He looked up and down the canal. There was no one around, and the air was cold and sharp. They were equidistant between two streetlights; the thick trees that separated the canal bank from the main road made the shadows darker still.
He wished he was in bed, that he could be magically teleported back there.
“It won’t take long,” Liz said.
He moved to go. “Let’s do it on the way back.”
“Ali and I, we had a fight. Did she tell you about it?”
“No …” He was not going to talk to Liz about Ali when Ali wasn’t there—especially when he didn’t even know what they’d talked about earlier. “Let’s go, Liz. Come on.”
Liz wasn’t looking at him now, but at the water in front of her. She was hunched over on the bench, her elbows on her knees.
“I told her,” she said, “that I like you.” She looked up at him. “I like you, Will. The same way she likes you.”
He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he needed to stop it.
“Liz,” he said, “let’s go. Now. Come on.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“I think you’ve been drinking—”
“Tonight, yes. I have. That’s true. But I’ve felt this way for months.”
In his mind’s eye, Will was seeing himself having to relay this conversation to Ali. He groaned inwardly at the thought. Especially because, knowing Liz, she’d twist it all around, make it sound like something else had happened here.
Like that time she’d told Ali they’d had lunch together when the truth was they’d spoken for a couple of minutes in the main drag of a shopping center.
He tried one more time. “Let’s go back, Liz. Please.”
“Can’t we talk about this first?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Say what you think.”
“I think I’m with Ali.”
“So you don’t have feelings for me?” She stood up, came to stand next to him. Close to him. Reached out a hand, pressed it against his chest. “That night, at the ball, I thought I felt—”
“Liz, no.” He pushed her hand away. He laughed, trying to diffuse the situation. “This is ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m with Ali.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Isn’t that reason enough?”
He meant, Ali is your best friend and I’m her boyfriend so why are we even having this conservation?
But Liz didn’t hear that. Liz heard, Yes, that’s the only reason. Liz heard, Yes, because I have feelings for you too.
That could be the only explanation.
Because then there was a blur of movement as she stepped closer and then he felt her lips on his—
“Liz!” He moved back, catching his foot on the uneven surface, the muddy grass here at the edge of the canal, feet from the thick buffer of tall reeds that separated them from the glassy black water.
How had doing a good deed turned into this shit?
When he’d righted himself again, he said, “Look, I’m going back now. Follow me or don’t.”
He went to leave but she stepped in front of him, blocking his way.
“You’re just going to leave me out here, alone? What would Ali say about that, Will?”
“What would she say about what you’ve been saying to me?”
“I don’t know.” Liz folded her arms. “But I can’t imagine she’s going to be very happy about the fact that we kissed. She seemed pretty upset about it when I just sat on your lap, so …”
Will felt the brush of a cold dread.
“We did not kiss,” he said, slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly, so there could be no mistake.
Liz glared at him. “We did whatever I say we did.”
“Right,” he said. “That’s it. Make your own way home.” He turned his back to her and started back toward the path.
“Will, wait—”
It happened then.
She caught his left hand. To stop him, he’d think later, when he was replaying every single moment of this through his mind for the millionth time. Angry now, frustrated, annoyed, he swung around and pulled his hand from hers at the same time—he’s pretty sure it went like this—and the force of that, the unexpectedness of it, the momentum, pulled Liz toward him, toward where he’d been standing, and if he’d stayed there, if he’d just stood still she would’ve been fine, he’d have been fine, everything would’ve been fine, but he moved, so then Liz was moving toward empty space, and then she kept coming, falling forward, falling over, and he saw that she had her other hand in her pocket so she’d only the one to try to break her fall and it didn’t quite work, she needed them both, and she hit the ground face-down, hard, and then—
Silence.
For a second he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t think.
What the …?
Then, all at once: full panic mode. Every single cell in his body suddenly flooded with adrenalin, bubbling white hot with it, sending his heart rate soaring, his pulse thundering in his ears—
Act.
He dropped to his knees and rolled Liz over. She was alive, she was breathing. But unconscious. A horrible gash streaked across her forehead. It was bleeding freely and had bits of leaves and dirt stuck to it. He looked where her head had been and saw the remnants of a broken beer bottle caught in the tangles of a root, pushing up out of the muddy grass.
Help.
He should get help. But his phone was back in his room and he knew that wherever Liz’s was, it was dead. And it’s that, this delay, that gave him a moment to—
Think.
He thought about what this looked like. About what people would think of him. About how he was nineteen years, six months and three weeks old and it took just one second after all that to do this bad thing, to change everything.
It was an accident. Truly, honestly, genuinely an accident.
