“Wh… What?”
She turns to her best friend and tries to take the irritability out of her voice.
“You’re quite distant today. I mean, thank you so much for being here for me. But I just feel like… You’re somewhere else. Your phone keeps going off… Are you hiding something? Something you don’t want me to know?”
Steph looks like she’s been caught in headlights. She just stares at Danielle, shaking her head and stuttering.
“I… I…”
She gulps and blows out, before taking Danielle’s hand. And just as she goes to open her mouth, the doorbell goes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
‘The uni’ as it was dubbed by young people is the bunch of trees behind Altnagelvin Hospital, just before the hill down to the underground tunnels beneath the Altnagelvin Roundabout which connect through to Lisnagelvin Shopping Centre. The trees, although being in close proximity to the Tesco and other off-licences, are hidden away enough that underage drinkers can’t be caught by the police, but central enough in the Waterside for people to congregate easily. Rumour has it the name was derived from being close to the buildings that once housed the nursing students.
Why the hell would Dave want to meet here? They haven’t been here in years. Not since they were maybe 16 years old. Falling down the hill drunk, clinging to each other and laughing and tripping into the shopping centre to get a huge bag of Tesco Value salt and vinegar crisps. Looking around, he feels silly climbing the hill as a full-grown adult, wary of the many onlookers on the Glenshane Road. When the grass levels out, he makes his way into the trees and perches on the bank at the side, his back to the underground tunnel at the bottom of the vertiginous drop.
Moments later, he sees Dave marching across towards him. He stands to greet him, but Dave silences him with a finger to his lips. Looking around, he waves him further into the trees. Confused, he follows him for a few moments until they come out into a clearing. From here, he sees he’s leading him to the bushes surrounding the main road. The hum of traffic takes over the eerie silence. What is going on with Dave? He’s jittering about like he’s set to vibrate. Squatting at the bushes, Chris pulls up his trousers to join him.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?”
“You need to hear this from me, but don’t tell anyone how you heard, you hear me?”
“Dave, what’s your pro-“
Dave grabs him from the scruff of his t-shirt, making Chris lose his balance and fall forward until they’re both on the ground.
“Get off me ye mad bastard. What’s-“
“Ssssh!”
Sitting back up and brushing themselves off, Dave looks around before glaring into Chris’s face. His eyes are massive, manic looking.
“Have ye been takin’ somethin’?”
“Listen, lad… I need to tell you something. Something huge. What you do with this information is down to yourself… But whatever you do, this doesn’t come back to me? Alright?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Stepping off the bus outside the old Foyle College grounds on Duncreggan Road, Cathal takes in the sun as he marches home, reflecting on his story. The interview with DC Fleming didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know, short of the confirmation that the body was that of Parker, and how he died. Therefore, the afternoon story online was just regurgitated facts about Parker’s disappearance and quotes from the construction worker last night, as well as a few lines from Fleming reassuring the public they’re doing everything they can. It infuriated Cathal seeing the by-line ‘written by staff reporter.’ It was so impersonal. So unappreciative of his hard work… But he understands he needs to be careful.
The mystery of Aaron Parker’s disappearance was splashed across all the local rags, as well as social media, at the time. With no clues as to where he went, the story quickly lost velocity, with nothing but anniversaries being published since. It seemed the police had pretty much closed the case. Something else took precedence and it slowly moved down the ‘to-do’ list until it vanished off it completely. Manpower and expenses needed for more pressing matters. There were rumours that he’d jumped the bridge, or ran off down south with some mystery woman, but the family always stood defiant that he wasn’t that sort of man. It was plain to see that he was passionate about politics and moving the city forward towards unity, why would he up and go and leave all his hard work behind?
The fact that he has been found now, dead, has opened a murder inquiry. Could whoever killed him be after Cathal, or specifically Orla, now too? These aren’t the kind of people to mess with. No matter which religion did this to Parker, both underground organisations have reputations that precede them. He’d written about people losing family members, being hounded out of their homes or getting limbs blasted by all kinds of gangs. But he’s just doing his job. Surely if he doesn’t write the story, someone else will? They can’t go after every journalist, and every comment on social media. It’s in the public domain. No, he’ll just soldier on, albeit anonymously, writing and updating the Letter’s loyal readers. Starting with Orla. His first source into the Parker family.
He calls out as he locks the front door, dropping his bag down and stepping out of his groaning loafers. Opening the living room door, he mutters irritably before turning down the TV volume, blasting some techno tune, and files into the kitchen. There he finds Orla, tiptoes balancing on the kitchen stool, rooting around in the cupboard above the sink. Better known as the drink cupboard. He leans against the threshold and crosses his arms, but she still doesn’t turn around. Elbow deep in the cupboard, she finally manages to prise out the bottle of vodka, making Cathal’s eyes twitch with the sound of clinking glasses, half expecting one to come
