When You Wake up and Scream

"I know nothing," Conán told the detective sitting across from him calmly. "I know as much as you do. There's some nut running around Dublin and no one knows who he is. In my books, that's all there is to it."

"What do you do with yourself, Conán? You got a job?"

"Not really."

"Not really?"

"No. I'm an odd jobs man. I work when there is work, but unfortunately for me, a lot of people choose to do it themselves these days."

"Yet you've that flat of yours that you manage to keep rent on?"

"A family member died. I inherited some money. Of course, it won’t last. I'm going to start looking for a decent job."

Conán knew what he detective was trying to do. He was trying to get Conán to talk himself into a hole. To put himself at the scene of a crime. To blurt something out. Conán was enjoying the game.

"Any hobbies?"

"Not really."

"Not go out very often, then?"

"I go out with Naoise."

"Where do you go?"

"Pubs. Starbucks."

"Do you drink often?"

"A fair bit."

"What time do you usually get back in?"

"It can be any time."

"When was the last time you were out?"

"I don’t know. I go out a lot."

"Last night?"

"Probably."

"You must remember."

"I said probably."

"Were you with Naoise?"

"No."

Detective McAfee nodded slowly. This young man was good. 'Last night', of course, was when Gerald had gone missing, as this night wasn't yet over. If Conán had said he had been with Naoise, even though he had stated she was in Cork earlier, Detective McAfee would have had the chance to pursue the matter, ask why he had lied. However, Conán appeared to be one step ahead of him, and the detective was convinced that Conán Connolly knew a little more. Not necessarily that he was the murderer, but that perhaps he had seen something, helped out, something along those lines.

"Did you see anyone when you came back home?"

Conán decided to spice things up a little, get to the point.

"If you're on about the other lad who went missing, I didn't see him, and I didn't even know the whole thing had happened."

"My my, we are quick, aren't we?"

"No, we're innocent, that's what we are. Do you do this with everyone?"

"Do what with everyone?"

"Try to talk them into a hole?"

"I've already told you, Mr. Connolly, I feel that there's something that you're not telling me."

"I'm no killer."

"I never said that you were."

"Well, what else could I possibly be holding back from you?"

"That's for you to tell me," Detective McAfee flicked through a few sheets of paper. "It says here that you were stopped on the motorway a few weeks back, in a car you'd only recently bought. Speeding?"

"Yeah?"

"'Would you like to tell me about that?"

"That's all there is to it, really. I got the car, and I fell out with my girlfriend because I didn’t do the whole asking-her-before-I-brought-it-even-though-it's-my-money-not-hers thing, and so I went out for a drive to cool off, and I was just going really fast because I was frustrated."

"You had been drinking?"

"A couple of pints. I was under the limit."

Detective McAfee nodded slowly again, as though Conán's words had conveyed some hidden meaning that only he understood. Conán didn’t show any emotion on his face, knowing that the detective was only trying to fluster him.

"You've got to wonder," the detective said softly. "This guy running around the place … what turned him into a killer, eh? Why's he doing it?"

"Isn’t that your job, to find out?"

"Not necessarily. With normal murderers, yes, it's up to us to discover the motive. With serial killers, however, that usually falls down to the psychologists."

"And why's that?"

"Because as I mentioned, serial killers are a special breed, that's why. What makes someone kill over and over again?"

"It could be anything."

"Like?"

"Well, Naoise says it could be enjoyment, lust, sadism … they could just be pissed off at the world. You never know."

"What category would you fall into, if you were a killer?"

"I wouldn't know," Conán said blankly. "I've never thought about it."

Detective McAfee laughed.

"You're certainly something, Connolly. You're like a walking poker face."

"It's not a poker face. It's the mere fact that I've got nothing to hide."

Detective McAfee had to reluctantly let Conán on his way a couple of hours later. He watched the strange young man disappear up the street, and he sighed and shook his head.

"What's wrong with you, Cillian?" one of his colleagues asked him. Also a detective, he had been helping more and more with the current case.

"That young man there," Detective McAfee said to him quietly. "I have a horrible feeling that we'll be seeing him again one of these days."

Meanwhile, Conán had got back to his quiet flat, his heart still hammering slightly. He had gotten away with it, but the detective was clearly suspicious of him. Conán was in limbo now – he had the urge to kill as strong as ever, but he didn't want to be heading out again, not when old Sherlock was on his tail.

He supposed he could run out and get some more alcohol. He was running out, and even though it was close to dawn by now (it seemed like the last few days had lasted so much longer) there was an off licence down the road from him that stayed open all night. Conán got up and went out again.

Conán had only just turned off his street when suddenly someone jumped out from behind him, causing him to jump and curse.

"What the Hell are you doing?" he demanded, whirling around to see another person, a little older than himself if not the same age, laughing hysterically.

"You should have seen you jump!" he laughed. "You shouldn't be out so late. You not heard of that killer running around the place?"

"Oh, yes, I've heard of him," Conán hissed. "I think he's got the right idea, if he's killing morons like you."

"Perhaps you're looking at him right now, eh?"

"You think that's funny, do you?"

"I'm just illustrating that you never know who it will be."

"It's your mother, that's who it is."

The anger was brewing in Conán again, though he knew not where from. He was spoiling for a fight.

