Belfast Central

By A.K. Amherst

Belfast 1993: A nocturnal ambulance service at the Belfast Central Station almost turns deadly for the young paramedic Ryan. In the crosshairs of the IRA, he is badly wounded and wakes up in the hospital with muddled memories. The police close the case fast, leaving too many burning questions unanswered. Most importantly, who was that old man who appeared at the scene out of nowhere and saved Ryan’s life? Not fully recovered yet, Ryan begins searching for the mysterious man, only to get dragged into a feud between opposing paramilitaries - with fatal consequences...

A thrilling story about fates in 20th century Northern Ireland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.K. Amherst
• Release date: Oct 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463232934

A.K. Amherst

Born and raised in Austria, I travelled the world from a young age. This influenced my writing, which relates to history and cultures of foreign countries. Intensive research is part of my job, and I really love this job. You want to be taken into another setting and experience life from a different angle? Then I am the writer for you. As a business graduate, I never really fitted into the number-driven accountant-stereotype. Despite all these boring business lectures, my creative spirit was not broken. In the end I managed to find my spot within the vast world of business: in marketing. My job has given me the opportunity to work with a bunch of creative people and learn a lot from them. Besides writing and traveling, I like to try new hobbies. I have been to archery classes, African drum classes, and Hot Yoga classes. For me, staying curious is essential for inspiration. As broad as my interests are my portfolio includes short stories, travel blog articles, and my first book, Belfast Central.

Book preview

Map of Ireland, present day

This story and its characters are fictional. However, the novel is based on true historical events.

1169-72: The conquest of Ireland by the British king begins.

1394-95: King Richard II visits Ireland to strengthen his position towards Gaelic and Anglo-Irish lords.

1430-1450: The Gaels and Anglo-Irish come to an agreement amongst each other and split their power in Ireland. The British crown does not have the resources to conquer Ireland once and for all. The British power over Ireland subsides.

1536-1607: King Henry VIII stifles an Irish Rebellion in 1536 and thereby enhances his power in Ireland. He is no longer Lord of Ireland, but King of Ireland. The re-conquest of Ireland is continued by Henry’s successors.

1609-1640: To gain more power in Catholic Ireland, King James I invokes English and Scottish settlers to settle in Ulster (today’s Northern Ireland).

1641-1653: England is victorious in the Irish Confederation Wars and thereby secures property and power for the Protestants in Ireland.

1798: The United Irishmen revolt against British reign in Ireland. Great Britain ends the rebellion with force. Consequently, the Act of Union in 1800 unites the kingdom of Ireland with Great Britain.

1803: The United Irishmen revolt for a second time. Again, they fail to overpower their British enemies.

1829: The Catholic Relief Act allows Catholics to gain a seat in the parliament of Westminster.

1867: Bad execution and British defence end a revolt started by the Irish Republican Brotherhood (IRB).

1914: The Irish Home Rule Act allows Ireland more autonomy and Home Role. The implementation of the law is postponed due to the outbreak of World War I.

1916: Great Britain’s military forces are bound with the first World War. Irish Nationalists (like the IRB) take on their chance to claim an independent Ireland. During Easter 1916, they seize and defend strategically important buildings (like the General Post Office) for days.

21stof January 1919: Although Ireland is technically ruled from Westminster, the first (illegal) parliamentary session takes place in Ireland. Its members declare the independence of Ireland.

1919-1921: The Irish Republican Army (IRA) fights for Irish Independence against the British military.

3rd May 1921: Northern Ireland is founded.

6th of December 1921: The Anglo-Irish Treaty is signed, declaring the Irish Free State. The treaty grants Northern Ireland the possibility to drop out of the agreement and stay part of Great Britain – a chance that is seized by the Northern Irish government.

1922: Supporters and opponents of the Anglo-Irish Treaty fight against each other in the Irish Civil War. In the end, the supporters of the treaty win.

29th of December 1937: The Irish constitution is accepted in a referendum.

