by Kate Sten
‘Okay. You don’t have to lose your rag over it.’ Henry tipped some more alcohol into the other man's shot glass.
The slender man in the face cap kept necking glass after glass without applying much restraint. He seemed almost consumed by that innate desire to satiate the insatiable, so he soldiered on regardless of how drowsy his eyes got, or how unresponsively limp his feet had become. He could barely move now and was slouched to one side, back sunk deep into the dining chair, and eyes half shut and barely aware of where he was or who he was with. Double vision had nearly blinded his eyes.
‘Whatever shall we do with you? You really shouldn't drink if you cant hold your drink, you know!’ Henry shook his head, beaming with contempt at the slumped man in the chair.
FIFTEEN
ABAGNALE
His chin drooped, his mouth agape as if he were yawning, and stiffened fingers recoiled into both palms - this was how they found Christian White - Local drunk and father of three. A man with a penchant for violent outbursts and wanted in several boroughs for petty crimes ranging from theft to common assault.
A single ambulance and two officers on foot attended the scene. One of them wore a distinct brown ponytail above her bowed head, her blonde hair interspersed with shades of dull gray. There wasn’t this grand show of police presence. Just a skeleton team of two combing over the small area where the wide-eyed dead man sat, legs spread apart and back of the head leaning against a wheelie bin.
‘How long do you reckon this one has been out here in the open for? Looks like he overdosed on cheap counterfeit drugs.’ The male officer beside DCI Abagnale stooped low to get a closer look at the haggard-looking deceased man, bulking in disgust at the gathering of flies that were crawling over his face.
‘Sure. That seems very plausible apart for the fact that there aren't any previous scarring or puncture marks from previous drug use. What makes this whole picture a bit peculiar is the fact that everyone close to the guy swears that he only ever abused alcohol,’ DCI Abagnale raised her voice in an assertive but slightly jovial manner.
‘Well, there's always a first time to dabble. Who knows? Maybe the booze just wasn’t cutting it anymore and the guy wanted something stronger?’ Her accompanying officer scoffed, as he collected evidence, swabbing the finger tips of the corpse in front of them.
‘That would be an interesting take on this, except for White's wife swears he is scared to death of syringes. In fact, medical notes from when he was a kid allude to this. His GP specifically notes a deep phobia towards pointy things. The guy almost punched a nurse that wanted to stick a needle in him once. He would rather have died of possible tetanus than have a needle in his skin.’ DCI Abagnale adjusted her jacket, as she leaned over the other officer to catch a sneaky peek of what was being scrawled on the evidence notes.
It was her job that day to supervise the rookie and keep him on the right path with regards to regular field duties. They were short on babysitters at the local police station so they pinned that one on her.
‘So do you still think this is the dream job for you, newbie?’ DCI Abagnale shoved both hands in her pocket adopting a more authoritative posture, exuding a big fat aura of confidence. ‘I tell you I have seen things that would make you gag every time that image replayed in your mind's eye. There is a whole bunch of crazy in this town. Just when you think things were starting to get boring, things like this happen.’
‘I admit seeing a body this close did throw me a bit but it sort of reminds you of the frailty of us all. Just how much do we have to be pushed before we break; before we do something like that?’ PC Jackson's pursed his lips and wagged his head at the dead man, expressing regret. ‘What exactly have you seen? Surely it doesn't get worse than this?’
There was a deep pause, her chin swiveled inwards towards her neck and the hawkish eyes on her face stayed frozen. DCI Abagnale sank deep into the recess of her mind - No doubt searching her treasure trove of memories for the best or worst cases she could come up with, depending on whether the most morbid of situations could be reverenced and put on some sort of graded pedestal.
PC Jackson's eyes popped wide open in anticipation as he gawked at the more experienced graying detective who was stood, feet firmly planted in the snow, beside him. ‘Well? Don’t tell me you ran out of gory tales to regale me with!’
