To Summon Nightmares (8 page)

"That'd be great," said Cohen. "Really, thanks again."

"It's no problem," Niall reassured him. "I like guests."

*~*~*

Cohen waited until Niall had said goodnight and disappeared into his bedroom before sneaking into the toilet. It was small, with a yellowed tub and sink, and was stocked with only the most basic necessities; a comb, razor, soap and some cheap shampoo. It was lucky that Cohen had packed along all of his toiletries. He had far too many, but he had convinced himself that giving up his femininity did not have to mean giving up nice soap.

He turned to undress in front of the mirror, only then to notice that it had been covered with an opaque white sheet. Cohen stared at it for a moment, wondering if the mirror under it was broken. It seemed an incredibly strange thing to do, to cover a mirror, but he supposed he was staying in a house with strings of magical plants hung everywhere (even over the toilet). He shivered. Only a covered mirror. It was strange that it made him feel so odd.

His fingers brushed the soft cloth as he reached forward to pull it aside. The glass was shiny and unbroken. His own face stared back at him, his eyes a little wider than normal, and his dark hair unimaginably frizzy. His reflection narrowed his eyes at him, pinching his mouth to the side and wrinkling his nose. "You look terrible," he told himself under his breath. "Stop freaking out and get in the shower."

He tugged his clothes off and then, paranoid, checked to make sure the door was locked one more time before struggling to pull his binder over his head. He crossed his arms in front of himself automatically, suddenly glad that the mirror was covered, and fingered the raw callouses under his armpits. He'd gained a bit of weight lately, and the binder was too tight on him, but he couldn't bring himself to buy a bigger size.

Well, maybe he'd just switch to eating tofu and peppers like Niall. It seemed to work wonders on him.

He sighed, distancing himself from his body as well as he could and stepped into the tub, pulling the plastic curtain shut and turning the water on. It was blissfully warm. He hadn't realised how chilled he'd been from the rain and wet.

Not entirely comfortable in a strange shower, he washed and towelled off as fast as possible before changing into his pyjamas. Then, with his things clutched as tightly as possible to his chest, he raced to the spare bedroom, shutting the door behind him and jumping into the bed. He left the binder on the floor next to the bed so that he could put it on first thing in the morning.

He was drifting off before he remembered that he hadn't even plugged his phone in for the night. Not that it really mattered, but he couldn't remember the last time he had gone to sleep without it next to him. Perhaps he wasn't quite as addicted as he'd thought though, because he had no trouble falling deep into the soft scratchiness of the bed, the smell of dust and dried plants strangely comforting, and the sound of the rain the same as it always had been, lulling him into oblivion.

*~*~*

He awoke from his dreams reluctantly. He'd been dreaming of relief, of a world where everything was under his control. It was unusual for him to have such dreams, and he didn't want to wake. But the sound of a loud knock at the door, and then the door slamming and harsh voices dragged him upwards. He opened his eyes and sat up, listening to make sense of the noises.

The covers fell from his chest and he clutched his arms to himself. Something was wrong. He threw himself out of bed, reaching down to scoop up his binder and pulling his pyjama shirt off in the same motion. The morning chill bit at his bare skin as he tugged his clothes on and rushed out into the kitchen.

"Cohen." Niall was standing in the middle of his kitchen, surrounded by police, their neon yellow and navy uniforms too bright and cold for the warmth of the house. His hair was messy, and his eyes red and frightened. "You should go back to the bedroom," he said, sounding tired but urgent.

Cohen stayed rooted to the spot. "What's going on?"

"Do you know this man?" asked one of the Gardai, a tall, broad woman with frizzy orange hair. She turned to look at Cohen, eyeing him critically.

"Not really," said Cohen. "He just... gave me a place to stay last night." What was going on? He had to get his mind working properly. Everything was moving too quickly, blurry somehow.

The woman stepped towards him, coming between Cohen and Niall. "What's your name, lad?" she asked, a touch of softness in her voice.

"It's Cohen," said Cohen, his heart skipping a beat.

"Cohen," she repeated. "It's very important that you cooperate with us, Cohen, and that you tell us everything."

Cohen nodded, swallowing.

