"I just have to go down and see what this is all about,” Jack said. 

   He was standing in his boxer shorts, staring into a holdall wondering how the hell Anne had managed to pack so much inside in the first place. 

“You can just tell me… is it witchcraft?” 

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Jack. Why’d you empty it all out again in the first place?” 

   She stood in the doorway, looking at him in that way that made him feel like a toddler tying to tie a shoelace. 

“I was trying to fit my book in,” he replied. 

“I don’t get it. Why does it have to be you?” 

“You know why. Don’t make this harder, come on.”

“Doesn’t seem like it’s hard for you at all,” Anne said, grabbing the holdall and commencing to pack it with angry precision. 

“You’re really jealous over Laura Murphy, a woman I haven’t seen in twenty years?” 

“Oh, you jackass,” she said, packing quicker, never a good sign. “The little wife is jealous, eh? It couldn’t be the fact that after those twenty years you still wake up breathing hard, drenched in cold sweat from the nightmare?”

   She finished packing the bag, including the large hardback copy of The Stand.

“Maybe that’s why need to go back,” he said, “Isn’t closure all the rage these days?” 

“Okay, sure. It might work like that. Or it might make everything worse, you thought of that? At least once a year you get to talking about that night, and it never seems to get any clearer in your head. You really want to stir it all up again? ‘Cause when we met, you were in bits.” 

“And you put me back together again.” 

“Because I had pieces to put back together. What if this time there are none left?” 

* * * *

Flynn left Belfast at 3:00am, making good time down the M1 towards Portadown in County Armagh. Nowhere is truly far from anywhere in Northern Ireland. He’d lived and worked within sixty miles of his home for almost two decades but always managed to avoid going back.

   An hour and fifteen minutes took him there. The sky was lightening as he drove the final mile, the air close and stifling, due for a storm. He wound down his window to smell apple blossom, cow manure and damp grass, the duelling aromas of his childhood.

   Jack had a philosophy on police officers bringing their work home; no matter how much a spouse protested they wanted to hear it all, no one ever really understood what they were asking. He’d gotten into the habit of telling Anne select things, pretty bad, sometimes horrible, so that she’d think that was the worst of it. The really horrendous stuff he kept locked up, to be discussed only with fellow combatants, with plenty of hard liquor within easy reach.

    The car crested a small rise leading to a gently sloping hill. Green fields spread out on the right, compartmentalised by barb- wire fences and dotted with dozing cows and sheep. On the left, a long, narrow field full of hay bales abruptly met with a shadowed tree-line.

   In the tentative half- light the orchard was a sprawling expanse of greens so deep as to be almost black, sitting amid yellow fields like an infection. Jack knew how beautiful it could be in full bloom on a midsummer’s day. In his mind however, it was always as it looked right now; a lowering, predatory thing, an organic storehouse of boyhood terrors. 

“Pull yourself together,” he muttered, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands, suddenly aware he was hunched over it.

“You’ve stared cold blooded murderers in the eye, psychopaths, child- killers, rapists. You’ve already witnessed true evil, and not in that bloody orchard. What you saw there was a mixture of panic, exhaustion and too many late night horror movies. Wise up, Jacky boy. Time to go to work.” 

   In his memory, the McKibbin farmhouse was colourless, like it belonged in a 1950’s horror movie. In truth the building had stood for much longer than that; Jack could remember his Grandfather telling him how he played there as a boy, decades before tragedy emptied it for a generation. Local legend said the family who lived there went home one night after church, locked the door behind them, and simply vanished. Ghost stories. Every creepy, abandoned building had one.

   He pulled left into a driveway lined with brooding sycamores. The lane was tarmac rather than the gravel he remembered, and the house at the end was red brick rather than grey. The collapsed-in roof had been repaired, cracked stone pillars on either side of the steps replaced. The door was now a bright and charming red. Laura always said she wanted to live in a house with a red door. Despite the shiny aesthetics, Jack could still see the McKibbin farmhouse, crouched and waiting. 

