Minions

by Addison, Garrett

Devlin accepted that sooner or later he’d need to talk about this. “He ruined my life.”

  “And you ended his.”

  Devlin didn’t bite back. His anxiety was growing and suddenly his disclosure was overwhelming. He writhed in his seat, straining against his seatbelt. “Ikel. Sorry, but I don’t think I’m right to continue.”

  “That’s OK,” Ikel said with a shrug.

  Chapter - 12.

  Detective Alan Reymond arrived at the address described by the person at the hospital. He knew the visit was to be of dubious worth, but what else could he do? The young doctor was unwilling to release him into custody, even just for formal questioning, based on the farcical story that Venn had described in an attempt to have someone verify his identity. Presumption of innocence aside, he’d still made sure that the guy was securely locked in his room with a uniformed officer posted on the door.

  Gut-feel told Reymond that he’d be back at the hospital before too long, lobbying another doctor after shift change that the patient was a crank not deserving of a hospital bed out of the public purse. Still, he knew he needed to do a little homework before he could justify any case against, or theoretically for the guy.

  Performance artist indeed, Detective Reymond thought to himself. Venn had suggested that the only way for his identity to be confirmed was by way of a woman named ‘Angie’, the performance artist no –less. He’d provided no surname for her, and only a house description, street name and suburb, which had thus far proven accurate in that there was no mistaking ‘the worst house on the street’ in this instance. On a street of old-money, bluestone residences, there was only one decrepit, single storey wood and weatherboard. As Reymond looked over the house from his car, he reminded himself that the fact the house even existed proved nothing, much less the identity of Malcolm Venn. All it really proved was that Venn had ventured to this part of town.

  Now for the fun part, Detective Reymond sniggered to himself. While Venn had not provided a full name for the person who’d be able to shed light on his identity, he had provided a description of her. ‘Angie with big tits’. He re-read his notes purely out of habit, but there was no way he’d have forgotten that description. He left the comfort of his car, forgoing his jacket despite the late afternoon chill and headed for the front door.

  Near on fifty years of Policing had given Detective Alan Reymond a certain insight. He could tell when someone was lying just by looking at him. It was this particular skill that had made him not write off Venn’s story. This time his experience told him that all was not well at Angie’s house. He felt it as he approached.

  There was nothing he could describe, but Reymond could still feel something out of place. Looking through the window into the lounge room, he could see that the house appeared comfortably lived-in and he could feel a draft of warm air from under the front door. He could hear music, smell food cooking in the kitchen and it smelled good enough to remind him of his missed meals. But there was something else.

  Reymond knocked on the front door and as there was no reply or sound of any movement from inside his first reaction was of annoyance. As much as he doubted he’d gain anything worthwhile from any meeting with ‘Angie’, if she even existed, he couldn’t rightly justify leaving such a loose end. He didn’t want to have to come back later. He knocked again, this time a little louder and called out, “Angie? It’s the police, and I’d love a quick word if I could.”

  There was still no discernable noise or movement from inside the house, but as he moved towards the lounge room window for a closer look, he heard a rolling sound. It sounded like a bowling ball rolling towards pins, but softer and slightly less determined. Through the window he was finally able to confirm what was making the noise as he watched a tall drinking glass roll along the corridor outside the lounge room. He marvelled at his hearing and wondered if he’d have heard anything if it was his right ear close to the window, largely deaf thanks to years of fruitless practice at the shooting range without ear plugs. His insight had been proven right yet again.

  Reymond was thankful that he didn’t have to contain an over-zealous young partner determined to produce his weapon and force open the door. Older and wiser, he knew that such a reaction was unlikely to produce any better result than more reasonable behaviour. He called out again as he tried the front door. Finding it unlocked, he cautiously opened it, announced himself once more and entered.

