JAMES NALLY

Alone With the Dead

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Prologue

Occasionally, we experience things that make no sense.

You hum an old song, only to hear it moments later on
the radio. You think of someone out of the blue and they
call. You get the feeling youre being watched, turn and meet
the stare youd somehow felt.
Sometimes, its life changing. A driver swerves to avoid a
pedestrian. He doesnt remember reacting. A firefighter pulls
his team out of a burning building. Seconds later, it collapses.
Two strangers eyes meet over a crowded room. Somehow,
right away, both know the other is THE ONE.
Some credit these experiences to extra-sensory perception
our so-called sixth sense. Others put it down to gut instinct,
animal intuition. The point is, we know things but we dont
know why we know them.
I dont know why the recent dead come to me, or if the
things they show me are clues as to how they died. I dont
know why it happens, but it must be the reason I became a
murder detective. That and what happened to Eve.
Its my unconscious mind, of course, piecing together fragments of information and presenting answers to me in a novel
way. Isnt it?
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I See Dead People, says the creepy little boy in The Sixth
Sense. Cole Sear hes called. Cole Queer, my brother calls me.
That and Hormonal Donal.
I dont care. Ive got more important things to worry about,
now Im the go-to guy for the recently murdered.

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Chapter 1

Clapham Junction, London

Monday, July 1, 1991; 21:14
Its a bit like taking a shit, when you think about it, said
Clive, his mouth grinding away on a Wimpy quarter pounder.
Flanked by over-lit pastel walls and screwed-down metal
seats, we could have been in the canteen of a childrens correctional centre. Welcome to the Wimpy burger bar the British
McDonalds but with a unique selling point: table service.
Thank you garon, I said, as I watched my order slide
from stained tray to half-wiped melamine.
Bon appetit, he grunted and I silently congratulated acne
for turning his face to pizza.
A quick glance at my chicken burger revealed it to be simply
that: no sauce, no salad just cartoon-flattened white meat
clamped between two constipating white buns.
Hard to imagine that pecking in the yard, I said, landing
on this table is probably the furthest it ever flew.
Isnt it though, Donal? said PC Clive Hunt, my forty-something beat partner who came from one of those Northern English
towns that begins with either B or W and all sound alike.
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Incredibly at least to me wed walked past a McDonalds

to get here. Clives nostalgic bond to Wimpy once again had
proved unshakeable. This was one of the countless things I
failed to understand about the English they get nostalgic
about things that were crap in their time: TV shows with shaky
sets like Dr Who and Crossroads; British-made cars that always
broke down; the Second World War, for Christs sake.
McDonalds might have been wiping Wimpy off the face
of the earth, but it would never get Clives custom. You see,
no one lamented Londons lack of chips-based meals more
than Clive. How many times had I heard how, up North, you
can get gravy with your chips, curry with your chips, mushy
peas with your chips.
The moment a McDonalds worker cheerfully informed
Clive that they didnt stock vinegar, his Golden Arches crumbled and fell. After several wordless seconds, he calmly placed
his tray back on the counter, turned and marched out, never
to return.
I relented. Whats like taking a shit?
Eating burger and chips, he said, chewing, his mouth a
toothy cement mixer.
Clive swallowed hard, burped urgently into his hand,
desperate to enlighten: You eat some chips, then you eat all
of the burger, then you finish off yer chips.
He could see I wasnt getting it.
Its like you piss a bit, then you take your dump, then
you piss again to finish. He beamed in satisfaction.
My radio scrambled, its frenzied fuzz cutting short Clives
scatological musings.
It was a T call demanding immediate response to an incident on Sangora Road, just round the corner. I almost had
to beat the burger out of Clives hand.
We were the first uniforms on the scene. A young woman
with dark curly hair was going bonkers in the street. A crowd
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had gathered, some panicking, some nosy, some trying to