   He flashed his identification and was let in by a very young male police officer with too much gel in his hair. Almost immediately he had to step over blood stains. Spatter also decorated the stairs from top to bottom. Spatter, Jack noted, rather than drag marks. 

   A tall, gaunt, older man appeared from a room off the hall and shook Jack’s hand. He was heavyset and practically bald, and looked like every disapproving teacher Jack had ever had. 

“I’m Detective Moore,” he said. “We spoke on the phone. Mrs. Murphy is in the living room. She still hasn’t said anything, except to ask for you. That mess of blood there came from the husband, Robert Murphy,” Moore said, gesturing to the large bloodstain at the foot of the stairs, which had spread into the cream carpet like rot through necrotic flesh. 

“At 10:25 last night officers were called to the house and found him lying there. His face was all kinds of messed up, but most of the gore came from two lacerations in his back. So far we think whatever happened started in an upstairs bedroom belonging to the youngest son.”

“Is Mrs. Murphy a suspect?” 

“We have to rule her out, but personally? There’s no way she did this. She’s not strong enough.”

“Strong enough?”  

“Forensics say Mr. Murphy was thrown clean down the stairs. Not pushed, thrown. From top to bottom without touching a single step.”

“Oh, piss off.” 

“That was my reaction, but they’re adamant. One theory is; father attacks the son, mother intervenes, adrenaline kicks in, she Hulks out, throws him down the stairs. It’s bullshit, but it’s all we’ve got until she talks.” 

* * * *

   Laura Murphy floated amid clouds of agony. Huddled on an antique armchair like a cornered fox, light brown hair matted with tears and blood, eyes raw. She wore a cheery purple bathrobe and matching furry slippers. Jack’s first thought was that he barely recognised her, but then she tilted her head ever so slightly and their eyes met. Her expression, more than her appearance, brought everything back. It was the same expression she’d worn the night her mother died, the night he told her he loved her. 

“Jack?” 

   She pushed herself up from the chair and hugged him. 

“Laura, I’m so sorry.” 

Very calmly, she pulled away, taking a moment to look him over. 

“You look tired Jackie,” she said. 

“Twenty years will do that to you,” he replied, smiling wanly. 

   Now they were face to face, he could see crows feet by her eyes, as well as all the other lines and shadows that speak of a lifetime lived. A few inches shorter than he was, more fuller figured than he remembered, but then, he was far from his athletic prime himself. Far from the boy who’d stripped off to go swimming with her in the river, skinny but at least well toned.

“Tell me what happened, Laura.” 

   With a small nod she stepped back, reaching for the armchair behind her as if it was an anchor. Once seated again, nails digging into the arms of her seat, she took one shuddering breath, and began… 

“I’d just gotten in from the studio- we converted one of the sheds ‘round the side- Rob had offered to put the kids to bed so I could finish what I was working on. It was about 10:15. I made myself a cup of tea and sat in this chair with the Ten O’ Clock news on. 

    I Figured Rob was still in the office upstairs. After maybe five minutes there was a series of loud thuds and scraping sounds. I was already on my feet when I heard Jamie scream. That’s when I  started running. I hadn’t gone far when there was another scream. Not Jamie. Not… and I know how this sounds… not a person. I froze at the bottom of the stairs. 

   God Jack, I wanted to go to Jamie, but I just stood there. It wasn’t because I was afraid. I mean, obviously I was; but my fear for Jamie cancelled out any terror for myself. Truth is, I couldn’t move. It was like I’d forgotten how to walk. 

Then Robert cried out, high pitched like I’ve never heard before, but definitely him. It seemed to break the spell. I’d just started towards the stairs when, when…oh God help me…his body came flying down. 

   It was horrible, the way he flopped when he hit the ground. I heard his bones break. His face was all crushed in. His chest…”

   Her features twisted as a sob forced its way to the surface. Jack leaned forward, instinctively placing one hand on her shoulder. 

“We can do this later if…” 

“No, let me do this, I need to get this out. He was all… His face was ripped up. There were two long furrows torn out of the back of his shirt. You never really grasp how much blood is inside a human body until you see it leaking out. I guess you know that. 