"Leave him alone," said Niall, and the woman turned to look at him. "I don't know what's going on, but he has nothing to do with it."

"Cohen," said the woman again, and Cohen looked back to her. "What are you doing here? Why did you spend the night here?"

"I-I..." Niall was looking at Cohen, some desperate look in his eyes, but Cohen couldn't tell what it meant for the life of him. Did Niall want him to lie? What were the police doing here? "I was supposed to be picked up at the train station by my lawyer, but she never showed up. Niall drove by, and—and it was raining, so he offered to drive me home, but then I couldn't get into my place because I didn't have my key..." He trailed off, unsure of what the Garda wanted to hear.

"What's your lawyer's name?"

"Sandy McIntyre. I just moved into town, she was going to meet me and bring me to the house, but she never showed up..."

"I see." The Garda was quiet for a moment. "Around what time were you picked up from the station?"

"I-I guess it was..." Cohen thought for a moment, remembered looking at his phone and thinking that Sandy was an hour late. "Maybe a little after seven?"

Niall's eyes widened in what Cohen thought was sudden relief.

"Hm," said the Garda. "Would you be willing to swear that in a court of law?"

Cohen felt a spurt of adrenaline shoot through him. "Yes, of course. Why? What's going on?"

She signalled to the other four Gardai, who moved forward to turn Niall around and cuff his hands. Cohen stared, disbelieving, and the Chief Garda turned to him again. "Sandy McIntyre is dead," she explained. "And this man is our primary suspect."

Chapter Four

Cohen was in shock the entire way to the Garda station. He had spent the night in the house of a murderer? Had Halley been right? He hadn't called her. He needed to call her and let her know that he was okay. He shuddered at the thought that he might not have been.

He felt sick. He'd been so personal last night with Niall. Told him things about himself, eaten his food. He wanted to ask the Garda in the driver's seat a million questions, but the man told him that everything would be explained at the station.

He didn't see Niall again until after he had been questioned extensively about the previous day twice, once by a Garda and then again by a criminal lawyer. Only then was the situation explained to him. The Chief Garda (her name was Myrna) introduced herself to him properly and thanked him for his cooperation. Cohen, tired from the stress of being questioned, and feeling horribly dysphoric from having to sign his birth name on several forms, was quite a bit less friendly than he normally would have been, but she didn't seem to mind.

"You may well have saved that young man from prison," she told Cohen. "You're his only alibi."

"Please just tell me what happened," sighed Cohen, wishing for his bed back in Dublin. He'd been able to speak to Halley on the phone briefly when they had arrived at the station, with only enough time to explain everything succinctly, and he knew he had sounded terrible. No doubt Halley had told their parents everything, and they were worried sick about him. He felt horrible for leaving, and then for getting involved in something so terrifying, even though it hadn't been his fault. He wondered if maybe he should just go back to Dublin.

"Sandy McIntyre's body was found at eight o'clock this morning by her co-worker who went to check on her when she didn't turn up at work," said Myrna as she rifled through her papers, organizing them into folders. "There is video surveillance of a man that looks very much like your friend Niall, walking into the apartment complex where she lives at exactly seven fourteen p.m. the night before. Since he finished work at seven o'clock last night, it seemed very plausible that it was him."

"But, it can't have been," said Cohen breathlessly, "because I was with him then, he was picking me up at the station."

"Precisely," said Myrna. "Furthermore, as you've stated, Sandy had plans to pick you up from the train station at six o'clock, correct? But she never showed, which suggests that the murder took place before six o'clock, when Niall was still accounted for at work."

Cohen breathed a deep sigh, letting his head fall back onto the cold leather of his chair. "So he didn't do it." He felt like he was going to collapse into a pile of debris.

"It doesn't seem likely." Myrna tsked and turned away, slipping the folders into a drawer and locking it. "Not the first time I've been wrong."

Cohen tore his eyes away from the dusty ceiling fan to look back at her. "You thought it was him?"

Myrna got up, pulling on her heavy uniform coat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Well, to be perfectly honest, everyone did."

"Isn't that a little harsh?"

