by Amy Cross
A woman is climbing down from one of the cabs. Clearly a whore, she totters across the yard in her high heels, every inch the cliche. She doesn't notice me as she walks over to a large muddy puddle. Hitching up her skirt, she squats down and splashes water from the puddle onto her lady parts, giving them a quick rinse. Then she stands and walks over to another truck, climbing up and into the cab.
Nice.
I can probably do better. I reach into my pocket and find I only have $10 on me. While I'm sure that's be enough, I'd be better off head uptown and spending a little more money. I always like my women to be a little classy, like artists.
And that's when it hits me. The whiskey has worked, the clouds part in my mind and I realize how to find the clue in the shipping container. All I need is one little piece of equipment.
***
"Well what does it look like it is?" I ask an open-mouthed, shocked Tepper.
"It looks like... an industrial paint-spraying machine".
"Good girl," I say. "Help me hook it up".
Lou is also staring. Even Alice seems interested.
"Are you guys going to help me get set up?" I ask, pushing the machine into position in front of the open end of the shipping container. "Alice, I need your help".
She comes over. "What for?" she asks.
"What do you use to show up bodily fluids that aren't visible to the naked eye?" I ask.
She shrugs. "What fluids are you after?"
"All of them," I say as Tepper helps me lug the machine closer to the container. Lou is conspicuously not helping.
"Rexin would be your best bet," Alice says.
"Good. Do you have enough to fill this machine?"
Alice looks at the machine. "I have about five liters in the van".
"That'll have to do. Get it".
Rather than asking why I want to do this, she turns and walks to her van. That's nice. It shows she trusts me. There's definitely a chance there. I'll ask her out to dinner later. Maybe. Another day, perhaps. If she's lucky.
"Mind telling us what you're doing?" Tepper asks.
I look at Lou. "He has to ask".
Lou raises his eyebrows.
"I'll explain the whole thing if Lou asks," I say, smiling, knowing that Lou would never lower himself to my level and ask what's going on.
As expected, Lou stays silent.
"Then you'll have to wait for the show," I say as Alice comes back with a large bottle of Rex in
"Where did you get this machine from, anyway?" Tepper asks.
"I borrowed it," I say, "but we need to get it back by five or the guy I borrowed it from might find out. So come on, load her up". I open the lid of the machine's tank and Alice immediately pours in the Rex in "There's something sexy about the way you do that," I say. Alice stares at me. Damn. Blown it.
"We already know we have bodily fluids in there," says Tepper. "A lot of bodily fluids".
"It's not what they are," I say. "It's where. Stand back".
I pull the cord and the sprayer starts up, making a loud revving sound and vibrating heavily.
"We should probably be wearing ear protectors!" I shout.
Tepper puts a hand up to her ear. "What?" she shouts.
"I SAID," I shout louder, "WE SHOULD PROBABLY BE USING EAR PROTECTORS! NEVER MIND!"
I turn the dial on the sprayer and Rex in shoots out the front into the shipping container. I find the grip and start to turn the nozzle, making sure to spray the whole of the inside of the container. There's a massive amount of spray and it's impossible to see anything, but after a few minutes the machines starts making a gurgling, spluttering sound. I switch it off.
"Can't you break those things if you run them dry?" Tepper asks.
"No idea," I say. I step toward the door that leads in to the shipping container. Switching on my flashlight, I walk into the spray, which is still settling. I stare at the walls. "It worked," I say after a moment.
Tepper, Alice and even Lou follow me in.
"What the hell is that?" asks Tepper.
On the wall, picked up by the Rex in, are the bodily fluids that we detected earlier. But now it's clear that they weren't put on the walls randomly. The Rex in has turned the fluids bright pink, so that we can see them, and the fluids have been used to paint a large picture, with crude drawings of houses and people. On one of the houses, the word 'Naxos' has been written.
"The kid David wasn't writing his name," I say, indicating the little pile of fingernails and crap in the corner. "He was signing it. He was drawing a picture, using the only paints he had: all the excrement that he and his fellow prisoners were producing. He drew something important to him, something that can tell us where he and the other kids were being held before they were brought here. And now we have to work out where this place is. Because it sure doesn't look like the inside of a shipping container". I turn to look at Lou, who is staring open-mouthed. I smile. "Still think I should've taken the day off?"
***
The pain has been eating at me all day, but it's getting worse now. I excuse myself from the rest of the Scooby gang and I go into a little alley. I can't even stand up straight. It feels like something evil is growing in my belly, which I guess is kind of what's happening, except I know it's not technically in my belly at all. Or rather, it's not only in my belly. It's actually all over the place, and it's getting bigger by the second, pushing everything out of the way and spreading its cancerous seed throughout my body. My whole bloodstream is probably filled with reminders of what's happening inside me.
I gasp as the pain builds and builds. Is this it? I was told I'd have five years, but maybe he meant to say five hours? I sit on the ground and look around. Is this alley the place where I'm going to die? Maybe, except the pain seems to be subsiding now. I know they say the pain goes away just before you die, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting back to 'normal' now. I realize, quite suddenly, that I'm sitting in a puddle of something. Hopefully it's just rain water, but round this end of town you can never be sure.
