Thin Men, Paper Suits

by Tin Larrick

  She moves in her seat, and looks around her. The station is in an industrial estate off Lottbridge Drove. She had no idea it was here. She had no idea any of it was here. She could count on one hand the occasions she has had to visit Tesco – a stone’s throw from the station – but she has never had cause to avail herself of the white goods warehouse, the commercial launderers, the industrial glaziers or the cement mixing plant.

  She has to wait ten minutes before the next patrol car leaves the station. There are two of them in the car – neither, she thinks, is the sergeant. The driver pauses to check traffic flow; the engine shrieks and sirens howl, and the patrol car flies out onto the main road.

  She performs an ungraceful U-turn in the car park of the bathroom merchant and takes off after the police car, but despite her noble efforts and 4-litre engine, it is already out of sight, having overtaken a line of seven or eight cars as it heads towards the seafront. The majority of these sister road users pull obediently to the kerb – unlikely they would grant the same concessions to her Mercedes.

  Suddenly feeling like a fool, she pulls into a bus stop on Royal Parade, her sense of purpose having evaporated with the police car’s exhaust fumes. The orange globes at a nearby zebra crossing oscillate through the windscreen, smearing the glass with the vapours of her breath.

  She holds her hands to her face for just a minute, suddenly unable to take in enough oxygen, trying to banish the impending notion that her life is a sinkhole and all the firm foundations she has ever known under her feet are seconds from dissolving.

  She looks up. A second police car drives past – no lights, no sirens. Stepping back from the brink, she engages the clutch and follows.

  *

  The drive takes them to a residential area of Old Town – an area neither flourishing and rich nor inauspicious in its poverty. It is certainly not somewhere she would necessarily dismiss out of hand were she an outside visitor seeking somewhere to live.

  She follows the police car up the hill, already knowing he is driving it; already knowing he is alone. She knows nothing of procedures and plans, but it stands to reason that, as a sergeant, he is duty-bound to supervise and check on the work of his officers.

  His car turns into a small cul-de-sac and stops outside a pleasantly-sized white Victorian house ridged by a perimeter of leylandii. The other police car is already outside, at an angle to the kerb; clearly it has stopped in a hurry.

  She thinks – These things can happen anywhere.

  She continues driving, but slows the Mercedes long enough to catch a glimpse of him as he exits the vehicle. Her confirmation is delivered under the sodium glow of the street light – it is her sergeant.

  Her breathing becomes jagged, as if the oxygen has to cross mountains to reach her, and she drives on.

  She parks fifty yards or so beyond the scene – that’s what they would say, isn’t it? ‘The scene?’ – and gets out. She walks over to the police car, ears straining for the sounds of violence. There are none.

  She moves into the driveway, shrouded by the darkness of the leylandii. Vague forms can be seen through the bay window, dimly lit by golden lamps in the front room.

  The front door opens, casting a teardrop of yellow light across the dark gravel. She shrinks back into the shadows. A man stands in the doorway – fifty, bare-chested, belly hanging over his belt – flanked on either side by two constables. Their quarry is clearly intoxicated, and they steer him carefully to their hurriedly-parked car. Words are exchanged in low tones – sounding to her ears like a protest of innocence – and then, unseen, three doors slam, the engine starts and the car rumbles away down the road.

  She follows the fading sound with her head, then turns back to the closed front door.

  He is in there. She knows it. Alone with some other hand-wringing, middle-class, nicely-primped layabout who drinks too much. Plying his wares and giving her the sales pitch.

  Her arms are folded. Through her coat her nails pinch her biceps. She can feel the cold night air coating the inside of her lungs.

  Fifteen minutes pass – time enough for any number of things to happen. The cold has seeped into her bones and she is starting to think about leaving; then the door opens and he marches down the driveway, document case tucked under his arm.

  She waits until he passes her, then she steps out of the darkness and follows him.

  He is unlocking his police car when she approaches.

  “Did you convince her?”

  Startled, he drops his folder onto the grass verge. Papers scatter across the ground. He recognises her straightaway – not only is she lit fully by the street light, but he touched her lips.

  She sees a police crest heading one of the pages. She bends to pick it up.

  “’Local domestic violence policy,’” she reads aloud. “’The duty sergeant must, in all cases where the victim refuses to support a prosecution, personally attend the scene and debrief the victim.’”

  He turns his head towards the house he has just left, but doesn’t take his eyes from her.

  “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? To debrief me?” She lets out a squawk of laughter; the sound ratchets in her throat, and she does not recognise it. It subsides just as quickly, and is replaced by heat and moisture in the back of her throat.

  “Is this all I am to you? A policy paper?” She waves the document back and forth in front of him.

  “I… I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

  “Bullshit!” she says in a strangled whisper – despite the apparent absurdity of the situation, she was not brought up to shout in the street. “You come round to me with your charming smile and give me all that crap about protecting me? What do you take me for?”

  He is frowning now. A good attempt at confusion. She’s seen it before.

  “I thought we had arranged for me to accompany you tomorrow? To get some things? Three-thirty, yes?”

