A Well-Timed Death (Booker Shield Book 1)

by Karl Bourdiec

  The doors slowly parted way, almost leisurely they moved apart. Pushing the right one didn’t help them move any faster, they juddered back a little bit before fully opening. Air touched the sweat on his brow.

  Allowing his face to breath in what felt like a million years, the wind spat under his arm blowing his cloth around him, he was born again. The feeling you have when finally leaving a very packed train.

  ‘There a dead body in there.’ Booker said between burps.

  2

  Booker replayed what he'd just seen moment by moment trying to edit out the blood.

  A lady’s voice, that’s all he could piece together. It was a lady screaming at the top of his lungs. A crowd had gathered around her, which made it hard to see what the issue might have been.

  Booker was sadly used to this, sadly for him, even though he was a detective, he really hated detective work, this type of detective work at least. He preferred normal PI stuff. Cheating husbands, lost cats, missing kids, not screaming people in supermarkets. His instincts got the better of him this time and he headed to the back of the store.

  A crowd had formed, from above it probably looked like a flower opening in reverse. People moved like petals inward, closer and closer until they smothered the poor women. The screaming had stopped. The crowd awed at the women.

  ‘Out the way, out the way, I’m a doctor.’ He wasn’t, but Booker found this lie normally moved people at a huge rate. The crowd circled in such a way that a small gap broke in the rose. A wallet bounced above their heads. Mummering women and a hand few of men who didn’t murmur at all chattered amongst each other like monkeys. Booker tried to listen to the mumbling as he clambered through. Each time he moved forward the crowd moved around him, filling up the small gaps in the spaces he left. After a few steps, he seemed to get lost in the crowd. Not sure where back or front was Booker seemed to have gotten turned around, he pushed on, righting himself when he could, he moved forward until a large gap in the centre of the crowd could be seen. It was a woman, probably the one screaming.

  The women who lay on the floor was disturbing, her face twisted in pain. In her right hand, she held a pack of biscuits. Her left she clung to her chest a common sign of a heart attack. Although heart attacks didn’t leave pooling blood and a hole in your chest.

  ‘Brilliant.’ Booker’s cheeks blew up like a hamster eating a very large lunch.

  Booker knew he’d be pulled onto this case because he didn’t want to be, that’s just how things went.

  ‘Ew, that guy just threw up.’ The girl of the three people at the doors said, they seemed to work there, but never worked. The guy who wasn’t Rob pulled out his phone and began taking photos in quick succession.

  Booker worryingly expected that people had taken his photo before. A good fifty percent of them were photos of him blowing chunks. He hoped this one wouldn’t end up in the papers like the last one did.

  Booker felt like a celebrity, not a good one on a catwalk, more the type caught sniffing coke off toilet seats, the ones which feel compromised, found with their trousers down as some would say, some actually were found with their trousers down.

  His chest burnt, Booker felt it, like a burning core at the centre of a planet which was his stomach. Then he felt it through his lungs and up to his throat, all of him melted from the inside out. That’s how it felt at least.

  A bottle of water seemed to slide into his eyesight. Grabbing it Booker pulled huge gulps of the chilly water, first it moved the fire around. Not really helping just thinning out the pain, then it squelched the lava, now it was nothing but a thin taint on his teeth. The water ran out, sucking now brought nothing but air, the fire came back twice as quick as it had been put out.

  ‘Milk! I need milk.’ Booker yelled, he’d heard that helped from his Gran once. There were footsteps, which moved away from him at some speed. They moved away at some speed too, somebody was kicking the bin to the right. Booker ignored it, he’d scold them later. Probably. The footsteps came back, and a small bottle of white appeared. Within two large sips, it was gone.

  ‘I don’t do well with blood.’ Booker pulled himself up, tossing the bottle to the ground, it bounced around a bit.

  The kids all looked baffled, what kind of doctor couldn’t handle blood? They glared at him for a few seconds, eyes like polished gobstoppers.

  ‘Call the police!’ He continued.

  ‘You mean an ambulance?’ The girl asked chewing gum.

