Eoin Colfer - Plugged

Deacon expected this answer, but still she’s stunned. On a positive note, her weapon drops to her side.

‘It. . it was you.’

I nod warily. Not out of the woods yet. Deacon’s eyes are glazed and her hands are twitching. My guess is she’s in mild shock. You face the void and cut down a friend all in the same evening and it’s bound to have an effect.

In my experience this can go one of two ways. Either Deacon dissolves to a shuddering heap, or her heart hardens and she shoots me, because at least it’s a positive action.

Better to make a move now while her guard is down, but I barely get my fists balled when she comes at me full tilt, hand flat on my chest. This is confusing.

Back into the room we stumble, her fingers ripping at my shirt like it’s on fire. Then the flat of her hand is on my heart, searching for the life inside. Her mouth is up, snarling, wanting the kiss. So I kiss Detective Deacon, feeling a premature post-coital regret that should warn me off but doesn’t. We trip as one over the remains of the couch on to the Caucasian rug I got from a Lebanese market. It occurs to me that what we’re about to do on this rug is probably a sin in several religions.

Not that this gives me pause. I’m feeling pretty tense myself, and this is as good a way as any to let it all out.

I guess there was a third way this could all go. I never came across this option in the army.

Very early the next morning, we find ourselves mashed up against the wall, half covered with a few sofa cushions.

The next morning?

I know. I always hated that: you’re watching a movie or reading a book, finally the steamy scene is on the horizon and suddenly it’s the next morning . How does that make you feel?

Cheated, that’s how.

So. .

It’s not like I’m a prude, but this roll on the rug was definitely weird. Deacon bounced me around, pawing at my person. I’m surprised, given my low self-esteem issues, that I was able to perform at all.

Go on , encourages Ghost Zeb.

That’s all the detail you need. Anyway, you were there.

Yeah, but I like the way you tell it in your Oirish accent .

You are a sick little imaginary friend, Zeb.

I gotta say, these conversations with GZ are tiring. Even though I know he’s just a greatest hits tape cobbled together by my memory, I am starting to think stuff quietly in case he hears me.

I heard that, dickhead. Think quietly? What are you, a lunatic?

I decide not to answer that question.

So, in the morning we’re wedged into the corner like two corpses that have been tossed there, neither with a clue what to say.

I regain consciousness first and use the minutes to examine the lady I’ve just had some kind of relations with. Usually I do the examining beforehand, but there’s nothing usual about this encounter. Everything about Deacon says strength. Wide brow, strong nose, full lips, skin the colour of polished rosewood. Her body is lean and muscled like she beats suspects a lot, and there’s a welt on her upper arm looks like a bullet wound.

I touch the scar gently; feels like there’s a marble under there.

‘Nine millimetre?’ I ask. Mister Romance.

‘Branding accident,’ Deacon grunts, still half asleep.

I have a feeling we’re never going to send each other perfumed letters.

She shrugs her shoulder to dislodge my hand and her bracelet rattles. It’s unusual enough for me to notice, snaking around her wrist a couple of times, laden with various charms. Washers, bottle tops, coloured glass. I’ve seen these before in Africa. Memory bracelets, the story of your life’s journey worn on the wrist.

I try for some confirmation. ‘Memory bracelet?’

Deacon grunts again.

Most of the charms seem standard enough, but there’s a wizened sphere like a shrunken golf ball.

I tap it with a fingernail. ‘What’s this one?’

Deacon’s voice is sleepy. ‘Guy kept asking me questions,’ she slurs. ‘His left nut.’

Okay. No more questions. Maybe I’ll just take forty winks; after all, I’ve got protection.

Deacon’s skin is smooth against my chest and I try to pretend she’s actually fond of the person behind her. Maybe after a couple of years together Detective Deacon will develop a grudging respect for me and we can have a series of adventures.

Unless she does a sideways shuffle and you have to kill her .

I’m starting to realise that tuning out GZ is next to impossible so long as I have a single brain cell that is not distracted by life.

I attempt to distract myself by wondering how Deacon is going to keep herself out of prison. Obviously she hasn’t come clean about Goran, or she’d be filling out a million forms in triplicate and holding staring contests with Internal Affairs.

‘They must have found Goran by now?’

Deacon stiffens, and I think that maybe she had been trying to distract herself with all the tough talk. ‘Not yet. I put her in the trunk.’

This is not good news, as Deacon’s trunk is at the back of her car, which is probably parked outside my door.

‘Goran is in your trunk? Hard to explain that to IA.’

Something like regret flits across the side of Deacon’s face; maybe there’s a human heart beating inside Robocop. ‘Explain to IA? You’re kidding, right? You screwed my career, McEvoy, and I was a good cop too. Twelve years in. Youngest black detective in the state.’

I feel I should stand up for myself. ‘You’d prefer to be dead?’

‘It’s funny,’ says Deacon, and I’m guessing tragi-funny not funny ha-ha. ‘People always think I’m dirty cos of my attitude. Typical. A hardball boy cop is a maverick, doesn’t play by the rules but gets the job done. You get a girl with some balls, then there must be something wrong with her. I was never dirty, until now. I’m finished. I’ll be lucky to get off with manslaughter.’

I sit up to ask the obvious question. ‘Why didn’t you call it in? It was a righteous shoot.’

Deacon slumps even further into the corner, suddenly dead tired. ‘I should have. All night I’ve been asking myself that question. I guess I panicked; is that what you want to hear, soldier boy? My partner and superior tried to murder me. I didn’t know who to trust apart from the guy with the sniper rifle, which I figured had to be you. I hoped you might be able to tell me something. But you know shit, right?’

My time with Simon suddenly comes in handy. ‘There is a very strong case for post-traumatic stress here.’

‘Who are you?’ says Deacon. ‘Sigmund Freud? I’m a cop, man. I know how we think and I wouldn’t buy that psych bullshit for a New York minute.’

I forge ahead. ‘No, listen, Deacon, it’s true. Your partner tried to kill you. You had no idea how high the conspiracy went. You panicked, loaded up the body and went somewhere safe. There are a few holes, sure, but the basic truth is you acted in self-defence. Believe it or not, you are in shock.’

‘And you took advantage.’

Yeah, it’s a dig, but she’s going for the cover story. It’s a good story because it happens to be mostly true. The only detail she has to omit is the bald Irish one. I can see her eyes lose focus as she imagines how it would play out back in the precinct. There is a way out.

Then Deacon’s phone beeps and she rolls into a crouch, instantly alert. I see the curve of her spine shining like a samurai sword.

She shakes her trousers until a phone falls out, and checks the text message. Her posture was pretty tense, but now it cranks up another few notches. Tendons stand out like piano wire behind her knees.

Not good news.

Deacon bends low, snagging the Sig with her trigger finger. ‘You’re a knife man, right, McEvoy? That’s what it said in your file.’