by Amy Cross
“Laney,” Dad says finally, dropping to his knees and putting a hand on my shoulder, “I'm so sorry. Please, I didn't mean to do that. You just have to understand... What you did has had massive repercussions. The forest is burning, people are losing their homes, some have even lost their lives. Laney, you have to stop talking, okay? I need to think, I need to figure out what we're going to do next and what we're going to say to people, but right now I just need you to stop talking.”
He pauses.
I don't dare look at him.
My cheek still hurts.
“I need to freshen up,” he adds finally, getting to his feet. “I'm sorry I hit you, Laney. I never... I never meant to do that. I love you, you know that. I just need to think.”
With that, he heads through to the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving me sitting all alone on the chair. Dad sounded so tired just now, more tired than ever. He's had it so hard since Mum died, and I feel ashamed for making everything get so much worse. For a few seconds, I sit in silence and think about the flames on the TV, and about the news that people have died in the huge forest fire I started.
It's all my fault.
If I hadn't been so stupid, so desperate, none of this would have happened.
Hearing a clicking sound nearby, I turn just in time to see that David has returned from the vending machine at the front of the motel. He has some bottles of soda in his arms, and a bag of sweets. He looks nervous.
“Where's Dad?” he asks, and then we both hear Dad starting to run some water in the bathroom.
I take a deep breath, trying to hold back tears.
“There's this cool video game machine in the lobby,” David continues. “It's like a shooting game and a racing game at the same time. If you win, you get a cool sticker. Wanna see?”
David hesitates, and then he comes closer to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I'm an idiot.”
“No, Laney, you just -”
“I'm a complete idiot,” I say firmly, as I look over toward the window. “I thought I wanted to know everything. I thought there'd be no consequences. I thought I could just peel back all the layers of truth, and that I wouldn't get scared. Even when I was faced with something strange, like that seagull, I didn't think to back away. I just kept going, trying to find out the truth. And now look what's happened.”
I wait, but after a moment David goes and sits on one of the beds.
“I don't know,” he says finally, as he starts eating sweets from the bag. “Stuff happens. You probably shouldn't get too hung up about it.”
You probably shouldn't get too hung up about it.
With those words still ringing in my ears, I get to my feet and head the window. Looking out across the parking lot, I see trees at the far end, marking the start of another patch of forest. Far away, smoke is rising into the gray sky. For a few seconds, I feel as if the world is staring back at me. I've often thought that there are secrets out there, things to be discovered, and I used to think that one day – when I grow up – I can help uncover those secrets. I always wanted to get down to the roots of the universe, I always wanted to strive to know more about how things work. But now?
Now I can't help thinking about the seagull, and the way it mocked me. Something was speaking to me through that creature, speaking from some place that I don't understand. And whereas once I would have wanted to get to the bottom of what really happened, now I'm scared of what I might learn.
“Laney?” David says, sounding bored. “What are you doing?”
I stare at the forest for a moment longer, contemplating the mysteries of the world, and then I draw the gray curtains in front of my face.
“Nothing,” I tell him, while ignoring a flicker of sadness in my chest. “Do you want to show me that game you were talking about?”
A Perfect Death
I
I've shot plenty of people over the years, of course. But I'd never been shot until this kid came out of nowhere late one night and fired ten rounds straight at me from about thirty yards away. Nine of the bullets missed me, but one went straight through my chest and out the other side. I don't mind telling you, I went down fast and heavy. And you know what? Everything went silent and slow-mo, just like in the movies. I guess I watch too many movies. But I knew I was hurt bad. Real bad.
And if that kid hadn't shot me a while back, I'd be dead by now.
***
"It's ironic," says Dr. Fibes, sitting behind his desk and glancing over my charts. "That bullet really saved your life, didn't it?"
I stare at him. Is he serious? "I'm still dying," I point out.
"You're a 40-year-old man. I'm 45. We're both dying. Everyone's dying. It's just unfortunate that you're doing it faster than the rest of us". He holds up an X-ray of my chest.
"Five years?" I ask again. I've been asking everyone that same thing, all day. Nurses, receptionists, lab technicians. Five years. Five years? Seriously?
"Give or take," Fibes says, putting the charts on his desk. "It's not possible to be exact, as you'll appreciate. Five years would be good. Four would be a little low, six would be excellent. Expect four to five, be grateful for any extra".
I smile for the first time in weeks.
"The way things have been going lately," I say, "I'll be grateful to make it as far as lunch".
Fibes stares at me. "It's good that you still have your sense of tumor". He waits for me to laugh. "That was a joke, obviously," he says finally. "But a sense of humor is very important. You'll need it as your body starts to shut down. I'm not going to lie to you, it's going to be-"
"Lie to me," I say.
"I can't. As your doctor -"
"Lie to me," I say. "Come on. As a favor. We've known each other a long time. I'm going back to work in three days. I could use some good news. Please? Lie to me".
Fibes opens his mouth to argue, but then he seems to think better of it. "Everything's going to be okay," he says, trying his best to lie his face off. "Nothing's going to hurt".
I smile. "Thanks, Doc".
"You've always been such a pessimist".
