Death & the City Book Two

by Lisa Scullard

  “It’s not a tree, it’s just stag antlers,” I say, being of the medical opinion that information is better than surprise or shock. Damon blanches slightly, but handles it well, probably because I’m taking the lesser-of-two-evils viewpoint. “Should be very easy to get you out.”

  “Yeah, piece of cake,” says a voice behind me, and I look over my shoulder to see the two from Special Unit. One is wearing a faded baseball cap, and the other, what look like Tru-3D dark glasses. Both have on white papery anti-contamination overalls. The one in the shades had spoken. “We’ve just got to wait for the ambulance to get here, you’ve got puncture wounds that risk haemorrhage if we move you sooner, it looks like. Might need Fire Service as well if we need to cut the antlers or the tree. We’re from Special Incident Unit. What’s your name, fella?”

  While they go through the formalities again, Baseball Hat inclines his head that I should step aside for a word.

  “Anything useful?” he asks, producing a yellow plastic biohazard bag, and holding it open for me to dump my used medical exam kit in.

  “He’s in too much pain to give anything away,” I report, peeling the gloves off, inside-out, one inside the other. “The trees are full of bullets. Must have had a car boot full of ammo.”

  “Yeah, that’s our job to recover as well, lucky us. Like metal detector nerds. How’s your car doing?”

  “Fine for now, but if it goes up like his, I will be Boogling parts on recall.”

  He just grins.

  “Do you remember cherry bombs?” he says, and I nod. “Like driving over popcorn. Imagine making one this big.”

  “Sounds like asking for trouble,” I remark politely.

  I don’t feel like acknowledging anyone else I know from school at the moment. Particularly with their kind of associations. But I don’t mind small-talk, as long as nothing specific is brought up. Charlie and Sparky had always operated slightly adrift of the law. That is to say, were blackmailing them first.

  All three uniform services arrive in a convoy, although I’m glad to see it’s not Stalk Watch on Fire Duty, or anyone that Elaine’s Prodded on Facebuddy, or set fire alarms off deliberately to attract. It is W.P.C. Drury and colleagues, and it is Adam Grayson, but as I give Drury a quizzical look she indicates that it’s ‘merely precautionary’ and he’s attending in his most basic professional capacity - not his most complicated one. He doesn’t even look my way as he heads for the casualty, which I do feel relieved about.

  “We’ll have a chat to our lad when he’s comfortable somewhere, and find out what he knows,” she tells me. “Well done calling it in. There’s been a steady flow of traffic through here, and not a bugger noticed anything unusual. Did you see the skid marks in the soot? Probably thought it was a freak puddle.”

  “Must have been quite a blast,” I remark. “Maybe someone heard it.”

  “Only whispers we’ve picked up are rumours of a thunderclap, and old biddies on the phone rushing out to get their washing in.” Drury shrugs, at the capacity of Western humanity to explain away most things with logic or unreliable weather. “Never mind. Was this the worst of it?”

  “I was just completing the circle, about another twenty degrees back to where I started. A lot of dead birds. Some were probably in flight overhead. I had to finish off a few, if you find metal ball-bearing shot that looks out of place, that was me.”

  She nods, and for a second looks unhappy.

  “Yeah, I’d have done the same,” she agrees. “It’s okay, you can go. We know where to find you if you need to give us a statement.”

  We shake hands and I return to my car, dumping the rucksack back behind the front seats. I’m curious as to why nobody else driving along here noticed what I did. Unless they didn’t all have a deer jump out to make a bigger point to them.

  I squint up at the slashed trees as I start my car again, reversing back so that I can pull out from behind Drury’s checkered squad car. Hmmm. Could be mistaken for over-zealous hedge trimming.

  People, I think to myself. Stuck in their own heads in their own lives and their own perceptions of the world, all over the planet, not noticing anything outside of their own chatter. I’m sure I have a personality like that, in one of my survival stages. Then the planet decided it needed someone to take notice of it, and gave me the job, because I needed a reality.