‘No, I just had a sickening thought flood right through my noggin. I don’t know what it is yet about this death but I get the feeling that there is something I am missing here, like a dog that forgot what bit of his bum to scratch.’ DCI Abagnale tore at her hair with her fingers.
The disappointed look on PC Jackson's face lingered for a minute or two, and he soon set his sights back on the corpse that he was tending to. The slight distraction from his work seemed not to be as satisfactory as he had hoped.
‘Odd to have just us two on the scene to attend to a case that might have been murder?’ PC Jackson murmured a bit, appearing a bit disgruntled.
‘The guys that run the show don’t think that it is. This had been initially flagged as some sort of accidental death by the call respondents. I do not think that there will be a go ahead to progress to a full on investigation on this one. Not unless some hard evidence other than mere conjecture were to be produced. I don’t have such evidence in my grasp yet,’ DCI Abagnale hissed, hands deep in her pockets, as her eyes took in the scenery around her.
SIXTEEN
JOHN
The dog ran off, breaking away from the yolk of its lead. He was a spirited little Jack Russell with a patch of brown running over his left eye. Rufus dug feverishly, paws deep in dirt, in front of the secluded shed behind a detached house.
‘Stop Rufus! You're ruining Mister Winters's lawn!’ I barked at the boisterous Jack Russell, feeling powerless to intervene, or get between him and his moment of madness.
Rufus was behind the door before I could think to reach for him. My mind had frozen in apprehension at the prospect of going against an overexcited canine, even though he was mine.
I hadn't raised him from young so there wasn’t that natural bond, or depth of closeness between us. Rufus had broken into Mister Winters's shed and was doing God-knows-what to his property.
Molly would totally hate me for that - If Rufus ruined something and made Mister Winters cross with her as a consequence of that.
Ears plastered on the smooth surface of the door, all I could hear from the other side of the door was faint growls which soon exploded into ear-piercing howls.
What could Mister Winters have stashed away behind that door? Had the dopey mutt walked unwittingly into a bear trap?
I really hoped he hadn't. I did not want to be stuck with a maimed dog with half a leg missing. My mind raced, the vision before my eyes growing dim. It seemed like the skies were about to fall down on me. Everything seemed closer and magnified. There was hardly any space to breathe. I had to pinch myself twice to gain some semblance of composure.
Now that I had calmed my racing heart, I found a rock laying next to my foot and used it to crack open the green padlock on the metal latch which had held the door firmly shut. I had to bash the padlock several times for it to slacken.
The door squeaked eerily, as I shoved it open, letting in shafts of sunlight. There were all sorts of sculptures on the tall racks which stood on either sides of the room. My eyes probed the rest of the spaces in the room - the ones that hadn't been stuffed full of brown boxes. I shimmied through some sets of boxes and eventually found the dog, or part of him.
Particles of dust hung thick in the air. I could barely see the white tiled floor beneath my feet. They were in a shoddy state and did not glimmer at all.
I reached my hand under the gray tarpaulin cover and yanked Rufus out by his collar. His face was muddy and his eyes burned with excitement, as though someone had laid out a treat for him.
‘Rufus! You almost bit me!’ I withdrew my hand and skipped backwards, backing away from the growling pint-sized, excitable
Jack Russell.
I couldn’t believe he had attempted to take a bite out of me. He had never been vicious like that before. That was certainly a new mood he had taken with me. It was definitely not one of his playful ones.
Unsurprisingly, Rufus poked his head under the gray tarp again. I was so intrigued by what had got had gotten him in such a state, that I immediately pulled the tarp off. I did not know what to make of the ghastly thing that had been suddenly unveiled.
There seamed to be a small sea of heads, their eyes hollowed inwards and hands outstretched, grasping at something that they couldn’t quite reach, as if they were groping around in the dark. The heads had bodies that seemed to be conjoined at the hip. The subjects in the sculpture were made to kneel in a somewhat deliberately submissive stance and the levels of their temples cascaded downwards.
