When You Wake up and Scream
Chapter Ten.
Conán didn't realise that he had fallen asleep until he woke up. Startled, he wondered what had woken him up, and then he heard it. Footsteps, in the house.
Conán sat up quickly but quietly, and crept out of the bath. He was transported back to his childhood, the times where he had no longer cared if he lived or died, and he had snuck downstairs in the dead of night to steal food from the fridge, or perhaps hide some of his mother's alcohol so he could silently laugh at her the next morning. It had all come back to him, and his feet were light on the floor and his breathing made no sound in the still night air.
He could distinctly hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. It was still dark outside, so he knew that it must still be early in the morning.
Conán heard the footsteps stop all of a sudden, outside the bathroom door. Conán was confident that he couldn't be heard, as he had been an expert in silence since the day he had been born, but perhaps there was some other small clue betraying his position?
Conán moved his eyes down to his feet. There was no dirt or mud on his shoes, so perhaps it was a fluke? Or perhaps whoever it was also had Conán's ability to sense danger?
Conán stepped back against the wall incase the stranger opened the door. His gamble had paid off, as the door creaked open at this point. Conán silently sucked in as much air as he could, holding his breath and he heard someone step cautiously into the room. If he was going to pull what he had in mind off perfectly, he was going to wait for the exact right moment to make his move.
The stranger was a shabby man. Conán wondered if perhaps he was homeless. The man was jumpy, nearly leaping out of his skin when a cat yowled outside in the run down street. A door opened further down the street and a woman could be heard shrieking at it to come in, even though it was the middle of the night. This street had never been known for its neighbourly love.
Conán took this as his opportunity, and while the cat's yowls and the woman's shrieking distracted the man, Conán stepped forward and silently approached the man from behind, not making a sound but taking advantage of the fact that the man wasn't tuned into anything that was happening in the room.
Conán suddenly made his move, and he grabbed the man by throwing his arm around the stranger's neck, pulling him against him. He didn't give the strange man a chance to yell, to struggle, or anything of the sort. He knew the right amount of pressure to apply to the neck to kill quickly. It may only be his fourth time murdering someone, but it was his third victim who would die from strangulation, and Conán had been a quick learner when it came to these sorts of things – the things he did best.
Conán was breathing deeply as he felt the man becoming weaker against him, beginning to loose consciousness. It was strange to enjoy these things, but Conán never saw it as abnormal. It was the ultimate display of power, something that he had never had before. He enjoyed it, and he would never be heard to deny it.
The man had gone slightly purple now, and Conán let him drop to the floor. He was still breathing, but Conán preferred he finish them off by crouching next to them and pressing both of his hands against their throat. He liked to be able to see their faces when they died. It reminded him that these were people, and that finally he had some control over someone else. It played to Conán's advantage that his victims were either bums or hookers. They usually had no family that cared about them, so pressure for the crime to be solved was low.
This particular crime was finished now – the man was dead, but Conán kept the pressure on his neck for a few minutes more, just to be sure. He didn't want to leave a victim alive – it would be a massive failure on his part.
Conán had the urge to go through the man's pockets, and because the house was derelict and deserted and he was in no hurry, he decided to oblige the urge. The body was wearing a long, shabby coat with a lot of pockets, and Conán had fun going through them all. He found a half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he decided to keep for himself, but the real find came when he looked through the two inside pockets of the coat. Inside one pocket was a plastic bag full of what Conán instantly recognised as heroin rocks. There were far too many there for personal use, even for the most addicted of people, and Conán instantly clicked that this man must be a dealer, and to have so much on him, he must be an incredibly large dealer in the business.
The biggest find, however, came in the form of another plastic bag in the dead man's other pocket. Conán's hands were trembling as he realised what it was, and he knew that he was going to have to think things through carefully now. Held in the bag in his hand, were wads upon wads of Euros. On closer inspection, Conán realised that the wads were made out of twenty, fifty and one hundred Euro notes. Conán looked up into the face of the dead man.
