The Boy Who Could See Demons by Carolyn Jess-Cooke Page B

day.’
    I felt myself soften. ‘I know this case is important to you. And I should probably reassure you that I have only Alex’s interests at heart.’
    He nods. ‘I know things probably seemed a lot simpler in Edinburgh. But it’s different here. None of the kids I’ve witnessed being separated from their families have fared particularly well …’
    We start walking, his voice drowned out by the hustle and bustle inside the market. We take a side street towards the City Hall where a man is busking. Michael stops to throw some change into the small red cap on the ground. As a result, he rises two notches in my estimation.
    ‘Maybe you didn’t hear me when I said I had no interest in separating Alex and Cindy,’ I say lightly. ‘And I actually meant it. But a spell at MacNeice House would ensure that Alex receives the correct treatment …’
    Michael looks ahead, his hands deep in his pockets. ‘Once bitten, twice shy, I guess,’ he says.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    He hesitates, thumbing the corner of his mouth in thought. ‘There was a guy who worked there a few years ago, same role as you. Manson. One of my cases was a twelve-year-old girl. Nina. Cute little blonde thing. Suffered from Asperger’s, and also this rare disease called Cigarette Burns. Her dad even owned up to it. Mother kicked him out, pleaded with us to let Nina stay with her. But as soon as Manson finished Nina’s treatment he sent her off to a foster family.’
    We reach the end of the side street, the blare of the city traffic inching closer. I stop to let him finish.
    ‘Was she reunited with her mother?’
    ‘Yes, but there was a lot of unnecessary heartache caused. And I guess I’m just a sceptic anyhow. I think a lot of these kids make things up to get attention.’
    It’s at this point that my heart sinks. The team involved in assessing Alex’s needs consists of a jocular, doughnut-obsessed occupational therapist, Howard Dungar, who remains mostly in the sidelines as a signature on the report; Ursula, whose presence in the case is surprisingly in the form of a stony silence of disapproval at meetings, her head firmly turned towards the event of her retirement; and Michael the skeptic, who doesn’t believe in what I do.
    ‘So what are you out here for, anyway?’ he says, visibly forcing a smile on to his face.
    I step out towards the road, waiting for a break in oncoming traffic.
    ‘Sightseeing.’
    ‘Sightseeing? I thought you grew up in Belfast?’
    ‘Demon hunting, then,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’m investigating Alex’s environment.’
    Just then, he steps towards the road, sticks an arm out, and a few seconds later we’re both bundling into a taxi.
    ‘Just up the road, please,’ he tells the driver.
    ‘Where’re we going?’ I ask Michael.
    His green eyes are serious, unsmiling. ‘You said you wanted to hunt demons. We’re hunting demons.’
    The taxi pulls around the front of the City Hall and leads us out of town, taking us along a sprawling, congested street that has large murals on either side, some of them spreading across three or four walls. Michael leans across me, eyeing the rows of shops and houses.
    ‘Alex’s old school is around here,’ he says.
    ‘We’re going to Alex’s old school?’
    He shakes his head. I catch a whiff of aftershave as he leans close. There’s tobacco, too, lingering in his clothes. It is oddly reassuring. ‘This is the route he used to take to walk there. Look.’
    He taps the taxi driver on the shoulder and asks him to pull over. Outside, he jogs across the road towards one of the biggest murals. This one has an enormous oval in the middle in which are painted the words UVF FOR GOD AND ULSTER. There are five named faces above and four gun-wielding figures at the bottom, all featureless, all dressed completely in black. But one mural makes me double-take. It is a demon holding a gun, snarling at the viewer and stalking across the graves of dead Republicans.
    ‘You never