***
I pick up a bottle of vodka and head home. It's not that I can't think of anything to do, it's more that I can't narrow the options down to just one. Tepper and the others are running copies of the picture past various people and groups, trying to find someone who recognizes the place that the kid was drawing. That's basic procedural legwork, anyone can do it and it's boring, and they don't need me for it. I've told them to ring me when they've got something, but I'm not expecting miracles. Meanwhile, my options basically come down to drinking in a bar or drinking at home, so I choose home. I figure there's not much damage I can do to myself and, anyway, perhaps the alcohol will dull the pain, which has been in my gut on and off all day.
Dr. Fibes is waiting outside the door to my apartment.
"Booze?" he asks.
"It helps," I say. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you confirmed your appointment for chemo".
"That's right," I say. "For next week".
"But you're not going to show up".
I pause as I get my key from my pocket and stick it in the door. "I'm not?"
"No," he says, "you're going to come up with some lame excuse to duck out. And you're going to do the same thing again and again until I forget about you".
"I must say, you're an awfully cynical doctor. Do you want to talk about your feelings?"
"I didn't come here for a long conversation, John," says Fibes.
I get ready to shut the door in his face. "So what did you come here for?"
"This". Before I can stop him, he reaches up and injects something into my neck.
"What the hell?" I say, pulling away.
"It's the first round of your chemo," he says as I step back. "In concentrated form. If you'd prefer to receive it in a more conventional and less uncomfortable way in future, please make appointments that you intend to keep. You'll be fine in 24 hours". He shuts the door and I hear him walking away.
I walk over to my so
fa, but I'm already feeling strange: woozy and sick inside, and my balance seems to be off. I can barely keep my eyes open. Damn it, I can't think any more. All I know is that this isn't going to be nice. Is all my hair going to fall out? My teeth? My fingernails? Is it even legal to just turn up at someone's house and shoot them up with a ton of drugs that...
Oh, okay. I'm about to pass out.
Black.
V
I wake up in darkness. Just as I'm wondering what happened, the room is momentarily illuminated by the headlights of a passing car in the rain. I heave myself up off the sofa and immediately feel sick to my stomach, and sure enough I vomit all over my legs. My hands are shaking slightly and I feel, for some reason, incredibly scared, almost as if I'm panicking. And there's another problem: I have absolutely no idea who I am.
A phone rings. The light from the screen is flashing. I pick it up and answer.
"Hello?" I ask cautiously.
"Where've you been?" asks a female voice. "Don't you check your messages?"
"N-No," I stammer.
"We pulled a body from the water. DNA matches some of the samples from the container. It's a kid".
Container? I have a vague memory of being inside a metal box. There were other people there. It was dark and we were looking for something.
"Are you still there?" she asks.
"Yeah," I say. "What kind of body?"
There's a brief pause of the other end of the line. "What do you mean? Listen, you should get in here. We're making real progress. I'm sending a car". She disconnects.
I somehow find the switch for a lamp, and finally get some proper light in the room. This place is a complete mess, with clothes and books and all sorts of junk all over the floor. There are dirty plates by the sofa, empty whiskey bottles stacked up on a table, and a full, unopened bottle on a table by the door.
Right, the shipping container. I was there because of the explosion. And there were kids inside, except they weren't there. I'm a detective. I got shot once. The woman on the phone was Tepper. I know her. I like her, kind of. And if a body has been found, that's important. And...
I have cancer.
Fibes drugged me. He injected me in the neck. That must have been hours ago, and now my head feels all kinds of wrong. How the hell am I supposed to help out on the case if I can barely even remember who I am? In fact, although I remember pretty much everything now, there's one thing that's missing: my name. Who am I?
I look at the whiskey bottle.
"My name is John Mason and I'm a" -
There. That was easy. My name is John Mason. Good. Sorted. Okay. I get up, walking across the room, but the phone rings and I go back to the sofa to grab it and answer.
"A car will be outside your door in ten minutes," says a male voice, before hanging up.
A body in the water. That's careless. I'd assumed we were dealing with an expert, with someone who would never leave such a messy clue behind. Then again, perhaps it's no clue at all. Perhaps he left it behind because he knew it offered nothing. Or perhaps it's a decoy, designed to consume our resources and distract us. That's what I'd do if I was going around killing kids. Surely this guy isn't really as stupid as he seems?
I decide to call Ellen. The phone rings for a while before she picks up.
"John?" she asks. She sounds so far away.
"Hey," I say. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home, John," she says, sounding highly-strung. "What do you want?"
I look about the room, then I go through to the kitchen. "Where are you?" I ask.
"I'm at home," she says again, this time sounding annoyed. "What do you want?"
I walk through to the bedroom, then I check the bathroom. "Where are you?" I ask. “I can't find you.”
"John, have you been drinking?"
I stand in the hallway and I remember. Ellen doesn't live here anymore. "Sorry," I say. I disconnect. Well, that was embarrassing. I have to get these chemicals out of my body, they're destroying my mind. If that bastard Fibes ever comes near me again, I'll kill him, I swear. I'd rather have one more year lucid and independent than five more years with this stuff inside my body.
