by Krishna Ahir
Swallowing the emotion, Christopher distracted himself by stirring the small pot of chilly. Beans and chunks of tomato moved in and out of view, swimming through the stewing ground meat. He watched them, mesmerized by the motions.
He didn't like feeling overly sentimental; admitting that he missed his family. It made staying behind that much harder. An entire week still remained until they all returned home, and Christopher didn't want to spend that time moping about and getting himself down.
Once they inevitably returned, Christopher knew that he would feel stupid for missing them in the first place. The twins had more than enough attitude to spare and, at thirteen years old, were growing progressively worse. They were even starting to get on each other's nerves. They had managed to share a womb yet were currently incapable of spending more than an hour in the same room together. He didn't like it. He preferred the way it was when they were younger, back when they had been the adoring little sisters, and him the doting older brother.
At least that was how he chose to remember it.
The truth was, most of his affection, during his younger years, was directed towards his mother. He was a mummy's boy through and through. Even at seventeen years old Christopher was still close with her. While he was perfectly self-sufficient, as evidenced by his lone presence at home, his mother always made a point of doing almost everything for him, when she was around. Washing, ironing, and cooking. All for her son.
Christopher got all of his best features from her. His mother had the same hair; the same nose. The same striking hazel eyes.
He often thought that, had he been born a girl, he would have been just like her. His mother's double.
As he thought about her, his nose twigged a nostalgic scent. Imagined or otherwise, it was definitely his mother's smell. Lavender. She used to put small burlap bags of it under Christopher's pillow to help him sleep.
Smiling to himself, Christopher took the pot off of the hob and plated up his meal. Dipping down to scratch Crystal behind the ears, he traversed the kitchen and set the dish onto the table. Snatching up the cutlery he started to eat.
However, no matter how much he ate, he couldn't rid himself of a strange feeling in his gut. It felt like an empty space; a void inside his stomach. He could feel the acid bubbling away, sloshing around.
Out of the corner of his eye he looked down at the plain white stationary, emblazoned with black calligraphy. The feeling that Christopher had gotten when he first read the note returned. He felt nervous.
Chapter 6
Across the street from the Grand Stone Bay Police Station, peppered across an empty lot, the framework of a building had been erected. Scaffolding clung to the outside and tarpaulin lay across the ground, gleaming like plastic water. Overlooking the site a crane leaned over, pecking downwards like a mechanical bird. A laborer was leaning against the side of the machine, thumbing through a paperback. Looking up, over the top of the book, he watched as DCI James Harold stepped out of his car.
The first thing that Drake noticed about Chief Superintendent Thomas McIrvin s office was how unfathomably cold it was. Despite it only being late April, the senior Officer had cranked his air conditioning up so high that the room was practically sub-zero in temperature. An uncomfortable chill slicked over the back of Drake s neck, setting him on edge. The sharp twinge of cold raced across the enamel of his teeth.
Clenching his fists repeatedly, to clear his anxiety, he felt the sticky sensation of nervous sweat gripping his palms. Behind his ribs, his heart quivered.
The Chief Superintendent was positioned behind his desk, an expectant look on his face. A trim man of sixty one, his face left the impression of frailty, yet his frame bore a wiry strength to it. Grey hair, still full and thick, had been combed out of his face and parted along the edge of his widow s peak, at a seven-to-three ratio. When he smiled, his snaggletooth peeked out past his lips.
“Constable Gregory.” McIrvin s voice, again, contributed towards the illusion of frailty. While still commanding and direct in tone, it wavered in subtle undercurrents that could have suggested illness. “Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice.”
Drake had to bite his tongue. The Chief Superintendent was already preparing to stand at the forefront of the investigation; to take credit for whatever kind of success they had. McIrvin was making it seem as if the urgency of the meeting had been his call, rather than Drake s. It rubbed him up the wrong way, annoyance prickling across the surface of his skin. What made it worse was the knowledge that, should anything go wrong, the superior Officer would not hesitate to jump ship and pin it all on him.
Nodding, so that his mouth didn’t betray him, Drake took the offered seat and listened.
“We did very well to notice this all as early as we did,” the Chief Superintendent began, waving his hand as he spoke. “But what we need to do now is stay on top of it.”
He didn’t like the way McIrvin kept using the word “we”. It felt like he was being annexed into a forced comradely; like all of the hard work he had done off of his own back was being trivialized.
Just as he was about to say something, Harold entered the room.
Drake immediately felt his limbs lock up and his back straighten, like he had jammed his finger into an electrical socket. He sat bolt upright.
Having not been informed of his superior s invitation to the meeting, Harold s sudden appearance set Drake on edge. Despite being well into his thirties, he felt like a naughty child, caught by their parent or teacher while doing something wrong.
Drake could practically hear the gears grinding together as the Detective robotically moved about the room.
“James!” McIrvin exclaimed, standing and making his way around his desk. He moved with his hand outstretched, like the nose of a shark sniffing for blood. “Thank you for getting here so quickly!”
“Harold,” the Detective corrected, refusing the handshake and nodding towards his superior.
