When You Wake up and Scream

Conán automatically glanced at the clock to see he was already running fifteen minutes late. He swore and ran back out or the flat again, feeling like he shouldn't bother coming back. He ran to Starbucks and got there by half past, and he spotted Naoise sitting in her usual chair, looking around with an anxious expression on her face. He hurried over to her and sat beside her on the comfy sofa in the corner, taking her by surprise by kissing her.

"Sorry," he told her. "I was out and I only just got your message."

"It's all right. I knew you would show up," Naoise paused, and then added in surprise, "You're sober."

"I was driving."

"You have a car?"

"Yeah …" Conán blinked at her, confused. "I told you, did I not?"

"How did you afford that?"

"The family member who died."

"What family member?"

"A great uncle or something popped his clogs. I got a bit of money."

Naoise was looking at him with the now familiar suspicion in her eyes. Conán felt anger suddenly swell in him at the look, but he swallowed it down with some difficulty.

"Conán, what's going on?" Naoise asked him softly.

"What do you mean?"

"You've been acting so weird lately."

"What do you mean by that? It's only been two days since you last saw me."

"I know, but you're just acting funny. On the phone the other day, I knew something wasn't right. And then …"

"You're not still on about me getting my numbers mixed up, are you?"

"No … well, sort of."

"Jesus Christ, Naoise, it was a simple mistake!" Conán burst out.

"It's not just that!" Naoise blurted out quickly, sensing that Conán's patience was wearing thin.

"Well, what's caused you to rush back, then? I find it hard to believe you've come back over a number!"

"One of the girls from Uni has been in touch, Conán. They said you were brought in and asked about the murders."

"No."

"Conán, do you think I'm stupid?"

"I was asked about Mary. Not the murders. We were talking about them, but unless you're trying to suggest that I'm a suspect, I don't really see where you're coming from."

There was a pause, and then Naoise shrugged.

"I just wanted to know what's gone on. I've only been away a couple of days and already you're acting weird, and now you've been questioned about the murder of one of my best friends."

'I didn't kill her, all right!'

"Well, if you're so innocent, why did your name come up?"
"Because the Gardai appealed for anybody with any information on anyone seen with the victims before they died to come forward! They found my name because I was pulled over for speeding a while back."

"Why were you speeding?"

"I'd only just got the car. The motorway was deserted and I was seeing what it could do. It was just my bitter luck that the only other car on the road had two Garda officers in it." Conán snorted. "Typical! Anyway, if this interrogation is over, I'm going home."

"Great, and abandon me."

"Well, I'm fed up of being asked by everyone if I'm some sort of psychopathic serial killer!"

"You're hardly being asked by everyone!"

"Well, the police and my own girlfriend is enough! I swear, it must be a girl thing – as soon as you get involved with someone you all turn into paranoid banshees."

"That's a lovely thing to say."

"It's true. Why don't you go and get your train back to Cork and chill out and enjoy your time with your family? You shouldn’t worry so much about me. I'm fine, and I'm certainly not a master criminal."

"Fine. Go. Do what you want."

"I will."

Conán left the coffee shop, leaving Naoise glaring at the table. She didn't know how she felt. Part of her still felt stupid for getting so paranoid, but the other half of her thought that something about Conán's behaviour wasn't adding up. She got up and went up to the shopping centre, walking around for a while and remembering the last time she had been here, with Conán. They had only known each other about half an hour then.

Something clicked in her head. The night before, she had bumped into him. He had been drunk and wandering the streets, and only around the corner there was a body left after a fresh murder! Naoise was realising that something definitely wasn't right, and he evidence was mounting more and more by the minute.

Naoise decided to just have a walk past her house to make sure the place was all right, and then think about heading back to Cork. Her parents would have noticed that she was missing now, but they would probably think she had gone for a walk. There were forests and fields and trails and the beach close to the house, and Naoise would frequently wander if there were nothing else to do. They probably wouldn't worry until dinnertime, and if she was lucky she could get back by then.

As she walked back to her house, she spotted Conán hanging around, standing just off the main street in a side street of shops. He was glowering, and she knew that she had annoyed him. She walked on, knowing that he had seen her, but not giving him the satisfaction of showing she had noticed. Let him do what he liked! If he were as lovely and innocent as he liked to think he was, he wouldn't let himself get so frustrated!