1949: With the Republic of Ireland Act, Ireland becomes a republic.

1969: The conflicts between Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland reach a climax. The riots in Belfast and Londonderry last for days and mark the beginning of the Northern Ireland Conflict, also known as ‘the Troubles’.

B e l f a s t

1 9 9 3

Our patient Mrs Weaver is filled with joy. She has finally been allowed to go home. One week in the hospital is more than enough anyway. Her birthday is coming up, and she has to be home. There will be a big party with her kids and grandkids and lots of cake. Yes, definitely lots of cake. She grins at us, showing her false teeth, which she must have put in her mouth a bit hastily this morning. The teeth look crooked and a bit out of place.

Mrs Weaver lives in Ardoyne, in north Belfast. Northwick Drive is predominantly comprised of a vast number of narrow houses, with long driveways bordered by fences.

Jarvis and I help her out of the ambulance.

Mrs Weaver links arms with me and walks towards her front door.

Jarvis stays with the ambulance and eats a chocolate bar.

‘He isn’t much of a help, is he?’ Mrs Weaver asks.

‘Jarvis? Oh, no. He’s OK.’

‘But he is letting you do all the donkey work.’

‘Donkey work? Are you kidding me? To accompany such a lovely woman home is an honour. We were fighting about it earlier.’

She giggles and her shoulders jump up and down. ‘Boys haven’t fought over me since school.’

Somebody clears his throat next to us. In the driveway of the neighbour’s house stands an elderly man with a bouquet of tulips.

‘Earl?’ Mrs Weaver asks.

I have seen those hairy, bearlike arms before. When we had picked Mrs Weaver up, Earl had looked lost behind the fence.

‘What do you want?’ Mrs Weaver asks.

He smooths his sparse hair. ‘I heard that you would be back today.’

‘So what?’ she asks crankily. ‘That’s not any of your business, is it?’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘You’re right. It’s not.’ Earl stretches out the arm in which he holds the flowers.

Mrs Weaver frowns. ‘What am I supposed to do with those?’

‘Put them in a vase?’ Earl says.

‘I have to go, Mrs Weaver,’ I say.

‘Thank you for everything. You’re a sweetheart.’ Mrs Weaver pulls me to her and plants a kiss on my cheek.

I can feel Earl’s glance on me.

‘Give him a chance. He is quite acceptable,’ I whisper in Mrs Weaver’s ear, then leave the lovebirds to themselves.

I do my training in the Ardoyne Ambulance Station, a grey building that looks like a warehouse. From the garage, an old, wooden door leads into the common room. Here, my trainer Jarvis and I go our separate ways.

Jarvis always sits with his experienced colleagues at the big table and plays cards with them. I was never invited to join. In fact, they even asked me to leave when I once tried to sit with them. ‘You don´t belong here, rookie,’ Jarvis had said to me. That’s how the folding chair and the wobbly table in the corner became my spot.

After returning, we have to wait for the next emergency or the next break, whatever happens first. Today’s evening is remarkably quiet. I’m so bored that I check the equipment of each ambulance. It’s a pointless task because every team checks their equipment after returning from an emergency call anyway. Counting syringes and bandages makes time pass a bit quicker though. By the time I finally manage to get rid of that nasty stain on my driver seat, it’s dark outside.

Jarvis and his mates are having a good time at their table. None of them seemed to notice that I was in the garage for a few hours. I get back to my table and read through Lena’s letter once again. On seven pages, she writes about going on a safari in South Africa, diving in the Southern Pacific, and hiking in the Australian Outback. I can hear her soft voice whenever I read these stories.

Someone clears his throat next to me. Jarvis stands in front of me and tries to read the letter. I put it away fast. Whatever Lena has to tell me is none of his business.

‘Dinner?’ Jarvis asks.

What a lame attempt to make me pick up the take-away for everyone. Jarvis disappears into the hallway, then peeks in through the door a moment later. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

How could I say ‘no’ to that charming invitation?

