by Krishna Ahir
Moguls of emotion sprang up inside him as he made his way towards the disabled access ramp that led up to the doors. The feelings came in waves: Excitement dropping into dread. He was anxious to begin his official investigation; his first brush with CID. However, he was less than thrilled to be working under McIrvin. Worse still was the prospect of a new partner. While he was generally well-liked in his own station, Drake had little experience with the Grand Stone Bay Officers. Detectives were notoriously territorial, they didn't like anybody stepping on their toes and intruding into their cases. Him coming from another station would almost certainly aggravate the issue.
Showing his Warrant Card to the woman behind the reception desk, Drake was greeted with a friendly smile. Sliding through the gap in the glass shield, his office identification was passed to him, his own picture staring up at him through a frozen expression. The Grand Stone Bay station utilized magnetic locks on most of their doors, so the ID card would also serve as Drake's keys, during his time there.
"You'll be just down the hall," the woman (who's name tag identified her as Linda) said, pointing him down a branching corridor. "They set up the command centre for you all last night. I think some of our Detectives are in there already."
Picking up the ID and thanking Linda, Drake started to make his way down the hall. Blood pulsed through his skull, throbbing under his skin. He could smell copper, from where the vessels in his nose were struggling to contain the rushing blood.
Elaine had told him not to worry; that this was all a good thing. After he had presented her with the massive bouquet of lilies, she had sat on his lap practically the entire night, their conversations punctuated by kisses. In between a flurry of pecks, she had made the extra effort to convince him that he would get along well with his new comrades (and if anyone had a problem with him, she would call up Caroline and have her beat some sense into them).
Arriving at the door to the command centre, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Touching his card against the sensor, an electronic been resounded in his head; the light flashing green.
Drake's expression hardened as he laid eyes on what was obviously a joke dreamed up by several of the Grand Stone Bay Officers. The case board, at the head of the room and tacked with numerous pictures of cats, had been given the header "Pussy Hunting".
Squaring his jaw, Drake swallowed his anger and breathed out through his nose. Scanning the room, he spotted a single occupant, sitting in the corner.
Detective Sergeant Devon Osborne sat at his desk, leaning so far back in his chair that he was practically horizontal. His broad frame stretched out the buttons of his shirt receiving similar treatment as they struggled to contain the breadth of his muscular chest. His iron grey hair was long, hanging in thick curly locks and resting against his shoulders. A quick glance downwards revealed to Drake that he was wearing odd socks. Not the 'fumble in the dark and grabbing two of a similar color' kind of odd either. The one on his right foot was red, while the other was bright green.
Drake hoped and prayed to all the Gods he could think of that this was not his new partner. His mouth grey dry, like it was stuffed with cotton wool. His hopes, however, were dashed entirely as the peculiar man spoke.
"You the poor schmuck they decided to pair with me?" he asked, looking up at Drake and giving him the once over. His voice was husky and gravelly, years of smoking having practically ruined his vocal chords.
He nodded and hesitantly held out his right hand. "Drake Gregory."
"Osborne." He slid himself out of the chair and gripped the new arrival's hand tightly.
Drake could feel the Detective's thumb pressing firmly into the back of his hand. Catching a whiff of the large man, now that he was close enough, Drake recognized the scent of nicotine with coffee.
Now that he was up close, Drake had the opportunity to study his new partner's face. His features were blunt and hard; a strong jaw, hidden by grey stubble, wide cheeks, and a broad nose. Beneath his thick brows, Osborne' eyes bore the most extreme case of heterochromia Drake had ever seen. His right eye was a light blue, flecked with brown, while the iris of his left eye had been split evenly at a diagonal angle. One half was brown, while the other was hazel.
"Heard that you've been looking into this mess with the cats all on your own?" Osborne asked, turning his back on Drake and moving to sit back down. "Hell of a thing that, giving up all your free time on a hunch... Not many people would have."
"Would you?" Drake asked, simply. He was still assessing him; analyzing the man. His response would be a good indicator of what type of man he was.
He realized in a flash that this was exactly what Harold would have done. A pulse of discomfort raced through his system.
"Depends," Osborne grunted as he collapsed back into the reclining leather seat. "Depends on a lot of things actually... How many, who asked... If I was bored at the time."
Drake started, taking a step back. His expression must have been that of stunned shock, as the Detective immediately picked up on it. Osborne' lips twisted into a smile.
"I'm just being honest," he said. "If we're going to be working together, I might as well just throw you in at the deep end. It'll save you time trying to figure me out down the line. Or whatever it is you were doing just now. Watching me. If you want to know anything just ask. I don't like staring. Creeps me out, so knock that shit off right now or I swear to God I'm going to thump ya'."
Taken aback by the man's directness, Drake blinked several times before averting his eyes and apologizing.
"Don't worry about it," the large man continued, sweeping one hand back through his hair. "I didn't ask ya' to offend me, and it's not like you did it on purpose." He indicated a chair and desk parallel to his own. "Come on mate, take a seat."
