Shiver the Whole Night Through

by Darragh McManus

  I reached the mouth of the forest, a road leading in, surfaced with tarmac for the first three hundred yards, a dirt path after that. Just enough of a thoroughfare for forestry workers to gain access if they needed to, not that they did very often.

  Two picnic benches stood out front, with an informational sign and rubbish bin – I knew for a fact nobody ever actually picnicked here. The place didn’t exactly give off a welcoming vibe. My nose picked up the sweet, sappy smell of the pines. Sharp but not unpleasant: a nice, zingy smell, like the juice of citrus fruits, or the tea tree oil face wash my mother used.

  I looked up the path and tried to remember if anyone at school had said where exactly Sláine’s body was discovered. Then the wind sort of pushed me again and before I knew it I was walking, right into the black heart of Shook Woods.

  It was dark in there, though my watch told me it was only four in the afternoon. The trees appeared to lean in and over you, obstructing the weak November light. I knew this was an optical illusion – they were mostly conifers, standing straight as an arrow – but when you looked up, they really did seem to crowd around you, glaring down, shoving each other aside for a better view of the little human below. A cluster of crows rose from the top of the tallest one, fluttering into the air like a splash of ink. Rooks, maybe, or ravens. A murder of crows, wasn’t that the proper term … ?

  I turned back to the main road. It was visible from here. I sighed with relief – that was the real world, out there. I felt still connected to it, physically. The forest couldn’t take you while you could still see the road …

  I laughed and rolled a cigarette. Yo, crazy thoughts, get out of my head. They’re just stupid trees. The worst thing that could happen here would be leaving the path and losing your bearings, or staying too late and tripping in the darkness.

  The ember of my cigarette flared in the wind and I shivered again.

  I walked on, and after a few minutes saw police tape around a tree, marking the area off: Do Not Enter. The tree was a monstrous thing, gnarled, ancient-looking. Unlike most of the plants in Shook, this wasn’t evergreen but deciduous, possibly oak – I never could tell the difference.

  It stood off the path, ten yards in. I tossed my cigarette, put down my bag and hiked over. There was no indication that something terrible had happened here – except for the tape, you’d never suspect. The body hadn’t made a shape in the ground. The leaves and dirt weren’t scuffed up.

  It was just … a tree. A place. A boring spot of ground. Except … a place where the worst thing in the world had happened to one girl.

  I sent up another prayer for Sláine, then turned around to go home – and my bag was gone. I literally jumped in fright. What … ? I glanced around: nobody, nothing to be seen, only those impenetrable rows of trees. But my bag, I’d left it right there, directly opposite, a few steps away. Someone had moved it.

  I made to walk back to the dirt path, hesitated, started again. I reached the path and looked left and right and nothing. My heart rate clicked up a notch. I gulped and felt something without a name tickle the back of my neck. I looked right once more, towards the main road, and finally spotted it resting against a tree trunk, hard to see in the gathering dusk.

  I flung the bag over my shoulder and thought it through. I was sure I’d left it closer to where Sláine was found, but clearly I was mistaken. I’d left it here all along. But man, I was so sure of where I’d put that bag …

  Maybe someone was here. Playing a prank, some idiot, one of Rattigan’s gang. No, this wasn’t their style. They’d be more likely to bury me under the moss floor of the forest. Someone else, a younger kid … ?

  I looked around and around, knowing I wouldn’t see anyone. There was nowhere for them to hide, and no one else here.

  I shrugged it off and hit for home, leaving the forest a little faster than I’d arrived.

  The rest of the week passed in a blur. On Wednesday I found out what Sláine had died from. On Thursday she was buried. And by Saturday I was preparing to spend the night alone in dark, eerie Shook Woods.

  That first day, passing the funeral home on my way home from school, there was already a long line of mourners assembling, waiting to commiserate with Sláine’s family. Even at that early hour, not yet five o’clock. Guess it proves how well liked she was. A guy approached the end of the line and respectfully whispered, ‘Who’s dead?’ I like that, the way we phrase it in Hiberno-English: ‘Who is dead?’ and not ‘Who died?’ Putting it in the present tense seems to keep the person around in some way, keep some bit of them alive through the mysterious alchemy of words.

