The Polka Dot Girl

by Darragh McManus

  But Jesus Christ, Cassandra… I believe there is such a thing as undeniable physical loveliness, just pure Beauty with a capital B: a face or figure that goes far beyond personal predilections and enters the realm of the universal. A Helen of Troy face, a Cleopatra or Greta Garbo face; the sort of face that could sink a battleship, bring down an empire, turn best friends into enemies and make ordinary women do insane things. Certain faces and physiques are so exquisitely perfect (and I mean that in its purest sense, not that they conform to some pre-ordained notion of plasticky flawlessness) that they almost transcend mere desire and become an art-form—an aesthetic, physiological represen- tation of the divine and the absolute.

  This woman really was fabulous, and then some. Hers was an imperial, grave beauty, grand and enduring, almost as intimidating as it was enticing, and I could have gazed on that face to infinity. Cassandra was divine, and amazingly, for this moment at least, she was mine.

  We had met in the same bar I first encountered her; thankfully the same bartender wasn’t on duty, so I was spared that awful post-binge social embarrassment. We had one drink—beer for me, wine for her; no more Ragnoud-Sabourin—then left for a lovely little bistro-style restaurant on the edge of the Zig-Zag. It was close enough to feel exotic and “authentic”, whatever that means, but near enough to civilization so as not to scare away the post-theater crowd and dining paramours. Actually there seemed to be a lot of romance in the air tonight, in this place. An old couple across the way held hands so tenderly I almost cried, it was so sweet; two arty-looking gals in deliberately ugly clothes who stared intently into each other ’s eyes were, I guessed, on a reconciliatory date; another pair in their forties, sitting near the kitchen, smiled shyly and didn’t say anything because it didn’t need to be said.

  Cassandra was wearing appropriately beautiful clothes: a midnight blue dress, thin-strapped and glittering, which fitted her figure like an angel’s touch. She had an unadorned emerald on a dark chain around her neck, her hair piled high in a compli- cated, messy sculpture of pins and grips and falling locks of red flame. Blue eye-shadow complemented the dress and she had powdered her décolletage with some sort of gold-dust. It sparkled in the soft lights; she sparkled, her skin was glowing. I wore a sharp-cut trouser suit, the pants high-waisted with a fantastic flared kick, the jacket embroidered with a rose motif in red and green thread. My shirt collars were high and stiff and made me feel like someone very cool: proprietor of a fashionable art gallery, insouciant bass player in an alternative rock band. I looked nice, I think. I felt nice.

  She pushed her bowl aside and lit a cigarette from the candle burning low between us. I breathed in that distinctive perfume—it still made me think of the woman fully robed in black, only her kohl-lined amber eyes visible—and accepted the smoke as Cassandra passed it across to me. I took a drag and she smiled wryly, shaking her head.

  I smiled too. “What? What’s funny?”

  “I still can’t see you as a cop. I mean, a detective! It’s… You, a fully-fledged, bona fide crime fighter. You’re so…”

  “Small? Unimposing? Immature? Feel free to stop me at any point here.”

  She laughed. “I was going to say gentle. And sweet. And pretty. Not what I presumed a cop would look like. That was my ignorant preconception.”

  “Ugh. ‘Pretty.’ The adjective of choice when you can’t think of anything better.”

  “No, I don’t mean it like that. You know I don’t. You’re more than pretty.”

  “Well, thank you. I have my moments, I suppose. I pale by comparison with you, though.”

  Cassandra blushed slightly and smiled down at the table without speaking.

  I said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I’m just… Like, it’s undeniable, you know? You are—amazing looking. It’s just, it’s a simple fact. You know it, everyone who’s got eyes knows it.”

  She took my hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay. Honestly. It’s cool, I appreciate it. …It’s funny, I usually hate when people comment on how I look. And they’re always doing it. ‘You’re too tall, you’re too pale, you’re beautiful, you’re ugly, you’re this and this and this.’ God! Cringe. I’m there thinking, ‘Please, please stop talking.’ But you—I don’t mind really when you say something.”

  “Now that is a real compliment.”

