Shiver the Whole Night Through (22 page)

I fell asleep sometime Saturday night. And since I'd basically been awake since Friday morning, and the preceding months of long days and late nights were finally catching up on me until I was running on empty  …  I slept right through to late the next day. It was past six on Sunday when I surfaced, fuzzy-headed, more than groggy, feeling ill, hungover.

I'd slept for over twenty hours – and dreamed.

A slippery, woozy phantasmagoria of pleasant reverie and fearful nightmare. Violently plummeting down a wormhole of images and sounds, the sense of a sense of something. Vertigo, spinning circles, hypnotic, nausea, ecstasy.

I dreamed for hours and in dreamtime it felt like aeons. Dreamed I saw animals made of strips of bark and wood, running through the forest: deer, horses, wolves. Living sculptures, rearing their heads in anguish or howling at their mother the moon. They could see me despite having no eyes. They growled at me to keep away, but I didn't feel scared. It seemed more of a warning than a threat.

I dreamed I met Tommy Fox and he was dead, though not like the others: Tommy pointed to the back of his head, where a gaping hole let the light through. He smiled ruefully and said, ‘See where love can get you, Flood?
Booooom
. Night-night  …  ' In the dream I felt bad for him. I knew it hadn't happened in reality but the empathy was real. I dreamed myself touching his arm and offering words of consolation. He smiled, his mouth a dead-black universe collapsing to nothingness, and said, ‘I knew you were all right, Flood. Look after yourself.'

I dreamed
I
was dead. No, not dead – I'd ceased to exist at all. I said to myself, ‘You're thinking and dreaming, therefore you are. Like the man says. So how could you not exist if you're aware of the fact?' Then I replied to myself, ‘Ah – but what if these are someone else's thoughts I think I'm thinking? Answer
that
, smart guy.' Before I could reply again, I realised I wasn't smart at all, I was Clara Kinnane who was always kind of dumb at school and now wasn't only dumb but insane too. This thought made me giddy, like a hyperactive child.

I dreamed of
him
. A man, naked for some reason but it was Arctic outside, colder than deep space, absolute cold, that temperature which it's theoretically impossible to reach. Yet he had reached it, he was there now. And so was I.

I dreamed of
her
. Sláine and me had become the Paul Éluard poem I'd quoted weeks before: she was standing on my eyelids, literally, her hair was in mine and she was being absorbed into my shadow like a stone against the sky. Her eyes were always open and she wouldn't let me sleep and then she was dreaming herself and those dreams made the suns evaporate and made me cry and laugh and speak when I had nothing to say. That was a nice dream.

I dreamed that Sláine was outside my window, spectral, floating, like a vampire child in this old horror movie I stumbled across as a kid. She glowed and grew to the size of a galaxy but remained just a girl, hovering at my window. She smiled mischievously and I pressed my fingertips to the icy glass and she tilted her head and bit down on her lip. She began humming a tune, ‘Dum-dum-dum-DUMMM,' three notes up and one down, simple, catchy, a real earworm. And I frowned because I knew that melody from somewhere and said to her, ‘Where'd you hear that?' and Sláine said lazily, ‘Oh, I don't know  …  it's just been playing in my head for a few days  …  '

And then I woke and opened my eyes and whispered to the darkness, ‘Fuck me. James Bond.'

I knew who was behind it now.

Sioda Kinvara. The mystery man. Our very own Double-O Seven. Mr Fancy Cars and Leather-bound Library. How stupid I'd been.

Now that I'd worked out his identity, this madman who was playing with demonic fire and might yet incinerate us all, everything made sense. Every clue slotted neatly into place. And the musical key that unpicked all the locks: Sláine humming the same tune Kinvara had as a phone ringtone
and
played on his piano.

I mentally ran through the evidence. Kinvara had rocked into town only a few months back, from some uncertain place of origin. He was independently wealthy: big house, classic car collection, didn't appear to need a job, even gave my dad a hefty bonus for some straightforward work. Which meant he had time and means to pursue any wacked-out interests he wanted.

