Shiver the Whole Night Through

by Darragh McManus

  Despite the sergeant’s rehearsed reassurances, I was potentially in big trouble and I knew it. John Rattigan had been found, torn up like the other animal attacks. He was currently on life support in hospital; the scuttlebutt said it was fifty-fifty whether he lived or died. And someone had told the Guards I wanted him dead.

  The sergeant said in his broad Kerry accent, ‘No school today?’

  I mumbled some excuse about the building being closed due to snow. I could tell by his expression that Parkinson didn’t believe me but he let it slide, saying, ‘Okay, let’s go through this one more time. Clear it all up. You said to Mr Rattigan, “You’re a dead man,” or “You’ll soon be a dead man,” – words to that effect. Is our information correct?’

  ‘No, it’s not bloody correct. I didn’t say that at all. Who told you that?’

  Uncle Tim said, ‘Aidan, never mind who said it. Trust us, we have reputable witnesses to this. More than one. So will you answer the question please.’

  ‘Unc— I mean, Deputy Sergeant McGlynn. I never said anything like that. Not to Rattigan, not anyone.’

  ‘You call him by his surname,’ the sergeant said. ‘Not “John”, but “Rattigan”. You sort of spat it out there. I take it that means you don’t like the lad?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a name … All right, I admit it. I don’t like him. He’s an asshole, he was really crappy to me. Me and loads of other people. I mean the list of suspects, if you’re including everyone who had a reason to get John Rattigan? That’s a pretty long list.’

  A young guard opened the door and blurted out, ‘Sergeant, the coroner’s here about Mr Blue Skin … ’

  Parkinson glared at him and shot his eyes in my direction. The officer blushed and muttered, ‘S-sorry, sir. Uh, whenever you’re ready, sir, sorry.’

  He reversed out. I leaned back and looked out the door as it was shutting, trying to see what was happening, my interest pricked by his flippant comment. The coroner, blue skin … it made me think of Sláine.

  But the door closed, the sergeant calling through it, ‘Knock the next time, you amadán.’

  Uncle Tim added in a quiet voice, ‘And show some bloody respect for the dead.’

  I turned back to them as Parkinson glared at Tim too, before brusquely saying to me, ‘Now, let’s return to this matter before us. The two of ye had a row outside the public library and you threatened to end Mr Rattigan’s life. Yes or no?’

  I said forcefully, ‘What? No. One hundred per cent no way. What I might have said, I think I told him, “I hope you’ll be dead soon and we can all have a party.” It’s a figure of speech. I was just ragging on him.’

  The sergeant said, ‘“I hope you’re dead soon,” “You’ll be a dead man soon,” … to be honest, son, I don’t see a big difference there.’

  ‘Well, that’s too bad because there is a big difference. There’s a world of difference. Anyway, he’s not dead, is he? So why are you quoting, no misquoting, something I supposedly said about wanting to kill him? He’s still alive.’

  ‘You sound disappointed.’

  I smiled grimly and didn’t respond to that, only saying, ‘Do I need a solicitor?’

  ‘We already told you, no. This is a voluntary interview process. You came here of your own free will. You’re not under arrest or anything like that. You can call your parents, by all means, but you’ve no need to.’

  It was voluntary, Parkinson had that much right. They’d collared me outside the station as I was walking by, eyes scanning the scene around me but head in the clouds, in bloody outer space. I don’t know if Parkinson and Uncle Tim had been waiting for me – it looked as if they were, but perhaps it was simple happenstance. There I was, so they asked me to come in for a few questions. If I hadn’t gone past at that moment, they’d have called to my home. Whichever: they asked, I went in. Now here we were, going around in circles.

  I said, ‘Look, he was hassling me that day and I snapped. He’d been at me for months. That’s all there was to it. Rattigan, I let him have it. Told him he was a worthless piece of … uh, you know, like he was nothing and if he was to die – if he was, not when – the whole town would celebrate because everyone hated him.’

  ‘So you admit you hate him?’