  “Yeah… It’s true. I feel like there’s nothing you could say that

  I wouldn’t want to listen to.”

  “Aw, stop it. Now you’re making me embarrassed.”

  She squeezed my hand with greater force. “I mean that, Genie. I didn’t think I’d be saying that when we first met, but I do. I mean it.”

  We lapsed into silence as the waitress cleared our dishes and set down fresh cutlery for the next course. I finished the cigarette and took a break—from her, from the look and smell of her, that exotic perfume dazing my senses, the way her breast sloped down in an elegant curve, the way it rose and fell with her breathing. I needed that break. It had been a hectic afternoon.

  I’d gone directly from Arlene to Chief Etienne who, fortu- nately, was at her desk—I was running on short time by that point. I told her about the mug-shot of Erika Baton. She asked if I could prove it was her who attacked me. I said there were no cameras in that part of the Zig-Zag so it was basically my word against hers; possibly enough for a conviction, depending on the circumstances. Etienne suggested we put out an all-points bulletin on Erika but I nixed it: that would only drive the killer underground because clearly we had a mole in the department. Etienne pooh-poohed the notion at first—her pride, I guess, wouldn’t allow her to see it—but I pushed and insisted, referred back to our five songbirds and the specific Madeleine details they couldn’t have known but somehow knew. We had to have a mole. Etienne finally agreed with me. She gave me the usual “keep on it, soldier ” pep-talk. I thanked her and made two quick calls, putting the word out with Cella, and also Camilla and her army of scumbags and snitches. I told the gangster that I wanted this Erika fucking Baton but to be discreet about it—softly softly catchy monkey. Camilla said she was the soul of discretion itself and she’d maybe see what she maybe could do, if she felt well- disposed towards me. I told her to cut the shit. She said, “Maybe, small fry, maybe” and hung up. I tore home and showered and changed and made the rendezvous with seconds to spare.

  The rendezvous, the assignation. I was a character in a historical novel, a Gothic romance, melodramatic and intoxicating, the meeting by the lake, the secret billet-doux urgently passed to the loyal and valiant messenger.

  It was weird—there was a connection here. No, let me reword that: I felt a connection. I’m not a girly-girl, I don’t believe in love at first sight or chocolate-box fantasies or any of that stuff. And yet, and yet… I felt a connection. We talked as the food arrived and talked more as we ate, about nothing really, trivialities and anecdotes, the instinctive channeling of conversation. We laughed at the same things and reached forward to touch fingers in the same moment. It felt easy and unforced and right, like waking up next to someone you care about and looking over at them through sleep-blurred eyes and smiling together and rolling as one into a more comfortable position. But nothing too heavy, not right away.

  Two bitter, creamy coffees and a clean ashtray had been placed on our table by the time we got heavy.

  “Tell me about yourself. Not Cassandra. The real you.”

  She deflected my entreaty: “Did you always have your hair short like that? I’m just curious. It suits you.”

  I let it slide for the moment and said, “No. Got it cropped a few years back when I realized that your own hair could be used as a weapon against you. And me, well—you can see how little I am. I don’t need to give the villains any more of an advantage.” Cassandra nodded. “Mm-hm. And has it given you problems?

  In the job, I mean. Being small.”

  I considered the question. “Hmmm. Has it given me a problem…? I would probably say, yes and no. As in, i
t has advantages and disadvantages, you know? On the good side people tend to open up more to me than my colleagues. I think they think I’m not intimidating or threatening; they see me as this cute little kid who for some reason is going around asking questions and flashing a detective’s badge. They feel more comfortable around me. But it’s not so good if you’re trying to shackle a 15-stone meth-head who’s just buried a hatchet into the brains of her lover because of an argument over a game of poker. True story, by the way.”

  She grimaced, her skin actually paling. “Oh my God. That’s horrible.”

  “Sorry, that wasn’t nice. I take that back. You don’t need to know about stuff like that. What I’m very clumsily trying to say is, being small is obviously a hindrance when it comes to physical tussles with people twice your size.” I smiled. “And yet…”

  “You tussle anyway.”

