Dancing With Devils

by Scott Webster

“In other words, son, take your pick.”

  Before I had a chance to respond, he walked out the room. That’s why he wanted to talk to me this morning. I should have picked up, as I’d have had the satisfaction of throwing and breaking my phone, the bringer of bad news. With no real options, I threw the files across the floor and paperwork went everywhere. A childish gesture that ultimately achieved nothing, but I was seething.

  I was beyond angry that Arthur was getting a reprieve because some political dickheads decided that our time was better spent pissed away on other cases. Surely, they could sense the gap was closing, and I was starting to connect the dots. The fact that Arthur would taunt me so blatantly and attempt to frighten me with his selfie submissions and photographs of my wife was proof enough. Surely, I was turning over the right rocks and I’d get a hit.

  A stark sense of reality hit home as the loose paperwork started to fall to the floor. The photograph of a smiling woman was on the front of the page. I started to get a surge of empathy, and my attitude quickly changed. A small sense of calm overcame my body, as I weighed up the fact that the other cases were people too. Victims and families left in grief and in pain and they deserved my time as much as anyone else did. Just like that, one quick glance and I was resigned to accepting that Arthur had a reprieve. I’ll be back, you bastard.

  I suppose that’s exactly what made my wife leave. I was falling into the quicksand of the case again and if I didn’t tread carefully, I’d be consumed. I suppose I could turn my attentions elsewhere for a short while.

  I sorted through the pile; frustrated about my lack of control with the news I received. I pieced together sheets of paper to restore the packs to their former glory, albeit slightly creased. I took a seat at the table, with my back to the door, whiteboard in my immediate line of sight. I looked down at the table to peruse my wares. I felt like a funeral director, flicking through a catalogue of death, deciding which case to pick. It was odd really, how my job could trivialise something as final as death.

  Suzanna Holmes; she was a very alluring woman, a stay-at-home, married mother of three, thirty-four years old. Low flier in terms of academic ability; passing grades at college before landing herself in trouble. Record for public indecency after a night out, and not with the husband. Suzanna hasn’t worked in eight years, previously a secretary at a powerhouse of a law firm, seduced by the magnetism of her rich boss. Married a childhood sweetheart, who later went into in the army, Sergeant Brian Holmes. Decorated soldier served in four tours.

  I could almost figure it out. Stays at home, alone, kids at school; inviting a few people home whilst her husband is away, protecting overseas. Blunt force trauma to the head with a claw hammer, clearly suggested a crime of passion. A fleeting drift over the case, solved. Send some units down to his usual hideouts; crack his network of soldier friends until the right rock is turned over. I scrawled a few key pointers onto the front of the case file and started a new pile.

  Richard Weston, forty-eight-year-old father of two, mechanic. Richard was a career man, who started as an apprentice in the field, thirty years prior after an underwhelming academic output. Incredible knack for vehicular technology and featured in a number of local newspaper articles for his charitable endeavours, one of which, he modified a vehicle so a disabled man could drive.

  Seemed like a genuinely nice fellow, my interest piqued slightly. Valued in the community for his efforts in dealing with a local charity about underprivileged teens and teaching them skills and abilities to find work. Richard ran the business on a part-time basis, leaving the shop in the hands of his own apprentices. Mildly stereotypical to assume the underprivileged kids could be at the nucleus of the crime but still the most likely.

  Richard was found crushed between the wall and a vehicle in a clearly malicious attempt to run him down. Not everything on the surface was so pristine, however, as initial reports of the property found what was suspected to be an illegal chop shop. Either Mr Weston was aware of the goings-on and found himself on the other side of a seedy deal, though unlikely; or perhaps the likely outcome, he found evidence of the illegal goings-on, confronted the teens he was helping, and one took offence to his proceedings. Best place to start really, even the rookie detectives could do this one. Check the books to see whom Mr Weston paid, cross-reference with any known gang ties; crime solved. Another scribble on the file and into the new pile of ‘too easy for me’ cases.

