Controlled Explosions

by Claire McGowan

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Female Sleuths; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Paula Maguire, forensic psychologist on the Irish border, returns as a teenager in this exclusive digital short story from Claire McGowan. If you love the Paula Maguire series, or are yet to meet the infamous psychologist, you'll be gripped... 1998 and future forensic psychologist Paula Maguire is still in school, being taunted by bullies. In particular one girl, whose family has paramilitary links, is calling her a rat. Even though Paula might not know why her mother went missing five years before, she's sure she's no traitor's daughter. But words are nothing compared to what her policeman father, PJ, is dealing with. The hot summer is simmering with violence and the entire force is focused on finding a bomber leaving devices on the routes of Orange parades. When PJ is injured at the scene of a crime, Paula is shocked to find herself next in the perpetrator's crosshairs. The threats at school don't feel so empty now, but what connection could there be? As the possibility of first love appears, will Paula be able to find out in time to save herself and follow her heart? What readers are saying about Controlled Explosions : 'A beautifully rendered novella set way before the series began. I was completely hooked ' ' Fast-paced and exciting ' 'A great peek into the history of Paula - our favourite psychologist! All very fascinating - I just love the setting '

Release date: July 1, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 65

Sample

‘We are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’

Paula’s lilies were wilting already. She shifted on her swollen feet. The bulk of her belly meant the only way she could comfortably stand was with one hip jutted out, leaning on it, and she didn’t think such an insolent pose would cut it before the altar. She’d already seen the priest’s eye travelling over her stomach and then pointedly not looking at it. Catholics – they were good at pretending things that did exist didn’t. And vice versa.

She stared straight ahead, her legs buckling under the cool satin of her dress, glad that its length hid her puffy ankles and enormous underwear. What am I doing here? The church smelled of incense, and cold stone, and the slightly rotting sweetness of the flowers.

Across from her, Aidan was also staring rigidly ahead. He was tricked out in a new grey suit, clasping his hands in front of his groin in that position men adopted during moments of gravitas or penalty kick-offs. She wondered if, like her, he was having to stop himself mouthing the too-familiar words of the Mass. Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy) Christ have mercy (Christ have mercy) Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy). The phrases found a treacherous echo in her bones. She heard Aidan cough, once, in the still, heavy air of the church. On that warm spring day, it was full of the ghosts of candles, and dust, and long unopened hymn books. What are we doing here? She wanted to catch his eye, but was afraid to.

‘Do you have the rings?’ Aidan stepped forward and deposited them on the Bible, two hoops of gold, one large, one tiny. Then he moved back into position, eyes downcast.

‘Repeat after me,’ said the priest. The bride and groom arranged themselves in suitable positions. ‘Patrick Joseph Maguire, will you take Patricia Ann O’Hara to be your lawful wedded wife, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, to have and to hold from this day forth, forsaking all others, as long as you both shall live?’

Paula’s father – PJ – spoke in a rusty voice. ‘I will.’ His bad leg was stiff but he stood up straight in a new black suit bought for the occasion. Paula suspected he was hating it all, but he’d have done anything for the woman standing next to him in an ivory suit from Debenhams, several nests’ worth of dyed feathers attached to her head.

Aidan’s mother, Pat O’Hara, said her vows quick and earnest: ‘I will.’

They would. They were both so sure. How could you be sure? Paula stole a glance at Aidan – what was he now, her stepbrother? – and saw his dark eyes were wreathed in shadows, his hair tinged with grey over the ears. She’d never noticed that before. He saw her watching, and both of them looked away, her belly as big and unavoidable as the lies between them. Oh Aidan, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Then it was done, and Pat and PJ were wed, and they trooped down the aisle like a bride and groom in their twenties. Aidan grasped Paula’s arm without meeting her eyes, escorting her out, because that was what you did. His hand was cool on her hot, fat skin. Everything about her was squeezed. The ridiculous lilac bridesmaid dress, strained over newly discovered breasts, was like a cocoon she might burst from at any moment. Aidan could barely look at her. She didn’t blame him.

They were out now, and posing for photos taken by one of Pat’s friends, who couldn’t work the camera, and Pat was all smiles and tears, kissing Paula with her five layers of lipstick. She’d had her colours done for the wedding, plunging into manicures and spa days and shopping trips like a first-time bride. Paula had tried to play along, because she loved Pat, but it was hard to be excited about a wedding when its very occurrence hinged on the fact that your mother, missing for seventeen years, had been declared legally dead. And maybe she was dead – dead as Pat’s husband, who’d been shot by the IRA in 1986. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t.

Maybe. When you got married you did not say ‘maybe’. You said ‘I will’, you put your feet on the good, solid stone of certainty. ‘Maybe’ was like shifting sand. She wished so much there was something, anything she could be sure of. Whether her mother was alive or dead, for a start.

It was warm outside, and the sunlight played around the old church, which was painted in crumbly lemon-yellow. Paula had made her First Communion here, and they’d also chosen it for her mother’s memorial service back in the nineties – no funeral, of course; nothing to bury. Now Pat’s friends had gathered to throw confetti, twittering women in their Sunday best suits, lilacs and yellows and blues covering crêpey arms, hats pressed out of boxes and set atop tight-curled hair. Many greeted Paula – hello, pet – some kissing her cheek, though she barely recognised them. She knew they’d be looki. . .