Shiver the Whole Night Through (13 page)

Almost dark, I realised. And nobody around, on foot or in a car. This road was hardly used by anyone, since they shut the distillery down. It didn't really go anywhere, just out to the surrounding countryside, with a number of winding boreens branching off to farms and houses. Nobody in sight, just me and this guy coming towards me. Not in a rush, a steady pace, brisk but casual. His feet hitting the asphalt, that clicking sound now changed into a slap that almost twanged through the air, as if made by someone keeping rhythm on the body of a guitar. Cold air makes acoustics go all screwy.

I drew on my cigarette and realised I had tensed up slightly. At some point in the preceding two minutes, my nerves had got on edge, just a bit. My heart rate was a little faster. And was that sweat I could feel, surfacing through the skin of my back? I resumed walking, out of embarrassment more than anything else. Can't stand here indefinitely, it looks suspicious and makes you come across as a hysterical idiot.

The man's whole face was in shadow. Why can't I see your face? I thought. His head wasn't angled away from me, he didn't wear a broad-brimmed hat, yet I couldn't see him properly. It was as though he carried a shadow with him, a personal cloaking device. Something shifted across his face, a wisp of light, and I thought I saw his eyes twinkle, maybe the flash of a smile.

We continued to approach one another. A creepy feeling of dread, not quite panic but with panic definitely in its future plans, washed down through me. Who was this man? Why was he here? What business did anyone have on this lonely, disused road, in the freezing cold, as night fell?

We came closer.

My feet crunched on slush and snow and I wished they'd shut the hell up, stop being so
loud
, and the man was within twenty yards and I still couldn't make out his face. I flicked my fag onto the road and found that I'd bunched my hands into fists and was as tense as bejeesus, my heart kicking like a mule and sweat steaming inside my coat and vest and this goddamn guy was almost on top of me.

Then we met and he stopped and drew in a few paces so I could pass, and I felt like the biggest baby in the world. He smiled and said, ‘Nice evening for a walk,' his voice faintly familiar or maybe that was my heightened imagination, and I almost laughed with mortification. My face was red, I'm sure, as I recognised how ridiculous I'd been. I mumbled some semi-civilised response and went to go by. He took a step too and stumbled on a tree root, falling against me, lightly touching really, and muttered something, maybe an apology. We carried on our separate ways and I heard his footsteps receding into the distance – the sound of relief.

This whole mystery thing is getting to you, man. Now you're imagining things. Guy was out for a walk, dumbo, like you are.

Half a minute up the road I stopped with a jolt as I realised I still hadn't seen his face. Weird. We'd passed within two feet of each other, we'd actually touched, and there was still a watery trace of light in the sky, but I couldn't for the life of me give any part of any description of what that man looked like.

Was that weird? Probably not. I was on edge, and twilight's a funny time anyway. People think they see all sorts of crazy shit at twilight.

I'd talk to Sláine tonight, hopefully put some shape on all this. That'd help, that'd plane some of those edges down. Even if we didn't come to any conclusion, just talking to my girl would relax me, ground me on this solid earth once more.

And that was worst-case scenario. Best-case was that together we might be able to work it all out, solve the big mystery. Another case closed by Aidan & Sláine Investigations! Book 'em, boys, and throw away the key.

I dashed home with dreams of heroes in my head, lay that same head down for a nap so brief it barely warranted the name, showered, ate, drank a gallon of coffee, retired to my room and pretended to be asleep. When I was sure everyone else really
was
asleep, I made a calm, smooth getaway – I was getting to be a real pro at this.

I reached our place in the forest by about half-past twelve, hollering a greeting to Sláine as I approached. I noticed with a subconscious tickle of anxiety that the light wasn't showing. I went in and lit the lamp and looked around. And then realised, through the evidence of my eyes but especially through the sickly quiver I felt vibrating deep, deep in the marrow of my bones  … 

Sláine had disappeared. And I was alone.

‘Am I under arrest?'

‘No.'

‘Do I need to call a solicitor or someone?'

‘No. We're just talking, Aidan. There isn't any need to bring in the heavy guns. This is nothing official. Like I say, we're just  …  having a little chat.'

