare that mattered to Harry Synnott. It was secondary that Synnott himself might get into trouble if it came out that he’d stood by and watched a prisoner being beaten. What was working away inside his gut was the blatant use of naked violence, the contempt not just for the prisoner but for Harry Synnott and anyone else in the station who might see or hear what was going on. It was the assumption that membership of the force automatically tied him into that shameless wielding of unbounded power.
    He knew that running to the superintendent had already marked him as a weakling. You’re one of us or you’re not.
    Harry Synnott went back downstairs.
    In the canteen, Synnott found three uniformed gardai around a table near the window. He sat down and told them what he’d seen.
    ‘Fucker deserves whatever he gets.’
    ‘That’s not what worries—’
    ‘These are the boys from downtown, right? Buckley and Joyce. Later, when they get tired, some of their mates will be up to keep that bastard company. In the meantime, they’ll do what they’re good at and when it’s all done and dusted another piece of Provo shit will be locked up for the rest of his natural. What’s the problem?’
    Synnott stood and left the canteen.
    In the corridor, Buckley was headed towards the canteen, lighting a cigarette. He passed Harry Synnott and didn’t acknowledge him by word or glance. He seemed not to see him.
    In the interview room, the prisoner was crouched by the far wall, wiping his face with a towel. Sergeant Joyce was standing near the table. Joyce