  “Yeah. I guess I like to tussle.” “Good. I guess I like to tussle, too.”

  Silence again. I lit a cigarette for both of us. Her hands lingered on mine as she took it, and I liked that very much.

  Then Cassandra said, “So what’s it like? Being a cop.” “It’s okay. It’s pretty good, I suppose.”

  “You must like it, though? You’ve been in the police for—how long?”

  “Since I was a kid; since I left school. Went straight into the academy. So that’s…what? About a dozen years. More—13. Lucky 13.”

  “And why did you join up?” she asked. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I’m just trying to…I don’t know, get the back-story, I suppose.”

  “‘The back-story’: I love that phrase. One of those new phrases… Why did I join the police? Um…for a few different reasons. To do some good, you know? To do my part. To be involved in something bigger and more important than just me. There were—a lot of reasons, really. Yeah, I think that was maybe the main one: just to do something good. To contribute to society, right? That moral imperative. But, I mean, there was a personal impetus, too. Small girl in a big world. I wanted to be able to defend myself, physically. To kick ass if necessary.”

  I laughed and shrugged playfully. Cassandra laughed too. I continued, “This is weird but I’m only remembering this now, something that happened a long time ago. About a month before I joined up. I’d left school and had been, like, toying with the idea of a career in the police. So I was kicking around for the summer, waiting on exam results, whatever. Figuring out my options. Killing time. I was seeing this girl back then, a girl called Maggie, so we hung out a lot too.”

  “Well, that’s a nice way to kill time.”

  “Yeah. It was. Uh, anyway, about mid-August I was walking home late from…somewhere. I don’t remember exactly. Probably Maggie’s place but it doesn’t matter. And I was crossing Pasiphaë Prospect, there around the junction with, uh, Shoard to one side and Crown to the other? There was a lot of traffic on Pasiphaë that night—I think there might have been a big boxing match on or something. Lot of traffic, lot of noise, this big blustering wind screaming down the Prospect…”

  I stopped, my inner eye snapping into focus—I was seeing it all again, lucidly, in full, terrible color. “And…I thought I heard a scream. From an alleyway a ways back, maybe a block or two. I stood on the pavement and listened and there it was, I thought I heard it a second time. But I couldn’t be sure, it was too noisy. I mean, that could have been an alarm going off or an ambulance siren or a stray cat howling at the moon. I looked down towards where this—sound, if it even existed, was coming from.”

  I lit another cigarette and drew hard. “It was black as fucking pitch down there. Like, I mean, like the inside of night, you know? Dark, totally dark, and scary. I took a few steps towards the alley and then I heard the sound again. Definitely, a woman screaming. In pain, scared, terrified. But was it? Because I couldn’t be sure, you know? I couldn’t… Anyway: I couldn’t go down there. I was too afraid. And my mind was telling me, you’re imagining it, there’s nobody there, just go home. Because those alleys, you’re too young to remember this but back then? Those alleys off the Prospect were pretty dangerous. Lot of muggings, a few murders, sexual assaults. And I was afraid.”

  Cassandra placed her hand on top of mine again, its soft warmth permeating down through my skin like water through soil. I said, “I wondered afterwards: if I definitely knew, I mean knew, that what I’d heard was real, would I have still walked away? I like to think I wouldn’t. I like to imagine swallowing my fear and marching in there and saving the day. I’ll never know. All I know is, I walked away because I was scared. I told myself I was hearing things but really I was scared. And the next day I read about a woman being raped and murdered by a gang of vicious bitches. In a dark alleyway. Two blocks from Pasiphaë Prospect. Near the junction with Shoard and Crown.”

  I looked up at her and she was blurred in my vision and I realized I had tears in my eyes. I also realized I hadn’t really thought about that night since I joined the force two days after reading about Helena Khan. That was her name. She was 28, a physiotherapist, single, on her way home from a yoga class. She was buried by her mother and two sisters. They planted a tree in her memory in the back garden of the oldest sister. Her mother died of cancer nine months later. I now remember all of this.

