A Well-Timed Death (Booker Shield Book 1)

by Karl Bourdiec

  ‘I’m not putting this on your tab, its maxed out.’ The barman told Booker.

  ‘Then turn it over.’ He replied thinking he was smarter than the average barman.

  ‘That sides full too.’

  ‘Then put it on his.’ Booker pointed at Rob with a thick fat thumb, much thicker and fatter than his other thumb because he’d hit it with a hammer once. Rob looked shocked, his hands waving in the air trying to explain that wasn’t a clever idea, he hadn’t paid off his car yet, a drinking tab was just more debt.

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Gull said pulling a sheet of paper and writing down Rob’s first name.

  ‘Is it Thorn or Thorns?’ Gull asked although you couldn’t read what it said, either way, that’s why not many of Gull’s tabs got paid.

  Booker ignored the fact Gull knew Rob, he was a barman, he knew everybody. Gull stamped it with a large rubber stamp which left a smudged red paw print on the paper, Rob thought it said CHARGE but couldn’t really be sure.

  ‘So, we’re just calling it a heart attack?’ Rob asked fiddling with a napkin somebody had left on the bar, it was only soggy on one corner, Rob pulled it apart from there leaving wet confetti on the wood. He’d left the point to sit with Booker for a while, hoping he’d change his mind on his diagnosis. The napkin fell apart a little. Rob pulled a face as if it was an accident, Gull glared at him. “Make a mess of my bar, will you?” Gull thought to himself, he didn’t say anything, just tidied the mess and graced Rob with a fake smile which didn’t look fake enough.

  ‘I don’t see why not. We can just go back to your old boss, tell him that the cops were right and take a small but perfectly decent fee for finding that out. Seems legit to me.’ Booker still flicked through the menu from the bar. The plan did seem sound, and who was it hurting. The girl was already dead, and nobody else had even thought this was a case for Booker to be pulled on. No harm no foul. The only harm would be on Rob’s soul, if there was such a thing, the idea of that girl laying there with a hole in her chest and the killer still out there would eat away at him.

  ‘It’s a heart attack.’ Rob told himself out loud, trying to make himself believe it.

  ‘Exactly.’ Agreed Booker.

  ‘What’s your usual?’ Rob asked as that was the second question closest to the front of his mind right at that second, he tried to ignore the other question, in the hopes it would go away.

  ‘It’s like the stuff I normally get when I’m here.’ Booker replied not understanding the question.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Well, that’s my answer.’

  Gull was taking his time with the drinks, either that or the laundry list of cocktails may have taken some time to concoct. Rob thought the second was probably more true.

  ‘Why are you so set on stopping, you saw that girl’s chest, this wasn’t a heart attack, you kept saying it wasn’t and I believe you now.’ Explained Rob trying to talk about the actual matter at hand. Rob believed Booker to start with, but when the police are saying it was a heart attack, you are inclined to agree.

  ‘Something is just telling me that it’s wrong. We shouldn’t be poking around in this, something is floating over it and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Now you tell me I should have been poking around in it.’ Rob rested his chin in his hand in defeat. ‘Is this because you were sick?’ Asked Rob, his voice suppressed by his hand.

  ‘No, just when I saw the hole. Something was weird. It’s like it wasn’t meant to be there.’ Booker tried to explain.

  ‘She had a hole in her chest, I don’t think it was meant to be there, I’d be more worried if it was.’ Answered Rob, although he wasn’t asked a question. His chair turned a little and he corrected himself again.

  ‘She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Booker tried that old chestnut again.

  ‘That’s your thing. “Wrong place, wrong time, wrong person.” That’s your stick.’ Mimicked Rob.

  ‘You’re sounding like my uncle.’ Pointed out, Booker.

  ‘Oh yeah, what was he like?’

  ‘Dreadful died on stage at twenty-seven.’ This shut Rob up. Not for long.

  ‘You can’t blame wrong place wrong time for not wanting to help this poor girl, obviously, you found it important enough to say you’d help.’ Cheered on Rob.

  ‘What was important was I got paid.’

