quadriplegic. I made a big effort, because it had cut me right up, saw him again in a month, and when I went into the ward I could hear his laughter. It was food time and he was learning to eat and it was all over his front and his face, just like everyone else had it. He said to me, quiet, 'What you learn in here, there's always someone worse off than yourself.' A good sob story, yes?
Last I heard of him he was doing a job, from a wheelchair, in police communications. Being called a cripple
– that's not as bad as what they called you, but it's down that road. He was thought of as useless. Are you useless, Malachy?'
'I don't know,' he said simply.
'Do you want to find out?'
A ripple of panic caught him. He sensed that everything was choreographed. 'What if there's no road back?' he blurted.
'Always is, you have to believe that – otherwise stop fucking about and living like a goddamn recluse.
Walk on to the bridge and bloody well jump. But you have to believe it. Malachy, get something in your mind.'
'Tell me.'
'You saw her. Bruises, broken arm, violated like they'd raped her.'
'I saw her.'
'There's a road back, Malachy.'
Through the open window a slip of paper was passed to him by a hand gloved in black leather. He saw the glint of the eyes through the balaclava's slit as the man reached across. There was no light to read what was written on the paper and he pocketed it.
'What do I have to do?'
'Don't have to do anything, Malachy. The vagrants steal to buy the wraps. With the money they steal, from an old lady's purse, they buy. The dealers sell to them. You do what you want to do, Malachy. You do what you think is right, and maybe that'll make a ladder for you. Goodnight, keep safe.'
The window was raised, and the engine was gunned to life. Without headlights, the car reversed sharply and swung, squealed tyres, between the pillars and out into the lit street. Malachy stood rooted, his mind pounding confusion.
Chapter Three
He woke. It was already past eleven o'clock.
The banging on his door drummed into his head. If it had not been for the sound Malachy would have slept on. He dragged himself off the bed.
It had been a sleep he had not known for months, for a year. No dreams and no nightmares. No images squirming in his mind.
The banging persisted. He shouted out that he was coming, but his voice was faint from a dried-out throat and the banging did not stop. He pulled on his trousers that he had dumped last night on the carpet when he had fallen, collapsed, on to the bed.
'Yes, I'm coming. For God's sake, I'm coming!'
Out of the bedroom, he walked past the table. There was the mat on which he put his plate, the little plastic containers for salt and pepper, a mug he'd left there from which he'd drunk instant coffee – and the sheet of paper. He snatched it up and buried it in his pocket.
He went towards the door.
Last night, back from the parking bays under the block, he had read, again and again, what had been passed to him through the car's window. He had sipped the coffee and told himself he would sleep on it, not decide anything till the morning. He would not commit himself till the morning; he did not have to… his decision. It had been the best night's sleep he could remember. But nobody owned him.
'I'm coming.'
He unlocked the door and dragged down the bolt.
He paused, seemed to suck air down into his body. He could not remember when last his door had been banged on but, then, he could barely remember when he had last slept a whole long night and been free of the demons.
Dawn was there.
'I went to see her,' she said.
'Yes.'
'Are you not concerned for her?'
'Of course I'm concerned for her.'
'You want to know how she is?'
'I'd like to.'
'I thought you would be there. I thought you would have visited her. She had Tony early before he went to work, then me when I have finished. I thought you would be there… but I look at you, and I see you were asleep.'
'I thought I'd go later on,' he said weakly.
'She does not sleep. She has the pain in her head and the pain in her arm, both are severe. Worst is the pain in her soul. Do you understand me?'
His voice was limp. 'Please, explain to me.'
'A policeman came yesterday afternoon and gave her a victim number. He asked her if she could describe her attackers. It was dark so she could not.
The policeman said there was a camera covering the stairwell, but it did not have film in it. There are many cameras for show, but few with film in them. It hurts her that no one will be punished. I am sorry that you did not travel to see her.'
'I slept in late, didn't mean to.'
He thought his excuses demeaned him to the tall African woman, elderly, but still cleaning ministry offices and staircases, and thought she regarded him with contempt. Probably working through her mind were the snippets of his history that she knew. Had once been a gentleman, like the men with individual offices that she rose early to clean. Had been disgraced and had collapsed. Had been a vagrant living rough, like the vagrants who had stolen from her Millie.
'Don't you go tiring yourself, Mr Malachy. You go back to bed. Not good for a young man to exhaust himself. In three days she will be coming out, when they have done the pin in her arm. I apologize, Mr Malachy, for disturbing you.'
She was gone, away with her dignity.
He closed the door.
He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket.
Three names. Not the names of vagrants but of members of the High Fly Boys who strutted the Amersham. He studied them, then took a pencil stub and began to write down, hesitantly at first, then feverishly, what he would need to buy.
13 January 2004
Baz was the section's star. Had to be one, and it was him.
The way he was going he was close to being the platoon's star. The company commander always noticed him and he'd heard he was listed for his first stripe, and he'd get it within the next fortnight. Baz was the best shot in the platoon, and when other Jocks in the section couldn't reassemble an SM80 or a GPMG after cleaning, it was to Baz they turned.
Back at the depot, east of Inverness, Baz played right central stopper in the battalion soccer team. As a member of HQ platoon of the company, Iraq suited Baz as well as a good glove fitted a hand.
He listened to the briefing. Baz didn't rate the corporal.
