point him
in the right direction.
“Hi Angie. My name is Detective Alan Reymond. I actually
came here to ask you about Malcolm Venn but ...”
“Is he alright?” Angie interrupted, coherent but incapable
of maintaining her focus. She laboured shallow breaths, erratically scanning
her surroundings like a pet rabbit in the presence of a large dog.
“Yes, he’s fine. I guess that answers my original
question in that you do actually know him,” Reymond said in a fatherly tone.
When Angie nodded he continued. “Angie. I’m assuming I may call you ‘Angie’,
I’d actually like to talk about you, and who did this to you, but I am somewhat
curious as to why you would ask that about him?”
Angie shrugged. “I’ve been worried for him. Is he in
trouble?”
“I’m not sure really. He’s currently in hospital,” the
Detective said, watching Angie’s increasing lucidity.
“But you said he was, is , alright!”
“And he is, it’s just that …”
“So why are you here and not him then?” Angie enquired
edgily.
“Well, he’s looking at getting discharged now, but we just
needed to check some things before he does.”
“Like what?”
“Like who he actually is, and like why he was admitted
covered in blood?”
Angie sighed. “He is who he says he is, as much as I know
anyway. I’ve only known him for a few weeks but he’s been special to me.”
“‘S pecial’ people don’t beat people they love.”
Reymond was not going to let the woman’s bruising go un-noticed. “Are you as
special to him as he is to you?”
“Malcolm didn’t do this to me!” said Angie, picking up on
the manner with which the comment had been made.
Detective Reymond heard the reply and almost scoffed at
his feeling of déjà-vu ; familiar words he’d heard many times before, spoken
by different damaged women doing their best to sound convincing. The truth
remained, however, that Malcolm was out of the frame for her immediate assault
if not for the domestic abuse. “So who assaulted you?”
“No-one I know.”
“Angie, whoever it was would have killed you had I not
been visiting at the time,” Reymond insisted.
“And it wouldn’t have happened had Malcolm been here, so
don’t go giving yourself commendations just yet,” Angie said forthrightly.
“Yes, someone did it, but no-one that you or anyone else will do
anything about.”
“Whoever it is, we can help,” Reymond said, determined to
salvage some confidence in his profession. “It would help Malcolm if you could
account for the blood on his clothing.”
“It’s not what you think. The blood is an important part
of my shows.”
“Go on…” Reymond braced himself for what Venn had eluded
to.
“I’m a performance artist, and I use blood in my shows.”
“The blood was human.”
“Yes, and all legally sourced as out of date blood
product. Not fit for medical use, in this country at least, but quite good
enough for what I use it for.”
“And what do you need it for in your show?”
“ Shows! ” Angie emphasised the plural. “I do a
variety of acts, all featuring blood. Birth, death, war, health, female
circumcision, menstruation, domestic abuse.”
“A bit close to home?”
“Possibly, but it’s a living, and I’m not in any great
rush to be out of work.”
“You’re in demand?” asked Reymond with some disbelief.
“Yes, mainly on the alternative circuit. I’m a little too avant-garde for the mainstream theatre generally. I do overseas as
well, but only if I’m really strapped for cash as the b ureaucracy on international transportation of bodily fluids is a pain.”
“But why human blood?”
“Nothing feels or tastes or smells like human
blood. It complements my theatre as a total sensory thing.”
“And how does this involve Malcolm Venn?”
“It doesn’t really. We were mixing a batch when he got a
call and rushed out. The mixing can
in the right direction.
“Hi Angie. My name is Detective Alan Reymond. I actually
came here to ask you about Malcolm Venn but ...”
“Is he alright?” Angie interrupted, coherent but incapable
of maintaining her focus. She laboured shallow breaths, erratically scanning
her surroundings like a pet rabbit in the presence of a large dog.
“Yes, he’s fine. I guess that answers my original
question in that you do actually know him,” Reymond said in a fatherly tone.
When Angie nodded he continued. “Angie. I’m assuming I may call you ‘Angie’,
I’d actually like to talk about you, and who did this to you, but I am somewhat
curious as to why you would ask that about him?”
Angie shrugged. “I’ve been worried for him. Is he in
trouble?”
“I’m not sure really. He’s currently in hospital,” the
Detective said, watching Angie’s increasing lucidity.
“But you said he was, is , alright!”
“And he is, it’s just that …”
“So why are you here and not him then?” Angie enquired
edgily.
“Well, he’s looking at getting discharged now, but we just
needed to check some things before he does.”
“Like what?”
“Like who he actually is, and like why he was admitted
covered in blood?”
Angie sighed. “He is who he says he is, as much as I know
anyway. I’ve only known him for a few weeks but he’s been special to me.”
“‘S pecial’ people don’t beat people they love.”
Reymond was not going to let the woman’s bruising go un-noticed. “Are you as
special to him as he is to you?”
“Malcolm didn’t do this to me!” said Angie, picking up on
the manner with which the comment had been made.
Detective Reymond heard the reply and almost scoffed at
his feeling of déjà-vu ; familiar words he’d heard many times before, spoken
by different damaged women doing their best to sound convincing. The truth
remained, however, that Malcolm was out of the frame for her immediate assault
if not for the domestic abuse. “So who assaulted you?”
“No-one I know.”
“Angie, whoever it was would have killed you had I not
been visiting at the time,” Reymond insisted.
“And it wouldn’t have happened had Malcolm been here, so
don’t go giving yourself commendations just yet,” Angie said forthrightly.
“Yes, someone did it, but no-one that you or anyone else will do
anything about.”
“Whoever it is, we can help,” Reymond said, determined to
salvage some confidence in his profession. “It would help Malcolm if you could
account for the blood on his clothing.”
“It’s not what you think. The blood is an important part
of my shows.”
“Go on…” Reymond braced himself for what Venn had eluded
to.
“I’m a performance artist, and I use blood in my shows.”
“The blood was human.”
“Yes, and all legally sourced as out of date blood
product. Not fit for medical use, in this country at least, but quite good
enough for what I use it for.”
“And what do you need it for in your show?”
“ Shows! ” Angie emphasised the plural. “I do a
variety of acts, all featuring blood. Birth, death, war, health, female
circumcision, menstruation, domestic abuse.”
“A bit close to home?”
“Possibly, but it’s a living, and I’m not in any great
rush to be out of work.”
“You’re in demand?” asked Reymond with some disbelief.
“Yes, mainly on the alternative circuit. I’m a little too avant-garde for the mainstream theatre generally. I do overseas as
well, but only if I’m really strapped for cash as the b ureaucracy on international transportation of bodily fluids is a pain.”
“But why human blood?”
“Nothing feels or tastes or smells like human
blood. It complements my theatre as a total sensory thing.”
“And how does this involve Malcolm Venn?”
“It doesn’t really. We were mixing a batch when he got a
call and rushed out. The mixing can
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