I grab the bottle of whiskey from the living room and -
"My name is John Mason and I'm a" -
- I take a swig. Everything's coming back to me now. Ellen hasn't lived here for nine months, maybe more. She lives across town with whatshisname. No, I never remembered his name anyway, even when I wasn't drugged up to the eyeballs.
I hear a car pulling up outside. I go to the window. A black Mercedes is parked in the street. The driver looks up at me. Damn, he's seen me and he's here to pick me up. But was that really ten minutes? I grab my coat, put on my shoes and hurry out the door, half-running down the steps.
The driver gets out of the car. "Sir -"
"It's okay," I say. "I can get the door. What time is it?"
"It's just gone midnight," he says, raising an arm to stop me getting in the car. "Sir!"
"What?" I see he's looking at my crotch. I look down and see a dark stain. "Sorry," I say. "I think I'd better run in and take a shower".
"I'll wait, sir," says the driver.
I turn and walk slowly back inside. So, did I pee myself because of the drugs, because of the drink, or just because that's the kind of guy I am these days?
VI
"You look like shit," says Tepper as she looks up from the examination table.
"At least I have an excuse," I say as I take my first look at the water-logged, discolored and bloated body of the teenager they fished out of the harbor a few hours ago.
"A bottle of whiskey's not an excuse," Tepper mutters.
"I haven't been drinking," I say. "What do we know so far?"
Alice comes over with a set of scalpels. "Male, 16 years old, suffered from diabetes, once broke his hand falling from an apple tree in his parents' garden".
"Amazing what you can tell from DNA," says Tepper sarcastically.
"Serial number on the bolt holding his hand together," Alice says. "Four years ago he had some pretty significant surgery. I ran the serial number and came up with a name. Thomas Smith".
"Stupid name," I say.
"You're in a nice mood," says Alice.
"You'll have to forgive John," says Tepper. "When he's been drinking he -"
"I haven't been drinking!" I say, a little too loudly to be convincing. But maybe I should just agree with her. After all, there's no way I'm telling any of them about the cancer. "Just one drink," I add. I smile at Alice. "I used to be an alcoholic".
"Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic," says Tepper.
"Wrong," I say. "That kind of crap's for people with no will power". I give Alice my best smile. "Speaking of which, would you like to go to dinner with me some time?"
"No," says Alice, rather bluntly.
"No?" I ask.
"Just no," she replies, and starts cutting into the dead boy's arm. “Call it will power.”
"You blew my chances," I say to Tepper.
"I'd estimate he'd been in the water for three or four weeks," says Alice firmly, "but the pores of his skin seem to be pretty tight. I think he was dead when he went under".
"So he didn't drown," I say. "What else?"
"The report about his stomach contents came back with rat poison compounds," Alice continues. "I don't think there's any doubt as to the cause of death. It would have been painful. Very painful. Also, note the reddening around his face. Something scratched him. It looks like fingernails, but the angles are wrong".
"Someone else's fingernails," I say.
At least, Alice looks at me again. "Probably," she says.
Any chance of a 'moment' between us is broken as we hear the door slam shut. We turn to see that Tepper has walked out and seems to be waiting in the corridor.
"You should talk to her," Alice says.
"Not my problem," I say.
"You should still talk to her. She's upset. Let her know you care
that she's upset. It'll help you out no end".
I nod. "Do you always give advice to people over dead bodies?"
"You'd be surprised," she says.
***
"Jealous?" I ask as I step out of the exam room.
"Of what?" she says, clearly angry. "I told you before, I don't want to work with you when you've been drinking".
"I haven't been drinking," I say. "Well, not drinking drinking. Do I seem drunk?"
"You seem out of it".
"That's different”.
"I don't want to be having this conversation any more," Tepper says suddenly, surprising me. "I think the best thing would be if we finish this case and then we don't work with each other again".
"That's ridiculous," I say. "We work well together, and I don't drink anymore. Not like I used to".
"It doesn't -"
"What? It doesn't work like that?" I hate when I sound like this. "That's a load of crap. Those people who say once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic, they've never been there. Sure, if you've got no self control, maybe you have to give up altogether. But some of us do have some self control, and we can manage to step back across the line of acceptable behavior and stay there. So don't give me that support group crap".
"Did you go to a support group?"
"Yes, and it was fifteen minutes of my life that I'll never get back". I pause to let the words sink in. "Those groups are full of self-perpetuating bullshit. You can't argue against what they do, because then you're just in denial. I never had a real drinking problem before, and I'm perfectly okay now".
She stares at me, looking completely disgusted. "Then why are you acting like you're drunk?"
That's the drugs, I want to say. It's the chemo and the drugs that keep the pain at bay. But if I tell her that, I have to tell her about the cancer. Imagine that. I'd be John the Cancer Guy. People would look at me differently. They'd feel sorry for me. They'd go out of their way to make me feel better about myself. Does that sound appealing? No way. "I'm not drunk," I say weakly.
