Dance With the Dead

by James Nally

  ‘Help yourself.’ She smiled. ‘I’m just knocking up some chilli and rice.’

  I poured a large one and was busily launching into an aquarium-scaled guzzle when she walked back in.

  ‘Better get the work stuff out of the way,’ she gabbled, ‘you know, before we eat.’

  I nodded, discreetly allowing a quarter pint of red to slosh back into the glass.

  ‘In the dog vomit, I found a chunk of hair with a little red stain. That’s what I was trying to show you this morning when Fintan turned up. It looks the same as the paint we found in Liz Little’s scalp wounds, so I sent it down to those specialists in Teddington. They rang back this evening confirming that it’s paint and a large enough sample to identify.’

  Freeze-frame images of Liz flashed before my eyes like lightning strikes: sashaying towards me in our sitting room, smiling coyly, blood pouring from those perfectly round holes in her skull. We’re doing all we can for you, Liz, my brain told her, I promise.

  ‘I probably should have left it for the pathologist,’ she said, ‘but I wanted to save time and get it down to them right away.’

  ‘Zoe, this is brilliant news. I’m so touched that you did that for me. I know it feels like a long shot.’

  ‘Well, they’re lovely, these paint people – real geeks and ridiculously excited about it all. They’re going to analyse it first thing and get back to me. Ooh, that sounds like the rice boiling over.’

  She returned with two heaped plates to just one appetite. I picked at mine absently, chewing through the motions. She tore into hers ravenously, shovelling spooned piles into her chatting gob in a refreshingly unladylike fashion.

  She talked and talked, the headlines going something like this:

  * Became a forensics officer through a combined passion for Nancy Drew, her chemistry teacher and Quincy.

  ‘Jack Klugman was my first crush, weird or what?’

  Not nearly weird enough to tell her mine …

  * Had specialised in ear identification at college … ‘better than fingerprints … no two ear lobes are the same …’

  * Finds her job emotionally difficult since having Matthew. She now ‘feels’ too much.

  * Has to constantly remind her mum not to interfere with how she raises Matthew.

  * Dad’s a workaholic who doesn’t take a lot of interest in any of them.

  * One sibling, older brother Richard, something in the City but very nice.

  * Loves the theatre. Set design is what she’d really like to do. Hasn’t been since Matthew’s birth.

  * Reads the Guardian, votes Labour and considers herself a socialist.

  * Hopes to make enough money to buy her own place somewhere with good schools.

  By midnight, we surrendered to a glorious couch-based haze of wine, 80s indie and stale cigarettes. She’d given up while pregnant but stashed a box of twenty in case of emergency. Our mutual unspoken fear of disastrous first sex was that emergency.

  In the absence of a lighter or matches, we had to ignite them directly off the gas oven ring, a tricky undertaking that inexplicably reduced us to hysterics on several occasions. At one point, I genuinely feared we were high on North Sea Gas.

  We barely touched on my life story at all, which suited me fine.

  Me, oh well, let’s see now, Da’s in the RA, Ma’s in the mental, Fintan’s going to hell and I see dead people. Oh yeah, and my ex-girlfriend is a convicted murderer.

  It seemed a shame to spoil things so early.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s twenty past one,’ she gasped, then groaned.

  ‘He’ll be up in five hours.’

  I got to my feet and offered her a hand. As I did, I noticed strange green goo literally wrapped around her feet and ankles.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘it looks like you’ve been knitted in Hulk shit.’

  She leaned forward and looked down.

  ‘Oh Matthew!’ she moaned, ‘it’s his bloody glow in the dark Gak. It must be under the sofa. These are my best shoes.’

  ‘You cross and uncross your legs a lot.’

  ‘I never realised I did that.’

  ‘I like uncrossed better. Don’t move,’ I said, dropping to my knees in front of her.

  I set about unpicking the rubbery luminous gloop and unwinding it from around her shoes, nyloned ankles and calves.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ she said.

  ‘That’s quite okay, I have a bit of a fetish for tights anyway.’

  ‘These are stockings actually.’

  I swallowed hard and kept my focus on her ankles.

