Shiver the Whole Night Through

by Darragh McManus

  Podsy went on, ‘Someone obviously figured out there’s a connection. These kids, they’re all around the same age. And by all accounts they’d each picked on someone who maybe has a good reason to hurt them now. Or feels he does, anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They think you’re getting revenge on the bullies. You went crazy from it, lost your mind and now you’re getting your own back.’

  ‘What? I’m actually committing all these – these major crimes, because a few assholes picked on me?’

  Podsy shrugged. ‘That’s what they’re saying.’

  ‘But how would … How do they know that I’m some way linked to those kids?’

  He winced in discomfort. ‘Uh … I think everyone kinda knew, Aidan. About the bullying? It was sort of well known. You know, around the town. Pretty much everyone knew who you were and what was going on.’

  God, I felt mortified all over again. What a colossal joke I’d become. Not only my peer group but the entire town. I muttered, ‘Yeah. Everyone knew and nobody did squat.’

  ‘Hey, I didn’t like that either.’

  ‘Ah, I know. I’m not having a go at you.’

  I didn’t quite know how to feel about this. Was I in some way responsible? I couldn’t be, I wasn’t doing anything … I was certainly dumbfounded by it, creeped out, and to be honest, a little nervous with what Podsy was telling me. They each had an undeniable connection to me. I was the common link and I couldn’t for the life of me work out why this was. But some others, apparently, thought they could.

  Podsy said, ‘There’re rumours. Whispers. Around town, like. This’s only a few people shite-talking, but you know how it goes with rumours. Something gets said enough times and all of a sudden people treat it as gospel truth.’

  ‘Who’s spreading these rumours? Do I even want to hear any more of this?’

  ‘Different people. A couple of kids at school – though who cares what they say. But grown-ups as well. Aileen Aacheson’s father, he’s one. He’s a tool bag, all mouth. But Jonas Woodlock – I know he wasn’t very nice to you but his folks are fine and they’ve said it too. I heard them going on to my mum and dad the other night. They thought I was out.’

  ‘What happened to him again?’

  ‘Got cut to bits out the old mountain road. Barely alive when they found him.’

  ‘Jesus. What did his parents say?’

  ‘That someone had to be doing these things, like a person – they didn’t believe it was any animal because wouldn’t a dog or whatever have been caught by now. And what about that young lad of the Floods, which means you … ’

  ‘I figured that.’

  ‘ … He got an awful doing at school last year and they knew Jonas was involved. “Oh don’t worry,” they said, “we made sure to take him to task for it.” Anyway they said it was possible you were doing it all out of revenge, you were sick in the head and maybe it was hard to fully blame you but you couldn’t be doing that in a civilised society and they were thinking of going to the Guards about it. My dad talked them out of it, told ’em they can’t go making wild allegations without evidence, that it was slander if they can’t prove it and they’d end up in court themselves. Said he’d pass it on to Uncle Tim though, keep an eye on you.’

  I said, ‘They didn’t tell you not to come here, then? Your mam and dad.’

  ‘No. Why would they do that?’

  ‘So they don’t believe this theory?’

  ‘Not for a second. But some do. And if I know the people of this town, that’s a number that is going to increase, not go in the other direction.’

  This was so absurd, it was laughable. Obviously those kids had been mauled by an animal, or several. The wounds, the bloodletting, the mindless savagery of these attacks, it was totally clear. The way their attacker seemingly stalked them from the darkness before springing out – that’s how animals do it, isn’t it? Lions, wolves, large beasts, wild things.

  Not me, for God’s sake. But if it was all so bloody laughable, why wasn’t I laughing? I felt a noose of panic being fitted around my thin neck, and needed to shake the thought before it started to tighten.

  Rolling a smoke I said to Podsy, ‘It’s ridiculous. I’m amazed anyone is giving this a second thought. The whole notion of it, me as some kind of psycho terrorist, it’s so daft I won’t … Besides, I couldn’t even do that stuff. I mean literally, I wouldn’t have the strength to – didn’t you say people were basically torn to ribbons? Sure, how would I be able to do that?’