  A hard habit to break, once you’ve got the knack of it.

  Chapter 22: Vanilla Blackmail

  It’s not that I don’t LIKE being myself. The primal instinct one that pre-empts personality. Personality being something that requires interaction with others, like a Facebuddy account, to exist in anything more than a two-dimensional concept. I see more, I hear more, somehow I know more when I’m being my unburdened, un-obligated to anyone self. Things don’t bog me down or get in my way. Weird things, like the ranting Arson Fairy I accidentally imagined, which I can still hear shouting about his mushrooms, coincide with bits of reality that only I would notice, such as reuniting with Sparky, working for Special Unit. One of the biggest pyromaniacs in our school when we were kids, who made his own ‘mushrooms’ which were miniature atomic explosions in the chemistry lab, and sometimes pottery kiln, and frequently cookery class. His exploding atomic soufflé was the best one. The problem I have, is not with being myself. It’s NOT being myself, to fit in with everyone else. And how fickle they are. And how growing up puts all of your experiences in youth away in some box, and your personality gained while growing up is meant to retire with it. Relegated as not relevant to adult life, so that you can fit in, be accepted and take responsibilities.

  I don’t shirk being an adult. I do the work, I walk the walk. I just don’t believe in talking the talk until you’ve walked that bit, and not having a relationship seems to mean I’ve missed the main part of that. I just compensate by reading plenty about the subject, so that I can take an academic approach if the subject comes up. So essentially, I feel like a nerdy bookworm kid on the subject - not an experienced adult woman. Kind of strange.

  I think that’s the part the original me resents. That I felt forced to educate myself through books, when what I really should be experiencing is life. And now the original me is resenting Connor, because half of me feels as though it’s all come too late now. While the other half doesn’t believe anything will come of it, and it’s just a game he’s playing to get one thing, at which point he’ll drop it.

  The funny thing though, is he appears to be going through a similar dilemma. Half of him wanting to do things formally; half of him wanting to hang out and just see what happens on the off chance. So in a way, each of us is fitting the other’s differing needs, with our own divided commitment on the idea of a relationship. We both have an idea of what’s wrong, and fulfil the criteria for each other on that; and also both have concepts of how things should be done right, having a natural inclination for it, which also seems to work between us. And because he knows me in a real sense, he doesn’t make me squirm uncomfortably with awkward questions I hear from customers at work, such as ‘How come a gorgeous thing like you is doing this job instead of at home with a husband waiting on you?’ Hmmm. Basically, first of all I didn’t know that husbands were meant to do that, so it’ll be something to note if it happens and has since elevated my expectations beyond the range of inexperienced comprehension; and secondly, ‘Gorgeous thing’ is something I’ve only heard men start saying in the last two years. Before that, as it’s fairly clear now, I was more Cabbage Patch doll than Barbie doll. By that estimation, my evaluation is that I’ve only been on the man-seeking-future-wife radar for the last eighteen months or so. Not my entire adulthood.

  Also, I do say ‘No’ an awful lot. Based on the fact that I work where drunk men congregate, and I’m a woman standing in a corner going nowhere and meeting up with no-one in a big hurry. It’s easier now to say ‘No’ than yes. ‘No’ means I don’t even have to waste time wondering. Not having the experience means I don’t have pattern-matches to inf
iltrate, and knowing that I’m going to say it to all drunk people regardless, means not even my curiosity is aroused.

  Connor always seems to know when I get stuck in this loop thinking about him, because he rings.

  “Whereabouts are you at the moment?” he asks.

  “Just parked outside my Mum’s, I’m picking up Junior.” I get out of the car and lock it.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I reply. “Another strange car incident earlier. Suburban or urban anti-personnel project gone wrong, by the look of it.”

  “Yeah, I heard from head office. They think it was the paintwork. Meant to be the same as yours, but too unstable, like nitro-glycerine. They think a herd of deer crossing ran into it while it was stationary, and the entire bodywork detonated. Slate grey is a stupid colour for a car. Should have made it yellow. With a big hazard light on the top.”

