Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

by James Nally

  Seconds passed. I scrambled to my feet. No damage done.

  I sprinted out of the alleyway, checking left, then right. The car that winged me earlier roared past, in the opposite direction, no doubt carrying my assailant. Burglary? A drug deal? I’d check later for reports of crime or suspicious activity in the area.

  Or had it been Dom Rogan? My gut said no. Dom was a coward who bullied women. Surely he wouldn’t feel lucky enough to have a pop at me?

  As I watched the Subaru scream away my eye latched onto determined movement. A blurred figure marched towards me. I still felt rattled but stepped out into the open, making my presence known. I could make out a duffle coat, a beanie hat, then a broad grin.

  ‘Are you ever off duty, Officer?’ she called.

  I let the air out and mouthed a silent ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘You poor thing, you’re soaked. Why have you got mud on your face?’

  ‘How have you been, Gabby?’ I asked, wiping my face with my drenched sleeve and following her to the front gate.

  ‘How long has it been since you lived with your parents?’ she asked.

  ‘Ooh, about three years.’

  ‘Six for me. I’m not sure how long I can stand it.’

  ‘All that home cooking and free laundry? It must be horrendous.’

  ‘Oh God, they mean so well,’ she protested, to herself mostly, ‘but they’re so, oh I don’t know, set in their ways I suppose.’

  ‘Well it’s just for a while.’

  ‘Mum takes no interest in my job whatsoever. She talks about it as if it’s a minor diversion, a stopgap until I get down to the important stuff, you know, like getting married and having babies.’

  ‘That’s just a generation thing …’

  ‘She goes on and on about how fucking well Toby is doing. My brother. And how lovely Natalia is. His fiancée. They’re always doing stuff with my parents without me. I don’t know, I feel like I’m being left out.’

  She attacked her fortress front door with multi-keyed gusto.

  ‘They all say now they never thought Dom was “right” for me. Of course, no one ever thought to say anything at the time. I had to remind Mum that when I told her we’d split up, she didn’t call me for four weeks, she was so fucking disappointed.’

  Gabby pushed her front door open and strode purposefully over her mail. At the top of the pile, I spied a handwritten card. My eyes snagged upon the capital letters of ‘BITCH’. I scooped up the bundle, stuffing the hand-delivered card into my trouser pocket.

  I followed her rant trail into the kitchen and popped the stamped post upon the stripped pine table. She had moved on to her dad’s obsession with some Asian family that had moved into ‘the Close’.

  ‘Sorry,’ she announced suddenly, ‘you must think I’m unhinged. And thank you for doing this for me. I’m sure it’s not necessary but I really appreciate it.’

  I gave a neutral chuckle: ‘Don’t worry. I know how frustrating parents can be.’

  ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad,’ she announced, then pointed to her heaving bookshelves: ‘Why don’t you help yourself? Pick out a Philip Larkin. I think you’d really like him. You can keep it, as a thank you.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, sauntering over to her literary trophy cabinet.

  ‘There’s a clean towel on the radiator. Feel free. We don’t want you catching your death.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, grabbing it and wiping my face.

  ‘I’ll be a few minutes,’ she said, walking into her bedroom and closing the door.

  I’d heard that ‘They fuck you up …’ line of Larkin’s before. As I surveyed her mini library, I wondered: just how much Martin had fucked me up? I reminded myself that I’d never utter a single word to him again in my lifetime. I might not even get the chance to speak to Mum again, if her health was deteriorating at the rate Fintan described. I pressed Gabby’s towel to my face. It smelt like spring flowers, just like home. My last hours there came flooding through me. Oh he’d fucked me up alright, good and proper.

  After seeing Eve that last time at the bedroom window, I’d spent a sleepless night on the couch with Mum. We held hands and watched the giant evergreen trees dance to the single street lamp by the church. Finally, those first wisps of cloud showed, the upstairs floorboards creaked under familiar feet, the bathroom door shut and I decided to run upstairs and hide in my bedroom.