Naoise's mind drifted, and she found herself wondering what it would be like if he was the killer. She wasn't yet convinced; the idea was only that, an idea swimming around in her head. Sometimes, she thought, knowledge was a curse, because you began to spot things in everyone. She felt like an idiot if she thought too deeply about it, but when she just grazed the top of the thoughts, she could see where the suspicions were coming from. But he had been so upset for her when Mary had been killed! He couldn't have killed her and then acted through the motions so well, could he? But then again, all of Naoise's research on serial killers (and she had done a lot of research) showed that they were accomplished liars when they wanted to be. How else would they lure their victims in, unless they could act? Naoise thought to herself. Look at Ted Bundy and his so-called broken bone, or Jeffrey Dahmer when he came face to face with two police officers while in the company of a victim!

Speaking of police officers, there were two outside her house. She frowned, all sorts coming into her head. What if they'd been robbed? That would just make her parent's day!

"Is everything all right?' she asked them. 'The place hasn't been robbed, has it?"

"You live here?"

"It's my parents' house."

"And who are you, lassie?"

"Naoise McCullough. I'm their youngest."

"Where are they now?"

"In Cork, and I should be there, too. Is there a problem?"

"Not a problem as such, Miss McCullough. You say you're their youngest?"

"Yes, I'm eighteen."

"That's all right. We just need to have a word with you, Miss McCullough, and obviously if you were under eighteen we'd need your parents' permission."

"Me? Why?"

"Not sure, lovie. We've just been told to come out and find you."

Naoise knew it was something to do with Conán. She couldn’t work out what exactly, but he was the only thing she could think of, who would lead her to the police. In a worsening mood, she accompanied them to the station. She guessed it was the same one that Conán had been brought to.

Detective Cillian McAfee, who was awaiting her arrival, was curious to see where the conversation would go. It hadn't been hard to work out how to get a hold of the young girl, as her boyfriend had given her name and said she was a student at Trinity. He just hoped she was around to speak to, but luck was on his side today, as a young lady was, just at that moment, shown into the room. She looked in a pretty bad mood, and he couldn't blame her. She didn't look like the sort to spend a lot of time in a police station.

"Have a seat, Miss," he said to her. His tone was friendly. Naoise sighed and sat down.

"It's about Conán, isn't it?" she asked as soon as she did so.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I can't think of any major law-breaking sprees I've been on, and Conán's already told me he's been down here. You were asking him about my friend Mary."

"Yes, I was, amongst other things."

"Other things? What other things?" Naoise demanded, nerves catching in her voice.

"We were just having a chat, Miss McCullough."

"Why am I here? I'm nothing to do with anything. Conán just does what he wants, I don't know what he gets up to, so it's no good asking me about his whereabouts or anything like that."

"I just want to chat a little about him, Miss McCullough. He's a very interesting young man."

"In what way?"

"He has depth to him quite unlike anything I see frequently."

"Which means you think he's hiding something?"

"In simple terms, yes," Detective McAfee was never one to beat around the bush.

"So he's a suspect? He told me he wasn't!"

"I should think he did, as he's unaware of it."

"Don’t bother using me here. I'm not interesting in going behind his back."

"It's merely procedure, Miss McCullough. Please, just tell me a little about him."

Naoise paused.

"He's … well, he's Conán. I can't really describe him."

"He seemed to find the whole interview rather entertaining."

"I'm sure he did."

"What makes you say that?"

"He's a very dark sense of humour. He probably thought it was hilarious, the prospect of his being a serial killer."

"He told me you know a fair bit about serial killers."

"I should hope I do. It had something to do with my job plan."

"You want to go into criminal psychology, I hear?"

"That's right."

"So, what do you know about serial killers?"

"Well … I just know that they can be anyone, but there's a stereotype, isn't there?"

"Go on."

"Usually they're white, male, and below thirty-five. Generally, they don’t have a father figure and a domineering mother or other female figure raises them. They're usually misfits, but they can also be quite charming. You wouldn't be able to sense if there were anything sinister about them. Sometimes they're alcoholics … they also sometimes come from being sadistic children, but that's not always the case."