More pieces fell into place, memories crashing into my mind, facts, proofs. Kinvara was charming, intelligent and confident. A self-confessed bibliophile. He had a generously stocked library at home and was often in the public one, checking out strange old tomes. Believed there was ‘actual power' in words and books. Could read Latin: what was it he'd said? ‘Good for understanding ancient texts' – something like that.

He seemed to keep finding me in different places: outside the library, at the antiques shop  …  inveigling my father into coming to work for him before then. Following me. Stalking me.

And the final proof: Kinvara invited me to his house, apparently to check out his collection of books and maybe borrow something. What? I'd have been lucky to make it out with my privates intact and my brains where they're supposed to be. But no, he wasn't some sexual deviant: it was worse than that.

Kinvara had even laid out a clue for me, presumably figuring I'd be too thick to get it. Look up the origins of the word ‘bravo', he'd said. It translated as ‘wicked outsider'. Boom, boom, joke's on me.

My first instinct, of course – the sensible thing to do – was tell Sláine. But there lay the rub: I couldn't contact her. Sláine did the telekinetic, mind-to-mind communications thing, not me. I made a half-hearted attempt at ‘reaching' her mentally, knowing beforehand it'd fail. Then I got suited and booted, snuck out of the house and trudged to Shook Woods and the lodge. Yes, it was risky, but this new information was too important: this could be our break, our shot at bringing him down.

Him
. No need for that impersonal pronoun any more. We'd moved on to actual names now.

I reached the lodge – all clear, but no Sláine. She'd said nine, so I guessed she intended to keep to that. Still, I moaned, ‘Where
are
you? Why can't you just be here, waiting around, ready and willing to take command?'

What now? I debated my situation as I hauled ass back towards town, stumbling through the darkness, my boots making the shallowest of impressions on hard-packed snow. Should I go to Kinvara's house myself, or wait for backup from Sláine? The two competing arguments pushed and pulled: urgency versus caution, risk-taking versus good sense.

Eventually I reached the town limits and stopped. I could go left towards my house or right in the direction of Belladonna Way. Time check: half-seven. Time enough to check out Kinvara's gaff and make it back to the lodge by nine. I shut my eyes and willed my feet to make the decision for me, take the pressure off poor doubting Aidan. They went right. Bastards.

I summoned up every last ounce of courage as the yards passed underfoot and Kinvara's house loomed ever nearer. Just walk by, I told myself. Start by scoping the place out. And if it seems empty  … 

I was still uncertain if I genuinely had the balls to break in. We'd find out soon enough.

Lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. Checking the time again. Nodding to a middle-aged couple I passed on the street. They might have been the parents of one of those kids Sláine attacked as they eyed me warily enough and scurried off quickly, but I didn't have time to explain that it wasn't my fault. I had to keep going.

What am I doing? You're doing what needs to be done, so shut your yaphole and quit whining.

Do your own James Bond act, I thought. ‘Aidan Flood, international super-spy! He may not have the car, money or movie-star good looks, but he's ice-cold under pressure.' All this junk tumbling through my mind to keep it preoccupied and keep my courage up. I tried to remember stuff from movies or TV, about cops and spies and SWAT teams, all those tricks of the trade. Stick to the shadows. Check your exits. Always have an escape plan. Be prepared. Stay frosty. No one here gets out alive  … 

Ugh. Where had
that
come from? That wasn't even a line of dialogue – it was the title of some music autobiography  … 

COLDSTAR
.

I hadn't noticed the nameplate on Kinvara's front wall the last time I was here. Maybe he'd only put it up since. Anyway, there it was, granite, a classical-style font:
COLDSTAR
. Stupid name for a house, but it made sense for this demented asshole. And it was another mark in the book of evidence against him.

I'd made it this far. Might as well keep going, Aidan. No guts, no glory. He who dares. Only the brave. Blah blah blah.

No lights on at the front of the house – which didn't mean it was empty. I decided to peek around the back, try and discover if Kinvara was at home. I took a look around, saw the street was deserted, and was about to dash over the lawn towards the side of the house when I had an idea. I found a large stone and flung it across the grass – not so far that it'd crack off the house but enough, I hoped, to set off any lights that worked on movement.

