Games with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally
pylon. Something’s interfering with transmission.
Then I remember. I’d been standing next to Julie Draper’s dead body less than twenty-four hours ago and she’s got my subconscious on repeat dial. She’s desperate to connect to me. I must sleep so Julie can get through.
I lie down, eyes closed, exhausted brain agape; come on in, Ms Draper, the water’s toasty.
Random phrases echo and overlap:
Failed relationship … the wink-and-elbow language of cruel-girl delight …
The love peters out, the sex peters out, so you might as well be with someone who’s loaded …
Once you’ve had twenty-five, you don’t want less …
There’s Sinead O’Connor at the end of the bed, tears rolling down her porcelain white face. She’s smiling at the same time, holding a photo close to her chest. I see it’s Zoe, Matt and me on Brighton Beach last summer. Her mouth sneers and that photo rips right down the middle, as if by magic. Dolores O’Riordan of The Cranberries is beside her, drinking a pint of white wine and loving every second.
Jesus, ladies, what is your problem? Why do you hate men so much?
What’s that they’re singing?
Na na na na
Na na na na
Hey Hey
Goodbye
Oh and here’s Julie Draper now, bald as a coot, singing her little heart out in that pink-striped blanket, giving it all Alison Moyet, thinking she’s the bee’s knees. What is this, ladies, Fun Girl Three?
Behind them, in black and white, Zoe is bowed and shuffling away at speed, dragging a reluctant little boy in shorts alongside her. Matt turns and smiles and waves. He’s oblivious to the masked black figure in front of them, which, at that instant, spins and re-shapes into a perfectly ordinary shadow. They continue to march onwards and into that black shadow …
I follow and the black figure reconfigures between us. He starts to turn. I will him; turn … turn … make yourself known! A shape is forming. I know that profile from somewhere. I know this man. He wants to make himself known to me. He’s turning to me … coming to me. Keep turning!
He freezes, spooked by a shrill, repetitive tone. I recognise that din. My brain clicks; it’s my mobile. He flicks off like a puppet shadow. Damn! One more second and Julie’s killer would have revealed himself.
What the hell was all that about? Why the cameo appearances by those self-styled Banshees of rage, Sinead and Dolores? And why was Julie Draper’s killer stalking Zoe and Matt, then luring them into some sort of darkness? It’s got to be cross-pollination of my current dual traumas – the death of Julie and the prospect of losing the people that I love. That can be the only explanation.
I’m stunned to see it’s gone 4pm Why do I always sleep better after bad news? Maybe its pessimistic relief; the worst has happened, so you can quit your fretting now and relax.
I pick up. ‘Fintan?’
‘You still good for the Archway Tavern?’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, what? It’s Friday the 17th. The World Cup finals kick off in less than one hour! That’s where we always watch the games. Is she letting you out? Because you know it’s Ireland–Italy tomorrow night. If you’ve only got the one pink pass for the weekend …’
‘I don’t need her permission,’ I announce, thinking if only he knew why.
‘Good man. That’s the spirit. Right so, I’ll pick you up in twenty. Is she there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I won’t come in so.’
‘Ah, come on, Fintan, Matt would love to see you.’
‘I thought we had orders to address him only as Matthew. Anyway, I’m barred.’
‘You’re not barred.’
‘Zoe made it very clear she thinks I’m a … how did she put it again?’
‘A misogynistic menace. She didn’t mean it. She just worries that every time I go out with you, we end up on a bender.’
‘We end up on a bender because you’re so pussy-whipped. She said the hangovers make you an unfit father. How can you put up with that shite? You do more for that kid than she does.’
‘Come on, Fintan. Give her a break. She’s under a lot of pressure lately and she hasn’t been well,’ I say, then realise I’m trying to justify her affair to myself.
‘Damn right she’s not well. She’s a control freak. Every man needs to cut loose now and then. The day you roll over and let her control your social life, she’ll end up hating you for it. I’ve seen it happen, Donal. You need to man the fuck up.’
‘Why don’t you man the fuck up and knock the door?’
‘Listen, Donal, I’m dumping that silver concrete block on your doorstep. Then I’m off to watch the Americans fail to “get” soccer. My advice is: be ready, because I’ve sensational news.’
‘Not like you to sensationalise news, Fintan.’
‘Fine. If you don’t want to know what Julie Draper’s kidnapper is up to now, maybe you should stay in and watch Friends, like a proper dad.’
Ten minutes later, I find Fintan loitering on our front door step, awkwardly cradling the silver breeze-block so that it doesn’t touch his suit.
‘You should present this to Zoe,’ he smiles. ‘Tell her it’s your first down payment on that house of her dreams.’
‘Arsehole.’
‘Remind me again why I’ve been ferrying it around southern England since yesterday?’
‘I just have a feeling about it,’ I say, taking the block and placing it in the boot of my car. He’s still driving the flashy Porsche. ‘I see you figured out how to get the roof up.’
‘Not exactly. I took it to that grease monkey around the corner. He sorted it out for fifty quid.’
‘Fifty quid? That’s a miracle.’
‘Let’s hope the miracles continue, and it rains solidly for several months after I give it back to Jamie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well let’s just say, when they fixed it, they didn’t bother too much with the electrics.’
He clocks my mounting horror and roars with laughter.
‘They welded it shut.’
‘Jesus, Fintan. Jamie will go apeshit.’
He throws his arms out in mock defence. ‘I didn’t know he’d set about it with a blowtorch. It kept raining!’
I get in to inspect. ‘He’s added lots of nasty-looking metal,’ I say. ‘It’s now like being in one of those shark cages. Poor Jamie.’
Fintan’s in fits now and takes several minutes to recover, giving me plenty of time to marvel at the crow-black cruelty of his humour.
I can’t wait any longer. ‘Commander Crossley hasn’t been in touch. No one’s been in touch. I presume that, as usual, you and your journo friends know more than me about what’s really going on. Has John West or Kipper resurfaced?’
‘Police got a typed note this morning, which they suspect is from him. He’s threatening to abduct and murder again, unless he gets another pay-off. Except this time, he’s going to target a child.’
‘Bloody