Eoin Colfer - Screwed

CHAPTER 1

Cloisters

Essex County, New Jersey

THE GREAT ELMORE LEONARD ONCE SAID THAT YOU SHOULD never start a story with weather. Thats all well and good for Mr. Leonard to say and for all his acolytes to scribble into their moleskin notebooks, but sometimes a story starts off with weather and does not give a damn about what some legendary genre guy recommends, even if it is the big EL. So if theres weather at the start then thats where you better put it or the whole thing could unravel and you find yourself with the shavings of a tale swirling around your ankles and no idea how to glue them together again.

So expect some major meteorological conditions smack bang in the middle of Chapter One, and if there were kids and animals around theyd be in here too, screw that old-timey movie-star guy with the cigar and squint eye. The story is what it is.

And the story being what it is, lets get to it:

I am lying in bed with a beautiful woman watching the morning sun light up her blonde hair like some kind of electric nimbus and thinking for the umpteenth time that this is the closest to happy that I am ever likely to get and several degrees closer than I deserve after all the blood Ive been forced to spill.

The woman is asleep, which is frankly the best time to gaze upon her. Sofia Delano doesnt like being stared at when shes awake. A casual glance is okay, but after five seconds of eye contact her insecurities and phobias kick their way out of the sack and you find yourself dealing with a whole different animal, especially if she hasnt been taking her lithium.

Various psychoses were not part of Sofias nature. They were nurtured. When she was still a teenage bride, Sofia was psychologically hothoused by Carmine Delano, her abusive husband, until she began to exhibit symptoms of bipolar disorder, schizophrenia and dementia, at which point Carmine, the prince, thought to himself, Bitch be crazy, and bought himself a ticket to far away, leaving his young damaged wife to sit at home and pine. The guy hasnt been seen since. Not a peep, not a dickey bird.

And nobody pines like Sofia Delano. If pining was an art form, then Sofia is the Picasso of the pine. Her only distraction was tormenting the downstairs tenant, which happened to be me. Then six months ago I did her a pretty measly household service and boom shes convinced Im her long lost husband who hasnt been in the picture for twenty years. The last time Sofia was truly happy was when she and Carmine first dated in the late eighties, so consequently thats the decade Sofias needle got stuck in. Her Madonna getup is pretty hot, her Cyndi Lauper is stunning, but I will say her Chaka Khan needs work.

Weve made out a couple of times, but I cant in all conscience take it any further than that. I know couples often pretend to be with somebody else, but theres probably something illegal going on if one of them actually believes it.

But kissings okay, right?

And man, she can kiss. Its like she sucks the beats right out of my heart. And those eyes? Big and blue, rimmed with way too much eyeliner. Men have climbed into hollow wooden horses for eyes like that.

My hand grazed her boob once, but it was an accident, honest.

I think she knows who I am sometimes. Maybe in the beginning I was Carmine, but now . . . I think theres a glimmer.

So if Im so goddamn noble, how come Im in bed with this delusional woman? First of all, screw you and your dirty mind. And secondly, Im lying on top of the covers and Sofia is tucked in nice and safe under the duvet. This is the only time Ive stayed over in six months because last night we split a bottle of liquor-store red that had enough tannins in it to poleax an elephant, and watched Amelie, which is possibly the best nonviolent movie Ive ever seen.

We laughed a lot.

In French accents.

I remember thinking: It could be like this all the time.

Ive found that Sofias sweet spot is meds plus two glasses of wine. Then I swim into focus and we can enjoy a movie date like two middle-agers in love.

And I do love her. I love her like a high-school kid loves the prom queen.

Simon Moriarty, my off-and-on shrink since the Irish army years, tells me that I am obsessed with something unobtainable and therefore forever pure. But what the hell does he know? There aint a guy on this planet who could lie where Im lying and not feel his heart swell.

And believe me, Sofia aint unobtainable. Shes been doing her level best to get obtained ever since we became pals. But I cant do it and all this lying on the bed together aint helping.

Sofia opens her eyes and Im thinking, please God recognize me.

And she says in a voice so husky it would make a cat purr, Hey, Dan. How you doing?

And there it is: the perfect moment, so I snap off a blink photo before answering.

Im doing real good, I say, and its the truth. Any day that I aint Carmine is a good day for D. McEvoy.

Why are you out there? she asks, trailing a finger down my face, her nail catching in my stubble. Come in here where its warm.

I could. Why not? Consenting adults and so forth. But Sofia could flip in a heartbeat and then who would I be?

Carmine?

A stranger?

And this girl doesnt need any more trauma or mind games.

So I say, Hey, how about I bring you some coffee?

Sofia sighs. Im forty in a couple of months, Dan. The clocks ticking here.

I try to smile but it comes off like a grimace and Sofia takes pity on me.

Okay, Dan. Coffee.

She closes her eyes and stretches, arching her back, one long leg sliding out from under the duvet.

I think maybe Ill have some coffee too.

I leave propped up on her pillows with one of those cappuccinos from a sachet and her copy of Caribbean Cruising, which shes read a hundred times even though she hasnt left the building on more than a handful of occasions in the past twenty years. We both make a promise before I go. I pledge to come over after Im finished at my casino to watch Manon des Sources, which is not one of my DVD favorites, and Sofia swears that she will swallow the pills I leave in a cup on her locker.

I am optimistic that tonight could be another little slice of heaven.

This could be beginning of something good. Sofia is getting her head right and Im picking up a few words of French. The casino is staying afloat and no one has tried to kill me for half a year. Best of all, outside of giving a coupla drunks the bums rush from the club, I havent been forced to hurt anyone in a while.

I could get very used to that.

People can be content. Its possible. Ive seen them in parks or outside theaters. Christ, Ive even met a few contented people personally. It could be my turn.

Dont get happy, I warn myself. The universe cannot suffer happiness for long, which is probably not gonna be the title of any self-help books on the shelves next Christmas.

I havent walked five blocks keeping my eyes open for contented people to bolster my argument when my cell rings. I know without looking that the caller is Zebulon Kronski, one of my few friends. I know this because he has set the Miami Sound Machines Dr. Beat as his personal ring tone.

This little detail tells you a lot about my friend Zeb. You listen to five seconds of Cuba/Florida polyphonics and without ever meeting the guy you have an epiphany. So, Zebs a doctor, obviously. He considers himself a player, hence the retro-cool Miami tune, and also hes a something of a douche for going into a guys phone and screwing with the settings. Who likes that? A mans phone is personal, you dont mess around there. I never heard anybody say, Hey, you dicked around with my wallpaper. Great.