comfort Ms Hysteria. When she saw us, she pointed at a
house and gasped in a nasal South East London accent: My
friend Marions inside. I think shes dead.
A surge of adrenaline slowed the world down to a hi-definition dream. The front door to number 21 hung open, but
there were no signs of a forced entry. I noticed two buzzers:
the property had been divided into flats. Inside the communal
hallway, a chiselled, red-haired man in his twenties looked
ashen. I dont know what happened, he said in a remarkably high-pitched Irish accent, pointing to a door.
I dont know what happened, he squeaked again.
Well youll know soon enough, mumbled Clive.
The door was on the latch. I pulled it open. The door
fought back, forcing me to use both hands. I planted an
elbow against its over-sprung resistance so Clive could follow
me in.
Try not to touch anything, hissed Clive, and I thought
about letting the door slam into his thick head.
I floated up the stairs towards the first floor flat, adrenaline
numbing my feet to the carpet beneath.
She lay on the landing, on her side, an untamed red mane
of hair sprawled almost ceremonially across the carpet. Her
moon-white face lay awkwardly on her outstretched arm;
her bloodshot blue eyes staring into nothingness. She looked
no more than twenty-five, probably younger.
Her sad mouth had cried blood. One trail made it all the
way down to her slender white throat. Her flowery summer
dress was laddered with stab wounds still fresh. My head
swooned. I leaned back against the wall of the landing, exhaled hard.
Clive bent down and placed a reluctant finger to her
porcelain neck.
She put up a hell of a fight, he said flatly, but shes dead.
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He backed away apologetically. My eyes fastened upon

her limp hand, focusing upon the nail hanging from her little
finger which had almost been completely ripped off. Sadness
flooded me. My stinging eyes blinked and shifted to the floor
next to her: a set of keys, a handbag, her jacket, some post.
She must have let her killer in, I squeaked, sounding every
bit as shocked as I felt.
Looks like it, said Clive, reassuringly unmoved.
Right, he added brightly, best get back downstairs. We
dont want to contaminate the crime scene.
A cold breath chilled the right side of my face. I turned
to see a small window on the landing, slightly open. Fuck,
I said. All this time, Id been standing between her newly
dead body and an open window. Where I came from, this
spelt doom. I shivered, then snapped myself out of it. There
was work to be done.
Id never understood officers who said that, in really
stressful situations, your training kicks in. I did now. Clive
started questioning Chiselled Ginge and taking notes. His
name was Peter Ryan. He was twenty-eight. The dead woman
was his wife of thirteen months, Marion, aged twenty-three.
She usually got home before six. He and Karen a colleague
from work got back just after nine and found her like that
on the landing. Police officers and forensics were wandering
in, so I went outside to find Karen.
In the darkening, humming summer night, Sangora Road
flashed blue and red, a grotesque carnival of morbid curiosity.
Neighbours whod never shared a word before chatted
intently: lots of apparently and oh my God. The petite,
curly-haired brunette I assumed to be Karen was being comforted by a group of middle-aged men. One edgy-looking
sleaze ball in a wife-beater vest and school-shooter combats
rubbed her upper arm vigorously. He looked like a man who
spent his life hunting down any kind of a leg-over whatsoever.
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Karen? I asked. She looked up sharply, surprised by the

