Tonight, the moon runs red with blood.
I've tried to give myself the evening off. I headed to a favourite bar in town - the Earth and Stars - and spent the evening in a mass of bodies, shouting and laughing. A game of football played in the background, prompting raucus cheers from the back of the dark room. With the job being so intense lately, it's been good to relax a little. My body whispers threats of payback for the chemicals I drown it in: but tonight, I don't care. Tonight I turn off, close my mind, and think of nothing.
Walking back through the streets to my apartment, paving stones moving uncertainly beneath my groggy feet, the moon rises high, dark and bloody. Someone will pay a heavy price for a moon like that tonight. Someone, somewhere, will get hurt.
I stand still and stare at it a while, hunched against the cold air. It's not my problem. It's not my fault, it's not my responsibility, and it's not my head.
Not tonight.
Sunday, March 4
Saturday, March 3
Shiny Bright Lies
The clouds parted again today. The sky, at least has offered me some benediction. But even as the sun shines down, illuminating the streets falsely, dazzling in the promises of clarity offered by shiny windows, I know that the Earth has little to offer. The world looks so sickeningly, wretchedly clean that I suddenly want to tear my eyes out. It's all a lie. Nothing is that clean. Not the dirty streets, not the windows that hide sins behind trecherous light, not Seth's cousin. The lies shine brighter in the sunlight. That's all. I yearn for shadows again, where the evils are hidden from sight.
I close the blinds and throw back another whiskey.
I had a hint of a lucky break this morning. I tracked down a newspaper to match the one I found in Thompsons' hotel room. His copy has a section torn out from the personals. My copy is untainted, giving me five adverts which might have been interest to Thompson. If I can track down who posted the adverts, I might be able to find what he was looking for. Then I can hold him to account for his lies.
I close the blinds and throw back another whiskey.
I had a hint of a lucky break this morning. I tracked down a newspaper to match the one I found in Thompsons' hotel room. His copy has a section torn out from the personals. My copy is untainted, giving me five adverts which might have been interest to Thompson. If I can track down who posted the adverts, I might be able to find what he was looking for. Then I can hold him to account for his lies.
Friday, March 2
Tricks
I decide to get some air, visit some informants. I'm drowning in the stale air of the office again: the streets welcome me, cobblestones whispering their stories as I pass over them.
I find Arbon and Amoe doing a routine near the jewellers. These guys are artists. Arbon sits on an upturned milk pallet, strumming away on a bass guitar. I stand and watch from the corner. A small crowd has gathered round - it's a nice day, and Arbon is putting on a good show. I spy Amoe creeping round the crowds. If you didn't know what to look for, you'd never notice him pinching wallets and phones from pockets. Today's his lucky day: a girl takes out her white earbuds to listen in. Quick as a flash, Amoe unplugs the headphones and swipes the iPod from her pocket. I wonder how long it takes people to realise they've been swindled.
I prefer the 'free hug' scam, myself. They'll stand in Churchill square with big poster signs and warm, fuzzy hats. As giggly school girls and lonely parents are coaxed into a hug, the boys swipe whatever they can get from rear pockets and handbags.
Artists.
Arbon finishes up the song, and I walk over. These two know the streets better than anyone. They give me some background information about the Eigonvector Gang. Not much - their turf, typical activities. No names, but it's a start. The boys are good to me, I barely even have to coax the information out of them.
Amoe and Arbon are always good to me. Ever since I helped them out with a police officer who got wise to one of their games. It was easy enough to do, but it bought their loyalty. Maybe even their friendship. All it took was a hooker, a video camera, and a jar of vaseline. The case was dropped the next afternoon.
Arbon packs up and heads off. Amoe waves, turns and walks off. I call to his back, politely asking for my wallet back. He grins wolfishly and hands it over. I know that the twenty pound note inside will have vanished. Service rendered, service paid.
The boys are good to me.
I find Arbon and Amoe doing a routine near the jewellers. These guys are artists. Arbon sits on an upturned milk pallet, strumming away on a bass guitar. I stand and watch from the corner. A small crowd has gathered round - it's a nice day, and Arbon is putting on a good show. I spy Amoe creeping round the crowds. If you didn't know what to look for, you'd never notice him pinching wallets and phones from pockets. Today's his lucky day: a girl takes out her white earbuds to listen in. Quick as a flash, Amoe unplugs the headphones and swipes the iPod from her pocket. I wonder how long it takes people to realise they've been swindled.
I prefer the 'free hug' scam, myself. They'll stand in Churchill square with big poster signs and warm, fuzzy hats. As giggly school girls and lonely parents are coaxed into a hug, the boys swipe whatever they can get from rear pockets and handbags.