  My father arrived at the dinner table that evening and pulled off his cap. He worked as a mechanic when there was work to be got, and that black knit cap was part of his tool bag as much as any wrench or oil can. He squeezed it, looked at me, looked away. He said softly, ‘They did the autopsy on that poor girl. Your friend.’

  I was about to say she wasn’t really my friend but didn’t bother. Instead I replied, ‘Sláine? What happened to her?’

  My father had been doing maintenance work on the Garda fleet of vehicles for a few weeks. ‘Sergeant was saying it at coffee. Says the coroner found … nothing. There was nothing unusual in the girl’s system.’

  My younger brother Ronan leaped in his seat and hollered, ‘Your one, the dead girl? My friend said she was hanging off a tree. Eeugh, gross!’

  I barked, ‘Shut your face, you little troll.’

  My mother frowned and said to me, ‘Please don’t use that language to your brother. Ronan, it’s not nice to talk like that. You have to show respect when someone dies. Go on, sweetheart. What did the sergeant say?’

  My father shrugged and rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s all there is. No trace of poison or any other foreign substances. She must have … ’ He looked at me again. ‘She died of the cold. That’s the long and short of it, as far as I could gather.’

  I nodded, pushed my plate aside and excused myself – I didn’t feel like eating. My mother must have understood; she smiled kindly and said not a word.

  The next morning Sláine was buried in an old graveyard on the outskirts of town. The council had built a new place a decade ago, which most people now used, but the odd family continued to lay their dead to rest in existing family plots. The McAuleys had a big crypt up there, a statue of an angel standing guard on top. Protecting the souls of the departed, or whatever it was meant to represent. The graveyard was oddly beautiful, something out of a Gothic horror movie: lumps and hillocks, ancient tombstones, grasses run wild, a discordant choir of crows squawking.

  Virtually the whole town attended the funeral, including all school students and teachers. Sláine’s family were really decent, respected by everyone, which made it tougher to witness their anguish. Her mother and father cried unashamedly, as did four older brothers and most of her friends. There was a good crowd from university, which was nice to see. They carried Sláine’s coffin to the family crypt and lowered her into the ground as her music teacher played ‘Amazing Grace’ on a low whistle: a sad and lovely tune, very moving.

  I was with my mam and dad. Podsy was there too, smiling when I caught his eye, out of nerves and upset more than finding anything funny about this. There was nothing funny here.

  Tommy Fox stood at the back of the huge gathering, balancing unsteadily on the edge of some long-forgotten person’s grave. He swayed and I realised it wasn’t just his footing – he’d been drinking. His eyes were red, from crying or alcohol or both. He was taking it very badly. Tommy hadn’t been seen in school since Monday. He needed time, I guess.

  The priest said the last words of blessing and the crowd started shuffling out. As I passed, Tommy grabbed my arm. I probably just happened to be there exactly when he needed someone. Anyone. I smiled in a way I hoped would seem supportive. He stared into my eyes, his own ablaze like angry suns.

  ‘Why did she do it, man?’ he whispered. ‘Nobody’s telling me anything and I need to bloody
know. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Tommy. I’m really sorry for you.’

  He gazed into space like a condemned man. Finally he released my arm and patted it, a sort of apology. ‘You’re okay, Flood. Thanks. I’m sorry too.’

  Tommy disappeared into the crowds. I kept walking. After a minute of very slow progress – the crowd was large and the exit small – I found myself abreast of Caitlin. On her own, for once. I stared at the path, weeds poking out of cracks in the stone. Then I heard her speak.

  ‘Did you … Sláine McAuley. Did you know her?’

  I didn’t look up, just shook my head. Caitlin went on, ‘I didn’t really at all. But I’ve been crying non-stop for the last three days. Isn’t that screwed up? I didn’t even know her but I can’t believe she’s gone.’

  This was the most she’d said to me in five months. I was struck dumb. I didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know if I wanted to.

