Shiver the Whole Night Through

by Darragh McManus

  Anyway, it appeared all the other kids had forgotten I was the designated town asshole. I wondered vaguely if some other poor fecker had been chosen to fill the slot. I hoped not, though it didn’t occupy too many of my thoughts. In fact, life in general, interacting with my schoolmates and neighbours, had come to seem less and less important, less real. The woods and Sláine were more solid in my mind. I made an effort to stay connected to my family, Podsy, a few other people. I kept in touch with the world through school, my research, trips to the library, chats with demented old palm readers. Other than that, I let it kind of drift away.

  I was happier, more confident in myself. I looked better too, healthier, although I felt tired because of lost sleep. I even put on some weight for the first time since infancy. I wasn’t eating any more than usual – indeed sometimes I’d go all day without food, my tummy tingling with such anticipation about the night’s meeting that I couldn’t stomach a thing. But I got a bit heavier anyway. Maybe it was the absence of stress: all that anxious energy which used to burn up the calories, gone from my life.

  As was any love I may have once felt for Caitlin. I stress ‘may’. I was starting to suspect that I’d never truly loved her at all, that it had only been a youthful folly. She must have noticed these changes in me too, because the day before Christmas she approached me outside the chipper, a funny expression on her face, as if she was very nervous but trying desperately to seem cool. For once, Caitlin was on her own, not with the gang, which made me feel more certain of myself. It didn’t even bother me that I’d stuffed my face with garlic chips, which I’d have to wolf down if I didn’t want to speak with my mouth full. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d talked. Sláine’s funeral?

  Caitlin made chit-chat, asked me how I was doing, referenced how she hadn’t seen me around much, stuff like that. She even asked after my parents. I let her ramble on for a bit. Somehow, I knew what was coming, and it amused me to see her struggle for the words and the courage to say them. This time, I thought, I’m the one with the power. And it feels goddamn good. I’m not proud of this – it was petty, I know. I couldn’t help it.

  Finally Caitlin asked if I was seeing anyone. When I gave a deliberately ambiguous answer, she mentioned, faux-casual, that there was a Christmas dance that night and maybe, you know, if I didn’t have anything else on, like if I wanted to, maybe she and me could go together, or meet up there, whatever, it didn’t matter, she’d be going anyway so might see me there.

  I smiled and told her sorry, I did have plans for the night, but I’d maybe see her around sometime. Or, hey, maybe not. Then I sauntered off, munching my chips in the freezing air, leaving her behind, as cold and still as a glacier. And yes, this felt pretty good too. I’m not proud of that either, but I’m not going to lie.

  All the while, the weather kept getting colder, and colder, and much, much colder. The meteorological people were increasingly perplexed. Our town, and its hinterland, was in the grip of virtually Arctic conditions. By Christmas we’d had snow every day for weeks. Huge drifts piled up outside houses, smothering streets and cars, making everything look like candy figurines on top of a cake that was covered in white icing. Water pipes seized up or burst constantly, the power cut out periodically. Irish towns weren’t built to deal with Scandinavian temperatures.

  Grown-ups moaned about it all the time, bitching that the government wasn’t doing enough to help. Children revelled in it, having countless snowball fights and building snowmen, now that schools were often closed. Experts pondered it, media commentators debated it, farmers worried about it, shopkeepers cursed it, council workers battled against it, religious people saw it as a sign or prayed for it to end.

  I loved it. This winter wonderland. Time felt frozen, along with the physical world; the two were in perfect harmony. And more: as the world turned whiter, so too did Sláine. Her clothes, once black, had by now shifted to a sort of pearl-white, with a trace of ice-blue. She glowed more than ever, everything about her. The clothes, her skin, the brilliance of her smile. She was like a photograph that somehow contained both the image and the flash.