Myrna shrugged, but she stepped closer to him and leaned against her desk, shoving her hands into her pockets. "I'm not saying it's right," she said. "Just that it's what everyone, including me, thought. I know everyone in this town. I don't like to think that any of them are murderers, and three murders in the four months since a new face arrives in town does arouse suspicion—"

"Wait." Cohen gripped the arms of his chair. "Three murders? You mean this isn't—"

"The first?" finished Myrna. "Not the first like this. I'm sorry, I forgot you didn't know. Everyone in town knows about them. There was a little girl, five years old, and then a man. Now Sandy. The victims are all killed in the same way, so we know we're dealing with a serial killer. I'm sorry, you look pale."

"It's just..." Cohen could feel his insides curling up. "I might not have moved here if I'd known."

Myrna nodded. "The thought was to keep it from going to large presses, because these kinds of killers like publicity. I'm sorry. If you like, I can put you back on a train to Dublin."

Cohen thought about how his parents would react. They'd never let him live on his own again. He didn't want to go back to Dublin, anyway. He really didn't. "I want to stay here." He took a deep breath. "But I need to be able to get into my house."

Myrna nodded, looking around as if she was thinking. "We recovered most of her things for evidence," she explained. "I'll see if I can get you your key."

"Thanks," said Cohen as she started towards the door to her office. "Um."

Myrna turned to look back at him.

"What will happen to Niall?"

"He'll be tried out of court in a few weeks. The attorney will set a bail, and he'll be kept here until someone pays it."

"Will someone?"

She shrugged. "It would seem he doesn't have any family."

"But won't he miss work?"

"Are you suggesting I pay it?" she asked, her stare hard.

"Well I—" Cohen swallowed. "I mean, how much is it?"

"I'd have to ask the attorney, but probably a couple of thousand."

"But he didn't
do
anything."

"That hasn't been proven in court yet."

"He'll lose his job."

"I'm sorry," Myrna shrugged, "but I don't have an extra two thousand quid. I have children to feed."

Cohen was going to get in trouble with his parents for doing this. Even though the money was technically his now that he was an adult, they'd always kept a tight leash on him, ever since he'd been paid for his first book. They didn't want him spending it all on frivolous things. But this wasn't frivolous. "I have it," he said. "I'll pay."

*~*~*

Myrna got him his key, and drove them both home in her cruiser. On the way, she questioned Niall again, asking him if he had any enemies who might have wanted to set him up. The video, she explained, was of someone who looked very much like Niall, down to the clothes. It seemed too much of a coincidence to ignore.

"I don't know," said Niall. "I told them everything I know. I just want to go home." He hadn't spoken much at all, save to thank Cohen for paying his bail and Myrna for driving him home. Cohen didn't really blame him. He was exhausted himself, and he hadn't just been accused of murder.

They pulled into the driveway at the Coughton and Cohen had a chance to look at it for the first time properly. It looked ancient, the stone walls were covered in crawling green ivy, and its high square windows were dark and murky. An old, boxy car sat in the driveway next to it, and Cohen glanced at the keychain that Myrna had acquired for him to confirm that a small matching ignition key accompanied the much more antiquated house key. At least he'd have transport. It felt a bit weird to be living in his deceased aunt's house, driving her car. But she had left it all to him.

"You're going to be okay here?" Myrna asked him as she helped him carry his things to the door over the still-wet grass. There had been a stone walkway at one point, but it had nearly grown over in the two years of unoccupancy. The doorknob and lock were ornate copper, covered in a green patina, and the key matched. Cohen slid the heavy thing in and turned it, feeling the weights shift inside. There was a thunk and the door unlocked. He turned the handle, slightly shiny from use, and pushed the heavy wooden door open.

Inside it was dark and dry. Cohen leaned forward, smelling dust and stagnancy. He stepped in, feeling a heavy rug under his shoes, and looked around. There was a tarnished silver switch on the wall, circular with matching wire running up to the ceiling, and he flipped it. A soft yellow glow illuminated the room, better than the sunlight from the dusty windows.

"Well, there's electricity, so I should be okay," he told Myrna, ducking back outside to grab his bag. "I'll drive the car into town tomorrow and stock up then."