Blink

by Niamh O'Connor

  ‘It’s gift shop,’ the Chinese guy repeats automatically.

  Sexton reaches for one of the sachets from a shelf and reads the product description. The Space Devil is a ‘little acrylic beauty that tucks away nicely in the living room behind a couple of books’.

  Sexton moves towards shelves and starts to read the labels on the items: Laughing Buddha; CH9 Afghani Milk; CH9 California; LSD; Top Dog; Amnesia Lemon; Super Haze; Top Dawg; G Bomb; Moonshine.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ Sexton says. ‘About head shops being illegal.’

  ‘We sell seeds, not chemicals. What you want?’

  ‘To see whoever’s in charge. Hey, I’m talking to you. What’s your name?’

  This time he has his attention.

  ‘Gok Wan,’ he states defiantly.

  Sexton holds up his ID. The Chinese man glances to the stairs at the back of the room, looking away quickly and then checking to see if Sexton had spotted it. Sexton turns to see a weird UV glow.

  ‘Didn’t see anything on your signage about a tanning shop upstairs,’ he says.

  With a sudden jerk, Gok has vaulted the counter and is bolting towards the stairs. Unable to sprint after him, Sexton grabs the can of Diet Coke from his pocket and lobs it at Gok’s head, missing by a mile. Gok is up the stairs, shouting in a pronounced Dublin accent, ‘Get the fuck out,’ as he goes.

  Sexton’s bulk has some use, and with one sideways step he blocks the exit and waits. Something flashes and thuds and he realizes there’s a man in a pair of boxers lying on the street. As he groans, and tries to get up, Sexton pulls open the door and grabs him by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘Hello, Eric,’ he says.

  33

  Canon is slumped in a hard plastic chair in the station interview room. He moans to Foxy, who sits like a statue in a chair beside the door, ‘This is police brutality. I need a doctor. Me leg is definitely broke.’

  Sexton admires a tray of planting pots with seedlings about the size of watercress perched on the small square table between them. He’d found them upstairs after the commotion on the street. He doesn’t know what they are yet, but the fact that they’ve grown at all has given him grounds to make an arrest.

  The seedlings weren’t the only thing he found in Damm. There was the rotting carcass of a stag in the yard out the back. The stink was off the olfactory scale, and if it hadn’t been especially cold, it would have been buzzing with flies and gnats. Because of the time of year, it was only rodents that had got at it.

  ‘Do we have any Baby Bio?’ Sexton asks Foxy. ‘Little blighters could do with a feed.’

  Canon groans and tries to reposition his leg by lifting it with his hands.

  Sexton zaps a remote control at a blue light in the corner. The room is hot-wired like a Big Brother set with videos and tapes, but because digital recordings can be doctored, only the first-hand testimony of an eyewitness will count in court. Only the bloody remote isn’t working. He shakes it at the light.

  ‘Batteries are gone,’ Foxy says. ‘Give me a go.’

  ‘Make him a cup of tea, will you?’ Sexton tells him impatiently, as the light finally flickers to red.

  ‘Milk, sugar?’ Foxy asks Canon.

  ‘Skinny, and five,’ Canon replies, not looking up.

  ‘None for me, thanks,’ Sexton says.

  As soon as Foxy is out of the room, Sexton reaches for the remote again and turns the recording off. He holds up a photograph of Lucy which he’s had printed from her Facebook page.

  Canon doesn’t even glance at it. ‘Never saw him in my life.’

  ‘It’s a she, and your daughter called to her house last night, you toerag. What dues were you collecting – extortion money, protection?’ Sexton asks.

  ‘You got that all wrong, mate. My little one made her communion, that’s all.’

  ‘Rihanna, isn’t it?’

  Canon looks surprised, ‘Yeah, that’s right. Very good, you’ll make the special branch at this rate.’

  ‘How’s your custody battle been going?’ Sexton asks. ‘Sad, isn’t it, that the kids always get caught in the middle. It doesn’t matter what the mother’s parenting skills are like, they always win, don’t they?’ He gives the plants a doleful look. ‘Still, not going to help your case growing these in a drugs shop, is it? My guess is cannabis. But really, what next? Heroin arriving into the docks in containers marked “Poppy Products”?’

