City of Darkness

by D P Wright

  The trip to Hightown still left a bad taste in his mouth. A journey to the Heights was always a quick reminder that his life was on a downward cycle. Looking round at the mess which was his office, he began to take in what he had become. He lived and worked in a busted tin hovel in Midtown 5, an old red plastic chair, a yellow shredded sofa to match and a desk more full of empty bottles of bourbon than anything else. The detective’s eyes rested on a picture that stared at him from the floor where it had been thrown. Young, happy faces with mocking eyes glared back at him. The image reminded Kessler of what once was and could have been. “Who am I kidding,” he mumbled, “I was always going to end up this way, wasn’t I?” Without turning his stare away from the picture he took another long drink.

  Kessler reached for the bottom drawer of his desk and from it took out his gun. Resting his hand on the weapon’s handle, he continued to stare at the image of him with an old friend, smiling and dressed in a smart blue uniform. His steely blue eyes seemed bright, filled with hope and the energy of youth. That wouldn’t last long, he thought as his hand twitched and his grip began to tighten around the gleaming fibreplas handle. He could feel the coolness of its metal press against his fingers and could hear the static begin to build as the plasma charged in its energy cell. All thoughts but the present fell away to nothing, no past, no future, only this exact moment lay before him. Everything stood still. Nothing mattered, only his pain…

  The heavy silence within the room was broken by the wailing of the com. Kessler shook his head and finally wrenched his eyes away from what was tormenting him to the piece of dented metal which now lay on the floor in the centre of the room. He growled, his boiling rage only matched by his thundering headache. Standing up abruptly from his desk and bounding over towards the com, Kessler grabbed hold of it, “Do you ever listen to anything I say? I told you to tell Grubaker that I’m unavailable!” He bellowed so much that the very act made him out of breath. He fumbled around for an inhaler, dropping the receiver and letting it crash back to the floor as he grabbed a cylinder from the depths of the sofa and breathed in its contents.

  “Mr Kessler,” a forced formal tone clung to Macy’s Midtown brogue, “a Miss Turner is here to see you, she apologises for not having made an appointment but says she would be very grateful if you would have the time to see her at such short notice? Should I send her in?” Macy paused waiting for a response before adding with a hint of sarcasm, “Unless you’re too busy?”

  Kessler fumbled for words and stuttered, “I’m just finishing some important er… work… send her in five minutes.” Kessler lied.

  “I will do, Mr Kessler.”

  “And… thanks Macy…”

  “Always a pleasure, Mr Kessler.” She over pronounced his name in mock formality and with that the com went dead returning a quiet to Kessler’s office, if not his head.

  His thoughts began to pick up speed and awake from their drudgery. He had to catch his breath, straighten himself out, make himself look presentable. The sheer scale of that task however was not lost on him. Kessler placed the dented com back on the desk and, after taking another quick gulp of Piper’s, placed the bottle back with the others. His stare turned and rested briefly on his gun which still lay on his desk and, after a moment’s pause, he powered it down and returned it to its drawer.

  Turning to stand in front of the tarnished, broken mirror, he attempted unsuccessfully to pat down the creases in his soiled shirt. He wet his hands under the tap and greased back his hair before sighing and shaking his head, “Ok Miss Duzekus, tell the lady to come on through.”

  The office door gently creaked open and in shuffled the most crumpled bag of nerves Kessler had seen in a long time. She looked like the city had gobbled her up and spat her right back out again. Her head was bowed, her face covered by soaking wet jet black hair. Two pale, delicate, nervous hands emerged from a plain brown heavy set dress that hung from her thin frame. She stood in the centre of the office in silence as water flowed down from her sodden clothes and began to form a puddle on the floor.

