When You Wake up and Scream

A few minutes later, Conán, still covered in blood but not really noticing, crept silently out of the flat and onto the street, his hands in his pockets and a bag over his shoulder, keeping to the shadows, his hood up against the wind and his face burrowed into the front of his coat. Combined with the shadows, his face was barely visible, only when the moonlight caught his glittering dark eyes.

He spotted what he was after up ahead. It looked like a young woman making her way back home from a night out. Conán quickened his step until he came up behind her.

"Hey," he said softly, but it was enough to break the heavy silence all around them. He saw her jump and then she slowly turned around. "Don't look so suspicious. I only want to ask you something."

"Well, don’t bother yourself. I'm not getting involved with anything, I'm going home."

"Calm down, I'm not that psycho killer," Conán laughed. "I just need to ask you where I am. In case you haven't noticed I'm slightly drunk and I haven't got a baldy notion."

"Well, where are you going to?"

"I forget. Hang on, I've the directions in my bag, it's a hotel."

"You've a Dublin accent, how come you don't know your way around?"

"Well, one, I'm drunk, and two, I've been away for a long time."

"Oh, right."

"You have a good night the night, then?"

"Yeah. It was good. Look, do we have to stand out here for so long?"

"Surely you'd feel safer with someone with you? This killer only goes for people walking by themselves. They make easier targets."

"Well, I don’t know you. You could be the guy, for all I know."

Conán laughed, and he knew that she had sensed the sinister edge to his laugh.

"Look, I'm going now. Bye."

"You realise that even if I was this killer, you wouldn't be able to get away now?"

"Well, I'm going to try."

"That's it, turn your back. I come up from behind anyway."

The use of first person convinced her that she was in the company of the killer, and she went to run, but Conán's hand flew out and caught hold of her wrist. He pulled her so she was kneeling next to him and clamped a hand over her mouth.

"Hush, love, it's all right," he whispered to her. "Don't you be crying, it'll ruin that pretty little face of yours. Look, look what'll happen if you make any sound."

He used his other hand to pull the recently severed head out of his bag by the hair. The girl's eyes widened and she screamed, but it was muffled by Conán's firm grip. He laughed and shook the head.

"You want this to happen to you? Do you? No? Well, shut up, then! SHUT UP!" Conán shook her hard as well, shouting but still laughing, enjoying the fear in her eyes. "SHUT UP, YOU BITCH!"

Conán let go of the head and pushed her to the floor, kneeling over her and gripping her throat tightly. Originally he hadn’t planned to kill her, but now he decided that he wanted to kill again. It no longer fazed him that it was only hours after his previous murder, he was enjoying himself, enjoying the control. He had the ultimate control, this he realised as he stared into the girl's eyes, watching the light fading from them. Eventually she was still, and no breath stirred. He quickly rearranged the crime scene to suit hi tastes and then hurried home. The drink and the activity had gotten to him but the time he reached his flat, and he collapsed onto the sofa and was asleep within seconds.

*

"Horror and disgust has gripped Dublin City this morning, following another atrocious discovery by two men making their way to work their early shift. It seems that the deranged killer operating in Dublin has struck again, and this time, police say, it is a double murder. The body if nineteen-year-old Moiragh McDonnell was found, left where she had been strangled to death, alongside the severed head of an anonymous victim who has not yet been identified. Another appeal has gone out for any information at all of the recent murder spree. The detective in charge of the ever-growing case, Detective Cillian McAfee, said shortly after the discovery:

"'Again, we cannot stress the importance of travelling with company. The murderer is getting steadily more ruthless and will be looking for individual victims. This murderer has no operating hours, he will be out at all hours, and today has been proof that he does not limit himself to one murder a day. This is a dangerous, sick and sadistic individual, and we urge the people of the city not to present themselves as easy targets. We are working as hard as we possibly can, around the clock, to find the culprit, and at the moment we have a few potential suspects who we are currently investigating. Unfortunately, as no evidence had been discovered, there have been no arrests, however we promise the people of Dublin City that we will catch this monster, no matter how long it takes'."

