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

I whimpered, feeling as lonely and restless as a ghost.

      ‘Good,’ she said, ‘because we’re finished, Donal. It’s over. I’m sorry.’ She pulled the window shut – thump. The blind fell back down to earth. Thump. In one aching heartbeat, she had gone.

      Three years on, my chest still twanged at the memory. I unwound the car window a few inches and gulped in some fresh night air. I decided to give Salcott Road another hour, then go home and crack open the Shiraz.

      Yeah but the hat thing … no one would know that. Three years later, Eve’s words still echoed in my brain.

      Three whole years. I knew I should move on from Eve Daly. Fintan had told me to move on from Eve Daly. My friends had told me to move on from Eve Daly. What no one could tell me was: how do you stop loving somebody?

      I tried to meet girls on the North London Irish scene, but grew dispirited. They seemed immediately turned off by the fact I was a cop: no doubt their daddies wouldn’t approve. Mind you, being a builder or barman hadn’t exactly bowled them over either. I got the impression they wanted to be swept off their feet by a square-jawed sporty type with worldly charm, roguish self-confidence and big plans to make money and move back home. It didn’t help that Fintan seemed possessed of the magic formula for instantly clicking with women. He’d get this glint in his eye that they clearly adored, and I could never make them laugh like he did. Inevitably, I got stuck with his conquest’s perennially overshadowed, unamused sidekick.

      It irked me that girls found Fintan’s blatant badness irresistible. And here was another one. Gabby had fallen for Dom Rogan, patently another bastard.

      I tried to imagine her inside number 16. After what happened earlier, she wouldn’t be sleeping. I pictured her in the sitting room, reading highbrow women’s fiction and drinking camomile tea. Would she close the curtains, hoping Dom would stay away? Or leave them open so that she’d see him coming?

      Suddenly, the back right-hand door of the car slammed shut. I jumped. My arms shot up, instinctively covering my bowed head as I braced for attack. Seconds ground past, but the blows didn’t arrive. I lifted my eyes carefully to the rear-view mirror: I couldn’t see anyone in the back. Was he lying on the seat? Why would he wait for me to turn? To knife me? I opened my left elbow into a more attacking position and slowly turned my body around.

      No one. I checked out the back window, the side windows. There was no one there. Who the hell had opened and shut the car door?

      I turned back to the windscreen.

      ‘You’re imagining things, Lynch,’ I told myself, rubbing the stiff hairs on the back of my neck.

      I suddenly sensed that crackle in the air: the electricity of malevolent intent. Someone wanted to do me harm, this instant. Rogan must be somewhere close by, I was certain of it.

      Both back doors opened and shut this time. I tried to raise my fists and turn, but nothing would move. My entire body was frozen, paralysed. All I could feel was my heart pounding in my throat.

      The back doors opened, shut, opened and shut, over and over.

      I realised the only thing I could move were my eyeballs. Slowly, I raised them towards the rear-view mirror.

      Marion’s bloodshot eyes glared back – wet, alive, deranged. My choking throat closed down. Unable to breathe, my chest filled to bursting. Next thing, she’s hammering my head against the window of the car door, over and over, thump, thump.

      The banging rang in my ears, followed by a blinding flash of yellow light.

      Someone was hammering the other side of the window. I tried to focus on the banger but, against the glare, could see only a gloved hand. ‘Meehan?’ I screamed.

      ‘Open up, now,’ came the command. I reached for the handle, slowly unwinding the window. I could move again.

      ‘Evening, sir. Perhaps you’d like to explain what you’re doing here?’ said the uniformed police officer.

      ‘Of course, Officer, yes, I can explain. I felt very tired driving home and stopped for a nap.’

      ‘You stopped for a nap? Here? Have you been drinking, sir?’

      ‘No. Not tonight. I’m a PC myself, Officer, based at Wandsworth.’

      ‘Of course you are, sir. Would you kindly step out of the car?’

      ‘Why? What have I done wrong?’

      ‘We’ve received reports of a disturbance. Please, step out of the car.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said, opening the door and getting to my feet.

      The first thing I saw was Gabby, cowering behind a WPC.

      ‘Oh my God it’s you,’ she screamed, ‘you creep.’

      ‘Please, Gabby, I can explain,’ I tried but she’d already stormed off.

      ‘Are you this stalker she’s been telling us about?’ said the cop.

      ‘No. Look, honestly,’ I smiled my most reassuring smile, ‘I can explain everything.’

       Chapter 7

       Trinity Road, South London

       Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 23:00

      Aidan cackled mercilessly at my noble attempts to protect Gabby from Dom Rogan. Coming from the most hapless of hopeless romantics, it confirmed that I’d irretrievably fucked up.

      When the house phone rang, we both froze like spinsters. Tragically, this had never happened after eleven p.m. before. The look of mild terror on Aidan’s face as I picked up reinforced my conviction that we both needed to get a life.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hi, Donal, it’s Gabby.’

      By the time I recovered my composure, she must have assumed I’d hung up. Or lost consciousness.

      ‘Donal? Donal? HELLO?’

      ‘Hi, Gabby, hi. God, this is a surprise. A pleasant one I mean.’

      Aidan’s eyes sprang out on stalks as I bumbled on.

      ‘Thanks so much for calling, I – I wasn’t expecting it but I’m really glad you did because I really, really wanted to explain everything.’