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Chapter 3 Part 5
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2020-07-29 19:02:09August 19th, 2002
Morning
“Wait! It’s right here!” I rock over the top of her, suddenly peering at the tips of her toes. I almost barrel straight over. I would have taken her with me. Like hitting a wombat. Tiny, but solid. Enough to crush the radiator. I made that mistake on my first and only trip down under. It didn’t crack up to be half the fun I had hoped. Hot and awfully flat. That was my impression of it.
“Here?” The world spins around me as I straighten up—it’s a right struggle to, at that. But those tiny trainers and planted firmly in the woodchip. She’s surveying the equipment with a purpose rather unlike an eleven-year-old. “I’m not seeing this secret base.” I was expecting a nook dug out beneath the slide. That was where mine had been. We’d nicked a telescope from my mate Thomas’ house. Used it to stare through the neighbouring windows. I certainly saw some things a child my age ought not to. I do hope she’s n
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“What?” Tami is at my side, yelling between us. “His wife moved in again after like ten years, apparently they separated but never divorced?“ I pat at my jean pockets, looking for my card. I need another shot. “You reckon he killed someone?” Tami somehow sounds more British than usual. “He had a kid?” James seems to be concerned for different reasons. “Well, he didn’t deny it when I asked — he said that they all know how the kid died and who was responsible. Bobs your fucking uncle. Another tequila please!” I think the bartender is eavesdropping, she’s already looking when I sway in her direction. I need both arms to hold myself up. “On the house.” Probably shouting me a drink for the entertainment. “Damon would never.” Tami is frowning. I’ve always thought she wouldn’t mind boinking him. She did seem to fancy Damon, actually. And why wouldn’t he? I’m a bit more interested in my shot. It’s gone quite
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December 16th, 2012 Evening Last night is still a little bit… foggy. In layman’s terms. Lost in the endless and ever-consuming abyss of binge drinking is probably the more technical way to put it. Temporary anterograde amnesia. Limited impairment of the ability to form new memories. The anterior of my head is hurting, I can tell you that much. Worst yet, I can smell a lecture coming on. “Big night?” Damon cocks a brow, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter. The mere thought of it churns my stomach, let alone that acrid smell. But I’ve got to play the part. “No, pretty boring, actually.” I can see my reflection in the coffee. It ripples with my breath, I’m closer than I had realised. But the smell oddly enough is doing wonders for my nausea. I almost feel mentally and emotionally prepared for a meal. Mind you, I’ve still got some work to do on that. “Is that why you’re
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December 16th, 2012 Evening Damon She hardly stirs when I drop her a little more suddenly than I intended to. Of course, her bed is unmade. It always is. And she’s got a pile—mind you, a somewhat tidy one—of clothes in the corner of the room. “You need to change.” As I speak, I wonder if she’ll pretend to sleep. But she opens her eyes a couple of centimetres. “I need to sleep.” Her eyes are closed again. “Unless you want to be changing your sheets bright and early tomorrow, you need to change.” “Change me, then.” Her eyes are still closed, and a good thing at that. I’m afraid I’ve gone a bit pink. At least, I feel I have. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” “Why not? You’re my dad.” She rolls over. And part of me wants to accept the offer just to see her in her underwear. And another, somehow worse, part of me hopes that she doesn’t have any on. “Gues
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December 19th, 2012 Evening Damon “We forgot about the news yesterday!” Sasha is sat at the other end of the couch, her toes just inches from my thigh. I’m really not sure when I became corrupted by fantasies of her feet. They’re quite pretty. Long, slender. Straight toes. Cropped, painted nails. Protruding veins. I can imagine them padding at my crotch a little too vividly. My jeans are a bit tight. “Tarantino’s film was scrapped because of Sandy Hook.” I watch as she squints, probably trying to remember her own headline. “They dug up those two murderer blokes from In Cold Blood,” I don’t want to tell her she’s won by kilometres just yet. “Why?” “Something about some murders in Florida,” So I just nod quietly, pretending to turn it over for a moment. I wonder how I managed to let that one slip through the cracks. I’ve only read the novel