  Mildly narcissistic of me, I know. Maybe I should give this to Michael? I could consider it a bit of professional courtesy for him saving me from Arthur in that warehouse? Give it to a patrolman to solve and bring him in, as that could give him the rightful recognition to realise his dream of being a detective. I pondered the decision and then texted him to come and claim it: I’ve got just the job for you to get you some recognition with the Chief. Situation room. Green file, middle table. You owe me a beer.

  Well, that was my good deed for the day with a possible beer at the end of it all. Michael deserved it. He’d be like a dog with a bone as well, even working in his spare time to show his dedication to his superiors. As I went to grab the third file, the Chief burst into the room again. My back was to the door and him.

  “Blackwood!” I twisted my head slightly, as he stood above me at the door. It was that authoritative reciting of my name where I knew I was about to be told what case I was doing. A new case had just been called in anonymously and I wasn’t given a choice.

  It had the same modus operandi of previous Henderson cases. A sigh of relief almost left my mouth. The next move in our game of chess had been made and it came at the perfect possible time. I’d be lying if I said that the next person’s unfortunate demise made me smile. I didn’t smile for the obvious tragedy but smiled because it was fated to happen. I was ready for action and didn’t need to be told where to go. Even if I did have a shred of doubt this was Arthur, it was an order and I always followed them; it had been ingrained in me from a young age to respect an order from authority.

  The Chief should have done that before when he threw me the pile of cases; as he would have combated any risk of sudden indecisiveness I may have had and got me straight onto work. There was a professional level of respect between us though. I don’t think he liked to order me around too much as I did have a habit of making him look good.

  I walked from the room to head to the car. As if he was shadowing me the whole time, Michael could be seen walking across the foyer over the balcony, briskly walking to the elevator. He hadn’t seen me, and I didn’t want to bump into him, so I opted for the stairs. Probably best to avoid him anyway, that way nobody could report back I had tipped him off or given him the steer to find the solutions to the cases I left upstairs. If he willingly found the file, put two and two together and sorted it out on his own, it might give the bosses the perception he was much better than he was. It was enough to demonstrate the drive, the passion, and embodiment of the spirit of the statue in his desire to deliver justice and equality. That’s not to say Michael couldn’t have figured this one out; he’d likely never get the chance to, or opportunity to view the file under normal circumstances.

  I clambered down the stairs and gave it a minute before I cleared the set of doors back into the foyer. That was to give Michael time to get into the situation room and not see me. Some might say I was just unsociable, irrespective of my good intentions to avoid. I hopped in the car, enjoying the rain hitting off the windscreen. A quick text came through to my phone from Michael thanking me for the tip off. I smiled casually.

  I drove out towards the scene of the crime, stopping first for a coffee. That was the problem with not sleeping; I did occasionally need help injecting some life into me. It was still only the morning, so I didn’t really know how I was going to survive the day. I stopped off at a burger van parked at the side of the road that served coffee. I was fairly familiar with the man that ran it and he always started his days early.

  I did feel bad, as he often didn’t charge m
e because a few years prior, I had stopped an armed robbery of his station, completely by fluke. I was just in the right place at the right time. Karma’s way of thanking me was to have the owner fuel me with coffee and such on occasion. We exchanged mutual pleasantries, he moaned a little about the weather, whereas I claimed I was an advocate of it and liked the rain. He said it was bad for business, so I felt quite bad for being mildly supportive of it.

  As I sipped my coffee under the canopy of his van, I felt my phone buzzing. It was Arianna. As much as I wanted to answer, I was frozen in place. I didn’t really have much to say right now. If I said I was about to head to another crime scene where it was deduced that it could be Arthur Henderson, she’d hang up. I fell on the proverbial sword and watched the phone ring out.

  She didn’t need another harsh reminder of why we had gone our separate ways. I was dying to hear her voice. I was desperate to see her. I needed to fight my corner and defend my actions as a professional, though I’ll never truly understand the mind of a woman, nevermind a woman who has been hurt emotionally. There are just some things in life that can’t be explored and closed like a case.