I follow Jarvis through the hallway and out the front door. It’s unpleasantly chilly outside compared to the afternoon. I close the zipper of my jacket and walk a bit faster to warm myself up.

As we walk up the main street, we hardly see any pedestrians or cars. Behind the windows of a few houses, the lights are still on. The people behind the curtains prepare dinner in their kitchen or sit in the living room and watch TV. They enjoy their free time. The end of our shift is still far away, but a good meal will give us the strength to pull through.

On a blackboard, the pub at the corner promotes a big portion of fish and chips for half price. The pub is crowded and it’s noisy inside. Cigarette smoke and stale air mix in my lungs.

The owner of the pub makes no secret of being a Catholic. The Irish Tricolour and portraits of Irish patriots hang on the wood-panelled walls. Behind the bar, the picture of a black phoenix with red wings is prominently placed – the symbol of the Irish Republican Army.

Jarvis finds two free barstools for us. The barkeeper looks at me unfavourably, as if he knew that I don’t belong here. As if he knew I visit a different church than him.

‘What do you want to drink?’ he asks grumpily.

Jarvis orders a pint of beer. I’m not eager to go back to work drunk, especially while I’m still on training. I order a soda instead.

Shortly after the drinks, the food is served. The greasy fish and chips do not meet my expectations.

‘What’s so gripping about it?’ Jarvis asks.

‘Hm?’

‘The letter. You’ve had it with you for days. What’s so gripping about it?’

I’m not sure I want to talk about it. ‘Nothing.’

Jarvis smiles. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Lena.’

‘Did she break up with you?’

‘Bollocks. We are friends.’

‘Yeah, right. Let me guess … it was her idea,’ Jarvis says. His loud smacking disturbs me.

‘That’s not how it is.’ Why is he pestering me about it?

‘May I give you some advice?’

‘No, thank you,’ would be impolite, I guess.

‘You need a girlfriend that can’t only bear you, but also your job.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘This job can destroy relationships. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Lena and I are not in a relationship.’

‘If you say so.’ Jarvis stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth.

I get a feeling this isn’t about me. ‘You know what you are talking about? What do you mean by that?’

He squints. ‘Five years. I was married for five years. Then I started this job, and a year later everything was over.’

‘And you blame this job?’

‘What else should I blame?’

I shrug my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. But relationships don’t just end like that, right? Usually, there’s more behind a break-up than we want to admit.’

‘You like to be a smart-ass, hm?’

Maybe I hit the spot a bit too hard. ‘We can talk about it if you want to.’

‘Forget about it. You’re not interested in what I have to say anyway.’ He wipes his fingers with a paper napkin and leaves. Most of his fish still lies in the greasy newspaper.

On the way back, I start to feel sick. That was the first and last time I was eating in that pub. When we enter the common room at the ambulance station, I realise we haven’t missed much. Our colleagues are watching a cricket match from last week on our tiny TV. Jarvis and I join them in silence. Somehow, I feel like I missed the chance to become his friend.

After midnight, our shift becomes chaotic once more. Car accident, food poising, stabbing in a bar. One team after another is called out to an emergency.

The sharp tune of the siren hurts my ears. There was a shooting at the train station. That’s mine and Jarvis’ call.

We arrive at the train station within a few minutes. There are no parking lots in front of the station, so I park behind the police car on the bus track.

We reach the main entrance, but it’s closed.

‘There has to be another way in,’ Jarvis says.

A staircase links the main road with the station’s parking lot, which is situated a bit lower. Jarvis starts running. I follow him.

There’s a side entrance leading from the parking lot into the building. The glass door was smashed.

As we enter the train station, I feel unease.

‘Hello?’ Jarvis yells. ‘Is somebody here?’

Jarvis’s voice echoes off the walls. No answer.

What if nobody answers because everyone is dead already?

I swallow hard. ‘Maybe we should wait for the police reinforcement.’

