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

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 – Eve’s 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 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 Rocky’s 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. We’d 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, we’d dare each other to order curry chips from Mrs Maguire’s rancid van: baulking at the 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 you’re holding a punnet of chips.

      We’d 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 didn’t 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 Aidan’s 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 streetlight’s soothing amber gloom. I knew I’d 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. I’m awake four or five hours longer than you each day – up to thirty-five hours every week: that’s twenty-three soccer matches, twelve The Godfathers, an entire French working week. Each year, I’ve got seventy-six extra days to kill when hardly anyone else is awake and nothing is open. These stats alone prove that I’ve 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 can’t sleep doesn’t mean you don’t 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 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. – it’s 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 wouldn’t take me. This would be one of those nights.

      ‘Well, Van Winkle, how are they hanging?’ Aidan’s voice startled me.

      ‘Before you display the deep personal concern typical of you,’ he added, sitting beside me on the couch, ‘you didn’t wake me up. I just can’t seem to nod off tonight. It must be catching.’

      After a while, he spoke again. ‘Why don’t you watch telly? That’d 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?’

      ‘I’m still dipping in and out of it,’ I lied, ‘struggling a bit to concentrate at the moment.’

      ‘Criminology eh? But you just can’t do the time.’

      ‘Ha, yeah. Very good.’

      ‘Of course you could try history, but there’s no future in it.’

      He did one of those comedy drum flourishes while racking his brain for more.

      ‘Theology’s another option, but I suspect you lack the belief.’

      ‘We got called to a house tonight.’

      ‘I’d recommend French but, to be frank, I’d say you lack that certain – oh how can I say it – je ne sais quoi?’

      ‘A girl stabbed to death, twenty-three.’

      ‘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.

      ‘I’ll 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 I’d 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.

      ‘Who’s 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. He’d come to hurt me. I knew it.

      ‘What the fuck …’ I said, trying to rouse myself. But I couldn’t