  Canon shrugs.

  ‘Explain this to me,’ Sexton goes on. ‘The stag I found in your back yard … what was its part in the plan? Smuggle the gear in for you, did he?’ He uses his index fingers to indicate he has horns on his head. ‘Knock on your door with an antler and say, “Special Delivery,” did he? Or were you thinking of getting into the venison trade? See, I just am not seeing you in your tracksuit and trainers up to your neck in muck, shouting, “Pull”.’

  Canon clears his throat and gobs at Sexton, who jerks out of its path. The spit misses his face and rolls down his coat. He pulls a tissue from his pocket and dabs it away, his stare boring through Canon.

  ‘A Daddy’s girl, is she?’ Sexton asks. ‘Rihanna. Did you name her after the singer? Was it like David Beckham calling his son Brooklyn ’cos that’s where he was conceived? Maybe you poked your old dear under an umbrella at the time – what do I know?’

  Sexton keeps the pressure on him. ‘Has anyone got in touch with Rihanna’s mother, by the way? She might have a view on her kid hanging around dead animals, or want to know if Eric keeps suncream in his grow-house. Redheads need an extra-high factor, don’t they?’

  ‘I already told you, I know nothing about the plants,’ Canon hisses. ‘I only lease the downstairs part.’ He is shivering so much that his teeth have started to chatter.

  Sexton stands and walks to the window, taking a puff of his electronic cigarette.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ Canon asks, waving away the vapour cloud.

  ‘I’ve never had a problem with pot myself,’ Sexton says, almost to himself. ‘They should legalize it, if you ask me. Nicotine’s more addictive than weed, and kills more people. As for alcohol, that’s a real mood-altering substance. It’s involved in nearly every domestic murder.’ He moves to the table, puts his hands on it, studies Canon. ‘Here’s another thing I can’t work out. Why, if you are trying to build a drug business, is the doctor across the road getting on your tits? You’ve got a steady supply of custom. The words “bees” and “honey” spring to mind. You should be the one dropping her payments, the way I see it.’

  Canon’s lips tighten. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Sexton straightens. ‘Pull the other one. Someone’s been slashing the Starlings’ tyres and smashing their windows. Have you been sending them presents after your bowl of Weetabix? Are they one of your rackets? They’re bleeding hearts – did you give them a sob story? Or was it Lucy who was the soft touch? Did you come to some arrangement? Did she solicit you to do something for her that’s going to turn your possession of drugs with intent to supply charge to one that means a mandatory life sentence for you?’

  ‘What you on about, copper?’ Canon grins. ‘What’s life anyway now? Eleven years, is it? Be out in seven for good behaviour. You got nothing on me.’

  ‘Is that why you jumped out of the window?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Here’s what it looks like, Eric. The kid right across the road from you, the middle class kid in a posh school with a future, sees you every morning and last thing at night when she wakes up and goes to bed. Maybe looking at you puts crazy thoughts in her head.’

  Canon shifts his weight in the plastic chair. ‘I want to stress, for the record, that I have no idea what you are on about. The grass is not mine.’

  ‘See, I was right,’ Sexton says triumphantly. ‘I knew it was cannabis. Did Lucy’s money get you started in your new business? Ten grand, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Give over. This is a fit-up, you bent, fat bastard.’<
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  Sexton kicks the legs of his chair, sending it sprawling. Canon lands on his back with a yelp.

  Foxy appears in the doorway with a cup, which he puts down before running over to grab Sexton’s shoulders. ‘That’s enough.’

  Sexton puts up a palm to tell him he’s finished. He leans close to Canon. ‘I’m going to be at every family court hearing you’re up on from here on in telling the judge Rihanna belongs at home with her mum, that you’re not a fit parent.’

  Canon rubs the soles of his squeaking feet against the linoleum floor. ‘Where’s my brief?’ he shouts. He names a solicitor widely regarded as bent, as he only ever represents the guilty.

  Sexton lifts the chair and smashes it against a wall.

  Foxy shouts at him to stop.