But is that what Liz will say it had been?
It all flashed through his head in an instant. Liz saying he attacked her. Him being charged with it. Getting kicked out of college. What his parents would think of that. A criminal record. Prison, maybe. He’d never get a job, mightn’t even be able to travel.
And he’d never, ever get to practice law now. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to, but he knew that’s what his father had planned for him.
His whole life, destroyed, over this one second.
And Ali. Losing her.
Maybe even her believing this.
Over just one second?
And that’s when the panic turned to cold calculation. He would remember it later as a distinct moment, like downshifting gears in a car.
The first part, yes, that was an accident.
But what came next was not.
* * * * *
Will felt like he’d been in the room at the Garda station for hours. Days, maybe. He’d lost all track of time. And he was tired. So, so tired. He was having trouble speaking coherent words. He didn’t have the energy left to string sentences together. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to go home. Not back to Halls but back to his parents’ house. He wanted to talk to his parents. He needed to get out.
He knew now he’d made a huge mistake.
“We know what happened,” Detective Shaw was saying. “We already know. We know everything. We know all the details, the exact sequence of events, who was where, who did what, when. All we need is for you to confirm it for us. We’re just trying to help you out here, Will. You help us, we help you. You want to see your parents, right? You asked for your dad? We can bring them in. But first we need to hear some truth from you.”
“I’m not the Canal Killer,” Will said. His voice was weak, every word scratchy against the dry walls of
his throat. “This is crazy.”
“How did you get them in the water, Will? How did you get them in without them making any noise? That’s the bit I can’t figure out. Just tell us the truth and we can get you out of this room, Will. Come on, now. You’ll feel better. Look, I’ll tell you what. I’ll say what I think happened, and you just confirm yay or nay, okay? That might be easier for you. I know this is hard.”
Will shook his head. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Will, we know what happened that night,” Shaw said, looking right in his eyes. “I know you’re lying. Do you know how I know? Because when you first came in, you said you didn’t talk to Liz that night. You promised me. You swore. Over and over again, for hours. Even though I told you I knew the truth. Then, lo and behold, the second I bring in Claire Collins’ mobile phone records, you say, ‘Okay, okay, actually I did talk to her.’ So you know what that tells me, Will? That tells me you’re a liar. A good one. But it’s time for the truth now.” Shaw paused here. “Just tell us what happened, Will. Tell us what happened with Liz.”
There’d been hours of this. Hours and hours. He didn’t know anymore if it was day or night. They let him take breaks but they wouldn’t let him sleep. He hadn’t slept much the night before either. Ali had been so upset and whenever he closed his eyes, he saw himself by the canal, being the reason …
They couldn’t know, though. How could they? If they did know what had really happened, they wouldn’t be accusing him of the other ones too, would they?
He must be safe.
He just needed to stay alert. To stay awake.
To get through this until he got out of it.
Back at the canal, he’d pushed Liz into the water, knowing she was unconscious, knowing she would drown in there, imagining—hoping—that, when they discovered her, the Canal Killer would get the blame. It was the only answer at the time, the only way to prevent that one second from destroying the decades of his life he had left.
Now, he didn’t understand what was happening, why they thought he was the Canal Killer.
And he was so tired he couldn’t think straight.
“You can’t get out of this,” Shaw said, “do you understand me? We’ve collected evidence against you. We know exactly what happened. We just need to hear it from you. Look, Will, we all make mistakes. Things happen in the heat of the moment. Nobody’s perfect. Maybe you didn’t mean to hurt those girls. But if you don’t tell us what happened, we can’t help you here. Cooperation is key, Will. Come on now. Help us help you.”
We all make mistakes.
In the heat of the moment.
Help us help you.
“I’m not the Canal Killer,” Will said again.
But he was a killer. He’d taken someone’s life. If he’d just called an ambulance, if he’d had his phone ...
It didn’t matter what she was going to say about him. She didn’t deserve what he’d done. No one did.
The guilt, the remorse, it was like a physical substance, bubbling up in his chest, pushing its way up his throat and out into—
“Okay,” he said.
Shaw leaned forward, suddenly alert. “Okay what?”
“I did it.”
“What?”
Will started to cry. “Liz.”
“I need more than that, Will.”
He explained as best he could what had happened. The relief of finally telling the truth filled his ears like the sound of rushing water. He didn’t even hear half of what Shaw said to him.
Until he said something about the other girls.
“What?” Through the fog of his thoughts, the rush of relief, Will heard a distant alarm bell. “No, no. There were no other girls. I don’t know anything about them. It was just Liz. And that was an accident. I swear.”
