Plugged - Eoin Colfer [33]
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.’
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?