‘Wait? For a patient with a gun wound, every second counts.’

Jarvis runs up the stairs and into the entrance hall. A police officer is lying there on the floor. The way he’s positioned only leaves one possible conclusion: he is dead.

Jarvis kneels next to him, looking for a pulse. He then turns to me and shakes his head.

The poor fellow definitely had a partner. It would be wrong not to search for him. We have to keep going. I pass Jarvis and the dead officer and enter the main hall. Two long corridors lead to the platforms.

Jarvis stands behind me. I can hear him breathe, smell his aftershave.

‘We split. In case you find somebody, let me know over the radio,’ he says and runs down the right corridor to platforms three and four.

‘Hello? Hello!’ he yells.

On the way to the left corridor, I pass the toilets and stop abruptly. It’s just a notion – a sensation. I’m proven right. There’s someone in the toilets. A man is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. Above his head is a box filled with paper towels.

The man is unconscious. He was shot in the stomach and had tried to stop the bleeding with the paper towels. His gun lies beside him.

I kneel next to him. ‘Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?’ I grip the radio on my shoulder. ‘Jarvis. Men’s toilet, now.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Jarvis’s voice sounds through the speaker.

The wounded man opens his eyes. Fear, hope, pain. I open my emergency backpack. ‘I’m going to help you. Don’t worry.’ I cut open his blood-soaked shirt with scissors.

He grabs me by the collar. ‘Police,’ he moans.

I press a cloth to his stomach to control the bleeding. ‘Calm down, sir. The police are on their way.’

Jarvis rushes through the door. There’s a shadow behind him. A shot rings out. Jarvis falls to the ground. His empty eyes stare at me. From his head wound, blood spreads to the floor. I crawl backwards.

The shooter is a police officer. He aims his gun at me and pulls the trigger.

It feels like someone rammed a torch into my chest. It burns fiercely. The blood on my fingers can’t be mine, can it? The of the shots still rings in my ears. Behind me, the tile wall feels cold. I gasp for breath. My vision flickers.

Next to the shooter sits the wounded man on the floor, still leaning against the wall. His eyes are as lifeless as Jarvis’.

Tears and fatigue. I close my eyes.

The next shot is fired. I flinch.

Footsteps. Hands on my chest.

I look into a wrinkled face; green eyes look back at me. The old man calls for help over my radio. The answer is a mix of words and noise.

That won’t save me. At least the excruciating pain will stop soon. I try to think of one last nice thought. Nothing comes to my mind.

The old man says something. It sounds like the babble of a child.

Something drags me under. An abyss. Silence. Darkness.

My head throbs as I wake up. I feel ill and have a bad taste in my mouth. The sweaty smell is stinging in my nose. Someone needs a bath here.

Dok, my roommate, once told me that his life as a university student passed quite fast. Considering how much he always partied and drank, it’s not surprising – memories must have gotten lost along the way.

That’s the first thing springing to my mind as Dad tells me I was knocked out cold for four days. My sister Miranda talks about visits I don’t remember, Mom stands in silence next to the window, and Oliver … Oliver plays with his Gameboy – like always.

‘Where is Dok?’ I ask. If I got so wasted that I was incapacitated for days, Dok was definitely involved.

‘Your friends were here yesterday,’ Miranda says. Her hand strokes my head. ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Of course, I remember.’ My voice is faint and my throat scratchy. ‘I remember every detail.’ I stare down onto my hands as if I could find clarity there.

‘Are you in a lot of pain?’ Dad asks.

Pain? What did the alcohol make me do? Dok once jumped off a car roof when he was completely boozed up. That must have been painful. But I wouldn’t be so stupid, would I?

‘I’m fine.’ My eyelids feel heavy.

Miranda puts a cup to my lips. I never tasted water as delicious as this.

I try to understand what Dad is saying. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ I want to say. But what I really mutter, I don’t know. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

Dr Glover is in charge of the daily visits. He must weigh about a hundred kilos and is shorter than most nurses. Whether he walks that slowly due to cosiness or overexertion, I can’t tell.

