At the entrance to the squadroom he has to pause and draw a deep breath before continuing. Ignore them, he tells himself. Whatever they want to say, whatever bullshit comments they want to make, don’t react. Just let them get it off their chests.
The room is busier than usual. A lot busier. In addition to the regular day-tour detectives, there are the Robbery Apprehension guys, there are cops from Anti-Crime, there is a gaggle of uniforms who all chose this very moment to drop off some paperwork. All come to see the freak show.
The gang’s all here, thinks Doyle. Let’s get this party started.
He aims for his desk and starts walking like he’s heading for the hangman’s noose. Silence descends on the room. No clacking of keyboards, no wisecracks, no coughing, no cursing. Eerily, even the phones stop ringing, as though the whole city has been notified to observe a minute’s silence for this event.
Doyle takes a seat on his familiar chair — the one with the splatter of paint on its arm. He casts his gaze over his familiar scarred desk — the one with the left-hand drawer that doesn’t open. He looks at his stack of Guinness beer mats, the bobble-headed leprechaun.
And then it starts.
One guy at first. Then a few more. Then practically everyone.
They are applauding.
They are clapping loudly and without sarcasm. They are showing their support for one of their own. They are welcoming him home.
Doyle keeps his gaze fixed on his desktop. He is certain there will be one or two cops — Schneider amongst them — who will not be applauding. But right now he doesn’t want to know who’s for him and who’s against him. He just wants to absorb the overriding sense of acceptance.
They approach him then. Shaking his hand, slapping his back and shoulder, issuing pat phrases that could come straight off greeting cards. To Doyle it’s a blur of faces and a bombardment of words that all sound different but which all convey essentially the same positive message.
And then they drift away. Back to their desks, their offices, their work. A file cabinet squeaks open. Someone starts bashing at a keyboard. A phone starts ringing. Normality reigns once more.
Except it isn’t normal. How could it be normal?
All those people dead. The empty desks in the squadroom. The things that Doyle himself did and of which he cannot speak. And, of course, the message from Lucas Bartok. Those whispered words of his, seared into Doyle’s brain:
‘I got a corpse. The body of a guinea named Sonny Rocca. Still with your bullets in him.’
Which tells Doyle that Bartok hasn’t stepped out forever. He’s coming back. Maybe not tomorrow, or next week, or even next month. But he’ll be back.
Doyle knows his life will never be the same again.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-97cfc4-38d1-394e-5d9e-4f0e-eade-6c2d6e
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 16.10.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.36, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Jackson, David
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Pariah cd-1 Page 28