Alone with the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller. James Nally

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      Trapped birds flapped and flailed inside my skull. A ball of nausea inflated my chest. I still had time to get back inside, to save Eve. I went to move but my legs stuck to the earth. I refused to believe I was gravity’s prisoner. I lurched forward; determined, incensed, but went into free fall through cold, streaking lights into dark, darker black.

      I woke up in darkness, to an unfamiliar bed, my guts clanking like an out-of-tune bass.

      Flash-frame images of Meehan forcing himself upon Eve flipped through my mind, a rolodex of horrors. I fought an aching neck to sit up. All hopes that it had been some sort of horrific nightmare fled when I saw my bandaged hands, remembering how I’d minced them against the shed’s pebbledash wall.

      Far away, I could hear the click-clack of retreating footsteps and a swinging door. Shapes formed in the gloom. Weird patterns became curtains, closed around beds opposite. I hadn’t spent a night in hospital since I was a kid.

      They’d left the curtains around my bed open, presumably to keep me under observation. I sensed someone watching me. Sure enough, a silhouette stood beyond the end of my metal bed, in the middle of the ward, as still as a corpse. I strained to see the face, but it was too dark.

      ‘Who are you?’ I said. The person didn’t move a muscle.

      A current of unease zapped through me.

      ‘What do you want?’ I called.

      The figure started moving towards me, slowly, silently, with intent.

      I backed up against the metal frame of the bed, the cold steel reminding me I was awake. Still he came, steady, unflinching, unstoppable.

      ‘What do you want?’ I shouted.

      The head tilted up to reveal coal-black pupils glistening inside caked white spots. Meehan’s bloodshot eyes glared hate.

      I scrambled to get up, to fight. But I was frozen, helpless.

      Those unblinking murderous eyes kept coming, closer, closer, until we were nose to nose. I felt his gloved hands on my throat, his putrid breath on my face.

      He leaned all his weight on my neck until my chest caved in and my eyes bulged. My head pounded as dots bounced off the edges of my fading vision. My head drifted, I was floating off.

      I knew this was it. I wanted the end. Sorry, Eve.

      Then screaming white light gored at my clenched eyelids. I thought: ‘Christ no, don’t tell me all that shit about God and heaven is true.’

      Something made me defy the hot white needles and haul my eyelids open. Shapes formed. A face swooned and flickered, eventually settling to reveal Mum’s fretting smile. It was morning and I was alive. Relief overwhelmed me. Someone must have caught him, stopped him, in the nick of time.

      ‘Meehan tried to kill me,’ I croaked.

      She tiptoed slowly to my left side, warily, uncertain. She squeezed my shoulder so hard it hurt.

      ‘Shhh, don’t get yourself upset now, Donal. Try to relax,’ she said.

      I defied her Vulcan death grip to sit up. I didn’t know who the man was to my right, but his snow-white, side-parted hair, fuzzy eyebrows, formal grey suit and hooked nose screamed cop, doc, lawyer; professional busybody.

      My neck hurt and my throat burned when I swallowed. I wondered how close Meehan had come to finishing me off.

      ‘Eve?’ I gasped at Mum, desperate to know if she was okay; desperate to hear that what I’d seen last night wasn’t real, but some sort of absinthe-induced hallucination.

      ‘Take it easy,’ said Mum, shoulder-crushing again, ‘everything’s okay, love.’ I pulled away before she snapped my collarbone.

      ‘Everything’s far from okay.’ I jumped at the man’s guttural, knowing voice. I turned to him, confused.

      His piercing blue eyes seemed to be searching inside my face: a cop, for sure. ‘We found you unconscious, having imbibed some sort of substance, no doubt illicit,’ he snapped. ‘I trust you won’t object to answering a few questions.’

      ‘Substance?’ I rasped. ‘What are you on about?’

      As I spoke, the pieces clicked together. Absinthe alone couldn’t have done that to me. Choker, the fucker, had spiked me.

      I told the cop about the weird green drink, the dead legs, the shed.

      I sensed Mum shaking her head sadly. I couldn’t bear to look her way. Instead, my eyes met the nurse’s disgusted glare. What was her problem? Unwelcome, my eyes drifted back to the cop’s piercing blue sparklers.

      I asked again: ‘Eve, is she okay?’

      I sensed he was holding something back. I vowed there and then that if Meehan had attacked her, I’d kill him myself.

      ‘Well,’ said the cop, ‘you were out of it, so I guess that rules you out as a potential suspect, or indeed as a witness.’

      Suspect? Witness? Christ, no. Say it didn’t happen. Say what I saw wasn’t real …

      The cop carried on, measured, enjoying his moment, even producing one of those black flip notebooks you see only in cop shows.

      ‘We are investigating a very serious crime,’ he began.

      ‘What the fuck happened?’ I felt like screaming.

      ‘Someone dialled 999 from the house phone, but refused to give their name. Medics removed you from the garden of the house at 01.52 a.m.’

      ‘Removed …?’ I couldn’t help picturing the scene; a bloodied and half-frozen Hunter S. Thompson, flat out on a stretcher, hands covered in blood, the glasses skewwhiff on my face. I was sure to hear every last detail soon, if I could ever face them again.

      The cop went on, impassively: ‘You were unconscious. An officer at the scene found the bottle of absinthe. It’s gone to Dublin for tests but my bet is it’d been mixed with some sort of tranquilliser or cannabis, possibly both.’

      He stopped for effect. I nodded gravely, because I felt that’s what he wanted me to do. Finally, he continued.

      ‘Whatever substance was in that drink caused a rapid drop in your blood pressure, which explains why you felt paralysed. The good news is, there’s no long-term damage.’

      Good news, but not the news I most wanted to hear, so I nodded rapidly.

      He got to his feet and started pacing about the room, Poirot-style. The gobshite. Then his throaty ‘ahem’, and my mother’s averted gaze confirmed my worst fear: what I’d heard so far was merely the preamble to this morning’s Main Story. I swallowed hard. God, it hurt.

      ‘Look,’ said the cop, ‘I might as well tell you. Your girlfriend, Eve Daly …’

      I shivered, froze.

      ‘She’s under arrest.’

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