He had no time for false pleasantries; no time for the typical “How do you do s” of polite conversation. Harold wanted to explain the facts, set up a plan of action, and leave. Despite the nurse s assurance that he could take as long as he wanted, Harold didn’t like to burden her. He wanted to get home and take care of Joslyn himself.
Worse still, there was something about the Chief Superintendent that Harold hated immediately.
McIrvin s breath smelt of Listerine. A chemical freshness, from where he had washed his mouth out mere moments before their meeting. Harold held his breath and sat down next to Drake.
Harold had, correctly, assumed that the Chief Superintendent was doing his utmost to impress him; to put his best foot forwards. Lower in rank though he was, over the years James Harold had developed a reputation within the British Police as one of the best Officers in recent history. He had even appeared on a number of True Crime television programs, discussing several high profile cases he was responsible for closing. The most notable of these was that of the Clearwoods flat, the Moor Murderer.
“It really is a pleasure to have you here,” McIrvin continued, moving back around his desk and sitting down in his high-backed leather chair. “I’ve had a bit of time to think about what to do, since our conversation over the phone, and I think I might have a few ideas.”
He didn’t seem anywhere near as shaken as he had sounded on the phone. Harold thought that his superior almost looked excited.
Drake noticed it too. McIrvin seemed all too eager to leap headfirst into an investigation. Like he wanted to make a name for himself.
“With all due respect, sir, I think we should save the ideas until later,” Harold said. “Right now, we’re just here to give you the facts. Isn’t that right, Drake?”
Barely used to his commanding officer addressing him by his first name, Drake just about caught the question, managing to nod just in time.
Holding his hands up, McIrvin relented. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to get ahead of myself.”
&n
bsp; “Drake.” Harold turned towards his subordinate and tilted his head to the side. “Why don t you tell the Superintendent what you’ve found?”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
Swallowing a breath, Drake flitted his eyes back and forth between the two higher-ranked Officers sat around him. McIrvin hovered expectantly, leaning over his moat of a desk, waiting for a response. Harold watched him patiently through his tired eyes, his pupils making small mechanical movements. He imagined the Detective s brain as a giant processing unit, his eyes the scanner. Warmth spread over his skin as the lasers of Harold s eyes analyzed him.
“Alright...” Drake began, slowly. “I’ll tell you everything that I’ve found.”
__________________________________
Christopher awoke blurry-eyed to the sound of his alarm clock. Reaching out to shut off the device, he found his arm moving sluggish and slow. He had barely gotten a wink of sleep, and his nerves were shot. While he knew that the message was probably nothing, the nervous feeling that it gave him, combined with the memories of what had happened at junior college, caused his brain to be on steamroll through the night, ensuring that he stayed awake for a long as possible.
Reaching the bathroom, he examined his face in the mirror. He didn't look good. His eyes were weary, drooping bags hanging beneath them, and he looked pale.
Splashing ice cold water onto his face, to hopefully remove the worst of his sleep-deprived appearance, Christopher rubbed at his eyes and set about to starting his morning routine. He washed, dressed and then fed the cat.
The only thing he didn't do was eat.
Overnight, the perturbed thoughts had unsettled his stomach. Food, he thought, would only make it worse.
As he locked his front door behind him, Christopher took a second to glance down the road. In spite of the long passed onset of spring, the sky was a murky grey. Pastel clouds crawled across the skyline, and a chilling breeze cut between the hedges and fences of his neighbors. Pink blossoms, clinging to trees like bunches of cotton candy, almost seemed to have had their vibrancy drained from them, their colors muted and pale. Cars crawled along the road and, across the street; Christopher could see a girl from his junior college on her phone, waiting for her friends.
Stepping out of his front garden and closing the gate, he checked the time on his watch and began to make his way down the path, his shoes tapping against the tarmac. Looming over him, the houses that flanked the street threw shadows down on the road, adding to the gloom of the overhead clouds.
The street on which he lived resided in the middle of an up market housing estate, located in the far west corner of Grand Stone Bay and, as such, the residences were all relatively modern. New buildings over the course of the past fifteen years had expanded the city, providing a number of jobs for anyone skilled in laboring, as well as a progressively increasing number of properties. Land formerly part of the countryside had been eaten up by the numerous developments, however some still remained, running along the far west edge of both Grand Stone Bay and Rosefield. Several small cottages were situated in the enduring fields, at least a mile and a half from the edge of the estate on which Christopher lived, providing a quaint and picturesque view that drew potential buyers to the complex.
Christopher could just about see the cottages as tiny dots, through the gaps in the eclectic mix of semi-detached buildings.
Having been constructed over the course of fifteen years, the estate was slightly muddled when it came to the designs of the houses. Every five or so properties, the general appearance of the buildings changed, reflecting the style of housing design from when they had been constructed. Walking down the road, out of the estate and towards his junior college, Christopher felt like he was walking back in time. Screen doors, deep alcoves, rounded arches, walls, fences, hedges, paths, stairs. Every conceivable feature of a home met him as he turned off of Lexington Avenue and onto Hyperion Way.
Barbara met him, sat on top of a low red brick wall that marked the end of somebody's front garden.
