A Thousand Cuts

by Simon Lelic

  ‘I don’t think you look like a teenager, sir.’ The detective chief inspector was bald on top and where he was not bald his hair was grey. He wheezed when he walked and perspired even when it was cold. Just as Lucia’s grandfather had, he wore button-down short-sleeved shirts in the summer. He was wearing one now.

  ‘Have you ever had a cold sore, Lucia?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘They hurt. They tingle for a while and then they burn and then they sting like Lord knows what. I don’t like them.’

  ‘I can appreciate that. I don’t think I’d like them either.’

  ‘What’s the hold-up, Inspector? Why is this taking so long?’

  Lucia shuffled. She opened her notebook on her lap.

  ‘Don’t look in there. Look at me.’

  ‘Five people died, sir. That’s four murders and a suicide. What do you want me to say?’

  The chief inspector rolled his eyes. He levered himself from his chair and creaked until he was standing. He plucked a cup from the stack beside the cooler and drew himself some water. He took a sip, winced as the cold bit his teeth and then settled himself on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Five people died. All right then. Where did they die?’ He looked at Lucia but did not wait for her to answer. ‘In the same room. And how? By the same gun, at the hands of the same gunman. You have a murder weapon, a motive, a room full of witnesses.’ DCI Cole looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an hour before I’m due to go home. I could write your report and still knock off twenty minutes early.’

  Lucia was looking up at him now. She tried to nudge her chair backwards an inch but the front legs just lifted from the floor. ‘I have a motive. What motive do you think I have?’

  ‘He was whacko. A nutcase. Depressed, schizophrenic, abused, I don’t care. Why else would he shoot up a school?’

  ‘He was depressed. That’s enough for you? He was depressed.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Lucia, what does it matter? He’s dead. He’s not going to be doing it again.’

  ‘We’re talking about a shooting in a school, Guv. In a school.’

  ‘So we are. What’s your point?’

  Lucia could smell coffee on the chief inspector’s breath. She could feel heat leaking through his pores. She tried moving her chair backwards once more but the legs snagged against the pile of the carpet. She got up. ‘I’m going to let in some air.’ She slid past her boss towards the window and reached through the blind to find the latch.

  ‘It doesn’t open. It’s never opened.’

  Lucia tried twisting the latch anyway but it had long since gummed itself shut. She turned and leant back against the sill. Her fingertips were sticky with grime.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  ‘No there isn’t.’

  ‘There is. There’s something you’re not telling me. Look, this guy, this Szajkowski—’ he pronounced it saj-cow-skee ‘—no one knew about him, right? He wasn’t on any lists.’

  ‘He wasn’t on any lists.’

  ‘So no one messed up. No one could have predicted it, which means no one could have stopped it.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So why won’t you let this thing go?’

  Lucia picked at the dirt on her fingers.

  ‘These things happen, Lucia. Sometimes these things happen. It’s shitty but it’s life. Our job is to catch the bad guys. In this case, the bad guy’s dead. All the rest – the accusations, the recriminations, the lessons fucking learnt – leave that to the politicians.’

  ‘I want more time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need more time.’

  ‘Then tell me why.’

  It was one of those thick summer days when the sun seems to exhale over the city so that by the afternoon the whole of London is consumed by its hazy, sticky breath. Though the brightness had faded, the temperature if anything had increased. Lucia stuck out her lower lip and blew air across her brow. She tugged at the underarms of her blouse.

  ‘What if there was more than one bad guy?’ she said. ‘What if not all of the bad guys are dead?’

  ‘Five hundred people saw Szajkowski pull the trigger. You’re not telling me that all of them are wrong.’

  ‘No, I’m not. That’s not what I’m saying. But you don’t have to be the one to pull the trigger to deserve a portion of the blame.’

  The DCI shook his head. He was shaking it still as he lowered himself into his seat.

  ‘I can feel another cold sore coming, Lucia. I can feel a bastard lawsuit coming.’

  ‘Just give me a week.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just one more week, sir. Please.’

