The Kissing Fence

by B. A. Thomas-Peter

  At the school, a teacher was locking the door. He asked, “Have you seen the boy Marko?”

  “No, I haven’t, but someone said he was waiting for you.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Sorry. Can’t help.”

  “What happened? Why are the children out early?” asked Flanagan.

  “Last Friday,” the teacher said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The bell goes half an hour early on the last Friday of the term. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “No. They didn’t.”

  Flanagan turned toward the gate and began planning his search for Marko. Town to the right, hills to the left. Four boys walked past the school heading toward town. They were laughing. One boy grabbed another in play and, with exaggerated swing, punched him in the stomach. The boy curled and groaned in mock agony and they laughed again. A third boy threw an uppercut into the air and made the comic-book sound of fist on chin: “Pfiff!”

  They were excited, more so than boys jostling and fooling with each other in play. There was triumph in their celebration, as if they had scored a victory or conquest. The confusion Flanagan had felt a few minutes before was now sickness and horror. He had been late to escort young Marko and they had attacked him. Flanagan began running up Seventh Avenue, not wanting to find what he knew to be there, hoping the boy was not too badly injured.

  For the second time in a few minutes, Marko’s name echoed up Seventh Avenue into the hills.

  3:55 p.m.

  Matron stood at the door of the office building as Flanagan, Marko and Pavel arrived at the dormitory. They were in no hurry. There was anger in their eyes. Dirt and blood still streaked Marko’s face. Flanagan said, “Thank you, Pavel, for taking care of him.” Pavel clapped his hand on Marko’s shoulder and left.

  Matron reached out to Marko. “Let’s get you inside and get you cleaned up.”

  There was compassion in her voice. It was something he had not heard before. She glanced at Flanagan, avoiding his eyes. He followed her inside.

  Sergeant Benson sat to one side of Matron’s desk. He waited until she had ushered the boy through the building to the sick bay. “Well, well, Irish. I would get you a job licking stamps, but I’m not sure you’d be up to posting the letters.”

  “No one told me the children come out of school thirty minutes early on the last Friday of term, Sarge.”

  “It was your job to escort this boy to and from school. That was my understanding.”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “Then it was your job to find out about it.”

  “May I speak plainly, Sarge?”

  “Please do, son. I want to hear what you have to say. It might be the last thing you say in the RCMP, so go on. Let’s hear it.”

  “This was a set-up. There is another boy here, called Sam. Sam was told that Marko had been telling Matron about the Green Witch, that woman we went to see on Third Avenue. The others turned on Marko for giving secrets away.”

  “That’s what happens to informers. The boy forgot what side he was on and got what was coming. You would know about that sort of thing.”

  “But Marko was not the source. He didn’t speak with Matron about it.”

  “How do you know that, and what does it matter? Did he tell you and you believe it? Is this the best police work you can do?”

  “The boy Sam and his friends were the ones who assaulted Marko. They were waiting for him outside the school. I saw them coming away from it.”

  “Had you been there, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “I’ve been with the boy every day this week and not a sniff of trouble. On the one day I’m not there, there’s a posse waiting. It’s suspicious.”

  “Of what?”

  “Someone told Sam I wouldn’t be there because I’d been kept in the dark. There were twenty minutes or so when Marko would be alone. They knew I wasn’t going to be there. They were put up to it.”

  “Now, who would have done such a thing?”

  Flanagan resisted speaking in case it was overheard but looked to the door that Matron had shut behind her on leaving.

  “You better have some bloody good evidence for that accusation, son. You’re saying Matron is suspected of conspiracy to assault a child. What’s your evidence? Can any of this be proved?”

  “We should speak with her and with Sam and Marko, for a start.”

  The sergeant stood. “We’ll do nothing of the kind. Listen to me, Irish.” The sarcasm had changed to a sneer of contempt. “There is only one thing to understand here. You’re not up to it. You’ll always be trouble for someone else. In my report to headquarters I’m going to recommend they bring your time with the RCMP to an end, for incompetence. You’re a danger to others. If I were you, I’d get my resignation in first.”

  It had not occurred to Flanagan until this moment. His anger, having worked out what had happened to Marko, had obstructed the processing of a key piece of information on his arrival at the office. It was shame he had heard in Matron’s voice and seen in her furtive eyes. The contrivance of a plan must have brought a sense of satisfaction, even vindication, to her, but now, as the cruel reality of it unfolded exactly as intended, the righteousness, faced with a bleeding child, was lost.

  “Why are you here, Sarge? How did you know to be here today, at this time? Normally you’d be in Castlegar and it takes a couple of hours to get here. Matron would only just have found out that I wasn’t at the school on time, but you knew to be here. You both knew, and you knew what would happen.”

  “Careful, Irish.”

  “You let a thirteen-year-old boy have the shit knocked out of him so you could get at me.”

