When You Wake up and Scream

They got up and Naoise picked up her stuff. She had already paid for the food, and so they headed off to the escalator to get to the ground floor. The shopping centre was beginning to empty out now, and the lazier of the shops were closing.

"What do you study?" Conán asked Naoise as they headed out onto the street.

"Psychology." Naoise replied, and Conán nodded.

"I'll bet that's interesting."

"It's really good, yeah. You do understand people a lot more when you do it."

"I don't think I could ever understand people, no matter how hard I tried." Conán laughed, and Naoise giggled.

"We're an interesting breed, that's for sure. But if you ever need a good excuse to do Psychology, it's that you do brilliantly in exams because you learn all about the memory and how to increase how much you remember."

"Really? How do you do that?"

"Well, lots of things. My favourite is to take key words and make a funny or stupid story about them. I still remember one I did three years ago."

Conán looked impressed.

"Wow." he said.

"That's what I thought."

"Have you any tips on forgetting things?"

Naoise smiled sadly.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. Unless you want me to drill into your head and start cutting lobes?"

Conán laughed.

"As long I'm drunk, I don't care."

"You watch, I'll hold you to that."

Conán was saddened when they reached the archway to the grounds of the college. He didn't usually warm to people, but there was something about Naoise that he liked, and he had enjoyed the company.

"Well, good luck in getting your essay done." he told her, as she turned to head inside.

"Thanks." Naoise paused, and then she spoke up again. "Do you have somewhere to go?"

"Yeah, yeah I do. It's not much but at least it's something."

"That's the spirit." Naoise smiled. "Well, I'll probably have you stalking me some other time?"

"You got it." Conán laughed, as he went to cross the road. "S'later."

"Aye, see you later."

Conán dodged across the road and headed back up towards O'Connell Street. He couldn't understand what it was about her that he liked. Perhaps it was just the fact that that she had warmed to him? He had never had someone be so kind to him before. He found it hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, he had been thinking of killing her. Of course, he would still do it if he had to, if she became a danger to him, but for now he was happy to let her go on her way.

He soon reached his place of existence, and he felt his heart skip a beat as he got to the hallway and saw that there were two Gardai officers standing there, clearly waiting for him. At first, he contemplated running for it, but then he realised that that would just make him seem even more suspicious. So, he dragged his feet towards them, his legs like lead.

"There a problem?" he asked, managing to keep the quaver out of his voice.

"Are you Conán Connolly?"

"Yeah," Conán said reluctantly, wondering what he was getting himself into. "What's wrong?"

There was a pause that seemed to last an age until the man spoke again.

"We've heard from your landlord that you've been giving him hassle in regards to rent."

Conán snorted with laughter down to pure relief, and quickly had to turn it into a violent coughing fit to cover his tracks. Recovering, he looked up at the confused officers.

"Really? He called you out because I'm late paying rent? Do you not have better things to do?"

"Mr. Connolly," one of the officers said, forcing patience. "I believe it's slightly more than that, don't you? When was the last time you paid up?"

"I don't know. About a week ago?"

"Don't lie, Mr. Connolly."

"Look, the old man is a nutter; he needs to be in a home. I pay him and he puts the money
somewhere and forgets where he puts it." Conán shrugged. "It's not his fault, lads. Go easy on him." he added cheekily.

"We have heard from him that you've been conning him out of pay, Mr. Connolly. You owe him nearly two hundred Euro."

Conán spluttered and coughed for real this time.

"Two hundred Euro?" he asked. "Believe me, lads, if I had two hundred Euro, I wouldn't be giving it to him!"

"I'm afraid, sir, that he wants you out until you can pay up."

"What?"

"You heard me. I think he's being lenient. If I were him I'd throw you out and not have you back. Apparently, according to him, you have work problems."

"Yeah, damn right I do, I don't have any work!" Conán spat out. "That bastard –"

"Mr. Connolly, language."

"I think I'm entitled to a bit of swearing. In case you haven’t noticed, I am now homeless."

Conán put up a protest, but nevertheless he found himself sitting outside on the kerb. He looked across the way, where his landlord lived. The curtains twitched as he did so and he saw an eye looking out at him. He gave it the middle finger and stood up, stomping away.

He tried to think positive, reminding himself that if the Gardai officers had been there for the reasons he had been thinking, he would be in a lot more trouble than two hundred Euro. Even so, this was still a gargantuan amount for him to pay. He didn't make that in a month these days.

