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Find the circle. Squeeze the trigger. Let the gun buck against you. Breathe.

Aden could not erase Emily’s voice from his mind. It reverberated, over the boom of the gunshot. It felt, after listening to the call, that he knew her now. That were he to pass her in the street, he would recognise her instantly. Of course that would never happen now, because Emily Wilson was dead. Twenty-four hours after making that call.

Find the circle. Squeeze the trigger. Let the gun buck against you. Breathe.

Was it her then? Was that why the gunman had been there? Had he followed her, killed her? But no, that couldn’t be right. Because on the second night, when he had returned, Emily was already dead. So why go back, why risk capture? It came back to Dylan Lowe, as all things did since the night of the shooting, everything revolving around that pivot point. Emily could not have been the target, the reason the gunman was there, because if she had been, he would have had no reason to return. Perhaps then her death was exactly what it appeared to be, what the investigation had concluded – an accident. A tragic confluence of random events. And, if that was true, if Dylan was the draw, then the gunman would return.

Find the circle. Squeeze the trigger. Let the gun buck against you. Breathe.

Aden thought about that night a year ago and the sound of footsteps running through the pouring rain. There was much they did not know. They had never found the people with whom Dylan Lowe had been. And of course Dylan had been in no condition to turn them in. Aden had assumed they were kids, a group of juveniles pissing about, scared when things got so real so fast. But then, he thought, what did that prove? Dylan was a kid. But still he had turned on them, had pointed a gun at them, had planned to kill them and would have done, had it not been for Tony, for Rhys.

Aden felt his arm tremble under the pressure of the thought, his last shot going wide. Corrected his stance, his grip, reminded himself to breathe. Was that it then? Was it one of the accomplices, spooked suddenly after Dylan’s long sleep, deciding that they could not risk him waking, telling his story? Was Emily’s death nothing more than a tragic coincidence?

Charlie wouldn’t like the theory. Aden knew her well enough to know that. He had seen her face, as he talked about Emily’s 999 call, had seen the thoughts whirring into place. Felt himself smile a little as he thought of her – another shot dropping low from the distraction of it.

Aden had seen Charlie coming towards him on the night of the shooting, in the tumbling-down rain. Had wanted to swear, because the last thing he had needed then was some hack badgering him for details of the bloodbath in the alley. Hadn’t recognised her for a moment. Then he had, and hadn’t felt any better, because now she had an ‘in’, a direct line to his story. Had been summoning up all of his seeping reserves, ready to be polite but rejecting, when she had sat down, dumping herself into the puddle in which he already sat. She hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t even looked at him. He had been dimly aware of the rain drying up, had glanced up to see the umbrella that she held over his head. Had felt so pathetically grateful that he had wanted to cry.

She had never asked him, then or after. He was fairly confident that she would have picked up the gist of it: the firearms hotshot who failed to shoot. After all, Charlie knew everybody in the force, was friends with everyone. Someone would have told her. But she had never asked him.

The trigger pulled, clicked, top-slide zinging backwards. Ammunition gone. Aden lowered the gun, muzzle towards the floor. The air was thick, the silence beyond the sound.

‘All clear. Holster your weapons. Ear-defenders off.’

He tugged the bulbous ear-muffs free, sound flooding back into the muffled silence, laughter. Rhys was standing beside him, shaking his head.

‘You all right?’ asked Aden.

‘That was shit. Look!’ Rhys pointed down-range towards his target, the shots riding low and to the left.

Aden nodded. ‘You’re anticipating the recoil. Just take your time. Keep each shot nice and slow. And keep that focus on the front sight – that’ll tell you how you’re performing.’ He grinned. ‘That’ll teach you to be late. Again.’

Rhys smiled, a guilty laugh. ‘I know. Traffic was terrible. I’m too stressed to concentrate then.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Aden caught his eye. ‘You’re doing well, mate.’

‘Nice shooting, Ade.’ Iestyn, the training sergeant, had appeared next to him, six foot and lathe-lean, white-blond hair in a crew cut. Folded his arms across his chest. ‘Couple of dropped shots, but other than that very nice.’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’

‘You, ah,’ Iestyn kept his voice down, watching as Rhys ducked his head, following the others down-range, ‘you thought any more about the Tactical Unit?’ He glanced at Aden, studying. ‘You know they’re recruiting again, right?’

Aden shrugged. ‘Yeah. I mean, I heard. But I thought that what with—’

‘Ade, I’m not being funny, mate.’ The sergeant clapped a lion’s-paw hand on his shoulder. ‘Bloody go for it. You’ve always said it’s what you want, yeah? Well, go on then. You’ll walk the assessment.’

