by N. M. Brown
Echo felt the air blaze in her lungs and she felt so alive. Breathing deep, she knew she’d forgotten this feeling, the rush and she didn’t want it to go away.
“They’ve done something to you.” Turning, Echo was surprised to see McQueen still there. She’d heard the door open and close and figured he’d gone, but now Ramirez stood beside him and she’d had two in her audience.
“They who?” Echo asked, knowing the answer.
McQueen didn’t look angry. All the heat that had flashed between them before had died and the sadness had returned. Sadness and pity. “Archer. Sam. Those you call your family. That House. I never knew what it was, still don’t, but there is something about them. They’re bad for you Echo. I see it more and more. They are bad for you.”
Echo laughed. She laughed deeply, right down to the depths of her gut and allowed it to spill from her lips in a joyous stream. “Bad for me?” She grinned, pure wickedness framing her face. “You don’t know the half of it, Queenie.” Blowing McQueen, a kiss, Echo walked away, a smile stuck to her lips as the euphoric buzz lifted her higher and higher into the mid-day sun.
XXV
McQueen sent Ramirez home and was well on his way to getting himself back to his B&B too. His nerves were fried; he wanted to file off just a few more pieces of paper work before he headed home. McQueen felt cold. Not just because he was tired, and it was late October; it was something deeper than that. It was the emptiness he felt inside himself and he knew exactly where it had come from.
He had watched the glee spread across Echo’s face as she tore Sydney down. He’d watched as the girl cried silent tears and Echo lapped them up. It was a monstrous sight and McQueen had done nothing. He was sick with himself; with the situation, with how he had just watched. He’d been raised better than that. He had tried to defuse the situation, he knew that, but it wasn’t enough. The guilt ate at him.
After watching her walk away, McQueen had tried to work until evening when he could survey outside Cardinal House. He’d had little success. The undercover agents had already been briefed about the club and were awaiting their set time to begin their approach, and yet McQueen doubted they were prepared enough. He’d seen the bowels of the beast and it scared him. He didn’t think anyone could be prepared for what was in that House.
Some more paperwork and research later, he made the decision to trek upstairs and see the Chief. He’d been thinking about going for weeks now, just to introduce himself, but as the weeks passed, it kept falling further and further down his list. Now, with Hale still gone dealing with grieving families, Echo enjoying her time burning in her own personal hell, and Cassi working as fast as she could with no success, he felt the need to remind himself why he was here.
“Chief, it’s Detective McQueen, I was wondering if I could have a word?” He asked, poking his head in after knocking. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met before-,”
“McQueen. Course I know who you are.” The chief answered. He didn’t seem pleased to see him. In fact, he gave him a look over for a moment or two before sighing. He waved McQueen over and leaned back on his chair. The tight leather squeaked beneath him and the single light on in the room gave a heated glow.
The room was dark and full of knickknacks: books McQueen couldn’t see the titles of, police memorabilia, awards, as well as some old oil paintings on the walls. The Chief was very unique to look at: always dressed in his dark perfectly pressed Commanding Chief’s uniform, with fire red hair that grew in clumps; matching the fire in his stare. His face dripped with wrinkles and sun spots making him seem ancient. He was old and that was being polite. He was so bone thin: his uniform hanging from his frame and the shirt he wore gapped at his collar. The black trousers swung in open air whenever he turned on the chair, and his jacket gapped at his none existing stomach. McQueen thanked the Lord that he’d never, ever have to see the man naked, but he imagined a skeleton playing dress up. “What is it?”
McQueen swallowed hard. When he’d been submitted into this station, he arrived at the front door on the first day. He’d been given his locker number by the receptionist and signed out his gun and taser from the armoury. He’d asked for Detective Hale, who had promptly sneered at him and sat him at his desk. He didn’t even know if the Chief had been in that day. No matter how early he arrived or late he left, he never saw the Chief out of his office. He’d told himself again and again to introduce himself. Now, as he walked into the office, he thought it was better late than never.
“I wanted to speak to you sir.” McQueen sat on the chair. He felt small sat down, looking up at the Chief over the lip of his desk. He felt stupid. Especially when the man narrowed his eyes. “I’ll make it quick and I know it’s late coming, but I wanted to say thank you, for bringing me as part of the station.”
The Chief’s dark black eyes blinked slowly. “I appreciate your gratitude.” He groaned out like an ancient church organ in need of a good clean. He waited a heartbeat, sat as still as a statue until two of his fingers on his right hand tapped on the desk. “If that’s all...”
“I – uh,” McQueen stumbled, feeling a hot flush. “Well, yes-, I mean, yes Sir, I- ... um,”
The Chief let out a long heavy breath from his nose, which wheezed like a deflating tyre. He looked away, admiring a large oil landscape that was hung on his wall of the London Thames, the sky bright orange and on fire. There was smoke rising from buildings and dark clouds blotting out the moon. Spitfires danced on the canvas and By-planes swooped into corners. The picture depicted the height of World War Two at the Battle of Britain. McQueen found it to be a strange choice to have, but guessing the age of The Chief, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the guy had been alive during the war.