  Cole was shuffling paperwork on his desk. He answered without looking up. ‘Can’t do it.’

  Lucia tapped her notebook against her thigh. She looked out of the window and down into the car park and then back at her superior. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Why the urgency?’

  He met her gaze. ‘I like things neat,’ he said. ‘I like things tidy. I don’t like things dragging on. Besides—’ the chief inspector again located a page on his desk that seemed to catch his interest ‘—you said it yourself. We’re talking about a shooting in a school. The longer we leave it… Well. It makes people nervous, let’s put it like that.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Inspector. People. Just people.’

  They heard a jubilant holler from the open-plan office outside. They heard clapping. Lucia and her boss looked towards the sound but their view was obscured by the smoked-glass wall.

  ‘How long are you giving me?’

  ‘You’ve got until Monday. I need your report before lunchtime. ’

  ‘So one day. Effectively you’re giving me one day.’

  ‘It’s Thursday. You’ve got this evening and you’ve got Friday and you’ve got the weekend.’

  ‘I have plans for the weekend.’

  ‘Then prioritise, Lucia. You can give me the report right now if you’d prefer.’

  Lucia folded her arms. ‘Prioritise.’

  Cole nodded, almost smiled.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate your advice.’

  Walter called out to her as she strode past his desk. She ignored him, carried on walking, but Harry was blocking her path. He was on one knee clutching a fistful of paper towels. There was a puddle of liquid and a cracked coffee pot beside him. The spilt coffee had been the source of the applause, Lucia realised. It would have been Walter who had cried out with glee.

  ‘Here,’ she said and she bent to Harry’s side.

  ‘Goddammit,’ Harry muttered, relinquishing the paper towels to Lucia. There was a welt on the side of his hand. He raised the mark to his mouth and sucked.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I dropped it. Goddammit.’ He inspected the burn on his hand.

  ‘When you’re done on the floor with Harry, Lulu, I’ll be waiting for you on my desk.’

  Lucia did not turn around. ‘You should put something on that hand,’ she said.

  ‘It’s okay.’ Harry stood and shoved the burnt hand into his pocket. The broken pot dangled from his left. ‘I’d better do something with this.’

  Lucia got up. She threw the paper towels into the bin by Walter’s desk and made to follow Harry.

  ‘Don’t do that, Lulu. Don’t give me the silent treatment.’

  She should have kept walking. She should have left Walter in the arms of his ego. Yet she could sense his leer even with her back to him, could picture him reclining in his chair. The others would be watching too – willing her to retort but just as ready to laugh if she stayed silent.

  She turned. ‘What’s your problem, Walter? What is it that you want to say?’

  ‘It’s our problem, Lulu. Yours and mine. It’s my girlfriend,’ he said. ‘I think she knows.’

  ‘Your girlfriend?’ said Lucia. ‘Didn’t she burst?’

  There was laughter. Heads in the offi
ce poked above partitions. Phones were cradled or receivers covered with palms. Walter’s leer was contagious. It had contaminated the entire department.

  ‘I’m serious, Lulu. We’re going to have to call this thing off. We’re going to have to call it a day.’

  ‘You’re breaking my heart, Walter. Truly, you’re breaking my heart.’

  ‘But listen.’ He glanced at the faces around him and then at the office Lucia had just left. ‘Cole’ll be gone by six. What say you and I sneak into his office, turn down the lights and say one last goodbye on his couch.’

  Lucia looked at Walter’s smirk, at the blotched skin on his jowls and at his thighs too fat for his suit, and all she could do was shake her head. And then, willing herself not to but unable to resist, she voiced the only retort that came to mind.

  ‘You’re a prick, Walter. A fucking prick.’

  She got home and she opened the door and she wished she had a dog.

  She thought perhaps she might get one. Nothing too big but not a ratty dog either. A spaniel, maybe. A beagle. She would call it Howard and she would feed it from her plate and let it sleep on one side of her bed. She would teach it to attack fat men called Walter and chief inspectors with halitosis but Walters before chief inspectors.