  ‘No, did I say ambulance? Did I stutter at all? I said call the police, there’s been a murder.’ Booker tried not to sound Scottish, he wasn’t Scottish, didn’t have a Celt bone in his body, but the word “there’s been a murder” had a habit of becoming Scottish before falling from your mouth. Try it.

  The younger lad, the one Booker didn’t know the name of already had his phone in his hand, within seconds it was pushed to his head, Booker was red-faced with green confetti coming from his mouth, which was still open.

  A man in a shirt came out of the sliding doors, he was short, looked a little like the mole lady and used a finger to beckon Booker. The second he appeared the girl who had been kicking the bin, jumped from its lid and landed back on the ground with a thud which rang up her shins.

  ‘Oh yeah, stop kicking that bastard bin!’ Booker blasted, he knew the little man still stood there, he simply ignored him.

  The girl stopped, almost cartoon-like, she popped her gum which had formed a short balloon in front of her mouth. It now hugged close to her face covering her nostrils which flared.

  Booker turned to follow the short man, he’d vanished. Peering through the polished glass, the manager had made it halfway up the store before Booker had noticed. Luckily his short legs meant Booker could catch up with him with ease.

  ‘Can I help you.’ Booker asked stretching his arms behind his head, the wallet which he clawed in his hand flopped onto his head.

  ‘I do hope so Dr. Booker.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not a doctor.’ Booker rejected the idea, even though he’d been yelling about his false medical degree seconds ago. The man stopped, it was so sudden that Booker’s knees pressed into the managers behind. Inching him forward slightly.

  ‘You’re not a doctor?’ The day manager spoke through a jaw so tightly clenched two of his teeth shattered.

  ‘No it’s just a good way of getting to the front of a crowd. It doesn’t work that well at gigs, but if people faint you’re in there.’ He never really looked up, Booker fiddled with his pocket a bit, pushing his wallet in. Then from the same pocket pulling a yellow sweet.

  ‘Lemon sherbet?’ pushing a hand out. Offering the small yellow blob that he considered a sweet. The day manager decline, so Booker popped in his mouth, rattling around his teeth.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be more occupied with the clean up on aisle two?’ The sweet washed around his mouth making it difficult to understand Booker's words.

  ‘I’ve contacted the police, T B H, to be honest, I was going to ask you the same thing.’ The day manager blinked, that’s what Booker noticed, not his mouth moving. Just the blinking, which was only noticeable due to the lack of blinking so far.

  ‘That’s handy, so did I.’ One cheek looking like a zit, all puffed up, filled with lemon sherbet.

  ‘Let’s hope they arrive promptly.’ The little manager answered.

  ‘It’s the police, not a takeaway. They’ll be here when they can be arsed.’

  ‘That’s not how the police work.’ The day manager tried to correct, Booker looked around the store, breathing in his surroundings.

  ‘That is exactly how the police work. I used to be one, they’ll polish off their French fancies and finish their coffee then they’ll pop along.’ That’s how Booker saw it, at least that’s how he was.

  ‘A person has died.’

  ‘Exactly, she’s not going anywhere. People die all the time, they never go anywhere after, not unless they are helped to go to the place they end up at. Understand?’ Cynicism
rubbed off on people, and Booker had plenty to rub. Out of a pocket, Booker pulled a little metal flask, the lid had been screwed on tightly so not to spill its content. Booker gave it a few twists and took a drag from it, the whole time watching the store manager.

  There was silence. A room full of it, this was obviously where they kept all the silence when it wasn’t in use, a stock room full of silence. Booker stood, even though he hated standing, if you stood people looked at you, if people looked at you they tended to notice you sorting through their bins and reading their mail, Booker preferred to stoop, stooping kept you hid, stooping kept you alive.

  The manager of this store sat, managers sit a lot, it was part of the job, sitting and knowing nothing about how businesses worked, these things made great managers, and brown nosing, lots of it, that’s how managers become managers.

  Booker hummed, and I don’t mean stunk, just hummed a deep note from the lower part of his throat. People hated humming, the manager didn’t blink, he simply sat there in his small chair in his small office, waiting for the police to arrive.

