We had to write dedicative stories at school. This is unlike my usual style as it is more narrative based, but still dark. I am thinking of turning it into a radio play, our next assignment.
“So you killed him?”
“No I just found the man that
did.”
*
The smell of ethanol
was intoxicating, it was evidently more concentrated on certain parts of the
body: a few fragments of singed hair remaining, yet exposed bone cooled in the
night. The sound of police sirens whined in the background as he snapped up the
needed photos, printing them on the scene. Little faces watched him from a
silenced bar; he took his last mental image of the blackened corpse; the final
ashes of a man.
Images of the scene
littered the room, pinned to hanging string, and hiding forgotten furniture. A
dying bulb flickered off stained windows, unopened, for the fumes of rancid
food to clog the air. He sat at his only table examining the particular image
of a burnt chest occasionally munching on his charcoal toast.
Dusk illuminated the
pictures.
Early sun shimmered
through the dirt.
Midday issued an
uncomfortable heat.
Light afternoon sun
drew back on the day.
Darkness entailed.
His suspicions
habituated, like the passing of a day.
*
“What are your main interests?
Apart from the obvious?”
“I’ve always liked to play with
fire.”
*
He’d seen her a couple
of times: people generally stay to their known neighbourhoods of San Francisco.
She was Spanish, slender, brunette.
An actress or a dancer, he presumed. It made sense having a boyfriend
who wished for a career in Directing, not so helpful now he’s in a grave.
Her daily activity had
been altered by the death; she no longer came to collect her milk at 8.05 or
her Marie Claire magazine at 8.40. In fact she no longer left the house.
Time to pay a visit.
Milk deliveries made
it hard to reach the door. “Isabel Alvarez?”
“What do you want?”
She emerged like an animal from hibernation.
“I was hoping to ask
you some questions?”
“Who are you? I answered
all the questions the cops had.”
“I do not work for the
Cops Isabel Alvarez.”
“How do you know my name?
Who are you?”
“Sam Simpson.”
“Well get away from
here.” She tried to close the door but his foot stopped her.
“Please I only have a
few questions, I’m a professional detective.” Her grip lightened on the door
but only just, this was enough to tell him he could stay. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
“It’s cold.”
“I’m warm.”
“I see. “ He watched
her for a moment, her fragile features changing through emotions: trying to
decipher him.
“Well what do you
wanna ask?”
“Did you and your
boyfriend get on?”
“What are you trying
to say?”
“I was just wondering
if there were any domestic arguments.”
“We were fine.”
“Not a massive fight
that made him storm out to the bar. About careers possibly? Priorities?”
Another slight
relaxation on the door, she said nothing for a moment, gathered her thoughts
and answered directly.
“Every couple have
their arguments, it means nothing.”
“It means something if
a murder entails an argument.”
“How do you know we
argued that night?” Her grip hardens on the door once more.
“I heard the shouting,
saw the vase smash against the window.”
“You live in the
building opposite?”
A light wind caught
her brown hair blowing it across her eyes whilst his remained stark and
unmoved.
“No.”
“Then how did you, how
did you- don’t come back here, you’re not to come back here. I’ll call the cops
if you do.” The door slams in his face sending milk across his feet.
*
“Why fire?”
“Because it causes beautiful, dazzling
destruction.”
“Beautiful destruction? A bit of a contradiction
don’t you think?”
“No: ‘cause it’s beautiful when the flames dance
and devour their victim but the forsaken ash then reminds you of flames ability
to destruct.”
*
He stayed by her house
for the rest of the morning, sitting on the steps of the opposite building.
There was little movement from within the flat, he found this annoying. As
though he’d expected her to pack up and flee the country on his departure, but
not all cases are that simple. He only glanced her occasionally when she peaked
at him through her white lace curtains. Despite her remaining he still held
suspicions over her. She would not get off that lightly.
His day of interviews
was not yet done.
The bar is one that
has been overused over the years but has managed to obtain its original charm.
Large windows at the front and back give it an airy feeling during the day and
mysterious during the night. Some people like it, some don’t, the thought that someone’s
watching you. The front windows look onto the neighbourhood’s high street, the
back a cobbled street.