“Yeah,” Shaw said. “Look, Will, I’m going to pop out now for a bit so you can lie down on that couch there and have a nap. Then we’ll resume for another hour or so, and then you can bed down for the night. But listen to me: don’t waste our time. I want you to think about this. Don’t waste my time, or yours, when I come back in. You’ve just spent the whole day telling me you didn’t do anything, and now you say you killed Liz. So you were lying to me, like I knew you were, since the moment you came into this room. Now we can go through what we just did over and over, one time for each girl, and get to the truth. Or, you can save us all the bother, quit the shit, cut the crap, and admit to them all when I come back in. Okay? You think about that.”
“No … I didn’t …”
Shaw stood up. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
“No, please—”
“Get some rest now.”
“But I’m telling the truth.”
“Yeah, finally. That’s good. Good for you and good for me. Now, we can get somewhere, maybe. I want more of it when I come back, okay?”
“But—”
Shaw was gone.
The door had closed again and Will was left alone in the room.
He wasn’t even sure what had just happened, but he knew if he’d been in some trouble before, he was in a hell of a lot more of it now.
And he didn’t know what to do.
He put his head down on the table and started to cry.
* * * * *
When Will saw Shaw again, he was being formally charged. They’d found “evidence.” A notebook or something in his locker. A spot of blood in his room.
He didn’t know what was happening. It was only later, in the weeks and months to come, that he’d begin to consider that the real killer had got wind of his arrest and had seen an easy way out.
No one was interested in the truth, it seemed to him.
After a while, not even he was.
He’d killed a girl. Taken a life. No, he hadn’t put his hands around her neck and strangled her, but he may as well as have. He’d put her in the water, knowing she wouldn’t—couldn’t—get out, and let the water do the dirty work for him.
He deserved to be in here.
He was a killer.
But as time went on, the dark cloud that had numbed him those first few months, those early years, began to lift. Yes, he’d done something awful, something horrific, something truly bad—but it had been a second’s action when he was only nineteen. It was not something he’d ever do again. Sometimes he couldn’t even believe he’d done it that time. Was his whole life a suitable punishment? Or was ten years just about enough?
And now, the news bulletin.
“Gardaí are appealing for witnesses after the body of St. John’s College student Jennifer Madden, nineteen, was recovered from the Grand Canal early yesterday morning—
“… head injury …”
What if he was at it again, out there? The real guy? Could this be Will’s way out? He’d have to be careful, to think everything through, and he’d have to find someone who might actually believe him.
Who was left?
He could only think of one person, the one person he’d never even got to profess his innocence too.
But how could he get her to come and see him?
He decided to speak to Alek. They were friends, or at least what qualified as friends in here. Friendly. Will waited until the nurse had finished on the phone before he crossed the corridor.
acknowledgments
Before the thanks, an apology. Dublin City, I’ve messed with you a bit. I’ve demolished the National Print Museum at Beggar’s Bush and put a fictional university in there instead. I’ve also renamed the Central Mental Hospital in Dundrum and modernized its facilities. So apologies to Dublin, a city I love, and apologies to any reader who goes down Haddington Road looking for the entrance to St John’s. You won’t find it. If it’s any consolation, you will find the café with the white picket fence and, inside it, excellent coffee.
First
and foremost, huge thanks to this book’s midwives: my editors Sara O’Keeffe and Stephanie Glencross, who patiently and expertly helped me get this story out of my brain and onto the page. Thanks to my fabulous agent, Jane Gregory, and everyone at Gregory and Company, Corvus Books, Blackstone Publishing, and Gill Hess. Thanks to Hazel Gaynor and Sheena Lambert for the gin, the wings, the infinite email threads, and everything else in between. Thanks to all the lovely women writers in my life who are so hugely supportive, incredibly generous, and throw epic launch parties. (Carmel Harrington, I’m looking at you for that last one!) A huge thank you to all the writers, booksellers, reviewers, bloggers, and readers who supported Distress Signals, with special mentions for Liz Nugent, Mark Edwards, Margaret Madden, and everyone I’ve come to know on the crime scene. Thanks to Iain Harris for being Instagram-ready at the Irish Book Awards (even if your idea of hangover food is juice made from the leaves of things. Um, no …) and to Andrea Summers, Eva Heppel, and Michelle Oliver for traveling long distances to be at my book wedding—I mean, ahem, book launch. Thanks to Sheelagh Kelly for always believing and thanks to the most enthusiastic and occasionally mortifying publicity team an author can have: Mum, Dad, John, and Claire.
Last but certainly not least, thank you for reading.
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