Read Online One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries by Marianne de Pierres Tehani Wessely - Free Book Online
Authors: Marianne de Pierres Tehani Wessely
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her own. “Who is this ‘they’, Merv?”
“ The cops. Turns out, there’s a taskforce.”
“ Wait, they’ve set up a taskforce? You sure about that?”
“ And abracadabra!” Merv straightened. “I knew we’d make our story in the end.”
Kaneko hesitated. “Great.”
She surprised herself by meaning it.
Merv said, “Be careful with the numbers guy. Sounds like a real nut.”
∞ ¥ ∞ Ω ∞ ¥ ∞
She dialled the second number first. It was answered on the first ring. That could be a good sign or a bad one. It meant someone who was keen to talk, or someone who was keen to get the talking done so they could hang up the phone.
A deep woman’s voice answered. “Detective Palmer here.”
“ Detective Palmer? Of the … special powers taskforce?”
Kaneko held her breath. Palmer might’ve been doing that also.
“ Depends,” Palmer said a moment later. “Who’s calling?”
“ My name is Ai Kaneko—”
“ What’s your interest, Ai?”
Nothing for it. “I’m calling from City Tribune —”
The line went dead. Just like that, like Palmer had been holding her thumb over the phone cradle the whole time.
Kaneko pulled the phone from her ear. Great. One of those stories where she got to chase her own tail. She loved those.
She called the ‘numbers’ guy and listened to his voicemail message. His voice was smooth and old. He could have been a radio announcer, back when having a good voice meant something to the trade. She left her number and a message that she was calling about a report he’d made to the City Tribune. Then she headed for the door.
∞ ¥ ∞ Ω ∞ ¥ ∞
“ Got a drink, love?”
The alley smelled of piss and muck. In the middle of it — sprawled indifferently, like he was lounging on a sofa — was a man, dirty from his matted hair to his bare feet. His toenails were long and yellow and his beard was so full of grit it stood out straight across his chest like a bib.
“ No. Sorry,” Kaneko replied.
It was dark in the alley; even the pavement was dark, a giant oil spill of a spot, filled with the mess of a life lived in the open. In contrast, the quiet, suburban street two metres away looked to be lit by Klieg lights.
Kaneko wrote Klieg lights in her Moleskin.
“ What’s your name?” she asked.
“ Who’s asking?”
“ I’m Ai Kaneko,” she said. “I’m a journalist for the City Tribune .”
“ You’re what?”
“ You can call me Annie,” Kaneko said. “And you are?”
“ I’m the King around here.”
Kaneko breathed shallowly, not wanting to take in the smell of the place. Already it was in her clothes and coating her skin like an oil bath.
“ Well, that’s great,” Kaneko said.
“ Isn’t it, though?” The man grinned.
Impossible to judge his age. His face was unlined but his hair was grey. Kaneko put him somewhere between forty and sixty. Maybe seventy; his eyes were rimed with some kind of gummy glaze. He wasn’t who she had come to see, he just happened to be in this miserable alley when she moved through it for a better view of the apartment block.
She wrote the stink of human detritus, the age-old smell of waste and loss in a city too long grown used to it . Her writing was uneven, more a scrawl than actual words. It didn’t matter. One prompt by a pen mark on a page and the smell would come flooding back.
The apartment block was old and plain, four storeys high and about a dozen metres wide. Not wide enough, Kaneko would’ve thought, for the sixteen letterboxes lined up on the front wall. It looked like it had been dropped there, a forgotten building that was all red brick and corners, windows added as an afterthought. Like a coffin standing on its end, she thought. Like a place people came when they didn’t care about living anymore.
She wrote coffin on the page.
She’d already been all the way to the top to knock on the door of Number 14. No answer. So she’d come down to
“ The cops. Turns out, there’s a taskforce.”
“ Wait, they’ve set up a taskforce? You sure about that?”
“ And abracadabra!” Merv straightened. “I knew we’d make our story in the end.”
Kaneko hesitated. “Great.”
She surprised herself by meaning it.
Merv said, “Be careful with the numbers guy. Sounds like a real nut.”
∞ ¥ ∞ Ω ∞ ¥ ∞
She dialled the second number first. It was answered on the first ring. That could be a good sign or a bad one. It meant someone who was keen to talk, or someone who was keen to get the talking done so they could hang up the phone.
A deep woman’s voice answered. “Detective Palmer here.”
“ Detective Palmer? Of the … special powers taskforce?”
Kaneko held her breath. Palmer might’ve been doing that also.
“ Depends,” Palmer said a moment later. “Who’s calling?”
“ My name is Ai Kaneko—”
“ What’s your interest, Ai?”
Nothing for it. “I’m calling from City Tribune —”
The line went dead. Just like that, like Palmer had been holding her thumb over the phone cradle the whole time.
Kaneko pulled the phone from her ear. Great. One of those stories where she got to chase her own tail. She loved those.
She called the ‘numbers’ guy and listened to his voicemail message. His voice was smooth and old. He could have been a radio announcer, back when having a good voice meant something to the trade. She left her number and a message that she was calling about a report he’d made to the City Tribune. Then she headed for the door.
∞ ¥ ∞ Ω ∞ ¥ ∞
“ Got a drink, love?”
The alley smelled of piss and muck. In the middle of it — sprawled indifferently, like he was lounging on a sofa — was a man, dirty from his matted hair to his bare feet. His toenails were long and yellow and his beard was so full of grit it stood out straight across his chest like a bib.
“ No. Sorry,” Kaneko replied.
It was dark in the alley; even the pavement was dark, a giant oil spill of a spot, filled with the mess of a life lived in the open. In contrast, the quiet, suburban street two metres away looked to be lit by Klieg lights.
Kaneko wrote Klieg lights in her Moleskin.
“ What’s your name?” she asked.
“ Who’s asking?”
“ I’m Ai Kaneko,” she said. “I’m a journalist for the City Tribune .”
“ You’re what?”
“ You can call me Annie,” Kaneko said. “And you are?”
“ I’m the King around here.”
Kaneko breathed shallowly, not wanting to take in the smell of the place. Already it was in her clothes and coating her skin like an oil bath.
“ Well, that’s great,” Kaneko said.
“ Isn’t it, though?” The man grinned.
Impossible to judge his age. His face was unlined but his hair was grey. Kaneko put him somewhere between forty and sixty. Maybe seventy; his eyes were rimed with some kind of gummy glaze. He wasn’t who she had come to see, he just happened to be in this miserable alley when she moved through it for a better view of the apartment block.
She wrote the stink of human detritus, the age-old smell of waste and loss in a city too long grown used to it . Her writing was uneven, more a scrawl than actual words. It didn’t matter. One prompt by a pen mark on a page and the smell would come flooding back.
The apartment block was old and plain, four storeys high and about a dozen metres wide. Not wide enough, Kaneko would’ve thought, for the sixteen letterboxes lined up on the front wall. It looked like it had been dropped there, a forgotten building that was all red brick and corners, windows added as an afterthought. Like a coffin standing on its end, she thought. Like a place people came when they didn’t care about living anymore.
She wrote coffin on the page.
She’d already been all the way to the top to knock on the door of Number 14. No answer. So she’d come down to
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