Artists.
Arbon finishes up the song, and I walk over. These two know the streets better than anyone. They give me some background information about the Eigonvector Gang. Not much - their turf, typical activities. No names, but it's a start. The boys are good to me, I barely even have to coax the information out of them.
Amoe and Arbon are always good to me. Ever since I helped them out with a police officer who got wise to one of their games. It was easy enough to do, but it bought their loyalty. Maybe even their friendship. All it took was a hooker, a video camera, and a jar of vaseline. The case was dropped the next afternoon.
Arbon packs up and heads off. Amoe waves, turns and walks off. I call to his back, politely asking for my wallet back. He grins wolfishly and hands it over. I know that the twenty pound note inside will have vanished. Service rendered, service paid.
The boys are good to me.
Friends
I reach the office this morning in a mood blacker than my coffee. Another sleepless night, clues and mysteries racking my brain. The office phone rings all morning. I ignore it. It keeps ringing. I pick it up. An old friend is own town, she wants to meet up, buy me lunch. I can't see when my next paycheck is going to arrive. I'm not too proud to accept. Besides, it'll be good to see a freindly face.
Well, friendly as it gets.
We eat, we talk. She's well. I'm working hard. The job is fine. Lies burn my throat and a smile threatens to tear my face in two. She gets a phone call, apologises for leaving early, and rushes out. A grumpy waitress puts the bill in front of me. Have I just been cheated of my lunch?
It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. She's a friend. But as I count the change in my pockets, my stomach sinks deeper and deeper. The expensive meal turns dark inside me, turns to poison, turns to sickness and bile.
But it does matter. I've been robbed by someone I took to be a friend. One hand drifts inside my jacket. Providence awaits inside.
The mist descends. What am I doing? Damnned fool, it's just lunch. Pay the bill. Go home. Find some dirt for Seth. With trembling hands, I pay the bill and thank the waitress. What is becoming of me? I'm getting paranoid. Jumping at shadows, seeing deamons where there are none, always assuming the worst.
I head back to the office, unplug the phone, and sort through the accounts Seth gave me. Numbers aren't out to get me, but I make sure to keep Faith in sight as I work.
Well, friendly as it gets.
We eat, we talk. She's well. I'm working hard. The job is fine. Lies burn my throat and a smile threatens to tear my face in two. She gets a phone call, apologises for leaving early, and rushes out. A grumpy waitress puts the bill in front of me. Have I just been cheated of my lunch?
It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. She's a friend. But as I count the change in my pockets, my stomach sinks deeper and deeper. The expensive meal turns dark inside me, turns to poison, turns to sickness and bile.
But it does matter. I've been robbed by someone I took to be a friend. One hand drifts inside my jacket. Providence awaits inside.
The mist descends. What am I doing? Damnned fool, it's just lunch. Pay the bill. Go home. Find some dirt for Seth. With trembling hands, I pay the bill and thank the waitress. What is becoming of me? I'm getting paranoid. Jumping at shadows, seeing deamons where there are none, always assuming the worst.
I head back to the office, unplug the phone, and sort through the accounts Seth gave me. Numbers aren't out to get me, but I make sure to keep Faith in sight as I work.
Thursday, March 1
Four Seasons
When you don't sleep, mornings and evenings lose meaning. Night and day fade, merge, and get confused. Everything becomes an eternal twilight. Things start to lose absolute meaning and shift around on scales. You become constantly part awake and part asleep; part dreaming and part seeing; part in the world, and part out of it. Constancy becomes a myth, a rumour, a dream. How I dream to put my head down and have the world go quiet.
But I can't sleep. Not now. Thompson is out there, somewhere. A kid worth a months rent is held by some unknown gang. I don't know which is more terrifying anymore: the clients, or the jobs.
At some stage in this grey dream, I managed to find a moment of clairty. The letters '4C07' have bounced around my skull for days now, a pneumatic drill bearing on my nerves. But in a moment, a half-forgotten daydream, it makes sense. 4C. The Four Seasons hotel. Room 07. Before doubt can cloud my mind once more, I holster The Twins and drive over. I can only hope that the trail hasn't gone cold.
Midnight, and the road stretches before me, dazzling and burning under streetlights and neon signs. I have to wind the window down to stay awake: the cold air whips and stings my skin, soothing and agonising like a sadists wet dream.
The Four Seasons is a tiny hotel just off the sea front. If I wasn't trying to track down my potential murderer, I might have thought the place quaint. I walk up the steps to find the door locked. No suprise. Luckily enough, I've done this before.