  Angie was not in good shape when Reymond found her; seated on the floor with her legs splayed wide, propped into a moderately upright position against her bed with her head hanging forward. She wore only underwear and a partially unbuttoned cream coloured silk top. Her bruising was obvious, and Reymond had seen enough domestic violence in his day to understand that the beatings that she’d suffered had been inflicted over a protracted period. Admittedly, had she not been partially undressed, her bruising would have gone un-noticed. Whoever had done it to Angie, his first thoughts were of Venn, had taken care so as to allow her to still exist in public without drawing attention. Of immediate concern however, was her apparent overdose. There were several medicine bottles open on her bed and bedside table, pills scattered on the floor and she appeared to be teetering on the verge of unconsciousness.

  Reymond called for an ambulance as he more closely examined her condition, passing on whatever information he could. He noted her shallow breathing, feint pulse and dilated pupils while taking inventory of the medications that she’d potentially taken. He’d made this type of call before and he knew the drill. He put the woman into the recovery position, rolling the unconscious patient onto her side and began the wait for the ambulance which he’d hoped would not be too long.

  Venn had been right when he described Angie as having big tits. Reymond knew that it was unprofessional, particularly in her current state, but he couldn’t help himself. He might have been old, but testosterone still featured in his bloodstream. He admired her breasts, from a distance, marvelling at how they, in a small way, were possibly helping to keep her alive as they propped her head off the floor.

  His daydreaming over, Detective Reymond alternated between checking her vital signs and snooping around the room, all the time listening for the ambulance. He found the woman’s handbag and purse, and matching the photo on her drivers’ licence, he was able to confirm the woman’s identity, Angela Clarke. Now he was getting somewhere.

  As the wait dragged on, Reymond examined the medicine bottles. In his haste to get the ambulance on their way he’d reported it to the emergency services operator as a probable suicide attempt, but the more he looked, the less likely that seemed. He’d learnt a lot about various pharmaceuticals over the years and he recognised most of Angie’s medicines as being anti-depressants and mood stabilisers of various grades. He didn’t profess to be an expert on the matter, but it seemed an odd choice of drug for a suicide. Reymond took a closer look at each of the tiny medicine bottles spread over Angie’s bed noted that each had been prescribed, but clearly not consumed, over a period of years.

  He opened the top drawer of Angie’s bedside table in search of the obligatory address book. He didn’t find what he was looking for, but the base of the drawer was awash with pills of various sizes and colours, much the same as those now scattered across the floor. It didn’t take much deduction on his part to query why Angie would scatter medicine bottles across her room when there was an ample supply of the tablets readily accessible loose in the drawer. “What was in the containers, Angie?” he said to himself as he looked over at her lying prostrate on the floor.

  It was then that Detective Reymond saw it, a tiny dot of blood on the back of Angie’s blouse. The blood was like a magnet for his attention, and he started to examine the lie of her clothing. Oddly, despite the way she was lying, her clothing failed to adhere to her body’s shape. Reymond could see the outline of her bra strap raising the material of her top, otherwise pulled taught by the way that she was lying, but her clothing was still being forcibly kept from her s
kin. Reymond was curious as to why. He knelt beside the woman and started to slide her blouse up her back. “Excuse me, Angie” he said respectfully, mindful that she was oblivious in her current state. Inch by inch he revealed more bruising, until the fabric failed to be pushed upwards any further, caught by something unseen adjacent to Angie’s bra strap. Reymond lifted the blouse over the obstruction, exposing a syringe needle, without syringe, still embedded to the hilt between the woman’s shoulder blades.

  “How did you do yourself there?” Reymond asked rhetorically.

  Chapter - 13.

  It was early evening and the area around LastGasp’ was undergoing its daily transformation from daytime coffee district to night-time entertainment precinct. The municipal council’s recent investment in gentrification, including lighting and security had attracted the businesses and the people. The brothels, like the cafés and the restaurants, were doing a roaring trade.