  ‘I hope you approve.’

  ‘I think there’s a good chance I might actually die of desire.’

  When our lips met it earthed every volt in the universe right through me, causing the house lights to literally flicker off and on. That has to be a good sign, I thought, as her warm soft lips explored mine. I let my hands do the same. Then everything went black.

  ‘Shit,’ said Zoe, leaping to her feet, knocking me backwards off my knees.

  The side of my head hit something hard. Fireworks exploded. My mind flailed.

  ‘Georgina?’ I shouted. Had she come to me, right now?

  A banshee wail suddenly pierced the blackout.

  ‘Oh, well done,’ snapped Zoe, ‘now you’ve woken him and he’s terrified of the dark. That’s my hopes of sleep gone for tonight.’

  I lay there, paralysed, woozy, shocked at the violent certainty of her rejection.

  ‘Sorry,’ I gasped, ‘what the hell’s happening?’

  ‘The bloody electric key has run out. Mum was supposed to get it charged today. I’d better get up there. Oh Christ.’

  I shook the stars out of my head and hauled myself up.

  ‘Have you got a torch or candles?’ I croaked.

  ‘There’s a box of candles in the kitchen drawer.’

  ‘Right, I’m going to open the curtains to let some street light in. Then we’ll head to the kitchen, find those candles and light them. If we put enough of them in his room, he’ll be okay, at least until I get the key charged.’

  Streetlight peered in reluctantly, eventually moulding shapes out of the black. I followed Zoe into the kitchen.

  ‘We’ll laugh about this in a few weeks,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve only just got him into his own room. With his dad not being here … it’s all been a bit, well, you know …’

  She palmed the kitchen units, pulled a drawer and tipped candles out on the top.

  I turned a dial and pressed the igniter as the howling upstairs grew hysterical.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Zoe.

  ‘Here,’ I said, lighting four at the same time, ‘take these, go to him. Just tell me where the electric key is.’

  ‘White box above the front door. The charging station is next to Our Price on the High Street. Have you got change?’

  ‘That’s the great thing about boozers, we always have change. I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I said, but she’d already gone to him.

  Thirty minutes later I slotted in the charged key, recharged my wine glass and took to the sofa.

  Matthew settled eventually and Zoe appeared, looking every bit as burned out and melted as the candles in her hand. It wasn’t just the power that zapped off half an hour ago …

  ‘I’ll head out and grab a taxi,’ I said, standing.

  ‘This is the suburbs, Donal, taxis don’t come here.’

  ‘I’m sure I can track down some dodgy minicab …’

  ‘I think you’ve done enough wandering about on our behalf for one night. Take the couch. Matthew will come in with me in the morning, so as long as you’re out by 7 …’

  ‘Well, it is a bit of a trek back …’

  From nowhere she produced a duvet that smelled of flowers, a crisp pillow and a natty little toiletry travel bag.

  ‘A coat and a couch is the best you’d get at ours.’

  ‘Maybe next time I’ll get Mum round and we can meet somewhere out
, like the theatre,’ she said, shaking the folds out of the duvet.

  What did that mean … that tonight had been a disaster?

  ‘Goodnight,’ she said and the light clicked off once more to taunt me. I’d been that close. Someone up there was determined that I die a virgin.

  I checked the time … 02.50. I sensed that sleep might not take me at all tonight, so decided to treat myself to a nightcap. Anything to stop me thinking about Zoe peeling off those black stockings …

  As I tiptoed towards where I thought I’d left the bottle, I stepped on something soft and furry, which set off a tinkling, high-pitched nursery rhyme.

  I froze. Should I pick up and muffle this creepy little jingle, or just let it play out? Instead, I found myself humming along to that tune from my childhood.

  How much is that doggie in the window?

  The one with the waggly tail.

  How much is that doggie in the window?

  I do hope that doggie’s for sale.

  The tinny little tune died. As, nearly, did I when a soft woman’s voice carried on singing.

  I must take a trip to California.

  And leave my sweetheart alone.

  If he has a dog, he won’t be lonesome.

  And the dog will have a good home.