  Caitlin was still speaking, almost babbling now, as though she had so much to get out she was afraid she’d explode. ‘Someone our age – dead. Just like that. Gone forever. She’s never coming back. And I was thinking, like last night? That could be any one of us. You think it’ll never end and then one day … ’ She choked back a sob. ‘I can’t stop crying. Have you been crying too? … I think I’m going mad, I can’t explain it.’

  The better side of my nature won out; it told me to ignore my wounded pride, do the decent thing and console this girl in distress. I said quietly, ‘No, I haven’t cried. I mean I feel sad, though. For her. I wish it hadn’t happened.’

  We got jostled by the mass of people. We were separated and Caitlin went back to her life without me. I stood motionless for a long moment, staring at those old weeds busting up the pathway. The circle of life, indifferent nature, making a mockery of our grand notions as human beings. It felt an appropriate thought to have on a day like that.

  I skipped school for the rest of Thursday – first time I’d ever done that. Even after the thing with Caitlin happened and led to my season in hell, I hadn’t mitched. Somehow, I managed to drag my ass to that hated place every day and stay there with those hated people. Today, though, I had somewhere more important to be. As kids and staff went back to class, I hit for Shook Woods once more. Again, I wasn’t exactly sure why I was going, or why it felt more important than school.

  But this time round I went prepared: food, water, flask of coffee, a pouch of tobacco and rolling papers, an MP3 player should I feel the need for a soundtrack to my visit … or for some company if the forest started getting a bit too creepy.

  And a notebook and pen to jot down my thoughts, if I had any. What sort of thoughts they might be, I hadn’t a clue. The whole thing felt unplanned, even random. I was fine with that.

  I got to the tree where Sláine was found by half one in the afternoon. That gave me a few good hours of daylight. To do what? Just be there, maybe. Spend a few hours where she’d spent her final hours. Pay my respects to this girl I didn’t really know.

  I slipped underneath the police tape and sat against the tree, the moss cold but dry underneath. I rolled a cigarette and let my mind drift.

  I pictured Sláine lying here, in the pitch dark of the forest; hard to make out any details. Then I recalled there’d been a full moon that night and adjusted my mental picture accordingly. Now I could see her, softly glowing in that silver-blue light. Placing her hands under her face and closing her eyes. Shivering as the coldness gradually took her.

  I imagined her body struggling against its oncoming demise as her mind willed it to come. Did her lips turn blue with the cold? Did she feel tingling pains in her fingers and toes, icy stabs? Did she take her clothes off? We never heard what Sláine had been wearing when she was discovered.

  What a way to go: lying down on the pine needles and mulch of Shook Woods, waiting for death to take you away. Why hadn’t she swallowed something, made it quicker, made it painless?

  Then a weird thing happened: my dream kind of took on a life of its own. Because what I’d wanted to imagine was seeing Sláine at peace as she opened her eyes to look at the world one last time. However sad and pointless it might be to kill yourself, I thought, at least it was what she’d desired.

  But now I wasn’t so sure, because Sláine didn’t look peaceful at all: she looked shocked. Afraid. And she was standing, not lying. She was about to run but couldn’t. She seemed … frozen.

  My eyes blinked open. I didn’t remember having closed them. The cigarette had quenched. I relit it and took a long drag. Jesus, that was – spooky. I chuckled nervously. It’s this place, messing with your head … As if to prove my point, a breeze whipped up, making leaves dance and branches flutter, an almost musical sound as it whistled off into the distance: four notes, going up for three, down for one. Obviously it was only random noise, but the tune lodged in my head; I sang it, once, twice, a little cagily in the back of my throat. ‘Doo-doo-doo-doo … doo-doo-doo-doo … ’

  I pulled out the notebook and began scribbling down memories of that waking dream, but I couldn’t hold on to the details. It dissolved like morning fog. I finished my smoke sitting back against the tree. Thinking about Sláine, not thinking about her; staring into space, listening to the wind through the trees. It sounded like a mother consoling her baby. Hussshhh …

  I stayed like that for a good two hours. At the end of it I rose slowly, stretched my back, had a pee and realised something so profound that it almost felt like a physical blow: I wasn’t sure I wanted to kill myself any more.