A little chat, my ass. The sergeant, named Parkinson, and Uncle Tim sat opposite me behind a desk in the former's surprisingly small office in the town Garda station. Uncle Tim had the look of a man who personally regretted the circumstances but was determined to meet his professional obligations, whatever discomfort this may cause him. Of course I wasn't calling him Uncle Tim – he wasn't my uncle anyway, and down here, wearing that uniform, he was Deputy Sergeant McGlynn. Tim McGlynn, it almost rhymes. Silly-sounding sort of name. I suppressed a smile. This wasn't the place for levity, and besides I didn't feel too light-hearted myself.

Despite the sergeant's rehearsed reassurances, I was potentially in big trouble and I knew it. John Rattigan had been found, torn up like the other animal attacks. He was currently on life support in hospital; the scuttlebutt said it was fifty-fifty whether he lived or died. And someone had told the Guards I wanted him dead.

The sergeant said in his broad Kerry accent, ‘No school today?'

I mumbled some excuse about the building being closed due to snow. I could tell by his expression that Parkinson didn't believe me but he let it slide, saying, ‘Okay, let's go through this one more time. Clear it all up. You said to Mr Rattigan, “You're a dead man,” or “You'll soon be a dead man,” – words to that effect. Is our information correct?'

‘No, it's not bloody correct. I didn't say that at all. Who told you that?'

Uncle Tim said, ‘Aidan, never mind who said it. Trust us, we have reputable witnesses to this. More than one. So will you answer the question please.'

‘Unc— I mean, Deputy Sergeant McGlynn. I never said anything like that. Not to Rattigan, not anyone.'

‘You call him by his surname,' the sergeant said. ‘Not “John”, but “Rattigan”. You sort of spat it out there. I take it that means you don't like the lad?'

‘That doesn't mean anything. It's just a name  …  All right, I admit it. I
don't
like him. He's an asshole, he was really crappy to me. Me and loads of other people. I mean the list of suspects, if you're including everyone who had a reason to get John Rattigan? That's a pretty long list.'

A young guard opened the door and blurted out, ‘Sergeant, the coroner's here about Mr Blue Skin  …  '

Parkinson glared at him and shot his eyes in my direction. The officer blushed and muttered, ‘S-sorry, sir. Uh, whenever you're ready, sir, sorry.'

He reversed out. I leaned back and looked out the door as it was shutting, trying to see what was happening, my interest pricked by his flippant comment. The coroner, blue skin  …  it made me think of Sláine.

But the door closed, the sergeant calling through it, ‘
Knock
the next time, you
amadán
.'

Uncle Tim added in a quiet voice, ‘And show some bloody respect for the dead.'

I turned back to them as Parkinson glared at Tim too, before brusquely saying to me, ‘Now, let's return to this matter before us. The two of ye had a row outside the public library and you threatened to end Mr Rattigan's life. Yes or no?'

I said forcefully, ‘What?
No
. One hundred per cent no way. What I might have said, I think I told him, “I hope you'll be dead soon and we can all have a party.” It's a figure of speech. I was just ragging on him.'

The sergeant said, ‘“I hope you're dead soon,” “You'll be a dead man soon,”  …  to be honest, son, I don't see a big difference there.'

‘Well, that's too bad because there
is
a big difference. There's a world of difference. Anyway, he's not dead, is he? So why are you quoting, no
misquoting
, something I supposedly said about wanting to kill him? He's still alive.'

‘You sound disappointed.'

I smiled grimly and didn't respond to that, only saying, ‘Do I need a solicitor?'

‘We already told you, no. This is a voluntary interview process. You came here of your own free will. You're not under arrest or anything like that. You can call your parents, by all means, but you've no need to.'

It
was
voluntary, Parkinson had that much right. They'd collared me outside the station as I was walking by, eyes scanning the scene around me but head in the clouds, in bloody outer space. I don't know if Parkinson and Uncle Tim had been waiting for me – it looked as if they were, but perhaps it was simple happenstance. There I was, so they asked me to come in for a few questions. If I hadn't gone past at that moment, they'd have called to my home. Whichever: they asked, I went in. Now here we were, going around in circles.

