Black Teeth (7 page)

‘How are you, Mister Tyan?'

‘Call me Glen.'

‘Okay.' I keep the smile plastered. ‘Glen, I hope you don't mind my asking, how old are you?'

With the glass at his mouth his lips spread in a grin. He swallows and wipes his face with the heel of his hand.

‘Sixty-one.'

That looks about right, though he may have shaved off a couple of years. Just a garnish of vanity, like the blond hair swept across his scalp.

‘And you retired nine years ago?'

‘About that.'

It begs a question, one I only pose out of curiosity.

‘Why did you retire so young?'

‘Hey?'

Something catches in Tyan's throat and he lets loose a hacking cough. Once he recovers, I say:

‘You must have left the police force when you were in your early fifties.'

But this brings on another violent surge of coughing. His face flushes and his pores open up like gun turrets. With a series of growls he sips his beer.

‘Sorry.' A fresh supply of moisture in his eyeballs. ‘I'm still getting over a bit of a cold.'

‘That's fine.'

‘Alan, don't want to be rude, but I should probably be in bed. Can we get straight to the questions you've got?'

‘Absolutely. Mostly I just want to know a bit about you.'

‘Don't know if I'm that interesting—'

‘Are you married?'

‘Nope. Confirmed bachelor. No one would have me.'

He chortles. Politely, so do I.

‘No kids?'

‘Nah. I'd be a shit dad.'

‘How have you spent your retirement?'

He pats his stomach, smiles. ‘Meat pies.'

‘How old were you when you were recruited?'

‘Eighteen or nineteen. I can't remember. Eighteen I think.'

‘Do you recall why you wanted to be a policeman?'

‘I needed a job.' He performs a shrug. ‘That's all it was.'

The bags under his eyes are flabby and wrinkled, but still I can't believe how young this man is compared to how I pictured him. Which means I can't shake the obvious question, tip forward now to ask it again.

‘So, if it's all right…Why
did
you leave the police force?'

Tyan grabs his beer, drains it.

‘You want another?'

I dig into my pocket for money. ‘No. But it's my turn.'

Tyan pushes his chair back in a series of awkward spasms.

‘Mate, don't be silly. You run to the loo or whatever, then we'll do the interview proper. I don't want to waste your time.'

He seems to have mistaken my nervousness for the call of nature. Not that I don't need to go—the beers I've drunk are clamouring for release.

It takes Tyan a couple of tries to get out of the chair and then he's up, swaggering off to the bar while I cross to the sanctuary of the men's room, wondering if, while I'm gone, Tyan will consider actually telling me why he retired from the police force.

That is absolutely not what Tyan does while I'm in the men's room.

10

One long toilet trough in here and a machine that vends green condoms. The tiles stick with detergent and all the stall doors hang open, so I'm alone. It seems safe to use the urinal.

Usually I'd cram myself into a stall and lock the door and wallow in self-loathing as I relieved myself but I'm in a hurry so I stand with my back to the door, totally exposed to what's about to happen. I've imagined a million versions of this meeting in my life but never the one where Glen Tyan runs late
on purpose
, obliging me to flood my bladder with watery pale ale and thereby luring me here, to this room, about as private as a public space can be.

The stream comes powerfully and I sigh because pleasure. Also because I've managed it before some stooge can walk in. Then someone
does
walk in and I sigh with pride—I have no trouble in front of people once the stream is underway. I'm as alpha as a prize-winning porn star before I sense that this someone who's walked in, they are not walking. They are rushing.

My brain doesn't have time to process fear before two hands grab at my shoulders, pull me back and slam me down to the urinal sink. My knuckles mash a yellow soap and I holler something high-pitched and throaty and my piss seeps into the flaps of my shirt and the knees of my jeans and I put soiled hands up to cover my face and Tyan's body is one giant fist and he's shouting.