‘What are you doing here? Get him off that!’ Henry said, his voice firm and direct.
‘The eyes are missing from the statues. Why?’ I stooped down to pull the reluctant dog towards me.
He seemed more passive and retreated more readily into my arms without a fight the second he set eyes on Henry. It was almost as if Rufus was exhibiting some sort of reverence towards him.
‘Oh that old thing isn't quite finished yet. You shouldn't go into locked places without asking, young man. That was quite presumptuous. And you do not want to be presumptuous do you, John?’ The wrinkles on his forehead tensed.
‘Sorry about the statue.’ I forced an apology out of my tightened lips. ‘Rufus was only being playful. I am sure he didn’t mean to wreck your art.’
‘No need to apologize for the dog. I am sure he may have smelt the bit of chicken bone that got lodged in there somewhere while I was making the monstrosity you see before you.’ Henry pointed a straight finger at the massive clay sculpture sat in the centre of his spacious shed. ‘Now, you go help Molly with that roast. I am sure she can use all the help she can get setting up the dinner table.’
It was as if he was reading my mind, or could literally hear my belly rumble. I was famished and definitely craving something to devour. He did not get much argument from me. I turned around, dog nestled in my arms, and exited the shed. Somehow I could feel Henry's watchful eyes on me, laser-sharp and ever vigilant.
It was as though the guy never learned to take the chip off his shoulders to just generally wind down and be completely flippant about stuff like the rest of us mere mortals. He had to be mister perfect, literally. Neat clothes, polished shoes and folded towels - This was what the guy did with his possessions. Everything always had a place and couldn’t be misplaced, or you really would have third world war on your hands.
‘Keep Rufus out of the kitchen! You Know Henry is a neat freak about his kitchen!’ Molly pointed the cutlery in her hand at the door.
‘Okay,’ I gasped, exasperated at being told off a second time that day.
SEVENTEEN
HENRY
‘Henry Dupree Johnson! Henry Dupree Johnson!’ The words shot right off Camilla's quivering lips, her hands rolling up a pair of long sleeves up her chunky arms.
She was not a robust woman laden with blubber but she was stocky and well proportioned. She was short but not someone anybody that knew her well wanted to trifle with. She had a nasty tongue but her bite was even worse.
She had wobbled and stumbled home drunk that day, her run-of-the-mill cheap-jack customers having not paid the full asking price for the censurable services that she discretely provided to them. Her back was tired, her lips were swollen and her neck was red from some of the debased preferences of some of the men she allowed freeway with her body for the handsome price of fifteen pounds.
Camilla Meredith Jones wasn’t the brightest bulb on her street but she was certainly as mean as they came and suffered no fools. She had called for her boy. He had not come to her side. He knew too well what she was like when she was full of spirits, her breath foul and countenance as vile as muck on new boots.
‘Boy! Do not make me come over there, wherever you have hidden your sodding backside, and take the leather to your back.’ Camilla burped discourteously, as she pulled out a small bottle of cheap rum from the crevice between her breasts.
She gulped down the rest of the contents of the bottle, throwing her head back, her back contorting to an almost impossible angle. This was why most of the lads in the area came looking for her unique services. They had all heard of her exploits from the local gossip mill. They had heard of how flexible she was and the things she could do that would compel them to drop their jaw in disbelief.
The bottle smashed against the wall, thrown in a senseless fit of rage at everything around the vicious woman who had lobbed it.
She felt dirty and discarded, used up like a one-puff cigarette, though she would never admit that to herself let alone anybody else. She was a non-practising catholic who had never set foot in a church since after her baptism as a member of the catholic church. This did not mean that father O'Neil did not take every opportunity to try to offer her some pearls of wisdom, or to bring her into the fold. Overtures which she stoutly resisted with every fibre of her being. After all if God didn’t want this life for her, he would not have left her at the mercy of an abusive alcoholic father and a submissive fickle mother - this was her shield - the toga that she wore so tightly over herself that, everything else, everyone else, was shut out in the dark, her son included.