"Damn man, what happened?" she said, pushing herself up onto her feet in an exaggerated fashion. "You look like death."
"Thanks," Christopher replied, starting to walk. "You know, you always did have a knack for making me feel better about myself."
"Hey, I'm just telling you the truth," Barbara said, joining her friend at a brisk pace. "Who knows? You might have rolled out of bed this morning and come straight here, unaware of just how bad you actually look."
Despite the insults, Christopher smiled. "So, what, you're telling me you're providing some kind of public service?"
"In as many words. Now you know, you can avoid people and spare them what you've inflicted on me."
"By which you mean-?"
"Your face, yes."
Barbara beamed out a cheerful grin that, as always, managed to lift Christopher's mood. Infected by her attitude, he almost completely forgot about the stormy feeling that had clung to him all morning. The warmth of her aura had washed it away, cleaning it off of him like a hot shower, and draining the dregs down the plughole.
"You're quick today," he said, complimenting her wit. "I mean, I'd rather it wasn't directed at me, but you know."
"Why thank you," Barbara said making an elaborate rolling gesture with her hand. "I tip my hat to you."
"You're not wearing a hat."
"Oh come on, Christopher!" She laughed and shoved his shoulder, hard. "Use your imagination!"
"Alright, alright," he replied, chuckling and righting his legs, to stop himself from stumbling into the road. "So, come on, give it up. Why are you being so nice, today?"
"Nice?" Barbara half scoffed, half laughed. "And here I thought that I was insulting you."
"With you it's the same thing," Christopher smiled.
Eyeing her best friend out of the corner of her eye, Barbara pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Her earring, now exposed, piercings glittered in the morning light. "You know, I just thought that with everything going on, you kind of needed cheering up. But if you're going to complain about it…"
"No, no," he reassured, smiling pleasantly. "Don't stop. Really."
"Come on," she grinned, linking arms with him and setting off at a brisk pace. "If you want something to look forward to, just think: Eric's party is tonight."
"Ode to joy," Christopher replied, sarcastically.
"Oh come on, you're looking forward to it really! Trust me, a night out is just what you need."
"Yeah, but last time-"
"Last time you got really really drunk and slept with some random girl," Barbara interrupted, brushing aside the issue brashly. "You woke up the next day, realized what you'd done and freaked out. Listen, I like to tease you for it, but right now maybe that's just what you need. Take your mind off of all this stress you've been under."
"So what you're saying is I need to sleep with someone?"
"I'm saying you need to get fucked," she replied, crassly. "Whether it's fucked drunk, or fucked fucked is up to you."
"What would I ever do without you?" Christopher lifted one eyebrow and broke into a grin. "Such wisdom."
"Oft spoken from the mouths of babes," she quoted, airily.
"Yes, but you're not a babe." His blunt response was accompanied by a smile.
"I beg to differ!" she laughed. "Dan is always calling me babe!"
"Wrong kind of babe, babe," Christopher replied, joining his best friend, with a chuckle.
Just as Barbara was about to respond, she glanced back over her shoulder, momentarily pausing. Her train of thought stopped short. She had just seen something.
"Hey, speak of the devil," she said, smiling. "And after all that talk of what you need, to get over this."
Christopher glanced down at her "What?" he asked, slightly perplexed.
"Take a look behind us," Barbara grinned.
Christopher looked back, down the road. At least a hundred yards back, seemingly making a point of
hanging back, was a girl. Short, with blonde hair, Christopher recognized her instantly. It was Georgina.
But that's not right... he caught himself thinking. She lives in the opposite direction.
__________________________________
Drake arrived at the Grand Stone Bay Police Station, a cordial of confused feelings clinging to him like sweat. The musk of apprehension filled the inside of his car, lingering in the air and swimming about his head.
The previous afternoon, after relating everything he had discovered to McIrvin, he was almost taken off of the case. The bastard of a Superintendent actually had the nerve to 'thank him for his services'. He had even leant over his desk to shake Drake's hand.
It was Harold who saved him from being just another footnote on the investigation papers. Drake had never been so surprised. His mouth may have even hung open, for all he knew.
"I actually think it would be for the best if we kept Drake on this. I know he's not a Detective, but he was sharp enough to figure all of this out, when no one else did."
McIrvin had agreed only under the condition that Drake was partnered with one of his Detectives. They would be based out of Grand Stone Bay, until the case was closed, and would report directly to him. Harold would also be serving as a consultant.
Drake figured that the reason the Chief Superintendent had agreed to let him stay on was so that he would have a patsy; someone to shift any blame onto in the worst possible scenario. He also sensed that McIrvin, to a certain extent, admired Harold. Or at the very least wanted to be like him. The older man had seen the case as an opportunity to make a name for himself, and the best (or rather the most effective) way to do so was to remain in Harold's good books.
Drake was thankful for that.
Reversing into a free parking space, he glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the building. Light shimmered across the glass of the sliding doors in a white liquid shine. As opposed to the quaint charm of the Rosefield station, the Grand Stone Bay branch of the police service felt clinical and detached.