“Do you know why you were assigned here Detective McQueen?” The chief licked his lips, the crusty skin scraping against his dry tongue. McQueen shuddered and felt his chest rise in slight panic. This was not where he saw that impromptu meeting going.
“No, Sir.”
The Chief let out a ‘humph’, like McQueen's answer was the one he’d been expecting. “No, no, neither do I.” McQueen flushed, and his pride took a nose dive. He’d though at the very least he’d been picked for this job. He’d thought it was because someone out there thought he was a decent officer and an asset to the force. Now he wasn’t so sure. “I remembered your file turning up on my desk and then you were here, working with Detective Hale. Just like that, you were knee deep in the filth of Rippling. Death, drugs and whores all around…”
McQueen wanted the floor to swallow him whole. ‘Filth of Rippling’, whores? Holy hells balls, had the rumour of him fucking Echo reached the ears of the Chief? McQueen didn’t think he could live that down. Ever. “Sir, really that is a whole misunderstanding. If you’d let me explain-,”
But the Chief continued speaking like McQueen wasn’t even there. “Fate. It would just be like fate.” The Chief trailed off before his creaky old bones turned and looked at McQueen as if remembering he was there. “Detective McQueen. How is your case going with Detective Hale?”
McQueen’s brain chose that exact moment to reboot and every thought in his head went blank. “I- um… it’s going…”
The chief watch him for an excruciatingly long second before nodding sadly. “Just going. That does sound about right.” Shuffling back round to his creaky leather chair, the Chief reached out and neatened his desk, not that there was a thing out of place, but still. “That sounds about right for every case here.”
McQueen blinked back into reality. “Sir? What do you mean?”
“Did you look at the success rate of this district before you packed your bags McQueen? Or even the success rate of the whole of the county?” Tapping his two fingers on his right hand, the chief surprised McQueen greatly by actually producing a smile. It was full of grave stone teeth, yellow and brown with age, causing McQueen to suppress a shiver. “Your chances at the lime light will never be bright.” He said shortly. McQueen didn’t say anything
. He hadn’t checked and yes, the idea of working a big case appealed to him, but the Chief was seeing to that. “Our success rate across the board, for years, is less than seven percent McQueen. The fact your case is going nowhere is a testament to that.”
McQueen held back his shock at such low numbers. Yes, it wasn’t thecapital, but he’d expected a lower crime rate and at least higher success rate than seven. Dublin held a success rate of thirty-five percent which wasn’t bad for a some-what large, growing city. “That-… That doesn’t mean we can’t solve this case Sir. Expecting failure means you are more likely to fail.”
The Chief didn’t seem to have heard him, but eventually he did look back from his oil painting. “Yes, that can be true. We do always loose a few in the combat we fight in. It’s often the good and the strong to fail first though… But… Maybe the Fates were right about you McQueen.” The Chiefs dark eyes looked into McQueen's and he suddenly felt very afraid and very helpless; like a lamb who just realized they were inside a slaughter house. “Maybe there is enough hope in you to go around…”
McQueen’s gut quivered, and he decided that going home would have been a much better idea than staying here. “Well, thank you for your time Sir.” McQueen stood to go, “If there is any more progress on the case-,” But the Chief suddenly cut in, speaking as if he never stopped.
“I’m surprised you have hope after the failure of your father’s case.” McQueen stilled as an icy breath curled down his back and the Chief watched him like a hawk. “I read the file. Glendon McQueen; disappeared aged thirty-nine, when you were six, correct? He just up and left one day, with no note or explanation.” The Chief continued, not allowing McQueen to speak, not that he could have even if he wanted to. His jaw was locked tight with repressed memories. “And then of course your sister, Shauna died aged twelve. That must have been hard for you only being fourteen. A fall down the stairs at such a young age. So terrible.” The Chief twisted in his chair, his eyes distant. “Grandmother dead at a ripe age of eighty-nine; she was a trooper. So much loss though. I would have expected more bitterness from you.” Falling silent, it was a heartbeat or two before he suddenly looked at McQueen and frowned, his deep wrinkles creasing deeper on his face. “Why are you still here McQueen? Haven’t you got work to do?” McQueen could only nod and quickly shuffle out, his breath locked in his chest and his fists shaking.
✽ ✽ ✽
After that, he’d been unable to concentrate and had butchered through multiple forensic reports, each one stating the same; ‘they had found some particle or piece of evidence, however the results were inconclusive and/or unhelpful’. After the fifth inconclusive report, McQueen had called it a night. Travelling to his own room, side-stepping Ms. North who still potted in the B&B’s dining room, he went to his bed and tried to sleep. But the blank walls felt enclosing and his mind just couldn’t relax.
“God damn it.” He swore, flinching as he took the Lords name in vain. Slipping further beneath the covers, he found it impossible to push his memories away, so instead he focused on one. One he could deal with. The others could be tucked away in a box and pushed aside.
As he’d done as a teen, McQueen played through the events step by step in his mind, dealing with each section individually and as slow as he could. Since graduating from the academy, he’d taken to putting on a detective front as well. All the better to look through a critical eye, trained to observe, than the eyes of a child. He could distance himself as if it was a case, not a memory. Maybe, one day, he could pretend it never happened to him at all. That would be nice.
