Thin Men, Paper Suits

by Tin Larrick

  Eventually, however, she ordered a recess of two hours to consider her decision – and a narrow window of opportunity for Graham Wall to present himself – and sent the parties away.

  During the recess, Glen retrieved the consent order from Thorp, and retired to the private side room. Phoebe was there waiting for him. The room was still stuffy and airless – and Glen felt sure the previous occupant had sneaked a crafty fag – but, as far as Glen was concerned, he was standing in a sun-drenched meadow with soft springy moss underfoot.

  His wife’s countenance was the chief cause of this. She looked fresh and pretty today, and her yellow summer dress was made for the promenade, not the courthouse. But the look on her lightly made-up face was what caused Glen to dance inside. She was looking at him with expressions he had never been on the receiving end of – awe, admiration, surprise, deference and a kind of animal attraction. He was a man. He had taken a problem and fixed it. He had done what needed to be done, and not bothered his wife with the details. He had been proactive. Taken control.

  He felt like a million dollars.

  She held up the consent order, a flirty smile on her come-and-get-me face.

  “How did you get this?”

  And then, only slightly less diffident:

  “Do you know where Graham is?”

  Knowing them both to be rhetorical questions – and that failing to answer would only add to his newfound aura of mystery – he simply took the document from her.

  He examined it. It was a little dog-eared, a little creased, but otherwise it was fine. There was no blood on the paper. The signature had been made with its usual self-important flourish. No twitches of hesitation anywhere.

  No one could ever say it was a forgery. And, technically, it wasn’t.

  But Glen would have to hope that Judge De’ath would not delay proceedings for too much longer. After all, the polythene bag containing Graham Wall’s severed hand – still clutching his own fountain pen – was only in the boot of Glen’s car, and if it wasn’t refrigerated soon, it would really start to smell.

  ****

  Detective at the Door by Tin Larrick

  Do you want to know something funny?

  On the morning I met you, Frank, I reported to my boss, same as any other morning. He thrust a sheaf of papers forward at me.

  I walked towards the desk and took them. He didn’t let go, instead holding on to them until I met his gaze.

  “Steel yourself, son,” he said. “You’ll need all your grit for this one.”

  That’s what he said.

  What’s funny is that I’d laughed. Derisively. I’ve seen a fair amount. That’s why I became a cop – because each day is different. Not knowing what’s going to come my way each morning. So I laughed – not just with disdain, but to conceal my trepidation, because there was something in his face that I hadn’t seen before.

  I drove alongside the line of impossibly neat conifers that led up to the hospital, and drove around for twenty minutes looking for a space. From there it was another twenty looking for the right room. So when I arrived on the fifth floor, in the ITU, I was out of breath and just a little irritable.

  That all changed when I opened the door. When I found you, Frank.

  It was like walking into an airless chamber, a frame of spent celluloid already spun off the reel.

  Your shoulders and back looked unusually wide, and you turned to me, a bear in an argyle sweater.

  Behind you, the bed was empty. Empty for the first time in twelve years. You slowly got to your feet. I passed your coat to you. I found myself wanting to stretch out my hand to you. Something in your eyes.

  I bought us both coffee on the way to the car, and found myself talking incessantly at you – the weather, parking, celebrity gossip – all kinds of banality. You said nothing, but nodded politely with bearded smiles.

  Remember that, Frank?

  And then we arrived, and I was all business. I showed you to the room, and brought more coffee. We sat down. You asked for sugar.

  And then, in a misty voice, you told me your story.

  Sam’s story.

  The story of a life in monochrome.

  You said the funny thing you remembered was the score. 28-12. They’d won convincingly. Sam hadn’t scored the winner, but that didn’t matter. He’d set up a lot of the tries, and that’s what rugby’s all about, you said. Donkey work, not glory. And that was Sam, you said. He was a grafter.

  He still had the winning ball clamped under his arm as the team filed off the pitch.

  Still had it under his arm when he collapsed.

  His knees went first, and then he dropped heavily onto the field – that unnatural, doll-like way people fall when they are already unconscious; limbs lifeless, no attempt to break the fall with the hands.

  They did CPR fast, yanking out the gum shield for mouth-to-mouth. They got him to hospital fast. They moved quickly and efficiently, inserting tubes this way and that, slicing off his striped jersey and shorts, dried mud cakes from the game spattering across the floor of the emergency unit.

  They got him back.

  You leaned across to me.

  A look that said I almost wish they hadn’t.

  It’s funny, you said. Those first 24 hours were the easiest, because the hope was there. All the activity, all the attention and well-wishing from friends and family. And all the time they were investigating, you just sort of assumed they would find out what the problem was, and from there it would be easy to fix it.