sound of her own name. PC Donal Lynch. Sorry, but Im
going to have to ask you a few questions. Her arm rubber
a Poster Boy for Families Need Fathers glared at me,
ready to back up his potential new squeeze against the filth.
Karen took a long deep breath and nodded. Instead of
structured questions, I let her ramble. In a quivering, childlike, barely audible voice, she told me the following: her
name was Karen Foster, twenty-five, from Lee in South East
London, a colleague of Petes at the Pines old peoples home
in Lambeth. She told me Pete was the gardener there. Shed
given him a lift back to his flat tonight to pick up some
heavy pots to take back to the home, where she lived in
staff accommodation. Theyd got here just after nine. He
had unlocked the front door, then the door to their flat and
went in first. Pete had stopped suddenly on the stairs and
screamed, Marion, Marion! He went to her. Karen had
followed and saw Marion lying there. She checked for signs
of life.
She shivered. Arm Rubber gave me a look that said: Cmon
mate, I think shes had enough, but I hadnt. I may have
been new to murder, but I understood the value of first-hand,
untainted, lawyer-free testimony.
Go on, I demanded.
I got her blood on my hands, so I washed them. Then I
had to get out of there.
A shiver rattled her entire frame.
Did Pete definitely unlock both doors? I asked. She
nodded and bowed her head. Her centre parting wobbled
and so did I.
Look, Karen, Im sorry, I have to ask we need to find
whoever did this.
She sniffed hard at the pavement, and I lamented yet
another failure to channel my inner bad cop. I fought the
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urge to place a comforting hand on her quivering shoulder

and walked away.
I joined Clive inside the front door just as three hotshot
detectives swaggered in. The senior of the trio wore the hangdog
expression of a man put out by life. Detective Superintendent
Glenn, he barked. Clive unloaded the basic detail while DS
Glenn nodded impatiently. As I took up the slack, he fixed
me with a scowl. Clearly, I was way too excited for his deadpan
taste.
They made what seemed to me a cursory inspection of the
crime scene: skirting around it as you might a dead bird on
the pavement, or a splatter of puke. Then DS Glenn stomped
off outside.
Is that it? I asked Clive.
Its not Magnum P.I., he laughed, theyll wait for forensics and statements, then theyll decide what lines of enquiry
to take.
One of Hangdog Glenns bitches stopped by on his way
out to treat us to a condescending glare: What time do you
go off duty, lads?
We finished almost an hour ago at nine, said Clive, all chipper,
just so hed know we didnt mind the inconvenience one bit.
Okay, call Clapham. Get them to send an officer to guard
the door overnight and an unmarked car to take the husband
and woman in to make a statement.
Right now? I asked.
Of course right now, he spat, and well need statements
from you two before you start your shifts tomorrow. He
scuttled off down the garden steps, his gumshoe mac flapping
in the summer breeze. At the gate, he turned. Make sure
you get the front door keys off the husband, he shouted,
not realising that said husband was stood right there.
As Peter fished around for his keys, Clive and I descended
the steps towards him. A sickening dread tugged at my guts.
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What could I possibly say to him now? I thought back to

all those funerals in Ireland, how we always spouted the
same stock phrases to mourners. Doesnt he look peaceful?
was a classic. I mean what did we expect? Signs of a struggle?
Fingernail scratch marks down the side of the coffin?
Then I remembered the one cover-all stock phrase, used
by everyone when coming face-to-face with the principal
mourners: Im sorry for your trouble. That line always
seemed so anodyne, so emotionally detached, so generic. My
brother Fintan and I used to dream up equivalents. Oh dear,
was his favourite. I liked: Sure, it could be worse.
Clive took Peters keys and spoke first. Who else has a set?
Just me and Marion, said Peter, his voice cracking at
the mention of her name.
Were fetching a car for you and your colleague. Im afraid
we need statements from both of you tonight.
Peter just stared into space.
Where can you go after the police station? asked Clive.
Have you got family near here?
Peter shook his pale face mournfully. The only place I
can go is to Marions mum and dad up in Enfield.
Clive and I exchanged frowns.
Do you think thats wise, son? asked Clive. Peter looked
at him blankly.
Okay, said Clive, first Ive got to get officers round there
to tell them the news.
Oh Jesus, Peter gasped and we all baulked. Every parents
worst nightmare: the death knock. Peter walked slowly away
from us but I could hear every word. Oh Jesus, Jesus, he
muttered, over and over.
A sudden deafening bellow made us jump. Peters wails
were primeval, from the very core of his being. My mind
flashed back to the time the Dalys prize-winning cow died
howling in their shed. Im sure their mother said shed
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developed gangrenous teats. I couldnt drink milk for a month

