Deccie Must Die (MCM Investigations #2)

by Caimh McDonnell

Again, he’s a full-grown man. As anyone who has met a man will know, that doesn’t mean he’s matured, but he’s allowed to drink, drive (not at the same time – that’s a no, no, for everybody), join an army, see RoboCop in the cinema and do ‘other things’.

The human mind was an incredible thing, and not in a good way. Deccie’s brain might be exacting its revenge for all the grey matter recently sacrificed at the altar of a complimentary bar.

Her breath was of the kind several free cocktails thrown into an empty stomach will leave you with.

“If you’re looking for a dress, I think I still have a couple of my old ones somewhere. You could staple them together.” Brigit gave a subtle nod. “Touché.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

Brigit gave Dr Wright a withering glare that would cause most right-minded people to burst into flames out of sheer shame. Of course, for that to happen, the recipient would have to have the requisite capacity to feel any kind of shame. “Do you wanna see pictures of the two cars I’ve narrowed it down to? I could really use a second opinion.” “Read. The. Room.”

You could literally throw a rock and find somebody better for the job. Seriously – a person who is partially concussed and pissed off after being hit by a rock would still do a better job answering our phones.”

“You have a really unhelpful way of phrasing things.” “It’s called the truth.

taken under the wing of Dolores Stone, a matronly matron from Wexford. Sister Stone had a great many theories on a great many things – chief among them was manners. She had worked in England for many years and had noticed a difference between the Irish and the English. In her opinion, the English were more likely to be lacking in the manners arena.

Previously, the reception area hadn’t looked too bad, but somehow, the glamorous woman behind the desk holding a phone to her ear while taking down notes made it appear shabbier, if only by contrast.

She’d been waiting for over an hour when she caught herself fantasising about ripping the sign that read “be kind” off the wall and beating the receptionist to death with it.

The man is going through a divorce, owing to some totally unfounded allegations which, unfortunately, they have video footage of.

Brigit nodded. “I’ve been in this room barely two minutes and I can confidently say you are the worst human being I have ever met, and I’ve previously encountered an actual serial killer and a bona fide war criminal.” She hadn’t expected to say this, but it turned out that,

Look at my face – do I seem concerned?” “You’ve had so much done, it’s impossible to tell.”

He settled back down in his chair, looking inexplicably pleased with himself, then pointed across the table at Brigit. “I’ve decided I like you.” “Cool. If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to stick with my initial assessment of you being a massive arsehole.”

“Dinner. I’ll pay. How’s your schedule looking?” Brigit paused to consider the offer. “I think I have a gap just after hell freezes over.

“You are kidding?” “Do I look like I’m kidding?” “Again, with apologies to your plastic surgeon, it is literally impossible to tell.”

Having Deccie sitting in their office, supposedly answering the phones, was like witnessing the comments section of a newspaper article come to life.

Brigit stood and waited impatiently for Phil Nellis to park. It was like watching continental drift, if a tectonic plate had indicators.

She’d noticed the testy edge in her own voice. Jimmy Stewart didn’t miss much either. “I’m fine. It’s just been a bit of a week.” “It’s Monday.”

The point is, he’s in a fragile place right now⁠—” “He’s started making his own dance music,” interjected Phil. “It’s like listening to a washing machine having a heart attack.”

There were people in a coma who appeared to be doing more for themselves than Deccie Fadden did.

“Alright,” she conceded, “I’d rather chew my leg off than have that chat.

I met him a couple years ago on one of his rare conversational days. He normally doesn’t speak, but I got him when he was in a good mood, or his medication was hitting just right.

There were handbags in the room worth more than MCM Investigations in its entirety. Admittedly, given the company’s current financial plight, that wasn’t saying much.

Brigit guessed it didn’t matter where you were in the world, from a country disco to the hippest nightclub in Las Vegas, there was an unwritten rule that the dancing was always started by three women.

He’d completed Netflix, he was certain of it. He’d seen every last thing on there. He’d watched it in all languages, too. For a couple of days the week before, he’d become convinced he could actually speak Korean.

The PlayStation had also lost its appeal. Initially, online gaming had sounded like a fantastic idea until he’d realised it was just an excellent way to discover he could now get his ass kicked by a twelve-year-old from Belgium.

He slapped at the full-length cast that encased his right leg. The itch. The damned itch. The urge to try to reach it was strong, but the thing was permanently and infuriatingly just out of reach. He’d already lost a couple of pens, a straw and the bottom half of a takeaway menu from the Oriental Palace while attempting to scratch it. The best thing he could do was ignore it. Easier said than done.

Oliver Dandridge had left early, possibly to hang upside down in a cave, or maybe he was working the night shift as the child-catcher.

She started trudging on. Then, because God doesn’t close a door without also pissing out a window, she noticed one fat drop of rain plop onto the pavement in front of her. Just a few seconds later, with exquisitely sadistic timing, the heavens opened.

She was no longer as furious as she had been last night – it was impossible to sustain that level of anger – but her ire had formed into a cold, hard resentment.

If infidelity was an Olympic sport, you’d be disqualified for screwing the judges.”

I have no desire to have any more sessions with you because, and please take this in the spirit in which it is intended, you are one of the very worst people I have ever met.”

“Yes,” Brigit replied. “She left all of her details up on the pad on the fridge, and the number for an STD clinic.”

David Phillips gave her a startled look, like a dog who’d just realised why the vet was wearing a glove.

“Isn’t he wanted for some serious questioning in relation to the fact that Stephen Godey was found floating in Dublin Bay with more than the medically recommended number of bullet holes in him?”

“I am. At my age, you’ve got to find a reason to get out of the house, and I can’t face the idea of taking up lawn bowls.”

We’re living in the Twitter age. Death threats aren’t what they once were. One of the poor sods who presents the weather is threatened every time it rains.

au fait

“You’re in denial, Paulie.” “No, I am not.” “That’s exactly what somebody in denial would say.”

“Oh, would you shut up. Don’t let that crap in the newspaper bother you.” “It doesn’t.” It did. And she was annoyed at herself for letting it.

There were also those trees that looked so identical to each other that the little splash of nature they provided actually made the place feel somehow less natural.

“He’s older than your dad.” “Only in human years. Not in movie-star years.”

You wave the red cape around too much and even the bull starts to get suspicious about what lies behind it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a serious anger-management issue?” “Not twice.”

she was afforded the questionable privilege of witnessing Oliver Dandridge pass through the five stages of grief in record time as he shouted after his ex-client. Denial. “You can’t fire me.” Anger. “I am firing you.” Bargaining. “We should talk about this.” Depression. “Why does this always happen to me?” Acceptance. “At least I’ve still got the circus-skills people. Nobody can take that away from me.”

You were never really in a conversation with Phil Nellis, it felt more like you were there while it was happening. Like a natural disaster or someone deciding to perform music on public transport.

with the level of organisation required for even half of the conspiracy theories Phil was suggesting, it would have been easier just to go to the moon.

She loved Phil the same way she loved exercise. What she enjoyed most about it was when it stopped.