James Craig - What Dies Inside

London, October 1984

The city was asleep. Most of the city, anyway. Standing by the window, Gerry Durkan scratched the two-day-old stubble on his chin and looked down at the traffic speeding along the Great West Road. Breathing in, he exhaled slowly and listened to his heartbeat, calm and steady. He smiled; it was the heartbeat of a man in control of his own destiny. He yawned as a succession of taxis sped past on the dual carriageway below. Where were people driving to at this time of night? To the airport? He gazed towards the orange horizon in the west. Maybe I should have left the country, Durkan mused. Caught some sun in Spain for a few weeks. Got pissed up in Alicante and fucked a succession of hairdressers on holiday from Newcastle or Liverpool. That sounded like a plan.

You should have thought of that earlier, he told himself. Now it was too late to run. Sticking it out in England would be tricky. Even with the protection he would get, Durkan knew that he would have to keep his wits about him.

Scratching his balls through his Y-fronts, he squeezed out a lacklustre fart and wondered if he might have a smoke. Almost immediately, the idea was nixed by a cough from the bed, followed by a drowsy, unhappy voice.

‘Gerry, for fuck’s sake. What’s the time? Come back to bed. I’ve got things to do in the morning.’

Me too, he thought. Me too. ‘Don’t fret,’ he replied soothingly. ‘I’m coming.’ Padding quietly across the cold linoleum floor, he slipped back under the electric blanket, pulling it tightly up beneath his chin. As he felt a warm arm snaking around his chest, he glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep would not come now, wondering if things had gone to plan.

The clock on the wall said 8.58. Shuffling into the kitchen, still wearing his preferred night time attire — striped pyjama trousers and a Stiff Little Fingers Inflammable Material T-shirt — young John Carlyle yawned theatrically. He knew that there wasn’t really time for any breakfast this morning, but his rumbling stomach had other ideas. His shift at Shepherd’s Bush police station was due to start at ten. He would need to get on with it.

Outside, the rain lashed against the window above the sink as ominous black clouds scudded across the grey London sky. The relentless descent into winter had begun. With a long day pounding the streets of W12 in front of him, he made a mental note to wear his long johns.

Inside the family home, the atmosphere was equally chilly. With her back to the sink, arms folded, Lorna Gordon — she had never relinquished her maiden name — eyed her son suspiciously as he sat down. ‘What is that, John?’ she asked, uncoiling a bony finger from round the mug of tea that was clamped to her chest and pointing it at the well-thumbed copy of Penthouse magazine lying on the table, next to that morning’s Daily Mirror and an outsized box of Rice Krispies.

Carlyle glanced at his dad as he reached for the cereal, but the old fella was keeping his head down as he munched slowly on his toast. Very wise. Carlyle was pleased to note that his dad had a job at the moment, working in the warehouse of a new supermarket that had opened down the road during the summer. Shaved, with his hair neatly combed, he was dressed in a shirt and tie and had that air of a man with business to attend to. Most important of all, he was in his wife’s good books for once; he might as well try and stay there for a while.

‘Well?’ Lorna demanded.

‘Dom lent it to me,’ Carlyle replied casually, deciding that nonchalance was the only way forward. Opening the cereal packet, he half filled his bowl and carefully added some milk.

‘Tsk.’ His mother stared into her tea like it was toxic. ‘That Dominic Silver is a right one; always leading you astray.’

‘Dom’s a good bloke,’ Carlyle protested.

‘And the worst thing is that you seem more than happy to let him drag you this way and that.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Carlyle retorted, acutely aware that he sounded like a whiny five year old.

‘You pair need to grow up,’ his mother complained. ‘Otherwise you’ll never make the most of yourselves.’

‘We’re doing fine,’ Carlyle grunted, scratching at the neck of his T-shirt. He didn’t have the heart to tell his mother that Dom had already packed in the police force — less than two years after the two of them had gone through officer training together — abandoning life in uniform for a far more lucrative career. . as a drug dealer. Dom had already made it clear that there was a position for Carlyle in this new business venture but Carlyle had refused. His long-term career prospects in the Met might not look great, but that didn’t mean he shared Dominic’s insouciance about becoming a career criminal.

‘What do you need a magazine like that for, anyway?’ she huffed.

What do you think, Ma? The same as everyone else.

Shaking her head, Lorna turned her attention to her husband. ‘I found it shoved under a pile of football magazines, when I was cleaning his room.’

Looking up, Alexander Carlyle gave a nod but said nothing.

‘Well,’ Lorna said firmly, ‘you’re not having that kind of thing in my house.’

Staring at his breakfast, Carlyle muttered something non-committal.

‘When you’ve got a place of your own, you can do what you like.’

‘Mm.’ He wondered if he would ever be able to afford a flat. On current evidence, it didn’t seem very likely. Dom, of course, had his own place but then his circumstances were rather different. Realising that he needed a spoon, Carlyle got slowly back to his feet and stepped over to the drawer by the sink, switching on the radio as he did so. The voice of the newsreader was sombre, all Home Counties stiff upper lip and repressed fury:

‘There has been a direct bomb attack on members of the British Government at the Conservative Party conference in Brighton. At least two people have been killed and many others seriously injured, including two senior Cabinet ministers.

‘The blast tore apart the Brighton Grand Hotel where members of the Cabinet have been staying for the Conservative Party conference. Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and her husband Denis narrowly escaped injury.’

‘Holy shit!’

‘There’s no need for that kind of language,’ his mother snapped but he could see that even she was shocked by the news.

‘Apparently, it was the IRA,’ his dad explained, his face breaking into a wry smile as he wiped some crumbs from his chin. ‘Better luck next time, eh?’

‘Alexander! What a thing to say, shame on you.’

Carlyle waved his spoon angrily as he sat back down. ‘Ssh!’

‘The bomb went off at just before 3 a.m. this morning. The Irish Republican Army claimed responsibility several hours later. In a statement, the IRA said: ‘Today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once; you will have to be lucky always.’ Detectives are now beginning a major investigation into who was behind the bombing and how such a major breach in security occurred.’

Alexander reached for another slice of toast. ‘I guess you’ll be fairly busy today, then, son.’

‘It’s hardly going to change my life,’ Carlyle observed through a mouthful of Rice Krispies, ‘is it?’

‘Everywhere’ll be on high alert,’ his father observed.

‘You be careful, John,’ his mother chipped in.