Conán listened to the news as he scrubbed the blood off the bathroom walls. He had already been out to dump the body parts, and now this was the hard bit. The blood had dried on and if he didn't get it off soon, he knew that the tiles of the bathroom could easily be tinted a yellowy-brown. He had seen it at his childhood home when he had been left in the bathroom injured. He worked as quickly but as carefully as he could, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he thought about the fact he could easily get a visit today. He had no sooner just returned the flat to normality when that visit came, and two Garda officers told him that he had to come with them because he was wanted for questioning.

"If you're not arresting me, I don't have to go," Conán told them coldly.

"If you don't come with us, we can assume that you're hiding something and then we can arrest you," one of them replied. "Now, what's it to be, Mr. Connolly? Because we can handcuff you and bring you in and stick you in a cell for the rest of the day, if you want?"

Conán decided to come quietly. He didn't like the thought of them being able to keep him for so long. He soon found himself standing in a room with Detective McAfee again, and this time he didn't sit; he stood in the centre of the small interview room and glared at the detective.

"This is a bloody witch hunt," he spat. "Why don’t you just frame me and get it over with?"

"Cut the crap, Connolly. Come on, admit it. You were angry, weren't you? Angry that we had come round, angry that someone was onto you. So you took it out on a poor girl on the way home from a night out with her friends and you cut the head off some other poor soul who crossed your path. You're a sick bastard, Connolly, a sick bastard indeed."

The word cut through Conán like a knife.

"What did you call me?" he spat.

"A sick bastard, Connolly! That's what I called you, because that's what you are, isn't it? Do you get some sort of thrill from slicing the heads off of people's sons and brothers and fathers? Strangling sisters and daughters? Come on, Conán, confess it all. It's the only good you can do now; bring peace to the families of the people you brutally slaughtered. We all know it's you."

"You know nothing at all, you're bluffing and you're making idiots of yourselves."

"You need to try to do some good with your life, Conán, because from what I know not a lot has come from it. You sound like a depressing little bastard and all, it's a no wonder you'd go out and do things like this. Well, I tell you, Connolly, it's not going to compensate for what Mummy did to you. It’s not going to make her love you, Conán!"

Conán suddenly got tunnel vision and the room span. Never before had he felt such anger, but he clenched his teeth and made his hands into fists. He would not crack. If he showed that this was bothering him, he would give all the proof needed to the detective.

He's winding you up, the killer inside him whispered from the back of his head. Don't let it get to you, Conán. It'll annoy the bastard even more if you don't respond. Calm down, you've come so far, you're doing so well.

"If you knew anything at all about my mother," Conán said, his voice so strangely calm that he wasn't entirely sure if it was he who was speaking. "Then you would know that I have no desire to ever do anything to make her love me. If that bitch loved me, I would hurl myself into the River Liffey with some bricks tied to my feet, right? She's dead, she's gone, she's finished, and I'm not going to waste another moment thinking about her."

"Is that so? Is that why you're oh-so scarred for life?"

Conán could have throttled Naoise and all, had she been in the same room. After everything he had told her, she had spilled it all to his idiot!

"Is it any wonder? I can't forget the things she did, but I wouldn't let it waste the rest of my life by getting myself thrown in jail!"

"Admit it, Conán."

"I have nothing to admit."

"Come over here."

"No."

"Get over here, Connolly! If you're so innocent you'll not mind!"

Conán inched forwards.

"I didn't want to have to do this, Connolly, but it's the only way. Look at this. I want you to look at it for ten seconds. Go."

He turned a piece of paper over, that had until that moment been resting innocently on the desk. Conán recognised it instantly as a crime scene photo of the severed head, and he also instantly realised what the detective was trying to do. If Conán was the murderer he would not be shocked. He would have seen it before, and from Detective McAfee's experience with some of the murderers he had worked with, who would have probably have become serial killers had they not messed up so soon, they wouldn't be able to disguise the flash of interest or delight from their faces.

Conán was different, and in his head he thought he deserved an Oscar for his next performance. He took a look at the photograph, gave himself convincingly sufficient time to 'realise' what it was, and then he freaked out.