  Podsy said, ‘The sergeant reckons it might have been “the strength of the insane”. That’s a direct quote. He says, “You’d be amazed what people are capable of when they’re not in their right minds”. Also a quote.’

  ‘The sergeant … He doesn’t believe this too, does he?’

  ‘Uncle Tim says he’s “keeping an open mind”, again a quote. Tim doesn’t think there’s anything in it himself, he knows you, but he can’t give an opinion officially. But, Aidan, listen, I have to tell you: I’m getting the impression that more and more people are starting to feel there’s something to this.’

  It was crazy. The whole world had turned upside down and everyone’s marbles had fallen out and rolled away on them. A thought struck me. ‘You don’t believe it, surely to God?’

  He glowered as if I was the biggest dumb-ass on the planet. ‘Would I be here if I thought you were some axe-wielding maniac? Telling you all this?’

  I smiled at him. Good old Podsy. ‘No, s’pose not.’

  ‘I dunno, it’s just … strange, you know?’ he said. ‘Some wild animal on the loose – it’s like something out of a horror movie.’

  You have no idea, Podsy.

  He stood and absently ran his fingers along the bookshelf. ‘Then all that other weird shit that’s been going down … God. Crazy days in our sleepy little town, huh?’

  ‘What do you mean, “weird shit”?’

  ‘Just all the bizarre things that’ve happened. Like those three meatheads each getting a fake text from the other – you know what happened there. Or Clara Kinnane going bananas, hearing voices. ’S just weird, is all.’

  I cast my mind back over the last several weeks, piecing together memories and parts of memories, things I’d overheard but disregarded, bits and pieces of knowledge I’d accrued and obviously filed away without knowing I was doing it. Things Podsy had told me. Different incidents which I now recalled with an increasingly sickening feeling.

  At the end of November three lads had become embroiled in quite a serious scrap outside a pub – the same shithole Harrington had his last pint in, though that was probably coincidence. All of them claimed that one of the others had sent malicious text messages, insulting their girlfriends (or sisters, mothers, goldfish, whatever); all denied ever sending such texts. They each took an equally bad beating, in some weird form of karmic balance, street-fighting style.

  A week later, a teenage girl was institutionalised by her parents and doctor, after suffering a psychotic break: she’d imagined she saw someone hovering outside her window over several nights, which wasn’t possible because they lived in a fourth-storey apartment overlooking the river. The figure, she babbled, was ‘beautiful and terrifying like the face of death, the face of hell’. It called to her, telling her the river was waiting.

  Then a guy who lived near enough to me had his car set on fire and, beside it, a message was scorched into the ground in burning petrol: NEXT TIME YOU MIGHT BE SITTING IN IT, SWEETHEART. There was something blackly comic about another incident: a young lad was found, coming on for midnight, doped up to the eyeballs and stripped to his underwear, his head rammed inside a hole in this giant tree that stands across the road from the town’s ‘Welcome to … ’ sign. He was hospitalised for hypothermia, drug intoxication and mental trauma. He’s lucky he didn’t die of the first, and was still suffering from the last.

  Even my old pal Clara, that fat fucker, had gone a bit doolally, as Podsy said – she kept hear
ing voices in her head, so she thought, tormenting her, trying to drive her maaaaaad. She got bundled off to the same ‘rest home for the terminally bewildered’ as the other girl.

  At first I didn’t see a link between any of this: stolen phones, prank texts, religious hallucinations, drugs and abduction, burned-out cars, ghostly voices, whatever. Or between those events and the animal attacks. I resisted this dawning awareness, but it slowly rose within me like creeping damp.

  I actually started to shake a little as I realised: Jesus Christ, I’m the connection. Again.

  ‘They were bullies too.’

  I’d whispered that, my words barely rising above silence, so Podsy asked me to repeat it. Something stopped me. Some instinct of caution or self-preservation made me mumble instead, ‘Nothing. Sorry, just talking to myself, it’s nothing.’

  Meanwhile the thought was getting louder and louder: all those kids had also bullied me. The fake texts guys, Clara, that dipshit McGuinness getting his crappy car burned up, the girl who thought she saw the devil, Marina Callaghan, that was her name … She was one as well. God help me, they all were.