  Ikel turned down the laneway behind LastGasp’. “Glen’s got a few car-parks under cover. First in, best dressed. It’s really no safer than the street, for you or your car, but it’s well lit and I feel better with my wheels under cover. Still, some pricks have got at my car a few times,” Ikel explained. “There’s a kind of security system there too,” Ikel smiled, clearly a party to some joke.

  The car pulled into a small carpark underneath a building that was lit like the nativity. On opening the door, Devlin understood Ikel’s joke. The smell of spent urine was overwhelming. It seemed that the council’s financial injection into the area had not extended to the provision of adequate public toilets. Puddles were on the ground everywhere, and urine stains, old and new, marked the walls around the five parking spaces.

  The odour bit hard into the back of Devlin’s nose and throat. “This place reeks!” Devlin said, almost gagging. “So the security system is purely olfactory?” Devlin had at last placed the strange smell in Ikel’s car.

  Ikel looked puzzled, not exactly understanding what Devlin had said. “It’s not a factory security, it’s stinky security! And Albert is the night watchman!” he said, pointing to a stationary mass at the front of the car. “ALBERT! Wake up you lazy bugger!”

  Roused by Ikel, Albert stood slowly. He wasn’t very old, Devlin figured, guessing about fifty, but the years had not been kind. Alberts face was sullen and weathered. He wore tracksuit pants, a t-shirt and an oversized coat that would have been more fitting on a polar expedition. He started to stare at Devlin. “Who’s this then?”

  “This is Devlin. He’s new. He’s alright. Be nice!” Ikel replied, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow to Devlin in suggestion that he take up the social exchange.

  “Hi,” said Devlin, still reeling with the smell. He looked over Albert again, this time noticing his lack of appropriate footwear. It had been a mild day, mid-autumn, and the evening chill was settling in, but Albert was wearing cheap rubber sandals exposing browned toenails that curled over the end of his toes. Devlin was fixated in revulsion at the combination of the smell and Albert’s feet.

  “I don’t bite!” replied Albert gruffly, stepping forward to offer his hand. “I can tell a lot about a man from a handshake.”

  “So what can you tell about me?” Devlin asked, only half interested in the reply. In close proximity to Albert he noticed the overpowering ambient smell of urine was magically fused with a mixture of sweat and alcohol and he figured that any reply wouldn’t warrant much consideration.

  “What can you tell me about mine?” asked Albert.

  “Maybe later. We gotta’ get upstairs,” said Ikel, much to Devlin’s relief. Ikel led Devlin from the carpark into the darkness of the laneway.

  “I’ll be here,” said Albert with a look of lonely sadness as he was left on his own again.

  The fresh air of the night was utterly fragrant compared to the carpark. Devlin sucked in deep breaths as they walked. “Is Albert on the LastGasp’ payroll?” he asked, half in jest.

  “Albert’s alright,” Ikel explained. “The downside of being undercover is that the carpark never gets rain to wash away the smell. Glen slips him some cash every week to splash the hose around, otherwise this place really stinks!”

  “He either isn’t getting paid enough, or he’s not doing a good enough job. Why doesn’t Glen give him a real job?”

  “I think Albert used to work with Glen. Ask him yourself one day. He’s really good for a chat. He’s there most days and he enjoys the company.”

  “I might do that. I might get him in for a shower and a change of clothes too!”

  Ikel stopped in his tracks and grabbed Devlin on the shoulder forcefully. “No-one comes inside except us, or someone that Glen gives the nod to. And even then, outsiders aren’t allowed anywhere near the bunker. Remember that,” Ikel said aggressively. “Albert might be a special case, but he’s not allowed in either.”

  “OK. I forgot!” insisted Devlin, still a little taken aback at being apprehended.

  “Don’t forget. Don’t ever forget.” Satisfied, Ikel released his grip on Devlin and continued walking.

  “I still don’t get the fixation on security,” said Devlin. “Why?”

  “Glen will explain why. I’ll just tell you to accept it.” He kept walking. “Come on. It’s ‘ken cold and I want to get back.”

  Chapter - 14.

