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I don't feel comfortable talking to you
Unless you got the zipper fixed on my shoe
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Friday, January 14, 2011
Impossible Girl - 39
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‘Good afternoon Ma’am, I’m Detective Beekhuyzen and this is Detective Daniels of the New South Wales Crime Squad. We need to ask you a few questions. If you would just follow us please.’
The Impossible Girl hadn’t expected a reception at the customs exit. She’d deliberately avoided telling anyone her change of flight details, especially Roly - brand manager, leak pimp & PR genius extraordinaire. Privacy and the space to think, outside of the craziness and pressures of work, was what she desperately wanted.
And she definitely hadn’t expected a reception like the one she was getting. Two plain clothes detectives, badges hanging in the pockets of bad suits, addressing her by her legal name.
‘What? I don’t have anything to declare.’
This isn’t a customs issue Ma’am. If you’d just like to come with us.’
‘I don’t understand. Is something wrong, is someone hurt?’ The Impossible Girl was shaking.
‘We just need to ask you a few questions, probably best if we do that in private hey?’
She followed the detective’s gaze to a girl standing with her back to the carousel, holding her iPhone up to them. Shit.
‘What about my luggage? I can’t understand why I wasn’t phoned.’ She checked her messages as she said it, just a text from Roly, nothing about the police.
‘Someone will collect your luggage.’ It was the first time the female detective had spoken, she had her eyes on IGirl’s mobile, looking like a cat ready to pounce.
‘Is Rowan alright?’ It didn’t add up, if Rowan had been hurt someone would have called her, but, Oh God, maybe they knew about… maybe someone had…
‘As far as we know yes, but we should discuss this in the station. Shall we?’
The Impossible Girl allowed herself to be led away. She kept her head low and her hand up as the girl who had obviously recognized her continued to video.
The Impossible Girl hadn’t expected a reception at the customs exit. She’d deliberately avoided telling anyone her change of flight details, especially Roly - brand manager, leak pimp & PR genius extraordinaire. Privacy and the space to think, outside of the craziness and pressures of work, was what she desperately wanted.
And she definitely hadn’t expected a reception like the one she was getting. Two plain clothes detectives, badges hanging in the pockets of bad suits, addressing her by her legal name.
‘What? I don’t have anything to declare.’
This isn’t a customs issue Ma’am. If you’d just like to come with us.’
‘I don’t understand. Is something wrong, is someone hurt?’ The Impossible Girl was shaking.
‘We just need to ask you a few questions, probably best if we do that in private hey?’
She followed the detective’s gaze to a girl standing with her back to the carousel, holding her iPhone up to them. Shit.
‘What about my luggage? I can’t understand why I wasn’t phoned.’ She checked her messages as she said it, just a text from Roly, nothing about the police.
‘Someone will collect your luggage.’ It was the first time the female detective had spoken, she had her eyes on IGirl’s mobile, looking like a cat ready to pounce.
‘Is Rowan alright?’ It didn’t add up, if Rowan had been hurt someone would have called her, but, Oh God, maybe they knew about… maybe someone had…
‘As far as we know yes, but we should discuss this in the station. Shall we?’
The Impossible Girl allowed herself to be led away. She kept her head low and her hand up as the girl who had obviously recognized her continued to video.
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Monday, January 10, 2011
Brooklyn Half - 5
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Even on the crowded street Brook was afraid. Her shadow took on elongated shapes, like a monster poised to attack but when she turned to look there was nothing. Nothing but lower east side New Yorkers going about their business. If there was something after her it was biding it’s time, awaiting its opportunity.
She was two hundred metres from the apartment block when her nerves cracked and she burst into a sprint, pounding the pavement until she reached her front door. As she pushed her way through the buildings entrance she felt a chill, like the touch of an ice cold hand across her back. But the door closed firmly behind her and remained shut.
Still, as she stared at the brass deadlock she could have sworn there was someone or something on the other side staring just as intently.
Adrenaline launched her up the stairs and into the apartment in record time. Back to the door, her heart pounded for the waiting minutes until the fear subsided, until she was sure no one had followed.
Judd wasn’t in the lounge or kitchen. On the carpet beside the couch was an open bottle of whiskey, three quarters gone. It hadn’t been part of the décor when she left.
Great, she thought, her fear boiling into raw anger, if Hollow legs the social worker decides to drop in now I’ll be in a foster home quicker than Judd could down the rest of the bottle.
She found him in his studio, mixing paint on a new canvas. He was in his old painting shorts and flip flops. His face slack from the alcohol but his eyes burning with that obsessive fever he always got.