  ‘That’s bull and you know it. You wanted to help I can see it.’ Rob elbowed Booker, Booker slipped a little.

  ‘What you’re seeing is the beginning of a hangover I’ve been trying to run away from for the past six years.’ Booker rubbed at his brow to try and relieve the pain. It didn't seem to help. It was either a hangover or his new chum talked too much. A driver was meant to drive you silently from A to B not ask you how people were killed and why people die.

  This was the point Gull made his way to the bar area, he wobbled too and throw unsteadily. Pushing the door bottom half first it squeaked open. From the belly of the pub Gull had pulled two paper trays filled with chicken wings the colour of rubber, they were breaded with more than eleven herbs and spices, with them were chips, onion rings a few stuffed potato skins with sun yellow cheese on top and tiny bits of very brown bacon. Under each arm Gull had special beer mugs, ones he had kept for his special drinkers and Booker kept this place open when he had a paying gig.

  Gull tossed the collection of foodstuffs onto the counter where they slid under their own weight, in front of Rob and Booker. He pulled a pint glass from under one arm, they actually held a pint of drink not like the pint glasses everyone else got. Gull filled it will amber coloured nectar which settled with a creamy head at the top, this cascaded down the side a little.

  Rob licked his lips as the other pint was pulled, this time Gull seemed to fill it more slowly, Rob wasn’t a big drinker but did like a good pint once in awhile just to let his hair down, pints were better that way Rob thought. There was nothing like having a pint after a hard day of work, or when you’d worked up a sweat doing the garden or finishing a spot of DIY. Gull placed one pint down, it was thick and frothy, this was placed in front of Booker who clasped it and pulled a huge sip from it. The second Gull moved slowly so as not to spill it, this one was also placed in front of Booker.

  ‘Booker texted me, you’re driving sorry my lad.’

  ‘Look, as I say, heart attacks happen, we can’t change that, but if must be? I can give a call to my old cop buddy, he can pull the records for Mr Brixton, we pop around his house and ask him a few questions.’ Booker said with a thick moustache of foam. It ate his upper lip and stuck fast to his stubble.

  ‘That would make me feel a little better, I guess.’ Rob said picking at a chicken finger. Wondering which part of the chicken this came from. Out of Bookers pocket came his phone, people had spoken about Bookers phone but Rob had never really seen him text anybody, this seemed to be his way to pass secret messages to his friends to ruin Rob's day.

  Booker had begun nibbling a piece of chicken, crumbles fell from it with speed. He planned to clean those up with the chips which also filled his paper plate. Suddenly there was a huge electronic scream. It echoed in thick air Booker jumped in his skin whereas the rest of the pub didn’t even flinch. It was a fog horn, something so common in North Bank that it became one of those noises you could just ignore.

  Rob nibbled at some potato skins, the cheese stretching like a rubber band while Booker shook like a leaf. It snapped finally after being pulled to about a foot in length. Dribbling down Booker’s chin he sucked it up like a cartoon dog, a different one to the one which wore a tie.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Asked Rob noticed that Booker was gently moving left to right at some speed.

  ‘I just hate fog, always have. Its haunting, isn’t it? Like something's out to get you.’ Explained Booker in short breathes. Rob had to admit there was something off about fog, but he’d lived here his whole life, the fog was just part of it. It rolled through the streets every morning and s
ometimes at lunch. There was nothing supernatural about it to him but he could see how people could have that connection in their head.

  ‘It’s just a thing, alright, we don’t have to talk about it now. You wanted me to get this girl address and I’m doing that, just leave me alone alright.’ Booker spoke quickly as if he had to be somewhere. He got up and walked to the bathroom, maybe he did have to be somewhere. This is when Gull bounded over, still cleaning a glass with his bare hand. It seemed to be made of smudges now instead of glass, Rob was glad he didn’t have a drink after all.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Rob asked Gull.

  ‘He thinks the fog is the reason all this stuff happens to him.’ Explained Gull.

  ‘Stuff? This happens to him often?’

