Eoin Colfer - Plugged

Not feeling safe is the main thing keeping me awake, even more than the morning sun, though I reckon the hoods won’t be making the rounds till noon at least. These Celtic gangsters are whores for the Jameson and Coke. But once the sun crosses the yardarm, Mike Madden’s boys might pay another visit, see if they can’t find a few more things to break. I cover the door with a wardrobe. If any arseholes come through that, they’ll think they’re in Narnia. I hang a Joshua Tree poster over the window. Not bulletproof, but a puzzler. It’s all misdirection, which only works if the misdirected are somewhere in between dumb and smart. Many of the best soldiers in the world have shit for brains and a photo of their target.

How did they find me anyway? Does Irish Mike have something specific, or just a list of known associates?

I puzzle on this, as eventually my mind sinks down into the black rings of sleep. Trust in Bono.

Thank God. Nearly there. Some rest finally .

Then, wouldn’t you know, a thought occurs to me. One of those notions that banishes sleep, like a stiff wind blowing away cobwebs.

Kee-rist almighty .

That’s what Delano said. Kee-rist . Not plain old Christ. Now where have I heard that recently? Yesterday. The day before.

And suddenly I’m bolt upright in my bed. That guy, with the Styrofoam hair. The licker, what was his name?

I have it even before I pull the card from my wallet.

Faber, the attorney. With all the rioting in the club that night, this guy Faber completely slipped my mind .

Delano repeats what she hears, and she heard Kee-rist . Faber was here, and he trashed my place.

I’m on my feet, pacing around the room, punching a fist into my palm, which I stop doing when I realise how drama queen it feels. There’s no sitting this out even if I wanted to. Faber knows where I lay my head and he’s obviously got backup. A runt like him didn’t do this damage on his own. That arsehole couldn’t even lift the microwave.

This is not about Zeb, this is about Connie. Faber killed her and he’s looking for me.

That’s it. It must be. Christ, surely nobody kills anybody over an arse-licking? I witnessed Faber’s beef with Connie and I broke it up. Could it be that straightforward?

Everyone wants to kill me lately; it’s enough to make a fellow paranoid. As Dr Moriarty often quipped, You know something, Dan. Just because everyone really is out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not insane . I always thought that sentence had a couple too many negatives.

Three hours later, I’m still awake, thinking. The old grey cells keep churning out the theories, which I hammer out with Ghost Zeb.

Faber killed Connie .

Possibly.

And you know this how?

Because a crazy lady used his pet phrase.

That is pretty fucking thin, as Riggs and Murtaugh have been known to say .

The world is built on thin. Ask George W.

So, assuming it was the guy Faber. Why?

Because Connie slapped him. Because he’s a psycho.

Pretty harsh revenge for a slap. And Faber did not seem like a weapons guy .

What about his help? You don’t know who’s carrying steel for him.

Good point .

Thank you.

So, we’re going to the police .

There’s no we, just me. And I do not want the police poking around in my business.

Because of the whole killing-a-gangster thing .

Exactly. So what should we do next?

There’s a we now?

I flash on Tommy Fletcher. At this point he is back to being a corporal, following an incident where he doused a sheep with gasoline, set it on fire then actually ate a large portion. There was quite a lot of home-brewed hooch involved. Tommy is belly down on a bluff overlooking no-man’s-land, loosing rounds from his FN at rangy wild dogs.

‘You shooting mutts, Corporal?’ I ask him.

‘Nah,’ says Tommy, grinning. ‘I’m shooting close to the mutts, watching ’em jump.’

I close my eyes and feel sleep rolling over me like a wave of thick fog.

Shoot close and watch them jump. That’s more or less doing nothing. It’s aggressive passivity .

Simon would be so proud.

I met Zeb for the second time when I was doing my time on a door in Brooklyn. It was a club called Queers, which was trying to attract the pink pound but was pulling in the irony-loving New York arty-farts. This was not my finest hour, as the boss had his bouncers in spangly waistcoats and mascara. Any photos from this era would not be going on my website, if I had one. It was a brief era anyhow, I lasted about a week before I got a rash on my eyelids and decided it was either buy some hypoallergenic make-up out of my own pocket, or quit. I chose the latter.

So I was on the door on my last night at Queers, figuring the shit quotient went up roughly two hundred per cent when the doorman was wearing mascara, when this guy rolls up off his face on just about whatever he could stuff in there. I did the five-finger spread on his chest, just so he’d know right off how big my hand was.

‘Sir, don’t even ask. You are not coming on the premises.’

Something about this guy struck me as familiar. He looked a little like one of the Bee Gees after a rough couple of years.

‘Come on, man,’ he whined. ‘I got the cash, plenty. You wanna see?’

I did not wanna see. You bring cash out in the open air for more than five seconds outside a club and someone is gonna start a fight.

‘No, sir. Keep it in your pocket.’

The man ignored me, as was to become his habit, flashing a roll of fifties that could have plugged a rat hole.

‘You know what this is?’

I put a little pressure behind my fingertips, enough to back the man up a step or two.

‘I know what it is, sir.’

‘No, sir. You do not. You think you know.’ The drunk tapped his nose like there was a great secret stashed up there. ‘This here is a couple of silicone boobies and a tummy tuck. Sweet job too. If you let me in, I’ll give you a grand. How about that? One thousand dollars just to step aside.’

I stood my ground, not because I couldn’t be bought, but because this guy thought he could buy me, if that makes any sense.

‘Sorry, sir. Put your money away.’ And then the guy looks me in the face, possibly to plead or up his offer, and something pings between us.

‘Hey,’ he said, wagging a finger. ‘I know you.’

And then I had him. The pasty complexion, the eyes a little shiny. The doctor guy, from the Lebanon.

But what I said was, ‘No. I don’t think we’ve met.’

Zeb stood back and spread his arms wide like a ringmaster introducing himself.

‘Hey, it’s me. Dick-fat guy.’

He kept talking like I didn’t have enough information. ‘You know, that militia man, his cock exploded in battle. I’m a national hero.’

Which is about the strangest collection of statements I’ve heard before or since.

I sleep till four in the afternoon and roll out of bed feeling surprised and grumpy, which is a hard combination to keep going. Four o’clock. The day is dying and I don’t even have shoes on. And this room is a shithole, and why did I not do some tidying up all that time I was lying there thinking? Shaving calms me down as per usual. Eyes open is often a bad time. A moment’s blissful ignorance, then life comes crashing in. And today, life is about as bad as it’s ever been.

I nick myself with the blade and watch a blood bead roll down my neck.

Connie , I think. No more weekends. No more you .

After shaving, I take some of my anger out on the wall, using a breeze block that was part of my shelving unit to bash a hole in the Sheetrock. I pull out a Kevlar backpack wedged between the joists. My weapons bag, four years behind the plaster. Dust flakes stick to my sleeve, I brush them away and head for Chequer’s Diner, which is becoming my unofficial HQ. Dust flakes I’m noticing now? I must have too much time on my hands.