The bar had been
closed for the night whilst the cops did their thing but the owner was keen to
get it back up and running as soon as possible. In the hope that Saturday’s
murder wouldn’t tarnish his reputation too much.
“What are you doing
back here?” Dan Edgeways, the owner, looked up from filling the beer pump.
“I was hoping to ask
you a few questions.”
“Well we’re not open
so you can’t”
“But you’re always
open for lunch. You fill up you beer pump, check the chefs ready, write the
specials on the board and open the doors for lunch.” Dan eyed him slowly placing
the beer down.
“Who are you?”
“Sam Simpson, the
professional.”
“Professional what?
Stalker?”
“Detective.” The chef
now came out from the kitchen after fiinishing a conversation with someone, he
leaned against the doorway.
“I don’t believe you.
Get out.”
“Excuse me Dan
Edgeways but if you don’t agree to answer my questions I’m going to have to
take actions into my own hands.”
“Who is this guy Dan?”
The chef spoke in a low monotone.
“Just leaving.”
“Dan Edgeways I will
not leave until you answer my questions.”
“Mine first, how do
you know everything I do in such detail, how do you know my name and why the
hell were you here taken pictures of that murdered man and not even bothering
to wait for the cops after.”
“I’m a detective, it’s
my job to know who you are and what you do. “
The chef moved away
from the doorway next to his boss. He was whispering to Dan.
When Dan spoke he was
careful with his words, “If I answer your questions will you leave, no harm
done.”
“That’s all I want.
Did you know Lee Johnston?”
“Not personally, he’d
come here a couple of times.”
“And was he known for
having fights?”
“Not really, he was
pretty pissed the last night he was in here. The two guys that fought were,
well, both angry drunks.” The two men watched Sam has he moved across the bar,
their gaze didn’t falter.
“And what was the
fight about?”
“I dunno, I think they
were both trying to pull the same girl or somin’”
“And can you describe
the fight?”
“I was round the back
when it started. I heard a glass smash so came round to tell them to take it
out the back if they wanted at each other.”
“And this was the last
of Lee Johnston you saw?”
“Yeah cause then…
then…”, the Chef’s voice was low as though debating weather to say something,
bottling anger. Dan nudged him in the rib.
“That’s the last we
saw of him, yeah.” Dan was keen to cut him off.
“And what about the
other man? Did he come back?”
“Ran off somewhere.”
“Did you hear anything
before he ran off.”
“A cry.”
“Thank you Dan
Edgeways, if you don’t mind I’ll take a look at the scene again.” With this he
headed out the back door.
*
“When they are unhelpful, fail or are unwilling
to answer questions it always raises my suspicions.”
“But lots of us our hiding things.”
“Ah, but not all of us our murderers.”
*
The day was during to
a close. He stood in the centre of the murder trying to relive the scene: two
drunken men stumble out the back door, they try to get at each other when one
throws the ethanol over Lee, he then sets him alight with his lighter.
The two drunken men
stumble out the bar beginning to fight. After a couple of punches have been
thrown Isabel Alvarez storms out the bar ethanol and lighter in hand. She
screams at Lee, livid, throws the ethanol over him, she the sets him alight
with her lighter.
They stand back
watching his flame torn body fall to the ground. Convulsing in agony as amber
sparks twist and curl around his ethanol soaked clothes; disintegrating the material
then igniting upon his cremating flesh.
The bar falls silent
as they watch the show. Someone from within screams, there’s the light cry and
the cops are called. Everyone is watching one tall, thin man, pale of skin and
black of eyes. White hair plastered to a cracked face.
Sam Simpson smiled:
intoxicated with pleasure.
*
“But not all of us are truthful. Are we Sam
Simpson?”
“I only lie when I need to. Little white lies.”
“Have you ever touched white ash?”
“Yes, it’s hot.”
“So white lies aren’t as innocent as they seem
are they? Especially when they involve a death.”
“What? His death gave me a game, just like I
used to play.”
“Who did you used to play with?”
“The odd animal. But you see now I’m
professional.”
“A professional?”
“Detective, a professional detective.”
“You can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because flames can’t reduce things to ash and
then wonder if it was the rain.”