  ‘No!’ I rubbed my eyes. This was becoming exhausting. ‘I told you: I don’t hate him. I don’t hate anyone. I don’t like him either. Nobody does, his own parents probably can’t stand him. But for the last time, I did not attack John Rattigan.’

  I stared at the cigarette-scarred desktop. This must be an old piece of furniture; smoking had been banned in Garda stations for donkey’s years. Pity – I could really have done with a fag. I thought of Rattigan: his unconscious body had been discovered by a geology student two days before, semi-buried in ice-encrusted dirt halfway up Sliabh Cohnda, the tallest mountain of ten or so which bordered our town on its north side. And the Guards, evidently, had decided to act on those rumours about me.

  Rattigan came from what’s known as ‘a bad family’. His parents didn’t give a rat’s ass about him – I’d had that right. They hadn’t even reported him missing. But of course they were all, right now, in the station lobby, loudly and aggressively bellowing at the desk sergeant, demanding ‘justice for poor Johnny’ and threatening reprisals on ‘the bad bastard who done this on our boy’. Uncle Tim had whisked me in the side entrance; was he worried one of them would make a go for me? Jesus, that was all I needed: a horde of lunatic Rattigans out for my blood.

  By all accounts ‘poor Johnny’ had been really messed up, even worse than the previous victims. His face, someone said, was unrecognisable – because it was missing several parts. I didn’t know how much of this was true.

  Parkinson was still worrying away at me like a dog at a bone. ‘What about the others?’

  I knew what he was referring to but some inner stubbornness made me play dumb. ‘Huh? What about what others?’

  Uncle Tim said gently, ‘Aidan, you know what others. Several people have been assaulted in a violent manner over the course of the last two months.’

  ‘Yeah. By wild animals.’

  ‘Probably wild animals. We don’t know for sure yet.’

  Parkinson corrected him: ‘Possibly wild animals. And possibly not.’

  He raised his eyebrows at me. I smiled, looked away, trying to appear cool and reasonable, not shifty or nervous. I hadn’t done anything wrong but that meant sweet FA in a police station. The atmosphere itself, the awareness of where you were, made you feel you had.

  I forced myself to speak. ‘What about it? What’s it got to do with me?’

  Parkinson said, ‘What it’s got to do with you is that many of them had bullied you, if not all of them. We know this. There’s no shame in it. You were the victim, we understand that. It happens to a lot of very fine people, more’s the pity. You’re not the first and won’t be the last. Bullying is an awful scourge in our society.’

  Embarrassment coloured my cheeks a lurid crimson. I said quietly, ‘So … ?’

  ‘So, my boy, that gives you reason to want to hurt them. Revenge is a powerful motive in many crimes. And do you know, it’s an understandable one, too. We can’t condone it – indeed we must come down hard on it – but our common humanity allows us to empathise at the same time. The desire for revenge: it’s a strong one, Aidan. And it makes seemingly normal people do extraordinary things.’

  I looked at him. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘I don’t have to believe it – sure, I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.’

  ‘No, I mean about me.’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. You might say I’m keeping … ’

  ‘ … An open mind. Yeah, I get it.’

  Parkinson and Uncle Tim looked at each other, a little bemused. Tim’s phone vibrated; the sergeant gave him the evil eye yet again. He flipped it open and listened, then turned away and whispered, ‘Another one? Good Christ. Yeah, hold on there. We’ll
send out a CS unit – be with you in an hour.’ He added to Parkinson, ‘I’ll tell you about it after.’

  I cut in, saying, ‘I actually do feel like calling my parents and getting them to bring in the solicitor. But if I do that, I’m thinking it makes me look guilty. So … it’s a bit of a catch-22 for me, isn’t it?’

  The sergeant leaned in. ‘And do you feel guilty about something, Aidan?’

  I puffed out my cheeks in exasperation and for a moment forgot how worried I was. ‘Oh come on. That’s the best you’ve got? That’s your big psychological play, to try and trick me into confessing to something?’

  Parkinson actually looked embarrassed. I could have sworn Uncle Tim was biting back a giggle. I went on, ‘Man, you know I didn’t do any of this. Didn’t, wouldn’t, and damn sure couldn’t. Look at me, for Christ’s sake. I weigh about ten stone. You think I’ve got the upper-body strength to beat someone into a coma? To get the better of John Rattigan in a scrap? God Almighty.’