Making a point not to stare at the did individual, Drake made his way to his new desk, the stunned sensation of their introduction addling his brain. Never before had he met a man quite so (for lack of a better word) odd. And brash. And yet, in spite of his forefront nature, still so difficult to figure out.
Looking over at the Detective Sergeant's desk, and forcing a special effort to avoid flicking his gaze up at Osborne' mismatched eyes, he attempted to find something, anything that could help to humanize him. Make him relatable.
He found it. Tucked behind the monitor of Osborne desktop, framed in pine, was a small photograph.
It was a picture of a cat.
Chapter 7
I was five the first time she hit me. I still can't remember what I'd done, but I know that I deserved it. Mum would only ever hit me if I deserved it. That's what she always told me.
It hurt. A lot. I cried a lot too. But that only made her hit me again.
I can't remember much about it, but what I can remember are the colors. I can always remember colors. Mum was wearing a blue jumper. Her nails were painted a similar shade; an off ocean blue. I can remember them shimmering as they raked over the skin of my cheek. When I looked in the mirror, my skin was flushed rose and the scratch glared out an angry vermillion.
After that first time, it started to happen more and more. Mum would hit me for any reason at all. Sometimes even without a reason. Because I deserved it.
Eventually I became inured to it.
Daddy taught me that word. It means you get used to it. And I did get used to it. It was normal. If Mum thought I had been bad, then I was punished.
I agree. It makes sense. If you are bad, then you are punished. Corrected, so that you don't do it again.
But sometimes I did do the bad things again. Even though I knew that they were wrong. Because I wanted to see the colors again. The beautiful shades of pink and purple and red. Especially the red. It made me think of fields of roses. I would imagine digging them up, gripping the barbed stems and feeling the pain as they pricked me; the blood bubbling out between my fingers matching the petals. I dreamed about giving them to Mum and saying I was sorry for being such a bad girl.
One of the hou
ses near us had a rose bush in their garden. Every time we drove past, I considered opening the door. Flinging myself out and making my dreams reality.
It was a hot night in June when I finally decided to commit to my fantasy. To make it real. I can't remember how old I was. Mum had left the window in the living room open, so after I crept downstairs I climbed out.
The walk took longer than I expected, but when I got there it was worth it. The earth was soft under my fingers and the thorns were just as sharp as I imagined. However, I regretted doing it at night. The moonlight bled all of the color away; the red of the roses and my blood looking black. But I still knew it was there. I could feel the color clinging to me.
When I got back the wind had blown the window shut. But I didn't care. I didn't want to sneak in. I wanted Mum to see what I'd done. So I knocked on the door.
Mum was furious.
I was covered in brown mud and crimson blood. Filthy.
A dirty little beast. That's what Mum called me as she grabbed me by the hair and dragged me inside. I dropped the roses on the way, but by the time I realized I was already upstairs.
I remember being confused. She hadn't hit me yet, which was completely wrong. Rather, she dragged me down the hall and put me in the bath. But it was strange. Once she had torn my clothes off and put me in the tub, I sat there naked thinking: Why isn't there any water?
That was when she went and got the kettle.
_____________________________________
"She couldn't have been following me." Christopher flicked his eyes over towards Lester Nelson and chewed on the corner of his lip. "Right?"
"Why don't you just ask her?" Lester grunted, rubbing at his eyes and falling back in his chair. "It's too early for me to deal with your crap."
"It's twelve in the afternoon," Christopher replied, pointedly.
The dark-skinned boy let out a low groan and scrunched his face up. Lifting his forearm over his face, he attempted to shut out the morning light and tilted his head back even further.
"That's what you get for staying up till two in the morning every night," Christopher said, jabbing one finger through the air, towards Lester.
"Can't I even get a bit of sympathy?"
"What, when you're refusing to help me, or even answer my questions? Not a chance."
"Ugh." Sitting upright, Lester turned towards his friend through his dark brown eyes. "Fine. I give you advice and you leave me to nap?"
Christopher quickly glanced around the room. They had a free period, so other than themselves, only two other students were currently inhabiting the space. "Deal. But if a teacher comes, I'm not waking you up."
"Deal. Look, I know you saw what you saw, but so what? So she was walking to college from the opposite direction. How do you even know that she was following you? Maybe she was staying at a friend's house last night. Maybe a relative lives down that way."
Christopher decided not to bring up the fact that Georgina had been walking alone, instead letting Lester finish his speech.
"Maybe she was following you," he continued. "Why are you acting like it's a bad thing? It's good. It means that she likes you, in case you hadn't figured that out anyway, you fucking genius." Lester pointed at Christopher in a matter-of-fact manner. "It means that you're in there. It means that you can actually have a good time tonight. And if you don't like her after that then no harm no foul. She still has a good night."
"Are you seriously telling me to do the 'fuck-and-chuck-'?" Christopher asked, pulling an unpleasant face.