  Kessler scratched his head. He did not have time for charity cases. The city was full of them. His first thought was to throw her out but her trembling form made him hesitate, “You shouldn’t go out in the rain without cover, it’s not good for your health. Don’t you own a coat or rain protector?” She shivered but remained standing in silence. “Here let me get you something.” He looked around the room but could not see anything fit for purpose. He pressed the com, “Macy, could you bring, er, Miss, er,” he struggled to remember her name…

  “Miss Turner?”

  “Yea, Miss Turner. Could you bring Miss Turner a clean blanket. One of yours.”

  After a couple of seconds, Macy let out a short sigh, “Of course, Mr Kessler.”

  Kessler strained to smile back at the girl who remained standing in silence until eventually Macy walked in with a bright pink blanket and gave it to her. With a quick movement of her hands, she took it and pulled it round her. Scowling at Kessler, Macy quickly left.

  “So how can I help you?” Her right hand nervously rubbed the thick material of her dress and her left wrapped around her stomach, clutching the blanket as if her life depended on it. More seconds passed without a word from her. The nervous energy was beginning to become infectious and Kessler began to get impatient. “Look lady, is there anything I can help you with?” The bourbon he had taken a few moments earlier had given him a taste for the strong liquor and he found himself fingering the handle to the drawer. “If it’s food and clean water you are looking for I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place. As you can see, I don’t have much myself.”

  “Thank you for seeing me sir, I, well I… you see I need…” A muffled, stammering voice emerged from somewhere behind the thick, matted strands of black hair.

  “What do you need?” Kessler sighed, “Listen, I’m a very busy citizen and have a lot of important work to be getting on with at the moment.” He had gripped the handle of the drawer and, without realising it, had jerked it open causing the bottles to rattle audibly.

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you sir but I need your help.” She began to whimper.

  Kessler looked around the room uncomfortably and thought about calling Macy into his office to deal with this. She certainly did not look like anyone who had any credits to her name. “Sorry, I don’t do free.” His hand hovered above the com.

  “I have credits.” Her hands disappeared into the folds of brown cloth and emerged holding a bundle of shiny silver bars. A few fell to the floor with a clatter as she struggled to hold them all. She looked up at Kessler for the first time revealing her face. The detective could not make out if it was from tears or the rain but tracks of dirt ran down her cheeks and underneath all the knotted hair and city grime, he could just make out pale, almost ghost white, skin. Two large, shimmering emerald pools sparkled in the pale electric light. He stared back, lost in the vivid colour of her eyes and eventually took a breath and moved his hand away from the com.

  “Ok. Let me get you a drink and let’s talk about how we can sort out your problem.” From the drawer he pulled out the bottle of bourbon, dusted off a couple of paper cups that lay on the floor by his desk and poured a large drink for himself and a smaller dram for Miss Turner. He took a large gulp. “So Miss, what would you like me to do?”

  Miss Turner took the cup and played with it nervously for a few moments before setting it back down on the desk, “My uncle…was murdered. He was all I had in this world, he was everything to me.” A sharp cry tried to escape from her trembling lips but was partially stifled with her hand.

  Kessler went to offer her a handkerchief but quickly refrained after realising how dirty it was. “Ok, I’m sorry to hear that.” He knew his attempt at comfort sounded hollow but it was the only thing he could think of saying. Everyone knew the streets of Dis were mean, often brutal. Citizens died all the time. “So what would you like me to do?”

  Taking a deep br
eath she seemed to compose herself, suddenly gaining strength from some unknown source. Looking Kessler straight in the eyes she stated clearly, with a new found firmness. “I would like you to find out who did this and bring them to justice.”

  “I’m sure the police are looking into it as we speak. Save your money, go to your local station and they’ll be able to provide you with all the details you need.” Kessler lied. The DPD had better things to do than help some city urchin.

  “They don’t want to know. I have been trying to get information from them for weeks, the last time I tried they…” Her hand brushed against a bruised cheekbone. “I think they were sick of seeing me.”

  The detective could not make out her accent. She spoke with an educated clarity that suggested privilege but her words had the harsh deep tones of the lower city. He poured himself another drink and her eyes darted between the bottle and Kessler’s cup. “Ok. Tell me about your uncle.”