  Detective Reymond briefed the paramedics on their arrival, pointing out the syringe and his belief that this was not a run of the mill overdose. They’d reacted assuming some opiate derivative had been used, based on a simple swab test, and the Narcan they administered made Angie alert almost immediately. Still, she was slow to respond to a volley of well-intentioned questions from the paramedics. She settled her gaze on her attendants and began to answer their questions cautiously.

  Reymond stayed silent in the background, watching with interest as the paramedics tended to their patient. He’d seen them in operation on overdose cases before, but he noticed a difference in their behaviour on this occasion. This time at least it was unlikely that they’d be met with an expletive ridden tirade about their role in wasting their patient’s score, or interfering with their patient’s suicide. Instead, they expected to be thanked, even if not verbally, and there was a noticeable zeal in their work as a result.

  As soon as he was given the nod, Reymond stepped in to ask his own questions. Her punctured lung mandated further hospital based care, but he would be OK to ask a few questions, and more importantly, she should be OK to answer them. Of course anything she said in her pharmaceutical grade state of alertness would be inadmissible, but it would surely point him in the right direction.

  “Hi Angie. My name is Detective Alan Reymond. I actually came here to ask you about Malcolm Venn but ...”

  “Is he alright?” Angie interrupted, coherent but incapable of maintaining her focus. She laboured shallow breaths, erratically scanning her surroundings like a pet rabbit in the presence of a large dog.

  “Yes, he’s fine. I guess that answers my original question in that you do actually know him,” Reymond said in a fatherly tone. When Angie nodded he continued. “Angie. I’m assuming I may call you ‘Angie’, I’d actually like to talk about you, and who did this to you, but I am somewhat curious as to why you would ask that about him?”

  Angie shrugged. “I’ve been worried for him. Is he in trouble?”

  “I’m not sure really. He’s currently in hospital,” the Detective said, watching Angie’s increasing lucidity.

  “But you said he was, is, alright!”

  “And he is, it’s just that …”

  “So why are you here and not him then?” Angie enquired edgily.

  “Well, he’s looking at getting discharged now, but we just needed to check some things before he does.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who he actually is, and like why he was admitted covered in blood?”

  Angie sighed. “He is who he says he is, as much as I know anyway. I’ve only known him for a few weeks
but he’s been special to me.”

  “‘Special’ people don’t beat people they love.” Reymond was not going to let the woman’s bruising go un-noticed. “Are you as special to him as he is to you?”

  “Malcolm didn’t do this to me!” said Angie, picking up on the manner with which the comment had been made.

  Detective Reymond heard the reply and almost scoffed at his feeling of déjà-vu; familiar words he’d heard many times before, spoken by different damaged women doing their best to sound convincing. The truth remained, however, that Malcolm was out of the frame for her immediate assault if not for the domestic abuse. “So who assaulted you?”

  “No-one I know.”

  “Angie, whoever it was would have killed you had I not been visiting at the time,” Reymond insisted.

  “And it wouldn’t have happened had Malcolm been here, so don’t go giving yourself commendations just yet,” Angie said forthrightly. “Yes, someone did it, but no-one that you or anyone else will do anything about.”

  “Whoever it is, we can help,” Reymond said, determined to salvage some confidence in his profession. “It would help Malcolm if you could account for the blood on his clothing.”

  “It’s not what you think. The blood is an important part of my shows.”

  “Go on…” Reymond braced himself for what Venn had eluded to.

  “I’m a performance artist, and I use blood in my shows.”

  “The blood was human.”

  “Yes, and all legally sourced as out of date blood product. Not fit for medical use, in this country at least, but quite good enough for what I use it for.”

  “And what do you need it for in your show?”

  “Shows!” Angie emphasised the plural. “I do a variety of acts, all featuring blood. Birth, death, war, health, female circumcision, menstruation, domestic abuse.”

  “A bit close to home?”

  “Possibly, but it’s a living, and I’m not in any great rush to be out of work.”