"OH MY GOD!" he shrieked, remembering Mary's reaction to Steve. "WHAT THE HELL? WHAT ARE YOU DOING SHOWING PEOPLE THAT? YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S SICK! WHAT THE – OH MY GOD!"

Conán stumbled away from the desk, still hollering and screaming until someone opened to door to see what was going on. Then he rolled his eyes back and collapsed to the floor in what appeared to be a dead faint.

He 'came round' a few minutes later, still lying on the floor, sprawled out, but with what appeared to be a coat wrapped around him.

"What are you doing, Cillian?" someone was asking the detective. "Are you trying to get us all sued?"

"You're all idiots. He's just a brilliant actor," Detective McAfee saw Conán's eyes had opened. "Aren't you, Connolly? You should have been in movies."

Conán groaned and closed his eyes again.

"Cillian, we’ve talked about this too many times. I know once you get an idea in your head it's hard to shake, and yeah, you're usually right. But until you have proof, stop scarring kids for life! What if you're wrong this time? What if this kid's completely innocent? He'll be having nightmares for weeks, he could sue for all sorts!"

"He's not got the money to sue."

"Cillian –"

"Patrick, I know what I'm doing, all right? The kid's got you wrapped around his little finger! Look at him, he's perfectly aware of what's going on!"

"That's because I'm awake now," Conán mumbled.

"You may have got these idiots fooled, Connolly, but you'll not pull the wool over my eyes that easily! I know a guilty face when I see one and you're as guilty as sin."

"Come on," the one referred to as Patrick pulled Conán to his feet as he spoke to him. "I shouldn't worry about him for now."

Detective McAfee rolled his eyes and muttered obscenities to himself as Patrick helped Conán out of the room. The detective glared at Conán's back as he left, and then, at the door, Conán suddenly turned around and fixed Detective McAfee with a long look. The look sent shivers up his spine as he became convinced for sure that he was looking into the face of a serial killer. It was a number of things in one look. It was a warning look, warning him to back off or he was going to feel the consequences, it was an evil look, showing no regret for what he had done, but above all it was a triumphant look, a taunting look. Ha, it seemed to be saying. You're on your own now.

The detective responded with his own warning look, and without a doubt Conán got the message. He knew it was going to be harder to kill now. He was either going to have to strike quickly and leave the bodies where they had died, or he was going to have to select victims more carefully, look for the homeless people who would have no family to worry about them. The thought of this point unnerved him, as he remembered his own experience where he had nearly been murdered. If the man had succeeded in killing him, Conán knew the crime would have gone unnoticed. No one had known him or cared about him on the streets, and his mother certainly would never have filed a missing complaint. She would have been thrilled when she had got up and realised he had gone.

Conán was brought into a side room and sat down.

"You sit there for a minute," Patrick told him. "You still look terrified."

Conán mumbled something incoherent.

"I'm sorry about him," Patrick said suddenly. "He gets these ideas in his head and he'll do anything to prove himself right. Most of the time, it's a blessing, other times it's a curse."

"I don't know why he's picking on me," Conán said, his voice expertly hoarse. "He seems to think because I had the crappy childhood I'm the perfect candidate for a serial killer. I'm no killer – I just want to move forward in my life, you know? I want to forget the past, but it keeps coming back in stupid ways like this."

"That's the unfair things about your past, though, isn't it? You can't change the past, you can only stop it from altering the future."

"That's what I'm trying to do, but thanks to that git in there and my girlfriend telling him my life story, I'm unable to forget about it for more than five minutes at a time. It's starting to get right on my nerves."

Conán was angry on the inside, but most of his anger, to his surprise, wasn't directed at Detective McAfee. He was wary of the police detective, but he was mostly angry at Naoise. He knew that if Naoise hadn't have told him everything, Conán would have a higher chance of throwing the suspicion off himself. From what Naoise had told him of serial killers, he knew that he was a suspect because of his background and his personality.

His anger towards her mounted as he walked home a little while later. It was a long walk, but far from allowing to cool off, as he thought it would, it allowed him to fester in his thoughts, gradually getting more and more frustrated. The phone was ringing when he got in, and he knew without answering that it was Naoise. Just to make sure, as he couldn't avoid the phone in case, by some miracle, it was his boss, he picked it up.