  “Other than that, do you know if it was armed?”

  “There’s a lot of metal down there but the scatter distribution means it does look as though it was loose rounds being transported, not a Jack-In-The-Box like yours.” Connor heaves a sigh. “I’ve been stuck in the Forensics lab all day. They’ve put me on a professional development training schedule. Apparently they think I’ve got too much time on my hands, seeing as I manage to analyse CCTV and sound recordings for them in my spare time, to clear the backlog. Like you, being promoted to target research. Only in your case I guess it doesn’t feel much like promotion. More like going backwards to what you were doing before door work.”

  “A bit,” I admit. “The technology’s better now. Plus I feel as though I have more insight on what to look for, instead of just anything made up from whatever’s on their washing-line, which was all I had to do most of the time. How are you finding it?”

  “Weird,” says Connor. “I get the feeling they’re trying to turn me into the guy who’s life I’m leading at the moment. The one who’s an industrial incident loss claims insurance investigator, on the Engineering Forensics side in his real job, when he’s not pretending to be a bin man in Oz. Speaking of whom, I got some stuff forwarded to me in the mail from him. I need to show you some of it. Part of your side of the bargain in the wingman deal. Would you be free if I pick you up after you finish work, or do you need to get home?”

  “No, that would be okay,” I agree, glad that he’s asking appropriately. “I’ll see you then.”

  “Cool,” he says. “I would have stopped by at work tonight anyway, but I wanted to ring and catch up as well, so I thought I’d check it was okay first. See you later.”

  I feel a lot better as we disconnect, and I head towards the house. Conversation with him feels as though it’s getting easier as time passes. More normal. As if we could be anyone, almost. To some romantics - or romance adrenaline junkies – I expect this is the bit they start to worry where ‘the spark’ has gone, the bit where you picked on and teased and bullied each other, and made each other half miserable and half excited all the time over the mystery of what would happen next. But I’ve never been a fan of ‘the spark’ because it just reminds me of school bullying, and feels like abuse, allowing a stranger to mistreat you in order to let them through your defences and get under your skin. That’s the reason defences are there. To keep out abusers. Not to be merely selective about who you allow to abuse you.

  I’m realising that the comfortable bit, the secure feeling I’m starting to get glimpses of - particularly like just now when it comes after I’ve been worrying myself about him - is the better side of it. The more romantic side of it as far as I’m concerned.

  I wonder how long it can last.

  I arrive home with Junior, to find her games have arrived from iBay, and also my punk stilettos, which upon opening turn out to be the real thing, with silver studs and red leather soles, worth about a grand more than I paid for them, having thought I was buying very well-made Chinese designer label look-alikes. Connor will have to do something pretty special before he earns a date with me wearing those. Junior hurtles upstairs with her new accoutrements, and presently is heard shouting “Eat brains! Eat brains!” as she trains her new Zombies to come when called for dinner.

  I look in the fridge and freezer, and decide we’re having pasta. I’m just organising ingredients for a chicken, pea, onion and bacon version of carbonara sauce, when head office ring.

  “You need to visit Terry Dyer’s before work tonight,” they say. “Maybe you could give him some dietary advice.”

  “Don’t tell me, it’s Death by Pizza Delivery,” I sigh. Terry’s so predictable in his fast-food habits, it would be a miracle if anyone tried to bump him off any other way. Tanoshii Meals was only the latest in a series of food-related interventions I’ve had to attend regarding him. He’s a walking hit-man sit-com all by himself.

  “Bang on,” they reply, and give me the details. “Don’t worry, only a couple more weeks, and this new tax year activity will slow down.”

  “Oh, I wondered what it was about Heavy Duty,” I remark. “What is it, offsetting last year’s profits that would otherwise be carried over?”

  “Yeah, that’s usually the case in industrial action. Creating some dead men’s shoes to fill, or creating some free venues to pitch to. Or personal stuff, you never know.”

  “Sometimes,” I concede, thinking about Terry’s three ex-wives and unpaid maintenance. “What does it come under in tax expenses? Recruitment costs?”