  We walked the length and breadth of Shook Woods, as well as spending time inside the lodge and a second favourite clearing we’d discovered – smaller than the Greek amphitheatre, more cloistered, a little sitting room set aside by nature in the many rooms of this forested home. I’d crunch noisily over the fresh snowfall, Sláine would float like a spectre. Usually there was nobody around; nobody came to the forest, certainly not in this weather, and never so far in. I did see Robert Marsden once or twice, the guy who found Sláine’s body – in the distance, towards the exit, barely spotted through the massed trees. Doing whatever it is he does for the forestry service. I’m sure he didn’t see us.

  The second time this happened I asked Sláine if anyone could see her, besides me. She said it depended on her wanting to be seen. For some reason, I wasn’t sure I believed her. But I had no reason not to – and there hadn’t been any reported sightings of ghosts, no horror stories of girls rising from the dead.

  We walked the forest, over days that blurred one into another. Shook Woods, its name now completely appropriate: the frozen forest. The place was even creepier with all this snow and frost; daytime felt as enchanted and perilous as the small hours. It reminded me of a scene out of some eerie old fairy tale, as though Jack Frost or the Snow Queen had become real. But I wasn’t scared; I could never be scared once Sláine was with me. She was my guardian angel, my protector, my comfort and best friend.

  We walked and talked and were. Just us two, the snow falling softly like confetti being thrown from heaven, pines closing in around us. The difference between these times in the woods and my increasingly brief visits to ‘real life’ was stark and mesmerising. It honestly did feel like I was stepping between two separate worlds. Back there was mundane waking life; here was an intoxicating dream.

  On Christmas Eve, exactly at midnight, we opened that bottle of wine, the expensive one that she’d got God knows where. I hadn’t lied to Caitlin about having other plans. This was where I had to be, the only place I wanted to be.

  I poured out two glasses even though only one of us would be drinking, then took a long sip. It tasted delicious. Sláine smiled and raised her untouched glass.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you, Aidan.’

  ‘And to you, Sláine.’

  We smiled at each other. A fraction of a second passed and suddenly our glasses were back on the table and she was holding me six inches above the ground, her mouth close to mine, her freezing hands at my face, a wash of coldness coming off her like a slowly rolling mist. It made me shiver from head to toe. It was wonderful. I was almost delirious.

  I caught my breath. I wished I knew what to say, and realised that nothing needed to be said. We stayed like this for ages, the moment teased out, petrified in space-time.

  Finally I whispered, ‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re a dream, a ghost … or a demon.’

  Sláine said, ‘Sometimes I wonder that myself,’ and didn’t let go.

  I also wondered, from time to time, if I’d fallen in love with her. Funnily enough, it didn’t seem to matter that I couldn’t really answer the question. Whether I was in love with Sláine was outside of all this. By the same token, I didn’t know or care whether she was in love with me.

  And I wasn’t sure if I felt sexual attraction for her. She was beautiful, no doubt; her smile made my heart leap in my chest. (There was an irony to it – no way would I have got with a girl that good-looking under normal circumstances.) But did I want her, in the sexual sense? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe the fact that I assumed it was impossible sort of killed those passions before they had a chance to take root.

  I didn’t really think about it. Such terms and concepts had no meaning in our world. There was just us, safe inside our frozen little universe, and that’s all we needed.

  I did think about the future, though. Not our future, whether there was one or not;
that, too, seemed hazy and meaningless. I told myself I’d be all right with whatever happened. I’d accept it, like Sláine had accepted her death and new existence.

  But I was beginning to think about my life, where I wanted it to go, what I wanted to do. Not exactly making concrete plans, but I was definitely more positive and enthusiastic about it. For the first time since before the bullying – perhaps the first time ever – I had ambitions for myself. I wanted to do things, not waste my life. I’d already decided to chat to Podsy in January and get some advice on college courses, what he felt I should apply for.

  As December 31st came and went, and time rolled forward into the next twelve months, I took stock of where I was. I felt … happy. I had plans. I had a future. We had a future. I think.

