sounds cocky, and I don’t mean it like that. But I was supposed to be going for the Tactical Unit, the top team on the department. My sergeant was pushing me, saying that I was born for it. And so, you kind of think that if the shit ever does hit the fan, then of course you’ll handle it, you’ll do the job properly, cos everyone says that you’re good at it. But that night . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t know. I was waiting for something. Some sign that pulling the trigger was the right thing to do.’
‘But you didn’t get one?’
‘No. But the others did. Rhys. Tony. And the thing is, if they hadn’t done what they did, if they hadn’t shot, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here. If they had been like me, if they’d hesitated in pulling the trigger . . . Jesus!’ Aden pushed himself up on the sofa again, looked at Imogen. She looked tired, he suddenly thought. Felt a flash of guilt that he was here, again, that she was listening to him, again. How many times had she done this, how many different versions of this same conversation had they had? Months-worth. Too many to count. ‘The thing is, I know I made a mistake. I know I didn’t do the job properly. But I keep twisting it around in my head and, whichever way I turn it, I just can’t get to the point where I would have pulled that trigger.’
‘So, isn’t that your answer then?’ asked Imogen.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve blamed yourself for your actions – or, as you’ve phrased it, your inaction. But if you are saying that your perception of the scene, what you were seeing unfold in front of you, simply didn’t support you pulling the trigger, then why would you have? How could you have? What you have to remember, Aden, is that there are a number of different perspectives on this event. At least four that we know of – yours, Rhys’s, Tony’s. Dylan Lowe’s. No one person had a full view of everything that was unfolding. And I think it is dangerous to automatically assume that your reaction to the event is in some way faulty. The IPCC didn’t think it was, the firearms commanders didn’t think it was. You behaved in a way that, based on your information at the time, appeared most appropriate to you. The fact that others behaved differently means that they perceived something different.’
‘So . . .’
‘So, the world isn’t a simple place. And sometimes, in order to understand what has gone on, we have to understand what those surrounding us were seeing.’
Aden nodded, thinking about the stationary figure lying in the bed, unseeing eyes studying the ceiling. Thinking about Dylan Lowe and the decisions he made a year ago that led him to be lying here. And then, inexorably, thinking about the ward, and the glass-panelled door, and, even though he wasn’t there and even though he can only imagine, thinking about looking through it, from the inside out: a figure standing, waiting, gun in hand. And Dylan Lowe, in his deep and dreamless sleep.
Charlie: Tuesday 26 August, 8.30 a.m.
Five days before the shooting
I PUSH THE car door open, squeezing out of the space that is, in truth, too tight. My hair is still damp to the touch, swinging around my shoulders, but the heat of the day is beginning to build and soon it will dry. I leave my swimming bag on the passenger seat, push the door closed behind me.
I called the office, spoke to Dave. ‘I’ll be a bit late in, okay? I’m chasing a lead. Just let Lydia know, will you?’
She’s going to be pissed off at me. I feel it in my gut. But then Lydia’s default setting seems to be pissed off these days. I pull my handbag onto my shoulder and duck between the cars, can feel the sun reflecting off them, bouncing against my cream trousers. There are murmurs around the office. Talk that the paper isn’t doing well, that redundancies are inevitably going to follow. I do my best to ignore it, just get on with the job. Because, in the end, that is all I can
‘Go on.’
‘I don’t know. I was waiting for something. Some sign that pulling the trigger was the right thing to do.’
‘But you didn’t get one?’
‘No. But the others did. Rhys. Tony. And the thing is, if they hadn’t done what they did, if they hadn’t shot, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here. If they had been like me, if they’d hesitated in pulling the trigger . . . Jesus!’ Aden pushed himself up on the sofa again, looked at Imogen. She looked tired, he suddenly thought. Felt a flash of guilt that he was here, again, that she was listening to him, again. How many times had she done this, how many different versions of this same conversation had they had? Months-worth. Too many to count. ‘The thing is, I know I made a mistake. I know I didn’t do the job properly. But I keep twisting it around in my head and, whichever way I turn it, I just can’t get to the point where I would have pulled that trigger.’
‘So, isn’t that your answer then?’ asked Imogen.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve blamed yourself for your actions – or, as you’ve phrased it, your inaction. But if you are saying that your perception of the scene, what you were seeing unfold in front of you, simply didn’t support you pulling the trigger, then why would you have? How could you have? What you have to remember, Aden, is that there are a number of different perspectives on this event. At least four that we know of – yours, Rhys’s, Tony’s. Dylan Lowe’s. No one person had a full view of everything that was unfolding. And I think it is dangerous to automatically assume that your reaction to the event is in some way faulty. The IPCC didn’t think it was, the firearms commanders didn’t think it was. You behaved in a way that, based on your information at the time, appeared most appropriate to you. The fact that others behaved differently means that they perceived something different.’
‘So . . .’
‘So, the world isn’t a simple place. And sometimes, in order to understand what has gone on, we have to understand what those surrounding us were seeing.’
Aden nodded, thinking about the stationary figure lying in the bed, unseeing eyes studying the ceiling. Thinking about Dylan Lowe and the decisions he made a year ago that led him to be lying here. And then, inexorably, thinking about the ward, and the glass-panelled door, and, even though he wasn’t there and even though he can only imagine, thinking about looking through it, from the inside out: a figure standing, waiting, gun in hand. And Dylan Lowe, in his deep and dreamless sleep.
Charlie: Tuesday 26 August, 8.30 a.m.
Five days before the shooting
I PUSH THE car door open, squeezing out of the space that is, in truth, too tight. My hair is still damp to the touch, swinging around my shoulders, but the heat of the day is beginning to build and soon it will dry. I leave my swimming bag on the passenger seat, push the door closed behind me.
I called the office, spoke to Dave. ‘I’ll be a bit late in, okay? I’m chasing a lead. Just let Lydia know, will you?’
She’s going to be pissed off at me. I feel it in my gut. But then Lydia’s default setting seems to be pissed off these days. I pull my handbag onto my shoulder and duck between the cars, can feel the sun reflecting off them, bouncing against my cream trousers. There are murmurs around the office. Talk that the paper isn’t doing well, that redundancies are inevitably going to follow. I do my best to ignore it, just get on with the job. Because, in the end, that is all I can
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