Shiver the Whole Night Through (4 page)

BOOK: Shiver the Whole Night Through
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Podsy always got enthusiastic when you asked about his science-nerd stuff. ‘Basically there were these big pulses of energy. In the flow, you know? Like, the radiation is going like this' – he made a gentle wave motion with his hand – ‘and then it went
whoop
like this.' He punched the air a few times. ‘A bit unusual, that's all.'

‘What's it mean? Are we going to be invaded by giant lizards?'

‘Probably nothing. I just record the information and forward it on to someone smarter than me. Actually it was kind of funny cos the first one happened on Sunday night. With the whole Sláine McAuley thing, it was a funny coincidence.'

I felt a tiny shiver. ‘When was the next one? The next spike.'

‘Last night. Well, this morning. Bit after two?'

The shiver became a tingle. ‘Listen, will you let me know if that happens again?'

He said suspiciously, ‘Yes. Why?'

‘No reason.'

‘Is this some stupid practical joke?'

‘Podsy boy, do I strike you as the practical joke sort?'

‘Nah, suppose not. Yeah, I'll tell you. Be nice to have someone pretend to be interested in it for a change.'

I flicked my cigarette onto his lawn and sat on the bed. ‘Can I ask a favour?'

‘Sure. What do you need?'

‘Can you get on to your uncle and find out all the details about Sláine's autopsy? As in, exact cause of death. What they found on the body, what state she was in, everything.'

He looked at me warily. ‘Why do you want to know? I'll ask Uncle Tim, but why?'

I shook my head. ‘I don't know. Just  …  call it curiosity.'

‘Did something happen? Aidan, what's going on?'

I laughed nervously. ‘
Nothing
. There isn't anything going on  …  Hey, uh, do you believe in, in  …  like, an afterlife? Life after death?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, do you believe that someone can – I don't know. Okay, what do you think happens when we die?'

‘We go to heaven, I hope. I mean I believe in God and Jesus, all that. It's probably rubbish, but I still believe. Maybe I'm just too scared not to.' He blew out heavily. ‘Gotta be some place better than this, right?'

‘I guess so.'

‘Why all the questions about life and death?'

‘Why all the questions about all the questions?'

‘You're a pain.' Podsy turned back to his computer. ‘I'll find out what Tim knows and get back to you. Look, I've a stupid essay to do for Monday. Buzz off and I'll let you know, all right?'

I slapped his shoulder. ‘Good man.'

At the door I stopped and said, ‘Podsy. Thanks.'

He didn't turn around. ‘Uncle Tim never stops yakking – it's no big deal.'

‘I mean that. Thanks. For everything.'

This time he did turn around. He looked at me, long and hard. ‘I'd assume you were being sarcastic but I can see by your face that you're not.' Podsy shook his head and shrugged. ‘You're welcome, you're welcome. Now clear
off
.'

I cleared off.

I spent the rest of Saturday wandering around town feeling like a detective in a movie. Not a very good movie, admittedly, straight-to-DVD at best, but you can't have everything. I was on the lookout for anyone acting suspiciously, who might fit my profile of Sláine's killer. It was unscientific and probably a total waste of time, but I didn't know where else to start.

I saw the usual clowns, morons and ignoramuses I'm forced to share this town with, but none really looked like murderers, much as I might wish it. I passed groups of my peers, kids hanging out, even a few hardy lads from my estate, older lads, drinking in a field near the waterworks. Interestingly, not one made a joke or abused me in any way. The lads drinking even offered me a swig of their cider. I took some, afraid to offend by refusing.

At about four, I spotted a guy leaving a dingy pub in the market area and slipping to his car. He was what we'd call ‘shlooky': dodgy, shifty, untrustworthy. The sort of rat-like man who always seems on edge, as if afraid of being arrested by a cop or thumped by someone he's ripped off.

The man pulled a bag from the car and strode off, making for the canal walkway, and I followed. It was an off-white hold all, big enough to hide things in, maybe bloodied clothes, maybe a knife or other weapon. One part of my mind knew none of those things had been used in Sláine's murder but the other part was ignoring that – it was buzzing on the thrill of the chase. The facts didn't add up at all, and that dumb part didn't care.

This could be the guy. Get after him.