  What was I saying here? I didn’t know. But something very strange was going on. Just as with the animal attacks, these other victims had picked on me. Which meant, of course, that I’d hypothetically want revenge on them too.

  I raised my eyebrows, blew out carefully, interlaced my fingers, cracking them loudly.

  Podsy said, ‘You all right, man?’

  Careful, Aidan. Careful.

  ‘Yeah. Uh, everything’s fine. Just, you know, pissed off at this. These allegations, me attacking people.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I know you couldn’t pull some crap like this. You’re too much of a wimp for starters, ha ha. Daniel Moynihan would probably beat you and me together in a fight. But … clearly something is off here.’

  Podsy thought about it for half a minute while I held my breath and tried to calm my hands long enough to roll another smoke. I told myself, don’t mention the other stuff, whatever you do: texts, arson, Clara, that moron inside a tree, the rest of it. Nobody else seemed to have made the link to me, not the Guards nor concerned parents, not even Podsy. I assumed it was because those incidents were so dissimilar. There was no obvious pattern to them … except my strange connection.

  Finally he said, ‘Occam’s razor.’

  ‘Whose what?’

  ‘Occam’s razor. A philosophical principle. Basically it can be reduced to, “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”’

  ‘Uh … right,’ I said. ‘So according to your buddy Occan –’

  ‘Occam.’

  ‘Whatever, the explanation here is … ?’

  ‘You didn’t attack those kids – but someone did. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. Yes, a wild animal could do that, but to only choose people who’d bullied you? Statistically, it’s impossible.’

  ‘Go on. I know you have a theory, you always have a theory.’

  Podsy said, ‘They all picked on you – now someone’s getting them back on your behalf. Either with their own two hands or using, like, trained animals or something. That’s the less likely scenario, in my opinion.’

  ‘Someone? Who?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  ‘It’s not you, is it?’

  He didn’t even laugh, that’s how ridiculous the idea was. I said, ‘Sorry, that’s stupid. Who, then?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Have your mum and dad seemed a bit on edge lately?’

  ‘Very funny, Podsy.’

  ‘Hey, maybe it’s you. Some split-personality thing, like in Fight Club. Maybe Evil Aidan’s getting revenge on behalf of Wimpy Aidan, who doesn’t know the other one exists.’

  ‘And that’s even funnier.’

  ‘Joking, obviously. Although you have been acting a bit weird lately,’ Podsy added. ‘I haven’t seen much of you for a good while. You look like you haven’t slept in a month. And, and, aaaand … your kid brother told me he sometimes sees you creeping out of home at night.’

  ‘The bloody little sneak.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him. I got it out of him through low cunning and bribery. He thinks you’re some sort of vigilante, by the way, like Batman. Which obviously isn’t the case, cos Bruce Wayne is Batman.’

  I looked Podsy right in the eye. ‘No. So what do you think’s going on if I’m not Batman?’

  He looked right back. ‘I don’t know, Aidan. I’m not sure I even want to know. All I know is you’re my best friend … my only friend, prob’ly. And you’re not capable of hurting anyone. Really hurting, like. They’re a shower of pricks but even bullies don’t deserve to get assaulted that badly. And I know you think that too.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Look.’ Podsy sighed. ‘Something is happening with you, something else, besides this … whatever. Vigilante-slash-revenge thing. What that something is, I haven’t a clue. Like I said, maybe I don’t want to. Don’t even know if it’s good or bad – I’m thinking a bit of both … I assume you’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘Eh … no. Sorry, I can’t.’

  ‘What I figured. That’s okay. But it’s definitely something. You seem … different. These last few months, you’ve kind of changed. I mean in a good way – you’re more … grown-up. More sure of yourself. And that’s cool, I’m happy for you. Just … you know. Watch yourself, man.’

  ‘Thanks. I mean I will.’

  ‘If you need my help – and it’s help I can give – you know where I am.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Again. I know that, thanks. Third time.’