  I hadn’t clapped eyes on Martin since the day before Eve’s party. He was swerving me, no doubt, giving me the silent treatment.

  Shunning me wasn’t his tactic of choice, of course – he preferred naked, unabashed violence as a rule – but he wouldn’t have given me a hiding that day, not when I’d just come out of hospital. That wouldn’t chime with his ‘real man’ moral compass at all. He’d prefer to wait until I got better, then put me back in hospital with a fresh set of injuries. But I couldn’t be certain. Violent men are unpredictable: he’d caught me out before.

  I was certain of one thing: perennial source of embarrassment that I was, he couldn’t wait for me to fuck off to England. Tick me off the list: job done. Another tricky deal successfully negotiated.

  I couldn’t remember not hating everything he stood for. Councillor Lynch and his late-night muttered meetings, locked in the sitting room with the local IRA sympathisers, or the ‘beardos’, as Fintan called them. Earnest hirsute inadequates, who called themselves soldiers but were no more than deluded messengers and bog-hole diggers who only ever fired guns at funerals, fighting a war in which they never had to face their ‘enemy’ – whoever they were. Irish people with a different religion? The Brits? No mention of the fact that England was home to five of Martin’s six siblings, and that all of his nieces and nephews were either English or American.

  I used to sneak down and listen to their talk of ‘consignments’ and ‘units’ and ‘comms’ and fantasise about grassing them up to the Gardai. Or, better still, the SAS. Then see how these hardy Soldiers of Irish Destiny shaped up.

  To top it all, Councillor Martin squared it in his mind to go public in the Tullamore Tribune as pro-IRA AND pro-life. The local paper loved Councillor Martin ‘the Grinch’ Lynch: if he wasn’t a psycho, he’d be comedy gold.

  I closed my bedroom door and waited. I heard the bathroom sink emptying, the latch on the door rattle, the door crash open. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, got closer, closer. Then they stopped outside my bedroom door. I shut my eyes and held my breath. What was this to be? Maybe he was going to wish me luck? Or maybe he just felt like dishing out one last battering before I headed off to live with the enemy.

  Whatever was coming, I wanted it over with, so I coughed a cough that said: ‘Ready and waiting.’ I saw the handle turn. I looked up to the Heavens and squeezed my eyes shut again. Seconds ground past. Then – thump – I heard his feet walking away.

  His car engine gunned. The drive’s gravel crunched and I took a look out of the window and watched him drive off without so much as a glance up.

  ‘Hard man Martin,’ I said.

  I went into the bathroom for a piss and saw his undrained beard shavings carpeting the white sink, infinite black stars against a blinding white sky. I ran my finger through the veil of jet black specks, hoping that I wasn’t genetically doomed to become a bitter, unhappy man.

  Mum walked with me into town to catch the bus. I don’t know if she cried when it drove off. I never looked back.

  Reluctantly, my face parted from Gabby’s towel. I found the poem she had mentioned in a Larkin tome and popped the handwritten note inside so I could read it surreptitiously. For a genius, the syntax of Dom’s undated, unsigned message sucked.

  Dearest Gabrielle, how are you? I had a dream about you last night. You looked beautiful. We were in our favourite spot. Do you remember our favourite spot, the bench at Tooting Lido?

  I got so close to you the other day that you smelt my aftershave. You said to your friend, ‘can you smell aftershave?’ and it was mine. She smelt it too b
ut you have the better senses.You acted like you didn’t know it was mine. But I know you knew. You seem to know when I’m watching you.

  Then, in more frenzied, clearly rushed writing.

  Oh you look so secure don’t you?

  Is this because of your PIG friend?

  Why are you doing this to me, you fucking BITCH?

  Do you miss me? I miss you. I need you.

  I am coming for you!

  He underlined the last sentence with a manic flourish. I noticed that some of the black ink had run down the damp, lower portion of the card, like a black tear. A thousand tiny cold feet scurried across my back. Dom must’ve watched me from somewhere outside, added this poison postscript to his love note, delivered it and ghosted off while I was dashing about chasing shadows. Maybe it was Dom who whacked me from behind in the alleyway? That’d be his style, the chicken shit.