He asks me the same stupid question every day: ‘How do you feel, Mr Goodwin?’

‘I want to go home.’ Always the same answer.

‘Mhm, mhm.’ He nods and skims through my medical record. ‘Your inflammation values are finally better. They were worrying us.’

The same day, I’m transferred from the ICU to a normal room. My roommate’s name is Joe. He is a truck driver. During his last ride, he got a heart attack and woke up here in hospital.

‘I was really lucky. You should see my driver’s cabin. You’d think I’d be porridge now.’ He eats his pudding enthusiastically. ‘What happened to you?’

‘A stupid story … I was drunk as hell.’ Not even I’m convinced of that story.

Joe just nods and turns back to the TV.

I bite my lower lip till it bleeds. What happened to me? Braced on my infusion stand, I make my way to the bathroom. I need to know what the bandage around my chest covers. On the left of my sternum, there’s a fresh scar from a surgery.

The barrel of a gun, a deafening bang.

I come around on the cold floor, gasping for air.

I don’t dare to ask what happened to me. I’m not ready for the answer.

Unfortunately, a few days later, I get it served with breakfast by Nurse Julie. It’s the first time I read a newspaper since I’m in hospital. In the local section, there’s a picture of me, and above it, an article with the title: ‘Young hero is recovering.’

I skim the article. Belfast Central, exchange of fire. Memories start to surface, memories I would rather not relive. My eyes get stuck on one certain part of the article:

‘When I found out what happened, I was shocked,’ a good friend of Ryan G. says. ‘We have known each other for years. He is like a brother to me.’

I recognise the picture in the newspaper. It was shot last year at a barbeque. Dok took it with his new camera. What an idiot!

When he visits me the same evening, I want to rip off his head. ‘Wow, is someone PMSing here?’ Larry ‘Dok’ Hainsworth sits on a chair beside me and grins.

‘You gave an interview!’

‘Oh, yeah. Right. How do you like the article?’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Oh, come on.’ He pats me on the shoulder and the familiar pain shoots through my chest. ‘I raised your market value.’ He looks over at Nurse Julie, who stands in the doorway and stares at us. As I look at her, her cheeks turn bright red and she starts to giggle.

Dok waves at her. ‘You are a hero, mate. That means easy game with the chicks.’

The next day, Dr Glover brings company. The man is tall and skinny, and therefore, a funny counterpart to the doctor. ‘Hello, Mr Goodwin. My name is Inspector Rhodes.’ He shakes my hand.

Dr Glover goes through my medical record in silence.

‘How are you feeling?’ Rhodes asks.

‘Fine. Thank you.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ His head wiggles up and down, like a bobblehead. ‘Would it be OK for you to answer some questions?’

He sits down.

‘Questions?’

Dr Glover continues his visit by checking on Joe.

‘Questions about the night of the shooting. If you don’t mind.’ Inspector Rhodes has pen and paper ready.

‘For all I care.’

‘Could you please tell me what happened that night?’

I’m sitting in the ambulance again with Jarvis beside me. ‘We got a call about a shooting at Belfast Central. When Jarvis and I got there, the main entrance was closed. We went in the side door and … and we found a dead police officer. We decided to split up. I went to check the toilets.’

I see the unconscious guy before me, slumped against the wall, bleeding from his stomach.

‘You found a wounded man there, right?’ Rhodes asks.

I nod.

‘What happened then?’ Rhodes asks.

‘It’s all a bit of a blur. Somebody shot me and Jarvis…’ I shake my head, trying to get rid of the memories resurfacing.

‘Jarvis was your colleague?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did he get to the toilets? You said you split up.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Think about it. Did you call for him?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Who was shot first? You or Jarvis?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Can you describe the man that shot you?’

A gun, a bang, pain. Indescribable pain. I can’t breathe. My heart is racing. The monitor next to me beeps faster and faster.