  I inched around slowly towards the sweet voice. Georgina Bell swayed from side to side a foot or so above me, her eyes all white, like a pair of table-tennis balls, clutching a small knife to her own throat. Suddenly her top lip curled in malignant hate.

  I read in the papers there are robbers.

  With flashlights that shine in the dark.

  My love needs a dog to protect him.

  And scare them away with one bark.

  She plunged the knife into her lower stomach, dragging it across until blood poured. She dropped the knife and pulled the wound open. Blood spilled out, followed by guts linked like pink sausages. A cascade of loose change bounced deafeningly off the hardwood floor. A whole choir of women’s voices now sang, hideously off-key …

  I don’t want a bunny or a kitten.

  I don’t want a parrot who talks.

  I don’t want a bowl of little fishes.

  He can’t take a goldfish for a walk.

  Georgina dropped suddenly so that she was an inch from my face, swinging from side to side by the neck, her wet lips quivering grotesquely. The banshee choir howled:

  How much is that doggie in the window?

  The one with the waggly tail.

  I spun around in horror. Another body fell down fast in front of me, so that we were nose-to-nose. Liz Little’s Glasgow Smile sang along to the tune, like some grotesquely gurning carp whose lipstick had been applied by a toddler.

  How much is that doggie in the window?

  I do hope that doggie’s for sale.

  I screamed and felt the corners of my mouth split. The rip continued all the way to my ears so that I could actually hear the flesh wrenching apart and flapping. I braced myself for pain but felt none until the fault line reached my lobes. Both ears suddenly raged as if on fire.

  I screamed and spun again, lost my footing and crash-landed face-first into a world of jagged pain. A white flash convulsed me into the foetal position. My right eye flickered open to a Mutant Ninja Turtle. Donal, meet Donatello.

  ‘Cowabunga,’ I groaned.

  ‘Donal?’ hissed Zoe.

  I couldn’t face her, not yet, so I propped myself up and winced at the wreckage. It looked as if I’d spent several minutes pogoing on poor Matthew’s toys.

  ‘I didn’t think you were this pissed,’ she spat, witheringly.

  I turned to see her standing at the half-open door, Matthew whimpering in her arms, his big old watery eyes molesting mine. No Irishman will ever accept that he’s drunk. A bit worse for wear, perhaps. And I wasn’t about to buck that proud tradition. Far better, my male pride reasoned, to hold up my hands to a quasi-psychotic dream episode than some emasculating squiffy tumble.

  ‘I’m sorry, Zoe, I had this terrible dream. God, I hope I haven’t broken too much.’

  ‘You’ve scared him half to death.’

  ‘Sorry, Matthew,’ I patronised, as you do with kids. ‘I fell off the couch.’

  He froze briefly, then glowered at me from beneath his David Cassidy fringe, like that creepy little boy out of The Shining. Zoe wore that look of betrayal I knew so well from previous romantic car wrecks.

  ‘I’ll tidy up and leave you in peace,’ I said, ‘and I’ll replace any damage. I’m really sorry, Zoe. Sometimes I get these horrendous dreams, you know, when I’ve had a shock.’

  ‘I think you need help,’ she said blankly, making me wish I’d just accepted her original prognosis of blind drunkenness.

  ‘How can I ever trust you to take care of us?’ she added, choking on indignity, ‘or to take care of Matthew, when you can’t even take care of yourself?’

  Chapter 29

  Arsenal, North London

  Saturday, April 10, 1993; 08.30

  ‘As you were the one so keen to get rid of Da,’ said Fintan, crunching on his Shreddies, ‘you can help me move him into the flat in Woodberry this morning.’

  ‘What did he say last night, about helping us set a trap for Conlon?’

  ‘He’s up for it. The only problem is he hasn’t heard from him in days. I sense he’d do anything to get to him. Conor The Beard’s clearly entrusted him with getting hold of this damning footage. They’re all desperate.’

  ‘What is he going to offer Conlon, on Conor’s behalf?’

  ‘A pot of cash and a personal guarantee that he won’t be whacked or prosecuted.’

  ‘Why isn’t Conlon answering his phone? Maybe he’s already handed it over to the Brits?’