  “Don’t do me any favours, will you? Don’t want to interfere with your schedule. You’ve probably got battered wives queuing up round the block.”

  He steps forward, raises a hand. When she doesn’t flinch, he rests it on her shoulder.

  “I’m going to help you. It’s my job.”

  He doesn’t add and nothing more because he doesn’t need to.

  The anger leaves her body as quickly as it arrived, like a spectre in search of another host.

  Her head drops to her chin.

  “Do… do you have any idea what it’s like for me? How difficult it is to just pack up and leave? I have nothing. He controls all my money, my phone bill, my car servicing. I just allowed him to become my crutch. I never realised… My friends all think the sun shines out of his… Thank God we don’t have any kids.”

  She never thought such words would leave her, and now the tears come, thick and fast. She allows herself to be steered to the police car, and he helps her get into the front seat.

  “Where are you staying?” he says. His voice is soft.

  She gives the address of some Travelodge she knows of. She hasn’t quite outstayed her welcome at Charlotte’s, but it’s on the cards; in any event, he doesn’t need to know that.

  He drives her to the hotel and parks in one of the perimeter bays, some distance from the main entrance and shrouded in shadow. The hotel is not busy; there are free spaces closer to the entrance, but she understands why. Besides, they are in a marked police car.

  Before she knows what she is doing, her hand is on his knee. He doesn’t swat it away in a puritanical worry, but neither does he respond. The hand, it seems, has had the fairy-tale effect of turning him to stone.

  “You could come in,” she says.

  He doesn’t look at her, but stares through the window at the sodium wash of the car park’s arc lights and the white neon smile of the nearby Little Chef restaurant; refracted through the raindrops on the windscreen, the smile appears obscene.

  “Are you even staying here?” he says.

  “I am n
ow.”

  Again he pauses, then eventually turns to her.

  “I… could help with you your luggage,” he says.

  His meaning is clear; projected back onto her, the ice is reversed, and she drops the hand.

  “I don’t have any fucking luggage,” she says, and gets out of the car. In the distance, the steady flow of traffic on the bypass sounds like voices whispering.

  *

  She sits in the Mercedes, watching the house, thoughts like a rainstorm of flaming arrows in her mind.

  The Mercedes has to go. She has already disposed of the mobile phone, now ditching the car, her most deeply-rooted lifeline – who can manage without a car? – has to be the next logical step. Drastic times… she gets out of the car and walks across the road, hugging herself as she does so.

  There are no sounds in the neighbourhood – no cars, no dogwalkers, no gardeners or postmen. This is why they picked this house – to be away from such mundane disturbances.

  The layout of the grounds and the inhospitable perimeter lattice of snaking creeper vines and clematis mean that she will not know if he is home until she is actually in the driveway – but she realises, as her feet cross the perimeter and crunch on the gravel – that she does not care.

  The driveway is empty, which means he is not home. Never does he ever conduct any form of journey to or from the house without his car. He does not run or cycle, and if the car were being serviced, he would have sourced a replacement. Pragmatism surfaces, and she checks her watch. Nearly three. Normally home from the driving range around three-thirty – the comparative success or failure of which is often a defining factor in whether she ends the weekend with a bruise or a loose tooth.

  The key slides into the lock with a symmetry she finds enviable, and the door pops open – he hasn’t changed the locks.

  Questions form in her mind – has he simply not bothered? Or does he know that she will come scurrying back? Did he want to leave a light on for her, or, ever practical, has he considered that she can hardly face her punishment if she can’t get in?

  The arrows in her mind have spread through her body – the feelings she had earlier attributed to the guy ropes of sanity inching loose were actually feelings of strength. Feelings of determination, of proactivity. I am the master of my fate. Or should that be mistress?

  She squawks with laughter. The sound echoes in the empty hallway.

  First things first.

  She walks to the telephone on the table in the hall, wondering if it has been used since she dialled 999 all that time ago.

  There is some polite to-and-fro while she is connected with the right department, but eventually she gets Clarissa on the line. Clarissa, her victim support officer. Lovely, kind Clarissa, whose clucking concerns gave her strength by proxy, as if she spearheaded a coffee club for wretched women that drove her to maintain her distance. Clarissa, whose tea and sympathy was like a brace that concealed her abject toothlessness.

  “Hello, Mrs Parks. I’m glad you called. I wanted you to know that the defendant pleaded not guilty yesterday and so a pre-trial hearing has been scheduled for the eighth of November…”

  She isn’t listening. Shouldn’t that be Mr Defendant?

  “His bail conditions still apply, of course, but…”

  “Clarissa, I can’t do it.”

  “Mrs Parks?”

  “I can’t do it. I won’t. I won’t attend court. I won’t prosecute my husband. I want to retract my statement.”

  There is a silence on the line. Clarissa has heard this before.

  “Mrs Parks... are you able to speak freely? It’s your decision, of course, but it’s important you’ve arrived at this decision of your own free will.”

  “Of course I have. I just can’t go through with it. It’s too easy.”

  Clarissa ramps it up.

  “Mrs Parks, I do understand, but at this late stage the CPS may summons you to court in any case.”

  Old Clarissa. Not quite as green as she sounds.

