Controlled Explosions by Claire McGowan Page A

machinery, was taking notes by hand now. Maybe, God willing, the batteries on his wee machine were dead. ‘And you, Sergeant, are you Protestant?’ They always pronounced it like that, with the
t
stuttering in the middle, instead of softened into a
d
like you did if you were local. Bob met the gaze of his partner – no, his
deputy
, he had to stop forgetting that – over the man’s head, and they both shrugged. Then PJ Maguire looked away. It was a hard habit to break, thinking of PJ as his partner, though they hadn’t been that for years. Not since Bob’s promotion, and everything else that happened in 1993. PJ was a Catholic, and for various reasons Bob wasn’t his favourite person, but dear God, the English. They hadn’t a notion what went on here. ‘Aye, I am,’ he said, thinking of the sash in the wardrobe back home, pressed and under plastic. One year he’d led this parade himself, now he was shutting it down. ‘But right now I’m just a police officer.’
    PJ’s radio buzzed and he listened for a moment. ‘They’re doing a controlled explosion. We better move on back.’
    ‘Can we watch it blow up?’ asked the journalist, scribbling excitedly in his notebook. ‘That would be amazing.’
    Bob Hamilton sighed, and watched his town burn.
    ‘Tout.’
    She could hear the word behind her, hissing in her ear. At the front of the class, the teacher was droning on about abortion.
    ‘Your ma was a tout.’
    Paula spun around, teeth bared. Everyone’s head was down, writing, but she knew who’d said it all the same. ‘Shut up!’
    ‘What’s that racket?’ The teacher, Mrs Reilly, was fat, like really fat. Once she was wedged into her seat she didn’t get out for anything. ‘Paula? Is that you talking?’
    She felt the red sweep up her face, the unfairness of it, as behind her a breeze of giggling broke out. ‘No, miss.’
    ‘In that case can you tell me why the Catholic Church doesn’t support abortion?’
    Paula sighed. The file paper in front of her was covered in doodles, stars and hearts. No notes on the lesson at all.
    ‘Well? I knew you weren’t listen—’
    Paula said, bored: ‘It’s because of the scripture verse “before I formed you in the womb I knew you”, that shows life starts at the moment of conception. Jeremiah one, five.’
    Another faint giggle, this time not aimed at Paula. She looked down at her paper again.
    The teacher said nothing for a few moments. ‘Well. That’s right. Now keep it down, please.’
    Behind her, Paula could feel Catriona’s beady eyes bore into her.
    Tout. Your ma was a tout.
    The worst thing about it: it was probably true.
    ‘Bunch of cows,’ said Saoirse, scowling, when Paula caught up with her in the science corridor. ‘You should tell someone.’
    Paula made a noise that was almost a laugh. You never told on people. Everyone knew that. The teachers did nothing, and you just got in more trouble on top of the bullying. ‘Yeah, sure I’ll do that. Duh.’
    ‘Anyway, what did you reckon to
ER
last night? Wasn’t it brilliant? I wish Dr Carter would marry me. He’s sooooo gorgeous.’ Saoirse was going to be a doctor; she’d always known it. Paula wondered sometimes if she knew it wouldn’t be exactly like
ER
.
    ‘Yeah … it was good.’
    ‘Listen. Forget about Catriona O’Keeffe. She’s just a little Provo bitch. Come on.’ Saoirse put her arm through Paula’s as they wandered down the hot corridor, with its reek of Impulse and PE kits. ‘We’re getting out of here, remember? One more year! Then we’ll be in Belfast, we can get our own flat, we can have people round for dinner …’
    But there’d be no getting out. There’d be Catrionas in Belfast too, lots of them. And everyone would know Paula’s da was a Catholic policeman and her ma was maybe a tout and maybe dead but maybe not. Sometimes she couldn’t stand it. She’d been starting to think, though she had no idea how to tell Saoirse, that maybe she’d go even