Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ hours,’ I muttered.

      ‘Would you say that’s down to a specific anxiety, or a more general malaise?’

      ‘I had it down as insomnia, sir. I’ve had it all my life, off and on.’

      He shuffled uncomfortably in his leather seat.

      ‘Have you read Percy Pig?’

      I looked at him in amused disbelief.

      ‘I thought they just did sweets, sir. Do you mean the back of the packet?’

      He frowned. ‘No … Pirsig. In his book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Pirsig writes: “It’s a puzzling thing. The truth knocks at the door and you say ‘go away, I’m looking for the truth’. And so it goes away. Puzzling.” I’m asking you, Donal, why don’t you answer the knock on your door?’

      ‘Interesting hypothesis,’ was all I could think to say, playing for time.

      He smiled in satisfaction, as if we’d just shared some sort of intellectual in-joke: ‘Very good. I suspect you’re toying with me now.’

      I smiled back, because I felt it would anger him less than looking bewildered.

      He stood suddenly, making me start. ‘Damned seat. There’s no purchase in the leather. I have to perch upon it, like I’m sitting on the blasted lavatory.’

      ‘If you can suffer another hypothesis, Lynch,’ he declared, flouncing off towards his Georgian window, ‘I introduce clients with sleep troubles to my old friend, the worry worm, that niggling little creature that burrows its way into your brain at night and wriggles about so that you can’t drop off. The W–O–R–M in my worm stands for work, old or overweight, relationships and money. When it comes down to it, one or more of these is the source of almost all human anxiety. So allow me to dissect your little wriggler. This work incident … clearly you suffered insomnia long before it, so I’m discounting that. You’re not getting old or overweight, so that rules out the ‘o’. It’s got to be either relations or money. Are you in debt?’

      ‘No, thankfully.’

      ‘In a relationship?’

      ‘No, and I’m tempted to say I’m thankful for that too.’

      ‘How did you lose her? The last serious one?’

      I felt cornered. ‘She cheated on me. Twice.’

      ‘How long ago did this take place?’

      ’Almost two years ago.’

      ‘Her name is?’

      ‘Eve Daly.’

      ‘Have you seen or spoken to Eve since?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘What about your family? Are you close?’

      ‘I’m close to my mum. Or at least I was. Now it’s a bit more complicated.’

      I suddenly felt found-out, checkmated. He sensed it, almost jogging back to his slippery black throne to home in for the kill.

      ‘And why is that?’

      ‘My father is a rabid Republican. When he found out I’d joined the British police force, he made it known he never wanted to see or hear from me again.’

      ‘When did you last see your mother?’

      ‘Eighteen months ago,’ I croaked, my throat dry with shame.

      ‘How were relations with your father before that?’

      ‘Not good.’

      The silence demanded filling.

      ‘I never seemed to be able to please him, you know? At best, I embarrassed him. I’d try to help out on the farm but just end up annoying him. I had this ability to make him blind with rage without even trying, and I mean apoplectic. Anything I did angered him, basically.’

      He knew there was more, the misery-milking, sorrow-sucking fuck.

      I sighed in resignation. ‘I found out recently that my mother almost died during my birth and that we’d both been very ill afterwards. She couldn’t bear any more children after that, I’d say physically or mentally. Over those first few years, I didn’t sleep very much and she got prescribed tranquilisers. She’s been hooked on them ever since. So basically I ruined my dad’s life, and he’s hated me for it ever since.’

       There you have it, you nosy little prick. Happy now?

      ‘Any siblings?’

      ‘One older brother. Of course, he’s brilliant at everything. I could never outshine Golden Boy.’

      The bitterness with which I imparted that last line shocked me. Did I resent Fintan? Had I been holding him responsible all this time?

      Swartz breathed in and out hard through his nostrils, sated.

      ‘What do you think your mother would like to happen?’

      ‘Well, obviously she’d like me and Da to patch things up, get on.’

      ‘Do you think you can ever find inner peace while you have this impasse with your father?’

      ‘Well, it’s not like we used to be best buds, is it? I’ve borne his disappointment all my life. Now’s no different, it’s just more … official.’

      ‘What do you think is the cause of your insomnia?’

      ‘With respect doctor, that’s like asking me “What do you think is the cause of my fuzzy hair?” Your hair is just fuzzy, like Shredded Wheat. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

      He studied me thoughtfully, caressing his Shredded Wheat beard. I sat there absently, wondering why they all felt compelled to sport beards. Some sort of academic Beard Pressure?

      ‘I can’t sign you off until you at least attempt to address your insomnia,’ he announced, finally.

      ‘But that’s got nothing to do with why I’m suspended,’ I protested.

      ‘It’s got everything to do with your mental health, Donal. If I sign you off and you blow up again … well, they could wash their hands of both you and me.’

      ‘I’ve seen specialists about it. No one can help.’

      ‘You have to help yourself. You need to address the worm. Sort things out with your father. Or at least try to. Do your bit, see what happens.’

      I shook my head and shot to my feet: ‘It’s not that simple, doctor. Besides, like I say, that’s got absolutely nothing to do with the reason I’m here. I’m afraid I’ll be seeking a second opinion.’

      As I walked to the door, that puff of СКАЧАТЬ