  That night, on the cusp of a new year, Sláine took my hands and said, ‘Hey, about all that. Trying to work out who killed me, or what happened. Forget about it.’

  I was surprised. ‘Huh? You serious?’

  ‘I am. I think I’ve come to terms with it. We should move on now.’

  ‘I thought you really needed to know.’

  ‘I thought I did too. Guess I didn’t. Or don’t any more. Seriously, it’s fine. Nobody else has died, I don’t think? I was wrong about it meaning anything – it was just some freak accident. Like this weather we’ve been having, it’s meaningless, there’s no big story behind it. It is the way it is. I died and somehow came back to life. There’s nothing more to it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I chewed this over. ‘Yeah, I think you might be on to something there. I mean I didn’t find shit, really, in all this time. No clues, nothing. Maybe it was just a freak.’

  ‘Are you okay with that, so? Forget and move on?’

  ‘Whatever my lady desires.’

  So that was that. Everything was really great. It was peachy. It was close to perfect. Except for one thing, one little stone in my shoe. Life, as it so often does, got in the way.

  Plans are fine. Plans are great. But the gods, as they say, laugh when men make plans. And my best-laid plans went out the goddamn window when, early in January, three things happened. Big things. Things that changed everything.

  People started dying of the cold, the same as Sláine had. The Guards accused me of running a violent hate campaign against several local kids. And on the upside, I think I got a break in solving the mystery of Sláine’s murder. That’s life, I guess: always giving with one hand, taking with the other.

  Part II

  Ancient Death

  My Strange Connection

  The cold had begun killing again, but I didn’t know this just yet. I had a more immediate problem. And Podsy was telling me exactly what that was, in detail.

  I hadn’t thought much of it to start with. Over a month and more, a bunch of kids from the town had been attacked: brutally, swiftly, inexplicably. Nobody was dead, but most were very badly hurt. Now a few people, for some crazy reason, thought I was behind it.

  I’d heard about these assaults, of course. Podsy had mentioned them on occasion, although I wasn’t really listening half the time. Besides, you couldn’t avoid getting the news in a small place, something as dramatic as this. But for whatever reason, I hadn’t given any of it much attention. It sounds callous, but I basically pushed it out of my mind. I was so engrossed in everything going on with Sláine that I was ignoring all else. I knew about it, but it didn’t impinge on my life to a great extent. I felt bad for the victims, probably, in some vague way, then forgot about it. I definitely didn’t grasp the full extent of what was happening.

  But when Podsy called to my house one Sunday morning, second week of January, and said people were beginning to suspect me, I had to give it some attention. All my attention, my keenest attention. The sort of attention that makes your head spin and your stomach lurch.

  It started, he explained in my room, with Chris Harrington, the guy who got shredded opposite the golf course, thought to have been savaged by feral dogs. A few weeks later, towards the end of November, more of these incidents started to follow, drip-drip at first, then quickly escalating into a torrent.

  Several other youngsters had been found mauled by, presumably, the same wild animals that did Chris Harrington. Podsy reckoned there were more than a dozen attacks by now. No one was killed, but all were seriously injured. Lacerations, broken bones, cranial trauma, blood loss. At least three of the victims needed transfusions, one had a leg amputated because of infection, another was rumoured to have suffered brain injury with long-term consequences. One guy went blind in his right eye. One girl had her left ear torn off. The victims were discovered, dumped and mostly unconscious, in different places: the sand dunes, the edge of Shook Woods, the long grass that runs by the river, abandoned yards. Messed up, violently shivering from the cold.

  So how did this connect to me? It didn’t, I would have said, until that morning when Podsy arrived at my door and said urgently, ‘I absolutely need to talk to you. Right now. This is serious.’

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise and gestured him inside. ‘Well, good, cos I need to talk to you too. About college stuff. I want some advice from the biggest nerd I know.’