after.
I turned to Clive: If he did it, he surely wouldnt go and
stay with her family.
Hes either innocent or one hell of an actor, said Clive,
I mean look at him, hes shivering like a shitting dog.
Maybe hes racked with guilt. She must have known her
killer. She let him in.
And it must have been a man, said Clive, I mean, just from
the point of view of strength. Its always the man, isnt it?
They were only married thirteen months, I said, I just
dont see it.
Neither did she, deadpanned Clive, chuckling as he set
off across the road. I wondered if thats what happened to
all cops, in the end.
I couldnt just leave Peter like that, bent double, bawling
at the pavement. I walked over and put a hand on his heaving
shoulders. He calmed almost instantly. I couldnt think of a
thing to say, so I said: Im sorry for your trouble.
He breathed in deeply.
Thank you, Officer, he blurted, and I could tell he meant
it, before the spasms of grief swept him away once more.
As the car taking Peter and Karen to Clapham police
station moved off, a flash of streetlight illuminated the
interior. Freeze-framed in the back seat, Peters ghostly white
face stared straight ahead, as if into an abyss. How I longed
for a glimpse inside that mind. On the far side of him, two
large teary eyes gazed into his. Then, for a nanosecond, the
eyes of Karen Foster locked onto mine, glinting wounded
confusion.
The murder scene buzz snapped off like a light. A sense
of helplessness gnawed away at my red-raw nerves.
Go home, son, you look shattered, said Clive, and I
lacked the will to argue.
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It was less than a mile to the flat I shared with Aidan, an

old friend from back home.
Aidan was a psychiatric nurse at the Maudsley hospital, and
on earlies that week. But I guessed hed still be up, chainsmoking his Marlboro Reds, noodling on his guitar, crafting a
ballad to the latest random woman hed fallen in love with at
the bus stop or in some supermarket queue, the soft eejit.
Like so many gifted musicians Id known, Aidan existed
in a perpetual emotional state of either unrequited love or
rejection. It was as if hed absorbed the lyrics of all the epic
love songs hed ever learned so that they became his doomed
emotional landscape. Any girl he got off with instantly became
the one cue a week of Van Morrison (early era), Stone
Roses, The Sugarcubes. Then his intensity would scare her
off, making her the one who got away cue a week of Van
Morrison (late era), Nick Cave and Tom Waits in his locked
smoky bedroom. If music be the food of love, Aidan ate only
sweet n sour.
His self-inflicted lovelorn existence, coupled with the fact
he didnt drink or take an interest in sport, outcast Aidan
from the rest of our circle. But his tendency to get depressed
worried me, so Id always kept in touch. When the cash-inhand, hard-drinking madness of the North London Irish
scene became too much, I retired to South London and
Aidans calm exile. Be good training for when you move in
with a woman, the lads joked.
Aidans emotional pogo would be too much for me tonight.
I elected to walk home, nice and steady, so hed be asleep
by the time I got there.
The lightest of rain filled the air, cool and gentle, as if a
weary cloud had sunk upon the road. Soft rain, thank God,
the old boys back home would say. The streets went slick.
Car wheels sizzled like frying pans. The night buses groaned
and closing time laughs rang hollow.
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A lonely phone box cast piss-green light upon the wet

