Blink

by Niamh O'Connor

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you spot Anna’s mobile among her possessions?’

  ‘No. I handed over a watch, a butterfly necklace, some loose change. No phone, now you mention it. Why?’

  ‘It’s just something her sister and brother said. They were discussing a “How to” suicide clip someone had sent Anna on her phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘ ’Cos if that’s true …’

  ‘Did they tell you about it?’

  ‘No, I tried to ask them more about it after you’d left, but they completely clammed up.’

  ‘The parents said Anna had been bullied,’ McConigle says.

  ‘It must be true then. Do you know what this means …’

  ‘Don’t get carried away.’

  Sexton pauses. ‘I’m not. I’m just saying.’

  ‘And so am I.’

  He rubs his forehead. ‘This isn’t about my wife. Jesus. What was the name of Anna’s bully? Did the parents give you a name?’

  ‘They said it was Melissa Brockle, a girl in her class. But she can’t tell you anything. She’s dead. She was the last one, killed herself ten days ago.’

  ‘We need to find Anna’s phone. I’ve been ringing it; it’s still on. If we triangulate it, we could do a sweep.’

  ‘We can bing it whether it’s got power or not. It can wait until tomorrow. Goodnight.’

  ‘McConigle?’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  13

  ‘Did the patient just try to open her eyes?’ consultant neurologist Mr Anthony Dean asks. The surgeon’s voice is muffled by the mask over his nose and mouth as he leans over the bed in the operating theatre.

  A young Filipino anaesthetist moves quickly to the patient’s arm and lifts it at the wrist, where the plastic tag gives her name, ‘Lucy Starling’, and DOB, ‘1999’. Frown lines melt from the anaesthetist’s face as the wrist flops lifelessly back on to the bed once he lets it go. Double-checking the LCD display on the heart monitor, he raises his voice over its rhythmic electronic pips and beeps and the hiss and gurgle of the oxygen mask. ‘She’s still under.’

  Dr Dean peers down into the patient’s open head. ‘There were 150 cases of accidental awareness during surgery in the UK last year,’ he says. ‘It’d be just my bloody luck that the single Irish case ends up in front of me. If this one got a hearing in front of the medical council, my name would be splashed all over the tabloids. It would be a case of no smoke without fire; nobody would remember whether I was found guilty or innocent of negligence.’

  ‘Let’s hope she didn’t hear that then,’ the radiographer ribs, as he studies a screen showing the patient’s pulsing brain being filmed by the micro-camera strapped around Dean’s head. ‘Or the headline will read: “Top Doc Blasts ‘My Bloody Luck’ during Nightmare Op”.’

  There is a ripple of laughter.

  ‘You sure that isn’t grey matter?’ Dr Dean asks the radiographer over his shoulder. The edge of his blade appears on the screen. ‘It looks like grey matter to me.’

  The radiographer scans the screen. ‘It’s cerebrospinal fluid. Congealing.’

  ‘How long since the car crash?’ Dr Dean queries.

  ‘A couple of hours,’ the theatre nurse says, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘She had to be cut out.’

  ‘BP?’

  ‘Still forty-nine.’

  Dr Dean blows out a spurt of air and turns his scalpel around so the blunt side is facing up. He pushes it into the girl’s head and watches it bounce off the substance, then glances at the radiographer. ‘What was your mode of transport when you were fourteen, anyway?’

  ‘Penny farthing,’ the radiographer jokes.

  Dr Dean’s face mask tightens as he grins, his gaze fixed on the image of the brain. ‘Speaking of teenagers, did you see that YouTube clip of that girl from one of the schools affected by these suicides drunk in Temple Bar and going for a pee and a puke?’

  On the screen, the metal can be seen making contact inside the patient’s head.

  ‘I did,’ the nurse says. ‘Who’d be a teenager today, eh? It’s not like the old days, when only the celebrities’ misdemeanours were fair game because they’d courted publicity. Now everyone’s a citizen journalist. Poor kid.’

  Dr Dean’s rubbery finger switches the blade around and aims the pointed side at the brain. ‘CSF congealing you say? OK, if you’re sure.’

