by Amy Cross
"I hope that's the hostage!" I shout out as I zip myself up. "Otherwise I have very little respect for you, Arsenio, if you're crying like a baby".
More sobbing. I walk towards the door that leads to the next room.
"This is boring," I say. "I've done dozens of hostage situations. They're all boring, and this one's boring. I expected better from you. I didn't know you were so... boring".
I'm about to step forwards, when a gunshot rings out and the sobbing stops.
"Better?" calls a voice from the other room. It's an old voice, the voice of a man who smokes a lot. The voice of a man in pain.
"You got any other hostages in there?" I ask.
"Thousands".
Great. He's clearly got no intention of trying to get out of this alive. The only question is whether he intends to take me, and perhaps the entire building, with him.
"You're a smart guy," I say. "How'd you get cornered like this?"
There's a sigh from the next room. "It's looking increasingly as if I was betrayed".
I step a little closer to the door. I still haven't got a visual on him, but I know he's somewhere in the next room.
"You okay with me coming in?" I ask.
"It's up to you," the voice says. "But you'd be better off spending your time looking in shipping container number 509. That's where the real action is".
"We'll get to that," I say as I walk through the door. On the floor, there's a freshly plugged body with a pool of blood still forming beneath the head. So much for the idea that I'm going to rescue the hostage.
Over by the filing cabinet, there's a man in a badly-fitted black suit. He's oldish, in his 50s and smoking a cigarette. His hair - what little is left of him - is turning gray. "Assuming you're not going to let me take you alive, do you want to just shoot yourself right now?"
"You're right," he says. "I'm going to die today. But I need to think of a heroic way to go out. That's all I care about now".
"Tell me about it," I mutter.
"We could go together?"
I look at the dead hostage on the ground. "You didn't have to shoot him".
"I don't have to blow you up".
It takes me a second or two to register what he means, and then I turn and run. Heading out of the room, I clamber straight over a desk and charge out of the door. Ahead of me, I see a line of police cars, with officers staring at me. I don't look back, but I hear a tremendous boom and the ground starts to shake, and I find myself lifted up into the air as an intense heat rushes against my back. And now I'm coming back down, and I think I'm going to land head-first on that patrol car. That's going to -
***
"You really aren't having much luck lately are you?" asks Tepper, standing over me as I open my eyes.
"Not really," I say. I turn my head to look in the direction of the office block, but all that's left is a smoking pile of rubble, with forensics teams picking around at the edges, not sure where to begin.
"You're lucky you're not dead," Tepper says.
“You're all lucky I'm not dead”.
She rolls her eyes.
"He gave me just enough time to get out," I say. I sit up, and I immediately find that my head's pounding. "Why did he do that?" I put my hand to the side of my face and find that it's cut up pretty bad. "Am I okay?" I ask.
"Stand up," she replies, and then she helps me to my feet. "You'll live".
I nod. I guess I will, at least for a little longer.
"509," I say. "Shipping container 509. He told me to check it out. That must be why he let me live".
Tepper nods. "I'll get some guys to go and take a look".
I shake my head. "This is my case now," I say.
"Okay, but I'm coming with you".
"Fine". We slip away from the rest of the officers, and we head to the yard where the shipping containers are stacked up. It's pretty evident that they're in no order whatsoever, and they stretch for miles.
"Hey!" I shout up at an open window.
A head appears from within. "Is it safe?"
"I need to look inside container 509," I shout up.
"Do you have a warrant?"
"No".
He thinks for a moment. "Do you need one?"
"No," I lie.
"Okay," he says, and disappears for a moment before emerging from a small door and tossing a set of keys down to me. "Follow this line," he says, pointing ahead of us. "When you get to number 56, that's a green one, turn left and 509's the big yellow one".
Tepper and I make our way down there. I'm limping a little, and my head hurts, and I know there's something up with my face, and I'm still kind of sore from my recent hospital visit, and there's the cancer pumping away inside me and giving me stomach pains, and I think my neck's getting sunburnt. All in all, this is the kind of day I richly deserve.
"509," says Tepper as we stop in front of a large yellow container.
I try the keys, and it takes a while to find the right one. We exchange a glance, then pull open the door.
It's empty.
"So much for that," says Tepper.
I step inside.
"It stinks," I say. "It smells of people". I flinch as a bolt of pain shoots up my left side.
"Are you okay?" Tepper asks.
I nod.
I notice something hanging in the darkness. Going over to take a look, I see that it's a manacle, used for strapping someone to the wall. And there are more. I count 15 sets. "There's something else," I say. "Do you smell it?"
Tepper has started examining one of the sets of manacles. "What?" she asks.
"Death," I say, holding my side to try to ease the pain. "A lot of it. How do you not know that smell by now?"
"Are you an expert now?" asks Tepper, joking.
"I might well be," I say, taking a deep breath and breathing in the foul stench. “Either way, I'm telling you, a lot of people have died in here."
III
"Kids," says Alice, the crime scene investigator I've been considering asking out despite the fact that she's far too young for me. "All the samples I've rush-tested so far, the blood and urine, I think it's all from kids".
We look around the interior of the empty shipping container.