  “That, and Refurbishment.” They chuckle. “In Dyer’s case, probably Catering. Split that with Fumigation and Pest Control, and you’ve probably got a lump sum large enough to tempt a desperate wannabe hit-man out of his local pub.”

  “If they’re using a genuine Pizza Boy, that probably only cost them a Nintendo and a subscription to Playbike,” I remark. “Okay. I’ll give you a ring when I get over there.”

  I hang up and fill the kettle to start the pasta, trying to establish if I also feel like a cup of tea. It’s a novelty to get enough notice to make a cup of tea, never mind dinner. I could get used to this. Although to be honest, I’d rather not be doing it at all.

  Today might be a good day to start thinking about change. I look out of the window for motivation, and immediately lose the thread of what was on my mind, instead wondering where the cat is. Probably out rabbitting.

  I do return to that thought as I head for Terry Dyer’s on my way to work. It’s not that morally I have a problem with the hard line in Law Enforcement - I happen to think it’s more efficient and cost-effective than lots of expensive arrests, trials and prison, or in some territories, Death Row. Although wherever that country is that Elaine mentioned, which charges you and your family for the costs of everything from your incarceration to the bullet they execute you with as a deterrent, probably has the right idea about discouraging crime. Here we have to work around overflowing prisons, and justice systems with longer waiting lists than hip replacement surgery. So what we do is basically the next level after on-the-spot fines were introduced for littering. It’s just that there are no guidelines on how to move on, how to retire without being ‘retired’ by someone else, possibly a better shot than you.

  And I don’t have any financial or contractual obligation to complete any list, new or otherwise - when I think about it, I’m not even curious about current or future targets. They’re living their lives, second by second, whether it’s being counted down by someone else for them or not. Whatever they do in private or public is their business. Until they start to think that being a hit-man is a better get-rich-quick scheme than the Lottery. It’s not like watching a TV soap, where you get to see the outcome of their individual storylines after they pass - like Connor says, often you report something, or undertake a job, and hear nothing at your end about what happens next. No feedback, no just desserts, no Happily Ever Afters, no empathy or attachment to the people behind the scheme they’ve unwittingly become a part of. And I don’t have any personal attachments to keep me in either job - ni
ghtclub security or hit-man runner - unless by setting me up with a wingman, they were hoping to create that.

  Hmmm. Food for thought. My fingers drum the steering wheel, as I become close to pondering the possibility of ringing Connor to ask him if he knows anything about the concept of vanilla blackmail. Using a carrot rather than a stick to keep someone’s loyalty. It all sounds very Cold War spy era. Keeping your side loyal by knowing their weaknesses. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer - and those who have the job of keeping them close, the closest of all.

  For the first time, it occurs to me the concerns that head office have to incorporate, regarding keeping my loyalty. Every night I go to work in my normal job, they’re risking me having a personality flux where I might suddenly fall in love with a colleague or passing customer, i.e. the next potential target. At the moment, apart from the cringe factor (my lack of experience and moral desire to vomit at the idea of) all I think is what a bizarre concept that is. Not only lust, which old-fashioned spies were allegedly rampant for, but the thought of falling in love with somebody random and inappropriate, just like that. Meaning emotional attachment, which would affect my loyalties. Turn me into a defector. How odd.

  I’ve never experienced it, not because my sideline requires it of me - there aren’t any spoken rules, in fact - but because the motivation was never there. None of my workmates have ever asked me on a date, and the more I learn about them from day to day, the less inclined I am to think I’d accept one. Maybe in the twelve or so years in the job I’ve found a few of my colleagues attractive, but only from a distance. Even Joel Hardy, texting me late at night booty-call style, I find detracts from his otherwise general attractiveness and apparent good nature. Some guys are very tight-knit, will only work in the same team together, but I’ve never had a problem moving around different venues, and working in different teams, because I view it as part of the necessary evils of work - not part of my identity outside, in real life, that requires continuity.