  ‘You’re a fucking looper,’ Canon retorts. ‘Get away from me. You want to know why the kid is throwing money about I suggest you check out her email. Starlinglucy589@hotmail.com. Password is her initials and date of birth. Then come back to me and tell me I have a case to answer.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’ Sexton asks, astounded.

  ‘Gok fixed her iPhone.’

  34

  Jo peers closely at the list of transactions, holding each sheet inches from her face. She’s in Sexton’s bank, where she has been given access to the records on the joint account he shared with his wife. She does not have Sexton’s permission or blessing for this. She needs neither at her rank if she’s conducting an investigation. She sits at a desk examining their spending habits immediately before Maura Sexton’s death. In a foolscap pad, she first makes a note of all the direct-debit and standing-order reference numbers, then locates the letters from the banks identifying what each one is – car, house, life insurance. She riffles through the paperwork to find some €100,000 would have been paid in the event of Maura’s death occurring within ten years of the policy’s start date. Jo chews the top of a ballpoint as she notes in the small-print Terms and Conditions at the back – which she needs a magnifying glass to see – that suicide is not covered.

  ‘Term policies will not be paid out if death is caused by a medical condition you were aware of when you first applied for cover but did not disclose, or in cases of suicide,’ Jo reads.

  It occurs to her that since the verdict at Maura’s inquest was ‘open’, that may have created a loophole.

  Licking an index finger, she goes through the documents, sucking air through her teeth when she spots a handwritten letter dated six weeks before Maura’s death. It’s a letter seeking to clarify whether the policy covers suicide, and it’s signed by Maura. The answer from the bank states: ‘Suicide is covered only if it occurs thirteen months after the policy has been taken out.’

  Jo’s eyes move back to the date Maura took out the policy and establishes that her death occurred exactly thirteen months after the policy was set up.

  She glances at the section naming the beneficiary, and blinks in surprise. She can’t make out the name written there, which has been blacked out, and a note added: ‘See amendment as per accompanying letter.’ The letter is stapled to the back. Sexton had come into a €100,000 windfall as a result of his wife’s death.

  35

  After taking a bollocking from Foxy reminding him that the heavy gang had been decommissioned, Sexton looks around and sees there’s still no free desks in the detective unit. He settles down in the peace and quiet of Jo’s office and enters Lucy’s email details in the computer. It is highly possible, he realizes, that if Eric Canon has Lucy’s password, her account has been compromised, and that Eric may have even typed the messages and sent them from Lucy’s phone himself. It is also possible that, since Eric Canon has Lucy’s details, the dogs on the street could have it and could also have sent phoney emails in Lucy’s name. But the undeniable fact is that the tag on the top email has the ring of truth as having been sent by a teenager and not a two-bit criminal like Eric Canon. There are only three emails listed, making him even more suspicious about this account, particularly as all were sent to an account under Amy Reddan’s name. He scrolls down to read them in chronological order:

  RE CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE GONE

  Hi Amy,

  I know, I know … it’s nuts emailing you now you’re gone, right, Babe? I’m still not ready to let you go yet I feel so alone Can’t believe you’re not around … Feel sick every time I think how alone you felt … Cry myself to sleep every night and burst into tears at any stage during the day … Can’t concentrate on anything … Nothing matters … The pain gets so bad, I try convincing myself it’s just a bad dream and when I wake I’ll remember you are backpacking around the world and staying in this amazing hostel and hanging out with amazing guys and smoking wacky baccy and singing your songs … But then the truth just makes the pain worse and it makes me so angry … Put my fist through the window the other day … it helps when I bleed, can see the pain is real and not in my head … Just cannot keep in the feelings Want to kill someone … Wish you’d talked to me about how bad she made you feel … We were so busy talking about what happened with me before you must have felt that you couldn’t burden me … The worst bit is waking up and for a split second everything’s good and then am hit by the dread when I remember how bad things were for you … How did you get the courage BTW? The woods you went to are becoming a legend … It’s somewhere kids go to like worship you, or it was until parents found out that some were going in tents and staying the night … They’re saying on the chatrooms they couldn’t decide what to do but found peace there like you’re talking to them … See you are an angel … I heard people can’t get in now cos the parents set up patrols … You would not believe how many kids want to go there now … They’ve even given the forest a name – The Everlasting Wood … Kinda corny but I love it … I was always scared of the woods, but if I’m going to go that’s where it’ll be … Had an accident when I took pills to numb the feelings, took too many and didn’t wake up … If I’d died, I wouldn’t have been sorry if it meant seeing you again … But couldn’t even do that right … I’m such a loser … When I woke up I was glad even though my parents were the first thing I saw … Please don’t hate me I don’t want to die … You shouldn’t have had to either that’s the point … Why should the troll be allowed to live after everything they did to you???!? … They’re like a murderer … Someone has to stop them … Remember you said about the butterflies batting their wings in the forest over there and how the ripples come all the way around the world to us … well the butterflies must be going crazy!!! OK, I never could keep a secret from you so here goes … I’m meeting this guy I met on the chatroom who said he can help … He calls himself Red Scorpion but he’s like this really cool guy … He says he knows how we can ID the troll and he wants to help. We’ve been chatting a lot. He understands everything. He doesn’t judge me, he just accepts how I’m feeling and doesn’t tell me it will pass, or I don’t have the perspective to put it into context. He knows how sad I am and he says it’s OK. He says he can make the troll pay for their crimes and he wants to meet me to discuss it I really like him … We’ve talked about EVERYTHING … Send me a sign if you can, baby doll, I miss you so much … See you on the other side if I can find a way into the Everlasting Forest … Love ya … <3 BFF 4ever xxx

  The next email is dated one week later. It reads:

  MELISSA ADMITS EVERYTHING

  Amy,

  This link will show you who the troll is. I’m so sorry, sweetheart …

  Miss you babe

  <3 xoxoxooxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  Sexton clicks the link, which leads to a YouTube video of a teenage girl in a short dress in a pizza parlour with the caption: ‘Melissa Brockle eats scraps, abuses fellow diners and rants about how “powerful” she is.’ Sexton watches as a very drunk, or drugged, girl, who looks sixteen – based on the heavy orange make-up and short skirt – staggers from the ladies’ toilet in her bare feet with a length of toilet roll stuck to the sole of her shoe.
She sits at a bench and sloppily pulls a scrap of pizza from a diner’s plate.

  Underneath all the make-up, Melissa would have been a nice-looking girl, Sexton notes. She looks very different from the vulnerable face Bronwyn Harris had pointed out to Sexton in the most recent school photo. Things kick off in the video when Melissa realizes she is being recorded on a camera phone. She jumps to her feet and starts abusing the stranger whose pizza she’s just pinched.

  ‘You fucking loser,’ she slurs.

  Whoever recorded it has focused on the fact that her short skirt is hitched so high it leaves nothing to the imagination. If he was this kid’s mother, he’d have grounded her for a year. Melissa is really animated, trying to smack the phone out of the holder’s hand. ‘Do you have any idea who I am? You are going to be so sorry, loser. You’ve heard about the troll, right? They’re, like, a god deciding who lives and who dies. Just checking you’ve heard of them, because I promise you, you’re going to find out soon enough. You are nothing.’

  With that Melissa finally made contact and the phone goes black and has clearly, by the sounds of things, just hit the floor.

  Sexton scrolls down to the last email’s tagline, which reads: NO GOING BACK.

  My darling Amy,

  What happens next is for you, and all the other lives that will be saved and not the loss of my own soul. Am meeting Melissa tonight, and taking her to the wood, where Red plans to teach her a lesson she will never forget.

  There’s no going back.

  Lucyxxxxxxx

  Sexton starts as McConigle leans her arms on Jo’s desk and studies the screen.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, closing the email.

  ‘Get your coat,’ she tells him. ‘I want someone with me at Anna Eccles’ PM in case I pass out.’

  Sexton nods, and as she heads for the coat stand he deletes all the emails that incriminate Lucy. Bullies lie, bullies hide, they cower. Lucy has owned up to her wrongdoing. He doesn’t want McConigle and everyone else closing in on a girl who cannot defend herself. Everyone makes mistakes in their teenage years. Lucy has suffered enough.