He’d been six at the time, as the Chief had said, and he’d lived with his Ma’ and Da’ in a tiny cottage on the edge of a village. Eventually Ma’ had forced them to move; the memories too painful for her mind, so McQueen couldn’t remember nor dared ask what the village was called. Instead, he called it ‘the Village’. He had been happy there. But as Detective McQueen knew, a child’s version of events was never as accurate as they believed or as plain sailing.
He’d been taken out to the Lakelands that was to the south of their home. His Da’ had packed them all up for an exciting camping trip, just the two of them. His Ma’ had just given birth to his sister Shauna so they weren’t coming. She cried a lot and his Ma’ cried too, though she only did when she didn’t think McQueen could see. Shauna was cute, but she’d only been a squishy baby to him at the time and, so she held little interest. His Da’ used to be around a lot, but then McQueen would remember he would also go missing for hours too only turn up with a far-off look in his eyes.
“Da,” He remembered asking, “Why are we going camping?” He’d been eating one of the sandwiches Da had made, still with the crusts on. Da’ couldn’t make sandwiches well, not like Ma’ could. “It’s almost Winter?” He’d complained. Plus, his mate and neighbour, Sammy had gotten a new bike, so they were all going to ride their bikes down a giant hill too see who was fastest. McQueen remembered how, despite the fact he’d only gotten his bike the Christmas before, but he felt his bike was old and rubbish. He’d been hoping for a new one.
“It’s just a bit nippy, is all.” Was all his Da’ had replied.
His Ma’ hadn’t said goodbye to his Da, nor had his Da’ said anything either. Raised as his Grandpapa had wanted in the Catholic church, McQueen already knew at that age he wasn’t to ask too many questions or pry into adults’ lives. It made the Detective in him chuckle. All he now ever knew was how to ask questions poke and pry where people didn’t want him. Questions on the case, question a witnesses or suspects. His Ma’ always told him he wasn’t a good listener. He was better now.
Despite his complaints, the two of them had driven for an hour or two past loads of camp sites McQueen thought looked like fun. But it was almost mid-day before they stopped and even then, McQueen didn’t see another camper for miles. His Da’ had pulled off onto a dirt track which looked as if it had been used by lots of animals from all the droppings, but his Da’ road right over them splashing in puddles along the way. The road soon left the animal fields behind and once or twice his Da’ had to get out and open gates, closing them behind themselves as they went. They only had a tiny car at the time in a rustic, ugly green. McQueen even wondered to this day how they had found the car all those weeks later amongst the mossy boulder’s and lush grassland. He ignored that query though and pushed ahead in his memories.
“Here we are.” Was all his Da’ had said to him the entire trip, pulling to the side of a large glassy lake. The mountain rose up high directly behind them, already growing a snowy cap as the winter winds flew south. The beach was all pebbles and there was a large driftwood tree that had run aground to their left. You could see for miles and miles and, at a time McQueen thought they were in another world; a green world with stunning blue skies and deep waters hiding sunken pirates and buried treasure. The Detective in him wondered why so far from civilization? Why take a young boy so far away from help? What if something went wrong? It was a risk, as beautiful as a spot it might be and thus really wasn’t a place a six-year-old would admire. Any shore line would have done.
“So, what we gonna do Da’?” McQueen had asked as his Da’ looked out across the lake taking deep lungful of fresh air. His Da’ hadn’t even waited for him to get out of the car before he’d walked off. The tips of his shoes where already being lapped by the lakes shallow waves while McQueen had struggled with the broken car door handle.
At the time, McQueen had thought his Da’ was just admiring the view, but now Detective McQueen would look back and think that his head was moving too fast back and forth to be taking in the sights. That his hands were clenched to tight on his hips to be relaxing in the sun. After too long, his Da’ had finally turned back to him; a tightness on his face. “Well. Let’s set up the tent.”
✽ ✽ ✽
As a kid McQueen’s memories blurred together and he wasn’t sure that every day wasn’t the same, or if things were different. Had they gone fishing the first
day, his Da’s eyes trained on the water’s surface the entire time, or had it been the shore line hike? Had they skimmed stones from the shore after dinner on the second night or the third? All McQueen did remember was as soon as the sun set, tired or not, McQueen had to go to bed in the tent. He fell asleep quickly, normally out of boredom or his eyelids drooping with heaviness. But every time McQueen woke in the night to pee, his Da’ was never in. They’d had to camp away from the shore line as the grass patches were scares, but they were as close as they could get. As a Detective, McQueen thought it was odd how his father had been away every night, but as a child, he’d thought he was just peeing also. However, it was their last night there that changed little McQueen's mind.
“Da’? He called out, his voice trembling through the tears. “Da’ where are you?” McQueen had shivered, though the tent was warm from his body heat. He’d awoken from a bad dream and he wanted someone to hold. Outside the tent it had been foggy but the cold, gut-clenching feeling still remained, and McQueen knew he’d have to leave the safety of the polyester walls. He knew he needed to find his Da’; it was important. He scrambled out the tent and called out into the chilly night. “Da’? Da’?”