  Suddenly my back hurt where I’d been struck. I felt rattled, out-manoeuvred.

  I wondered if it had been a man like Dom who stabbed Marion Ryan to death. Men like him possess that persecuted righteous rage required for sudden violence against someone they profess to love. As Gabby said, he didn’t start out like that. But what if nothing halts their escalation?

  I snapped the book shut, fearful now that Dom Rogan would eventually harm Gabby if I didn’t do something about him. But what could I do? My only hope was to catch him in the act of breaking in here. I walked to the patio door and checked the back garden, willing him to appear.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  Gabby stood at her bedroom door, bag in hand, as still and alert as a startled deer.

  ‘Sorry, miles away,’ I smiled, busily seeking out a positive note on which to reboot our conversation.

  ‘I went to see Lilian yesterday. I’ve agreed to help with her dissertation.’

  ‘I know! She called me. I meant to say thank you. She is so excited. And who knows, it might actually help.’

  ‘So I’ve kept up my end of the bargain.’

  She nodded, her closed lips resigning at the corners.

  ‘Have you started looking for somewhere to live yet, Gabby?’

  Her skin flushed.

  ‘You haven’t told your parents about Dom stalking you, have you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or that you need to move out of here?’

  ‘How can I?’ she said softly, addressing the floor. ‘It’s so embarrassing.’

  ‘So what excuse have you given them for staying at theirs?’

  ‘I … they think I’m having some floors replaced.’

  I breathed a long disapproving sigh. I liked this Donal: uncompromising, direct, manly. Why could I never pull it off outside of work? I fingered Dom’s deranged love note, now an unlikely bookmark. Part of me wanted to show it to her, dispense the short sharp shock she clearly needed. On the other hand, I didn’t want to scythe down the green shoots of her recovering confidence. I needed to prod her in another way.

  ‘You’ve got to tell them. And you’ve got to get on with finding a new place to live before he puts two and two together and turns up at your family’s place in Maidstone.’

  ‘He wouldn’t?’

  ‘If he finds out you’re staying there, then of course he will. And what are you going to do about this?’ I asked, pointing at her mail on the table.

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ she flustered, shoving it awkwardly into her handbag.

  ‘No I mean … Look, Gabby, because of my job, I’ve dealt with this kind of situation before. You shouldn’t get your mail automatically forwarded to your new address.’

  She looked at me, confused.

  ‘Someone as determined and conniving as Dom could easily wheedle that information out of a Royal Mail employee.’

  ‘Oh, gosh, I hadn’t even thought of that. That’s okay though, I’ll pop back every couple of days to pick it up.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I blurted, ‘you can’t do that. I’ll pick it up for you. It’s no bother. I pass here every day anyway.’

  She looked unsure.

  ‘And you’ll be doing me a favour. There’s been a new directive at work about protecting victims of domestic abuse or stalking,’ I lied. ‘I really need to follow all the guidelines so it’s important that you don’t come back here alone.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you,’ she said uncertainly, rummaging in her handbag and producing keys.

  ‘You really mustn’t come back here alone,’ I said, way too urgently, ‘and you really need to get a new place sorted, right away. When you do, I’ll bring your post over to you.’

  She nodded, somehow sensing that I was holding something back.

  ‘I’ll lock up,’ I said brightly, ‘and then I’m giving you a lift to the train station.’

  As soon as her seatbelt clicked, I started the engine. I zapped on the headlights and swung the car round, part one of a tight three-pointer. As I crunched it into reverse, a figure appeared in the headlights next to that white works van I’d fallen against earlier. Clad in camo and a bear hat, Dom Rogan stared directly at me and smiled, tapping some sort of instrument against his open palm. I glanced left: thankfully Gabby was busy repacking mail into her handbag. I knocked off the headlights, completed points two, then three, wincing in expectation of some sort of attack. As I flicked on the headlights and sped off, I realised it was time I took the initiative with Dom Rogan.