He should have known better than to ask Lester for advice. Though he was one of his best friends, Lester was notoriously uncaring towards women. Whether it was the way he was raised or just something innate about him, he viewed them as little more than objects for his own or others' amusement. It was a side of him that Christopher both hated and found strangely intriguing. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around how, in this day and age, an attitude like Lester's still existed.
Needless to say, Barbara hated him for it. She tolerated Lester because he was friends with everybody else. If she could get away with it, Christopher figured that she would never say so much as a word to him.
"Yes," Lester replied, bluntly. He started to pick at his fingernails.
Christopher grimaced internally as he remembered his last ill-fated party hookup. "Well you've been helpful."
Lester raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"No."
Watching his friend shrug and return to his laying position, Christopher's mind trailed back to the image of Georgina, hanging back as she slowly kept pace with him and Barbara. While he couldn't clearly make out her face, he was sure that she had been watching him.
He thought about what exactly that meant. And more importantly how he felt about what it meant.
Georgina liked him. A lot. That much was clear to him now. While he had initially been oblivious to her advances, his talks with Barbara and the recent incidents when he had caught her watching him forced Christopher to reevaluate his perception of her.
And now she's, what? Following me? Watching me? Maybe she's been doing it for a while? It could be that I've only noticed it recently because of everything that's been on my mind.
His brain flashed across the grotesque sight of the corpses. The lone eye staring up at him. Bubbles of nausea swam through his stomach.
Reaching out, Christopher grasped the plastic water bottle set onto the table and downed a big glug. It succeeded in settling his stomach, but reminded him of just how empty it was. He was starting to regret not eating breakfast.
Attempting to clear his mind of the memory, he focused in on the situation with Georgina. About how he had decided to leave it all until the party and find out how he felt then. Wait for her to make a move, and see in the moment if he reciprocated the feelings. He was starting to regret that too.
He had History as last period, and she sat next to him. With the thoughts of her following him still fresh in his mind, Christopher was sure that the situation would be awkward.
It didn't help that the more he thought about her, the more he focused on her features. His mental image was forcing him to zero in on all of the most appealing aspects of her appearance. The glossy locks of her hair, like liquid honeycomb; the smooth edges of her almond shaped eyes; the gentle swell of her bust; the gradual flare of her hips. Christopher knew that after thinking about all of this as much as he had, he wouldn't be able to tear his eyes away from her.
He didn't want to look like a creeper. Not knowing what to say, and being certain that he was going to stare, however, ensured that he was firmly on track to looking like a slack-jawed gawker.
And he still wasn't sure about how he felt.
She was good looking, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted to be with her. And the following; the watching. He didn't know whether to feel flattered or uneasy.
Girls were complicated.
Life was complicated.
He considered taking the coward's way out. Leaving college early and heading home. Taking the time to prepare himself mentally for the party. Time to compose himself appropriately before the onslaught of people. He had already had enough of them that day; strangers coming up to him and asking him about why the police had taken him to the station. Christopher had already answered the same questions twenty times, before Lester and Lou had told them all to fuck off.
The teachers would understand. After what he had been through the day before, a number of them were surprised that he was even at college.
Checking the time on the wall-mounted clock, he ticked through the options in his head. Lunch period would be in ten minutes. After that, he had another free period, before the last period.
Christopher made up his mind.
He could afford to miss History class today.
__________________________________
Barbara was laying back on one of the few sofas that inhabited the Sixth floor common room, when she got the text from Christo
pher.
Gone home. Needed a break from it all... Don't miss me too much, okay? :P
She knew that it would happen sooner or later. Christopher had a problem with over thinking things and getting himself worked up, and while he was never normally one to skip college, Barbara understood that the memories of the day before, and the pressure of the Georgina Situation were getting to him.
Shifting her laying position, Barbara sank further into the cushions and started to type out a reply. The sofa was far too soft, giving her very little leverage to prop herself up and reply quickly. The springs had long since been removed by the overly safety-conscious faculty, making it so that anyone who dared sit on them sunk so far into the structure that they were practically squatting on the floor.
After hitting send, Barbara tucked the phone back into the pocket of her jeans and snatched up a discarded tabloid paper from the floor. She caught herself admiring the numerous tattoos, and wishing that she had the money to invest in some of her own. God willing, if she had the means to do so, Barbara would have covered her entire back in ink.
She could imagine revealing them to her shocked parents; so desperate to remain supportive of their daughter, but ultimately shackled by their own conservative upbringing. Barbara broke into a quiet laugh. Her boyfriend Marty would also have a few things to say if she ever committed herself to the needle. He had made a point several times of saying that he wasn't a fan of tattoos on girls. It was the one thing that she was slowly working towards changing about their relationship. The only person close to her that would genuinely applaud her decision would be Christopher. He had always been a firm believer in doing what made you happy, and telling anyone who didn't like it to go and screw themselves.
Barbara hoped that going home to sort himself out would make Christopher happy. He needed it. She hoped that, by the time she swang by his house that night in her Dad's car, he would have cheered up.