When You Wake up and Scream

Conán woke up the next morning curled up on the living room sofa. There was movement from down on the floor next to him, and he opened his eyes fully to see Damian playing quietly on the floor next to him, moving his trucks along the carpet and making soft sound effects. Conán smiled at the little boy. He had to admit he was cute. He lay there dozing for a while until the living room door cracked open a little more and Naoise came into the room.

"I didn't realise you were in here, wee one!" she told her young nephew. Damian giggled.

"I been sneaky!"

"You're sneaky indeed! Now, is Auntie Naoise's friend awake yet?"

Conán opened his eyes and sat up slightly.

"I'm up," he yawned.

"Only just." Naoise laughed. She picked Damian up, sitting next to Conán with the little boy on her lap.

"He's a sweetie," Conán told her, yawning again. Naoise smiled.

"Don't let that fool you; he's a little terror. Aren't you, wee man?"

"I'm a monster!" Damian giggled, putting his fingers in the corners of his mouth and pulling a face.

"Mad child." Naoise laughed. "So, how are you feeling?"

"I'm doing all right." Conán smiled thinly. "Just still waking up."

"You don't want to go and do yourself in anymore?"

"Not at the moment. You're really lucky, Naoise. Your family is amazing … I wish I was in Damian's shoes."

Damian turned at the sound of his name and stuck his tongue out. Conán stuck his tongue out back and Damian giggled.

"Here, hold the terror," Naoise said, plonking Damian into Conán's arms. "I'll get us all some breakfast."

"Jam and toast! Jam and toast!" Damian said excitedly, bouncing around happily.

"All right, little man, jam and toast for you."

Damian grinned triumphantly and then rested his head against Conán, perfectly comfortable even though he had only known him for an evening. Conán knew it was a reflection of how at ease he was at his grandparents' house – it was clear that if someone was good enough for them he or she was safe to hang around with. Trust was a funny thing, Conán thought. It was, after all, trust that had led a two-year-old to be sitting quite happily in the arms of a serial killer who had murdered eight people. The thought made Conán shift slightly, but to his surprise it wasn't bothering him as seriously as it had been less than twenty-four hours ago. This relieved him a little, but he was slightly unnerved by the fact that, in the back of is head, the urge to kill was starting to resurface, seeing that it was safe to come out of hiding. Conán closed his eyes tight and bit his lip, almost willing it to go away, but it was there, never budging, only getting gradually stronger.

Damian had perfected the art of shovelling jam and toast into his mouth while playing with his toys, and so Naoise and Conán left him to it and went into the kitchen for some peace.

"So, what do you think of the mad people I call my family?" Naoise asked him, inbetween bites of her own toast.

"They're nice people." Conán replied. "You're lucky."

"At least they didn't scare you off."

Conán smiled softly.

"It would take a lot more than that to frighten me off."

"Well, feel sorry for me at any rate. I have to spend two weeks with the lot of them, down in Cork at my auntie's place."

Conán nearly choked on his toast, but recovered in time to casually speak.

"You're going away?"

"Yeah, did I not tell you?"

"No."

"It's only for a couple of weeks – next week, when I've some time off from Uni. The whole family like to get together and embarrass the kids of the family."

"You'll be gone for two whole weeks?"

"Yes, why? Will you miss me?"

Conán looked up at her. She was joking, but he was dead serious.

"Yes."

"Oh, Conán!" Naoise reached over and squeezed his hand. "You'll be fine. You will be fine, won't you?" she added the final sentence as a worried afterthought. Conán nodded distractedly, twitching his fingers under her hand.

"Yeah … yeah, sure, I'll do grandly."

"I'll leave you my phone number … you have a phone, don't you? You do, I've seen it … anyway, I'll leave you my number so you can still ring me if you need me … oh, this is ridiculous, I can't leave you in this state, I'll not go –"

"No! You go. Don't let me stop you. I'll be fine, I promise. It's just … well, I might get a little lonely, but there's always the pubs for that."

"You're not to go out getting hammered and give yourself alcohol poisoning again, young man!"

"I won’t, Naoise, chill!" Conán managed a wheezy laugh. "You do fuss something awful, you know that?"

"Of course I do. I worry about you."

"Well, you needn't. I'm fine. I had a rough patch but I think I'll be fine now."

"You'll ring me if you need me?"

"Of course I will. At any hour, when I'm drunk, and I'll talk non-stop for hours."

Naoise laughed.

"You would. All right, I'll try not to worry too much."

"I'm a big boy now."

"I know you are.' Naoise smiled. 'But I'll still worry about you."

The strained smile Conán had on his face soon disappeared when he turned the corner away from Naoise's street. She was staying behind with her family for the day, after one hundred assurances from Conán that he was all right and that he wasn't going to do anything stupid. Conán thought it ironic that the very assurances he was giving her was a lie. He didn't want to do himself in anymore, but he did want to kill someone else. He had the urge back, and the guilt was gone. He was glad that the guilt had gone, though he was confused and slightly frightened at the fact it had just disappeared. Did that mean his conscience had finally given up, after rearing it's head one last time in the vain hope that Conán might listen? He nearly had, after all. If it hadn't been for Naoise, he didn't know where he would be now. He could still be cowering in his flat in pieces, or he could be lying dead in the bathroom, where he would still likely be, as no one would have found him.

He was scared now. He knew the only think keeping him on the verge of sanity was Naoise. When he was with her, he didn't feel the compulsion to kill as much as he usually did. Conán knew that there was going to be trouble when she left with her family for her visit to Cork, and he was mentally preparing himself for what he knew was going to be a slaughter.

Conán took a long way back home, even though Naoise didn't actually live too far from his flat. He wished he could grab someone now and get it over with, as the urge was niggling in the back of his mind, spreading slowly like a spilt drink on a carpet into all of his other thoughts until Conán knew it would consume him. He liked the thought of the city thinking about the serial killer that was loose, but he knew he was going to have to be careful. He was going to have to keep disposing of the bodies properly. He thought he would be able to do it to a random person that he pulled off the street, as he had done all right the previous time. He couldn't risk keeping any part of the body, though. He couldn't let himself fall into that trap. Steve was special. Conán didn't know why, but something prevented him from parting with Steve.

The flat was cold and lonely. The heating hadn't been on since he left the night before. Conán turned the heating on and stood in the middle of the room, inbetween the kitchen breakfast bar and the sofa, shivering and feeling the horrible wave of loneliness crashing over him.

"This sucks," he muttered, his teeth chattering. "Where's my booze?"