Brian McGilloway - Gallows Lane

He turned at the sound of our splashing, and I heard Dempsey below me shouting at McLaughlin to stop, though this, if anything, served to make him lift his pace.

I moved towards the centre of the river now, my legs aching and my heart racing. Sweat stung my eyes and the taste of salt filled my mouth. ‘Jesus, don’t panic,’ I told myself, over and over.

McLaughlin had reached the other side and was trying desperately to find a gap in the fence, rather than keep going until its end. He pawed at the wire, glancing upwards continually, attempting to gauge its height, which I put at about fifteen feet. He was strong, but he was also heavy. Still, several times he attempted to jump up and grab hold of the wire, only to be forced back down into the water by his own weight.

I turned and saw Dempsey not far behind me and, beyond him, a number of PSNI officers wading through the water alongside the bank. Eventually one of us would reach McLaughlin and he knew it. His jumping became more frantic, and he snarled frenetically. His fear was palpable. Drawing nearer to him, I reached behind my back for my gun. As I did so, McLaughlin dipped his big hands into the water and pulled up a log dripping with mud. He tossed it from one hand to the other as if it were weightless. Then he lunged at me.

His aim was far wide, but I still had to shift quickly to avoid him. In doing so, I lost my balance on the rocks and fell. The world spun from me, all noise became dull and echoed. The river water tasted of mud, and something else. I fought to breathe but only pulled in more water. As I struggled to stand, I felt a blow on my back and I thought my spine had split. My vision splintered then corrected itself, my head thudded, my legs gave way beneath me. I tried to stand again; this time the log hit me in the ribs. I heard the snap, amplified through the water, though I was unsure if it came from my ribs or the wood. The blood in my mouth tasted of old pennies. My stomach turned and I vomited out into the water, over myself. I looked up at McLaughlin as he raised the log above his head. His thick biceps were taut, his chest muscles strained so tightly against the fabric of his T-shirt I was sure it would tear. His facial expression lacked any sign of humanity, yet his eyes seemed frozen in a narcotic gaze, as if he were deriving some sort of sexual gratification from the violence of his actions. His face terrified me and I could think of nothing. I swung a punch in low, under his ribs, the impact registering no more than a dull thud. If McLaughlin bent slightly, that was the total extent of his reaction, though my fist throbbed with the punch. His eyes flashed in fury and he opened his mouth in a snarl as he prepared to bring the full force of the log on top of me.

Then I heard muffled shouting, followed by a single, hollow crack.

McLaughlin stopped and looked down at his chest, where red petals of blood were flowering beneath his right shoulder. He looked at the widening stain in bewilderment, dropping the log in the water. His thick hand pawed at the wound once, then his eyes rolled and he fell backwards into the river, making no attempt to break his own fall.

Spitting out bile and river water, I turned to see Dempsey still standing in position, his pistol trained at McLaughlin’s now inert body, his face drawn and pale. Behind him, thrashing through the water, came a group of policemen, guns held aloft in the river’s heavy air. Their mouths opened and closed, and I knew they were speaking, but all I could hear was the rush of the river, and somewhere a heron’s mighty wings pounding majestically against the sky in time with the beat of my own heart.

Thursday, 17 June

The dawn broke with rain; a series of light summer showers that drenched everything in a mist, then cleared almost as quickly. Just as the streets dried another miasma drifted in and passed.

McLaughlin was in ICU in Letterkenny General. Dempsey’s shot had missed his heart, though his scapula was shattered and one of his lungs had been damaged. Surgeons had worked on him through the night, attempting to remove shrapnel fragments from his lung. He’d live all right, but it might be a while before we’d be able to talk to him properly; or, more correctly, before he’d be able to answer us properly.

I’d been given a once-over by a harried intern, then sent home just after midnight. Before leaving I had called in with Caroline to see how she was and to keep her up to date with the case. She was awake, watching a late-night chat-show on TV. She had spoken to her son Peter earlier; Debbie had brought him in a taxi to see her. She thanked me, and Debbie in particular, for watching him. She showed little interest in talk of work, asking only if we had found out who had placed the rag in my car. I told her I suspected McLaughlin might have been behind it and she looked at me for a second, as though deep in thought. Then she looked past my head at the TV in the corner.

‘I’m sorry, Caroline,’ I said. ‘It should have been me. I’m sorry it turned out like this.’

‘I know you are, sir,’ she said. She opened her mouth to continue, then seemed to think better of it and closed her mouth again.

‘What?’ I said, sitting beside her on the bed.

‘Nothing.’

‘Come on, Caroline. What’s up?’

‘I’ve been thinking. If I’d been killed, what would have happened to Peter?’

‘Peter would be looked after, Caroline, ‘I said. ‘Besides, you weren’t killed. You can’t think that way.’

‘But I have to. I’m all he’s got. I. . I hadn’t realized before how selfish I’m being — doing this.’

‘It’s not selfish, Caroline. It’s your job. You’d never stick at police work if you thought like that.’

‘I’m not sure I want to,’ she stated. ‘Be a Guard any more, I mean.’

‘You’re spooked, Caroline, is all,’ I said, though I suspected it was not that simple.

She shook her head as vehemently as she could, wincing at the effort. ‘I can’t get Hendry’s comment out of my head, sir, you know? That thing he said about kiddie fiddlers.’

‘He didn’t mean any-’ I started, but she interrupted.

‘I know, he didn’t mean anything. That’s not the point. I realized that I’d have said the same — have said worse, in fact. Like it’s all a big joke. I don’t know. I just don’t want to become so, so inured to it all that I forget that it’s not okay.’

‘You won’t, Caroline. You’re not the type. I mean, Jesus, look at me,’ I added, laughing.

‘I am looking at you. How many beatings are you going to take? What would happen to Debbie? Or Penny or Shane?’

Her comment hit a nerve, though I struggled not to show it. ‘I just don’t think about it, Caroline,’ I bluffed.

‘This coming from someone on drugs for panic attacks. Where do you think those have come from?’

I looked at her, opening my mouth to speak, but I could think of no adequate response.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I look at you, sir, and I don’t want to be like you any more. I don’t want to die for people who don’t really give a shit. Peter means too much to me.’ She began to cry then, tears sliding silently down her cheeks. I moved up the bed and held her against me as her crying intensified and she let go of all that had happened to her, her sobs vibrating through my body. And I felt her sadness myself. And I remembered, yet again, Debbie’s warning about making martyrs of my family just to break a case.

The first time I thought I was going to die, really die, I’d wept as I thought of my family: my son’s face, my daughter’s laugh, my wife. Now, as I sat in shame, it dawned on me that this evening, as I had faced death once again, I had scarcely flinched.