by Dave Warner
‘See, you’re famous. I can show you lots of cool movie sites.’
‘Thank you, Simone, that is most kind but I am more comfortable with solo study, divining how the machinery works and improving through trial and error.’
Georgette told him she would make him up a room.
‘There’s a spare television in there too.’ She pointed at the flat screen to show him what she meant.
‘Splendid. I don’t suppose you would have a pipe and some smoking tobacco?’
‘Nobody smokes nowadays, except actors and gamblers. It creates disease and shortens lives.’
‘Well I’m one-hundred and sixty-six and it hasn’t done me any harm.’
Like a celebrity playing to his fans he directed his smile and quip to Simone who lapped it up.
‘You’re a pistol, Sherlock.’
Georgette resented feeling like a third wheel in her own apartment. ‘There’s a tobacco store ten blocks south. We can buy some later but no smoking inside. It’s strictly forbidden by the residents committee.’
‘Then they should get a new chairman.’
‘I am the chairperson.’
Holmes looked down that long nose and said without blinking, ‘Of course you are. Fear not, Watson, I shall follow your instructions to the letter.’
She nodded at his outfit. ‘And we had better find you some new clothes.’
Simone said, ‘I got a whole wardrobe from my last ex. He’s about your size.’
Holmes thanked them. ‘If you do not think me rude then, I might avail myself of a warm bath.’
Georgette showed him the bathroom and found him a fresh towel, toothbrush and razor. Vance had left a can of shaving cream, which delighted Holmes enormously. He was chuckling, squirting frothy piles on his palms.
Georgette said, ‘Anything else you need, I’ll be here.’
‘Thank you both,’ he replied with a charming smile and shut the door.
As soon as they were alone a big grin spread across Simone’s face. She whispered, ‘He is so hot. “Avail myself” – don’t you just love the way he talks?’
‘Please. He is older than this building.’
‘Given the guys I’ve dated, I could do with some maturity.’
‘You’re not going to be dating him. Don’t even think about it.’
‘So you’re interested?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I guess it would be unethical, like a doctor dating a patient.’
She was soooo trying.
‘He’s not a patient.’
‘Okay, like an undertaker dating a corpse.’
One thing about Simone, she had a way with words.
‘I’ll check in later,’ she added.
‘I’d prefer you gave him a day or two to settle in.’
‘You’re banning me?’
‘Of course not, but he needs to take it slow.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got an audition tonight for a collective. You’ve got thirty-six hours Simone-free. After that, may the best butt win.’
Simone was opening the door when Georgette remembered the snow globe.
‘You must have left it here.’
Simone examined it. ‘Cute. Never seen it before. You don’t want it?’
‘No.’
Simone pecked her on the cheek and left with her booty.
It was only then when she stood alone in the room, Holmes’ humming of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ seeping from the bathroom, that Georgette allowed herself to savor for the first time just what she had achieved. A man thought dead for well over a century was alive and well, happily humming while bathing. Simone was right: she would win a Nobel prize for this. Her legs felt suddenly weak and she took herself over to the armchair and sat down. She would have to begin writing a press release. Probably the media would do their own photos but she might need to think about what she was wearing. Right now, she resembled a bag lady who’d crawled out of a dumpster. She looked around the room, taking in its simplicity: the family photos, the small treasures she had acquired over the years from second-hand shops.
She knew her life would never be the same again.
9
One of the few good things about being a head taller than most everybody else around was you got to see if there were any blockages up ahead on a sidewalk. Everything else was pretty much downside. The seats on the subway were too cramped, and if you stood, you had better have your hair down. You wear a high pony in a subway car, you were asking for trouble. And airplanes, forget it, torture. Unless maybe you were in first class, which she definitely could not afford, although one day she planned to get there. It was easier for tall men – people looked up to them, not just literally, ha ha. Tall women, you were a freak, and it didn’t matter if you were black like she was, or white, it was just as hard. Sometimes at a function she would be standing there and look across the room and her eyes would meet those of a tall white girl, maybe not as tall as her but close, and they would share that moment – you’re like me, sucks, right?
And people would always say things like ‘you’d make a great model’, except you knew you wouldn’t because you had big chunky thighs. At high school they’d made her play basketball but she wasn’t competitive and didn’t have the coordination you needed. She was just tall. And that was why it was kind of ridiculous that what she was really good at was working with minute pieces of things. Although, she supposed, having those long bony fingers helped. She loved her job at the museum, loved putting together the puzzle of an ancient tunic from tiny fragments, or a wall-hanging or, on one occasion, a shattered tank turret.
That had given her the shivers but she had not complained and was happy to help out her colleagues. Tanks had been a horrible memory, one she had wanted to erase forever, but you can never erase, you must simply learn to be able to live with the past. She had been nine years old when her family fled to the United States where they had been accepted as refugees fleeing persecution. ‘Persecution’ was a nice name for what her family and fellow Christians had experienced at the hands of the Sudanese army; murder, rape and torture were more appropriate words. She had been lucky, young enough not to be collecting water with her older sister and two cousins the day they had vanished. One girl, who was behind the others and managed to hide, said they had all been carried off by soldiers. Their bodies were never found. As terrible as their circumstances were liable to be, she prayed they were still alive. She felt no resentment toward her fellow Americans but they really had no idea how fortunate they were. All those schoolgirls taken in Nigeria, and there was barely a ripple in the pond. But she did not have the luxury of turning a blind eye. She knew from what terrors she had been spared and every day she thanked God and prayed for her sister and cousins.
