Eoin Colfer - Plugged

There’s a fire escape bolted to the side of my building; it zig-zags along the brick, camouflaged by rust, and looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. You’d think it would make a hell of a racket if a person were to crank the ladder, but you’d be wrong. For years I’ve been keeping the hinges oiled in case a quiet getaway is called for. In the dead of night, with a pillow over my face and a torrent of insults spilling down from above, I often imagined that I would finally crack and strangle Mrs Delano. Once there was blessed quiet, I could sleep for eight hours then pull my bag out of the wall and climb down my greased fire escape.

Tonight, I’m climbing up. Five fingers brushing flakes from the rail, the other five concealing the baby Glock in my palm. It’s risky coming back here, considering the size and complexity of the shit pile I’m in, but it will only be for a few minutes. Ten max. I’m stealing in the back way to cut down my chances of being seen; also I don’t have the key for the new lock yet. In and out, then Daniel McEvoy is history and anyone trying to find him better be invisible or bulletproof.

The fire escape doesn’t stop at my window, but it’s close enough for me to perch on the railing and rest an elbow on the sill. And while I’m up there, precariously balanced on a couple of toes, I realise that I forgot to take the beeper out of my pocket.

The window beeper is a little gadget I’m especially proud of. Just a remote linked to a tiny motor, but it lets me sneak into my own apartment without leaving the window open.

Moron , snickers Ghost Zeb.

I cannot tell you how badly I want him out of my head.

I’m right here, you know. I can hear you .

Good.

It takes a bit of contorting and there’s a long moment when I’m teetering on the tip of one shoe, but I fish the remote from my trousers and beep myself into my apartment.

Tumbling across the sill, my stomach sours at the thought of the devastation inside. For the first time in my civilian life it occurs to me that maybe I should have tidied up a bit before going out. My hand crabs across the floor, expecting to brush against splinters of my speakers or tufts of hard foam from the disembowelled settee, but there’s nothing but rough carpet. Strange.

The simplicity of a security man’s lot is looking pretty attractive right now. Keep the peace, remove those who would break it. No moral dilemmas involved. My life has been growing ever more complicated since people started dying around me. .

Since you started killing people. .

I wounded Goran, Deacon killed her.

What about Barrett?

Self-defence.

Yeah, because he was doing that shuffle. Tell that to the judge .

I don’t think Irish Mike uses judges.

I switch on the lamp, which works; very surprising, since the last time I was here the bulb lay like cracked eggshell on the rug. Have we gone back in time, or has somebody tidied up?

Option B, I think, though A would be nice.

So, who?

I think I know , says Ghost Zeb.

Me too, and it’s an alarming thought.

The apartment is still pretty battered, but no worse than your average student accommodation. Surfaces have been swept and the gloss of polish shines on the table, which sits legless on the floor. Three jumbo trash bags are propped by the door, fat sentries.

This is an extra dimension to my life that I do not need.

Into the bathroom I hurry; my duffel bag is in the airing cupboard ready for packing. With one hand reaching for the door handle, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror.

My eyes are distended ink blots, with forty years of wrinkles hanging below them like sagging power lines. The black watch cap has rolled back, revealing an expanse of forehead and a buckshot spatter of transplanted hair.

It’s growing in .

You think so?

Absolutely .

Isn’t it supposed to fall out before it grows in?

Let’s talk about this later .

Did I look this old a couple of days ago, before all the mayhem? Being a doorman never weighed so heavily on my face.

I blink a couple of times, suddenly tight across the chest. Just when did I start worrying so much about getting old? Some nights in the Lebanon it felt as though I couldn’t wait to die. Or if not that, then at least the idea didn’t upset me. Just make it quick, that was my only requirement. Most of us had kill pacts. Anyone in the pact takes a mortal wound, the others toss a coin and finish him off. Sounds brutal, but kill pacts were very popular. I made some real friends. I still drop them a line every now and then, make sure they know the pact is off.

I notice something else in the bathroom besides my own haggard face. The toilet rolls are stacked in a diamond shape. This is uber-freaky. I skirt the sculpture like it might suddenly come alive and start dispensing Zen advice.

Why would a toilet roll sculpture dispense anything but paper? Where does that thought even come from?

I know who built this. There’s only one person who would.

Sweat gathers at the base of my neck. In spite of my therapy sessions, I feel woefully ill-equipped to deal with someone who builds toilet roll diamonds.

My bag is where it should be, and I quickly locate the toiletries that were strewn around the floor by whoever trashed the place but are now lined neatly along the green plastic sink top.

I stuff them into the bag and collect one last essential. I keep ten years of savings, almost fifty thousand dollars, stashed in the sink drain for emergencies, and if this isn’t an emergency, it’s doing a good impersonation. I screw off the pipe and shake loose the sealed bundles of cash. Usually having this much money on my person would make me nervous, but I’m already as nervous as a person can be without short-circuiting his brain. I pocket the cash and head for the door. In retrospect, I should have gone back out the window.

Deacon arrives outside the door of my apartment just as I tug it open. Her gun is out and there are shoals of blood spatter on her blouse. I search her eyes briefly for signs of gratitude and love.

No luck.

I think about reaching for the Glock inside my jacket; maybe I could make it, or maybe this young, trained and fit officer would put a dozen slugs in a nice smiley face spread through my heart.

Deacon’s cheeks are wet and her eyes are wild. A couple of hours ago she was the embodiment of the law, and now she’s gunned down her partner with no idea why her partner was about to gun her down. She has no idea who to trust or who to blame.

‘Police,’ she says, and taps the badge on her belt.

‘Ooookay,’ I say, interested to hear what’s coming next.

‘Was it you?’ she demands, and her gun is in my face. Shaking. Give me a steady weapon over a shaky one any day. Shaky guns tend to have shaky fingers on the trigger.

‘Was it me what? ’

Deacon screws the barrel into my forehead. Feels like a Life Saver mint, only not so cheery.

‘Don’t fuck with me, McEvoy. Was it you, soldier boy? ’

The shaking gun is wiggling my eyebrows.

‘You trying to be funny? You making faces at me now, McEvoy?’

‘It’s the gun,’ I say helplessly. ‘I’m just standing here.’

Deacon is on the edge; it’s in her eyes, in the grit of her teeth.

‘One last time. Tell me it was you.’

I don’t think there’s a right answer to this question.

‘Okay,’ I admit. ‘It was me.’

‘It was you what ?’

Jesus Christ. Is she kidding me?

She cocks the weapon. Not kidding then.

‘It was me everything. I set you on Faber’s trail, I winged Goran and I watched you finish her off.’