  Parkinson raised his hands. He said, ‘Well, who knows what anyone could do, if pushed to it? If the inner motivation is strong enough. People lift cars off trapped children, they rush into burning buildings to save Granny, not caring a fig about the flames. Not feeling them, even. We just don’t know, Aidan. What we’re really capable of.’

  ‘May I go, please? I don’t think I want to stay here any more.’

  ‘You may. But don’t get any ideas about skipping town or heading to England or anything like that. We might want to speak with you again.’

  ‘So I’m officially a suspect, then?’

  ‘Not officially. Yet.’

  I shook my head in disgust. ‘This is ridiculous. I’m going.’ I stomped to the door and turned back. ‘Could you … Listen, please don’t say anything to my parents. I don’t want them worried over nothing. And it is nothing, I’m telling you.’

  The sergeant shrugged again. ‘We’ll see. But don’t fret, your mam and dad won’t hear anything from us. For the time being.’

  Uncle Tim gave me an encouraging smile and said, ‘D’you need a lift home, Aidan?’ Parkinson scowled at him. I got Tim out of this self-dug hole by saying no thanks, and left quickly. He called after me, ‘Go out the back way, there might be some of those bloody eejit Rattigans still hanging around the desk.’ I did.

  ‘For the time being.’ Such menace in those four simple words. And such weight, the deadweight of potential disaster, so heavy I could almost physically feel it dragging me down.

  I went outside and the sun was blinding. I started walking some random route; air and exercise to clear my head, a cigarette to steady my nerves. This situation was getting serious, but the funny thing was, I had a more immediate problem: Sláine.

  More specifically, where the hell she’d got to. I knew in my heart on Sunday night, when I found the lodge empty, that she was properly gone – not detained, or on her way, but gone. Where, for how long, I couldn’t say. I couldn’t fathom what was going on. Now it was Tuesday, past half-three in the afternoon, and there’d been absolutely no contact. She was off the grid lost on the wind. She was, to use a word so appropriate it made me feel uneasy, a ghost.

  That night, I’d taken a moment to accept she was gone, then mentally shrugged and trudged back home. I didn’t know what else to do. On Monday I woke at dawn, before dawn, and waited in the fading dark. For want of a better plan, I skipped school and stayed in my room, staying out of sight, thinking, not thinking. Thinking when I didn’t want to think, and vice-versa. Not for the first time, I felt in over my head. As if I were drowning in a sea of confusion and mystery. It was too large, too powerful. This whole thing was coming at me again and again, giant waves of it, and I was powerless to resist. It was surely only a matter of time before I slipped under.

  Lunchtime rolled around and I was still waiting. There’d been no sign of her, no ice writing on the wall or voices in my head, nothing. So I headed out, striking into the heart of Shook Woods, in search of her. Every place we visited, every path walked, every tree passed or rock sat on. She wasn’t there. I walked the roads around the forest, then every other road in the area that I could. I hiked up the mountains as high as I was able. I crossed beaches and sand dunes. She was nowhere to be seen.

  Later I’d slept in the hunting lodge, exhausted, all night through, in the forlorn hope she’d return and explain that, oh my God, it was all a terrible mix-up and everything was fine! I fell asleep on the old bed dreaming that Sláine would stride in the door and tell me the whole story, and how silly I’d feel for worrying, but so deliriously happy that the silliness not only stopped being an embarrassment, but added to my happiness, perfected it, like a spot of cream on an ice-cream sundae.

  That didn’t happen. She remained gone, gone, far gone.

  By Tuesday morning I was walking the streets, cutting school again, during the daytime, which was ridiculous because Sláine was hardly going to materialise in broad daylight outside the shopping centre or Supermac’s. I did it anyway. It hadn’t worked, except to draw me into the clutches of Parkinson and Uncle Tim.

  All along I continued to wait because what else was I supposed to do? I didn’t have a choice. I felt paralysed and useless and waited some more.