"Well, thank you, chap," he said to him, grinning broadly. "Whiskey and some money, cheers for that."
Conán opened the bag and began to count the wads of cash. He finally gave up after reaching seven thousand and seeing that there was still plenty more. He couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, and so he pocketed the money in an inside pocket of his own jacket. He put the whiskey into his other pocket, and then he paused, wondering what he was going to do about the drugs.
Conán's criminal mind expertly went into fast-forward. When, or if, for that matter, the man was found, (Conán decided that the man probably would be found, as he would start to smell after a while), the Garda, if they did follow up the investigation, would find out that he was involved in the drug business. If the money was gone, they would know he had been robbed, but they would be confused as to why the drugs were left as it would appear to them to be a drug feud killing. If Conán took both the drugs and the money, he would help with the illusion of it being a drug war, and no suspicion would be directed at an outside force.
It was settled, then. He pocketed the drugs as well, but the one thought going through his mind was the problem of how to dispose of them. He knew that if he were caught with all of this on him, he would be going down himself, although he was determined that the Garda wouldn't find out about his being a murderer. He would still be thrown into jail, and loose his money, though.
The money. He was going to have to be very careful. He couldn't let anyone know that he now had thousands upon thousands of Euros sitting in his pocket. When the body was found, this would look incredibly suspicious. He couldn't go and pay his landlord immediately, as he was known to be a waster who was bordering on alcoholism and who was nearly out of a job. He would bide his time and stay somewhere else, and then give his landlord the exact amount so as not to raise suspicion. His landlord probably wouldn’t notice, as he was nearly out of his head with old age, but his daughter would, and she was visiting him more regularly now he was starting to forget the simple things. The daughter hated Conán, and Conán hated her right back. It was probably her who had called the Gardai.
No. He would have to wait and make it look like he had scrimped and saved, and pretend to be a bum for a little while longer. He couldn't let himself get greedy. If he let his greed take him over, he knew he would slip up, and then everything he had done would come crashing down around his head and he would be looking at a long prison sentence.
He could hear his mother laughing at the thought in his head.
Conán sat up quickly but quietly, and crept out of the bath. He was transported back to his childhood, the times where he had no longer cared if he lived or died, and he had snuck downstairs in the dead of night to steal food from the fridge, or perhaps hide some of his mother's alcohol so he could silently laugh at her the next morning. It had all come back to him, and his feet were light on the floor and his breathing made no sound in the still night air.
He could distinctly hear the footsteps coming up the stairs. It was still dark outside, so he knew that it must still be early in the morning.
Conán heard the footsteps stop all of a sudden, outside the bathroom door. Conán was confident that he couldn't be heard, as he had been an expert in silence since the day he had been born, but perhaps there was some other small clue betraying his position?
Conán moved his eyes down to his feet. There was no dirt or mud on his shoes, so perhaps it was a fluke? Or perhaps whoever it was also had Conán's ability to sense danger?
Conán stepped back against the wall incase the stranger opened the door. His gamble had paid off, as the door creaked open at this point. Conán silently sucked in as much air as he could, holding his breath and he heard someone step cautiously into the room. If he was going to pull what he had in mind off perfectly, he was going to wait for the exact right moment to make his move.
The stranger was a shabby man. Conán wondered if perhaps he was homeless. The man was jumpy, nearly leaping out of his skin when a cat yowled outside in the run down street. A door opened further down the street and a woman could be heard shrieking at it to come in, even though it was the middle of the night. This street had never been known for its neighbourly love.
Conán took this as his opportunity, and while the cat's yowls and the woman's shrieking distracted the man, Conán stepped forward and silently approached the man from behind, not making a sound but taking advantage of the fact that the man wasn't tuned into anything that was happening in the room.
Conán suddenly made his move, and he grabbed the man by throwing his arm around the stranger's neck, pulling him against him. He didn't give the strange man a chance to yell, to struggle, or anything of the sort. He knew the right amount of pressure to apply to the neck to kill quickly. It may only be his fourth time murdering someone, but it was his third victim who would die from strangulation, and Conán had been a quick learner when it came to these sorts of things – the things he did best.