‘Hey babycakes,’ he said when he saw her standing there. ‘How was your afternoon?’
Brook wanted to scream at him that she was losing her mind, being chased around Manhattan by monsters and that she needed him to be sober, to be anything but what he was. She was never very good at saying how she felt though.
‘Apparently not as fun as your's,’ Brook said, holding up the bottle she had carried into the studio with her.
‘I’m working honey, I’m just having a couple of looseners.’ He was drunk enough to be defensive, not drunk enough to be contrite.
‘Well I doubt Mrs Holloway would see it like that if she was here.’ Brook struggled to hold back the tears for the second time that day.
‘You don’t understand. This…’ he pointed to his painting then, ‘this is for you, I need to do this…. to protect you.’
To protect her? He has no idea, she thought.
‘And how do you expect to protect me when I’m in a foster home!’
The bottle dropped out of her hand and rolled across the floor. Judd followed it with his eyes as if willing it not to break. He cared more about the stupid whiskey than he did about her. She stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind her.
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She was two hundred metres from the apartment block when her nerves cracked and she burst into a sprint, pounding the pavement until she reached her front door. As she pushed her way through the buildings entrance she felt a chill, like the touch of an ice cold hand across her back. But the door closed firmly behind her and remained shut.
Still, as she stared at the brass deadlock she could have sworn there was someone or something on the other side staring just as intently.
Adrenaline launched her up the stairs and into the apartment in record time. Back to the door, her heart pounded for the waiting minutes until the fear subsided, until she was sure no one had followed.
Judd wasn’t in the lounge or kitchen. On the carpet beside the couch was an open bottle of whiskey, three quarters gone. It hadn’t been part of the décor when she left.
Great, she thought, her fear boiling into raw anger, if Hollow legs the social worker decides to drop in now I’ll be in a foster home quicker than Judd could down the rest of the bottle.
She found him in his studio, mixing paint on a new canvas. He was in his old painting shorts and flip flops. His face slack from the alcohol but his eyes burning with that obsessive fever he always got.
‘Hey babycakes,’ he said when he saw her standing there. ‘How was your afternoon?’
Brook wanted to scream at him that she was losing her mind, being chased around Manhattan by monsters and that she needed him to be sober, to be anything but what he was. She was never very good at saying how she felt though.
‘Apparently not as fun as your's,’ Brook said, holding up the bottle she had carried into the studio with her.
‘I’m working honey, I’m just having a couple of looseners.’ He was drunk enough to be defensive, not drunk enough to be contrite.
‘Well I doubt Mrs Holloway would see it like that if she was here.’ Brook struggled to hold back the tears for the second time that day.
‘You don’t understand. This…’ he pointed to his painting then, ‘this is for you, I need to do this…. to protect you.’
To protect her? He has no idea, she thought.
‘And how do you expect to protect me when I’m in a foster home!’
The bottle dropped out of her hand and rolled across the floor. Judd followed it with his eyes as if willing it not to break. He cared more about the stupid whiskey than he did about her. She stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind her.
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Sunday, January 9, 2011
Deather's Eight
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So Ted Nugent you’re the hottest offworld sportstar playing the hippest, deadliest game on Mars. The women of all three worlds want you. You’ve got teenage girls panting and screaming for you and young boys and men idolizing you. What do you say to your fans?
Uh… Hi, I guess
You had a lucrative career as a federation pro-ball player back on Earth, the Lunar colony allegedly put six figures on the table for you to play golf with them but instead you chose to abandon it all and go play Deather's Eight on Mars. Why?
Uh… Sam, you know I don’t really think about things that way
Well Ted most people would say that walking out on the death fields of Mars with an eight ball is madness. Especially if you have options, I mean most Deathers players are generations in debt and just trying to win their lives back, but you..?
Well I got nothing but respect for those folk who walk out on the fields with me whatever their reasons. But I don’t know… I guess it’s about freedom.
Yeah yadda, yadda, yadda. Tell us about those shoes?
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Uh… Hi, I guess
You had a lucrative career as a federation pro-ball player back on Earth, the Lunar colony allegedly put six figures on the table for you to play golf with them but instead you chose to abandon it all and go play Deather's Eight on Mars. Why?
Uh… Sam, you know I don’t really think about things that way
Well Ted most people would say that walking out on the death fields of Mars with an eight ball is madness. Especially if you have options, I mean most Deathers players are generations in debt and just trying to win their lives back, but you..?
Well I got nothing but respect for those folk who walk out on the fields with me whatever their reasons. But I don’t know… I guess it’s about freedom.
Yeah yadda, yadda, yadda. Tell us about those shoes?
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