***
I ask for the bullet. It would be a macabre keepsake, something to keep by my bed, something to offer prayers to in times of need. "Can I have the bullet?" I say at the reception desk as I sign out.
"I don't think we have it," says the receptionist, a really hot young blonde, barely out of her teens. She scans some paperwork. "I guess the cops still have it".
"I'm a cop," I say.
"A bullet's maybe evidence or something," she says, smiling faintly. "I dunno if they'll give it to you".
I nod. "Okay," I say. "I'll steal it from the locker. By the way, I'll hate myself forever if I don't ask. Do you have a boyfriend?"
She stares at me, clearly surprised and a little awkward. "Er... no, I don't".
"Good," I say. "Do you want to meet up some time and have really, really good sex?"
She nervously looks around to see who might have heard. "Er... no," she says. "Thank you".
"Okay," I say. "Sorry. I just have a bet with a friend. He reckons if I ask a hundred random girls to have sex with me, one of them'll say yes eventually. I thought it was a stupid idea, but now I don't really have anything to lose. Plus, there's a damn good case of whiskey riding on it".
She looks really awkward, and she's blushing so bad I almost ask her again. "Good luck," she says finally, without looking back up at me.
"Thank you," I say as I turn and leave. One down, ninety-nine to go.
***
Five years. There's a lot a man could do in five years. It took Van Gogh four years to paint the sunflowers. It took Shakespeare three years to write Romeo and Juliet. It took that guy two years to write that book about the Louvre and the code. In five years, a man could create a masterpiece of art, or he could travel the world and sleep with a couple of hundred women, maybe as many as five hundred. Or he could find a better kind of woman, settle down,
have a couple of kids and just about have time to get to know them before falling off his perch. Or he could drink gallons and gallons of beer. Or all of those things, and more. Trouble is, most of that stuff takes money, and dedication, and willpower. Still... five years, eh? Surely I can do something a bit special with five final years?
Five years. 1,725 days. 41,400 hours. 2.4 million minutes. 149 million, 40 thousand seconds.
149 million, 39 thousand, 99 seconds.
149 million, 39 thousand, 98 seconds.
Or, a man could solve one of the really big cases that have been bugging him. Like the Monster of Rippon Cross serial killer. Or the Holtham Slaughterer. Or the Butcher of Broomstock.
Man, who comes up with these dumb nicknames?
I step out of the hospital and into an impossibly bright and sunny day that takes me completely by surprise. London. Birds, and huge boats I'll never set foot on, beautiful girls walking in both directions, and long, vast roads leading out of the city and - eventually - clear across the whole damn country. It's tempting to just get lost, to just disappear from the world. As I stand and stare at the cars whizzing past, I realize I'm not leaving town. For one thing, I have nowhere in particular to go and nothing in particular to do. For another, I'm a cop through and through, so this is where I belong. For another, I'm pretty sure Tepper is standing right behind me.
"I'm sorry I didn't come to see you," she says as I turn to face her. "I just got a new girlfriend, so... I haven't had a lot of spare time". She's squinting in the sun as she looks at me. If you want to know what she looks like, I'll tell you: she has a kind of Sophie Marceau vibe about her. I've asked her a number of times if she's sure there's no French blood in her, but she says there's not a drop. And to be fair, she has a pretty perfect Essex accent, which is where she grew up. She's a beautiful woman, but she never wears shades.
"It's okay," I say. "It's the thought that counts".
"Exactly," she says. "And honestly, I did think a lot about how bad it was of me not to come and see you. Car?"
***
In the two weeks since I got shot, Tepper's driving abilities have - if anything - deteriorated even further. I half suspect that she's going to classes to help her deteriorate as fast as possible. A kind of Bad Driving school. How else to explain the fact that she just gets worse and worse? She stalls twice as we attempt to leave the hospital parking lot, and as we join the main road we're going so slow that I can't help wondering if we'll get pulled over.
"Distract me," I say, the wound in my chest still sore and itchy.
"My new girlfriend's name is Head," she says, (thankfully) keeping her eyes on the road. "Seriously. Head. That's her surname. I don't love her, yet, but I love her name".
We sit in silence as we drive on.
"That worked," I say after a while, shifting a couple of times in the passenger seat.
"Where am I taking you, anyway?" she asks.
"Home," I say. "Then a bar. I need to be in a bar. In fact, you can skip home".
"Are you okay?" she asks. I don't answer. "They got the bullet out, right?"
"Yeah".
"So there's no permanent damage? You're gonna be okay?"
I nod. "I'm gonna be fine". I don't see the point in burdening her with talk about tumors and life expectancies. That's a whole separate thing.
Two squad cars race past us, sirens blaring. Tepper and I exchange a glance, and I reach over and switch on the network radio. It takes a moment for the fuzz and static to settle into something intelligible.
"...this him?" asks a voice that I don't recognize.
Static.
Another unfamiliar voice: "...cargo containers... round the back, I don't see any way he can..."
More static.
"...units to respond. Arsenio Felipe Cruz, armed and dangerous..."
"Cruz!" says Tepper. "Seriously? The Hollow Man?"