‘You
fucking
piece of
shit
.
Who's Elizabeth Cannon?
'

‘
What?
'

Tyan kicks my shin, powerful, driving stirrups into his own
indignation. ‘Come near my house again I'll fucking
kill
you.'

‘
No!
' The trough seems the safest place and I huddle down, arms balled over my head.

‘
Who are you? Who's Elizabeth Cannon?
' Tyan grabs both my wrists with one hand. His strength is a bulldozer.

‘
I don't know I don't know!
'

‘Is she at my house right now?'

‘
Stop no I didn't do anything.
'

‘I
saw
you, deadshit. I saw you last
night
.'

‘
NO NO NO NO NO—
'

A blow to my shoulder like a gunshot but I do not register pain.

‘You'll tell me or I'll break your fucking neck.'

‘
Stop stop stop stop! I didn't go to your house! I've never been there! What the fuck!
'

A fist collides with my elbow and I wail, long and terrible through my wet shirtsleeves.

‘
Bullshit. What's your real name?
'

‘
What?
'

Tyan doesn't miss a beat: an open hand to my ear.

‘
Who are you
?'

‘
Jason Ginaff! I'm Jason Ginaff! I'm Helen Ginaff's son!
'

Now he does miss a beat. A whole series of them. Not quite enough to lure me out from behind my forearms.

‘
How many kids has she got?
'

I flinch again and jerk my head back.

‘
No! Just me!
'

Nothing happens. I peek over my defences.

The bags under Tyan's eyes are balloons, as big as the eyeballs that gape at me, his face frozen even as his body slowly straightens, travels the full development from Neanderthal to Homo sapiens.

‘Bullshit,' he says.

‘She died last year.' I don't know why I say this.

As I do the door opens. Someone in a business shirt and trousers enters, gets as far as showing his flat, oblivious face before Tyan's screech: ‘
Get the fuck out!
' And he's gone,
whoosh
, without a second look, as if this is the sort of thing you sometimes have to
allow for at the Good Times on Cemetery Road.

‘Why you following me?' Tyan says.

‘I'm not.'

‘Who's Elizabeth Cannon? Your girlfriend?'

‘I don't know her. I don't…nobody…I don't know anybody named that. I promise. I promise I haven't been following you.'

‘
Bullshit
.' He looms again, clenches a fist not to strike this time but to promise that he will. ‘How did you get my phone number?'

‘
I looked you up online! That's all! That's all I did, I promise!
'

‘What do you mean, online?'

‘On the internet!'

‘
What?
' He doesn't seem to have heard of it.

‘The internet!'

‘What else does it say?'

‘Nothing, it just…That's how I got your phone number. Your Roadside Samaritan account.'

‘My
what
?'

‘It's
illegal
. It's
totally
illegal. But I wanted to meet you.'

‘
How did you know I was a cop?
'

‘
Mum told me!
'

‘
How did you know I quit?
'

‘
The internet
,' I squeal, wondering if I'm about to pass out. Blood isn't getting to my head. ‘I mean, online. Just old news reports. Bulletin boards. That's what I do. For a job. I find stuff on the internet.'

Tyan appears to have little understanding of these words.

‘Why did you want to know so bad why I retired?'

‘I was just interested.'

‘Why? What did they tell you at the VPA?'

‘Nothing. I never spoke to them. It…You retired young. I was just wondering why.'

He cools. As I pull away from the trough wall I sense my hair is matted, sticky. The odour of my situation overwhelms me and I cough the foulness out of my nostrils.

‘You found me on the internet?'

He tries to comprehend and his panting echoes on the tiles. He's
a sixtysomething chain-smoker—of course he's out of breath. Of course I am.

‘I wrote a whole program to find you. To find your phone number.'

‘What do you want?'

I try to spit off my tongue anything that's found its way into my mouth, don't dare try to stand.

‘Just thought it would be good. To meet you.'

Tyan's eyes go distant and his head lolls gently, visibly overtaken by a wave of depression. Like he's the victim and I a mere instrument of fate. Then he shuffles a slow rotation, makes it to the door, less swagger now. Turns back.