pavement. I stared through the scratched glass at the grubby
phone inside. I wanted to call her right now, badly. But how
could I, at this time of night, after two long years?
I walked on, unable to fathom why seeing Marions body
had affected me so much. God knows, like any young Irish
adult, Id seen more dead bodies than Ted Bundys chest
freezer. Its nothing sinister at least not to us. It comes down
to one stubbornly lingering Irish tradition: the Wake.
I remembered comedian Dave Allens line: In Ireland, death
is a way of life. Whenever someone dies, we lay them out
in their coffin and look at them for a few days. Tradition
demands that the body is accompanied at all times until its
removal to the church. Cue an endless stream of relatives
and neighbours through the house, a reservoir of tea, a landfill
of sandwiches. From the age of seven or eight, every time a
relative croaked it and my extended clan was massive you
were hauled along to the Wake to say goodbye to someone
you didnt know who was already dead.
Before the corpse is displayed to all and sundry usually
in a bedroom or the sitting room of their home some poor
soul has to wrestle them into their Sunday best, wrench their
eyes and mouth shut, apply make-up, and discreetly stuff
cotton wool up their nostrils so that they dont cave in. You
never seemed to meet an embalmer socially.
In some homes, clocks are stopped at the time of death
and all mirrors turned to the wall. Once the coffin is hauled
into its display position, the family opens the window, to
allow the deceased persons spirit to leave. After two hours,
they close the window, to ensure that the spirit doesnt return.
If you stand between the window and the body during this
time, then God help you.
I shuddered at the memory of that open landing window
tonight. Did Marions spirit pass through me?
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I scolded myself for entertaining such superstitious nonsense.

My thoughts turned instead to Marion. I knew that every
square inch of her body would be poked and prodded, then
photographed, scraped, swabbed or cut open. Body fluids,
fingernail dirt and pubic hair would be sealed in plastic or
glass and then passed, hand to hand, along the evidential
chain; from pathologist to the laboratory, to the prosecution,
to the court and to the jury. When you become the central
piece of evidence in your own murder, theres no dignity. Poor
Marion probably worrying about what to make for tea
when she got to her front door. I tried to block out how she
must have felt the moment she saw the knife. How could
someone she knew do this to her?
Then I thought about Eve. Another blazing redhead
ambushed by evil.
I rubbed my eyes. The soft rain had made my face all wet.
Eve Daly was more Irish-looking than any woman has a right
to be: mischievous green eyes; a pale, sculpted face with just
enough freckles; wild hair as red as the flesh of a blood
orange. Sexy, curvy, five foot five in heels, her nose crinkled
when she laughed, she smelled of pine needles and, when she
came, her lips felt as cold and soft as fresh snow. And she
was mine.
Eves daddy, Philandering Frank, had fled to London with
his secretary three years earlier in a scandal that had seemed
to delight everyone except his family.
Before his midnight flit, Frank had painstakingly stashed
his fortune into a myriad of untraceable off-shore accounts,
leaving the family penniless and saddled with a sprawling,
heavily mortgaged bungalow. In an effort to save their home
and face Eves mum, Mad Mo, and her two older brothers
moved to New York. Once her clan had split, Eve felt like
she was in Ireland on borrowed time, which is exactly how
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I felt. She was going to New York; I was bound for London
neither of us really belonged anymore. And so we became
an island. Our romance flourished on a shared musical snobbery and a mutual disdain for pretty much everything and
everyone around us.
On Saturday nights, we cemented our superiority at
Rockys in Tullamore the Midlands hottest nightspot
where we perfected our disaffection and snorted with laughter
and contempt at the music, the dancing and the fashion.
The girls sat on one side of the empty dance floor, dressed
to repel adverse weather and stray hands. The DJ never warned
them of a slow set in case they scattered to the toilets. Wed
watch in horrified fascination as local men walked the line
in vain, seemingly immune to serial rejection.
On the other side of the dance floor, we identified two clear
tribes of men: the Posers and the Poodles. The motto of the
Posers seemed to be: if a piece of clothing rolls, then roll it.
They wore Miami Vice-style pastel suit jackets (sleeves rolledup
to the elbow), pink or blue t-shirts (arm sleeves rolled up to
the pit), pegged jeans (scrunched up at the bottom, then rolled
up: always twice), slip-on shoes (Oxblood moccasins with the
natty little tassels), no socks (inexplicably spurning two
glorious rolling opportunities) and mullet hair-dos.
On the other end of the scale: the heavy rocker types known
as the hard chaws who rode Honda 50s, head-banged (even
during slow sets) and preferred to end the evening with a
brawl. The Chaws had wholeheartedly embraced American
Poodle Rock, which involved wearing your hair big and your
denim bleached. The jeans were so tight they required zips
in the lower leg to get on, or off, while the denim jackets
were oversized, with obligatory rolled-up sleeves and US band
badges on the back: Van Halen, Bon Jovi, Guns N Roses.
At the end of the night, wed dare each other to order
curry chips from Mrs Maguires rancid van: baulking at the
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peeled spuds in the rusty sink, her crusted black fingernails