She left the busy stream of people and, as was her daily routine on the way home from work, turned into St Thomas’. It was quiet this time of night, the lights set dim. It was a large church, long, not so wide. In summer during the day, the stained glass near the altar threw beautiful fractured colors but it was night and near winter, and shadows triumphed.
Like I’m in a Rembrandt painting, she thought idly as she walked down towards the front of the church, turned into a pew on her right and kneeled down. There was only one other person in the church, a woman, small and solid, who got up and blessed herself before leaving. She looked Latina. Most of the faces she saw at mass were like that. She didn’t bother now with formal prayers, just let herself drift, bringing to her mind her sister’s face as she last remembered it when she was thirteen. If she was still alive, she would be thirty, likely with children but not allowed to pray to her God, or celebrate her family, all of that long buried. But she would have her children and would love them, that would be something.
She wondered if her sister thought of her every day too. Hoped she did, and knew she was loved and missed and not forgotten.
She heard the soft scuff of leather soles somewhere behind her. Please let Ivy be well and
happy, she prayed. If she has children, let them be beautiful, if she has a husband, let him be kind. If she is dead may she be experiencing the joy of eternal –
Bang!
Something hard hit her from behind and immediately her brain slowed, even before the throb. She tried to cry out but there was no air, steel hands on her throat. She threw her arms out, tried to turn around, leveraged herself up somehow, lashed back with an elbow rotating her body, striking something, but the strength was rushing from her quickly and she was dizzy, everything darker like she had been swallowed by the beast and was disappearing into its maw.
10
They were strolling back towards her apartment, the brisk air numbing her cheeks, or maybe that was the reaction to what she’d had to pay to outfit Holmes tip-to-toe. She wouldn’t have been surprised if her card had been rejected for lack of funds. She had to say though, he looked impressive in his three-piece suit – Holmes had insisted on a waistcoat and been taken by a homburg but in the end had settled for a woolen cap. Cell-phones, tablets and video screens he took in his stride but on hearing the price of his clothes he almost gagged. When she handed over a credit card to pay, it rattled him to the core.
In a kind of awed wonder he had said, ‘A piece of plastic I can carry in my pocket and use in any country in the world. My Lord, what criminals would do with this.’
She told him exactly what they did: gave it to their customers for free and charged them twenty-seven percent interest.
The one item that did look rather odd was the watch with the Hulk on the dial that Holmes sported on his wrist. They’d bought it from a discount store where she’d picked up a bunch of old Sherlock Holmes DVDs. It was the cheapest one in the store. Holmes said he did not mind so long as it kept time, and was delighted that it did not even need to be wound. Earlier they had taken the subway downtown to the Mysterious Bookshop and bought a Sherlock Holmes complete collection. This was now being rapidly perused by Holmes who appeared immune to the ever-present wail of vehicle sirens. The subway’s spidery station map he had comprehended within minutes.
‘What he’s done,’ Holmes said, stabbing the book with his finger, ‘is to include many of my earlier cases and pass them off as post-Reichenbach. And look at this fellow …’ he was brandishing the DVD case featuring Basil Rathbone, ‘… this is supposed to be my likeness? You could play billiards with that nose.’
Walking beside him now, Georgette thought there was a likeness. True, Holmes’ nose wasn’t quite so long and after more nourishment he probably would gain weight, but Rathbone was in the ball-park. As they passed a female patrol cop, Holmes openly stared and she returned the favor.
‘Women police?’
‘Women lawyers, judges, dentists, truck drivers, soldiers. You disapprove?’
‘I merely observe. In my experience women have always been the cleverest and most resourceful adversaries. Properly trained, a female, even in physical conflict, can match a male of the same or greater mass and I have known markswomen of astonishing accuracy.’
Her phone buzzed. She guessed it would be her father, still on vacation and feeling guilty now it was in its second week. He’d called twice during the shopping expedition but fearing it too precarious to let Holmes shop by himself she had ignored the calls. She checked her phone. Yep, Harry alright, he’d persist until she answered. She’d call when she was back in the apartment where she could isolate Holmes. Holmes considered her thoughtfully.
‘I hope you are not ignoring that on my account.’
‘Not at all. It’s just somebody trying to sell me floor coverings or something.’
Holmes gave no indication whether or not he believed her. Carrying the paper bag containing his old clothes, his eyes drank in his environment.
‘This Hitler was what your great-great-grandfather would have called a “rum fellow”. And yet, despite those terrible wars and seemingly ceaseless conflicts, the world here continues to prosper: man’s innate goodness overwhelms his desire for evil. Although I see …’ his eyes had fixed on a point up ahead where a crowd was emerging from the subway, ‘… it is not a victory can be assumed won. Some games remain the same: the dip and the runner.’