  ‘And don’t worry, nobody else knows. Sneaking out at night or whatever, it’s just me and the kid. Maybe make up some story for him, swear him to secrecy.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do that. Listen, Podsy, I’m gonna have to bail on you. D’you mind? Got loads of things to do. But thanks for giving me the heads-up on what people are saying.’

  ‘It’s only some, now, in fairness. Most people I’m sure know the whole thing is rubbish.’

  ‘Yeah, hopefully. Talk to you at school, all right?’

  ‘Cool, yeah. I’ll let myself out.’

  He did, while I finally lit that smoke and inhaled and exhaled a dozen times, hardly aware of either. This was mental, it was crazy. Not just the bizarre revelation that people thought I was capable of mutilating other kids or beating them into comas (capable in either sense: morally or physically). Even weirder, I thought now, was the second tranche of victims, the other connection to me that I’d kept from Podsy.

  Apart from my link with it – and the queasy suspicion that some demented stalker was out there, wreaking havoc on my behalf – parts of it simply didn’t make sense. They didn’t seem possible. The arson on McGuinness’s car, yes, that was doable. It was also possible, albeit difficult, to steal or hack someone’s mobile and fire off incendiary messages about their mate’s girlfriend. Even abducting someone, drugging them to the gills, ramming them into an oak tree: that could conceivably be carried out by someone. Not me, but someone strong and daring and ruthless.

  But the thing with whatsherface, Marina Callaghan: how could anyone have done that? Her family lived four storeys up, for God’s sake. Floating outside her window, it was inconceivable. Unless, unless …

  My mind casted around for plausible explanations, and amazingly, suggested one: you could slip a psychoactive substance into her food, after laying down subtle prompts about what you want her to think she’s seeing. Plant the seed of an image over a few weeks, then water that seed with a hit of acid or what have you. So she thinks she’s seeing the scary-beautiful face of death, when there’s nothing outside her window.

  A long shot, but possible. Was it? Just about, maybe. And it still didn’t explain how poor old Clara heard voices in her head. How’d my avenging angel get those in there?

  Oh, this was pointless. I knew I wouldn’t be able to untangle the mystery on my own, and I couldn’t hammer it out with Pods
y, my parents or anyone else … Sláine might be able to help. We’d arranged to meet that night, in our hunting lodge, right at the stroke of midnight. Two days since we’d spoken, and I’d been counting down the hours with the impatience of a kid on Christmas Eve. But now I was buzzing on an even sharper sense of anticipation. I wanted to know what was going on. Maybe Sláine could help with that.

  In the meantime, I decided on the spur of the moment, I’d do a bit of schoolwork. It would take my mind off things, these unsettling developments. Might even knock some insights into place – lateral thinking, or whatever they call it.

  My decision sharpened to a narrower focus: I’d work on that History essay for Mr Lee, the one where we imagined ourselves as a Famine survivor. The due date was within a fortnight, and I hadn’t written so much as a word. I hadn’t even opened the folder filled with notes since I scribbled them in the library that day. I smiled tenderly and thought: Sláine, you’re interfering with my education now. How long ago was that? The day I’d softened Rattigan’s cough, by the park. It seemed a long while past. Anyway, today was as good as any to get back into it.

  I scrabbled around under my bed for where the folder lay – for some reason, I remembered sliding it in there on my return from the library, to keep that stuff separate from other school notebooks and things. My fingers felt it, sharp-edged cardboard. I pulled it out, sliding ‘ssshhh’ along the carpet. Pale grey, two punched holes, secured at the top by an elastic band. I popped the elastic and opened the folder.

  And nearly dropped it again when I saw, sitting on top, sheets of paper that were not in my handwriting, not of my doing, and by the looks of them, not even from this century.

  Older Divinities

  to be something of an amateur historian. I stress ‘used to’, because I shall shortly be dead; or at least, no longer in the form I now possess. I am unsure of what precisely will result from this thing I now attempt. I hope for success, of course. I would pray for it, if prayer remained open to me. It may kill me. Or it may refashion me, making me into something new. One way or the other, the man who currently exists, the one whose hand shapes these words … soon, he will be no more.