  I bid my coffee friend a farewell and paid this time. I gave him a larger note to make up for the last few freebies and hopped in the car before he had a chance to give me any change.

  I could see his point with the rain being bad for business; though there is something magical about the elements. It always reminds me of just how insignificant we all are and how helpless I felt as a child on that fateful day as I watched it at work, transfixed on the puddle while I sat waiting for my parents to come home. I awed at how truly magnificent nature is and how we just ruin it; impede on its ability to flow freely, or as humans, blatantly destroy it with our cars, industry, and…

  In automatic mode and not focussing properly, I suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A homeless man was casually strolling across the road, mind numbed to the traffic flying both ways. Unbelievable. What an idiot!

  Then hypocritically, despite my earlier contemplations, I slammed my foot on the accelerator and heard the engine guzzle down the petrol needed to move on again. A slight and unnecessary wheel spin broke the homeless man out of his trance, and he gave me thumbs up, as if in thanks.

  Nature, how intriguing… the fact I was hunting a very freak of it and I suppose, could probably be compared to one as well, but with much better intentions. I realised I meant exactly what I said to myself when I said we were insignificant. The thought made me feel quite anxious. Of course, now wasn’t the time to be thinking like that. I had to focus!

  I wondered if Arthur’s mind was as conflicted as mine sometimes. I knew I fought with justice on my side, but my mind really played tricks on itself. I could swear I was a good man but to contend with feelings of nothingness felt contradictory because without good to trump evil, we’d be mindless debauches of nothing anyway.

  Did Arthur feel like that when he was committing his crimes? Did he feel like he was operating with a twisted sense of justice? Based on some of the things Jessica told me about the night he killed his own son; he operated with a sick conviction that he was doing the right thing to kill the son of the devil. To live in his head for just a minute; to understand how he felt and why he considered himself the devil would be like an astrologer’s desire to go into space. Maybe we needed each other in a corrupt cosmic hoax. Maybe we balanced each other out.

  I almost envied Arthur because he did have such strong convictions with his actions, as misguided and twisted as they were. I felt horrible thinking like that; and to practically envy a cold-hearted killer just made my anxiety build up some more. I felt myself struggling to breathe as though I had hands around my neck squeezing. I’d only felt like this once before when I was younger and I felt the need to slam the brakes on again, to the displeasure of the car behind me.

  I pulled over for a second and started to focus on the sound of my own breathing. How could I be so weak? Indoctrinated by anxiety, the feelings washing over me. I felt like I was losing control and the proverbial hands were starting to tighten their grip around my throat. The phone started to ring again, and it was Arianna.

  I answered without even thinking about it. Hearing her voice brought me back to earth. She was my rock, even though she might not have felt it, or knew it.

  “Hi Sebastian… do you have time to talk?”

  I didn’t, but I said I did. We talked about everything and nothing at the same time. We talked as though we would talk over the table at breakfast. We laughed like we used to laugh. Then she heard a crack in my voice. It hurt realising just how much I needed her and didn’t have her.

  “Are you okay?” she asked with a soft, loving tone. She still cared but left for the right reasons and I’ll never hold that against her.

  “I’m okay.”

  My real father always said not to lie, as you never have to remember anything. I said I was okay, although deep down, I really wasn’t. I needed her more than anything. I felt alone. I felt like I was back in the day when I lost it all. I felt worthless, alone, and insignificant. Arianna could tell. She asked me if I was free the following night. She wanted to meet me to talk about what happened. She said she had been seeing a therapist, who believed she had to face her loss, and she suddenly felt strong enough to face me.

  That term hurt, when she said she felt strong enough to face me. It made me out as though I was Arthur himself. It’s like she needed to face an evil in her life, and it was with the very thought, I realised Arthur and I truly were balancing each other out. I agreed to meet, citing it would benefit me as much as it would benefit her.