Aden looked down. ‘Yeah, thing is . . .’ The sentence petered out, because it was impossible to say what the thing actually was. That he couldn’t forget the fact that he had failed. That he was terrified of doing it again. That now every day it felt like he was holding on by his fingertips.

The sergeant was looking at him, appraising. ‘Look. Okay. Have a think. But I’m telling you, that job is yours for the taking.’

Aden nodded, could feel the eyes burning into the back of his head. ‘Thanks. Ah, Sarge?’

‘Yeah?’

‘About the Mount Pleasant Hospital call? You know the one?’

‘The gunman having a wander about?’

‘Yeah. You know that the ward – Ward 12 – you know that’s Dylan Lowe’s ward, right?’

The sergeant frowned. ‘Okay?’

‘No, well, I was just thinking . . .’ Aden lowered his voice. ‘I was wondering if it was a connection that we should be looking at. You know, the others who were with him. We never did find them.’

‘So you think one of them is planning on finishing him off?’

Aden shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. ‘Just a thought.’

Iestyn studied him for a moment. ‘All right, I’ll pass it on. But I got to be honest, mate, I don’t think it’s going to make too much difference. The powers that be have already ordered extra patrols. Besides,’ his voice dropped lower, ‘when you think about it, what would be the point of shooting him? Kid isn’t likely to be talking any time soon.’

Aden nodded, caught Rhys’s eye. Moved closer as the sergeant passed on to the next AFO on the line. ‘What do you think?’

Rhys shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Ade. I get what you’re saying. I really do. But that kid . . . As the sarge said, what would be the point? He’s not going to tell anyone, is he?’ His colour had slipped, a greyish tinge now to his pallor. ‘You know, I have nightmares sometimes, about him lying in that hospital bed. It gets to the point sometimes where I’m afraid to go to sleep.’ Then he caught himself, glancing around in case anyone else had heard. ‘Shit! Don’t, I mean, don’t say anything to anyone, will you? I don’t want them thinking I shouldn’t be back on Firearms. That I can’t handle it.’

Aden studied him, a wave of guilt threatening to drown him. ‘No. Of course not. If it helps, I have those dreams too.’

‘Yeah?’ Rhys watched him, face hopeful almost.

‘Yeah. Especially in the beginning. Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘It is what it is. But, the thing is, I just don’t get why anyone would be going after him. I mean, there are a ton of people on that ward. Ward 11 is right next door, so we don’t know that it wasn’t that ward the gunman was looking for. I sometimes wonder if we are just assuming it’s got something to do with Dylan because, you know, it’s personal for us.’

‘Yeah. I guess you’re right.’ Aden broke off as a figure moved closer. ‘All right, Tony?’

Tony stood just behind them, his arms folded, legs akimbo. Had tucked his Glock back into his holster, but it didn’t seem like he needed it. Just the general impression he gave: that unarmed he could do as much damage as a firearm. The others billowed around him, walking in groups, conversation low. But they gave Tony a wide berth, a couple shooting him sideways glances. He was, he would tell you with dizzying frequency, a military man at heart. The Marines. Had joined right out of school. Still wore the tattoo, insignia wrapped around the girth of his upper arm. Had left, in the end, to marry the woman of his dreams. Had joined the police because it had seemed, at the time, to be the next best thing.

Life, however, had seemed determined to disappoint Tony. The marriage was in trouble, everyone knew that. And there was the shooting. Tony had done what Aden could not; had delivered two shots. He’d been off Firearms for nine months, bitter and piqued.

Tony indicated towards Aden’s target, a rough gesture. ‘Not bad.’ Pursed his lips together, suggesting that there was more he wanted to say, but that he was forbearing, for the moment.

‘Thanks.’

Aden studied Tony. We have to understand what those surrounding us are seeing.

‘Can I ask you something, Tone?’

‘What’s that?’ Tony wasn’t looking at him, was still staring down-range towards his own target. Frowning.

‘I was, ah . . . I was talking to Imogen – you’re still seeing her, right?’

Tony’s head snapped around then, a quick scan to see that no one was listening. ‘Yeah.’ His voice dropped. ‘Like the good little boy that I am.’ Shrugged. ‘One of my conditions of return to Firearms, wasn’t it?’

‘Well, the thing is, she said something that made me think. That night.’ No need to name it, they all knew which night ‘that night’ was. ‘What did you see?’