‘That’s enough,’ Dr Glover says.

I breathe intermittently and nod at him thankfully.

Inspector Rhodes hands me his business card. ‘In case you remember anything else.’

The inspector has green eyes. Green. His face gets blurry. I see the face of an old man. The old man! He called the ambulance, talked to me. He saved me. How could I forget about him?

Inspector Rhodes is already with one foot out the door when I call out to him. ‘Did you also question the other guy?’

‘The other guy?’ Rhodes turns around. ‘Which other guy?’

‘The old man. There was an old man. He helped me.’

‘What did he look like?’ Inspector Rhodes comes closer.

‘White hair, green eyes.’ Rhodes isn’t taking notes.

I feel stupid. This description applies to many men.

‘How old was he?’

‘I don’t know. Sixty? Seventy?’

‘Was he the shooter?’

‘No, the other one. That was the other one.’

Rhodes sits down next to me once more. ‘Once again, but slowly. Which old man? Which other one?’

‘The shooter. There was the shooter. And then the old guy. He shot him.’

‘The shooter the old guy?’

‘No.’

‘What did the shooter look like?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t you see that he is completely lost?’ Dr Glover says.

Inspector Rhodes apologizes. ‘We can talk about it another day. Get well soon, Mr Goodwin.’

That night I dream of Jarvis. He sits next to my bed and talks to me about cricket and women. Then he asks me why I sent him to death. His empty eyes look at me. He lies next to me with a bleeding head wound. A shot rings out and I wake up in my bed, soaked in sweat.

Joe snores. Everything that happened that night runs through my head again and again. The face of the old man gets clearer than ever. If I don’t capture him now, I’ll lose him.

On my beside table, I find a pencil and paper. I begin to draw.

Home is wonderful! I love my bed, my fridge, my sofa … and my books. While Dok corrects his students’ seminar papers, I read one classic after another – written by Charles Dickens, George Orwell, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Today my choice is Oscar Wilde’s Lady Winderemere’s Fan . I skim the first pages and go directly to my favourite passage:

Lady Winderemere doesn’t like compliments. But Lord Darlington can’t resist, he calls her a fascinating Puritan. He apologizes with the words: ‘I couldn’t help it. I can resist everything except temptation.’

The doorbell rings. ‘Are you expecting someone?’ Dok asks.

Not really.

Dok disappears into the hallway and comes back in with our neighbour Mrs Maynard.

‘Mr Goodwin! It’s so good to see you. You scared the hell out of me!’ Mrs Maynard pulls me up and hugs me.

Dok offers a beer to her – an offer she unfortunately accepts. She sits with us and eats our crisps.

‘Even the paramedics get shot in this city. Horrible, this violence, don’t you think? Wherever you look, bombs explode and bullets fly through the air,’ she says, taking a sip from her beer bottle. ‘Do you think Catholics were behind the shooting?’

I’m overstrained with the flood of words. ‘Well … I … I don’t know.’

‘I’m a 100 percent sure it was Catholics. Who else would fire in all directions like that? Mary Rudkin, who is living just opposite the street … you know Mary Rudkin, right?’

I shake my head.

‘She also thinks that Catholics are responsible for that shooting, and she would know. Her husband is a police officer after all. He saw through it right away.’

‘Is he working on the case?’ Dok asks.

Mrs Maynard looks at him surprised. ‘What? Him? No! He’s been retired for quite some time now.’

‘How can he know that Catholics are responsible then?’ Dok asks.

‘The man has experience. He doesn’t need to look at a case to gauge it correctly. A very talented detective, you know.’

Dok rolls his eyes.

‘Mhm,’ is all I can say to that.

‘Did you have a near-death experience?’

‘Excuse me?’ I must have misunderstood her.

‘Near-death, you know? Did you see yourself from above? Did you fly through the room like a ghost?’ She gesticulates wildly while she speaks.