  The flat was hot. The air felt recycled, as though it had been warmed and sucked free of oxygen by a hundred pairs of lungs, and then exhaled and sealed into the box that she still could not think of as home.

  She hung her bag by the door. She checked the phone, washed her hands, splashed her face. There was an apple in the fridge and she ate it, ignoring the bruises but cringing at the texture. She took two slices of bread from the freezer and dropped them into the toaster but while she stared at a wall and thought of nothing, the toast burnt. She threw it away and poured some red wine into a whisky glass instead.

  In the living room she opened the window. There was no breeze; the temperature was the same outside as it was in. She had a fan somewhere but wherever it was it was broken. She had a hairdryer. Set to low it would feel about the same.

  The living room was the only room of the flat she liked. The kitchen was poky, the bathroom full of mould and the bedroom dark and a mess. The living room was bright all day and it was comfortable. There was a rug and her TV and a view, if she leant right out of the sash window, of a corner of the common. The sofa, underneath the throws, was a disturbing shade of green but its embrace was perfectly judged – an arm around the shoulder rather than a full-bodied hug. Although sometimes, on days like today for instance, the hug would have been welcome too.

  It was in the living room that she kept her books. She read a lot. Novels mainly; history books if she felt she had been gorging on Rebus. The books filled the shelves the landlord had left for her, as well as her IKEA bookcase. She liked to let her eyes graze upon the spines. She liked being able to identify a book without being close enough to read its title. The battered corners, the creases on each cover – they were a mark of familiarity. They were a comfort.

  Tonight she did not read. The book she had started lay where she had left it the night before the shooting. She had snapped its spine and placed it face down upon the floor, as though such treatment might render it more compliant, more accessible, less determined to make hard work of itself. It was about Stalingrad: the battle, the siege. It was never going to make for an easy read. The problem was she had read too much to give up but not enough to start counting down towards the end. She had reached page one hundred and forty-three and it had not even started snowing.

  She picked up the television remote control. She put it down again. She always checked the listings but there was never anything on that she felt the urge to watch. Someone had told her to get Sky, to get a Freeview box at least, and she had agreed that it would probably be worth it, which was as far as she had got.

  She stood up and wandered to the window. She looked out at the common and she knelt with her chin on her hands on the sill and then she got up and poured herself some more wine. In the end she gathered her case notes from her desk and returned with them to the sofa. From the pile she plucked a transcript at random. It was an interview with one of the kids. Not one of hers. A DC had taken this one. She had read it before and though she did not remember it, she knew that it said nothing. Nothing. It spoke of pain and grief and shock and more pain but from her perspective, her professional perspective, that was nothing.

  She picked up the remote control again and this time flicked on the television. She hit mute and stared at the images as she thought about Szajkowski and about the children and about the upturned chairs in the hall. Then she willed herself not to. She willed herself to think about something else. For a while nothing came to her, until she remembered what she had said to the DCI, about the weekend, about her plans, and she wondered whether he had believed her.

  .

  We didn’t get on. So what? It wasn’t a secret. It’s hardly a crime. Turns out I had him down pretty good, wouldn’t you say?

  Physical education, since you ask. I have a degree in sport and leisure studies from the University of Loughborough. It’s the best course of its kind in the country. Tough to get on. Even tougher to complete. Hardest damn thing I’ve ever done and I used to compete. Triathlons, Ironman, marathons sometimes. My knees put me out. My knees and my ankle.

  Physical education: it’s a science. When we were at school it meant a cross-country run in our underwear. A game of rugby for the boys, hockey for the girls. No discipline, no organisation and no specialisation. Our headmaster used to take us. He would chuck us out a football and sit refereeing from the window of his office. Refereeing. Hah. He used to read the paper. He would look up if he heard a holler but otherwise he left us to it. When you fouled someone you had to foul them quietly. You had to wind them so they couldn’t yell.

  There’s something to be said for it. The Darwinian approach to sport. You know Darwin, right? But you wouldn’t get away with that now. Like I say, it’s a science these days. It’s become a science. We teach them sportsmanship and skills – transferable skills, we call them – and nutrition and stuff like that. Just last week we had an hour on callisthenics. I can never say that word. Callisthenics. Callisthenics.

