Rapture Falls (8 page)

Gabriel’s voice had now weakened at the same pace as Baine’s surroundings, the hillside had faded into darkness, the grass on which he had sat became synthetic and softer, his apartment began to slowly focus into view. Baine found himself sitting once again on an expensive iv
ory sofa, only this time alone
. The information that Gabriel had laid upon him weighed heavily, his nature was a cynical one b
ut the explanations
somehow
felt
as though they rang true
, he was unsure about many things, there were many answers that lay beyond his immediate sight and understanding but there was one thing that he knew to be
incontrovertibly and
irrefutably true, he was
nobody’s
puppet and he’d burn down the skies and piss on the ashes before he became one.

             
The silver VW Golf rested pregnant with
occupants and fervor, the m
en and
woman had waited what seemed like lifetimes for their opportunity, their hearts burned with fervor.
Their eyes were all trained upon the penthouse windows bulging at the seams of the expansive and expensive downtown apartmen
t block. Suddenly
one of the me
n
lashed out and clutched at the passenger door handle, he began to pull open the door, the harsh inner light abruptly illuminated the cars inhabitants rendering them venerable. The woman in the drivers seat immediately span toward her companion, she threw a stiff backhanded slap across the man’s face connecting with the right-hand side of his cheek and mouth as he had turned to exit the vehicle. Her eyes blazed with a barely held in check rage, fo
r a split second the
smoldering excitement
in
the air within the tight confines crackled with menace.

The woman sp
oke, “
You will wait Sam, you will wait until I allow you to venture”

Sam flicked his tongue out and licked the running blood from his face
with an eager maniacal grin pinching his
face;
he closed his eyes to
savor
both the blood and the pain brought from the strike.
  
“Whatever you say Lucy”, he words spoke, but his eyes merely whispered “For now”.

             
DI McCullum sat sunk within the pubs sagging sofa,
it was around 5pm,
he sat an island amongst his companions, the last place that he felt like being was drinking in a bar surrounded by men and women who seemed to feel that all of life’s solutions could be found at the bottom of a lager glass. They had begun the afternoon session by toasting the young DC’s memory but this had soon degenerated into a cacophony of homophobic references to the detective
’
s
choice of exit door. The morning had hazily swept by McCullum as the police machinery had spluttered into motion, officers carried out their functions in connection with their fallen comrade, burying their emotions beneath a paperwork barrier. As the last person to speak to DC Thomas, McCullum had been subsequently grilled by his immediate superior DCI Rhys Jones, a
barrel-chested barrel-bellied
red faced man in his mid fifties. Jones had made what seemed to McCullum as a genuine attempt at sincerity in his questioning, but his lack of intelligence and technique merely left McCullum with an even lower opinion of his superior and genuine concern for his affectability. Next up was a meeting with
Superintendent
David Irving, a ramrod straight officer that ran the
Cardiff
office, faced with the abilities of many of his peers McCullum had the utmost respect for his commanding officer and held him in very high regard. Several times already in his short Cardiff career McCullum had been taken aside by his CO to have the benefits explained to him of the socialising aspects of the team and the unfortunate alcohol fueled nature of such events.
McCullum despised the stereotypical boozing nights out, he had no wish to bond with men and women that he had nothing more than distain for, he felt anchored by their lack of intellectual abilities as far as the detecting side of
their profession was concerned and worried that eventually he would be dragged into their
malaise
. And yet here he sat, amid the stale tobacco and barely concealed vomit smell, the neon flashing of inane fruit and quiz machines and the depressing mutterings of his workmates, desperately wishing that he could melt away un-detected. He
continuously
toyed with the small white business card that lay dormant in his pocket, he had scooped up the card from its resting place upon the office floor whilst others
ghoulishly
gawped from the window at the remains of their friend scattered across the pavement below.
Mysteriously to himself he had yet to
decide whether or not to
mention the card or the young DC’s final words to him to DCI Jones or even to Chief Inspector Irving, the name and the phone number along with the strewn Beck’s file held answers to questions that McCullum was only just beginning to fathom and he
was not sure that he could
trust anyone in his department for help or discretion
, it was not that he suspected anyone of nefarious intentions, just that they could only balls an investigation up and grind it to a halt.

Eventually the gathering, such as it was, began to thin, McCullum had played his part of fitting in well
enough now to satisfy the most
members of the team, they had just begun to allay their stares of suspicion, McCullum was by no means accepted yet, but at least he was on the road.
He was slipping toward the door when
DCI Jones slapped him a little too
vigorously
to be accidental on the shoulder, he breathed sodden whisky fumes into McCullum’s face.

“Well now tight
ar
se
, you look a little too sober for my liking
Bach
”
, the DCI stood a little too close for McCullum’s taste, the invasion of personal space most definitely deliberate. “Still think that we’
re not good enough for you?, nobodie
s pulled that stick out you’re arse yet?” the portly man chuckled at his own wit, McCullum used up the majority of his self control in not pushing the DCI’s face through the nearest window.

“Not me boss, I could drink any of you fuckers under the table, no mistake” McCullum added a slight slur and with comic timing to rival Chaplain carefully fell over a small low table making sure to send every drink flying. The pub roared with boorish delight as McCullum lay soaked on the floor inwardly hating himself, not just for the act but for the justification he tried to convince himself of. The alcohol fueled brain of DCI Jones struggled to process the events and McCullum found himself waiting an age for the inevitable laughter from the fat man, eventually it came loud guffaws that struck cruel blows at McCullums self esteem. Finally the DCI helped him to his feet with shoulder slaps that now appeared at least to be genuine, even this victory was of small consolation to McCullum.

“That was priceless son, priceless”, Jones roared, “You’ll never live that down”.

McCullum left the bar on a wave of good natured ribbing and cat calls, he made sure to stagger as he exited into the cold evenings embrace resulting in more calls to “Be Careful” and “Watch his step”.
   

He took a deep breath on the outside and tried to slowly release the urge to charge back into the pub and just start swinging career be damned, he slowed his heart rate to around nor
mal and
headed for the station to retrieve his car, a little drink driving could only add to his image as one of the lads.
He once again took out the small business card and turned it over in his hands, the cool paper rustled beneath his fingers, he stood and weighed his options, the incident with DCI Jones had only convinced him further of the mans incompetence. Jones would most definitely be a hindrance, it was already obvious that DC Thomas’ suicide would be swept under the carpet as a recruitment embarrassment and if McCullum went above DCI Jones’ head to Chief Inspector Irving he no doubt invoke the wrath of the one man that he actually had respect for, Irving, despite Jones’ obvious faults was a stickler for the book and ignoring the chain of command for what seemed at the minute like a relatively small matter of a pissing contest between two senior detectives was not a good idea. McCullum decided there and then to take the suicide onto his own broad shoulders and follow it wherever it may lead him, he placed the card securely into the back of his wallet and headed home to change and
to
begin.

LED BY THE NOSE

“The harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels.”
 

Matthew 13:39

The
dull
early evening was lit by the brash neon glow of
the cities shop fronts, some closed for business at this hour, others enticing the cities inhabitants with various recreations.
Queen Street was the pedestrianised centre of the city,
the
businesses
engulfed the paved reservoir that lay between them as they rose high on both sides
, a dense materialistic vacuum.
Baine sat
wearily
upon a wet bench as the late shoppers hurried by, their existenc
e now seemed irrelevant
and their prized bagged clutchings ridiculous.
His one dimensional world had been soiled, he had b
een content with his direction and
purpose
, now he felt used and cheap. I
n a game where he had
thought himself
atop the food chain
,
he had now been shown that he was merely a pawn on someone else’s board.