  Maybe it was Sláine, the terrible tragedy of it. Maybe seeing her being buried reminded me how precious life is – even mine, pathetic as it was.

  But I had definitely decided, sometime during those two hours, that at the very least I’d wait a while. I had all the time in the world, right? I still hated myself, hated most everything and everyone, but – life was precious. Not to be lightly tossed aside. And death, I now understood, was brutal and awful – something that, only days before, I’d been so glib about. I’d toyed with it, flirted with it.

  I’d almost embraced it. Maybe I would yet, but not now.

  There was another reason for this change of heart: I was intrigued. Curious. I wanted – it felt as if I needed – to know what happened to Sláine McAuley, why she died. What drove this seemingly happy girl, her world full of possibilities, to kill herself? I might never find out, but I had to try. If that was the last meaningful thing I did with my life, fine – I was going to do it. If nothing else, it gave me a sense of purpose.

  I left Shook Woods as dusk was falling, without the faintest idea how I’d begin to investigate Sláine’s last days. I was excited by it, hopeful, but I hadn’t a clue where to start.

  As it turned out, help in solving the mystery was to come soon, from an unexpected source: Sláine herself.

  I Didn’t Kill Myself

  By Friday the weather had turned much colder. Frost on the ground, ice on puddles, TV weather warnings of snow to come. Walking to school that day, my head was nearly cut off by a blast of wintery wind. I spent lunchtime with Podsy, eating half a sandwich and smoking too much. He asked if I fancied coming over later to watch a DVD. I told him no, I didn’t want company.

  That’s not exactly true: it felt as if I already had company. For some strange reason that made my skin prickle when I thought about it, I felt Sláine was there, hanging around, somewhere nearby. She wasn’t, of course, but it seemed real, or half-real, all the same.

  Anyway, I slouched through the rest of the day. No hassle from anyone, not even Rattigan. I wasn’t sure if they were preoccupied with this Sláine thing, or had once more forgotten I existed. Whichever, I was happy enough with the situation.

  I went home, pushed my dinner around the plate and trudged up to my room. It was tiny, backing on to the rear of our small house. Home was shared with my parents and two siblings, much younger than me: Ronan was twelve, still in primary school, and Sheila only eight. I think I might have felt
better about myself, more able to handle the crap in my life, if I’d had a sibling closer to my age. I loved the smallies to bits, but that’s exactly what they were: smallies. So there was only Podsy and my folks. But they did their best, I’m sure. I don’t blame them for anything.

  The view out my window was miserable: our filthy council estate wall, a muddy field beyond that, an old farmer’s barn falling apart with neglect. I’d never seen anyone working in there. It was a rusting hulk, left to die.

  I put on a CD – Sigur Ros, Valtari. Just the job to set my thoughts running free and take my mind off things. I rolled a smoke and cracked open the window. Frost was forming on the glass in intricate patterns. I remembered an old story my mother often told me as a child, about the Snow Queen, how ice crystals were left behind by her touch. That was such a cool story, equal parts frightening and exciting.

  I thought about my mother and being a child and how she’d comfort me after a nightmare, wrapping me in a blanket and rubbing my back. I smiled at the memory and slipped into sleep.

  When I woke, it was 2 a.m. The house was silent – everyone else long gone to bed. I shivered, noticing that the room was sub-zero; I’d left the window open. I leaned over to push it down, the frame freezing to touch. Then I froze, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

  I didn’t kill myself.

  The words were written on the window. Not written, that’s wrong – they had been formed, somehow. They rose off the glass, sixteen letters made of ice, shaped out of frozen water, which struck an icy terror into my heart.

  I didn’t kill myself.

  I slapped my face, pinched my cheek, thinking I was still asleep and this was some unusually vivid dream. Somehow, I knew I wouldn’t wake up from it. It was impossible but real.

  And more: underneath the words was a symbol, a jewellery design of two hands holding a heart with a crown. I knew it because everyone knew what a Claddagh ring looked like, and more importantly, I’d seen that design just the day before. A photograph in our town’s newspaper, under an article paying tribute to ‘local girl Sláine McAuley, tragically found dead earlier this week’.