her hand when she heard Dexter ask. She assumed he was talking to her, that he was offering her the question purely for Dorothy's benefit, expecting her to burden the responsibility of avoiding the town -- perhaps by blaming woman’s troubles, or a headache -- but when she looked up, deflated and ready to answer, she saw that Dexter was looking at Dorothy, returning her smile.
The bubbly woman shrugged, looked at each of them in turn. “You could go for a walk into town,” she ventured. “There’s not much to see, not many shops and not many people, but it’s…” she lingered in search of the right word. “Quaint, I guess.”
Dexter turned a quizzical eye to Pandora who was grinning back at him, happy to do whatever he wanted if it meant she didn’t have to spend the next few days locked up inside.
“Sounds good,” he said.
Dorothy reached for their plates, piled one of top of the other and slipped them onto her left hand before grasping cups and saucers with her right. “Oh--” she snapped, suddenly remembering something. “And don’t forget the quiz tonight,” she remarked. “We’ll all be there.”
Dexter nodded, implying they would be there as well, although he had no idea who ‘ we ’ were. The only other person he had seen in the town since they’d arrived was the belligerent old man who’d pointed them in the direction of the bed and breakfast.
“So...” He stared across the table at Pandora, delighting in the childish smile of glee plastered on her beautiful face. “Shall we go?”
8
The bandits were still on the news, they always were. It didn’t matter if it was the local news or the national news -- even the worldwide media were sticking their eager noses in -- everyone wanted a seat on the bandwagon. They had been reporting the news of the latest robbery for two days straight, through the day of the robbery they spoke to the family, ran interviews with everyone from the grieving widow and two kids, through to the old couple who lived across the street and occasionally waved hello to the recently deceased. The following day the new s stations ran repeats of the previous day, alongside analyses from psychiatrists, psychologists, criminologists and anyone with a vaguely connected PhD who wanted to earn a few quid.
The morning after that particular bland and repetitive news day, the media had a break. Rodgers’s eldest son, a troubled teen with a reported heroin addiction and a knack for finding the wrong crowds and hanging around with the wrong people, was discovered dead in the local park. He was on his way out, a yo-yoing addict who was probably only a few months away from overdosing. His father’s death and the media circus that followed was too much for him, causing him to find solace in a haemorrhaging amount of heroin that his body couldn’t handle.
The inevitable reports began to claim that Bleak and Bright had claimed their second victim. It was media hype, bullshit as far as Cawley was concerned, they would play the solemn card of sympathy for a few more tear-jerking interviews and then they’d tire and return to bent politicians and promiscuous footballers before the bandits struck again. The good thing, as far as Cawley was concerned, was that it would give the public another reason to turn against the fugitives.
Cawley discovered the news on his way to the office. It had been playing on cycles all morning on one of the local radio stations. He hadn’t seen the kid after Rodgers’s death but he had a couple of runs-in with him in the past. He was distant, out of it most of the time. A lost cause. They say that no such thing exists, that there’s hope for everyone -- from the most brutal, most sadistic of murderers, to the addicted kids desperate for the kiss of death to end their misery -- but not in Cawley’s opinion: there is no hope for some, and young Andrew Rodgers was one of those.
Detective
The bubbly woman shrugged, looked at each of them in turn. “You could go for a walk into town,” she ventured. “There’s not much to see, not many shops and not many people, but it’s…” she lingered in search of the right word. “Quaint, I guess.”
Dexter turned a quizzical eye to Pandora who was grinning back at him, happy to do whatever he wanted if it meant she didn’t have to spend the next few days locked up inside.
“Sounds good,” he said.
Dorothy reached for their plates, piled one of top of the other and slipped them onto her left hand before grasping cups and saucers with her right. “Oh--” she snapped, suddenly remembering something. “And don’t forget the quiz tonight,” she remarked. “We’ll all be there.”
Dexter nodded, implying they would be there as well, although he had no idea who ‘ we ’ were. The only other person he had seen in the town since they’d arrived was the belligerent old man who’d pointed them in the direction of the bed and breakfast.
“So...” He stared across the table at Pandora, delighting in the childish smile of glee plastered on her beautiful face. “Shall we go?”
8
The bandits were still on the news, they always were. It didn’t matter if it was the local news or the national news -- even the worldwide media were sticking their eager noses in -- everyone wanted a seat on the bandwagon. They had been reporting the news of the latest robbery for two days straight, through the day of the robbery they spoke to the family, ran interviews with everyone from the grieving widow and two kids, through to the old couple who lived across the street and occasionally waved hello to the recently deceased. The following day the new s stations ran repeats of the previous day, alongside analyses from psychiatrists, psychologists, criminologists and anyone with a vaguely connected PhD who wanted to earn a few quid.
The morning after that particular bland and repetitive news day, the media had a break. Rodgers’s eldest son, a troubled teen with a reported heroin addiction and a knack for finding the wrong crowds and hanging around with the wrong people, was discovered dead in the local park. He was on his way out, a yo-yoing addict who was probably only a few months away from overdosing. His father’s death and the media circus that followed was too much for him, causing him to find solace in a haemorrhaging amount of heroin that his body couldn’t handle.
The inevitable reports began to claim that Bleak and Bright had claimed their second victim. It was media hype, bullshit as far as Cawley was concerned, they would play the solemn card of sympathy for a few more tear-jerking interviews and then they’d tire and return to bent politicians and promiscuous footballers before the bandits struck again. The good thing, as far as Cawley was concerned, was that it would give the public another reason to turn against the fugitives.
Cawley discovered the news on his way to the office. It had been playing on cycles all morning on one of the local radio stations. He hadn’t seen the kid after Rodgers’s death but he had a couple of runs-in with him in the past. He was distant, out of it most of the time. A lost cause. They say that no such thing exists, that there’s hope for everyone -- from the most brutal, most sadistic of murderers, to the addicted kids desperate for the kiss of death to end their misery -- but not in Cawley’s opinion: there is no hope for some, and young Andrew Rodgers was one of those.
Detective
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