"You've got DNA, then?" Tepper asks.
Alice nods. "But don't get your hopes up. This guy obviously didn't mind leaving stuff behind, but that doesn't mean I'll be able to get any easy answers for you".
"Run it anyway," says Lou Rich, storming into the container. "We might get lucky".
That's the problem with Lou. Always going on about luck, like it's some magic thing that rains down on the pious. All morning, he's been saying the right things about how evil the bad guys are, and how good the good guys are. He definitely sounds the part, but it doesn't make any difference. A superstitious cop is a bad cop.
"Shouldn't you be at home resting?" Lou asks, looking directly at where he knows I got shot. It's as if he heard me mentally dressing him down.
"I should," I say bluntly. "So, do we know who was renting this container?"
"There was a name," says Lou. "But it was fake. There's no CCTV to speak of. Guy on the desk says someone used to come down here at night, but that's all he can tell us".
"No-one thought to check what was going on?" Tepper asks.
"It was no-one's job to check," I say. "Guy in the office, his job is to make sure no-one breaks into the yard. Manager's job is to make sure everybody pays. That's it".
"Disgusting," says Alice from behind me. I turn to look at her. "This place wasn't just a dorm, it was a toilet as well," she explains. "They were just left to go to the toilet where they were. It's like someone had a good party in here". She smiles as she sees my expression. "Also -" She holds up a small sample dish. "Cranial fluid, I think. Someone's head got opened up".
"How long ago?" I ask.
"There's a range. Some's fresh, just a few days. Some's old. Weeks, months. I really don't know, but I think there's quite a wide timescale
. I'll put my reasoning in the report".
"People were living in here," says Tepper.
While they discuss things, I go to look around at the far end of the container again. If a load of kids were really stored away in here, I'm damn sure they'd try to leave a message. It's natural, it's part of the human spirit. No matter what you have to endure, no matter what agony someone else puts you through, you try to leave something behind. To warn others, or to tell them you were here. Just to give yourself hope.
So far, though, there's nothing. The corrugated metal walls of the container don't exactly offer much of a writing surface. But then, just as I'm about to give up, I spot something right in the corner, on the floor.
"Come and look at this," I say.
Alice is the first to come over. She crouches down next to me. "David," she says, reading the letters that have been arranged in little white lines.
"What's it written in?" I ask.
She examines it with tweezers. "Fingernail clippings," she says after a moment. "Stuck in place with spit and excrement".
"Why?" Lou asks. "What's he trying to tell us?"
I look at the sad little message. "Just that he was here," I say. "And that he had a name".
Lou has come over and is now standing right behind us. He's blocking the light, so we can't really see the letters very well. "Why?" he asks. "Why not give us a proper clue instead?"
"I guess," I say, "he gave up hoping".
My phone rings. I look at the number. "I've got to take this," I say, walking out of the container.
***
"You need to book an appointment in the next two weeks," says Dr. Fibes on the other end of the line. "It's important to deliver the chemo in stages. You can't miss a stage, or it doesn't work properly".
"I know," I say, having stepped over to a different part of the yard so that no-one can overhear, "but I'm a very busy man, you see, and -"
"Your cancer is busy too," he says. "Busy spreading. You need chemo to distract it".
Is that all it's going to be? A distraction? I have five years to live. If I thought the chemo would give me longer, I'd be more enthusiastic. But as it is, I have to fight and hope and battle, and the most I'll get is five years' more life. It's not much of a reward.
"You see, I've just started a new case," I say. "Will the chemo affect me?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line. "You want chemo that doesn't affect you? What good's that? If it doesn't affect you, it doesn't affect the tumor".
I reach into my pocket and take out the small bottle of pills I've been prescribed. "This stuff you gave me, what are the side-effects?"
"The usual," says Fibes. "Nausea, drowsiness, weight loss, lack of imminent death. You're taking them, aren't you?"
"Drowsiness?" I ask. "So they'll slow me down? Mess with my ability to think?"
"Only a little. Sometimes. Nothing much. Listen, I'm serious, you need to take them. Tell me you're taking them".
I stare at the unopened bottle. "I'm taking them," I say.
"Good. I'm making you an appointment for Monday at 1pm, for your first chemo session. You'll be here, right?"
"I'll be there," I say, cutting him off and putting the phone away. I look over at the police cars that are parked outside the shipping container. There were kids in that container, and they'd given up all hope of ever getting out. Maybe they're dead now, maybe they're not. But if there's a chance that they're alive, it's important to find them. I walk over to the edge of the harbor and drop-kick the bottle of pills into the water. After all, I need a clear head for this one. I'm no use to anyone if I can't think straight.
***
"Wait!" I shout, running across the yard. "Wait! WAIT!"
The medics stop. They're wheeling the Hollow Man's corpse, or what's left of it after the explosion, toward an ambulance. "I need to look at this".
One of the medics steps forward. "Do you have authorization?"
"No," I say, pulling the covers off the body. "But you know I can get it".
