Containment

by Vanda Symon

  I recalled my earlier glee, feeling safe in the knowledge that it was not humanly possible for him to find a way to take me off this case when I was officer in charge of the body. I had underestimated him.

  ‘And as for you, Malcolm Smith.’ It would appear I was not his only prey today. Smithy was also in the firing line. ‘You should have known better than to have taken her with you when you went out to the Aramoana crib. I had specifically said she was not to be involved, and you blatantly disregarded my order. What are you, bloody stupid?’

  Silence fell on the room. It was all well and good the DI picking on an underling like me, but to pull up a senior detective, in front of the squad and visitors, was something else – let alone accusing him of being ‘bloody stupid’. Oh, God. I’d seen the look on Smithy’s face earlier. I hoped he had enough sense not to bite back. I looked over at him. He’d sucked in a big breath, but looked like he’d forgotten to let it go. But just when I thought the DI was nudging perilously close to crossing the line, he fair pole-vaulted across it.

  ‘I don’t know whether you’re screwing her or what it is, but stop acting like she’s your fucking girlfriend, or pet pony, and use your bloody brain. When this goes to court you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ I jumped to my feet and the words escaped my lips before I could stop them. Where was he getting this utter crap from? Smithy was the last person on earth I’d screw, actually second-to-last; the last would be the DI himself. I was about to vent my displeasure at his insinuation when a large and angry body torpedoed across the floor and grabbed the DI by the front of his shirt with both hands.

  ‘How dare you make an accusation like that, you arrogant piece of shit? How fucking dare you.’ Smithy’s face twisted ugly with fury.

  The DI wasn’t about to take being manhandled kindly and punched his arms up through Smithy’s, shrugging the other man off him and away, but in the process the action ripped the buttons from the top of his shirt.

  He looked down at his front, then back at Smithy, the anger clear in his face. ‘Well, if you’re not fucking her, how do you explain breaking all the rules and behaving like a complete fuckwit? Huh? You’re going to pay for this, Malcolm Smith, and the shirt. I should have got rid of you years ago, with your nasty, holier-than-thou, know-it-all attitude. I’ll have your fucking badge.’

  I looked desperately at the faces around me, wasn’t anyone going to say anything, do anything? The DI was way out of line, and had been disgusting and provocative, but everyone seemed to be stunned into inaction. I knew Smithy well enough to realise what the next step in this scenario was. It would involve fists, which wasn’t going to be good for his career or for anyone involved on the receiving end. As his left arm reached out to resecure DI Johns by the neck, and as his right started to draw back, I jumped to my feet and launched myself into the space between them.

  ‘Don’t,’ I yelled and yanked at Smithy’s arm until it let go of the DI. ‘Don’t even think about it. Don’t give him the excuse to fire you.’

  I shoved Smithy as hard as I could, but he didn’t budge an inch. I gave him another shove, and he reluctantly took a small step back. This time it was my turn for manhandling the DI. I poked my finger into his chest. ‘You have no right making those kind of accusations, none at all, and I’ll be writing a formal letter of complaint, mister. You do not talk to anyone like that, let alone in front of their colleagues.’

  I removed my hand and then pointedly wiped it on my trousers before I redirected my attention to Smithy and started actively pushing him towards the door. Thank God, he took my cue and obliged, but with some belligerence and plenty of posturing on both his and the DI’s behalf. Once out the door I grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him down the hall to the stairs.

  ‘What the hell was that all about?’ I asked, after the heavy door had swung back into place. My voice echoed down the stairwell.

  ‘He stepped way over the line,’ Smithy said. His feet were stomping, his body twitching, muscles tensing like a petulant two-year-old ready to explode.

  ‘Yes, he did, and he jumps over the line all the bloody time, but you’ve never gone off like that before.’

  ‘You heard him. He accused me of fucking you. That was lower than low. That was fucking unforgivable.’

  ‘Yes, and there was a room full of witnesses who would testify that he was being deliberately provocative, unreasonable and crude. But you came this close to punching him; this close to letting him get to you and fucking up your career, mate. Do you want him to sack you?’ I leaned back against the handrail, looked at the agitated, seething mass of man in front of me, and lowered my tone. ‘Look, this is about more than being dicked around by an arsehole, Smithy. You’ve been worse than a bear with a headache lately; you’ve been like a ticking time bomb. What’s going on? Is this all about the baby? What’s going on that is making you so damn upset?’

  At the mention of the word ‘baby’, his eyes flared again, and he turned away, grabbing the rail, knuckles white with the tension. When he turned back there were tears in his eyes, but his chin jutted out and the look he gave me was not dissimilar to the one he had given DI Johns.

  ‘Veronica doesn’t want to have this baby. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.’

  55

  There were some days you wished you hadn’t bothered coming into work, and this was rapidly turning into one. DI Johns had disappeared into his office, and Smithy had disappeared into the afternoon. Fat lot of good I was to him. I couldn’t come up with a single word, consoling or otherwise. What did you say to a statement like that? Everyone else had buggered off out of the building, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the grump fest, and who could blame them? I’d initially been glad to be the only one in the squad room and to be focusing my attention on something humdrum, as my new assignment now dictated. It was starting to wear thin though.