‘Come near my house again you'll meet me all right.'

He moves out and he's gone.

Favouring the arse cheek that doesn't ache I lever myself to a sitting position. This is the level of defiance I can muster: to
not
remain in the urinal after Tyan has left. My arm is okay but the elbow stings numb. The rest of me is numb. My mouth yawns open to get the misery out and for a second I think I might retch. I stand up, wash my hands, make a point of not looking in the mirror. I'm about to leave when I feel a real sob come on and so I don't leave. Instead I push into a toilet stall, lock the door and slump onto the seat.

Just let it come.

Shuddering pressure in my chest that bottlenecks in my throat. Tears hit me like a brick wall, fast rivers in the filth of my face, salty splashes on the nastiness of the cubicle floor. Every bone shakes with an ancient kind of muscle memory. When the world confirms how worthless you are it hollows you out. Like after the panic attack in court yesterday. It hollows you out and if you're hollow then nothing even matters.

11

This one is surprisingly old. At least forty. I've got his CV in front of me and if I'd read it I'd probably have found clues to his age and I wouldn't be surprised. But I didn't so I am.

When I shake his hand I say, ‘I'm Stan.'

‘Hello. It's really great to meet you, Stan.'

He's the second-last interview and, until this moment, today's internship applicants have been what they always are: handsome millennials so coiffed and straight-toothed that I feel derpy. Derpier than usual. And today I feel even derpier than that because I still haven't shaken off the smell of last night's urine bath, despite three showers and a bucket of shampoo. Maybe what's left is so far up my nose it exists only in my brain.

But this stooge is heavy, with big heavy arms and a heavy head and when he came in he had that vague limp that heavy men have. His teeth are not straight and his long nose droops down to laugh at them and his eyes are keen to be liked. On the floor beside his chair he places a flat leather satchel.

People always bring stuff to these interviews. They never need any of it.

The view through the glass is identical to yesterday: dismal. I sit now where Stuart sat, maybe because unconsciously I consider it the power chair. Consciously I consider it to be directly beneath a heating vent. The air has dried out my nostrils over the course of the day but I've found that relaxing.

‘Hugh…' I have to focus on the surname on his CV. ‘Bre…tza…nitz.'

‘That's right.'

‘Congratulations on making it to the last round. Not a lot of people get this far.'

‘Thank you very much.' A squeaky voice, like that heavy head is crushing his voice box.

‘So…' I press play on my pre-interview speech. ‘My name is Stan and I specialise in vetting job candidates. I'm tasked with researching your online history and identifying what, if anything, might compromise the firm in the future should they choose to employ you.'

Hugh Bretzanitz provides a conscientious smile and shuffles in his seat.

‘I take the view that, because so much of what a person does online they do anonymously, these activities are the best indication of what kind of employee they'll be, what kind of loyalty they'll show the firm. The reason I'm talking to you now is because if something comes out, and if the firm wants to know why you never owned up, you don't get to say,
Well crikey, mate, you never asked!
'

I like this performance bit. It helps to put the candidate at ease. But Hugh already seems at ease.

‘Yes, sir,' he squeaks. ‘No problem. I've done ones like this before.'

Now I shuffle in my seat. Not because I'm nervous but because of the bruise on my arse, purple and marbled like a tattoo of Jupiter.

‘Then you understand that this is not a job interview. I don't have any say in whether or not you get the position. My opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is what I find. I pass that on to HR and that's it.'

‘Yes, mate. I understand.'

One tiny reference to how my opinion doesn't matter and he's demoted me from sir to mate.

‘Is there anything you want to tell me at the outset? Anything I'm going to find when I look you up?'

‘No,' he shakes his head, innocent. ‘No.'

‘Have you got a Facebook account?'

‘No.'

‘What about other online profiles?'

‘You mean…'

‘Twitter, Lucid, Freeball…'

‘No, nothing like that.'