Tony had pulled back now, was staring at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we were talking about perspectives, you know? How we all see things differently.’

‘You mean, like how you somehow missed the fact that the kid was pointing a gun at your head?’

So much blackness it seems impossible that Aden will ever see again, an explosion of sound that comes from everywhere, all at once. His finger, the trigger, just not moving.

‘Mate,’ Tony said it so that it sounded like a curse, was shaking his head slowly. ‘I’m not gonna hold your dick while you piss. Kid had a gun. Would have killed you, if it weren’t for me and Brad over there. Would have shot you through with that nice little Browning HP, just like the one my old granddad brought back from Normandy.’ He turned away from Aden, his shoulder hefting like the movement of mountains. ‘You missed it. That’s on you. And I’ll tell you something else.’ Tony gestured towards the training sergeant, his voice dropping further still. ‘The sarge may think your shit is chocolate. Me, not so much.’

He gave Aden a look, one that scrolled up and down him. A little shrug. Turned on his heel.

Aden could feel a swell of anger, wanted to reach out, grab hold of Tony’s throat. But didn’t. Stood there, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Because, after all, wasn’t he right?

‘You okay?’ Rhys’s voice was quiet, softer even than it usually was.

Aden shrugged. ‘What can I say? He’s not wrong.’

‘That Tony – he’s all wrong. Don’t listen to him, Ade. He’s a prick.’

They began walking towards the targets, where the others were clustered, Iestyn waiting for them, look expectant. ‘All right, boys and girls. Nice work, some nice groupings. Colm, think you took out a light fitting. Try not to do that again, ’kay, butt?’ A smattering of laughter. ‘And our winner, with the highest score, is Mr Aden McCarthy. Nice job. Right, up to the armoury, lock up your weapons and then grab yourselves a cuppa. Thirty minutes and we’ll have you back down into the tactics house, if you don’t mind. Thank you.’ The sergeant turned, catching sight of Aden and Rhys. ‘Guys, hang back for me a sec. Tone? You too.’ He didn’t say anything for a moment, watching as the others filtered out, curious glances thrown back over their shoulders. Tony had folded his arms, a brick wall across his thick chest, his face locked down. Rhys stood beside Aden, seemed to have shrunk, head tucked back into his shoulder blades. Aden’s heart beat a little faster.

‘Right, guys. Quick word. I have some news. I’ve spoken to the inspector and he’s asked me to have a chat with you. We’ve heard from Dylan Lowe’s family.’

The name sent a ripple through the group. Aden’s stomach flipped.

‘Now, obviously they weren’t pleased with the IPCC ruling – no surprises there. I’m sorry, guys. But they have filed a civil suit against the force, and against you two,’ he gestured to Rhys and Tony, ‘as the primary shooters.’

Rhys’s head sank further. His eyes closed. Tony was staring at the sergeant.

‘Ade, obviously you have not been named in the suit. You will be pulled in as a witness, though, so I just wanted to give you a heads-up.’

‘This is bullshit,’ said Tony.

‘Tone.’

‘No. No. This is bullshit. We’ve been cleared. The IPCC. We’ve been fucking cleared. And this wanker,’ Tony waved at Aden, lip curled, ‘of course he’s all right: too chicken-shit to pull the trigger. That’s the way to do it, isn’t it? Hide behind the big boys.’

‘Come on, Tony. No call for that,’ Iestyn said.

Tony was bouncing on the balls of his feet, thick fingers flexing into fists. Iestyn turned, gave Aden a look, a quick eye-roll. ‘Ade, another thing. Just, ah, obviously this is going to be quite a sensitive time. So watch yourself around that reporter friend of yours. That Charlie one? You know: loose lips sink ships, and all that.’

‘Charlie’s not like that, Sarge. She’s . . . she’s okay,’ said Aden.

Iestyn shook his head. ‘Yeah, fit isn’t the same as okay. Just watch yourself, okay?’

‘Yeah.’ Aden wasn’t looking at him, but down at the floor, gave a quick nod.

‘This,’ said Tony, voice rumbling across the cavernous space, ‘is fucking bullshit.’

I PULL OPEN
the car boot, easing the lock. The click seems to be startlingly loud in the quiet street, and I glance around, can’t help myself. But there is no one here. Harddymaes enjoying a rare kind of peace. The sun is still low, but still there is a warmth to the air, a potency, as if the world knows what is about to come. I realise that my hands are shaking, lift them up and stare at them like they don’t belong to me.