Without warning, he took two quick giant strides and then his long arm shot out and he seized a passing youth.
The kid snapped, ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’
Exactly what Georgette was thinking. The kid tried to pull away but Holmes’ grip was iron.
Holmes said, ‘Hand me the wallet now or I break this arm.’
Something about his manner brooked no resistance. The kid, not more than eighteen, reached into his pocket with his free hand. But what he brought out was not a wallet but a knife. Like a sinkhole had opened in front of them, the swarm of passers-by began to divert.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Holmes, the way a guest might react if told their hotel room had been double-booked. Then, as the kid lunged, Holmes calmly stepped aside, and twisted forward the arm he had not released, forcing his attacker into a somersault. The youth landed on his back on the sidewalk and cried in pain, dropping the knife, which Holmes snared, retracted and pocketed, before reaching into the boy’s jacket and removing a wallet. Nodding at a tall man in a bomber jacket who had stopped to witness the affray, he handed it to Georgette and said, ‘That gentleman’s I believe.’
Feeling like the Boy Wonder to Holmes’ Batman, Georgette held out the wallet.
‘Sir, is this yours?’
The man checked his pockets, amazed. Those in the crowd who had witnessed the whole thing began applauding. For a moment Georgette thought Holmes looked as if he was about to take a bow but he made do with a wave. Taking advantage of the distraction, the would-be thief scrambled to his feet and dashed away across the street to the accompaniment of honking horns.
Georgette was still lecturing Holmes when they entered the apartment.
‘You need to be careful. These days most criminals are armed. They’ll blow you away soon as spit on you.’
Holmes nodded sombrely. ‘I forgot myself, pontificating on man’s innate goodness.’ He made a derisive sound. ‘Men are as men have always been: some very good, a few very bad, most in between, cutting their cloth to whatever they might get away with; in a monastery a piece of extra bread, on Victoria Station a wallet, on the battlefield a scalp. And weapons – my God, I have never seen so many weapons: airplanes and submarines that can obliterate a city in the time it takes a man to drink his tea. Don’t worry, I have seen the moving pictures. I tell you, Watson, when it is easier to purchase a gun than a pipe, a society is in trouble. The death of schoolchildren at the hands of fellow students is madness. And what is worse, predictable.’
There being no logical way to explain why nothing changed, Georgette did not even try.
‘It must have been safer in your day,’ she observed.
‘Coal dust and disease carried off a lot more children than bullets. Man fixes one malaise only to disseminate another. Our stupidity never ceases to amaze.’
Holmes went to the gas heater and clicked it on. He’d learned that quickly, observed Georgette. It was around nine now and she was hungry.
‘How about I order in some Chinese food?’
‘You can do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps for yourself. You have been more than generous. But I promise I shall repay you at the earliest opportunity.’
‘Thank you for your offer but believe me, when we sell our story we’ll have more than enough cash.’
‘What do you mean?’
Georgette explained that the story of his return from the dead was going to be huge.
‘The media will pay a lot of money. It’ll fund my research, pay off my debts … and my sister’s debts. And you’ll be able to do whatever you want to do. I thought we could go fifty-fifty on the initial piece, everything else from then on, lecture tours, TV appearances, is yours.’
‘You understand none of that is possible.’
>
‘Oh yes, it is. This is the biggest story since man walked on the moon.’
‘We did? I must have missed that, I was skimming, I’m afraid. The point is, Watson, we simply can’t go public, I will be treated like a freak. That’s even if they believe you.’
‘I have the evidence. Everything has been recorded.’
‘What if I deny it? Or simply disappear? Where is your evidence then?’
‘My research could save thousands of people who were thought dead.’
‘It still can. Just without me.’
‘There is no story without you.’
‘No story but a truth. As a scientist, which is the more important?’
The Harry Potter theme cut in. Garry Benson was calling.
‘Garry?’
‘I heard you were back,’ he said.
‘Yes, sorry. I’ve been working on something.’
‘Well, I don’t know if you’re free right now …’ Typical timing. She was about to beg off when he said, ‘… but our serial killer has struck again.’
‘Oh no. Is this victim number three?’
Like a beagle that has picked up a scent, Holmes’ body straightened.
‘That we know of,’ said Benson. ‘If you have a chance to give me a second opinion on time of death, I would appreciate it.’
There was never anything good about a murder crime scene but they were all memorable. Seeing the outline of Sherlock Holmes waiting patiently in the umbra beyond the techs’ lights made it especially so. She had told Benson she had a friend, a detective, visiting from England and hoped he might join her at the scene. Benson had said sure, so long as he wore the crime suit and took no photos. Georgette had thought Benson had given Holmes the once over when they had met just inside the church.
‘You with the Yard?’ he had asked.
‘Private. I have consulted with them on occasion.’
‘Well, sorry we’re not meeting under better circumstances. If you could wait here for now, Percy?’
‘Of course.’
Lipinski, Georgette had seen, was down the church aisle where the lights were set up. Benson walked Georgette down.