  “Darling,” I said carefully, as I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea and reject me by saying she was no longer my darling. Rejection was the last thing I needed right now.

  The pause felt like it went on forever. I could hear her sobbing softly. I obviously hadn’t called her that in a while and it brought back memories, both good and bad.

  As she fought back a flood, and sharply inhaled, she weakly responded, “Yes?”

  I said it. I said that no matter what, I would always love her and even if she didn’t feel the same way, I would always be there. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. She cried on the phone and said she had to go but looked forward to seeing me.

  I took a deep breath and realised I felt better, just at the comfort of knowing she loved me. Anxiety had crashed over me like a wave before, but now, it subsided, like a tide retreating to show a golden beach. I felt invincible, knowing I would see her the next day.

  I pressed on my indicator and moved off again, casually driving to the scene.

  With increased rejuvenation, and mental equilibrium, my heart sped up almost excitedly, raindrops crashing on the windscreen.

  Unlike that wave of emotion however, I was perfectly dry and now felt perfectly safe.

  Chapter Four

  Miss Battersby obviously didn’t like my company, or she was just too young for the sort of responsibility she thought she was ready to grasp on day one when she made her promise. After I stayed at her house for those few days, I found myself in the custody of the child protection agency.

  I’d been in one of their halfway houses for a short while with a cantankerous old woman, though I don’t remember an awful lot. I’d been told the truth about my parents; that they were dead. I was emotionally raw. I had a few nights where I cried; I had a few nights where I didn’t. The nights I didn’t, that woman beat the tears out of me. I didn’t even know her name, as she insisted on just being called Madame.

  The irony of being in the care of the child protection agency and being beaten was lost to me at that tender age, though I often reflect on it. I had become a number in the system, a mere statistic. Unloved, emotionally scarred, and lonely. I grew accustomed to the dark in the time I was with Madame. Time merged as I lived, embracing the dimness. The only thing I kept close to me was the watch. As she beat me, I clutched it so tight she couldn’t force m
y hand open. Recognising what it meant to me, with one particular beating, the pain became so much I lost my grip and she succeeded in plying it from my weakened grasp and proceeded to laugh at me.

  I suppose that’s when I started to like the dark. When you spend enough time in it, your eyes adjust. You learn to see things, and sometimes see things in it that aren’t there. My imagination ran wild as shadows pirouetted to the sounds and clambering of the house around me. The smallest faint light broken under the door on occasion, depending what time of day it was; though largely, darkness filled my new home. It was a dusty, old cupboard full of cobwebs, with a few creatures to keep me company. A used, dirty dog-bed was my only comfort to prevent sitting or sleeping on the concrete floor below me.

  I was told my parents were murdered. Their car had been run off the road by a large van that had ploughed into the driver door, rendering my father incapacitated. It wasn’t until I was much older that I read masked men had jumped out the back of the panelled doors and proceeded to shoot them at close range with an automatic weapon.

  My mother must have tried to escape because she was found hanging out of the car, having seemingly taken the lesser blow from the T-bone, being on the passenger side of the vehicle. The masked men were never found, having fled in the van. The sounds of the gunfire eliminated any hope for witnesses who seemingly would have taken cover and considered their own safety first. Not to mention, my father’s list of enemies was too great for even the best of detectives. It could have been anyone.

  Sadly, for the truly innocent one in this scenario, I was the one in jail. Young and naïve, I didn’t quite realise whether I deserved my fate or not. The recent loss of my father’s watch, my final connection to them, caused me to cry silent tears. They ran down my face and I was frozen on the spot. Eventually my eyes dried out and the smallest of puddles had formed on the floor in front of me.

  I had become quite dehydrated and was so thirsty I licked my own tears from the floor. I think back to how low a point that was, but as a child, I didn’t see it. I remember the hunger pains, where I hadn’t eaten. I protested and pushed the food back under the gap at the foot of the door. When quizzed why I wouldn’t eat, I said I wanted the watch back, begged in fact.