When You Wake up and Scream

Conán was in his own state of turmoil. If Naoise was barely sleeping, he wasn’t sleeping at all. Detective McAfee didn’t think it was possible to be able to stay awake for as long as Conán had. Five days had passed since Conán’s arrest, and the media was swarming all over the story like bees to honey. Conán, for the most part, seemed bewildered by it all. He had been since removed from the police station and was in prison awaiting trial, and he seemed to be quite bewildered by the notoriety he had achieved. As someone who had previously been nobody, he was finding it difficult to adjust to the media frenzy, the whispers when people saw him, and the way his face was always recognised. Most of the time he huddled in the far corner of his cell with his head buried in his arms and his knees drawn up under his chin, and he could remain motionless like that for up to eight hours.

Detective McAfee, who was up to his ears in the case, saw him quite often, as he was in charge of who met with him. Conán had been seeing more psychologists than he knew existed ever since he had been removed to prison, and although he had known that his defence would try for the insanity plea, he never knew that it would take this much work. Conán thought that it was a waste of time. He may not have done what a person would call normal, but he didn’t think himself insane. He just thought he was sick and twisted, and above all, evil. That wasn’t insanity. That was his bad luck.

"You got another meeting after lunch, Conán."

Detective McAfee was back again, and he came into Conán’s cell to find the young man in his usual position in the corner, completely and perfectly still. He didn’t even look up.

"Conán? How long have you been like that?"

No answer.

"Jesus, Conán, would you at least move? Look at you! You don’t look like you’ve eaten since you got here and you’ll never be able to get out of that position, you’re sitting like that so often. When was the last time you ate anything?"

"Haven’t," Conán muttered, barely audible, but Detective McAfee knew better than to get any closer. The prison guards had told him that Conán was prone to violent outbursts. Usually he would just yell, but he was known to threaten and destroy anything he got his hands on when he got going. Several psychologists had also seen this side to the serial killer, and several chairs and tables had already fallen victim to his anger.

"You need to eat something, Conán. Starving yourself won’t achieve anything."

"I’m not hungry, all right?"

Conán finally looked up. He was pale and his dark eyes stood out even more than usual. The weight loss was evident in his face, and it unnerved Detective McAfee. Usually, people would put weight on in prisons, but Conán seemed to be disappearing more daily.

Conán eyed what Detective McAfee had in his hand.

"What you got there, Sherlock?"

Detective McAfee was by now so used to Conán referring to him as 'Sherlock' that he no longer noticed.

"Newspaper."

"About me?"

"Is anything not about you these days?"

"I know. Ever since you released that mug shot I’ve practically got a fan club."

"You don’t have to tell me. People get fascinated with the sickest things."

"Can I see it?"

Detective McAfee threw the young man the newspaper. He didn’t think Conán would move fast enough to catch it, but he was proved wrong once more by the killer’s sharp reflexes. He reminded the detective of an animal striking for its prey, in the way he waited until the last minute and then his arm shot out quickly and with excellent precision, and, with a smooth swiping movement, he seemed the snatch the paper right out of thin air. The rest on him, including his other arm, remained motionless. Detective McAfee shivered to himself.

Conán’s eyes scanned the small, black, printed writing, and then he gave a short bark of laughter, shaking his head, amused.

"Wow, they’re raving about me, aren’t they? You’d have thought I’d donated millions to charity, not murdered twenty-three people, the coverage I’m getting. Look, they’re digging into everything. See him there? He used to go to high school with me. Ha, he’s right, though. I was like that. I did like my fighting and my verbally abusing the teachers. Well, good, I hope that they all make money from it, at least some people benefit from this whole sorry story. Ah! This is interesting, look. They’ve compared me to other serial killers."

Since Conán had made a full confession, detailing absolutely everything about what he had done and writing nearly one hundred and fifty pages on it, the papers had had enough information, though the confession hadn’t been released, to begin to compare Conán to all sorts of people. Conán found the whole thing very amusing.

"Other serial killers, eh?"

"Yeah. Ah, I’m a lone wolf, though. I never even heard of any of these. Well, apart from Jeffrey Dahmer, because Naoise used to talk about him a lot. Poor thing. She never knew that she was the one who tipped me off about boiling the heads. I stole that off old Jeff there. Hope he doesn’t haunt me."

"Have you seen what they’re calling you?"

"Ireland’s Jeffrey Dahmer? Yeah. I think it’s hilarious. I suppose there’s a link, but I would like to point out that I am, in fact, straight."

"That’s where Ted Bundy comes in."

"Where? Oh, there. Ha, I see. Well, who knows? The next big serial killer who comes along might be getting compared to me, and wouldn’t that be an honour?"

"I don’t think anyone could be quite like you, Conán. Are you going to eat anything before this meeting?"

"I don’t want another blinking meeting. I’m not crazy. I ain’t normal, but I ain’t crazy neither."

"It’s the only defence you’ve got."

"If it were up to me I wouldn’t have one. Lock me up and throw away the key, that’s my opinion on the matter. I don’t want to be locked up with loons, everyone will say that’s too easy for me. I don’t hallucinate, hear voices, nothing like that. I’m not crazy!"

