Plugged

She takes my face in her hands. ‘Not any more,’ she says and kisses me hard. Not any more? Does that mean she doesn’t hate me any more? Or she doesn’t remember?

I don’t know, and for a moment I don’t care.

And even though I didn’t share the eighties with this woman, I do remember the decade. And here they are, coming around again. With sweet chocolatey perfume, shoulder pads, the haze of hairspray and soft red lips. This is more than a kiss; it’s a time machine.

I feel Sofia’s sprayed hair scratch my cheek, and hear the moan in her throat like all her dreams have come true, and I want to weep. Is this how low I have sunk, making out with a disturbed woman?

I push her gently away, hearing the soft pop as the vacuum seal of our lips is broken.

‘W. . wait,’ I stammer. ‘This is not right. I can’t. . we can’t.’

There is a bruise of lipstick smeared across her upper lip. ‘Sure we can, baby. It’s not the first time. But let’s do it like it’s the last.’

What an invitation. You could sell a movie with a tag-line like that.

‘No, Sofia. . Mrs Delano. This is not me. I mean, I am not Carmine.’

Then something unexpected. She slaps me in the face, hard. I actually rock back on my heels.

‘Pull yourself together, Carmine. How many lives do you think we get? I’m forty years old next summer, and this is my last second chance. You going to break my heart again?’

I can’t do it. I should, goddamn me, but I can’t find the strength. ‘Okay, Sofia.

Okay, I get it.’ I stroke her cheek tenderly. It’s easy to do. Natural. ‘No broken hearts tonight. I want to do it slow, take things easy. We got time, right?’

She blinks, uncertain, as though offering sex to this man Carmine is all she knows how to do.

‘Time?’

‘Yeah, time for romance?’

‘Romance?’ The word hiccups in her throat. ‘You want romance?’

‘Sure. A man can change, can’t he?’

‘I. . I guess.’

Whew. A reprieve, though a big, insistent part of me doesn’t want a reprieve.

‘Good. Great. So, Sofia, you got anything to drink?’

‘I got some cough syrup. And some coffee.’

I react to ‘coffee’ like it’s the holy grail. ‘Wow. Coffee, that would be awesome.’

Definite overkill. I use the word awesome about as much as I use the word bling.

Sofia stumbles to the kitchen on sea legs, a bewildered smile cutting through the lipstick.

‘Carmine Delano asking for coffee. My husband certainly has changed. Maybe you dumped some of that macho baggage you’ve been lugging around, along with the hair.’

‘It’s temporary,’ I blurt, wanting to please her now. ‘The hair. It’s growing back.’

Sofia pours two mugs from the machine. ‘Hair, no hair. Doesn’t bother me, baby. So long as I have you. It’s been hours since you left. I was starting to think I did something wrong.’

Hours? More like years.

‘I. . uh. . I had some business to take care of.’

Sofia pushes me gently to the settee, deep brown leather, squeaks when I sit. A man could get used to relaxing in a promo sofa like this. Smells of Italian food and perfume.

‘Business? Like that naked bitch downstairs? Same old Carmine.’

I absurdly defend myself. ‘That woman was a detective. She was trying to kill me.’

Sofia eyes me archly. ‘Uh-huh. I bet she had good reason. I know what you are, Carmine, all about your dalliances.’

Dalliances. First time I’ve heard that word since Ireland.

Drinking and dalliances. That’s you, isn’t it? That’s your entire goddamn life in a nutshell.

Mother shouting that at my father, and him laughing. Scratching his chin with one hand and swiping the air with the other, trying to catch an invisible fly.

‘Dalliances, eh?’ he’d twitter, then do a little mocking fairy dance. ‘Was this before or after the croquet?’

Back to here and now, but I’m shaking a little. ‘No, Sofia. No dalliances. It’s only you. You’re the only one for me.’

It’s easy to say and it would be easy to mean.

Sofia glows; she sweeps her blonde hair aside, eyes downcast like a twenty-year-old bride.

‘You mean it, baby? You mean it this time?’

‘I do.’ I take her hand and place it on my chest. ‘Feel my heart and tell me I’m lying.’

If my heart could speak, it would say that my every word is a lie. Her husband is gone and he better stay gone, because if he comes back I might just have to kill him.

Sofia places her cheek beside her slim fingers. ‘It’s a strong heart, Daniel. Strong enough to protect me.’

‘No one’s going to hurt you now, Sofia. That guy, the Keerist almighty guy, he’s gone for good.’

‘Keerist almighty beep,’ whispers Sofia, then falls asleep just like that.

Keerist almighty beep? says Ghost Zeb. What the hell does that mean?

I decide to think about that later; for the moment I’m thinking about how Mrs Delano just called me Daniel.

The human mind has layers, Simon Moriarty once told me. Some of them know what’s going on. Some of them don’t.

I really must call that guy.

So I do, call the guy, next evening over a late late breakfast before I head out to work. I’ve had eighteen hours’ sleep and three square meals and I feel like it’s time to solve some of my problems.

‘Hey, Doc. It’s Daniel McEvoy.’

Silence on the other end for a few moments, while Moriarty opens his mental filing cabinet.

‘Daniel? Daniel bloody McEvoy. A blast from the past. How are you doing, Dan? Not too well, I’m guessing.’

I allow my gaze to drift out the window. There’s a light drizzle coming down silver though the streetlights. Looks nice, like movie rain.

‘Well, I’m noticing how nice the rain’s looking, if that means anything.’

I hear the sound of a Zippo wheel spinning and it brings me back ten years.

‘Noticing rain? You are truly screwed, my boy. Nine out of ten serial killers start paying close attention to meteorology just before they cut loose. By the way, you do know it’s two in the morning over here. You’re lucky I was up carousing.’

I’m smiling into my phone, a sucker for the old accent.

‘Whatever, you arsehole.’

‘Gobshite.’

‘You sure you have a degree?’

‘You called me, Sergeant McEvoy. What’s your problem?’

‘Problems, Doc. Problems.’

‘Okay. Shoot, so long as you’re aware I’m billing the army for this.’

Down the street a couple are arguing about something. She’s big on the hand gestures, waving like a windmill. Would I find that cute or irritating? Shit, I’m already irritated.

‘Okay. I’ve got this woman in love with me.’

‘Well done. Live long, die happy.’

‘No. She thinks I’m someone else.’

‘Ah. . Well, sometimes secrets are a good thing. I know that general thinking says holding things in can be damaging, but some things are better kept to oneself.’

‘It’s more than secrets, Doc. She actually believes I’m a different person. Her husband, I think.’