   Well, I must have reached my saturation point for shock, because I got this clarity just then. I shot up the stairs crying bloody murder, ready to kill anything that got between Jamie and I.” 

   She paused, wiping at her eyes. Jack noticed they were very dry, not wet at all, and probably irritated. He made a mental note to get her a glass of water when she was finished. 

“The first thing I saw was Jamie’s door flung wide, handle embedded in the wall. More blood on the floor by his bed. He was sitting on the bed, trembling and teary eyed, but unhurt. The window was open, more blood stains on the sill. 

   I ran to Jamie and just held him. He felt so fragile, all shaking like that. For a while my whole world consisted of the fact that he was OK, then I started to process the rest. That’s when I tried to ask him what happened, but he just kept staring in my eyes and saying nothing. That scares me more than any of it. Why won’t my little boy talk? He saw it, Jack; the screaming thing that murdered Robert. What if he never speaks again?

   Eventually, I got up the courage to call the police, but when I saw their lights outside I realised how crazy it all sounded. It’s at least twenty feet to the ground from Jamie’s window. How could anybody jump that, then just get up and run away? And I swear that scream, roar, whatever it was;  shook the house a little. I actually felt it in my chest.” 

   She slumped into her armchair as if the telling had exorcised a spirit she’d been holding in for too long. Jack studied her face, his own body taking up the tension now gone from hers. 

“You called me because of the orchard,” he said at last. 

“All of a sudden I remembered our summers more clearly than I had in years. Things long forgotten. About this house, the land around it. They weren’t truly forgotten of course, just… smudged, like a drawing in charcoal gets when you accidentally brush it with your elbow. Jack, these men will think I’m insane. They’ll think I killed Robert. I’ll be damned if I let them take Jamie away from me.” 

“No one’s going to do that,” Jack said, feeling no conviction on that point. He felt like he was struggling against a maelstrom of past and present. He needed a sheltered place to sift through the debris. Until then, the best he could do was impose some normalcy in the form of procedure. 

“Laura, I have to ask, Did your husband have any enemies? Someone he argued with recently?” 

“Time to ask the questions, huh? Well, Robert was a farmer, a damn good one. We have contracts with two major supermarkets to supply cows milk. He’s ‘Active in the church, a pillar of the local community,’ isn’t that how they’ll say it on the news? 

   Aside from some petty jealousy I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him. All the things he’ll miss now; graduations, walking Holly down the aisle someday, teaching Jamie how to shave, all that stupid, cliched stuff I used to scoff at when we were younger. Holly doesn’t even understand. How could she? Two years old. How the fuck am I supposed to make her understand he isn’t coming back? I had to change her because I got some of Rob’s blood on her baby- grow.” 

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Jack said. 

   Detective Moore met him in the hall.

“Well?” 

   A flash of anger rose in Jack, and he almost told Moore, ‘Piss off, don’t you know she’s just lost her husband?’ 

   Instead he said:

“Let me get her something to drink, then I’ll give you an update.” 

   It was Moore who struggled with anger then. In the end though, politeness won out. 

“Ok, thanks,” he said, though his eyes wore the look of a man who was tired, exasperated, and used to being in control. 

   Clash averted, at least for a while. Jack knew he could only hold it off for so long, because two things had become clear to him: one, that Laura was going to ask him to stay and help with the case, and two, that Moore would object in the strongest possible terms to some disgraced detective turned PI scurrying around under his feet.  

   Men like Moore are territorial. Jack knew this because he was no different. He was already beginning to feel territorial about Laura, the childhood friend whose memory still glowed incandescently in his mind. 

   In many ways, he realised, she was the memory of childhood itself; of secrets and believing, of endless summer days under endless blue skies. Of dark, crisp, winter days, heavy with the promise of snow, lit by fairy light. 

* * * *

“Look, let’s cut the shit,” Moore said. “You were asked here to get Mrs. Murphy talking, and she’s talked. We appreciate your help, but it’s time you left it to us.” 

“I see,” Jack replied, “Well, as long as we’re cutting the shit, how’s this; before Laura came in from her studio, the house was locked and the windows were all closed. How did the killer get inside? Also, I haven’t seen Rob Murphy’s body, but it sounds like being thrown down the stairs was the least of his misadventures last night.

