Shiver the Whole Night Through

by Darragh McManus

  The picture was taken at a hurling-club dance that spring. The ring belonged to Sláine. And this message must have come from her.

  I didn’t kill myself. Why was she telling me? How could this even be happening? Was I going insane? Was I dead, too? Was I dead and Sláine still alive and this was some bizarre dream someone else was having?

  I calmed my mind and thought. Okay, you don’t know what’s going on. You’re not sure if you’re alive or dead. What do you know?

  I knew I was here, now, having these thoughts. All right, go with that. Assume this is somehow possible and a dead girl has sent you a message from beyond the grave. Forget the hows and whys, forget about yourself for a second: think about the message. What does it mean?

  I didn’t kill myself. There was only one logical conclusion – Sláine had been murdered. And just one question can follow that: who did it?

  I pulled the duvet around myself and mulled it over. Someone she’d been seeing? The Claddagh ring is a sign that your heart is given to someone. Did Sláine have a boyfriend, and did the love turn sour? Tommy Fox hardly killed her. He was a nice, mild-mannered guy and didn’t seem the murdering kind. Besides, he looked in agony at the news of her death.

  On the other hand, people always said love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Something I knew only too well.

  My mind said, no, not Tommy. Someone else, then. For some reason I imagined this faceless killer to be older. Maybe middle-aged, married – that’d give him a reason, if she was threatening to go public and wreck his marriage. Would Sláine be vindictive like that? But what if it wasn’t vindictiveness? What if she genuinely loved the guy and wanted to be with him properly?

  What about the man who found the body, the forestry worker? What had my mother said? He’d claimed he was in there clearing vegetation or something? The perfect excuse to ‘accidentally discover’ a dead girl. Then I remembered him – Robert Marsden. He was pretty old, a bird-like sort of man with a gentle way. If he was a murderer, I was the Pope.

  Maybe it was a random killing, some sex beast, a bloodthirsty weirdo. There’d been no mention of sexual assault but that didn’t mean anything – they might have kept the information private to protect our feelings, or help the case. But if it was a stranger, how did he lure her out to the woods? Maybe he drugged her. But in that case, it would have shown up in the autopsy. Did I read somewhere about chloroform leaving no chemical trace? Or that other stuff, the date-rape drug …

  How, though? It all came back to one glaring question: how did this hypothetical man physically kill Sláine? There was no sign of violence. No poisons or drugs in her system. She wasn’t hanged or strangled or smothered – even that leaves fibre traces in the lungs, around the mouth. I’ve watched enough CSI to know one thing: it’s difficult to kill someone and hide your tracks.

  The coroner said it straight: she basically died from the cold. So how does that square with murder?

  God, this was exhausting, my brain whizzing around in circles. Ever-decreasing circles, at that. I was getting nowhere. I needed to sleep then come at this from a fresh angle in the morning. I was definitely on to something, but obviously I couldn’t tell anyone. They’d think I’d gone bonkers, banging on about magic writing on the …

  It was gone. Her message, the words and Claddagh symbol, they’d melted from the rising heat in the room. No, no, you stupid asshole. I should have taken a picture first. Now there was nothing. I had no proof.

  I shut my eyes and thought, to hell with it. I know. I saw what I saw. Sláine McAuley didn’t take her own life, and I’m going to find out who did. She wants vengeance and justice, and needs me to get it for her.

  I slid back into sleep, my body finally yielding to exhaustion, but my mind on fire. It was an electrical storm in there. I smiled as I realised that right then, in a different way, I also felt more energised, more awake, than I had for a long time. As if I was about to wake up to something great.

  The next morning my family was behaving completely normally at breakfast, which seemed a bit abnormal to me. Then I checked myself: what did you expect, genius? Nobody else saw the ice writing. They don’t know anything. Of course they’re going to be getting on with business as usual. I guess you always think everyone sees the world from the same perspective as you.

  I plonked down next to my father, punched him cheerily on the shoulder, robbed toast from his plate and grinned when he gasped in surprise. He looked warily at me and questioningly at my mother. Clearly this was not my normal behaviour. They were used to me moping around, the black cloud of gloominess over my head almost visible.

  My parents never asked what was wrong over the last five months, but they surely knew something was. It’s hard sometimes for people to have those awkward conversations with their kids, and my dad especially was taciturn at the best of times. As I said, I didn’t blame them for anything or hold any resentment.

  I poured a cup of tea and checked that the younger kids were in a different room. Then I said, ‘Did you hear anything else? About Sláine, you know, from the sergeant or whatever.’

  He said, ‘No. Just what I told you last night.’

  ‘But they know she wasn’t choked or beaten to death or anything. I have that right?’