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Midday “How you feeling, thundercunt?” Tami has been swinging backwards and forwards on that brand-new swivel chair for a good ten minutes now. Rubbing it in my face that it still works. There was an incident at the Christmas party last year that involved a receptionist chair race. The one I had been stuck with suffered the consequence. You see, it’s risky business moving too freely on a swivel chair that only had two of the three wheels still attached. And I’ve become better acquainted with the ground because of it. “It’s been like a week, I’m fine.” It’s been a slow day. Not many patients. Even less paperwork. I’ve been tasked with refreshing the email folder and forwarding what needed to go where. Printing off the odd set of forms. Directing phone calls. Only, a job seemed to arise once ever half-hour. And it was a war between Tami and I who could lay claim first. She scoots closer, elbows crossed over the front desk. “I’m
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December 21st, 2012 Morning Time is making a mockery of me. The days are slow and long. The nights feel endless. Being shut alone in my bedroom with only questions and theories is enough to make me miss Bertrand. He hasn’t called. Should I? I should just sleep with him. Afterall, what on earth would a man like Damon want with a twenty-one-year-old virgin? Not that I can have those thoughts, let alone justify them by shagging Bert. In any case, the Mesoamerican calendar has reached the doomsday date. The world is set to end. Whether I should sleep with a vagrant who spray-paints parked police vehicles and calls it art is irrelevant if we’re all going to die. And whether my father killed his first son should be, too. But it’s not. I can die happy without coming up with an answer for Bert. Yes, I love you and I will now give you the most immobile sex and worst head of your life or no, ew. But
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December 22nd, 2012 Morning My phone buzzing somehow made it into my dream. Speaking of which, I haven’t had one about Damon in quite some time. Probably because every waking moment is filled with him, instead. I was sat at the hospital reception. Only this time, we found a record about Gregory’s death. It was a perfectly mundane genetic disorder I couldn’t pronounce. His death was blameless. I could go back to guiltlessly fantasising about Damon. Then the whole computer started vibrating. And here I am. It's Bertrand. Like I somehow thought the random impulse for him to call me into existence yesterday morning. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail. Never speak to him again. But part of me loves the drama of it all. “Sasha, finally!” I can hardly hear him through the phone. All I want to do is scour my emails for any noteworthy news heading. We used to show each other up once every fe
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Evening “Sasha!” Lily rushes forward with open arms, a thin, short blonde with a warm smile and dazzling blue eyes. James steps sheepishly out of the way. “It’s been so long! Why on earth haven’t you been around?” “Damon’s girlfriend just moved in, we’ve all been getting settled,” The house smells like roast. I didn’t realise just how hungry I was. “That explains why he hasn’t been taking my calls—the toilet runs for hours after you flush it, I’ve been trying to get him around,” She’s got my face between two small, cold hands, her eyes searching mine as though examining my very soul for any ailments. “Mum, let her take her coat off,” I shoot a look at James. I don’t have it in me to tell him I don’t mind. I don’t want to explain that I consider her a mother of my own. It’s nice to be fussed over. And it’s nice that he doesn’t consider that a luxury. James deserves to be smothered most of all of us. He’s had i
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“What?” Now I just want to hide back behind him. Damon seems to know. He steps in front of me. “You can’t search her; you’ll need a female officer to.” “I can search her; I just can’t take her clothes off.” Again, with that smug smile. He claps his hands together. Peers around Damon’s shoulder to me. I was right to hope for two more magpies. “Now, shall we do it here, or do you have a more private place you would rather.” “Show me your warrant.” Damon seethes. “I was hoping you would ask.” I can see him fish into his pocket. “Finished my two-year probation yesterday.” “Did you know about this?” Suddenly, Damon turns to face me. Thrusts the card toward me. Looks a bit like a student ID in a fancy wallet if you ask me. With a stupid, god-awful photo of this git rather blow-up. “Know about what?” “He’s a detective, Sasha!” He shouldn’t be yelling that; I can only imagine the things it woul
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