whimper. Our salute .
‘What you say, Scoot?’
Scott turned back to the window, his legs buckling, his fingers gripping the frame to stay upright. The figure had gone.
Adam moved towards Scott who was mumbling incoherently. He peered down over Scott’s shoulder to the garden.
‘What is it? What did you see?’
Scott gathered himself and wrestled his way past Adam, brandishing his Stanley knife again. He hurtled out of the room and down the stairs.
‘Scoot!’ shouted Adam. He ran to look out of the window again but, seeing nothing, followed his friend down the stairs at a safer lick. ‘Scoot! Wait up.’
Seven
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke from a familiar dream with a violent shudder. After running his hands over his face, he sat up to get his bearings, staring at the splayed palm of his right hand. Unlike Lady Macbeth he was unable to find any blood and after a moment’s contemplation, Brook let his hand fall.
It was gone midnight. The TV was on and the trailer for the DVD was playing over and over. He felt for the warm remote under his body and switched off both machines.
He picked up the empty case for Don’t Look Now , one of the hundred favourite films his daughter Terri had sent him at the start of his suspension, her misguided apology for almost losing him his job. Brook tossed the case on to the top of the DVD player. It was a good film – atmospheric and chilling.
Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie played a married couple living in Venice, trying to work through the numbing grief that followed the loss of their daughter, drowned in a pond as a young girl. Then the husband begins to see her – in slides he’s shot for his work, in glimpses out of the corner of his eye – and suddenly the couple can believe that their daughter is with them again to comfort them, if only from the afterlife.
Brook had fallen asleep at that point, certain that the couple’s new-found sense of contentment and purpose would end badly. He smiled groggily. Or maybe that’s just personal experience kicking in .
He clambered unsteadily to his feet and rustled around in his tiny kitchen, readying the tea things for morning. Tomorrow would be his first day on duty for five months. ‘Today,’ he croaked in a voice unused to conversation. For the first time in his career, the prospect filled him with dread and he thought of his resignation letter, sitting on the printer in his office. The same internal debate that had disturbed his sleep for the last week rose in him again.
Maybe it’s time to get out of the force and get on with life .
And he’d made a good start. He’d finally given up smoking, for one thing. And having spent the entirety of his suspension hiking around the Derbyshire Peaks by day and sitting on his garden bench by night, whisky and water in hand, examining the stars, Brook wanted more. Five months of rest and recuperation from his injuries. Five months of isolation in his Hartington cottage – easily his longest absence from the job since his breakdown over twenty years ago.
The irony, not lost on Brook, was that only three of those months covered his suspension for gross misconduct; the other two months had been taken up by his recovery from the burns sustained to his hand on his last case, hunting the Deity killer.
Were he ever to break the habit of a lifetime and engage colleagues in conversation, Brook was certain many would tell him he got off lightly, that he should have lost his rank and maybe even his job. It was hard for Brook not to agree with them, not that he felt his offence deserved to end in dismissal, more that such an outcome would at least have simplified everything, made his life easier, his future choices clearer.
And losing his job would have cauterised the seeping loss of his moral authority at a stroke. It would have lanced the sense of shame he had experienced, that for the first time in his career, encompassing all his brushes with
‘What you say, Scoot?’
Scott turned back to the window, his legs buckling, his fingers gripping the frame to stay upright. The figure had gone.
Adam moved towards Scott who was mumbling incoherently. He peered down over Scott’s shoulder to the garden.
‘What is it? What did you see?’
Scott gathered himself and wrestled his way past Adam, brandishing his Stanley knife again. He hurtled out of the room and down the stairs.
‘Scoot!’ shouted Adam. He ran to look out of the window again but, seeing nothing, followed his friend down the stairs at a safer lick. ‘Scoot! Wait up.’
Seven
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke from a familiar dream with a violent shudder. After running his hands over his face, he sat up to get his bearings, staring at the splayed palm of his right hand. Unlike Lady Macbeth he was unable to find any blood and after a moment’s contemplation, Brook let his hand fall.
It was gone midnight. The TV was on and the trailer for the DVD was playing over and over. He felt for the warm remote under his body and switched off both machines.
He picked up the empty case for Don’t Look Now , one of the hundred favourite films his daughter Terri had sent him at the start of his suspension, her misguided apology for almost losing him his job. Brook tossed the case on to the top of the DVD player. It was a good film – atmospheric and chilling.
Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie played a married couple living in Venice, trying to work through the numbing grief that followed the loss of their daughter, drowned in a pond as a young girl. Then the husband begins to see her – in slides he’s shot for his work, in glimpses out of the corner of his eye – and suddenly the couple can believe that their daughter is with them again to comfort them, if only from the afterlife.
Brook had fallen asleep at that point, certain that the couple’s new-found sense of contentment and purpose would end badly. He smiled groggily. Or maybe that’s just personal experience kicking in .
He clambered unsteadily to his feet and rustled around in his tiny kitchen, readying the tea things for morning. Tomorrow would be his first day on duty for five months. ‘Today,’ he croaked in a voice unused to conversation. For the first time in his career, the prospect filled him with dread and he thought of his resignation letter, sitting on the printer in his office. The same internal debate that had disturbed his sleep for the last week rose in him again.
Maybe it’s time to get out of the force and get on with life .
And he’d made a good start. He’d finally given up smoking, for one thing. And having spent the entirety of his suspension hiking around the Derbyshire Peaks by day and sitting on his garden bench by night, whisky and water in hand, examining the stars, Brook wanted more. Five months of rest and recuperation from his injuries. Five months of isolation in his Hartington cottage – easily his longest absence from the job since his breakdown over twenty years ago.
The irony, not lost on Brook, was that only three of those months covered his suspension for gross misconduct; the other two months had been taken up by his recovery from the burns sustained to his hand on his last case, hunting the Deity killer.
Were he ever to break the habit of a lifetime and engage colleagues in conversation, Brook was certain many would tell him he got off lightly, that he should have lost his rank and maybe even his job. It was hard for Brook not to agree with them, not that he felt his offence deserved to end in dismissal, more that such an outcome would at least have simplified everything, made his life easier, his future choices clearer.
And losing his job would have cauterised the seeping loss of his moral authority at a stroke. It would have lanced the sense of shame he had experienced, that for the first time in his career, encompassing all his brushes with
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