  Chapter 12

  King’s College Hospital, South London

  Thursday, July 18; 09:55

  The following Thursday, I turned up for my second ‘consultation’ with Lilian, looking forward to some answers. Her reassurances during our previous session that I’d a) retain my anonymity and b) could quit at any time convinced me to really give this a go. I had nothing to lose. Ever since my encounter with Meehan, I’d been craving a clinical explanation. I had pored through all the books I could lay my hands on about the subject, but had found nothing that remotely chimed with my bizarre hyperreal encounters.

  What these books did reveal is that universities have entire departments dedicated to the study of sleep and sleeping disorders. Somewhere, there was a forest of solid academic research on the subject, some of it based on people with extreme conditions. I’d little doubt Lilian had spent the week negotiating these woods, tracking down the rare condition that I suffered from. Part of me even dared to hope that the diagnosis would come with a bespoke solution, one that didn’t involve secure hospitals or surgery.

  ‘Hi Doner,’ she said, this time around making my name sound like it should be followed by kebab.

  Her hair was tied back again, but less severely. She’d even allowed herself a jaunty curl at the fringe.

  ‘Hi Lilian,’ I said, offering an awkward hand, ‘I’ll try to stop for breath this week, let you get a word in.’

  She shook it limply, avoiding my eye. Strange, surely, for a shrink? Perhaps she was shy.

  She wanted to go all the way back to my childhood scrapes with St Johnny Giles. I regurgitated it all again, a little resentfully. How much more did she need to know?

  Over the course of the hour, she kept recycling the same stock questions:

  ‘How did that make you feel, Doner?’

  ‘What would you have wanted to happen?’

  ‘What do you think this meant?’

  I found myself making stuff up, rather than confess I’d never given it much thought. Even my honest answers seemed to disappoint her, as if they weren’t what she’d been hoping for. By the end, her relentless probing for extra insight and meaning had worn me out. Tired answers morphed into defensive agitation.

  After one more: ‘What do you think this meant?’ I snapped.

  ‘I was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me, Lilian. That is why I’m here after all. For answers.’

  ‘Maybe you have to find the answers within yourself?’

  Oh for fuck’s sake, I thought. ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘Why are you feeling so … defensive, Don
er?’

  ‘Look, I don’t need therapy, Lilian. I’m not interested in exploring my feelings, okay?’

  ‘What would you like to happen?’

  ‘I’d like to know why dead people are attacking me in the middle of the night. That’s why I’m here. Remember?’

  ‘Why do you think this is happening to you?’

  ‘You know what I think? I think that when I get close to the body of someone who’s died violently, they find a way to communicate with me. I think Marion was trying to tell me something.’

  ‘Tell you what, Doner?’

  ‘I don’t know. My gut reaction the first time was that she was trying to lead me to her killer. I know that sounds mad, but that’s the only explanation I could come up with. The second time, in the car, I just don’t know. She seemed to place a lot of emphasis on slamming doors. I’ve been thinking, maybe this is a clue to what happened to her.’

  There, I said it, out loud, I told myself. She let it hang in the air until I felt myself shrivel with embarrassment.

  ‘That’s a wonderful concept,’ she said finally, treating herself to the faintest smile, ‘but highly improbable.’

  How fucking probable is any of this, Lilian? I felt like shouting. Dead people battering me in the middle of the night surely merited some lateral thinking? At least I’d come up with a theory, which was more than she’d managed.

  ‘Have you been back to the scene of Marion’s death, since the second attack?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And she hasn’t come to you since then?’

  I didn’t bother answering.

  ‘So it’s difficult to prove that theory, isn’t it?’

  Easy for her to say – I would have to be pretty desperate before I’d put myself in the way of Marion’s deranged spirit again.

  ‘Okay, well that’s all we’ve got time for today,’ she said, getting to her feet and bouncing her papers on the table, like a newsreader during the credits.

  She turned back suddenly, decisively. ‘Look, Doner, I’m not questioning you, or judging you. I’m just exploring the things that happened to you, so that I can make a judgement on them. Does that make sense?’