Nothing. Okay. Definitely no weaselling out now.

Thoughts of Sláine came to mind. Help me, I asked her. Protect me, camouflage me, wrap the night around me.

I had another look around and grit my teeth and scuttled over the grass to the corner of ColdStar, just around the side, into a shadow blacker than midnight. I stopped, breathing as quietly as I could. Then I inched along that side, moving like a gangly crab, staying in the darkness. I reached the rear corner. A large, unkempt garden. Still no sign of anyone. I hunkered down and sort of waddled along the ground, as quietly as I could manage. No lights showing back here, either, which still didn't mean anything. I could just about make out a large crow, glowering at me from ten feet away. For some reason I wasn't afraid or anxious – almost getting used to the dark bastards by this stage – and mouthed silently to it, as though the bird could possibly understand, ‘
Quiet
as a feckin' dead slug, got me?'

I reached a window and thank God I was crouched down because just then, I heard movement inside the house.
Shiiiiit
 …  Steps, soft but crisp on the wood floor. A man's voice singing a show tune. I recognised it from some distant memory of my mother making us watch the film this came from: ‘Tonight, tonight  …  isn't just any night  …  ' A pleasant voice, mid-range, baritone or maybe tenor. It didn't sound precisely how I remembered Kinvara's voice, but then again that was speech and daytime, this was music and night-time.

Silence. I held my breath. Steps in my direction. Oh Jesus  …  I squeezed my eyes shut and my body as low as it would go. Don't make a sound  … 

Kinvara was at the window. I could hear him even though he was silent. I could
feel
his presence, as if a shadow had weight and was leaning on me. Still afraid to breathe. The sash window popped, rolling up an inch or two, and I thought my heart was going to give out. Now I really could hear him, as he bent and put his face to the opening. He breathed in zesty winter air – don't remind me, pal, I'm nearly asphyxiating here – almost smelling the atmosphere. My leg was tingling with cramp, concertinaed up as it was. I asked myself, panicked, what would Sláine do right now? My fingers curled into fists  … 

Then he was gone. Evidently satisfied that he'd imagined whatever he thought he heard or felt, he drew his head back in and shut the window. Slowly, I eased out carbon dioxide and took in oxygen. This was a bust: Kinvara was home, there was nothing I could do. A sense of relief mingled with shame at my cowardice, but what could I do? You can't fight your essential nature.

After waiting sixty seconds for safety's sake, I crept back towards the street, padding through the shadows. And there was Caitlin Downes, of all people, when I reached Belladonna Way. She mustn't have seen me coming round the side of ColdStar, or if she had she didn't care, because Caitlin came straight over and blocked my way, saying urgently, ‘We need to talk. Please, two minutes.'

I hustled her away from the house, down the street twenty yards, stopping under the camouflaging darkness thrown by a gigantic tree, so thick it blotted out much of the street light even though its branches were bare. Couldn't risk Kinvara striding out his front door, blasting out that Broadway song, and catching me staring in his direction like a paralysed, guilty goldfish.

‘Uh, okay,' I said to Caitlin. ‘So.'

I realised my hands were on her shoulders and removed them. A spark flared in the back of my mind: maybe I could send her over there. Ring Kinvara's doorbell, draw him from the house on some pretext, distract him long enough for me to slip around back again and jimmy that window  … 

I couldn't believe I was considering this kamikaze move. Needs must when the devil drives, I suppose, and we almost literally had the devil driving here. But it didn't matter – the opportunity passed and before I could ask, Caitlin had launched into what sounded like a rehearsed spiel, barking it out mechanically while staring at the ground.

‘I was following you,' she said. ‘I admit it, okay? I'm sorry  …  Was waiting outside your house earlier and you went for a walk in the woods, although why you'd go there any time, not to mind a frosty night, I don't know. But I followed anyway because I really need to talk to you. I waited out front, freezing, I wasn't going in there with or without you, but then you came out and I followed you back to town. So here we are.'

Still no mention of my incursion into Kinvara's property. I guessed Caitlin hadn't registered it because she was so single-mindedly focused on getting out whatever she needed to say. Now, I figured, we were coming to the meat of the matter.