I grab the radio receiver and switch it on.
"This is Mason," I say. "Where's this happening?"
Static for a moment. "John? Is that you?"
"Where?" I shout.
Static. "...Lombardo shipping yard..."
I put the radio down. "Get us there," I say.
"You're not in any state for this," Tepper says.
"Get us there!" I insist. There's no point messing about. You fall off the horse, you get straight back on. Even if there's a burning pain in your belly, caused by a tumor that just won't stop growing.
“Stop bugging me,” I add.
“So when they pulled that bullet out of your chest,” she replies, “did they immediately turn you over and shove it straight up your ass?”
II
They call him the Hollow Man because over the years, thanks to a series of operations, he has had cavities hollowed out of his bones. In these cavities, he hides quantities of cocaine or any other hard drug you care to mention. Why? For undetectable transportation into the country. To find these packages, you would literally have to take the man's skin and bones apart. You'd have to unscrew his whole body. No-one has ever been able to catch him, all we ever had was a name - Arsenio Felipe Cruz - and the description given by one of Cruz's former doctors, who said the man's entire body was like a chest of drawers, with little cupboards and hidden hiding places all over. We've been hunting this guy for nearly a decade.
If that all sounds a little weird, a little unbelievable, then...
Well, join the club.
And now we've found him, apparently. He was identified a few hours ago and, after a chase, he's cornered in the Lombardo shipping yard. More than two hundred cops are swarming all over the scene, radiating out from a single office building in which Lopez is reported to be hiding. The whole place is covered. Every window, every door. Someone even ran down to the local council office to dig out the blueprints of the building, to check that there's no basement exit. But no, it seems he's really cornered this time, even if he's not quite ready to give up: he has a hostage, a woman who works in the office. So far he's issued no demands, he hasn't communicated with the outside world at all. He probably thinks he doesn't have to. He knows that we know that all he wants is to get out of here. He also knows that we won't let that happen. So he knows he's probably going to die. All this, the hostage and the rest of the crap, is just him going through the motions so that everyone knows later on that he made one last stand.
I can't decide whether that's pathetic or brilliant.
Lou Rich is the officer in charge. He's handling the megaphone and trying to work out where to position the snipers. God help anyone whose life ever depends upon the abilities of Lou Rich. He's nice enough, but he's pretty hopeless as a detective. In fact, I'm fairly sure you could make a decent career out of just doing the exact opposite of what Lou does in every situation. I can't believe I've been shot, yet Lou Rich has never received so much of a scratch. He's so shootable.
"We have to work out what he wants," Lou is saying to no-one in particular as Tepper and I arrive. As soon as he sees me, Lou looks concerned. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you've got Mr. Hollow cornered," I say, trying to act friendly.
"Yeah," Lou says, keeping an eye on me as I pass him. "But that's what I'm doing here. What are you doing here?"
I grab a flak jacket from the boot of one of the squad cars. Tepper helps me get it on. "I'm going in there to talk to him," I say.
"No, you're not," says Lou, lumbering over and pushing Tepper away from me. "This is my operation -"
"And you'll get all the credit," I say, finishing putting on the jacket myself.
"Don't do this," says Lou. He leans in to me and whispers. "You're making me look bad".
"Play the cards you're dealt," I say.
Lou stands up straight, then raises his voice. "Detective Mason, I am entrusting you with this mission because I need a man I can trust!" He stops to see if anyone is paying attention. "Don't let me down!" He leans in and whispers again. "Please".
"I'll try to stay alive
," I say. "Just for you. Okay? I'm ready".
"I hope he shoots you in the head," Lou says.
"I hope so too," I say as I turn and start walking past the lines of marksmen, towards the office. Well, what's a better way to die? As a hero taking down a notorious criminal, or alone in some hospital bed after your thousandth dose of chemo?
If I'm dying anyway, I might as well be brave.
***
According to the 12-week initial hostage situation training program that I once took, the first thing you should do is to try to establish a relationship with the suspect. Then, you should seek to locate some common ground. Then, you should try to reason with him. Then, you should try to get some of the hostages out of there. Then, you should see if you can capture him alive. But these things are supposed to be done in order, not all at once.
I push the door open and march straight into the open office.
"Arsenio!" I call out. "Come down, give up and let's cut the crap".
I'm met by a wall of silence. The office is a mess, the contents of all the desks strewn across the floor. The only sound is the occasional gurgle of police radios from outside, and the only movement is a series of dancing red dots coming in through the window and playing across the walls.
"Arsenio!" I shout again. "I'm not into formalities, so let's get this over with. If you're gonna shoot me, shoot me. If you're gonna surrender, surrender. If you're going to blow your head off, blow your head off. But let's get it done quickly, okay? I need to pee".
Damn it, I do need to pee. I spot a bin by one of the desks. Walking over, I unzip and relieve myself. Hell, I'm dying. Who cares anymore?
"Are you listening, Arsenio?" I call out.
Still nothing. Damn, I'm not even sure he's in here. It'd be typical of Lou Rich to surround the wrong office. But just as I contemplate finishing up with the bin, I hear something from the next room. It sounds like someone sobbing.