"Are you badmouthing my mother, kid?"

"I believe that's what I implied."

"You're a little bastard, aren't you? I hope it's you who goes and gets bumped off tonight."

"I think it'll be you, actually," Conán looked at his nails casually, before looking back up at the other man. "What do you think?"

"I think you're talking rubbish."

"I think you're in for a surprise."

"So, you're going to set me up, are you? You going to ring up your little killer friend and ask him out to play?"

"I already have," Conán's voice dropped lower, he felt his eyes flash dangerously. "You know, I was actually going to leave it tonight. I was going to just go for a walk and then go back, but if you're going to present yourself on a freaking plate I'm not going to say no."

"What are you on about, you weirdo?"

"You know how you said it could be anybody?"

"Yes."

"You're not so good at spotting things yourself!"

Conán made his move, making it quick, as he knew that the Gardai would be all over the place tonight. He held the man against the wall by the throat until he went limp, and finished him off while he was unconscious on the floor. He was unable to drag himself away for a few long moments, instead he continued to kneel on the floor next to his latest victim, admiring the beauty of death that had always fascinated him, feeling satisfied for only a few moments, enjoying the brief feeling of contentment until the time he knew the urge would come back as strong as ever, if not stronger.

He thought it ironic that his whole life he steered away from drugs, but he'd gone and gotten himself into something that he would be just as addicted to. It was like taking drugs – the first time was great, but now he had to keep doing more and more to reach that same high, until it was just a stumbled blur from one day to another.

Conán let out a growl of frustration and jumped up, striding quickly away. He went a different way back.

*

Naoise lay in her bed; staring at the ceiling, worry clenching her stomach painfully. She didn't think that it was human, to be able to worry about so much. Of course, all of her problems came down to Conán, but there were a lot of Conán-related sub categories to take into account. First of all she was worried that he would take another funny turn and try to do himself in. Secondly she was worried that he would drink too much and hurt himself again. Thirdly she was worried that he would be murdered on one of his night time wanderings. And finally she was worried that he was the murderer.

She got up and softly padded through the quiet house into the living room. The house was large and beautiful, a huge farmhouse that had been in the family for several generations. Her eldest brother, Eoghan, was due to inherit it one day.

Naoise curled up on the sofa and put the television on quietly. The only other sound was the squeaking of a tree branch against the window. She was dismayed to hear that there had been another murder in Dublin. Her heart was thumping madly, not only with worry and suspicion over Conán, but also fear that the person who had killed her friend was still out there somewhere. Her heart skipped a beat as realisation hit her. If Conán was the killer, he would have murdered Mary, and Naoise had gone to him when she had heard!

But Conán said he was falling in love with her. He couldn't do that to the only person he had ever admitted to loving, could he? And Naoise was beginning to love him, as well. She loved his humour, she loved his wit, she loved his looks and his intelligence and the way he could always make her smile … could he really be a cold-blooded killer when her back was turned? She wanted to find out, but she didn’t think she could bring herself to start spying on him. She thought that she was being silly as it was, but if she started to act on her thoughts she would feel even more of an idiot. Of course, she would be keeping an eye on him now, but she wouldn't follow him around all of the while.

Conán wasn't doing much sleeping, either. He was lying of his own bed, staring up at his own ceiling, seeing the room get gradually lighter as day finally broke. He felt as though it had broken too late for him. He was all ready beyond the help of a new day, and he wondered how much longer he could go on for.

He got up after another few hours of staring at the ceiling and decided to get rid of the body pieces he had in his freezer. He was running out of room, as he still had parts of two victims in there – Jack Donnelly, the one who Naoise had almost seen, and the rest of Gerald. It was still quite early, so he just blended in with the early birds as they drove to work, and then headed up to his usual dumping ground. He took his time, feeling numb to the possibility of being caught, burying the pieces in small and separate graves, reusing the ones that had been opened by wild animals scavenging for the meat. He could almost sense eyes watching him from the darkness of the shrubbery, waiting for their next meal.

"You'll have to wait," he said, in the direction of a bush that kept moving slightly. It was probably hiding a fox. "It's not quite defrosted yet."

As he left, he caught sight of the fox's face.

"Between you and me, yeah?" he asked it. It crouched back behind the bush and Conán chuckled. "All right, deal."

Conán noticed something unnerving on the way home. He glanced in his rear-view mirror to see that there was a Garda car behind him, and it appeared to be following him. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if this was the new trick – surveying him. He was confident he hadn't said anything too incriminating at the police station, but he knew that Detective McAfee had been suspicious of him.

He drove carefully home, giving the Garda no reason to pull him over for anything.

When he got back into his flat, he saw that the light on the phone was blinking – he had a message on the answering machine. He pressed the button and leant against the kitchen counter to listen to it. It was Naoise, as he had expected. What she said to him, however, he wasn't expecting.

"Hey, Conán," she said, and it sounded as though there was traffic in the background. She must be on her mobile. "Look, I shouldn’t really be doing this but I need to talk to you properly, and so I'm coming back just for the day. My parents don't know and they can't find out … anyway. Will you do me a big, huge favour and meet me in Starbucks? I'm getting this ridiculously early train, and so I'll be there for about eleven. OK? Please show up. Bye."