  Well, I suppose one out of two isn’t bad.

  It was three days before they came to give him a wash. He was still unconscious, and the nurses were gentle. His body was still bruised and grubby from the game.

  The bruises of Creation, you called them.

  Twelve years is a long time to keep a vigil. Hope dwindles, and all the people you’d told to leave you alone eventually do so, and you wished you hadn’t been quite so quick to fend off their sympathy. Now you could really do with it. Of course, you wouldn’t admit it. And you can’t ask for it back.

  But you were glad you stayed. It meant the deterioration wasn’t as obvious. Sam grew in physical years, spreading longer across the bed, the onset of an adolescence conducted entirely prone. His once-sparse file of medical notes gradually thickened with age. His muscles evaporated until he was barely a sausage skin, a sheath for twitching organs.

  But you were thankful, because at least Sam was able to communicate. At least his mind was still fit and well. He used a yellow plastic keyboard. You know, the kind they keep for stroke victims.

  Control, that was the other thing. Hope and control. If you have one, you don’t have the other. There was nothing you could do, Frank, except sit, and wait, and hope that some bright spark would walk through the door and say “Do you know what? We’ve found the cure for your son! We know why he collapsed at thirteen years old and why his body hasn’t worked since.”

  But they didn’t, did they, Frank? They never came. What they did do, after his fifth near miss, was take his file, and stamp ‘DNAR’ on the front in livid red letters.

  You held his hand, every day for twelve years.

  Twelve years, Frank.

  Held his hand, until the day his eyes took on a different look. For twelve years they had silently watched your suffering. You hadn’t realised, but Sam was being strong for you. Making jokes on that bloody computer. Spelling out “Don’t worry, Dad,” and stuff like that.

  Then his eyes took on a different sheen. They glistened with desperation. Pleading with you.

  Pleading with you, as he tapped on his keyboard, spelling out a phrase.

  I’m twenty-five.

  The Almighty has thunder beyond His means.

  You frowned, thinking it was a mistake, but then he reached out a flaccid arm for the snaking drip, and pressed.

  And pressed.

  And you realised what he meant.

  But this one-time rugby star, this grinning fun-lovi
ng kid whose potential would forever remain just that – he could not find the strength.

  So you reached out.

  It was a tiny movement, yet so huge.

  You depressed the plunger.

  You depressed his systems.

  And Sam breathed no more.

  And you breathed, like you had been punctured, like you had been holding it in for twelve years. The feeling of it ending, the feeling of exercising the only control you’d had in twelve years sweeping around the tiny room in a wave, like an orgasm.

  Is that right, Frank?

  Is that how it happened?

  In a moment I’m going to ask you to go over it again. It’s very important I get this right.

  I curl my lips downwards, to quell my rising tears. Your solicitor does the same. I take a breath, and switch off the tape recorder.

  I only want to listen.

  And later, when I’ve read out the charges, I will go to my boss and hand him my letter of resignation. Hastily typed, with the stain from a coffee mug on it.

  Do you remember, Frank?

  When they’d taken his body, and the bed was empty, you turned to me.

  A bear in an argyle sweater, parched of all strength. You looked me straight in the eye. I’m glad I met you. I’m glad now I made small talk. But I’ll always wish that I had reached out my hand to you.

  I, the detective at the door.

  ****

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Thank you for downloading and reading this eBook. Your custom is greatly appreciated.

  TIN LARRICK is the pseudonym of a former police officer who likes writing stories. As well as THIN MEN, PAPER SUITS, Tin has written two full-length novels, available now for all formats.

  If you liked police-procedurals like THIN MEN, PAPER SUITS and CRY HAVOC, why not give Tin’s first book, DEVIL’S CHIMNEY, a try?

  If you liked the irreverence of MR SOLITAIRE and the psychological musings of HELL’S TEETH, you might like Tin’s second book, LONE SHARK.

  If, however, you like fast, humorous ensemble dramas about patrol cops in the vein of Joseph Wambaugh and Ed McBain – and you can wait a couple of months – then you might also like to try MANUKAU BLUEBIRDS, due for a spring 2014 release (or even sooner if the weather holds).

  If recklessness is your thing, why not try them all?

  If you have enjoyed this eBook, please help other readers discover it by leaving a short review on the site from whence it came. If you didn’t like it – well, we can manage that too. Tin loves readers (although he couldn’t eat a whole one) and would very much like to hear from you:

  Email: tinlarrick@live.co.uk

  Twitter: @tinlarrick

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/tinlarrick

  Blog: http://tinlarrick.blogspot.com/