"Quite right, you do know your stuff. Tell me, Miss McCullough, do you think our friend Conán could fit into any of them?"

Naoise sighed.

"Yes," she muttered. "A few actually. I've been doing a lot of thinking about this."

"Please go on."

"Well, he's obviously white, male and below thirty-five. He never knew his father, doesn't even know his name. Connolly isn't his father's surname, it’s a name his mother made up to try and make it look like she hadn’t just had a one-night stand. His mother was abusive towards him, severely abusive, Conán's pretty much scarred for life over that. He's been an alcoholic since about ten, I think he told me. His mother used to put him through all sorts, tried to kill him a lot, she used to mess with his head, as well. He's convinced he's the devil's child, or something. He's got charm, but he rarely uses it. Usually he's quiet, there's no emotion in his voice. I don't know if he was ever sadistic when he was younger, but he tells me that he used to enjoy fighting. He used to enjoy hurting people back. He said he liked the control."

"This is interesting, indeed," Detective McAfee said thoughtfully. "He certainly fits the mark, doesn't he? Much more than any of the others we've followed up."

"You've followed up others?"

"Oh yes, rest assured that we're not just picking on Conán," Detective McAfee smiled. It was a warm smile, one that inspired confidence. "The others have another difference, as well. All of them have served prison sentences before, but not Conán. The only mark on his file is this speeding incident a while back. He's either very law-abiding, or he's just excellent at not getting caught."

"I can't see Conán behaving himself for too long."

"No?"

"He's a bit of a wild one."

"He does sound like a very strange young man. I noticed a certain amount of detachment when I was speaking with him, as well."

"I noticed that when I first met him. It's almost like you're speaking to him from behind a glass shield. He has barely any emotion, although he can be quite emotional with me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I've tried to persuade him to get help because of his childhood, but he doesn't seem to want to."

"It distresses him?"

"Very much so. Like I said, he's pretty much traumatised."

"Is he prone to bouts of anger?"

"Yes, and over the stupidest things."

"Like what?"

"Well, if you ask too many questions. Or look at him wrong."

"What about depression?"

"He's depressed most of the time."

"Any suicide attempts?"

"One that I know of."

"Dearie me," Detective McAfee shook his head slowly and sadly. "In someone so young as well. Let's see … what do you think, Miss McCullough?"

"I don't think he's a killer!" Naoise said, her eyes wide. "He's … I don't know. It's just, the Conán I know … he's so gentle towards me. When he's in the right mood, he's funny and intelligent and witty and he makes me laugh something awful. He's opening up to me, as well. Only a couple of days ago he told me he thought he was falling in love with me, and that's the first time I've ever heard Conán say what he calls the L-word."

"He's not given you any reason to be suspicious?"

Naoise sighed, knowing that she would have to be honest, as silly as it sounded. As much as she felt like she was betraying Conán, this could be the way forward, the way to getting him help. She doubted very much that he was the killer, but she had always been taught to never lie to a policeman.

"There was this one incident, but it's stupid," she mumbled.

"Nothing's stupid, there, Miss. Let's hear it."

"Well, I was on the phone to him and we were talking about the murders and the disappearances. I was worried about him because he's always out at all hours and I was saying that I didn't want him to be the next victim, and he laughed and said that he could be captured and escape and be the one to bring the killer to justice. The body count was nine then, but Conán said eleven."

Detective McAfee snapped his eyes up to meet Naoise's.

"Did he now? And what was his excuse for this?"

"That he got his numbers mixed up."

"Did he seem flustered?"

"He doesn't like talking about it. He says I'm being stupid."

Naoise didn't like the look on the detective's face. He looked like she had practically told him who his man was.

"It's very curious, isn’t it? Almost as though he knows something we don't."

"Do you honestly think that he's done it?" Naoise asked, and tears suddenly sprang to her eyes. She couldn't bear to think of Conán crouched over somebody, choking the life out of them. The more she thought about it, the more she saw the anger in his eyes being put to use.

"I think I might have to be having another word with him," Detective McAfee said softly.

"So you think it's him?"

"No. I don’t think it’s him. I suspect it may be, but as with every other case, he's innocent until proven guilty."