The medic sighs and steps back. I look at the Hollow Man's remains. There's not much, and the few bits and pieces that are left are like little lumps of meat with bits of wood and metal sticking out of them. Still, I need to look at them. Something doesn't make sense. You don't give someone a clue to something as big as that shipping container, but then have them hit a dead end. You at least leave a few other clues kicking around.
Maybe as a test.
I pick up his forearm, with the hand still attached. The Hollow Man had surgically removed parts of his muscle and bone so that little cabinets and chambers could be inserted. It was these cabinets and chambers that were full of cocaine every time he came home from one of his little vacations. Sure enough, on the underside of his forearm there's a little fleshy lump, like a doorknob. I pull it and the skin opens up to reveal a little metal box, a little cubicle. Albeit, an empty one.
"I've seen some sick stuff," says the medic, "but that's pretty gross”.
"Really?" I ask as I keep examining the bits of corpse. "This affects you?" I glance at him. "You don't show it".
"I'm a professional".
"A professional what?" That's mean. I don't know why, but I just take an instant dislike to some people, and this guy's a great example. There's something about his manner, the way he talks, the way he stares at me. "What's your name?" I ask.
"Orris. I know your name".
"Orris?" I ask, genuinely surprised for a moment. "That's a name?"
"Yes," he says. "Would you like to say something witty and oh-so-clever so that I can detest you even more?"
I stare at him for a moment. Damn. He's like me. He instantly dislikes me, just as I instantly dislike him. The irony is, I probably have more in common with this guy than with anyone else in my life.
"There's nothing here," I say, putting down the forearm. "There's nothing in any of this".
Is that true? Or is it just that I can't see what I'm supposed to see?
What did they give me at the hospital? The old me, the 'real' me, would have found clues by now, but something's blocking my thought processes. I look down at my belly. Maybe it's the cancer? It must have changed things inside my body. Damn. At this rate I'm down at the same intellectual level as someone like -
"Hey," says Lou, walking over. "Do you have authorization?"
I pull the covers back over the body. "No," I say. "This medic had no right to let me examine the body. You really should discipline him".
"Screw you," says the medic, and the body is wheeled away.
"I'm worried about you," says Lou.
"No you're not," I reply.
"I'm worried about the investigation," he says.
"No, you're not".
"I just want things to go smoothly," he says finally.
I look at him for a moment. In his fedora and loud Hawaiian shirt, he's totally content to be mediocre. The things he doesn't understand, he ignores. If this case is left to him, it'll consume resources for a few weeks and then it'll be filed away as unsolved. Unsolvable.
I look past him, and I see Tepper and Alice working a few hundred meters away.
"I need to clear my head," I say. "Lou, what time is it?"
"Lunchtime," says Lou, typically judging things based on his stomach.
"Excellent," I say. "You want to go get a drink?"
"I'm kind of at work," he says. "And... I'm kind of not a recovering alcoholic either".
"How dare you?" I say, acting shocked. "I'm not recovering at all". And that's kind of true. At this point, anything that isn't going to kill me within five years is probably acceptable. Besides, I need to clear my head. I need to be able to think properly. And there's only one reliable way to do that.
IV
Alcohol sobers you up. It clears away the confusion and the doubt. It helps you walk straight. A lot of people say alcohol doesn't work this way, but if it worked for everyone, it'd be totally mediocre.
I guess I'm just
lucky.
Of course, Lou says he's on duty so he can't possibly come to the bar with me. But since I'm not technically on the job right now, and I'm supposed to be on sick leave for a few more days, I'm free to head down the road to a little joint frequented by sailors and merchant seamen. I order two whiskeys and take a seat in the corner, where no-one could see me even if by some miracle they came in to use the toilet.
The drink helps me see things better. It's always been like this, but now it's more important than ever. As soon as the whiskey touches my lips, it clears the clouds that have been forming in my mind. I don't know how alcohol and cancer mix, but right now this is the combination I need. It shouldn't be this way. Not ever. Not for anyone. But it is for me.
There's a clue in that container. The name was just some kid's pathetic attempt to leave his mark. But there's a better clue, a bigger clue. There always is. That's the thing with any situation. There's always a clue, or a sign. The only question is whether you're smart enough to spot it. The trouble is, I'm not smart enough any more, not since they first pumped these drugs inside me to kill the tumor My thinking is clouded. I'm dumb, like Lou or, frankly, Tepper. This has only happened to me once before, and although it was caused the first time by something very different, perhaps the same solution is required?
I down the first whiskey and wait to feel something. What I'm hoping for is that the clouds will part and the clue will be shining in the darkness. After several minutes, with nothing happening, I down the second whiskey and start to contemplate a third and a fourth. Even if nothing works, at least I won't care too much. Or will I? I know from experience that getting wasted sometimes just makes things worse. But only sometimes, so I guess it's worth a shot.
Then again, some things are even more effective than alcohol...
Approaching the bar, I'm not sure how to phrase my request. In the end, I just say one word - "Girls" - and the guy behind the bar (who I hesitate to call a bartender, because there's nothing tender about the way he slams everything about) nods in the direction of the back door. I leave a couple of notes on the counter and head out through the door into what turns out to be the a very unpalatable pallet yard near the docks. There are various large trucks parks haphazardly, as if their drivers were in a hurry.