  People assume it must be easy. There’s a lot of prejudice that surrounds my job. Szajkowski, he’s a perfect example.

  We have a week, before the start of term. The headmaster’s there and all the teachers are there and we have to do this training, attend these sessions. It’s bullshit most of it, a waste of time. But part of it is a social thing. You know, everyone getting reacquainted, meeting the newbies, that sort of thing.

  Anyway. So there were two new teachers last term. One of them’s Matilda Moore, she teaches chemistry. Quiet girl but nice enough. Not much into sport but she’s not ignorant about it. She’s not arrogant. The other one of course is Sam Szajkowski. Sam ‘Call me Samuel’ Szajkowski.

  So it’s the end of the day and we’re in the hall and the headmaster’s laid on a spread. You know, sandwiches with their crusts chopped off, mini sausage rolls, crisps. We’re drinking wine or fruit juice or whatever and everyone’s having a nice enough time. The headmaster’s standing here, Matilda’s over there, we’re all dotted about in groups. All a bit low key for my tastes, not particularly lively, but you just get on with it, don’t you?

  So I see Szajkowski on his own and though the headmaster has introduced him to everyone, I haven’t said hello myself. So I do. He’s new here, I’m thinking. The guy’s on his own. I should make an effort to make him feel welcome.

  Now I realise me and him aren’t exactly alike. He’s about half my size and pasty and he looks a bit like Woody Allen but with a scraggly black beard and without the glasses and not as old or into sex. Or maybe he was, who the fuck knows? But just because we’re not alike doesn’t mean we can’t get on. Like George. George Roth. He teaches RE and we’re about the least similar people you can imagine. I mean, I’ve never set foot in a church, l
et alone a mosque or a temple or a Jew hall, but we get on well enough, we get along. We talk about football and he tells me football is a type of religion and I don’t suppose he’s wrong. Which would make Pelé God, right? Or Matt Le Tissier, depending on where you’re from.

  But Szajkowski: right away we’re on the wrong foot. I say hi and pleased to meet you. I tell him my name and tell him to call me TJ, because everyone else does, even the kids.

  He says, hello TJ. I’m Samuel. Samuel Szajkowski.

  Samuel, I say. So Sam, is it? I guess people call you Sam?

  And he gives this little shake of his head and kind of smiles and says, no, they call me Samuel.

  And his handshake. Did I mention his handshake? You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. You can tell a lot about a woman too. Like you. You’ve got a firm shake, a strong grip. That tells me what. It tells me that you’re a woman in a man’s job and that you can’t afford to take any shit. You’ve got cold hands, though, did you know that? It’s roasting in here but you’ve got cold hands.

  Szajkowski’s grip was as limp as his… I mean, it was a faggot’s handshake. That’s just an expression, by the way. It’s not derogatory. You know exactly what I mean, don’t you? It was like this. Here, hold out your hand. Just hold it out. So I’m Szajkowski and I do this.

  You see what I mean?

  So after that he’s kind of got my back up already but I don’t show it. I’m just thinking what I’m thinking about the bloke and I’m thinking, you never know I might be wrong. Turns out I wasn’t, didn’t it, but that’s another story.

  So I stick with it, I say, okay, Samuel. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Samuel.

  Jesus Christ though. I mean, who calls themselves Samuel when that’s their name? It takes so bloody long. Sam. I would have liked the guy a whole lot better if he’d just let me call him Sam.

  I’m sorry but that kind of thing just pisses me off.

  Where was I?

  Right. So we’re chatting and it gets to the point where he asks me what I teach. And I just know right away that he’s gonna have some attitude about it when I tell him. I mean, with him you can tell just by looking at him that he’s never run a yard or kicked a ball or even taken his top off in the sun in the whole of his entire life. He’s what my old man would have called an intellectual, which is fine, it’s not a crime, but it seems to me that he’s also a foot and a half up his own arse.