‘I … I don’t think so.’

‘My friend Karen once had a near-death experience. Dreadful. Her dog had to be euthanized, you know? And then she just fainted. It was the shock. The vet claims that she just lost consciousness, but Karen insists that she saw herself and the veterinary practice from above … and then she saw the ghost of the dog floating upwards to the ceiling.’

Mrs Maynard looks up to our ceiling as if she expected to see a ghost looking down on us.

During her visit, Mrs Maynard mentioned the police. Could there be any new clues to the case? I call the number on Inspector Rhodes’s business card, but the line is either engaged or nobody answers.

After a few days of trying, I’ve had enough and drive to the police station. Maybe the drawing I made of the old man will help the inspector solve the case.

At the police station, a female officer guides me to the bull pen. Inspector Rhodes sits at his desk, totally absorbed in a case file.

‘Mr Goodwin for you, sir,’ the police officer says and leaves us alone.

Rhodes looks up to me. ‘How can I help you, Mr Goodwin?’

‘I just wanted to ask how far you are with the investigations.’

He squints. Doesn’t he remember me?

‘The shooting at Belfast Central. Do you know more about it already?’

‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ He nods and searches through the pile of files on his desk. ‘The paramedic. I remember. I questioned you in the hospital.’

‘Exactly.’ I sit down on the stool next to his desk.

He finds the right file and reads through it. ‘Well, as far as I can see … the case is closed.’

‘Closed?’

Rhodes nods and leans back on his chair. ‘Patrick O’Tierney, the guy you found dead in the toilet … he was a member of the IRA. He planned a bomb attack at the Central Station. Two of our constables caught him in the act and O’Tierney opened fire.’

‘But why did one of your constables shoot me and my colleague?’

Inspector Rhodes clears his throat. He seems uncomfortable talking about it. ‘The two constables at the scene were Catholics, you know…’

I’m waiting for him to continue, but apparently that piece of information should be enough. ‘So?’

Rhodes sighs. ‘It’s rumoured that the constables were also part of the IRA.’

‘But if all three of them were IRA, why did O’Tierney open fire?’

‘Most likely they had some disagreement. A fight that went out of control.’

‘Most likely? Shouldn’t you be sure?’

‘IRA members are killing each other. Do you really think anybody cares about it?’ Rhodes says.

‘I care about it, and the relatives of my dead colleague do as well.’

‘Yes, the death of your colleague is very unfortunate, and that you were wounded is tragic as well, but the bad guys are dead, you understand?’ Rhodes answers.

‘And how does the old man fit into this story?’

Inspector Rhodes keeps tapping his desk with his pen. Click, click. Click, click. ‘Yeah, right. Your old guy.’

He needs to look at the sketch that I made in the hospital. The drawing is in the pocket of my jacket. I hesitate. ‘You don’t believe me.’

‘Listen.’ His calming voice upsets me. ‘These,’ he taps on a pile of files on his desk, ‘are cases I could finally close. And those,’ he gestures towards a few piles on the floor, ‘are cases I better hurry up with if I want to keep my job.’

I really have no answer to that. ‘So, you won’t search for the old man?’

Rhodes closes the file about the shooting at the central station. ‘I don’t see a reason to do so.’

I have thought the night of the shooting through many times. Some memories returned; some will be lost forever. One thing I know for sure though: ‘The old man was there. He shot the constable who almost killed me.’

‘Nonsense. O’Tierney saved you. He had a gun with him and shot Constable Henderson in the back,’ Inspector Rhodes corrects me.

Constable Henderson. The name of the man who almost killed me was Henderson. The familiar pain in my chest petrifies me. I take a deep breath.

‘O’Tierney didn’t shoot Constable Henderson.’ The old man did. The bullets! The bullets that killed Henderson came from the gun of the old man. ‘Did you check the bullets in Henderson corpse? They weren’t fired from O’Tierney’s gun. You should be able to check this, right?’