  “That’s enough. You’re in enough trouble already.” Benson’s angry face faded to a smile. “You’ll always be an outsider in the force. You don’t know how to be loyal. But I’ll say this for you, Irish, you’re not stupid. Untrustworthy, but not stupid. More than I can say for most of the Paddies I know.”

  The punch landed in soft tissue below the sternum with a force that buckled the sergeant. His knees bent and he gripped his stomach, mouth open, searching for breath that was not there. The second landed at the side between rib cage and hip. He fell to his knees. There was whisky on the air pushed from his lungs. Seconds passed until Flanagan grasped the sergeant under his armpits and hoisted him into the chair.

  Sergeant Benson wheezed, “You’re done now, son. Assaulting an officer is serious business.”

  “You better have some bloody good evidence for that accusation. I hope you can prove it. I don’t see any marks, and I don’t see any witnesses either.”

  “Arrogant bastard.”

  “Don’t bother with your report. I don’t want your stench on me for another day. I’m out.”

  Flanagan left the office. Within three strides he regretted having struck the sergeant, however much he had deserved it. The injustice he felt for these children, for Marko especially, and for himself made it nearly defensible, but not really. It was wrong, no question, and not like him. Yet he had surprised himself with his inability to contain his anger in response to that final insult to his heritage. One injustice after another had gradually scrubbed away all that contained his anger. The effort needed to live to his own standards had not seemed so hard, but the crust of civility was worn through more easily than he believed possible. Even now he wanted to justify it and rehearse the righteous argument vindicating what he had done, but it was wrong to do so and he shook it off. Everyone, he thought, must be capable of violence when pushed to it, but that also was too easy, even if it had a little truth. This moment of weakness with Sergeant Benson would haunt him, but it had sealed his fate in the force. The choice to leave had been made and there was no going back on it.

  As he approached the security hut it dawned on Flanagan what was familiar about Mr
. Nori’s replacement. The door opened and John Benson emerged smiling.

  “Hello, Constable. Everything all right?” asked Benson.

  “Just fine, thanks, John. Your brother’s in there,” said Flanagan, jabbing his thumb at the office building he had just left.

  “He’s my cousin,” said John, still smiling. “He said he would be coming by today. I have him to thank for getting me this job.”

  For Christ’s sake!

  At the edge of the dormitory boundary the eight-foot chain-link fence loomed higher than usual. He thought there could be no justification for this place. Good people could not survive working within it. It was a place for the righteous to acquire unquestioned authority and for the ambitious to hide the truth on behalf of those above. For some, thought Flanagan, the role of caring for the vulnerable offered an opportunity to twist the purpose to suit their comforts. It was the best that could be said of any of them.

  He stopped and surveyed the dormitory. Flanagan was not sure of his future but he was certain that he would not allow that fury to kindle again, and the front line of the RCMP was no place to struggle against being outraged. There was too much to be outraged about. He could never be one of those who allowed it to wash over them or would turn away from seeing what was there to be seen, because those above found it suited them. He would have to find another way.

  Flanagan wanted to believe the children would manage. Of course they would not, but there was nothing more he could do here.

  9

  Vancouver, January 2, 2018, 8:15 a.m.

  William checked his watch. In forty-five minutes he would see Uri in the car park of a dead factory a short drive from the office. There would be no cameras in that car park, and there would be no recording of the cars being there or images of the transfer of a sprocket from one car window to another. The security arrangements tired him, and yet he needed the reassurance it provided. The ratio of opportunity to risk had changed, or perhaps that ratio was no longer important.

  William walked into the office hallway and up the stairs.

  “Morning, Cathy. Good weekend?”

  “Yes, thank you. William,” she said, catching his attention before he disappeared into the office, “Dennis hasn’t come in today. I don’t know if he’s sick.”

  William stopped in front of her desk and nodded. “Well, perhaps he’s just late. Leave it awhile and give him a call. There’s probably a reason.” William thought better of letting Cathy know of Dennis’s resignation.

  “Did you see him on the weekend?” she asked.

  “I did, yes. Why do you ask?”

  “You called me to ask for the address. Was he all right when you saw him?”

  William said, “He was fine. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  “Shall I call him?”

  “Give him a chance to get in, before we start chasing him.” The disappointment on Cathy’s face darkened the room. “Don’t worry, one of the others will step up. The work will get done.” William smiled as if that was her concern. “What’s on the schedule today?”

  Cathy flipped open the desk diary. “Two deliveries are coming in this afternoon. It’s the climbing equipment and the kayaks. There’s a problem with space in the warehouse. If we don’t get something out this morning—”

  “I’ll deal with it. What’s in the mail?”

  “I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “You get on with that, and I’ll make sure they get on with the work in the warehouse.” He was grateful to be away from the questions. “I’ve got a meeting this morning. I won’t be long.”

  “There’s nothing in your diary.”