  My mother grimaced and put a hand to her mouth. I said quickly, ‘Sorry, that sounded a bit funny. I’m not being smart. I genuinely just want to know how she died.’

  My father shrugged. ‘You know already. Hypothermia.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Awful thing. And her people are the finest you could meet.’

  ‘No, I know that. I just, she definitely wasn’t … like, they didn’t find any wounds or anything, right? Bruises, whatever. Signs of violence.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No drugs, poison, nothing like that.’

  ‘No.’

  My mother said, ‘Aidan, why are you asking all this? You’re not … ’ She couldn’t bring herself to complete the sentence.

  ‘Mam, don’t worry. I’m not gonna do a copycat or anything.’ Not yet, anyway. ‘Just – curious. She was my age. I’d like to know what happened.’ I paused. ‘Suppose … just supposing Sláine didn’t kill herself.’ My mother started to object. I cut across her, saying, ‘Let’s say that’s how it happened. For argument’s sake. Say someone killed her. How would they have done that? She wasn’t stabbed, shot, strangled or poisoned. So how?’

  No response from either, although my father seemed to be thinking about it.

  I said, ‘Would the sergeant know? Could you ask him?’

  ‘No,’ he said, very definitively. ‘It’s not my place. If he wants to tell me things, fine. Wouldn’t be right for me to ask.’

  ‘Ah yeah, fair enough.’

  ‘Anyway, that job for the Guards is finished. Won’t be speaking to the sergeant for a while probably.’

  My mother looked at him with worry. These were tough times in our town and my home, tougher than usual. He flapped a hand and said, ‘’Twill be grand. I have another job lined up, some chap collared me – at the station, in fact. Asked me to fix up some classic cars he has. Vintage.’

  ‘Who is he, love?’

  ‘You don’t know him at all – he’s new to the town. Only recently moved from … blast it, he said but I don’t remember. He’s bought one of those places on Belladonna Way.’

  I whistled. ‘Belladona? Very swish.’

  My mother said, ‘He must have money. That’s not a cheap part of town.’

  ‘The house is very old, now,’ Dad said. ‘One of the lads reckons Victorian era. But it’s in good nick, doesn’t need too much work. The man’s own name is Kinvara.’

  ‘Kinvara?’ I asked. ‘Heh. Like the place in Galway. So he’s got some cool cars. Real James Bond stuff, yeah?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. An old Jaguar all right, one of the classic nineteen-sixties’ models. James Bond might have driven a car like that, I suppose.’

  That was my dad, God love him: full o
f imagination, cracking sense of humour. I rolled my eyes, finished my tea and stood. ‘Gonna head to Podsy’s. We haven’t hung out much in a while. That okay? I’ll study later.’

  My father nodded his permission. Mam still looked worried. I caught her look – she didn’t even have to say it.

  ‘Mam, I told you. Don’t stress it. I don’t have some obsession with death or anything. It’s just her, Sláine. She’s on my mind.’

  ‘You hear these things … ’

  ‘I know. That’s not the case here. Yeah? Stop worrying.’

  ‘All right, pet. Bring a cap, it’s freezing out.’

  I did as instructed and half walked, half jogged to Podsy’s house. He lived in a nice estate on the other side of town, a step up from our cruddy social housing scheme. But he’d never been snobby about it – another reason I was fond of him.

  His mother opened the door and let me in, saying only, ‘His room. Doing something on the computer.’

  I thanked Mrs O’Keeffe and ran up. Podsy was at his desk when I burst in without knocking. He held up a finger and said, ‘One second, Aidan. Okay, Hiro? That data’s sent to you now. Have a look and see what you think. Sayonara.’

  He tapped the keyboard a few times, turned to me and smiled. ‘Well. Mister Flood. Anything strange or startling?’

  I smiled too, for reasons of my own. Strange or startling, indeed. I said, ‘Nah, nothin’ much. Who were you Skyping?’

  ‘A pal in Osaka – Hiro. In Japan? He’s a great guy. We’ve been collaborating on a project for SETI. You know, the extraterr—’

  ‘I know. Search for little green men.’

  Podsy scowled, pretending to be annoyed. ‘It’s not exactly that, now.’

  ‘So what’s the data you’re sending?’

  ‘Ah, I’ve been monitoring activity over the skies in this part of Ireland. Electromagnetic radiation, a few other things. Noticed some weird spikes recently, so I’m sending it to Hiro. He’s got better equipment than me for crunching the numbers.’

  ‘Hiro’s a real hero. Am I allowed to smoke in here?’

  ‘You know you’re not, you ape.’

  I lit one anyway and Podsy opened his window anyway. It generally goes like this. I said, ‘Weird spikes how? Explain that to a bonehead like me.’

  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: vil
lains 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.