Those We Left Behind Read Online Free Page A

noticed for the first time how blue his eyes were. ‘I’m not lying,’ he said. ‘He tried to stop me. But I didn’t want to stop. He didn’t do it. It was me on my own.’
    ‘The time is eleven minutes past six,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’m suspending the interview now.’
    She reached for the audio recorder, hit the stop button. She left Ciaran alone with the social worker, headed out into the corridor and found Purdy leaving the room where he had been watching a video feed of both the boys’ interviews.
    ‘What did Thomas say?’ Flanagan asked.
    But she already knew the answer to that question.

3
    CUNNINGHAM WALKED ACROSS the open ground towards Phil Lewis. Lewis waited with his hands in the pockets of his corduroy trousers. He wore a shirt and tie beneath a V-neck sweater. He looked like he worked in just about any public sector job, that smart but slightly frayed look all but the highest paid civil servants tended to have.
    Except for the heavy bunch of keys chained to his belt.
    Buildings clustered around them, flat roofs, high walls and fences, enclosed yards. Behind the main complex stood a trio of greenhouses set in their own gardens.
    Young men looked up from their digging and planting to watch her. Some looked closer than others, let their gaze linger beyond casual glances. Many of the boys were unnaturally bulky; a fervent gym culture thrived among the inmates, passing their hours of tedium lifting weights. A dangerous combination: the petulant immaturity of young offenders and the physical strength of grown men. Cunningham ignored the burning sensation their attention left on the skin beneath her clothing. She tightened her grip on the folder under her arm, the ever-present cigarette craving drying the back of her throat.
    Lewis extended his hand as she approached. His fingers were soft and cool on hers. He didn’t look at the visitor’s tag she wore clipped to her jacket. They had met many times before.
    ‘He’s in the Offender Management Unit,’ Lewis said.
    She followed him towards the blue two-storey prefab building.
    ‘How is he?’ she asked.
    ‘Quiet,’ Lewis said. ‘He’s always quiet. He’s a decent enough young fella, considering.’
    Considering.
    Jesus, Cunningham thought. Considering he’d killed a human being.
    ‘Is he using?’ she asked.
    ‘No, not that we know of. Thomas, his brother, kept him out of the way of all that. Kept him clean.’
    ‘Not even cannabis?’ She couldn’t mask the surprise in her voice. Lock up a young man for hours upon days upon weeks, pen him in with dozens of other boys, all as bored as him. There were only so many ways to pass the time.
    ‘Not even a bit of blow,’ Lewis said. ‘There was a worry he might start once Thomas left us, but he didn’t. Or if he did, he kept it well hidden.’
    ‘When did he last see his brother?’
    Lewis paused at the door, pursed his lips as he thought.
    ‘Maybe a fortnight ago. He was getting fidgety ’cause he hadn’t seen Thomas for a few weeks. They had an hour together, and Ciaran settled down after that. He always does. You’ll want to make sure they see each other as soon as possible. Thomas always seems to put Ciaran back on track. You ready?’
    Lewis hit four digits on the keypad. The red light turned to green. He pushed the door inward, held it for her, followed her inside.
    The corridor’s low ceiling made it feel like a tunnel, the fluorescent lighting bleaching the life from everything it touched.
    ‘This way,’ Lewis said.
    He led her to another door, another keypad.
    A rectangular window set into the wood, segmented by wire mesh. Two figures at a table, one broad and round-shouldered, the other thin like a blade. Both sat with their hands folded on the wood. Neither spoke.
    The larger man looked up when Lewis knocked the glass. Cunningham recognised him as Joel Gilpin, a senior prison officer who’d worked the Maze and Maghaberry before coming to the Young Offenders Centre.
    Lewis