Dance With the Dead: A PC Donal Lynch Thriller

‘Have you seen or spoken to Eve since?’

‘No.’

‘What about your family? Are you close?’

‘I’m close to my mum. Or at least I was. Now it’s a bit more complicated.’

I suddenly felt found-out, checkmated. He sensed it, almost jogging back to his slippery black throne to home in for the kill.

‘And why is that?’

‘My father is a rabid Republican. When he found out I’d joined the British police force, he made it known he never wanted to see or hear from me again.’

‘When did you last see your mother?’

‘Eighteen months ago,’ I croaked, my throat dry with shame.

‘How were relations with your father before that?’

‘Not good.’

The silence demanded filling.

‘I never seemed to be able to please him, you know? At best, I embarrassed him. I’d try to help out on the farm but just end up annoying him. I had this ability to make him blind with rage without even trying, and I mean apoplectic. Anything I did angered him, basically.’

He knew there was more, the misery-milking, sorrow-sucking fuck.

I sighed in resignation. ‘I found out recently that my mother almost died during my birth and that we’d both been very ill afterwards. She couldn’t bear any more children after that, I’d say physically or mentally. Over those first few years, I didn’t sleep very much and she got prescribed tranquilisers. She’s been hooked on them ever since. So basically I ruined my dad’s life, and he’s hated me for it ever since.’

There you have it, you nosy little prick. Happy now?

‘Any siblings?’

‘One older brother. Of course, he’s brilliant at everything. I could never outshine Golden Boy.’

The bitterness with which I imparted that last line shocked me. Did I resent Fintan? Had I been holding him responsible all this time?

Swartz breathed in and out hard through his nostrils, sated.

‘What do you think your mother would like to happen?’

‘Well, obviously she’d like me and Da to patch things up, get on.’

‘Do you think you can ever find inner peace while you have this impasse with your father?’

‘Well, it’s not like we used to be best buds, is it? I’ve borne his disappointment all my life. Now’s no different, it’s just more … official.’

‘What do you think is the cause of your insomnia?’

‘With respect doctor, that’s like asking me “What do you think is the cause of my fuzzy hair?” Your hair is just fuzzy, like Shredded Wheat. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

He studied me thoughtfully, caressing his Shredded Wheat beard. I sat there absently, wondering why they all felt compelled to sport beards. Some sort of academic Beard Pressure?

‘I can’t sign you off until you at least attempt to address your insomnia,’ he announced, finally.

‘But that’s got nothing to do with why I’m suspended,’ I protested.

‘It’s got everything to do with your mental health, Donal. If I sign you off and you blow up again … well, they could wash their hands of both you and me.’

‘I’ve seen specialists about it. No one can help.’

‘You have to help yourself. You need to address the worm. Sort things out with your father. Or at least try to. Do your bit, see what happens.’

I shook my head and shot to my feet: ‘It’s not that simple, doctor. Besides, like I say, that’s got absolutely nothing to do with the reason I’m here. I’m afraid I’ll be seeking a second opinion.’

As I walked to the door, that puff of madness found me.

‘Let’s not forget Swartz,’ I raged. ‘I’ve been sent here because of a single provoked incident, a moment of madness. To drag some random issue from my personal life into it, then use it against me … well, it’s outrageous …’

He didn’t even look up.

‘I had a son like you,’ he said finally, quietly.

That shut me up. They never talk about themselves.

‘He joined the army just to spite me really. He was a bloody musician, not a soldier.’

His eyes studied the carpet, softening.

‘You always think you have time to sort these things out, but you don’t.’

He sighed sadly. ‘He got killed in 1982, in the Hyde Park bombing.’

I shuddered at the memory. The IRA had planted two devices. The first, a car bomb, killed three members of the household cavalry. The second exploded under a bandstand in Regent’s Park, killing eight soldiers as they played songs from the musical Oliver to a crowd of lunching workers and tourists.

He looked up, his eyes manic now, hunting for understanding.

‘He was 22, same age as you.’

‘Oh Christ,’ I whispered, shame flooding me, ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘The idiot boy who planted the bomb was also 22. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison. They say now the authorities ignored a warning. They let it go off.’

He shook his head, his gaze somehow peering inwards.

‘It’ll be eleven years in July. His mother has never got over it.’

‘And you?’ I said, unable to resist turning inquisitor on a shrink.