  ‘Yeah, has he not gone through his wrong place wrong time routine?’ Gull put the glass down on the counter, somehow it was suddenly clean.

  ‘Yeah, but I wasn’t listening.’ Rob shook his head as he spoke.

  ‘He was born on a foggy day he says. It’s been following him since he says. It’s the reason for his bad luck. That’s what he says.’

  ‘He doesn’t believe in bad luck.’ Rob fought the want to say, he says, back.

  ‘Everybody believes in bad luck. I say.’ And Gull did say.

  ‘They just mightn’t call it that.’ Gull wandered off leaving his glass on the bar next to his advice.

  Seconds later Booker returned, zipped up his pants and dried his hands on the beer mat.

  This is when his phone rang.

  8

  ‘Booker!’ The man yelled down the phone, he stood around six-foot-tall on top he had thinning hair. He pushed a finger into his ear so he could hear through the thick noise police stations always were filled with. This time a rowdy drunk was asking if anybody knew who he was, not in a sort of I’ve forgotten way and more in an I’m the queen of Sheba, my Dad’s bigger than your Dad kind of way. Guessing the age of the drunk it wouldn’t make much of a difference if his dad was bigger than your Dad, people don’t normally seem that tall when they are six feet under, even if you bury them standing up.

  ‘What did you want?’ He yelled again. PC Richard Nicoll was his name, an old friend of Booker's as he was the man who taught Richard how to not get bogged down in paperwork by giving it to somebody else to do. Rich always had time for Booker, he didn’t know why, or even how, Booker never had time for Richard and Richard never had time for anything but police work and Booker. Booker always seemed to call him at the exact time after he’d finished a job and just before he started another.

  Richard was built like most cops, tiny pins for legs hung below a huge jam jar shape he called a body, he always wore his stab proof vest, even when he was at the station because the station was where all the crazy people were held.

  Booker had told him that too. He had a slight Scottish accent which only popped on certain words, which he’d inherited from his mother. Rich tended to say, “oh eye” when he agreed with something, so he stopped agreeing to things and that went away.

  Rich reminded Booker of one of those dancing paper dolls you see people flogging in other countries. Firstly, his body was so oversized as already stated. His legs seemed to float below the waist as if Rich’s body was the actual thing which held him up. The other thing was that somebody was always pulling strings, even if you thought he was moving by himself something was always behind him pulling at the threads. Making him bob up and down.

  ‘I can’t just be giving peoples addresses away willy-nilly.’ He yelled one finger in his ear still ‘No I canny.’ His mother’s voice poured out. Richards mother was Scottish, although Rich spoke with a twang from the North East, the odd Scottish word came out like “Canny” meaning can’t and oot, which generally had more ohs then it really needed. Rich himself had never been to Scotland, what was the point, it was just like here just rougher. ‘That’s exactly how it doesn’t work.’ There was a large group of people milling past Rich to get to the door, they pushed and pulled at each other.

  Climbing over each other’s shoulders, pushing each other out the way. Richard looked past them to where they were heading. Three of them had closed the front doors to the station, Richard had never seen these doors closed before. ‘Two seconds Booker.’ He placed the phone atop the table he’d been stood at and made passages to the door.

  Pushing and shoving his way through he’d made it to the door, he asked nobody what the problem was mainly because he didn’t care. ‘Everybody back to work, these doors are never closed. You all know that.’ Richard yelled, his vest rose up as he lifted his arm revealing the belly he’d tried to tuck away.

  People milled about a little more, heading back to their desks and work. Rob watched them return to their seats.

  Booker was considered a menace throughout the station, this is why Rich was normally the only one to answer his calls, a lot of the others on the force had blocked his number years ago.

  The police knew of his habit of being wrapped up in some of their odder cases. When people vanished, they could ask Booker, when people started to see ghosts, they asked Booker, he was like four college kids travelling in a van solving crimes, except he wasn’t in college and he didn’t drive a van. He also didn’t have a catchphrase. Rich thought that was a shame, he liked the idea of Booker having a catchphrase, it would soften his edges a little. Rich thought of Booker’s drinking like a catchphrase but thought it may be a little difficult to print it onto a shirt or have a badge with it on.

