The Fish Kisser

by James Hawkins

Six hard faced men in suits that had never been near Trendy Tailors, sat around the base conference room and were having a similar debate, as Edwards crept in a few minutes later.

  “If this weasel ever gets out …” a shrew-eyed, clean-cut thirty-year-old was saying, then waited as Edwards took his seat. “So how’s our hero now?” he asked sarcastically.

  “The idiot’ll survive,” said Edwards with political savvy, torn between defending Bliss, a peon of his own who had left the big boys with their pants round their ankles, and appeasing the opposition whom, he suspected, were authorized to do things that would make a civil libertarian pretty uncivil.

  “We gotta be certain everyone’s tight on this,” the speaker continued, his implication clear. But his implication had been clear from the moment he’d taken command: This was not a police matter, and nothing could be less desirable than some heavy footed plod from the Grand Metropolitan Police Force balzing up their operation.

  “But you’d never have found them if it hadn’t been for us,” Edwards had said, defending himself, his force, and Bliss, in that order.

  The weasel’s look was enough to tell Edwards to back off, and thereafter all responses from the group gave the impression that they knew all along what was happening—true to type, thought Edwards, having put a handle of the identity of the hard-faced shady men, and knowing well the oxymoron of Military Intelligence.

  “There are other ways of dealing with this kind of situation,” said one of the men euphemistically, leaving no doubt as to his final solution.

  “That won’t be necessary at the moment,” said the leader, “as long as they are made to understand the gravity of the situation.”

  “But they can’t just go home,” said Edwards, realizing the impossibility of allowing them to carry on as if nothing had happened. “Sorry, love—long day at the office—and the traffic!” would hardly mollify a grieving widow who’d been struggling to pay off the funeral expenses, while bringing up three screaming kids. And what of any of the widows who had found it easier to grieve in someone else’s arms?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s considering allowing them to be repatriated at present, Superintendent,” said the leader snottily, leaving Edwards shrinking in his chair. “Until they’ve found the anti-virus, they will be our guests,” he added, with another euphemism.

  “And if they don’t come up with the solution?” asked Edwards.

  “Not your worry old chap,” he replied, adding, “I’m sure you’ve got important things to do Superintendent…”

  Edwards recognized the bum’s rush and was tempted to be annoying, but thought better of it. “One more thing, Superintendent,” said the leader, catching Edwards at the door. “I shouldn’t have to remind you but… I trust you will conduct yourself accordingly.”

  “Fucking cheek,” muttered Edwards sotto voce, then swung on the man with a final thought. “And Detective Pieters—what will happen to her?”

  There was more than a moments silence until the leader decided to clear the air. “She’s still critical—but they think she’ll pull through,” he said, adding, “Though Bliss must never find out.”

  “Why?” demanded Edwards, finding his way back to the table.

  “Superintendent, if either of them were to speak to the press we could shut them down. If they collaborated … well, let’s just say it’s easier if they’re kept in the dark.”

  Edwards nodded, knowingly. “That’s not a problem. He thinks she’s dead anyway.”

  “Good—let’s keep it that way for everybody’s sake.”

  The End