Death was part of his job.
As a member of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Doyle had seen it in more guises than he cared to remember for more years than he could be bothered to recall.
How long?
Five years? Ten?
A hundred?
He smiled to himself.
For every death he'd dispensed, he'd seen one. A colleague, innocent men and women, sometimes children.
And her.
The only one he'd ever really cared for.
Georgie.
He pushed the last shell into the magazine and dropped it into his pocket.
Fuck it.
He closed his eyes momentarily and she was there.
She was always there, especially in quiet moments. He hated the nights more than ever now. Thoughts of her came to him in the lonely stillness and even though he fought to keep those thoughts at bay they battered against his consciousness.
She'd been dead more than eight years now.
Hadn't she?
You should know. You held her that night, you looked into her eyes. You felt her blood on your hands. You smelled her.
'Fuck it,' Doyle hissed under his breath and reached for another cassette, jamming it into the stereo, turning the sound even louder.
'I hope the end is less painful than my life…'
Doyle saw movement in his rear-view mirror and turned in his seat.
The paper boy was about twelve, maybe younger. A tall lanky lad who was standing looking towards number ten London Road.
He could see figures moving about on the path in front of the house.
Uniformed figures.
Doyle swung himself out of the car and the boy looked at him with an expression coloured by fear.
Doyle ran a hand through his long hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. The cold wind sent it lashing back around his face.
'You got any spare papers in there?' he asked, nodding towards the boy's bag.
The paper boy looked at him blankly
'I want a paper,' Doyle told him.
I need something to pass the fucking time.
The boy shook his head.
'Do you deliver to number ten?'
The boy nodded.
Doyle held out a hand. 'I'll have theirs. They won't be needing it today.'
The paper boy hesitated a moment then reached into his bag and handed the Mirror to the counter terrorist who took it and slid back behind the wheel.
He turned to the sports pages and began reading.
The paper boy stood motionless for a moment longer then tapped on Doyle's window. 'What's going on?'
'Nothing for you to worry about,' Doyle said. 'You'd better deliver the rest of those papers.'
'Are you sure number ten don't want theirs?' the boy persisted.
'Trust me,' Doyle said, watching as the boy nodded and rode off.
The counter terrorist glanced first at his watch then at number ten London Road.
The house was still in darkness.
Doyle sighed irritably.
How much longer?
MEDIATION
Broadcasting House, Belfast
As the lift descended, William Hatcher looked across at the young woman standing opposite him.
She was in her early twenties he guessed, perhaps younger.
The same age as his own eldest daughter, he mused.
The young woman had a clipboard clasped firmly to her chest and, as the lift descended slowly, she never took her gaze from the line of numbers above the door, each one lighting in turn as the lift fell from floor to floor on its even journey.
Hatcher coughed, cupping one hand over his mouth.
The young woman still didn't look at him.
'Thank you for coming in,' she said finally, still staring fixedly at the row of numbers. 'I know you must be busy at the moment.'
'You could say that,' Hatcher said, a small smile on his lips.
'Have you done many interviews before?'
He raised his eyebrows.
He'd been a Unionist MP for the past six years, he'd done his share.
'Did I sound like a novice?' he chuckled.
The woman's cheeks coloured but still she didn't even glance his way.
'No, I meant, well, you know… with the peace settlement coming off and that…' She was struggling for the words but Hatcher intervened to help as she stumbled.
‘I've done two already today,' he informed her. 'I've another four to go.'
'All in Belfast?'
He shook his head, realising then that she wouldn't notice the gesture as she was still gazing at the numbers above the lift door.
'All over,' he told her.
The lift finally bumped to a halt at the ground floor and only then did the young woman look at him, glancing at him sheepishly and smiling. She ushered him from the lift and together they walked along a short corridor towards reception.
'How long have you been doing this job?' he asked her.
'This is my third day,' she told him. 'I just take guests in and out, get tea and coffee for people, that kind of thing. Nothing important.'
'What's your name?'
'Michelle.' Her cheeks coloured once more.
'Well, Michelle, I'm sure you'll do a fine job,' Hatcher told her, handing her his clip-on Visitor Pass as he reached reception.
Two uniformed security men were standing on either side of the exit, both of whom nodded affably in Hatcher's direction as he passed.
'Mr Hatcher,' said Michelle quietly, lowering her voice almost conspiratorially. 'Can I ask you something?'
For the first time she looked directly into his eyes and he noticed how clear and blue her eyes were.
Hatcher was a tall man and she was forced to look up at him.
He nodded, waiting for the question.
'Is there really going to be peace?'