He knew subconsciously where he was walking. He had wanted to go there for some time, but he had always made excuses to himself to hold it off. Now, though, he was homeless and had a lot of time on his hands, and so all of his excuses were irrelevant.

He stood and looked up at his childhood home. It hadn't changed much. It had been derelict for a year, ever since his mother had died, but the outside still looked the same. The garden was just as overgrown as it used to be and the weeds still grew from between the bricks. Conán jumped over the broken fence and disappeared into the wild plants, which hid him from view by the time he got to the old front door. He crunched down some of the weeds and sat on the doorstep, now completely hidden from view by plants that now stood at least a foot and a half taller than him.

Conán had never minded the plants. Indeed, they had saved his life on one occasion. His mother and one of her boyfriends had been having a vicious row over money for drugs, which was what most rows had been about: drug money, or Conán, or Conán preventing drug money. Anyway, in his temper, his mother's boyfriend had grabbed the seven-year-old Conán from where he had been cowering in the corner of his mother's bedroom, upstairs at the front of the house, and threw him as hard as he could. Conán had been little and underweight and his mother's boyfriend much bigger and much, much stronger, and as a result of this powerful throw, Conán had flew across the room and smashed the window, falling straight out it. Had the garden been tame, he would have most certainly died from a broken neck, but the plants had cushioned his fall somewhat and he had survived, if cut to ribbons by broken glass and thorns.

Conán smiled thinly at the memory, remembering as clearly as though it had happened yesterday lying on the plants and looking up at the window. His mother's face, and her boyfriend's face, had appeared at the window at the same time, looking nervous but slightly hopeful, and for the badness of it, Conán had raised one bleeding hand and waved at them. He would never forget the look of disappointment on his mother's face, and he suffered for the taunt. He had lay out there all night, too weak to get up, until the postman had nearly spotted him on his hesitant way to the door. Then Conán's mother had sent her boyfriend out to unceremoniously drag the injured child back into the house and leave him in the bath, where Conán stayed until he was no longer so weak from blood loss and cold.

Conán leant back against the door – and then got the fright of his life as he fell right backwards and into the hallway. He scrambled up to his feet, whirling around to look behind him, for one horrible second thinking that his mother was going to be standing behind him, just like she had been all those years ago, a twisted and drunken smile on her face as she surveyed him.

Nobody was there, of course. Conán let his breath out slowly, feeling like an idiot. Curiosity got the better of him and he closed the front door again, so it didn't look suspicious if anyone did see anything, and he took a further step into the house.

He looked into the living room. Conán had never bothered to sort his mother's stuff out, so agencies had taken everything of value, though this wasn't a lot, and left the rest. The old sofa was still there, and Conán could see why they hadn't wanted it. It was as filthy now as it had been then, and Conán edged closer through the dying light and saw that it was sagging badly in the middle. He smiled thinly at it. This was the sofa his mother had died on, he had heard. He took a hold of one of the cushions and pulled it back. Under it, obviously after they had fallen down the side of the sofa, were several used syringes. Conán pulled a face and carefully pushed the cushions back into place. He didn't want to get pricked by one of them – God knows what he would catch.

He looked into the corner beside the sofa. Oh, he remembered the corner well. It was where he had been frequently made to sit when he had committed one of what his mother would call a "crime". This could have been anything from not answering as soon as he was supposed to, or leaving a speck of dirt on the dishes, or perhaps he would be made to sit there all night for the terrible crime of speaking without permission or showing emotion. He had preferred to crouch there instead of sleeping in the cold bathtub, but if his mother had found him asleep when she came down for the breakfast she expected to be readily prepared for her, he would truly be in trouble. It was a thought that terrified him into staying wide-awake through the night. If he began making her breakfast right on time, he could usually sneak some mouthfuls of food, though again the punishment was severe if he were caught. Stealing food was the worst crime of all.

He went into the kitchen. This was where a lot of the torture had taken place, because of the wide range of weapons in there. Conán was all right until he got to the middle of the floor that was covered, like it had been when he had been younger, in filthy kitchen tiles. The dirt was a lot thicker now, but their grey-brown layer of filth had always been there. Then, he thought he caught a whiff of something familiar, and he froze to the spot, beginning to shake violently as it all came back to him.