and the ringworm on her grease-creased forehead. But at
two a.m., nothing in the world tasted better and, as exhaustive research had taught me, no one ever hits you when
youre holding a punnet of chips.
Wed walk back to hers, singing Stand By Me and I Just
Died in Your Arms Tonight while checking out the big sky
for shooting stars. I didnt know if I loved Eve, or if she
loved me. But I loved life with her in it.
Before it all went so horribly wrong.
I got home just after eleven p.m., registered Aidans closed
bedroom door with a silent fist pump and uncorked a bottle
of red.
I flopped onto the couch without even switching on a
lamp. My mood deserved the streetlights soothing amber
gloom. I knew Id have to ration my Shiraz and my irrational
emotions for a longer stretch than usual tonight.
The worst part about insomnia is all the empty time you
have to fill. Im awake four or five hours longer than you each
day up to thirty-five hours every week: thats twenty-three
soccer matches, twelve The Godfathers, an entire French
working week. Each year, Ive got seventy-six extra days to kill
when hardly anyone else is awake and nothing is open. These
stats alone prove that Ive far too much time on my hands.
When an inability to drop off first struck me three years
ago, I was scorching through three books a week. I read everything I could lay my hands on about sleep, dreams, insomnia.
All I learned was how little we know about any of it: the
scientific world has yet to even figure out why we dream.
Just because you cant sleep doesnt mean you dont need
sleep and little by little my ability to concentrate ebbed away,
leaving me with just the one trusty sedative. Someone clever
once said: Time, Motion and Wine Cause Sleep. I could
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rely only on the latter. I opted for Shiraz that charred fruit
flavour making it the hardest to drink fast and I tried to
limit my intake to two bottles a night. That might sound
excessive but, spread normally over eight hours eight p.m.
until four a.m. its less than a glass an hour. Trust me, it
felt moderate. More often than not, I dropped off somewhere
between three and four a.m., congratulating myself on the
quarter of a bottle left.
Some nights, regardless of grape intake, I knew sleep wouldnt
take me. This would be one of those nights.
Well, Van Winkle, how are they hanging? Aidans voice
startled me.
Before you display the deep personal concern typical of you,
he added, sitting beside me on the couch, you didnt wake me
up. I just cant seem to nod off tonight. It must be catching.
After a while, he spoke again. Why dont you watch telly?
Thatd help pass the time.
Have you seen late-night TV? Their target audience must
be Travis Bickle. You have to like your rock soft and your
porn hard.
And your university open. Speaking of which, what
happened to that home course you were doing?
Im still dipping in and out of it, I lied, struggling a bit
to concentrate at the moment.
Criminology eh? But you just cant do the time.
Ha, yeah. Very good.
Of course you could try history, but theres no future in it.
He did one of those comedy drum flourishes while racking
his brain for more.
Theologys another option, but I suspect you lack the belief.
We got called to a house tonight.
Id recommend French but, to be frank, Id say you lack
that certain oh how can I say it je ne sais quoi?
A girl stabbed to death, twenty-three.
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Oh Christ, said Aidan.