  ‘Ah, Sam, there’s a visitor for you.’ Laurie from the reception desk poked her head around the corner of the door.

  Any respite from the tedium of looking through files listing artefacts only people with money and questionable taste could afford was welcome. Of course my job was made all the more unpalatable by the knowledge everyone else was working on the good stuff, while I toiled at the bottom of the crap pile.

  ‘Thanks. Who is it? Anyone I want to see?’

  She laughed. ‘Believe me, you’ll want to see this one.’

  That piqued my curiosity. I got out of my chair and followed her down the hall. Even from a distance, and from the back view, my pulse shot up, and in a good way. Wide shoulders, narrow hips encased in what had to be a very expensive suit. Then he turned around.

  ‘Jesus, I see what you mean,’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  His eyes settled on me, and I felt a burning flush spread across my face. It went with the warm tingly feeling that had started in my belly and was heading south, and I was pretty sure the ole pupil dilation thing was happening too. I was experiencing a full-on Mills and Boon moment, and I had no idea who he was. All I knew was that he was hot, damn hot, in a nasty way – in a James-Bond-in-a-suit-oozing-sex kind of a way. My overwhelming urge was to drag him off somewhere private and shag his brains out. Instead I walked up to him, as calmly as I could for someone experiencing a blood rush to all sorts of private places, and reached out to shake his hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m Detective Constable Sam Shephard. What can I do for you?’

  The moment his skin touched mine it was like a circuit had closed and I could feel the flow of electrons whizzing through my body. He gave me a smile and a look that felt X-rated, and I visualised some of the things I could do for him, given half a chance.

  ‘Detective Shephard. I’m Peter Trubridge. I believe you’re working on the recovery of my collection and property from the container ship.’ The cultured British accent only accentuated his other attributes. He st
ill grasped my hand in his warm grip. I secretly thanked DI Johns for the demotion.

  My mind flicked through the details from the file on him and merged them with details from my adrenaline and oestrogen-fuelled observations. Married; bugger. Married with children; worse. Outrageous sexy flirt; definitely. Dangerous; absolutely. I reluctantly let go of his hand. My eyes flicked behind him to Laurie, who was making little fanning motions by her face and mouthing the word ‘hot’.

  ‘It’s great to meet you, Peter. May I call you Peter?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware you’d arrived in Dunedin.’

  ‘We flew in last night.’ We, he said. Damn.

  I’m sure it wasn’t my imagination, but he was looking at me like I was the entrée, and he was famished. Wouldn’t want to be his wife. I wondered if he made all women feel like that. Judging from the look on Laurie’s face behind us, yes. But he did it without being slime-bally or leery, and left you feeling warm and in no doubt that you were desired. If all my encounters with Mr Peter Trubridge were going to be like this, I was going to end up being a twitching, incoherent, sexually frustrated mess.

  Laurie was practically salivating on the reception counter, so I decided to put her out of her misery and take the eye-candy elsewhere. Although I briefly debated the dangers of putting myself in an enclosed room with him, I was prepared to risk it.

  ‘Would you like to come down to one of the interview rooms, and we can discuss or progress.’

  ‘That would be appreciated. After you.’

  I walked ahead of him down the hallway, acutely aware of the swing of my hips and imagining his eyes noting the shape of my body. I led him into the nearest interview room, invited him to take a seat, then excused myself to retrieve the files.

  Man alive. I took a moment to compose myself. I recalled an episode of The X-Files where the merest touch of the alien-cleverly-disguised-as-man rendered women helpless to his attentions and entrapped in hormone-overload. This is what it must have felt like for Scully, having to do her job and ignore the overwhelming need to jump his bones. I seemed to recall from the episode that all of the women he shagged ended up dead, though.

  I don’t think I’d ever experienced such a visceral reaction to a man before. Sure, I could appreciate the manliness of many, and Paul could certainly spin my wheels, but this was something else. Paul. I felt a little pang of guilt for my adulterous thoughts. I was supposedly with Paul, and I was in love with him, but why didn’t he ever make me feel like this? What did it say about me that I could have such a reaction to a complete stranger?

  56

  ‘What am I doing, Maggs?’

  She looked at me, realised I wasn’t talking about eating a Modak’s cinnamon pinwheel, and sought clarification. ‘I’ll need a little more context, Sam, before I can solve all your problems.’

  I’d called an emergency summit after my encounter with Mr Oh-My-God. ‘Paul,’ I said.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and set down her coffee. ‘I thought you sorted that out the other night.’

  ‘Well we did, sort of, but something else has got me thinking.’

  ‘And I’m guessing that thinking is not a good thing?’

  ‘Have you ever met someone who makes you ache inside, who, with just a look, melts you completely, takes your breath away, leaves you a gasping, boneless mess?’

  ‘I take it we’re not talking about Paul.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there someone else? Have you been holding out on me?’

  ‘No, there’s no one else, and you know very well I can’t keep anything from you. But, I met someone today who did just that. It was amazing. It was, to coin an American phrase, Fourth of July fireworks: enough chemistry to ignite the world; breathtaking, shocking.’ I went all warm just thinking about it.