Conán was breathing deeply as he felt the man becoming weaker against him, beginning to loose consciousness. It was strange to enjoy these things, but Conán never saw it as abnormal. It was the ultimate display of power, something that he had never had before. He enjoyed it, and he would never be heard to deny it.
The man had gone slightly purple now, and Conán let him drop to the floor. He was still breathing, but Conán preferred he finish them off by crouching next to them and pressing both of his hands against their throat. He liked to be able to see their faces when they died. It reminded him that these were people, and that finally he had some control over someone else. It played to Conán's advantage that his victims were either bums or hookers. They usually had no family that cared about them, so pressure for the crime to be solved was low.
This particular crime was finished now – the man was dead, but Conán kept the pressure on his neck for a few minutes more, just to be sure. He didn't want to leave a victim alive – it would be a massive failure on his part.
Conán had the urge to go through the man's pockets, and because the house was derelict and deserted and he was in no hurry, he decided to oblige the urge. The body was wearing a long, shabby coat with a lot of pockets, and Conán had fun going through them all. He found a half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he decided to keep for himself, but the real find came when he looked through the two inside pockets of the coat. Inside one pocket was a plastic bag full of what Conán instantly recognised as heroin rocks. There were far too many there for personal use, even for the most addicted of people, and Conán instantly clicked that this man must be a dealer, and to have so much on him, he must be an incredibly large dealer in the business.
The biggest find, however, came in the form of another plastic bag in the dead man's other pocket. Conán's hands were trembling as he realised what it was, and he knew that he was going to have to think things through carefully now. Held in the bag in his hand, were wads upon wads of Euros. On closer inspection, Conán realised that the wads were made out of twenty, fifty and one hundred Euro notes. Conán looked up into the face of the dead man.
"Well, thank you, chap," he said to him, grinning broadly. "Whiskey and some money, cheers for that."
Conán opened the bag and began to count the wads of cash. He finally gave up after reaching seven thousand and seeing that there was still plenty more. He couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this, and so he pocketed the money in an inside pocket of his own jacket. He put the whiskey into his other pocket, and then he paused, wondering what he was going to do about the drugs.
Conán's criminal mind expertly went into fast-forward. When, or if, for that matter, the man was found, (Conán decided that the man probably would be found, as he would start to smell after a while), the Garda, if they did follow up the investigation, would find out that he was involved in the drug business. If the money was gone, they would know he had been robbed, but they would be confused as to why the drugs were left as it would appear to them to be a drug feud killing. If Conán took both the drugs and the money, he would help with the illusion of it being a drug war, and no suspicion would be directed at an outside force.
It was settled, then. He pocketed the drugs as well, but the one thought going through his mind was the problem of how to dispose of them. He knew that if he were caught with all of this on him, he would be going down himself, although he was determined that the Garda wouldn't find out about his being a murderer. He would still be thrown into jail, and loose his money, though.
The money. He was going to have to be very careful. He couldn't let anyone know that he now had thousands upon thousands of Euros sitting in his pocket. When the body was found, this would look incredibly suspicious. He couldn't go and pay his landlord immediately, as he was known to be a waster who was bordering on alcoholism and who was nearly out of a job. He would bide his time and stay somewhere else, and then give his landlord the exact amount so as not to raise suspicion. His landlord probably wouldn’t notice, as he was nearly out of his head with old age, but his daughter would, and she was visiting him more regularly now he was starting to forget the simple things. The daughter hated Conán, and Conán hated her right back. It was probably her who had called the Gardai.
No. He would have to wait and make it look like he had scrimped and saved, and pretend to be a bum for a little while longer. He couldn't let himself get greedy. If he let his greed take him over, he knew he would slip up, and then everything he had done would come crashing down around his head and he would be looking at a long prison sentence.
He could hear his mother laughing at the thought in his head.