  The issue was they couldn’t actually arrest him, according to the law, something that the police have an okay grasp on, Booker hadn’t actually done anything wrong, certainly not anything illegal. So he was allowed to wander the streets still when he could be bothered to leave his office. Some of the older officers had tried to find dirt on Booker, the problem they had was Booker was taking all the fun and exciting jobs, Booker didn’t want them, they just fell into his lap. They fell into his lap when he was on the force and fell into his lap now he’d left. Rich walked back to the phone, he wanted this call to be over as soon as possible in case he got dragged into whatever Booker had been working on, that’s how it seemed to work, weird stuff happened in this town and most of it seemed to happen to Booker. It was like a cold too, it passed from him to whoever he’d spoken to about it.

  ‘The door.’ Richard said, turning back around to open it. There was a heavy knock, a thud much louder than anybody could do without causing an issue to their hand. Rich walked on. The door wasn’t far away but when somebody knocked with such force your mind has a habit of making the distance feel like a trek.

  It thudded again, this time with two heavy raps. The door moved back and forward, it had locked when it closed, this was in case somebody tried to break in when the station was closed or for lockdown reasons. The station had never closed, and locks downs only happened when Booker worked there and the fog had started to crawl.

  A small circle with a metal latch sat high up in the door. It was about the size of a five pence piece and glinted silver like one also. He pushed it to the side and looked through the tiny hole.

  Pc Nicoll pushed his face up against the door, preparing to look through the tiny pinhole the door came with, the door was thick and metal and chilled his face even when he was simply close to it. Once you pushed your face against it the cold could eat away at your skin. One Christmas, when it was partially cold. An officer put his face to the door, the frost attacked it. Melding his cheek to the frame, now he has a little scar just below his left eye where they had to pry him from its hold.

  Centimetres away from the door there was a knock again, it knocked Rich back in shock, what had made all these trained cops head to the door to make sure it was locked.

  Outside the police station, the figure stood still knocking, the building itself looked like it was designed by a kid with cheap building blocks. It was a mismatch of square buildings threaded together. The main building, where the huge metal door was located was th
e larger of the structure. It looked like it had been built after the war but before fire regulations.

  A set of spiral stairs spun their way up the side of the building. If a fire did irrupt, these were the safest way to escape, but by the look of them, it would probably be more safe to jump from the roof onto a parked car.

  Cladding had been strapped to each side of the building during the seventies but now some of it had chipped away.

  The buildings on the right were windowless, grey, blobs that attached to the main part of the Police station, to the right of that was another short building, this looked as though it was a garage but would only hold one car at a time. Which was pretty useless for a police station, as three or maybe even four cars would be more useful, that is why in front of the station a large number of cars were parked. Many of which parked illegally.

  At the very front of the building was three large concrete steps. They had come with the building originally but had been replaced multiple times since. Therefore, didn’t match the general look of the building. They led up to the door where all the banging was coming from, the outside of the door was painted blue, the police blue you always see police doors painted in and is used for very little else police wise. On each step, a thick wide puddle had been left by the person who had made their way to the top of the steps and now knocked.

  The little window opened up again, Richard had pulled up enough courage that he was at least willing to look through the tiny eye hole. The eye hole man was grey with a huge bulbous head and a grey stick figure body. It was a he because he had stubble and carried himself in a way that only men can. Rich tried to move his eye around in the hole a little more to capture more of the image but couldn’t all he saw was the grey man, in his torn blue shirt and business pants.

  There was panting from behind Rich, heavy panting which seemed to be put on.

  The heat rolled down Richards neck in moist waves, somebody was behind him and he knew who that somebody was. Sergeant Ford had his own gravity when he entered a room, this was for two reasons. Firstly, he was a large guy, he’d failed to get into the army because he was too big to fit in a standard helicopter this left him with lots of training and nowhere to use it, the second reason was he simply had the air about him, nobody knew his first name, or his age, even his shirt size was a bit of hearsay around the station. Richard turned slowly.