  Humming did nothing, nobody batted an eyelid at the humming, then whistling was added, and Booker Shields could whistle. Up and down, with long dawn notes, then that whistle old people do when it changes tone quickly. The day manager simply continued to read through some documents, signing on dotted lines where they were labelled. When people died in your store, during your hours, there’s a lot of paperwork to make your way through.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, the type nobody wants to be part of. Days passed in this silence. Landmasses shifted underfoot the silence lasted so long. A small polite knock echoed at the door.

  ‘Oh, thank god.’ Booker panted, as a familiar face past through the threshold. A tall police officer, his ears like two cup handles and a head shaped like a sporting trophy came into the room. Booker recognised him, even without his hat.

  ‘Not you again.’ The cop spoke out in a brassy PC tone, he stepped in on matchstick legs holding up a beer barrel of a body.

  ‘As always, you still owe me a fiver from last time.’ Booker interjected before he could mucky his reputation.

  ‘We’ve called an ambulance, she’s been pronounced dead. Nothing big, they’re going to be doing a post-mortem examination, but we’re suspecting no foul play, just cardiac arrest.’ The cop spoke to the manager, this time he ignored Booker, which suited Booker fine, it meant he’d have room to become angry and more red-faced than normal.

  ‘Bullshit.’ Booker finally spoke up. His red face turning blue, while his blue eyes turned red.

  ‘Excuse me?’ The cop turned.

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘Well no I didn’t.’ The officer answered.

  ‘Ur no, well, I, didn’t.’ Booker mocked, trying to mimic the bobbies voice and failing. The officer pulled his best-soured face. He had a hard voice to mimic, it was a collection of unlocatable dialects.

  ‘Really?’ The bobby asked softly nodding in a sort of annoyed and disapproving way.

  ‘Really,’ Booker couldn’t turn it off now. He worried he might stick like this, maybe the wind had changed or his brain was stuck on a loop.

  ‘Will you tell him.’ The cop stomped, there was no telling Booker once he’d started, it just wasn’t done. The manager simply raised his eyebrows, this worked with children, it had to work with adults who acted like children. Silence fell.

  ‘Do you think this person, lying in my meat isle died of a heart attack?’ The manager asked with slow intent, he’d gotten sick of nonsense now.

  ‘Yes.’ The cop asked.

  ‘Good, then you can go.’ The manager said with a finite sound to his voice. The officer left slamming the door in his wake. Booker thanked God, he didn’t believe in them, he believed in Gods working as much as he believed in the police doing any work. Which was very little, except the odd few.

  ‘She didn’t have a heart attack.’ Booker interjected.

  ‘I know that, and to be honest, I’m somewhat glad they don’t. I’d rather keep this out of the papers if you know what I mean.’ He tapped his nose.

  ‘It would be difficult to not know what you mean, you said it pretty clearly, you want to keep this out of the papers.’ Booker also tapped his nose, but as he did his face screwed up below the finger doing the tapping.

  ‘Right then, you are hired.’ The manager stood, pushing his hand out to shake.

  ‘I’m what?’ Booker twisted his head like a dog being asked questions in French.

  ‘Ex-cop, right? You’re a detective correct?’ The day manager had Booker pegged.

  ‘Yeah, but you thought I was a doctor a few minutes ago, so with those skills of deduction, you shouldn’t need me. You guessed I was a detective and I’m not even wearing my, “I’m a detective give me a case.” badge today.’ Booker mocked.

  ‘Well yes.’ The day manager straightened himself up.

  ‘You looked in my wallet didn’t you, saw my licence.’ The manager just nodded softly. Hot air poured from Bookers' nose, he wasn’t too pleased with the arrangement, but his last case had vanished into thin air.

  ‘Fine.’ He shook his head when reaching out the big plate he called a hand. The manager grabbed it, his hand looking like a doll's hand in Bookers.

  ‘Expect fees plus expenses.’ Warned Booker.

  ‘That’s fine.’ The day manager said.

