by Robert Young
It seems a waste for fate to have set these dominos up with such care and precision only to knock them over. But they are dominos and it is their nature. Indeed, why line them up at all if not to set them tumbling?
I watch them go, impotent and horrified. What if I tried to stop them falling? How would I do it? My simple intervention would only serve to keep these events in motion. What is there to say or do now that would achieve anything other than arousing suspicion?
I grasp at the hope that Sally might know these policemen, or might flash an ID card of some sort, engage in an elaborate handshake, utter the special secret police code-word. But we’re all of us by now clear enough about this aren't we: that I'm an idiot and none of those things are going to happen.
So the dominos all topple, each in slow motion, each unstoppable as it yields to gravity. The innocent cooperation of Sally who knows that they are just doing their job these men, their difficult thankless job, and knows that the nondescript contents of her bag will mean only the very briefest interruption of our evening.
I see the younger officer, keen to impress, a little giddy with the small sliver of power he has attained for himself, overdoing the bag check, rifling the pages of the paperback book. See the small wrap of paper, that isn't just paper, drop to the floor.
I feel Sonny start to run, start to stumble before I see it happen but then he seems somehow to tangle with Sally and they both fall, the policeman quick to grab at him, to steady her.
I see the hand of my oldest friend slip from his pocket to hers and out again and I see him sprawl away across the pavement and clear of her.
They frisk him fast when they get him on his feet and they fire questions at him. What's he playing at? Where's he off to? What's the hurry?
He mutters and looks sheepish but his pockets contain just a wallet, just keys, just his mobile phone.
The younger copper turns to Sally and the small wrap of paper that we've all watched fall from the book from her bag, and he looks at her as he goes for her pockets and she looks at me.
And Sonny looks at me.
The dominos keep going. They aren't done falling yet.
’That's-’ I say loudly and then stop.
’Sir?’ says the younger one, looks at me, stops a moment.
’That’s what?’ says the older one as he takes the wrap from the other man and steps toward me, holding it in the air between us so I can see what it has all come down to.
’That’s not hers,’ I say.
’It's somebody's though?’ he asks me as I return Sally's bewildered stare and in her eyes I can see the reflection of Sonny’s hand going from his pocket to hers, over and over.
They both stare at me as my mouth hangs open, words that won't form. They both stare at me for the last time.
Chapter 13