I crept along behind him, keeping well enough back that he wouldn't see me and trying to look casual enough that he wouldn't get suspicious if he did see me. We followed the canal, turned onto a side street, crossed a park, skirted a factory that made scaffolding. Finally we reached a run-down housing estate called, ironically, Elegant Towers. Was he going to burn the contents of the bag? Should I accost him, grab the stuff and bring it to the Gardaí? If I was wrong, I'd look like an idiot. Worse, he could probably sue me for slander or something. But if I was right, and let him slide  … 

I made a snap decision and began sprinting towards him as he crossed the green in front of a row of houses. Then a door opened and a little girl burst out, running into his arms, laughing. He whirled her around, returned her to the ground and pulled something from the bag. A stuffed elephant wearing a dicky bow.

I stopped dead. I
was
wrong, and did feel like an idiot. At least nobody else would know.

I walked home, thinking about what to do next. I was passing our nearest corner shop when it struck me: villains often return to the scene of the crime. I'd seen enough cop shows. They get off on it – they're twisted and enjoy revisiting their evil deeds. Maybe I should stake out Shook Woods, in case the murderer showed his face.

It was a long shot, but better than no shot. And better than wasting my time chasing deadbeat dads around town. I'd go back to the forest. I smiled as this new path opened up, then winced as it occurred to me that no killer, no matter how crazy, would return to the dump site during the day. They'd go when darkness would hide them.

I'd have to go to Shook at night. I didn't believe those ghost stories people told about the place, but that was still a scary goddamn thought.

Behold

The forest looked like an old photograph under the moonlight. Everything was bleached of colour – black and white in sharp lines, hardly any shades of grey – except for a subtle blue tint cast by that great rock in the sky. I crouched on my hunkers, trying to ignore the creeping discomfort behind my knees. I waited.

I'd decided at teatime that I might as well go to Shook Woods tonight, Saturday. So I snuck out at eleven, when I reckoned my family were asleep, bag on my back, heart pounding in my chest. I could see no point in waiting, and my nameless killer might return tonight. I didn't want to miss them, although being honest, I didn't want to meet them either.

What was I supposed to do if I saw some lunatic dancing around in the woods, laughing his evil head off? March over there and make a citizen's arrest? I wasn't a fighter – I was a wimp, a coward. I swallowed heavily and let out a tiny wail of anxiety, sounding like a trapped mouse. But I stuck to my position, I didn't run away. For some reason, I couldn't.

I was further in than where they'd found her body. I'd arrived at Shook and gone to where the tape still marked the scene of the crime. Looking at it, that enormous tree, a funny feeling passed over me and I was sure it hadn't happened here. Sláine had been murdered somewhere else, further in, before her corpse was brought to this spot.

Then the wind blew up behind me and almost knocked me off my feet. Not for the first time, it sort of pushed me along.

I'd gathered my courage and kept walking into the woods. My torch wobbled in my hand but showed me the way well enough. I crunched along the inner path, my boots unnaturally loud in the silence. That had struck me as odd: weren't forests meant to have sounds? Owls calling, foxes yelping, animals rustling through the undergrowth. Here the only sound was the wind, rattling those pines.

After a while, and maybe a mile, I stopped in a natural clearing, about a third the size of a football pitch. Not because of some sixth sense or anything like that: it was the wind again. As soon as I entered that space, glowing under the moonlight, a gust blew up around me, swirling like a genie, throwing dust in my eyes. I felt it was telling me, this is the place.

The clearing was oval shaped, covered in long grass and dirt, with trees on three sides and a wall of rock on the other. The rock face was cut sharply at both ends and stepped in shape, making the whole place resemble an ancient amphitheatre that's been let return to nature. Like something they might visit in a TV show about the Greek islands.

I looked around and picked a spot: there, by the far end of the ‘wall'. I skipped over and got low, making sure I couldn't be seen by anyone approaching from outside. I killed the light and put it in my bag. I couldn't smoke and couldn't sleep. So I waited, and thought.

What was I doing here? God, if only Rattigan and everyone else saw me now. They really would think I was a complete freak – and maybe they'd be right. Hiding in the dirt of Shook Woods after midnight. For what? Some magical writing I may or may not have seen on my window. Rattigan would almost take pity on me, I looked so pathetic. Yet again, I wondered if I was going crazy.

I didn't kill myself
. Had I really read those words? I couldn't have – it was simply impossible. I'd been so sure, though. I'd looked and looked again, running my fingertips over the ice as it rose off the glass. I hadn't just read Sláine's message, I'd
felt
it. It was as real as the hand that touched it.

At least, I think it was.