  “That’s because I arranged it on the way to work. I’ll go through the mail with you when I get back.” He smiled again and headed for the warehouse, thinking she would be on the phone to Dennis within the minute, but there would be no need to deal with her reaction until he returned from his meeting with Uri.

  * * *

  Uri pulled into the car park and alongside William’s Tesla. Windows lowered and Uri began.

  “Thank you for coming, William.” Uri passed the counterfeit cog to William. “We did it more quickly than expected. The others will be more confident in us. You have it?”

  William passed the sprocket across. “I think you have the manifest.” Uri nodded. “I thought you were leaving me to deal with that. What changed your mind?”

  “I was protecting our interests,” said Uri. “You are new to our business. Until now we have kept you on the outside, so you cannot be blamed. But it is different now that you know things. If you had gone to Dennis and he resisted you, what would you have done? He is younger than you, a soldier. You could not take things from such a man just by asking. Then what, William? He would know how valuable the paper was and ask for more, or make many copies, or do something. You see how I have protected you. Now you have not failed. I have not failed. We are all safe again. The others will be happy. We can go on as before.” His face lit up.

  It was true, thought William. He could not compel Dennis to do anything. “Did you have to waterboard him?”

  “William, you are not experienced in these things. It is very persuasive and leaves no marks. When it is over, people are the same. No damage.”

  There was nothing to say. Nothing would be heard, and in any case, William acknowledged the bizarre truth in what Uri was saying. He tried to shake off the idea. “Well, I’m glad the problem is sorted out. Dennis is leaving the company. He said he was going to resign when I saw him, after your friends had visited. He was pretty shaken up and wants to get away.”

  Uri looked wistful. “So, you will have to find someone else in the warehouse. I have someone in mind for you. It would be good to have someone we know, wouldn’t it?” He grinned.

  “Well, he hasn’t resigned yet. We’ll talk when he does.”

  “Okay, William. Thank you for this.” He raised the sprocket and smiled. “You did well to get it so quickly. The others will be pleased with you.” The two cars pulled out of the car park.

  It was a short drive back to the office. Enough time for William to piece together what he had done. Accepting Uri’s justification of waterboarding Dennis on the basis of it being harm-free seemed reasonable at the time. Of course, it was not reasonable, but a problem that he might not have resolved had been resolved. Perhaps Uri’s assistance was needed, and William was grateful for the help, but now he was complicit in torture as well as smuggling gold bullion. He had come a long way since setting out to launder money, evade taxes and allow counterfeit bicycles through his warehouse. Now he was relieved to hear that Uri was pleased with the outcome.

  For the second time that morning he parked and walked toward the office. This time the titanium sprocket was in his pocket. Going through the doors and up the two short flights of stairs, he braced himself to deal with Cathy, who by now would have discovered her lover would no longer be working in the warehouse. It seemed such a trivial concern, but it would have to be dealt with.

  She stood nervously at the door of the outer office as he turned the corner of the staircase. As he reached the top step the view of the room widened behind her. Two police officers stood waiting for his return.

  Cathy said, “The police are here to see you.”

  9:30 a.m.

  “William Koren?” asked the officer.

  William nodded. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps we could speak with you privately.”

  “Yes, of course. Come into my office.”

  William walked into his office and the two female officers followed. Speculation filled his head, shifting his focus and fear from one terrible outcome to another. Deliberately, he peeled off his coat and hung it at the back of the door—anything to delay proceedings until his head and body settled.

  “Please sit down,” he said. “Can we get you a coffee or something?�
��

  “No, thank you.”

  He smiled at them, edged around his desk to his chair and took a breath. “What’s the problem?”

  The lead officer began without preliminaries. “A red Tesla vehicle was identified at the scene of an incident over the weekend, and when we followed up on it, it was registered to this company.”

  “I have a Tesla, registered to the company.”

  “Are you the only driver?”

  “My wife sometimes drives it, but she has her own car.”

  “Did she drive it over the weekend?”

  “I don’t think so. Look, I think you might be talking about the incident not far from here, on Saturday afternoon.” The two officers remained passive. “I was heading home and saw a dumpster fall over. There was a man either hit by it or standing on the dumpster when it tipped. I just happened to see it so I stopped and helped.”

  “How badly was he injured?” asked the officer.

  “He’d landed on his face and was unconscious, so I turned his head to one side, cleared his airway with my finger. He was in a bad way. Someone else arrived from one of the buildings in the laneway and said he was calling an ambulance. I left when there was nothing more for me to do.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Sometime between four and five. I can’t be sure. Do you know how he’s doing?”

  The two officers caught each other’s eye. “No, we don’t. Mr. Koren, we’re not here about that incident, although it sounds like you did that man a favour.” The silence was full. “Do you have an employee by the name of Dennis Mansion?”

  “Yes. He’s our senior warehouseman. He takes care of the inventory in and out of here. Why?”

  “Did you visit his house last Saturday?”

  “Yes, I did. About three, maybe later. I was there for less than an hour, I guess.”