  He puts the flat of his rubber-gloved hand out.

  ‘Suction pump.’

  Tuesday

  14

  School principal Bronwyn Harris is standing on the stage at morning assembly, adjusting the microphone. She is in her late forties, with a sharp bob that’s thin at the side and has a heavy fringe. In front of her, the classes are organized in tidy lines – first-years on the left, sixth on the right. The gym equipment – high beam, spring boards, rubber mats – has been pushed to the back of the room. The hall is quiet apart from the occasional eruption of frightened sobs. It’s like the girls are scared they’ll catch the contagion claiming their pals. Nobody knows who’ll be next. The class prefects, with sashes over their shoulders and tied around the opposite side at the waist, standing at the top of each class line, are red-eyed. Even the girls who haven’t been briefed about what’s coming know what happens next – they’ve been here twice already in recent weeks, last time for Melissa Brockle and Lucy Starling – two second-years.

  Mrs Harris takes a deep breath. When she talks to outsiders, the only thing she can compare the feeling to are the scenes on the telly of mass mourning after the death of Princess Diana. The grief is overwhelming. The girls don’t need to have known Anna Eccles personally, knowing her to see is enough. They are moved like they’ve lost a member of their own family.

  Mrs Harris steps closer to the mic. It squeals discordantly. She waits until the feedback subsides. ‘Girls, as some of you know, I got some terrible news last night.’

  The younger ones start to break down.

  ‘We thought, we prayed, that this horrible time was over, that the message “It’s OK to be sad sometimes” had got out there. We’ve had so many visits from so many experts who’ve talked to us about how to deal with our feelings, about what to do if we feel down. But on Sunday night another one of our girls, lovely, special Anna Eccles from class 2B, felt the despair that we have been trying so hard to equip you all against.’

  The mention of Anna’s name sets off a low keening sound from somewhere in the hall.

  ‘Words feel so futile. I have stood here and said the same thing over and over. All I can do now is beg. Please, please, please, my darling children, if any of you feels so low or down that you are contemplating the unimaginable, seek help. Life is so precious. You are all so full of such amazing potential. You are on the cusp of everything. However big the problem in your life may appear, it is never too big. Whatever feels insurmountable now can be fixed. Death cannot.’

  She pauses, and takes a deep breath. The crying is so loud she doubts even the mic will carry her voice over it.

  ‘Anna’s funeral is on Thursday. We will form a guard of honour to say our goodbyes. I am devastated by this news, as I know you all are too. There is nothing we can say that I haven’t already said, except to emphasize once again, please: if you’re feeling down, talk to a friend, a family member, the full-time counsellor we’ve appointed. Phone any of the numbers we’ve given you in handouts; phone me if it helps. My number is on the leaflet. It doesn’t matter what time, I’m always there. I can only appeal to you again: Don’t do this to your friends and family. I promise you that whatever grief you are feeling, for the people closest to Melissa and Anna it’s a million times worse. The agony doesn’t go away for them. It shapes the lives left behind. Suicide. Ruins. Lives. I won’t go into the statistics of alcoholism, or drug addiction, or even the suicide rates of the bereaved, but I am going, once again, to read you the letter read at Melissa’s removal last week to remind you all what
her mum and dad are going through.’

  Mrs Harris holds up a piece of paper and begins to read:

  ‘“Anybody’s Child. Last night our daughter died. We took her cousin Beth from school and told her what had happened. Have you ever seen a heart break? Have you ever heard a heart break? It sounds like the howl from a monster. It comes up from the gut and out of a distorted face. The word ‘no’ is in there but you can’t really hear it as the howl turns to a scream. It has another face too. One that is covered in silent tears with hair stuck to it, burrowed into a friend’s neck. Hearts breaking. All at once.

  ‘“Did we see it coming? No. Did we know of other people this had happened to? Yes. Do we know why she did this? No. This doesn’t happen to us. This happens to other people. Well, it did happen to us. And it could be anybody’s child lying there cold in a coffin. Why is this happening, time and time and time again? More people, so I am told, die each year from suicide than die in car crashes. Why?