Okay, I told myself, hang tight here for another while. If he doesn't show by two, go home. What have you got to lose? Apart from your life if you get hypothermia, ha. I was well wrapped up, layered like an onion: thermal vest, long-sleeved tee, rubbed-cotton hoodie, parka with goose-feather lining, wool cap with ear flaps. I was toasty. Everything was set. All I had to do was wait.

Easier said than done, though. This was
tedious
. It was also unsettling and physically uncomfortable. And I was tired. Long day, short night's sleep before it. My eyelids rolled down heavily and I blinked myself into alertness again. I looked around for visual stimulation, anything to keep me awake.

I looked at the moon, half-hidden from this angle. It was spectacularly beautiful. Amazing, really, how a lifeless chunk of stone, hanging up there, can become something heavenly when reflecting light from the sun. The moon didn't create anything – it merely beamed back what hit it. But it was beautiful. A giant silver coin suspended in space and time.

I wondered if Sláine noticed the full moon on her last night. We'd both have been looking at the same satellite: me being distracted from my wish to die, her dying whether she wanted it or not. Creepy thought.

A raven landed across the clearing and gave me the dread eye. That didn't help. I barked, as loudly as I dared, ‘The hell're you looking at? Get lost.' The bird waddled a few steps in my direction – heart rate
spiking
– then changed its mind and flew off. Heart rate slowly coming back to earth.

But this was good, I was doing all right. Holding my nerve. Now all I had to do was stay awake for another few –

I woke with a violent jerk – I think I yelled out. I put a hand to my mouth. Christ. Did anyone hear that? No sound, no sign of any movement. The place was as lifeless as a grave.

And as cold. My body realised the temperature had plunged and began violently shivering. It was
freezing
now. The clearing was like a huge icebox. But how could I be this cold, with my layers and thermals and goose-feather parka  …  ?

What time was it? Ten to two. I'd been asleep for over an hour. How could I have been so stupid? Anything could have gone on in that time. My faceless killer could have returned, seen me, cut my throat and smeared the blood all over his bare backside, and I wouldn't have noticed. Out for the count, lost in the sleep of the dead.

I patted my body, up and down – nothing unusual, no tears or cuts. No wounds, no blood. I stopped myself: what are you doing? Nobody had been here. This place was as bare as that bloody moon, and I was an idiot with an overactive imagination.

I clambered up the rock wall and sat there, rolling a cigarette. I'd imagined the writing on the window. There hadn't been any murder. Poor Sláine had simply lain down to die, and I'd never understand why.

Being here in the middle of the night, on my hare-brained stake-out: that was ridiculous.
I
was ridiculous.

I lay on the rock, eyes closed, feeling more foolish than I'd ever felt. I blew out a long plume of smoke and felt tears beginning to well up. I thought about the bridge. Suddenly, it seemed inviting once more.

Then I heard a voice and my heart just about stopped beating in my chest.

‘Behold, I will bring a flood of waters upon the earth to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life under heaven. Everything that is on the earth shall die.'

Who
said that
? I feared I was going to wet myself. The voice was strange, kind of a whisper but at the same time louder than that. It seemed to fade in and out, as though someone was fiddling with the volume on a stereo. And it sounded like a human being but somehow not; warm but icy; like a girl but old, even timeless. A noise coming from a throat and the rush of wind through tree branches.

That voice was as much a feeling as a sound.

I was still too afraid to sit up and look in that direction. I didn't want to know who or what was talking. I wanted to wake from this terrifying dream.

The voice spoke again and I bit my tongue to stop myself crying out. ‘Flood. That's your surname, isn't it? Aidan Flood.'

Oh God. It knew my name. Forget the bridge, I was already doomed, I was dead meat.

The voice said, ‘You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream.' A gentle laugh, the sound of dried-out autumn leaves. ‘I didn't know those lines when I was alive. Isn't that funny? I know them now. I seem to know lots of things now. Sit up, Aidan. Look at me. I won't hurt you.'

After a million years I forced myself to obey. I pulled myself into a sitting position and slowly,
slooooowly
, opened my eyes. There, in the clearing, stood Sláine McAuley, looking more beautiful and brilliant than the moon ever could.

She was glowing. I mean literally. Not like a neon sign, something gaudy: this was softer, a diffuse glow surrounding her whole being, as if she were shrouded in mist. Oddly, she was dressed all in black but it
felt
as if she was in white, if that makes sense. Her clothes were dark but this light seemed to be emanating from deep inside, from the core of Sláine. Or this presence in front of me that looked just like her.

‘You dropped your cigarette.' She pointed to a spot next to me. I went to pick it up and hesitated.

