Free The Rising by Brian McGilloway Page A

Debbie, then her face creased in tears. Debbie rushed to her and they hugged. To my left sat four upright wooden chairs of the style I had seen downstairs. Simon Williams sat alone on the furthermost chair, his back straight, his clasped hands in his lap. I approached him and extended my hand.
    ‘I’m very sorry, Simon,’ I said. ‘It’s just terrible.’
    ‘It is,’ he agreed, looking at me but not shaking my hand.
    ‘How are you since?’
    ‘What – since this morning?’
    I opened my mouth to speak, but the words faltered in my throat.
    ‘I’m Ben’s wife,’ I heard Debbie say as she came over to us. ‘I’m truly sorry for your loss. Peter was a fine boy. We loved him dearly.’
    Simon Williams stood and took my wife’s hand and thanked her for coming.
    I turned to Caroline, who remained at her son’s side, her fingers lightly stroking the wood of his coffin. There was something pathetic about the intimacy of such a gesture on cold, varnished pine.
    I hunkered down in front of her, my hand taking her free hand, which rested on her lap.
    ‘How are you?’ I asked, aware of the futility of anything I said.
    She looked at me a little blankly, as if struggling to place me. She had slept little over the past few days. After the terror of Peter’s disappearance, she had experienced the false hope of his text message and finally the knowledge that he was dead. I hoped that, at least having got her son back, she could begin to grieve properly. I only worried about what that grief might do to her.
    ‘Anything you need, Caroline. Just ask,’ I said, standing up to go.
    She attempted to stand and put her arms around my neck, hugging me close to her.
    ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she croaked. ‘I didn’t do this.’
    ‘No one did this, Caroline,’ I said, holding her tight against me. ‘It was a horrible accident. No one is to blame.’
    ‘I didn’t do this,’ she repeated, her voice rising hysterically.
    ‘But, Caroline,’ I began, moving out of our hug to face her. ‘No one’s bl—’
    She grabbed my face in her two hands, forcing me to hold her gaze. ‘I didn’t do this. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not . . .’ Her words repeated over and over until they became indecipherable from her sobs. She rested her head against the crook of my neck. Her father, clearly having heard the noise from downstairs, appeared beside us, placing his hands on her arms, attempting to disentangle us.
    Caroline looked at me, pleadingly, her eyes drawn in terror as her father surrounded her in his arms. Simon Williams sat straight-backed on his wooden seat, staring at the wall opposite, his expression unreadable.
    Downstairs, Caroline’s mother, Rose, offered us tea before we started home. I noticed, sitting alone in the corner, a cup in one hand, his Garda cap hanging on his knee, Joe McCready.
    ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ I said to Debbie who was standing with Rose, offering her condolences.
    McCready stood up when I approached him and appeared relieved to have someone to talk to.
    ‘Inspector,’ he said.
    ‘Good to see you, Joe,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
    He looked around and blushed.
    ‘I felt . . . it was my . . . not my duty, but . . .’
    ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Above and beyond the call of duty though, Joe.’
    ‘I could say the same to you,’ he said, smiling.
    ‘Caroline’s my friend,’ I explained as I took out my cigarettes and offered him one. Smoking in a stranger’s house is frowned upon on almost any occasion except a wake. I had noticed when I came in a number of the other mourners smoking. Most of them, granted, were elderly men, smoking yellowed twists of Rizla paper loosely filled. I offered one of my own smokes to McCready, but he shook his head.
    ‘I don’t, thank you, sir,’ he said.
    ‘Clean living for a Guard,’ I commented, lighting my own. ‘Married?’
    ‘Nearly, sir,’ he smiled.
    ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘When’s the