  “He is…I mean was…the priest at St John’s. A Christian church in Downtown 2. His church was everything to him, he spent his entire life helping those in need and, Mr Kessler, there are so many in need. Without St John’s so many lives will be without hope,” her voice cracked with emotion.

  Already Kessler did not like the story. He hated Downtown. Filth always flowed downhill and Downtown was so deep in the city that all the muck in Dis seemed to end up there eventually. He also had no time for the many cults that popped up throughout the city promising a better life, a better world. Despite being illegal they were just like everything else, all out for a quick cred. “Miss Turner, no offence but I don’t need to hear what good religion does for people. You are looking at a non-believer. This world is all we got, people should put their energies into worrying about this life, not the next. Besides, if the Council heard you talking about that type of stuff you might end up meeting your god quicker than you think.”

  Anger briefly shot across her face, “Well if you don’t care about the soul, Mr Kessler maybe you care about justice, about doing what is right? About three weeks ago it seems someone, or some people, broke into the church and killed him. Police say it was a robbery but I don’t believe them.”

  “Maybe they’re right. Downtown is a dangerous place, Miss Turner. Unfortunately tragedies like this happen every day and could be committed by any one of the billions living down there.”

  The lights flickered and, to the sound of static, went out allowing pitch blackness to envelope everything. The rumble of the city outside seemed to intensify as a panic set in.

  Kessler could barely make out the form of Miss Turner, “Don’t worry. It’s just a power shortage, it will pass soon.”

  “They happen all the time in Downtown. I’m not afraid of the dark.”

  After a few moments the power returned and the city outside settled down to its usual grind. With the return of the light, Miss Turner seemed to have composed herself. She moved to sit on Kessler’s sofa, after giving it a wipe with Macy’s blanket.

  “The police are lying. I know that community, it was my home. My whole life my uncle and I lived and breathed that sector, everyone knew us and we knew them.” She shook her head from side to side, her eyes closed, trying to suppress the raw emotion that was desperate to escape, “We knew everyone through St John’s, they depended on us not only for the hope we gave them but for shelter, food and what Ox we could spare. There is no way they would harm him or desecrate the church. I tried everything I could to get anymore information.” She leaned forward, resting her head in her delicate hands, “The night it happened I was awoken by the police and taken from my bed without being able to see him, to say one final goodbye. They have had the church boarded up and guarded ever since, letting no one in to worship. Not allowing me back into my own home.” Her voice wavered as she wiped a stray tear.

  It did prick his interest as to why they were devoting so much of their time to a simple murder in a run-down church inside the slums. The Venters rarely travelled below the Rim, certainly not as deep as D2, that far down the Council preferred to let the various gangs and district governors sort out their problems between themselves. “Had your uncle experienced much history with the DPD, been involved in anything he shouldn’t have been?”

  “No. He was a good man.” She looked disgusted by the idea. “The Council’s hatred of any form of religious expression outside their own devotion made them portray him as some heretic. They spread lies about him to try and shut us down. Over the past few months there has been vandalism, just pro-Council trash, the usual stuff. It’s easy to know where it came from, there are not many people living in Downtown that would support the Council.” The timid girl that walked into the room a few minutes ago had gone. In her place was an angry woman, with a desperate confidence. Her green eyes seemed to flash and pulse in rhythm with her rage, “He was just a quiet man that cared greatly for the people of Downtown. He was loved by all. Why would anyone want to kill such a person?”

  Faith, religion were dangerous business on Dis. How many wasted hours had she spent putting her faith in her god before trying him? Praying for an answer that would never come. Kessler knew the type. He knew that there was no place for it in this city. He had known a few men and women who had found a god and each one had suffered greatly for it. Looking at this distressed women, Kessler felt sorry for her. If she had counted on any god protecting her from the evil that lurked round every corner in this wretched place she would be disappointed. She must have noticed him staring as she began to look uncomfortable and started to fidget nervously again. The fleeting flash of anger she had shown a moment before was gone replaced again by the fragile expression of complete and utter desperation. Her mouth began to move forming silent words, her full red lips a shock of colour in an otherwise pale face.