Inspector Rhodes scratches his chin. ‘Mr Goodwin, the bullets that killed Henderson went right through him and hit the radiator. The bullets were deformed. Theoretically, they could have been fired from any gun. So, if you would insist that Billy the Kid came through the door and fired at Henderson, we won’t be able to prove you wrong either.’

It’s no point to keep discussing this matter with Rhodes. It’s only going to upset me further.

As Rhodes accompanies me through the police station, the pain in my chest gets stronger, almost unbearable.

‘Are you OK, Mr Goodwin? You look rather pale,’ Rhodes says.

My mouth is so dry that I can’t even answer. I nod. I feel incredibly sick. I rush to the toilets. Cold water. So refreshing. Better.

The weird feeling in my tummy slowly settles, but the burning pain in my chest remains the same. I take a painkiller from my pocket. My fingers are as cold as ice. I lean on the sink. Now I have to wait until the dizziness and blurry vision disappear.

Every day I’m home, sitting around becomes harder to endure. I want to find out more about that old man and the reason behind the shooting at the central station. Instead, I sit at home, staring the colour off the walls.

It’s the fourth time today that I go to the fridge even though I’m not hungry. I open it, don’t find anything, and close the door again.

On the table in the hallway, there’s a pile of old leaflets and invoices. With a yawn, I look through them and find a postcard with the Grand Canyon on it. The card is from Lena. According to the post stamp, it was sent about two weeks ago.

Lena writes about her aunt and uncle who live on a farm in Arizona. She stays there for a longer visit to take a break from the exhausting travel. Maybe we could get in touch at some point? On the left corner of the post card, she scribbled an address and a phone number. My heart beats faster. After all this time I finally have a chance to talk to her.

Damn it! Why did she write so small? I can hardly read the phone number. Is the last digit a three or an eight? I try both possibilities. There’s no connection with the number eight. I dial the same number, this time with the number three as the last digit.

The phone rings. I can’t wait to hear Lena’s voice. Is she doing OK? Does she miss Belfast? What if she doesn’t? What if she likes it better abroad and feels like settling there? It rings and rings. Disappointed, I hang up. The thought that I can try again later doesn’t cheer me up.

Someone rings our doorbell. I sneak through the hallway. If it’s Mrs Maynard again, I’m definitely not home. Another conversion about near-death experiences is the last thing I need right now.

I look through the spyhole in the door. It’s not Mrs Maynard at my doorstep. It’s Mom and Dad.

I open the door. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, that’s a very kind greeting,’ Dad says. He wears horrible grey jogging pants, of which he has at least five pairs. On his sweatshirt, in huge letters, is written ‘PGA Tour 1985’. I think that was the last year he ever won a golf tournament.

‘Don’t you want to let us in?’ Mom asks. She wears her usual business outfit: skirt, boots and pullover – all in black. Just the white blouse stands out.

‘Please, come in.’ I step aside.

Mother looks around. I know what she wants to say before she says it. ‘My goodness! How can you live in this dirty place? Tomorrow I’ll send you our housekeeper.’

‘I don’t want a housekeeper.’

Dad looks at our living room, where a lot of Dok’s stuff is lying around. ‘A bit of help wouldn’t do you harm.’

‘Let’s go to the kitchen,’ I say.

They follow me and sit down at the kitchen table.

‘I fear I don’t have much to offer. Do you want some tea?’

‘Yes, please,’ Mom says. She is undecided about where to put her arms. The chairs don’t have armrests like she is used to from home.

While I prepare the tea, the room is filled with silence.

‘So, are you golfing again?’ I ask Dad.

‘Yeah, now and then. Nothing big though,’ he says.

‘We aren’t here to make small talk,’ Mom says sharply.

‘Why are you here then?’

‘We want to talk about your employment.’

‘My employment?’

‘In the company. You could start in January. Then you’ll still have a few weeks to rest and recover from everything.’

‘I’m not going to work for you.’

Mom pulls at