  ‘“Why is this now an option for young people? Why don’t they just get drunk?

  ‘“OK, they will be grounded and have their phone taken away, but that isn’t final. Death is. Our daughter will always be fourteen.”’

  Bronwyn Harris swallows the lump in her throat and switches off the mic. There is no more she can say that hasn’t already been said. The worst part is, she knows from bitter experience it won’t make a blind bit of difference.

  15

  CS Dan Mason bursts through his office door, across the corridor and into the open-plan detective unit, gripping his walking stick like he is teaching a wayward dog lead skills. The head of Dublin’s Store Street station has a smashed boxer’s nose, piercing midnight-blue eyes and receding hair – cut to a two-blade, contrary to regulations designed to make members of the Gardaí distinguishable from criminals. He’s not long enough back from the prolonged sick leave associated with his injuries for it to have grown back. Sexton heads over to try to have a word. The chief is making a beeline for McConigle.

  ‘Good work last night,’ the chief says, jigging her shoulder. He’s got a sheet with some particulars in his hand.

  ‘If there’s a suicide video involved, it changes everything. It means a harassment charge at the very least. Put together a team.’

  ‘Yes!’ McConigle reacts, giving a little victory clench. She cops Sexton staring at her and glances guiltily at him.

  ‘I thought you went to bed early,’ he says.

  She turns to the chief. ‘I want Sexton on my team.’

  ‘No,’ the chief states.

  ‘What?’ Sexton asks him. ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos your shrink says you belong behind a desk.’

  ‘Bitch.’

  ‘QED. Consider yourself lucky. She also says you shouldn’t be around juveniles, but I’m going to have to give you the benefit of the doubt on that one, because of the pressure I’m under.’

  ‘I’ll call her,’ Sexton says.

  ‘You do that, she’ll be looking for a protection order,’ the chief warns. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got something else to keep you occupied. I need a report for the Minister for Children on the exact number of cases in the suicide cluster, with biogs of each of the kids affected. We’re looking for patterns – drink, drugs, whatever kids do these days for kicks – and numbers. She wants exact numbers.’

  ‘You don’t need me for that. Any rookie in the room could do it.’

  ‘I want you to do it because of your special experience. If the press start getting lippy about your history, I can cite your sensitivity to the whole area of suicide.’

  Sexton blinks. The chief is referring to the death of his wife, Maura, almost four years ago now. Not that anyone around here seems to have noticed the passing of time. Sexton is the first to admit he’s let a lot of things go since, and not just his weight. But he wants to turn his life around. Things hit rock bottom a few weeks back when he had to give up driving the daytrip bus for Crumlin Children’s Hospital on his day off. It was an old bus and he couldn’t fit in because the driver’s seat didn’t go back far enough from the wheel, he’d put on so much weight. ‘Morbidly obese’ his GP had pronounced, quoting Body Mass Index numbers and handing over leaflets on heart disease, strokes and diabetes.

  ‘Give up smoking first, then we’ll talk diet,’ the doc had said, and charged him €60 for the privilege.

  Sexton needs to get his life back under control, but he won’t last five minutes on a diet while he is miserable in work. If he could crack a quick murder, especially something straightforward, he’d feel like he was back again.

  ‘Give me the Segway, Chief,’ he says. ‘That’s a case I can sink my teeth into.’

  A couple of desks away, a detective calls out, ‘Here, J-Lo’s after the Segway,’ to the other officers in the room.

  One of the uniforms sitting even closer to the spot where Sexton is talking to the chief shouts, ‘He just said he wants to sink his teeth into it!’

  There is a ripple of guilty laughter.

  ‘Why do you call him J-Lo?’ one of the rookies asks.

  ‘’Cos of the size of his arse!’ someone replies.

  Someone else taunts, ‘What’s the maximum weight a Segway can take anyway?’

  Sexton’s forearm springs up to tell them ‘Up yours’. When you’re a kid, being slagged means being bullied, and that’s personal. When you’re a man, it’s a sign of endearment and a lot better than being ignored.

