A man, no older than some of my boxer shorts approaches me with a badge.
Beams from torches blind my vision, “Police! Put your hands in the air”. I do as I’m told and eye the pistol attached to his belt and wonder if he’s ever used it.
While they pat us down, I try to think of the opening line of the Metro, ‘Abandoned station records its highest figures in years as a dead body, mute child, moron and a fossil of a caretaker decide to take the scenic route home’. Never did fancy myself as a reporter.
A medical worker attends to the body, places two fingers on the girl’s neck and shakes his head.
“I’m Detective Grey”, says the young man. His hair is short, crew cut style and is cleanly shaven.
I offer a handshake but retract it and offer a nod instead, “Teddy Donoghue.” Never can be too sure who carries this Godforsaken virus.
Meanwhile, a woman with a polaroid camera captures all the gory details of the murder scene. The flash errupts and I can make out the severity of the wounds, her neck lavender blue and a fissure the length of a ruler down the flank of her skull. Mick endures a host of questions from his respective officer and the Kid with no name halts his rocking to be led away, back down the tunnel with a legion of boys in blue.
The Detective breaks my observations, “Mr. Donoghue…are you listening?”
He sighs, “There’s a few questions I’m going to have to ask you, ok?”
For a whipper snapper, he had an impressive set of black rings under his eyes “Sure go ahead,” I say.
“Did you move the body in any way?”
I shake my head. There’s a certain item of jewelry in my pocket, but I didn’t have to disturb the body to attain it.
“What are you doing down here? Do you know the victim?”
“I’m the caretaker, so I just work here. I don’t know who that girl is, or who’s that Kid that they’re carrying down the tunnel. The only guy I know here is Mick. He works with me,” I keep it short.
“Can you explain to me your relationship with Mick. Why was he here?”
“I needed someone down here with me, Detective. Backup, if you will”, I reply.
His eyes look me up and down and from his waistcoat he slides me his business card which I pocket, alongside the necklace.
“If you need to talk about this to someone we have very experienced counselors. Also, if you remember anything out of the ordinary, please feel free to call me,” he says as he adjusts the tie around his collar.
The Detective clears his throat, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave London for a while…just in case we have more questions”.
“Thanks Detective. I’ll keep it in mind.”
He cuts me loose before Mick, I note. Maybe it’s because I’m an older gentleman and they consider me less of a threat than a muscle clad man who openly flouts the smoking laws, skin albush with tattoos complete with an Essex accent. With these legs it’ll take me an eternity to resurface above ground anyway, I brush it off and assume there’s got to be some perks to being a living relic.
I throw the palm of my hand in the air to signal ‘Goodbye’ to Mick, who flashes a smile and middle finger in return.
I scuttle down the chasm, back above ground to what some may call normality.
—
Written By Sebastian King on 10.04.20
This story is under construction. I am waiting for a writer to WriteMeBack a response… Check out the WriteMeBack Facebook Page to write back a response to this story or simply reply as a comment
Idol Hands 