Free Those We Left Behind by Stuart Neville Page A

in, and she still longed for that heat in her chest, that taste, that sparkling in her brain.
    There was a bottle of vodka in the kitchen cupboard. Ice in the freezer, tonic in the fridge, lemons in a bowl on the dining table. Two minutes to make the drink.
    ‘Fuck it,’ she said, and went to the kitchen.
    Three minutes later she felt the cold prickle of tonic bubbles on her lip, the hot bite of the vodka in her throat. Half the glass gone in two swallows.
    Cunningham did not remember falling asleep, only the sickly shock of waking, her mobile phone trilling and vibrating on the coffee table. She reached for it, clumsy fingers knocking it to the floor. After a few more seconds of fumbling she squinted at the display, trying to make sense of the number. She didn’t recognise it. She pressed answer.
    ‘Hello?’
    Her voice hoarse, the L softened by the alcohol. She swallowed, ran her tongue around her mouth. Don’t sound drunk, she told herself, a futile command.
    ‘Hello, Paula?’ A man’s voice, rattle and bustle in the background.
    ‘Yes. Who’s this?’
    ‘Tom Wheatley.’ He waited for some sort of acknowledgement as her sleep- and drink-blunted mind tried to catch up. ‘From the hostel,’ he said eventually, and the Liverpool accent registered.
    ‘Oh,’ Cunningham said. ‘Oh? What . . .’ She swallowed again. ‘What time is it?’
    ‘Coming up to one,’ he said, his tone apologetic. ‘Sorry to call you this late. Sounds like I woke you. But I thought you’d want to know.’
    She turned her mouth away and coughed, then asked, ‘Know what?’
    ‘You remember that little spat in the common room earlier? Between Ciaran’s brother and the other lad.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Robbie Agnew, a nasty little git, just between you and me. Anyway, he didn’t come back for nine tonight. It’s not the first time, he’s had a few warnings already. But I got a call about eleven from the A&E ward at the Royal. He’d been found just up the road, seven kinds of shit beaten out of him.’
    ‘Jesus,’ Cunningham said, clarity creeping in behind her eyes. ‘How bad?’
    ‘Bad enough, but he’ll be all right. Nothing broken, cuts and bruises, and he’s lost a couple of teeth. They’ll probably let him out tomorrow. The police took a statement. He said he’d no idea who did it, just some guys jumped him and gave him a hiding for no reason.’
    ‘Do you believe him?’
    ‘Not for a second,’ Wheatley said. ‘I asked him flat out if it was the Devine brothers. He just went quiet for a second, then he said no, it wasn’t them, he didn’t know who it was. Then he clammed up. Thing is, this Agnew lad, he can handle himself. I certainly wouldn’t tackle him. Whoever did this to him, the Devines or not, has some balls.’
    ‘Did you say anything to the police?’ Cunningham asked.
    ‘No, not much point. A bit of suspicion from me isn’t really grounds for them to lift Ciaran or Thomas. Anyway, I thought I’d better let you know. Ciaran seems like a decent enough young fella. It’d be a shame for him to land back inside over a toe-rag like Robbie Agnew.’
    ‘Yeah, thank you,’ Cunningham said. ‘I’ve a meeting with Ciaran in the morning. I’ll see if I can get anything out of him.’
    Wheatley apologised once again for waking her and hung up. Cunningham dropped her phone to the couch beside her. Angus sighed and pushed at her thigh with his paws. She reached across and scratched his belly as his tail thumped against the cushions.
    One-fifteen now. She should go to bed, even if it was cold and empty, and get some proper sleep.
    Bubbles still rose in the glass on the coffee table, the ice not yet melted.
    Cunningham reached for it.

12
    DANIEL ROLSTON HAD worked at the call centre for six months, the only real job he’d ever had. He hated it. The centre took up the entire eleventh floor of a tower block overlooking the River Lagan. If Daniel walked from his portioned-off workstation to the windows, he’d