Riven by A J McCreanor Page A

Wanted his mammy. Christ, no way he could’ve battered anyone to death.’
    ‘You’d be surprised. Delayed shock maybe? Good actor?’
    ‘Nah. You’re talking shite. They’re innocent.’
    ‘Want to bet on it?’
    ‘Fair enough, how much?’
    Wheeler watched them leave the room and thought that their conversation accurately summed up the team. Divided.
    Ross turned to her. ‘Watervale it is then? But can we stop off for coffee on the way? I’m starving.’
    ‘Can’t think why – you had loads to eat last night.’
    ‘That was a whole other day away. Besides,’ he said, patting his stomach, ‘I need to keep myself refuelled.’
    ‘We don’t have time and anyway, you’re not a bloody racehorse, Ross.’
    She was out of the door and down the corridor before he’d finished saying, ‘See myself more as a stallion, Wheeler.’

Chapter 10
    Tuesday, 9 a.m.
    ‘. . . And why was that?’ The woman stared at him.
    No answer.
    The wall clock tick-tocked softly in the background. Outside the window the steady thrum of traffic from Clarkston Road passed underneath the second-floor office. Rush hour, mothers dropping children off at nursery, school, playgroup, childminder. Folk going to work. Day shift driving in to start the day, night shift driving home. HGVs in for the long commute across Europe. A world busy with itself, the everyday noise only mildly dampened by the constant beat of rain against the window pane.
    Dr Sylvia Moore sat in a leather and chrome Le Corbusier chair, her long legs crossed, her red hair shorn tight to her head. She wore a fitted black trouser suit, a heavy gold watch and flat patent leather brogues. Her face was free from make-up.
    She repeated the question, ‘Why was that?’ adding, ‘Do you think?’
    This time an answer. ‘Why was what?’
    ‘Why did you feel you couldn’t reach out to her?’
    Doyle shrugged, ‘Who knows?’
    Her voice hard, ‘You do, Andy. You know why you couldn’t reach out to her.’
    His fist on the side of the Le Corbusier, skin on chrome, harsh, beating. ‘She’s a fucking woman, I don’t know! I don’t understand you lot.’
    ‘Us lot?’
    ‘Fucking women. I mean, I buy her stuff, anything she wants. I paid to go to a charity do, paid to get sat at the same table as some fucking art-house producer who needs “investment” for his next project, some play about fuck-knows-what. All for Stella.’
    ‘But that’s not enough, is it? She wants more . . . what is it she wants?’
    ‘Fuck knows.’ He paused. ‘She wants to be a star but she’s got fuck-all talent.’
    ‘If Stella was here what would she say? Apart from you buying her stardom, or at least a part in a play, what else does she want from you?’
    Shrug.
    The gentle tick-tock of the clock; outside a police siren screamed past, its wail fading in seconds.
    ‘Is she in love with you?’
    A shrug. ‘Mibbe. But I don’t understand her.’
    ‘Do you want to understand Stella?’
    Another shrug.
    ‘Would it be different if you were in love with her?’
    ‘Probably.’
    ‘But you’re not?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then you’re just stringing her along?’
    ‘Love isn’t what I need.’
    ‘Most people need to be loved, to feel wanted, appreciated, connected.’
    ‘Good for them, but I’m not most people.’
    ‘No.’ Moore watched him, saw the anger leave him. ‘So, what is it you need, Andy?’
    She waited while the pause stretched over several seconds.
    He glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’m out of here.’
    ‘We’re not finished.’
    ‘I am.’ He stood.
    ‘Then you’re bailing out.’
    ‘Christ.’ He sat down again.
    ‘You need to look at your actions, take responsibility for yourself and your interactions with others. You’re not a child, you’re a grown-up. Stop acting like a spoilt child.’
    His eyes glittered, one darker than the other, his voice a whisper, ‘I do fucking take responsibility for everything I do. And I am always a fucking adult. And I am