   What I have seen is the photographs in the living room. Murphy was a big guy, I’d say one-eighty at least. Both your forensics guys and Laura say he was thrown down those stairs. In short, this is a bloody weird case, and I know what happens with weird cases; either they get closed without resolve or some innocent ends up getting the blame because of appeals to occams razor. 

   Laura couldn’t have flung him down the stairs like that, and the kid sure as hell didn’t. So here it is; you need more eyes on this. Specifically mine. I grew up three hundreds yards from this house. I know this place. Also, and this is not to be underestimated; I have the relative freedom of a PI but all the experience of a fully trained detective.” 

“Damn,” Moore said, “ You’ve had that little pitch running in your head ever since you offered me tea, haven’t you?” 

“Maybe. Did it work?” 

   Moore sighed deeply. 

“My superiors are going to hate everything about this case. Thankfully we’re in the middle of nowhere so it’ll take the press a while to care, but they will, Jack. Somebody always talks. Much of what you just said makes sense, and I’m grateful for you driving all the way out here at this ungodly hour to help out, but I do not need your help. My superiors won’t want you here either. I know you were a detective but that’s just it, you were, and everybody knows why you lost that title. I’m not judging; God knows I’ve wanted to beat the living shit out of a suspect or two in my time. I can just imagine the headlines now; 

‘DISGRACED COP COMES OUT OF RETIREMENT TO HELP FAILING INVESTIGATION.’

The cliches write themselves; those parasites wouldn’t even have to earn their supper. I’m sorry, you can stay a while longer to help Mrs. Murphy, but then you have to go.” 

   Jack used the running time of Moore’s monologue to think of all the ways he could counter its inevitable conclusion. Just as he was working out which was the closest bed and breakfast he could hole up in, he got a Hail Mary. A dark, unwelcome Hail Mary that made him want to be anywhere else, anywhere at all. 

   “Sir?” 

   The young officer who let Jack in earlier appeared at Moore’s shoulder. The kid was decidedly pale, failing to control a tremor in his voice. He whispered in Moore’s ear, but Jack caught enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

   ‘Please no,’ he thought, closing his eyes. When he opened them Moore’s face was grave, brows drawn low like twin thunderheads. 

“Stay here,” he growled, before stomping off in the direction of the stairs. 

   Jack had to stop himself from asking. Instead he listened as two sets of footsteps, one heavy, almost reluctant, the other skittering and light, moved across the ceiling above him. Moore’s voice rumbled ominously, but he couldn’t make out the words. After a few minutes the light, skittering footsteps sounded down the stairs, and the young officer reappeared. 

“He wants you up there. Across the landing, first door on the left,” he said, before turning on his heels and making a swift escape. 

   Jack entered a dim office, its only illumination a small desk lamp and the blue glow from a computer screen. Moore was bent over the keyboard, every line in his face deepened to a crevice. Jack sidled up, wanting to look anywhere but at the monitor. With herculean effort he let his eyes lock onto the screen and focus. 

“The hard-drive is full of it,” Moore said. 

   Jack heard the young officer throwing up in an adjacent bathroom. 

“His first time seeing this shit,” Moore rumbled.  

“You never get used to it.” 

“No you do not.This complicates matters.”  

“I know what you’re thinking, that Laura had motive; but she still couldn’t have…” 

“I know, dammit,” Moore hissed, drawing his face close to Jack’s in the pale blue light. “Even if Laura Murphy did want to kill her husband, no amount of wanting would let her tear him up like that, not with a kitchen knife, not with a fucking longsword.” 

“Let me help,” Jack said.  

“Damn right you’re helping.”

   There was no further discussion of Jack’s leaving, but what came next Jack feared even more; 

“It should come from you, Jack. She knows you.” 

   A hundred ways out arose in Jack’s mind: 

‘Know her? I haven’t seen her in twenty years! We were kids the last time we met. It should come from someone more detached, a real police officer…’

   In the end though, he knew it was all bullshit. Of course it had to be him.