  ‘And they’ll be a long list of expenses.’ Booker turned steadily and reached for the door, he’d already picked ten random things to charge back to the store.

  Booker was used to this, he had a habit of being known as the person who was at the wrong place at the right time, or worse the right place at the wrong time. Not only did things tend to not go his way they seemed to be driving up the wrong side of the road to him, swerving from left to right and back again.

  He drew a breath as it was the only thing he’d ever been able to draw. He needed to get out of this stupid supermarket, this was the wrong place at any time.

  Although, something washed over Booker, a sudden softness which he’d never felt in a store like this before. Not that he’d been aware of at least, the ringing music which seemed to spread evenly through the store.

  The dull light which made the back of his eyes hurt because they flickered, not that you noticed the flickering lights, it moved too fast, to the point only the back of your eyes and your subconscious noticed. There was something that oddly relaxed him, made him want to wander around with a basket.

  ‘Two for one on bags of coffee.’ Booker found himself saying. He shook his head, he had coffee. Lots of coffee. Too much coffee. Well not too much, there was never such a thing as too much coffee.

  Booker’s head focused. The store was this empty mess of lanes. Another thought, this one his own, at least it sounded like his.

  ‘Heart attack? Where’d they get a heart attack from?’ Booker asked aloud. A little old lady shrugged and wandered off to buy two for one coffee. Other than the odd old lady and old ladies around here was very odd, the store was almost empty, a few kids stacked shelves or picked at acne, but otherwise, the store was dead. Bad choice of words Booker thought to himself.

  He padded around more, maybe he was here looking for a clue, maybe he was here looking for great savings on baby milk. No that wasn’t it, he didn’t have a baby.

  ‘Leave, I have to leave.’ Shops were designed this way, to trick you into buying things you didn’t need, Booker suspected it was the music, and he was a detective, not a great one, but people gave him jobs and paid him enough to have lunch, liquid or otherwise. So, he must have been okay he thought to himself, rushing to the check out to buy his pack of three hairbrushes and a new whitening toothpaste.

  ‘For fuck sake.’ He said paying five pence for a bag.

  The car park was just as empty as the store. Two or three cars were parked around the edges of the building, probably the staff.

  A small mobility scooter in red sat in front of the store
. Booker hadn’t noticed it and tapped it with his foot. The huge light on the front of the scooter started to flash and a bell screeched.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ The alarm was deafening, Booker shielded his ears with his hands but the ringing had made it into his eardrum where it continued to ring from the inside like a school bell.

  Carrier bags in hand, Booker hurried over to his car. With a kick to the door, it swung open. Some kids, the same kids who had been sat outside the store earlier, laughed at him. Booker didn’t know why. They just laughed and continued to laugh as he got into his car.

  ‘Pricks.’ Booker garbled, shuffling his rear around in the seat before he set off. A twist of his wrist and his little red rust bucket splurged, not a word normally used to describe cars but one of the few fitting words to describe how Booker's car started.

  Another wrist flick and it spat, this time something large and mashed spat out the exhaust of his car. The smell of hot potato filling the air.

  ‘Those fucking pricks.’ Booker said, his mind crumbling, he fell forward onto the horn of his car, which squeaked but did so fleetingly.

  Booker’s driver door opened, with force. Stopping only when it couldn’t open anymore. Silver packets, torn open, fell onto the ground. After the crisp packets, a couple old women tutted at Booker as he pulled himself from his mobile. He snarled in reply which made the two old ladies stumble around like cockroaches. The smell of fries circled around the back of his car, a white mash lay as skid marks behind. The damage seemed bad, Booker eyed up, well worse, the car was already in a terrible shape.

  The three kids by the bins had settled their laughs down to a relaxed snigger.

  ‘Is this your doing.’ Booker yelled.

  3

  ‘You, what’s your name? It’s Robert, right?’ Booker spoke up, the three members of staff still stood outside the store, puffing away on small, tightly wrapped pieces of paper. Spitting smoke out of their nostrils like a sort of falsely rebellious dragon. The sticks could hardly be called cigarettes, they were too thin, and probably held very little actual tobacco.