  “A hostile witness. Is that right?”

  “Well… yes. Mrs Parks… what did you mean: ‘it’s too easy?’”

  “Goodbye, Clarissa.”

  She hangs up the phone, silencing Clarissa’s protests.

  Three-thirty. The time the sergeant agreed to meet her at the house. She has not spoken to him since last night, and her hasty departure from the police car meant they have not confirmed whether their rendezvous is still on.

  She climbs the stairs, to the small locked cabinet on the upstairs landing, with the balustraded mezzanine offering a superb vantage point of the hallway and the front door.

  She unlocks the cabinet. The hunting rifle is beautiful – positively Victorian, with inlaid roses, polished brass mounts and a smooth, well-lubricated action.

  A sound breaks the silence.

  She walks to the top of the stairs, and loads two rounds into the weapon.

  Why ‘sergeant?’ Why adopt such a militaristic rank for a civil role? ‘Constable’ was appropriate – to her, the word connoted village police stations and blue shirts and walking the beat – and it wouldn’t be found in the armed forces. But ‘sergeant’ was generic, and straddled many disciplines. It didn’t seem appropriate.

  The sound is of tyres cutting a swathe through gravel.

  Sitting down on the top step, she points the weapon at the door.

  There for her protection.

  And never the twain shall meet.

  ****

  Taylor’s Dummy by Tin Larrick

  Buchanan Williams picked the last of the olives from the little glass dish on the bar. He had placed a bundle of American dollars down with his tab, and the generous tip had bought him considerable attention from the smiling girl behind the bar, who filled his glass with faultless regularity.

  Williams was aware of her attentiveness, but he was distracted by the marvel of the little green globe quivering on the end of the toothpick. He popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly, savouring the taste as if it were to be the last thing he would ever eat.

  Which, as far he was concerned, it may as well have been. Retallick had not killed him yet, and the novelty of still being alive had not yet worn off. He was savouring every bite, every breath, every footstep as if he had been born again.

  In fact, not only was he not dead, but he had been dispatched to Latvia on a mission to cauterise some loose ends – with none other than Michelle Fire. Just the two of them. They even had adjoining rooms. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  He was generally suspicious of attractive women, but this one had the capacity to make him quite lose his head. She was a killer, in all senses of the word – as well as her perfect legs, flawless visage and icy blue eyes, she was known, in the trade, as a classically-trained sniper.

  One might be forgiven for thinking that she had adopted a clever – even sassy – name for herself, one that both harmonised with and advertised her chosen profession. But this was not the case. She had been born Michelle Fire, and Michelle Fire she would always be. That it suited the more glamorous aspect of her trade was purely coincidental.

  His cell phone vibrated gently in his pocket. He excused himself from the barmaid, and flipped the phone open.

  “Hello?”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Fire hissed. “We were supposed to be at the RVP fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Where are you?” Williams said, looking around the bar.

  “I’m there already. Got fed up waiting for you to finish your courtship.”

  “I am working, you know.”

  “Got eyeball on the mark?”

  At this, Williams caught the barmaid’s eye. Your wife? she mouthed silently. It was strange – even silent, her mouth seemed to have an accent. Williams frowned and shook his head.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Good. Get up here.”

  “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  “You better be.”

  *

&nb
sp; Across the street, Fire clapped her own phone shut and moved to the large bay window, which afforded her a good view of the entrance to the hotel. She set up the rifle and pointed it down at the busy street. The constant hubbub of traffic echoed around the concrete valley of tall buildings that lined the long Latvian street.

  Williams appeared on the street, a toothpick in his mouth. He was so huge that it was impossible for the eye not to be drawn to him. He was about as inconspicuous as the Hindenburg. Who the hell hired him for work like this?

  Fire smirked as he stepped into her cross-hairs. She whispered ‘bang’ to herself, then moved away from the sights as he crossed the street and out of her vision, entering the building four floors below her. She stood the weapon carefully against the window ledge, lay down on the floor, and punched out one hundred rapid-fire sit-ups.

  She was done by the time Williams shoehorned his bulk through the door. She stood up – back to the window, hands on hips, hard breaths coming with staccato functionality.

  It took him a second for him to realise she was staring at him.

  “Er. Alright?” he said, taking the toothpick out of his mouth.

  She didn’t say anything, but turned back to the rig she had set up. She manoeuvred the rifle into position and pointed the weapon through the open window, resting the barrel on the dusty sill.

  Behind him, she heard a creak as Williams perched on the edge of the bed, and the scrape of flint and crackling paper as he lit a cigarette.

  “Want one?” he said.

  She didn’t answer. She never smoked before a hit – it wasn’t right, somehow. Besides, she was still mad at him.

  Across the street, down at the same door Williams had just – quite literally – darkened, the flirty girl from behind the bar appeared. She did not look flirty now, however – not attentive, not coy and not winsome. She looked determined, serious and faintly malevolent. In fact, Williams would probably have found her doubly attractive had he been able to bring himself to go to the window. She pulled her collar up, darted a look left and right, and commenced a purposeful stride north along the street, cutting back from a wedge of sunlight into shadow.