I steal inside, keeping Faith close. Room seven is on the top floor. The floorboards creak, but there's no other sound. I wait on the landing for a moment, listening for sounds of life. A seagull caws somewhere in the distance. I pick the lock and creep inside the room.
It's tiny. Single bed and wardrobe dual in the dark for space. But there's no one here. The bed is neatly made and turned. The wardrobe is empty. The toilet roll in the en suite is fresh and untorn.
I'm about to leave when I notice the newspaper, tucked between the bed and a tiny bedside table. I draw it out and move to the window, straining to read the paper from the fuzzy glow of the streetlight outside. It's dated the 27th, the day of the Chichester Arms stakeout. I flick through the pages, expecting nothing. But someone is smiling on me: a section of adverts has been torn from the personals page.
Thompson you stupid bastard, I hope it's a bodyguard you're looking for.
But I can't sleep. Not now. Thompson is out there, somewhere. A kid worth a months rent is held by some unknown gang. I don't know which is more terrifying anymore: the clients, or the jobs.
At some stage in this grey dream, I managed to find a moment of clairty. The letters '4C07' have bounced around my skull for days now, a pneumatic drill bearing on my nerves. But in a moment, a half-forgotten daydream, it makes sense. 4C. The Four Seasons hotel. Room 07. Before doubt can cloud my mind once more, I holster The Twins and drive over. I can only hope that the trail hasn't gone cold.
Midnight, and the road stretches before me, dazzling and burning under streetlights and neon signs. I have to wind the window down to stay awake: the cold air whips and stings my skin, soothing and agonising like a sadists wet dream.
The Four Seasons is a tiny hotel just off the sea front. If I wasn't trying to track down my potential murderer, I might have thought the place quaint. I walk up the steps to find the door locked. No suprise. Luckily enough, I've done this before.
I steal inside, keeping Faith close. Room seven is on the top floor. The floorboards creak, but there's no other sound. I wait on the landing for a moment, listening for sounds of life. A seagull caws somewhere in the distance. I pick the lock and creep inside the room.
It's tiny. Single bed and wardrobe dual in the dark for space. But there's no one here. The bed is neatly made and turned. The wardrobe is empty. The toilet roll in the en suite is fresh and untorn.
I'm about to leave when I notice the newspaper, tucked between the bed and a tiny bedside table. I draw it out and move to the window, straining to read the paper from the fuzzy glow of the streetlight outside. It's dated the 27th, the day of the Chichester Arms stakeout. I flick through the pages, expecting nothing. But someone is smiling on me: a section of adverts has been torn from the personals page.
Thompson you stupid bastard, I hope it's a bodyguard you're looking for.
The Eigonvector Gang
It only took one day of sheltering behind my four office walls to get restless. A man can only stick to one place for so often before he turns into a rat. Seth's cousin has, so far, proved to be the most boring executive to walk the Earth. I've found nothing in his background to use against him. No one can be that clean. Cleaning up after yourself always leaves a mess somewhere else. It's only a matter of time before I track it down. But with my eyes aching like they've just cycled the London-Brighton marathon, I decided enough was enough.
I've been hanging around The Gladstone, trying to get a lead on the Baltam case. An afternoon cradling whiskeys and watching barmaids is no bad thing. After about an hour of flashing Baltam's photo around, I hit upon a lead. Some Korean almost coughed up his drink when he saw the picture. Poor kid. He let slip that Baltam's boy is being held by some group calling themselves 'The Eigonvector Gang'. And here was me, thinking I had an easy case on my hands. The kid ran off when he got a glimpse of Faith inside my jacket. Hopefully he'll be wise enough to keep his mouth shut. My guess is, if the gang founds out he's squeked, he'll have more to worry about then holding his drink down.
These Eigonvectors will take more looking into. I'm still jumping at shadows after Thompson's games. Next time I walk into a darkened corridor, I want to be damned sure who turned out the lights.
I've been hanging around The Gladstone, trying to get a lead on the Baltam case. An afternoon cradling whiskeys and watching barmaids is no bad thing. After about an hour of flashing Baltam's photo around, I hit upon a lead. Some Korean almost coughed up his drink when he saw the picture. Poor kid. He let slip that Baltam's boy is being held by some group calling themselves 'The Eigonvector Gang'. And here was me, thinking I had an easy case on my hands. The kid ran off when he got a glimpse of Faith inside my jacket. Hopefully he'll be wise enough to keep his mouth shut. My guess is, if the gang founds out he's squeked, he'll have more to worry about then holding his drink down.
These Eigonvectors will take more looking into. I'm still jumping at shadows after Thompson's games. Next time I walk into a darkened corridor, I want to be damned sure who turned out the lights.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)