Chapter 1: Old Slum Dog

Splashes of red and blue stain the rain soaked alley walls like paint thrown from atop a police vehicle. As the deluge of rain from birthing clouds above races down the timeworn bricks and mortar, the alleyway seems to be hemorrhaging the blood of paupers and princes, a striking contrast of red and blue. One of the many vehicles now blocking the entrance to the recently cordoned crime scene barks a short burst of siren in warning to the officers on the scene.

 

Cigarette smoke and streaks of rain racing sporadic lines down the car's misty windows, obscures his view of the alleyway. Porcelain skin shines intensely against a crimson canvas, with each flash of lightning overhead. The bursts of lightning white illuminate the rain fall like millions of tiny needles, striking with malice at every surface they can reach as they fall. He surveys an obstructed view of the incident from afar, until his line of sight is blocked entirely by eager bodies.

 

The first of the night's scavengers have arrived to feast at the carrion, pushing and shoving, cameras flashing and hand recorders waving in all directions. The cold rain continues to cleanse her of the night’s events, leaving her eerily beautiful, like a single bold red rose against the dreary grey of the world around her. The vultures are pushed back, and a small tent is erected in a vain attempt to preserve as much evidence on the body as possible.

It’s the same story as many a night in Haven, though admittedly it seems far more tragic when the victim is young and beautiful. A small handbag lays discarded next to her, its contents scattered, a clear sign of a robbery gone dreadfully wrong. She lays wide eyed and starring, fixed in her last moments, although her expression seems serene. Long wavy locks of golden blonde hair frames a heart shaped face, culminated by full pink lips.

The onboard computer in his car pings. He touches the screen abscent mindedly, and a C.O.D instant report opens and maximises. He quickly looks the report over, his eyes picking up on keys words such as, Blitz attack, Blunt force trauma, contusion, T.O.D: 02:35. Name: Isabella Chambers. The name doesn’t ring any bells. He shuffles in his seat at the sound of a gurney snapping into its upright position, ready to collect the body, escorted through the carnivorous croud to her side. It pulls his attention back to the alley.

With a grunt he paws at the door handle, opens the car door and stomps a boot, heavy with the weariness of a night so far spent chasing ghosts, onto the road to step out of the vehicle. *Ring, ring* the onboard computer displays a picture of a man in his later years. Weary but wise eyes stare up at him from the screen as the onboard phone rings again, *Ring, ring*.

 

He lowers himself back down into the worn old leather seat, and it groans as he does, and he answers the call with another touch of the screen.
“Grimshaw...” he growls.
“I need you back at the precinct, we’ve got another one.”
“I haven’t even started this one...”
“Drop it, and get back here now.” the caller interrupts.
“Why the hell would I drop it!? Some poor girls laying dead in the gutter, killed for a few coins, and you want me to just drop it?”
“..... It’s a New Haven case, you’re going up top.”
“New Haven? What the fuck do they want with an old slums detective? They know I work homicide don’t they? So why the hell would they request me?”
“Well that’ll probably be of some use them then, seen as it’s a homicide case.”
“Murder!? In New Haven? There hasn’t been an intentional death in New Haven for thirty years.” he scoffs, his voice gravely from years of smoke and heavy drinking.
“At least, but that’s what they’ve called in, and they asked for the best, unfortunately for them, that’s you.”
“..... On my way.” he hangs up.

 

New Haven. The world above. ‘The life above’ they call it. I call it the swirling mass of avarice and gluttony, the putrid end game of a life spent stepping on and over others. A world of great power and authority surrounded by opulent magnificence, hanging above us all like the sword of Damocles. A life absent of the fears and tribulations of slum life. They amble above us, never looking down at the shit beneatht their feet.

The only console to be found here in the slums, is its not long lived. If the wintry or famine doesn't get you, don't fret too much, if you're lucky, you'll only end up like that little lady. Soaked in your own life's quintessence down some scum drenched godforsaken alley, the few hollow trinkets you've managed to gather scattered around you for the taking. Futile really, you can't take them with you, and Death doesn't accept small change.

 

A traffic light ahead soaks the street and surrounding buildings in an ominous red glow. The air is thick and acrid though it's late autumn in Haven, unseasonably humid considering the bitter rain. The windshield wipers struggle to provide a clear view of the road ahead, so he keeps his speed down. I'm here to resolve death, not cause it.