  Now I sat on a park bench and whispered, ‘Where are you, Sláine?’ A squad car rushed past across the street – one driver in uniform and two forensics types in those padded white onesies they wear – as I considered the question.

  Was she dead? As in, properly dead, no more afterlife, no more strange existence as a shadowy entity, haunting the forest and my dreams? Maybe she had an allotted time after her mortal death and then, click, it truly was all over. Maybe Sláine hadn’t foreseen this happening, it came too fast and she was gone before she knew it so there was no way to warn me.

  Or maybe, genius, she sodded off and left you without bothering to say goodbye. I didn’t believe that. I think I didn’t. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have admitted it to myself.

  I felt lost without her, I realised. She’d only been missing a day and a half, and already my life didn’t seem to have the same purpose. It was on pause while I awaited her return, a state of limbo made worse by anxious uncertainty. And … and … I think I knew then that I was in love with her.

  The park was practically frozen solid, as was everywhere else. The temperatures, incredibly, had continued to fall: now the daytime average was around minus five, nights dipping as low as minus twenty. For Ireland, this was unparalleled. My mother had fallen on the treacherous ground the day before and sprained her wrist. I thought I’d get her something, a gift to cheer her up and a little mission to distract me.

  So I wobbled across town, cautious on that slippery surface, to an old antiques shop in an alleyway. I’d never been inside before. I’d never even seen the owner, but had passed more times than I could count. They always had a collection of interesting-looking things in the window: all sort of gewgaws and trinkets and dideys, a piled-up mass of bric-a-brac collapsing on itself, the relics of hundreds of forgotten lives.

  I went in, a bell tinkling to announce my entry, and had a look around. There was as much dust as objects for sale in here, but I didn’t mind. It kind of gave the place a romantic atmosphere, like something out of an old movie about Victorian times. Jack the Ripper might dash in here, fleeing from the bobbies. Pity the street outside had no cobblestones, just boring concrete slabs.

  A voice spoke, small and quavering but quite strong. I almost yelped in shock. ‘Flood. Isn’t that it?’

  I whirled around. A tiny woman had come through an alcove and stood behind the counter. It reached her chest, so high that she looked slightly out of scale with the rest of the shop. I squinted through the gloom and thought I’d seen her before, but not in here. Where … ? She sort of resembled the woman Sláine had ‘hypnotised’ into coming over to me, outside the park, after I’d given both barrels to Rattigan; the same one who might have slipped William McAuley’s letter into my bag.

  Then
again, maybe it wasn’t her. All old people look alike, don’t they? Babies and old folks – we look the same as everyone else at the start and end of life.

  She gave a small smile and said, ‘I know who you are. Our two families go a long way back in this town.’

  ‘Um … thanks. I mean, okay.’

  ‘I’m Meredith. Your parents will know me if you want to give them my regards.’ She waved a hand around the shop. ‘Have a good look. Take your time and decide what you want.’

  I did as she suggested. There were some pretty things on those shelves, the sort of stuff my mam would definitely like. After a few minutes of browsing I narrowed it down to an old brass bell shaped like a woman in a ballgown, and a piece of coral embedded in a half-sphere of glass. I held each in my hand, getting a feel for them, their weight and balance, how they reflected the light.

  The old lady spoke again, almost to herself, her voice drifting across to my ears like dust motes in the still air: ‘I will bring a flood of waters to destroy all flesh in which is the breath of life. Everything on the earth shall die.’

  My skin crawled. Those words … where had I heard them before?

  Sláine. The first night we met.

  I spun around again. ‘How do you know those lines?’

  Meredith said, ‘The Bible. I’m sure I have them a bit mixed up, but that’s more-or-less the way it goes.’

  ‘But –’ I stopped myself from asking, ‘How did you know that Sláine had spoken them too?’ Because of course she didn’t know – it was a coincidence. Lots of people read the Bible, and she knew my name was Flood, and that was a quote about the Flood, the Noah’s Ark one. You’d have looked a right eejit, I told myself, making some wild hypothesis out of this lady reciting part of a book.