She said, ‘Go on, it's all right. I'm pretty sure second-hand smoke can't harm me now.' That uncanny, lovely laugh again.

I relit the cigarette and looked at her. Sláine was wearing what she'd been buried in. Full-length coat, high collar, intricate patterning, closed from neck to thigh with antique-style buttons. Trousers and long pointed boots, also adorned with old-style buttons. Her hair held in an elaborate bun by various pins and grips; one lock curling past each ear, brushing her cheeks.

She looked as young as me but simultaneously older. Her skin was extremely pale. Her lips were bruised red. Her eyes were dark and shining. She was breathtaking.

‘Are you going to say anything? Or just stare at me.'

I blinked. Tried to think of something, make my mouth form the correct shapes and my lungs breathe the words out of me. Then I said the first dumb thing that popped into my head: ‘Your clothes. Not the usual things people get  …  um –'

‘Buried in?'

I paused before nodding.

‘My cousin Carmel dressed me for the funeral,' Sláine said. ‘She knew what I'd have wanted to wear. We used to talk about it a bit, you know – how would you like to be buried, if you
had
to choose  …  People have a fascination with all that stuff when they're young, don't they? I suppose because you never actually believe that one day it'll happen to you for real.'

She gave me a steady, piercing look, her head slightly tilted. I wondered if she somehow knew I'd considered that very thing myself, a week before. How could she know, or get inside my mind? Then again, how was this possible anyway? How could she stand here before me as – what?

I said uncertainly, ‘Are  …  are you a  …  a ghost?'

She smiled softly. ‘I'm not sure what I am. All I know is that I died a week ago. Now I'm  …  here.' She spread her arms wide and gestured around her.

‘In the forest?'

‘Yes. Mostly.'

‘You – live here now? Sorry, that sounded so stupid.'

Sláine laughed. I went on, ‘You're here, though? This is where you  …  stay now?'

She nodded and thought for a moment. ‘It's hard to explain. I don't  …  Time doesn't seem the same as it used to be. It's not as if I spend all day and night walking around Shook Woods. I don't get bored the way I might have  …  before. I sort of just
exist
now. I'm aware of my own existence and in control of it, but it's not how it was when I was alive. It's a strange feeling. Almost more a state of mind than an actual thing. Can you understand any of that?'

‘I don't think so. I'm sorry, I wish I could.'

‘It's all right. Are you still afraid of me?'

I realised that I wasn't. I said, ‘No. I feel  …  comfortable talking to you, I think. Does that make sense?'

‘It does.'

‘So the forest, is
this
a state of mind to you? Is that what you meant?'

‘You know how I'd describe my existence now? Like a waking dream. I don't sleep any more but all the hours feel like I'm walking through a never-ending dream. Except the dream, as you see, is very real.'

She gave a little ironic bow. I rolled another cigarette and said, ‘It is, isn't it? It's really real. Christ. Weird and all as this is, I'm glad you're real. I thought I was going mad. With the sign on my window, what you wrote on the glass, the message  …  That
was
you, wasn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘So you can leave here?'

‘Yes.'

‘Whenever you like?'

She thought about this. ‘Mm  …  sort of. Yes. I'll say yes, to all intents and purposes.'

‘And go where you want?'

‘No. I can't – something seems to be stopping me from actually entering places. Buildings, or even an enclosed space, like a yard or someone's garden? I can come right up to them, and no further. Don't know why.'

‘But you can touch them. I mean you must have touched my window, the outside. Made the ice do something on the inside. I don't know. Caused some parts of the glass to get very cold or whatever. Made the words form like that, turning condensation into little streaks of ice?'

Sláine nodded and smiled. She seemed pleased I'd worked out the mechanics of it. So was I: surprised and pleased.

A crucial question marched to the front of my brain, begging to be asked. ‘Why me? Why did you contact me? We hardly knew each other.'

‘I saw you here, that day. You came to the tree where they found me. You seemed  …  lost. Alone. And I was alone, so  …  ' She shrugged. ‘I reached out to you. Do you wish I hadn't?'

‘No. Definitely not.' A thought struck me. ‘My bag. You moved it.'

Sláine giggled playfully. ‘My little practical joke. I didn't lose my sense of humour when I lost my life.'

I wanted to ask her about that but I couldn't, it felt too early, as if I'd be intruding somewhere I didn't yet have the right to go. Instead I said, ‘Your voice – it's amazing. Sounds like nothing I've ever heard. Hard to describe.'

BOOK: Shiver the Whole Night Through
7.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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