"Being crazy isn’t just that, Conán. There’s hundreds of personality disorders out there."

"Yeah, I’ve been thrown in a few boxes all ready, which is annoying. All sorts of words have been thrown around, you know, I thought I actually had a name. Obviously not. Sociopath, what is that anyway?"

"I’m sure that the jury will decide for you, Conán, that’s what they do, believe it or not."

"Well, they’ll see, then. I’m not insane. I knew what I was doing, right enough. I knew it all along. I was in control, for the most part."

"There you are. For the most part."

"Well, I was never completely out of control. I just … my will power was shot, that’s all. Anyway, have you spoken to Naoise yet?"

"Yes."

Conán’s eyes sparked interest for the first time.

"Really? Is she all right?"

"Not really, no."

Conán’s eyes now flashed worry.

"I didn’t hurt her real bad, did I?"

"Not physically, no. She had to return to hospital for a couple of days due to trauma."

"Oh."

"She’ll probably be scarred for life, Conán."

"Well, I can barely blame her. The place was a bit of a state, and then there was the whole trying-to-kill-her thing I had going."

"You say you love Naoise?"

"I do."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"I didn’t kill her."

There was a pause.

"Was that hard for you to do, Conán?"

"Yeah. I should have done it, I guess, looking back. But I would have topped myself if I had. If I had killed Naoise I would have killed myself hours afterwards, no doubt about that. It would be so easy to kill myself," Conán looked up at Detective McAfee, taking him by surprise with the intensity of his gaze. "All it would take would be a nice sharp cut, just across the jugular or just here," Conán signalled the top of his leg.

"You wouldn’t want to do that, Conán."

"And why not? No one would miss me."

"Because you need to give those families justice, that’s why. If you topped yourself now, they would never see you locked up. Grant them some satisfaction."

"Why should I? I’m sure they wouldn’t care if I killed myself."

"You’ll have a hard time anyway, you’re on suicide watch as it is."

"I noticed. They won’t stop perving on me."

Conán signalled to the two guards outside his cell. They glared at him and Conán flashed them a grin and a cheeky wink. One of them looked disgusted and the other rolled his eyes. Conán snickered.

"Conán," Detective McAfee sighed. "Please, just do the right thing for once. The game’s over. Stop trying to win a game you’ve already lost."

"And why?" Conán’s voice had dropped several decibels, becoming harsher, rougher. "I’m a serial killer, Sherlock, there ain’t nothing more I can do wrong, is there? I’m a serial killer. A murderer. A sick bastard, that’s what I am. I’ve no soul. I’m not human. I’m a monster. That’s what the papers call me, Sherlock. A monster. Inhuman. Sick. Disturbed. Wrong. They’re saying I should be hanged for what I did, you read that? And perhaps I agree. I am wrong, I am sick and twisted and disturbed and I’m certainly not human. So what if I slash myself? Who cares? What’s the difference between that and an executioner finishing me off? I’m still going to be dead, and that’s what the public are calling for. Screw the families. After what I did to them, I don’t think killing myself would cause them much grievance."

"You’ll not do it, Connolly, because in there, somewhere, I can sense guilt in you. You know what that right thing is. You’ll do what’s right."

"I won’t."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"Because I’m the sickest bastard you’ve ever laid eyes on, and I’m the sickest bastard you ever will lay eyes on, that’s why," Conán grinned – manically, was the only way the look could be described – and spread his arms out. "Look at me. Ireland’s Jeffrey Dahmer, Sherlock. I ain’t fussed about what some family wants to see. I killed their freakin’ child. Do I look like I care if it’ll annoy them if I top myself? I choked the life out of their kid and I didn’t care. So screw the families. I’ll go when I want to go, because in case you didn’t notice, I love to be in control."

Detective McAfee’s face remained carefully expressionless. He knew what the murderer was trying to do, and he wasn’t going to allow himself to be angered or unnerved. He merely held out his hand for the paper.

"You done with that, Connolly?"

Conán threw it viciously at Detective McAfee, the spite evident. Detective McAfee caught it with ease, always with the quick and accurate reflexes of a policeman. He turned curtly and left the cell. One of the guards closed the door and secured it firmly behind him, but Conán hadn’t moved from his corner. He watched them with strangely intense and intelligent eyes, from beneath his characteristically messy hair.

"Keep an eye on him," Detective McAfee told them. "You’re not letting him take the coward’s way out.’

Conán moved then. He walked calmly to the bars of the cell and stood quite still, and for a long moment he and Detective McAfee were face-to-face, staring one another out. Then, quick as lightning, Conán’s hand shot through the gap between the bars and grabbed a hold of Detective McAfee’s arm, twisting it sharply and painfully. There was a painful sounding crack at the same time as Detective McAfee used his other arm to hit at Conán between the bars, quickly driving the serial killer back. It wasn’t quick enough to stop the throbbing pain from spreading through his arm, however.

Conán saw him wince with pain and he inspected his arm, and the killer smirked from beneath glinting eyes, and let out a cruel bark of laughter.

When Detective McAfee left, Conán was back in his corner again, still smirking into his arm.