  He frowned and said darkly, ‘Man, if this doesn’t get sorted out you can forget college. You can forget everything.’ He grabbed my arm: ‘Aidan, I think you’re in trouble.’

  That got my interest all right. We went up to my bedroom where Podsy sat his smallish body on the study chair, I lounged on the bed and he laid it out for me.

  ‘Okay, you know how there’s been a pile of kids attacked,’ he said.

  ‘Ummm … yes? Sort of? I guess.’

  ‘This is super-serious stuff. Those kids were found all torn up. “Ravaged” was the word Uncle Tim used. One of ’em had her ear ripped off, you heard that? Another one got sliced right down the cheek, I mean eyeball to jawline.’

  I didn’t really want to hear the disgusting details, but Podsy insisted. For such a gentle, easy-going guy, he had an iron stomach and insatiable appetite for gory stories.

  So, these fourteen or fifteen young people had fallen victim to … well, there was the thing. None of them could accurately describe their assailant. All they remembered was being somewhere, wherever, walking along in the dark – it always happened at night-time – and then something assaulting them, pouncing from the blackness behind them, crashing, slashing, beating, tearing, at massive speed. Each attack happened so fast, the victims had barely time to register it was happening before they passed out or were knocked out.

  The Guards didn’t know the cause. Their list of suspects was long. Wild dogs were the most obvious, but not the only one. Some people said they’d heard about a leopard escaping from a city zoo. Others reckoned it was a madman with a big collection of bigger knives. Someone else claimed there were still wolves in isolated parts of Ireland. The Guards were said to be investigating a rumoured trafficking ring of exotic pets: large cats, alligators, Komodo dragons. Somehow they’d escaped and gone on the rampage. There was talk of a clandestine dog-fighting circuit – a bloodthirsty pit bull or Doberman let loose.

  Most people didn’t know who to believe or what to think, including me. I couldn’t see what Podsy was driving at here either, and I hadn’t the mental space to figure it out anyway because something else was gnawing away in there, some unsettling thought or half-thought.

  I said, ‘What’s all this got to do with me?’

  Podsy laughed curtly. He looked bemused and nervous. ‘Aidan, man … Some people are saying it’s you who’s doing it.’

  I laughed too but there was no mirth in it, because that unsettling thought had firmed itself up in my head and now I could sort of see their point as Podsy added, ‘All of the victims, of all these attacks, are people who bullied you. Every single one.’

  He then recited their names – he had them listed on what looked like official Garda headed paper. And I instantly recognised each one. You don’t forget the names of those who’ve tortured you, who made y
our life a daily hell. You don’t forget the people you wanted so badly to hurt so badly. And maybe even wished were dead.

  After six or seven, I was involuntarily flinching at Podsy’s litany of names. Them. The monsters of my personal anguish. The ones who singled me out and made me pay for nothing at all. I remembered my history with each one, vividly – too much so. I wanted to forget all that, it was in the past now, but I guess your memory doesn’t necessarily go along with your wishes. I remembered all their crimes, such as they were, against me. I even remembered specific incidents, and couldn’t help automatically tying each victim’s name to their history with me.

  Sally Cribbin. Three broken ribs, broken femur. She wrote a poem about what a pathetic shithead I was – her words – and recorded it for YouTube. Then she arranged for the video to be played in front of our class while the teacher was out of the room.

  Daniel Moynihan. Lost an eye. He put cat vomit (God knows where he got it) in my shoes while I was in gym class and tossed my trainers down a rubbish chute. I had to walk around in my socks for the rest of the day. Needless to say, each one had a hole.

  Aileen Aacheson. Serious lacerations across her face and torso, punctured lung. Aileen and her stupid alliterative Irish-German name. She made a move on me outside the chipper one night, shoving her tongue down my throat, only it wasn’t a move because she laughed like a hyena in my face and told the watching audience she was going to be sick.

  More, there were more, Podsy droned on and on. All bullies. All remembered. Now all given a taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end. A serious goddamn taste.