I said, ‘Look, he was hassling me that day and I snapped. He'd been at me for months. That's all there was to it. Rattigan, I let him have it. Told him he was a worthless piece of  …  uh, you know, like he was nothing and if he was to die –
if
he was, not when – the whole town would celebrate because everyone hated him.'

‘So you admit you hate him?'

‘No!' I rubbed my eyes. This was becoming exhausting. ‘I told you: I don't hate him. I don't hate anyone. I don't like him either. Nobody does, his own parents probably can't stand him. But for the last time, I did
not
attack John Rattigan.'

I stared at the cigarette-scarred desktop. This must be an old piece of furniture; smoking had been banned in Garda stations for donkey's years. Pity – I could really have done with a fag. I thought of Rattigan: his unconscious body had been discovered by a geology student two days before, semi-buried in ice-encrusted dirt halfway up Sliabh Cohnda, the tallest mountain of ten or so which bordered our town on its north side. And the Guards, evidently, had decided to act on those rumours about me.

Rattigan came from what's known as ‘a bad family'. His parents didn't give a rat's ass about him – I'd had that right. They hadn't even reported him missing. But of course they were all, right now, in the station lobby, loudly and aggressively bellowing at the desk sergeant, demanding ‘justice for poor Johnny' and threatening reprisals on ‘the bad bastard who done this on our boy'. Uncle Tim had whisked me in the side entrance; was he worried one of them would make a go for me? Jesus, that was all I needed: a horde of lunatic Rattigans out for my blood.

By all accounts ‘poor Johnny' had been really messed up, even worse than the previous victims. His face, someone said, was unrecognisable – because it was missing several parts. I didn't know how much of this was true.

Parkinson was still worrying away at me like a dog at a bone. ‘What about the others?'

I knew what he was referring to but some inner stubbornness made me play dumb. ‘Huh? What about what others?'

Uncle Tim said gently, ‘Aidan, you know what others. Several people have been assaulted in a violent manner over the course of the last two months.'

‘Yeah. By wild animals.'

‘Probably wild animals. We don't know for sure yet.'

Parkinson corrected him: ‘
Possibly
wild animals. And possibly not.'

He raised his eyebrows at me. I smiled, looked away, trying to appear cool and reasonable, not shifty or nervous. I hadn't done anything wrong but that meant sweet FA in a police station. The atmosphere itself, the awareness of where you were, made you feel you had.

I forced myself to speak. ‘What about it? What's it got to do with me?'

Parkinson said, ‘What it's got to do with you is that many of them had bullied you, if not all of them. We know this. There's no shame in it. You were the victim, we understand that. It happens to a lot of very fine people, more's the pity. You're not the first and won't be the last. Bullying is an awful scourge in our society.'

Embarrassment coloured my cheeks a lurid crimson. I said quietly, ‘So  …  ?'

‘So, my boy, that gives you reason to want to hurt them. Revenge is a powerful motive in many crimes. And do you know, it's an understandable one, too. We can't condone it – indeed we must come down hard on it – but our common humanity allows us to empathise at the same time. The desire for revenge: it's a strong one, Aidan. And it makes seemingly normal people do extraordinary things.'

I looked at him. ‘Do you really believe that?'

‘I don't have to believe it – sure, I've seen it with my own two eyes.'

‘No, I mean about me.'

‘I'm not sure, to be honest. You might say I'm keeping  …  '

‘  …  An open mind. Yeah, I get it.'

Parkinson and Uncle Tim looked at each other, a little bemused. Tim's phone vibrated; the sergeant gave him the evil eye yet again. He flipped it open and listened, then turned away and whispered, ‘
Another
one? Good Christ. Yeah, hold on there. We'll send out a CS unit – be with you in an hour.' He added to Parkinson, ‘I'll tell you about it after.'

I cut in, saying, ‘I actually
do
feel like calling my parents and getting them to bring in the solicitor. But if I do that, I'm thinking it makes me look guilty. So  …  it's a bit of a catch-22 for me, isn't it?'

