Plugged - Eoin Colfer [21]
Macey Barrett’s stiletto spinning like a cheerleader’s baton, burying itself in the ceiling.
The stiletto. It’s still there.
Shit.
Shit. Shite and bollocks.
What can I do about it? What should I do?
I straighten slowly, like a very old man, and actually admonish myself aloud.
‘Okay, Daniel. Think about this calmly.’
In the third person now? Christ, things are bad.
Unfortunately my calm thinking space is out of service at the moment. I try to swat aside the waves of grief and tequila fumes, but my brain is fogged and buzzing.
It should be fine.
So the stiletto is up there; it shouldn’t lead back to me unless there’s a spy-cam in the handle.
The way my luck’s been going . . .
I chuckle and spit one last time to restore my manhood after all those thoughts of irony.
Think this thing through.
Going back to the surgery would be a big mistake. Irish Mike could be keeping an eye on the place, and showing up would only put me on his radar.
What about Zeb?
I want to think something positive, I would kill for some kind of bright shining answer, but there’s nothing coming out of my brain but fog and sadness.
Connie, darlin’.
Zeb is dead.
Call him and find out. It’s a thought.
I block the ID on Barrett’s Prada cell and punch in Zeb’s number.
Couple of rings, then a man answers.
‘Yeah?’
Not Zeb. I can tell from a single syllable. Zeb’s got this asthma voice, all in the nose.
‘Dr Kronski?’ I ask, like it’s a professional call.
‘Who’s speaking?’ says the man.
‘You are,’ I say, and hang up. I should probably have invented some medical yarn and promised to call back later, but I can’t be bothered.
They’re answering his calls too. Whatever Macey Barrett was looking for, they haven’t found it yet, otherwise Zeb’s phone would be at the bottom of the reservoir, along with his body.
I shouldn’t have called. I don’t want any of this information; it’s funnelling me towards a choice.
There’s a dawn glow cupping the clouds by the time I get home. I feel like crap and probably look like week-old crap. The last thing I need is my upstairs neighbour Mrs Delano going off on an abuse bender, not to mention the fact that Mike Madden could have cottoned on to my being a fly in his ointment by now.
So with all this in mind, I use my army stealth training to creep into the apartment. There could be a cell of jittery terrorists holed up on the second floor and they wouldn’t hear Company Sergeant Daniel McEvoy slipping down the hallway to his own door.
Which is open. The busted triple-bar lock lying shamefaced on the floor.
I forget all about operation under the radar when I see the whirlwind that has rolled through my apartment.
‘Christ Almighty!’ I shout, wading through the detritus that was my life. I used to do that metaphorically with Simon; now I’m doing it for real. It’s just as painful and I don’t feel better with every step.
The place has been wrecked. Destroyed. I’ve seen bomb sites with less shredding. They pulled down the wallpaper, disembowelled the sofa, dismantled the appliances. My fridge is lying on its side, leaking mayo; looks like a dying robot. The AC unit is in pieces on the table; reminds me of a mechanic’s course I took once. Pictures on the floor. A Jack Yeats West of Ireland print I carried in a tube from Dublin, slashed for malice.
I walk around flapping my arms, kicking through the debris. Where do you start? How can you fix this?
Then Mrs Delano pipes up. She was waiting for me to come home, I’m sure of it. Probably been up all night injecting her eyeballs with caffeine. I know that sounds crazy, but when you live underneath crazy, some of it drips downwards.
‘Kee-rist almighty,’ she calls, voice wafting through the light fixture. ‘Kee-rist fucking almighty.’
I am absolutely not in the mood for this lady right now. The best tack, I know, is not to rise to the bait, because if I