 

He levels his hand to his face and rubs tired eyes with his index finger and thumb. His attention shifts to the rear view mirror, to a reflection of old but sharp eyes. Eyes that reflect a lifetime of experiences, good and bad. Mostly bad. Salt and pepper stubble adorns leathery skin, wrapped loosely around a hard square jaw. The rumpled collar of a well worn white shirt hangs low and open beneath a grey waistcoat. Grey suit trousers that match the waistcoat fit loosely, held in place by a brown leather belt. A long brown trench coat finishes the ensemble, an old school look for detectives of another age.

Another age? When Haven made sense, before the separation of the so called classes. The poor bastards barely surviving in the slums, living under the technological tyranny of better men. Forced to subsist off of the scraps from above, eating each other alive to survive. You can buy your way to sovereignty, for the right price. Got to prove your worth though, if you have any, if you wana live the dream. Or you can pick the lock and slip through the back door, runners can get you in if you're prepared to risk facing the border force. Either get in or die trying. Win, win to a man with nothing and nobody to miss him.

A sudden coughing fit racks his broad fame. He raises a handkerchief to his face. When the coughing subsides, he tucks the bloodied hanky into his pocket, shakes an inhaler, and inhales totally, filling his lungs the remedy. A few feet ahead at a crossing, a willowy young woman struggles with an umbrella and stroller in the crosswinds. He stops. The woman remains at the crossing, seemingly unaware of Grimshaw's presence. A felt Fedora hat and lustrous black hair frame obviously voluptuous lips. A long black trench coat tied tight at the waist falls from her hips, ending just above the knee. Completely unremarkably yet strangely striking. He palms the horn and gestures for her to cross. 

She kicks the strollers breaks free and gingerly leads it into the road. The front left wheel wobbles and spins frantically, making the stroller tricky to manage. The rain intensifies again, and the woman stops in front of the car to shelter herself against it with her umbrella. Grimshaw growls as he searches the pockets of his coat for his smokes. Hmph, Dames.

He taps one free and places the filter between his lips. *Click* his eyes drop to the flames and amber as he takes a lengthy gratifying draw on the cigarette.

A sudden thump against the windshield draws his awareness back to he road. The woman's upturned umbrella now covers the windshield, snagged on the windshield wipers. *Swish...*

the wipers rotate upwards and the umbrella fly's clear. *Swish.....* the wipers rotate downwards, ushering the rain to the peripherals of the windshield. Ahead, the stroller continues on its course across the road, the woman stands feet shoulder width apart, her arms entirely extended in Grimshaw's direction, meeting eye level in front of her face. 

The first shot almost goes unnoticed, only a small circular whole on the car's windshield as proof a shot was fired. Then a second, and a third! He ducks low across the hand brake and buries his face in the passenger's seat to avoid the volley. The assault ends as quickly as it began, soon followed by an all too familiar sound. Shell casings rain down, rattling against the ground. He punches the glove box open and pulls his revolver, then kicks open the door and pulls himself free of the driver's seat. He quickly gathers his bearings and takes aim at the would be assassin. 

Both guns are simultaneously cocked and aimed, the sounds of which echoes down the street. The two of them stand, locked in a face off of life and death. The rain lessons and a sudden chill takes to the air. Hmph, If we're lucky, we end up like that little lady back there.... If we're lucky.

The standoff continues, neither participant backing down, or pulling the trigger. Come on, end it! Let's get on with this! you destroy me, I destroy you, everybody's a winner! No more bitter lonely nights, with nothing but a bottle of scotch to cure the insomnia, to make the ghosts in the pictures on the walls stop tormenting me. One second of cleansing agony and we'll be eternally beautiful, together here in this street. Dying is easy! It's living that hurts! But we can end it all right here, right now, We.....

Three gunshots suddenly fill the silent streets cold night air. A body falls lifeless to the ground. The rain intensifies again and continues its work of washing the streets of Haven clean of the nights sins. Footsteps can scarcely be heard through it. A car door closes. The traffic light turns green, and the vehicle disappears into the night.....

Impressum

Texte: James Cocklin
Lektorat: James Cocklin
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.09.2012

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