  He wondered how many had turned her down before her desperations brought her to his sorry place. Not many P.I.s he knew would want to work down that way, certainly not the cheap ones. He must have been way down the pecking order. “Ok, I may be able to help you. First of all we should talk about payment. My rate is one hundred credits a day and there’s no budging on that lady, for that you get years of expert experience at your disposal.” He could not turn down the chance at quick money, he certainly needed it.

  “I have not got much.” She closed her eyes before speaking again, “That is quite a lot, but I should be able to get you the credits. She counted out a number of silver bars and placed them on his desk with small, delicate fingers, “That is enough for the first day, Mr Kessler.”

  “If I do find out who killed your uncle, what then?” Easy credits. He imagined spending a couple of days rummaging around the slums. That should satisfy her that her uncle was gone for good.

  “Justice, Mr Kessler. They will be brought to the police to face their punishment.”

  Kessler was sceptical, “And if they don’t want to admit to their crimes and come willingly?”

  Miss Turner looked down at the floor as she spoke, “I am sure you can be very persuasive.”

  Kessler stared at her for a few seconds, letting the words hang in the air. “That type of job will cost extra. A dangerous business getting justice these days. Say two thousand credits, on top of my daily rate, upon delivery of whoever killed him?” Kessler nodded silently to himself, no way was he heading down city for anything less, “Listen if you don’t have it we can work out another, cheaper package…”

  “I can get it.” Bethany wiped away rainwater from her eyes.

  “Ok. You’re lucky that I have had a cancellation today, means that I can get right on this,” he lied. “First port of call will be finding out where they sent your uncle’s body, I know a few good citizens that work in the hospitals I can get in touch with.”

  “He wasn’t sent to any hospital. They left him at one of the local skin labs in Downtown 1. There are so many I couldn’t find out which one it was.”

  “A skin lab?” This was curious. The usual procedure was to take bodies invo
lved in violent crime to Corps hospitals for incineration. “Ok, I can find out which one. I’ll call you after I’ve been to check on the lab and the church.”

  “No. I want to go with you. It’s important I say my goodbyes to him, I must get his body back to have a proper funeral, we, I mean myself and the parish, need to say our goodbyes and we need to celebrate his passing to heaven.”

  “Listen to me. I don’t mean to upset you further but it’s been three weeks since your uncle died, they will have disposed of the corpse by now.”

  Miss Turner flinched at the word ‘corpse’. Kessler continued, “I work alone. It’s a dangerous place down there and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “No. There are things in that church that I must get back. Not just mere trinkets that are precious to me but particular items that are of great importance to my religion. They are priceless and I must retrieve them. I’m coming with you and there’s no budging on that Mr Kessler.”

  “Look lady…”

  “I insist.”

  He stared at her and took another shot of bourbon. “Fine. But I guarantee you that anything of value in that church will be long gone, if the DPD have anything to do with it.” She stared at the detective with the set look of determination. “I’ll meet you at the church.” He looked at the clock on his desk, “It’s 08:34 now, I’ll meet you there at 13:00. There is no way you’re coming with me to the skin lab though, that’s no place for a young citizen like you. I’ve some business to take care of down there anyway.” A slight smile edged its way on to his face as he stared at the neat pile of shining credits on his desk. He poured himself another drink. She got up to leave but Kessler continued to speak, “And, Miss Turner, I’m not much for formality,” he coughed as another cup of Piper’s hit the back of his throat, “call me Kes.”

  Reaching into her pockets she produced a card and gave it to the detective, “St John’s address,” and as she turned to leave spoke, “and you can call me Bethany, Mr Kessler.”