The sergeant leaned in. ‘And do you feel guilty about something, Aidan?'

I puffed out my cheeks in exasperation and for a moment forgot how worried I was. ‘Oh
come
on. That's the best you've got? That's your big psychological play, to try and trick me into confessing to something?'

Parkinson actually looked embarrassed. I could have sworn Uncle Tim was biting back a giggle. I went on, ‘Man, you
know
I didn't do any of this. Didn't, wouldn't, and damn sure couldn't. Look at me, for Christ's sake. I weigh about ten stone. You think I've got the upper-body strength to beat someone into a coma? To get the better of John Rattigan in a scrap? God Almighty.'

Parkinson raised his hands. He said, ‘Well, who knows what anyone could do, if pushed to it? If the inner motivation is strong enough. People lift cars off trapped children, they rush into burning buildings to save Granny, not caring a fig about the flames. Not feeling them, even. We just don't know, Aidan. What we're really capable of.'

‘May I go, please? I don't think I want to stay here any more.'

‘You may. But don't get any ideas about skipping town or heading to England or anything like that. We might want to speak with you again.'

‘So I'm officially a suspect, then?'

‘Not officially. Yet.'

I shook my head in disgust. ‘This is ridiculous. I'm going.' I stomped to the door and turned back. ‘Could you  …  Listen, please don't say anything to my parents. I don't want them worried over nothing. And it
is
nothing, I'm telling you.'

The sergeant shrugged again. ‘We'll see. But don't fret, your mam and dad won't hear anything from us. For the time being.'

Uncle Tim gave me an encouraging smile and said, ‘D'you need a lift home, Aidan?' Parkinson scowled at him. I got Tim out of this self-dug hole by saying no thanks, and left quickly. He called after me, ‘Go out the back way, there might be some of those bloody eejit Rattigans still hanging around the desk.' I did.

‘For the time being.' Such menace in those four simple words. And such weight, the deadweight of potential disaster, so heavy I could almost physically feel it dragging me down.

I went outside and the sun was blinding. I started walking some random route; air and exercise to clear my head, a cigarette to steady my nerves. This situation was getting serious, but the funny thing was, I had a more immediate problem: Sláine.

More specifically, where the hell she'd got to. I knew in my heart on Sunday night, when I found the lodge empty, that she was properly gone – not detained, or on her way, but
gone
. Where, for how long, I couldn't say. I couldn't fathom what was going on. Now it was Tuesday, past half-three in the afternoon, and there'd been absolutely no contact. She was off the grid lost on the wind. She was, to use a word so appropriate it made me feel uneasy, a ghost.

That night, I'd taken a moment to accept she was gone, then mentally shrugged and trudged back home. I didn't know what else to do. On Monday I woke at dawn, before dawn, and waited in the fading dark. For want of a better plan, I skipped school and stayed in my room, staying out of sight, thinking, not thinking. Thinking when I didn't want to think, and vice-versa. Not for the first time, I felt in over my head. As if I were drowning in a sea of confusion and mystery. It was too large, too powerful. This whole thing was coming at me again and again, giant waves of it, and I was powerless to resist. It was surely only a matter of time before I slipped under.

Lunchtime rolled around and I was still waiting. There'd been no sign of her, no ice writing on the wall or voices in my head, nothing. So I headed out, striking into the heart of Shook Woods, in search of her. Every place we visited, every path walked, every tree passed or rock sat on. She wasn't there. I walked the roads around the forest, then every other road in the area that I could. I hiked up the mountains as high as I was able. I crossed beaches and sand dunes. She was nowhere to be seen.

Later I'd slept in the hunting lodge, exhausted, all night through, in the forlorn hope she'd return and explain that, oh my God, it was all a terrible mix-up and everything was fine! I fell asleep on the old bed dreaming that Sláine would stride in the door and tell me the whole story, and how silly I'd feel for worrying, but so deliriously happy that the silliness not only stopped being an embarrassment, but added to my happiness, perfected it, like a spot of cream on an ice-cream sundae.