Nothing taken, so it must have been domestic, her husband,
or a spurned ex. God knows.
Or maybe a random nutter. Some of the loons on my
ward are capable of anything.
She let whoever it was in. She knew him.
Jesus. And he stabbed her?
Loads of times, multiple wounds. It looked frenzied.
He must have been in a rage. Why would someone who
knew her be so angry?
I shrugged.
Aidan was obviously bursting to know more, but had the
good grace to park it for now.
Ill leave you to it so, he said, skulking back to his room.
The wine slipped down like water. Halfway through the second
bottle, I panicked that Id run out early. I was pondering a
trip to the all-night off-licence in Clapham Junction when a
slither of cold air wormed its way around my neck, causing
me to shudder.
Unease twanged at my gut. I squinted hard into the other
side of the room, beyond the amber gloom, and sensed
someone there. I shuffled in my seat: Aid?
The air crackled with intent.
Whos there? I called out.
I squinted harder, then stiffened. A figure stood just inside
the sitting room door, head bowed.
Aidan? I shouted, my heart revving like a getaway car.
Somehow, soundlessly, this fucker had got into the flat.
Now he just stood there, still but poised. Hed come to hurt
me. I knew it.
What the fuck I said, trying to rouse myself. But I
couldnt move a muscle. My body had frozen to ice, but my
heart thrashed inside my chest like a trapped bird.
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Head still bowed, the figure started inching towards me. I

sat there paralysed, powerless, as he got closer and closer; steady,
unflinching, fearless. He grew bigger, until his black frame filled
my vision. I realised that it had to be him. After all these years,
Meehan had found me. Now he was going to finish the job.
Inches from my face, he raised his head. Fuck, no. I recognised those staring bloodshot blue eyes, that bleeding mouth.
Marion Ryan glared at me with murderous rage.
Unblinking, deranged, Marion pushed her grotesquely
distorted, milk-white face into mine. I screamed, but nothing
came out. She smiled a malevolent smile that said: Youre
mine now.
A loud bang made me jump. Suddenly she stood by the
door, violently slamming it shut, over and over. Boom. Boom.
Boom. I put my hands over my ringing ears and screamed.
In a flash, everything turned yellow. My squinting eyes
finally made out Aidans horrified face in the house lights.
What the fuck? he cried, surveying me in undisguised disgust.
I could smell and feel warm puke on my chest.
Its wine, just red wine, I gasped.
Jesus, I thought youd been stabbed or something. What
the fuck was all that about?
I turned to the flat door: it was closed.
Just a nightmare.
Jesus, he said again, and headed to the kitchen. I heard
water pouring out of the tap. I took the glass of water and
tea towel from him and wiped my mouth. I realised how
grotesque I must have looked and smiled. It was the sheer
relief of being alive.
Its no fucking laughing matter, he snapped, youve got
to see someone about this shit. Oh Christ, the smell, get that
shirt off, for fucks sake.
As I unbuttoned I tried to convince myself that it really
had been a nightmare. But I felt sure Id been awake the
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whole time. Sitting here on the couch, everything around

Marion in that streetlight orange glow the lamp, the posters,
the table, my jacket on the back of the chair. It had been real.
Aidan returned to the kitchen door, where he stood in
judgement for fully three minutes.
You have to see someone, Donal. Not sleeping is one thing,
but this
It was Marion, the girl from tonight.
What?
She appeared to me. I thought she was going to kill me.
She seemed so angry. Did you hear the door slamming?
All I heard was you howling at the fucking moon.
I thought it was Meehan.
What?
I thought it was Tony Meehan, coming to finish me off.
Youre raving now, Donal. Jesus. That guys long gone.
Ive been expecting him for three fucking years. Every night.
What are you talking about? Why would he be wanting
to finish you off?
Its why I cant sleep.
Aidan couldnt have looked more bewildered.
Something weird happened that night, Aidan. Honestly, I
dont think Ill ever get over it. Ive never told anyone. Youll
think Im insane.
What with some of the people I deal with? I doubt it,
Aidan laughed, but kindly. Try me.

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