HE'S A MESS.

“Oh ye of little faith!” She holds her phone directly in front of his face, sitting on top of him in bed. Usually her wake up calls are much more pleasant. “It’s a christmas tree farm! I told you I would find one! And it’s only…” she turns the phone back to her, scrolling down the page. “It’s only a sixteen hour drive, that… is totally doable. We can take turns! Get a tree!” 

Tricky subject,  and one that is always met with the same phantom-like stoicism from the man in a mask of smoke.  He looks at her like he knows she’s ready to bolt,  come to her senses and realise the grave she’s dug for herself.   Cee could make it over the balcony at Harald’s Bar before he’d wake up and drop his third joint of Durban Poison from between his teeth.  Their food is late,  and he’s wishing for his fried chicken burger to make an appearance so that he at least has something to hide behind,  despite the nausea he’s gained from the blood-soaked day.  For now,  his cigarette does the job well enough,  his features spliced by the blue deck lights,  and half-eaten by cloud.  Table Mountain looks in much the same state - he gave her the seat with the view.

                                             “  ---------------  We used to know each other,  then?  ”

His darling gets an eye roll. Here we go, put me in my place clever man. She slumps against the opposite counter with more force than she means to use; her hips hit the countertop at a funny angle and it takes all her bad mood not to wince. Show no weakness, don’t get pity. Somewhere in the back of her mind, there is a voice screaming at her to talk with Brian calmly. To admit that maybe she needs to head to London for a day or two, so she can see a couple friends and get a change of scene. Ask him to take some days and come with her; introduce him to pals, make him real to them. But she would much rather have a fight about a dead woman. 

The writer scoffs. “You don’t want me in a place like that. It would ruin your perfect picture of me. This angelic woman that you have created in your mind. The only place you want me is naked in your bed.” She moves like she’s storming out, but instead just grabs her bag from the living room and digs around it, before pulling out her own lighter and offering it to him. “Some men enjoy it, you know. They want to pull their wives apart, they want to inflict pain. They want to destroy everything she is and keep her just for themselves. A perfect picture.” 

He’s done this incorrectly;  knows the second it comes out his mouth.  The headache that has been brewing behind his eyes for the last week or so doesn’t abate,  though he wishes the chill would at least be good for that.  It’s the niggling of uncertainty.  The cracking of an image,  the mirage he’s tattooed on the backs of his eyelids.  Where that’s concerned,  she isn’t wrong.

“Oh come on! The husband clearly did it.” He shouldn’t leave files at home; she has no scruples about flicking through the pages in search of something interesting. “It only looks like a gang killing because that’s what he wanted. She has zero links to drugs or… sex trafficking or anything that would bring her remotely into the world of gang warfare. She is the third world equivalent of a suburban housewife. And he probably got caught fucking their neighbour. It’s a suburban drama.” It feels kinda nice to argue with him. Maybe because she’s starting to get frustrated; maybe that’s why she opened up the case files. Her book is going nowhere, she spends half her day waiting for him to come home. She has no friends here. The reality of it is starting to settle on her. 

But because he hasn’t done anything wrong (or at least, nothing that she’s bothered about) she can’t pick a fight over anything between them. So she’ll pick a fight about a murder case. There is logic in it somewhere. “I am not saying you can’t do your job, I’m just saying you seem to have a unfounded bias about this case.” 

There’s likely some rule in one of the multiple handbooks Brian hasn’t read regarding idle chatter surrounding a case at home,  but he isn’t one to think on that.  Ali would be disappointed,  frustrated ever - but not surprised.  Currently,  Brian is scrounging the drawers for the same lighter he’s looked for twice already,  cigarette hung between his teeth.  And perhaps it’s his fruitless search that has him irked,  paired with the fact that today he’d spent a good twenty minutes pinned to a wall with a glock aimed at his balls whilst Neuman talked shop with a bunch of coked-up Americans.  And perhaps her line of questioning has pulled on an already frayed thread,  hits a little too close for his nerves to ignore.

She gives a thoughtful grunt, and brings up four more images into her large set of monitors. “Five all together. I handed in a report after the second, but I’ve provided some updates since then. It’s definitely a pipe. The same one each time.” Leah brings up a digital analysis of the skulls and other broken bones that had been recovered. “The curve matches, as do the metal fragments.” She looks at him with a sympathetic and well meaning gaze. “You should grab a shower and a nap. He isn’t going anywhere.”

a dark-green bottle of beer got already warm in her hands. slender finger unwraps its damp sticker. she always wonders — why do people do that ? even while being surrounded by friends. there’s always something on their minds. maybe the town’s new cold-blooded serial killer also unwraps his beer. everybody has already named the killer’s gender. it’s usually a ‘he’.

‘ thought that old people don’t go out at this hour ? ‘ thin-lined smile crossed her face. ‘ i lost our last bet. the husband didn’t do it. beer’s on me. ‘ 

Sea salt and nicotine burn the insides of his nostrils when he sniffs.  He’s hung himself over a plate of nachos, beneath the white veranda displaying ‘Bob’s’ in chunky, gothic lettering.  He’s not allowed in  - no firearms - but knows the manager well enough to receive the barest showing of table service when he hunkers down in his usual spot by the road.  Inside,  every bar stool in the place is taken,  every table littered with shot glasses and bottles - Brian,  for once,  appears strangely out of place on the outer edge of the nightlife.  Not alone for long,  however.