  ‘Jesus, don’t say that in front of Da.’

  ‘Have you managed to get hold of Conlon’s mobile number?’

  ‘Not yet. But when I do, my ex-copper pal Dennis reckons he can get someone to trace the signals for us. We find him, Da has a word, you take him away. Everyone’s happy.’

  ‘Yer certain Da’s not gonna do something to him?’

  ‘As certain as anyone can be. Da reckons Conlon’s entrusted the footage to someone else who’ll release it to the media if any harm comes to him.’

  ‘Fucking hell, he’s got some balls on him, that boy.’

  Fintan drove me over in the Mondeo, still wittering on about its unique state-of-the-art features. We picked up Da outside the Manor House pub. I hadn’t seen him since our ‘chat’ Tuesday night.

  ‘Thanks for telling me you know Conlon,’ I said, as soon as he slammed the back door, ‘and for trying to use us to get to him. Jesus, how can you expect us to trust you ever again?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Donal, but there’s a fucking war going on. We’ve had three thousand people killed over the last twenty-five years. Sorry if I didn’t level with you about everything. Sorry for putting the chances of peace ahead of your murder hunt.’

  Rage gripped my entire frame. ‘Oh, forgive me, Da, I’d no idea you and your Provo pals had been mongering peace all this time. And now you’re trying to cover up the fact Conor’s brother is a paedo. How fucking honourable you all are.’

  ‘Why should something like that fuck up the first chance of peace we’ve had for a quarter of a century? Do you ever stop to think about anything above your own immediate needs?’

  We sat in silence the rest of the way.

  As we parked up outside the eight-storey Nicholl House, I imagined being the person who brought Georgie Bell’s dead body here. Maybe going ‘method’ would offer up a fresh clue.

  ‘Where is this flat?’ I asked Fintan.

  ‘Third floor.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we check it out first?’

  ‘God, yeah.’

  We took the lift. The windows to number 36 had been completely blacked out.

  ‘How do we know there aren’t squatters in there?’ I said.


  Fintan gestured at me to stay quiet and planted an ear to the front door.

  ‘All clear, I think,’ he said.

  He unlocked the door and pushed it in. Pitch black. He tried the light switch. No response.

  ‘Have you got a torch?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘There could be anything in here. Have you got fifty pence?’

  I rummaged.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, offering it to him.

  ‘Well, stick it in the meter then.’

  ‘You stick it in the meter.’

  ‘I’ve just unlocked the door.’

  I grumbled and crept reluctantly into shadow. I found a meter and groped it until the slot found my right hand. It took several attempts to angle the coin’s edges into the tiny slot. The handle resisted my twist. Finally, the flat zapped familiar yellow, soothing our nerves.

  ‘My God,’ I said, as I dialled Zoe’s number, ‘this has just given me an idea.’

  I gave the outside of number 42 Ennerdale House a ferocious pacing, but it failed to banish last night’s Rolodex of horrors flipping through my mind.

  For starters, I got way too pissed. Then she practically drop-kicked me across her sitting room; an instinctive violent reaction to the black-out or to my straying hands, only she knew for certain.

  I’d woken Matthew twice and crushed 30 per cent of his toys. To top it all, she found me foetal on her sitting room floor, howling at some canine-themed cabaret performed by the ghosts of two recently slain women.

  Yeah, sure Zoe, let’s book tickets to the theatre … I haven’t got half enough piss-poor, shouty drama going on here in my own cursed head …

  Only a cameo appearance by Robert Conlon, Matthew’s errant dad or a pair of puking German Shepherds could have zapped her ardour more effectively.

  Any second now, she’d get to the top of those rancid stairs and seal our fate with just one glance. Brisk, business-like and efficient, and we’re through. A smile, then I’m still in there with a shot. Never had I craved facial acquiescence so desperately. Pontius Pilate’s thumb had nothing on it.

  A set of tired feet clomped the concrete and I held my breath. She clocked me with one of those inscrutably flat, closed-mouth grimaces and a nod. I beamed like leaking radiation.

  ‘I’ve got literally five minutes,’ she panted.