Camilla entered the tightly spaced single room which she shared with her son, kicked over the flimsy plastic chairs to make sure that Henry had not concealed himself under them. She was too furious to be bothered to pick them up this time.
Unsurprisingly, the boy had not taken shelter under the plastic chairs. He was not stupid enough to repeat the same thing twice, dark as the flat might have been. The electric bill had not been paid. Camilla had better uses for her ill-gotten money, or so she thought.
She dragged the mattress off the frame of the black spring bed in front of her. It was a small double and wasn’t much of a challenge to be tossed aside by a woman of Camilla's petite stature.
‘There you are, you little wretch! Sneaking away all the food I shed blood and sweat to buy under there like the rat that you are!’ She clipped his ear with tight fingers, pulling him out from beneath the bed.
‘I should have flushed you right out of my belly, you ungrateful little muck beneath the sole of my shoes.’ The bitter drunken woman beat her son with a thick leather belt, the one she often used to fix her corset in place to give the illusion that the flab on her stomach had somehow done a vanishing act. ‘That is all you are good for - Crying like a little bitch and taking a lash on that worthless skin of yours.’
She did not look the weeping boy in the eyes. She never looked him in the eyes. Those big blue eyes in his head reminded her of someone she would rather not remember. Someone she had sworn to forget - The very man that seeded her belly and made her father kick her out of the family home while she was still a gormless sixteen year old. She could not afford contraceptives back then and an abortion was a borderline criminal offence, a dirty word that fine folk dared not mention in public discourse.
There was no recourse for Camilla, other than falling prey to older men that cared nothing about her innocent smiles or the pretty weave in her jet black her or the wit behind all the lip that she usually gave anyone that engaged her in conversation.
Five pounds a week and a place to sleep on a dingy brothel mattress - this was the price to put a roof over her dishevelled head. The man she had approached, dodgy as a politician's word, sneered at her and made that offer without much guile. He was blunt with the then teenage Camilla.
‘Legs like yours will be good for straddling. They are firm and those calves have some good muscle on them. Not the flabby things that are all over the place these days. The punters will love you.’ She remembered the brothel owner scuff.
He turned her body into his personal goldmine. He worked her till she was near the point
of death with sickness. She soon learned to solicit for her own pockets after she had recovered from a bad case of chlamydia which had nearly put her in some unmarked grave. That was how some brothel girls were disposed of after they had outlived their usefulness and expired on the job.
The early seventies really did suck for Camilla. And the end of it sucked even more after she found herself alone with another mouth besides her own to feed - the devil child who she was offloading her twenty five years of frustration on.
‘I will beat some respect into you, boy! You owe me that much!’ Camilla yelled, grabbing his arm tight and thrashing him some more with the belt in her left hand.
‘I hate you. Everyone calls you a whore at school. I wished you would just die so I can find my dad.’ Henry lowered his raised arms and raised his voice to his drunken mother. To be precise, it was more like a faint squeal or a whimper that had involuntarily rolled off his tongue. He was often more tractable, offering almost no resistance to Camilla.
‘At least I put a roof over your ungrateful head. Your dad couldn’t give a stuff about you. He didn’t stick around to see your birth and he sure wouldn't want anything to do with the likes of you now. You are nothing but an inconvenience - a burden. So wise the hell up and do not talk back to the only person that tries to do shit for you,’ Camilla screamed into the sobbing boy's ear, dragging him by the arm, his feet scraping sluggishly over the bare floor. ‘You better have done the laundry right. There are good people that paid good money for their clothes to be starched and ironed.’
‘I did it right mother.’ the boys lips trembled and his neck shrunk inwards, as if he were about to do a vanishing act.
‘We shall see about that!’ Camilla spat a sharp response at the mewling boy. ‘There better not be a single crease on the trousers. The gents bong in good money for those. They swear the pants are Italian and made by hand.’