  ‘And the object of your desire?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter really – unobtainable, married, way out of my league anyway. But still, it was there, and I felt it, and I’ve never felt like that with Paul.’

  ‘Oh, so what we’re really talking about here is the old lust versus love debate?’

  ‘I guess so, although that’s rather simplistic. This guy is amazing, he’s got it all. But, like I said, he’s unobtainable, even if he did flirt outrageously.’

  ‘Oh, one of those.’

  ‘One of what?’

  ‘The sex-on-legs-and-he-knows-it variety.’

  ‘Yes, but not in a yucky way.’

  ‘They exist?’

  ‘Believe me, if you met him you’d understand.’

  ‘So, back to the point. Why has this affected how you feel about Paul?’

  ‘Well, it’s made me wonder where the fireworks are.’

  ‘Honey, I share a flat with you. Believe me, there are fireworks.’

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ I said, feeling a little embarrassed. ‘But that’s not what I mean. I’m just thinking – worrying – that with Paul I’ve somehow settled for second best, shortchanged myself somehow, because it’s easy, and he pursued me, and I haven’t had to risk anything. I don’t think he’s the love of my life.’

  Maggie took a slow sip of her coffee, probably corralling her thoughts before she told me off for being a stupid cow. ‘Maybe he’s not the love of your life.’

  Not the response I had anticipated. ‘So you agree with me?’

  ‘Absolutely…’ she paused ‘…not.’ She looked at me, with a hint of sadness in her eyes, and I wondered what was coming. ‘You know I love you, Sam, and I’m your biggest cheerleader, and that I’d tell you if you were making a mistake.’

  ‘Yes?’ My voice did that suspicious rise at the end.

  ‘You’re making a mistake.’

  I flopped back into the black couch.

  ‘You have this strange notion that romance is all about fireworks and shooting stars, grand gestures and vast true loves. But love is far more insidious than that; it is something that needs nurturing and care so it can flourish. It may start out as something small and seemingly bland, but, given a chance and the right environment, it will bloom.’

  ‘Okay, enough of the botany lecture.’ I almost added a comment about it being rich coming from someone with a not-too-flash track record – current relationship not-withstanding – but decided against being petty.

  ‘I’m not finished yet. Paul is a fine, fine man, Sam. He adores you and is breaking all of his rules for you. It wasn’t that long ago that you were telling me how he was the ladies’ man, flirting with all and sundry. He was the one who was hot, and knew it, and knew how to push all the right buttons. He made the ladies swoon and got them all flustered, and got you flustered too, I might add. Hell, I think he’s hot, and I’d have him. But, he’s chosen you. You, Sam.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  ‘No buts. Do you think he’s hot?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Do you enjoy his company? Can you talk about anything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he your second-best friend?’

  ‘Yes.’ I smiled at Maggie’s correct presumption.

  ‘Does he rock in the sack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There you go; I fail to see the problem. Actually, I do see the problem: it’s you, and your astronomically high and unreasonable expectations. This is not Hollywood, Sam, this is life, and in real life love takes time. And given time and a chance, yes, it can involve fire and sparks.’ The earth mother was on a roll. ‘But it is what you make of it, and bring to it. Paul is a gem, and when the universe throws you precious gems, you don’t throw them back in its face. No, you say “thank you very much” and you treasure them.’

  I looked down at my hands, couldn’t bring myself to look Maggs in the eye. She was probably right. And sure, it sounded good in theory, but this was real life, my screwed-up real life, and though my heart tended to agree with her, my brain was not quite so convinced.

  57

  This was like some clandestine moment from a D
-grade movie. I was in the heart of the industrial area down by the docks, the dark punctuated only by the occasional feeble street light. Dunedin had turned it on – adding just the right amount of mist and drizzle to the miserable atmosphere and making me wonder when the Mafiosi and the machine guns would show up. I half expected to hear some mournful foghorn roll out. Instead all I could hear was the wet swish of cars on the nearby main road. What the hell are you doing here? I said to myself. I turned off the engine but remained in the car with that unusual confliction of feeling overcooked by the heater, yet chilled to the core.

  Was this worth my job? In a moment of sheer histrionics I wondered if this was worth my life?

  ‘Don’t be so bloody pathetic.’ I got out of the car and felt the cold, moist air wrap around my body. A quick look up and down the street showed it to be deserted, so I crossed the road and began to check the numbers before finding the right one and pressing the buzzer. You’d never have known it was here if you weren’t looking for it. I was pretty sure an apartment here wasn’t strictly legal or zoned under the city’s district plan.

  ‘Yes?’ An echoey voice enquired over the intercom.

  ‘It’s Sam Shephard,’ I said into the box.

  There was a burrlike buzz and a sharp click that jolted my frazzled nerves. I pushed open the door. So far, so Maxwell Smart. My eyes winced at the flood of light. I stepped through and then closed the door behind me with a clunk. It was a narrow little entranceway with a precipitous set of stairs extending up to a small landing. I climbed on up and knocked on the internal door. There was still time to back out of this. I could turn around, head straight back down those stairs and walk away, make one phone call and put it all right.