  “Oh, Genie.” Cassandra stood and leaned across the table, kissing me tenderly on the mouth. She placed a hand behind my head and kissed my eyes. “Genie, Genie. Let me kiss those tears away.”

  She sat back down, still holding my hand. I smiled and sniffled, saying, “I’m alright. Really, I’m fine. …Wow. That was strange. I haven’t… It’s a long time since I thought about that woman.”

  “So that’s really why you became a police officer? To avenge her?”

  “No. Not avenge, I don’t think. Make right, maybe. …I swore I’d never again be afraid to walk down a dark alleyway if I thought I heard a scream. You understand? That I would always walk into that darkness, fearless and determined, no matter what the circumstances. But I had to train, I had to get tough. No point a midget like me dying along with her. So I did. I got tough.” Cassandra said warmly, “Yeah? How tough?”

  “Tough enough, sweetheart. Tough enough.”

  We smiled at each other, ping, right to the nearest millisecond. We even broke the smile at the same time. I drained my coffee and said, “So what do you do? I never asked.”

  “Oh…this and that. Different things. I run a small—business, a shop sort of. It won’t make me a millionaire but it’s enough to live on. Anyway my mother is quite rich. She doesn’t mind funding my…ha! Life of leisure. Thank you, Mommy.”

  She raised her glass—I wasn’t sure if the toast was mocking or sincere. Then she said, “So are you working on anything interesting at the moment?”

  “Yeah, it’s… Actually, interesting isn’t the word I’d use. It’s terrible. Just, uh, really depressing. And you don’t need to hear about that, either.”

  “No, I want to. I mean, if you want to tell me. What do you cover? Murder? Robbery? Everything?”

  “Homicide. Murder, yeah. This…case, it’s a girl, a young girl, we fished her out of the water at Whinlatter Docks a few nights ago. An only child. It’s a fucking shame. Very sad. But, hey— that’s my job.”

  “And have you got a suspect? Or however the professionals phrase it.”

  “‘Suspect’ is fine.”

  “Alright. So do you know yet? Who’s behind it?”

  I spied the waitress passing out of my peripheral vision and turned to her, catching her attention, mouthing the word “check.” I turned back to Cassandra. Time to get heavy again. “Really, that’s enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Like, ooh, I don’t know…your real name?”

  She gave that heavenly laugh, perfect teeth and deep-red lips. “My real name. Hmm. I’ll give you a clue: it’s not Cassandra.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I am being serious.”

  “Cassand… Shit. Okay, I’m gonna stop calling you
that. You, there, lady in the blue dress: I want to know about you. Okay? You know things about me, I’ve told you things. Now I want to know about you. Who you are, what you like, where you’ve come from, where you’re going. You know, things.”

  She sighed heavily, running her finger around the top of her wine glass. Finally she said, “I’ll do you a deal. If we’re still seeing each other in two weeks, I’ll tell you everything. My full name, date of birth, what size underwear I take, whatever you want.”

  “Why two weeks?”

  “Just…shh. Be patient. I’ll tell all in two weeks.”

  “Well, to be honest it’s a shitty sort of a deal from my perspective. But I don’t suppose I have a choice, do I?”

  Cassandra smiled and shook her head. The motion loosened a thick strand of hair; it fell past her right eye, swinging slowly like a festival streamer in the breeze.

  “Until then I’ll give you this: I’m 21 years old. I like reading and sleeping late. I don’t like butch women who swear a lot or push others around. I like science-fiction movies, classic and new. I paint for pleasure, very badly. Sometimes I have the most horrendous migraines, it feels like my head is coming apart at the bone. I lost my virginity when I was 18. I like drinking hot chocolate and cool wine. I don’t like trying to find parking in the center of Hera on a Saturday afternoon. I’m a Capricorn. My underwear size is 36C at the bust, medium for the pants. I like the feeling of rain on my face, but not too cold. I like making love with sweet, gentle, pretty homicide detectives. Is that enough for now? Will I go on?”

  I said, “No. I suppose that’ll do for a while. Shall we go?”

  She nodded. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. By the time I returned she’d paid the check and was standing by the door with my coat over her arm, a stole over her shoulders.