  The chief links Sexton’s arm and turns him away from all distractions. He lowers his voice. ‘Do you have any idea how many officers I’ve had to take off the roster to visit the schools in our district on the “Talk About Your Feelings” programme?’

  ‘Four,’ Sexton answers. He should know – he’s one of them. ‘Can we talk about the Segway murder, Chief? I prosecuted Lucky Kernick for a drug deal a while back, do you remember? I mean, it was small by his standards, but I got a conviction and I could call on a couple of the touts who helped me back then to see if I can get an early lead …’

  The chief stared. ‘Have you been listening to a single word I just said? I want you on the suicide report because you have the right experience.’ He lowers his eyebrows in a way that said ‘Fill in the blanks.’ ‘You can start by interviewing the principal at the school where the latest kid died. Her name’s Bronwyn Harris and the school’s St Benedict’s on the Green. There have been a few other suicides there. Get her to give you the list of names.’

  The chief eyes his secretary, Jeanie, sauntering across the room with his coat slung over an arm. She’s got that Imelda May war-style thing going on since returning from a sabbatical she’d taken after her maternity leave ended.

  Standing behind the chief silently, Jeanie holds the coat up behind his back for him to put on.

  Sexton can smell her spicy perfume. He wonders if Jo knows Jeanie is back.

  The chief holds his arms back and lets her slide the coat on to them. He glances over his shoulder at Jeanie. ‘Still raining?’

  ‘Cats and dogs,’ she purrs.

  He turns back to Sexton, jabbing a finger. ‘Tell you what, you have the report sorted by tomorrow morning, and I’ll consider you for the Segway. I can’t say fairer than that.’

  There is a roar of protest from the room as the detective nearest them, who has overheard, relays the update.

  As the chief heads back towards the corridor, Sexton gives his colleagues a wink and rubs his thumb off his first two fingers: he’ll be rolling in it when he wins the money for cracking the case.

  16

  Jo is doing what everyone thinks best and taking the first step in getting back to work. If she’s honest with herself, she’s glad of the distraction. She wants to think about anything other than Rory and the constant threat she has felt under since teenagers started to die. She and Dan have been walking on eggshells around him ever since the death of Amy Reddan. They have gone to countless parent information sessions in the school, the essence of which is not to treat t
he kids’ problems like they don’t count or matter, because, even if they’re not huge in the scheme of things, they are to the teenager. Jo doesn’t necessarily agree with the experts. She thinks it’s postponing the problem, setting the kids up for a fall in adulthood. Life isn’t all roses. You have to learn that the hard way, that it doesn’t matter when things don’t go your way, things hurt, but you get up, you brush yourself off, and you keep going …

  She hears the footsteps of the woman she’s interviewing returning from the hotel-lobby bathroom. She’s Esther Fricker, Sexton’s mother-in-law. Jo is looking into the circumstances surrounding Sexton’s wife Maura’s death, just as she promised him she would, before her sight failed.

  Maura’s mother is a well-preserved woman in her seventies. They’d met before, at Maura’s funeral, and remembering a conversation they’d had about her home in Belfast, Jo had phoned her this morning. As it happened, Esther was in Dublin and Jo had got a taxi to meet her for coffee in her hotel, the Radisson on the N11, a few miles from the cemetery where Maura was buried.

  ‘You were saying?’ Jo prompts.

  Esther sniffs. ‘Just that Maura had everything to live for,’ she says. ‘That she wasn’t the type. That she didn’t suffer from depression. That Gavin is right.’

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Jo says, squinting, aware that Esther’s hair is white but unable to make out any other details apart from distinguishing her heavy perfume as Anaïs Anaïs, one Jo’s mother used to wear. ‘She never came with him to any of the station’s socials.’

  Esther blows out a long breath. ‘She was one of life’s happy people. You know what I mean? I never had to worry about her. She wasn’t academic in school, but she always had friends. People loved having her around because she was a problem solver. She didn’t suffer from stress. She just ebbed and flowed, and nothing really got to her. She was a hippy in the best sense of the word.’

  The waitress comes over with the coffees. ‘Latte?’