One.

Part of the first chapter of something I'm playing with

CHAPTER 1.

           

 

The longest day of his life began with a loud banging on his front door. It woke him up, cursing, on his only day off that week, at eight in the morning. He was furious and determined that he would remain in bed and ignore whoever dared disturb him, but the noise was relentless, and when the shouting began, he decided, sulkily, that he had better respond. The police men at the door’s first encounter of David Hallestone was a particularly gruff image, a frowning and unhappy looking man in his mid-thirties, half dressed in worn, grey tracksuit bottoms, slipping down his midrift and revealing a well-exercised body, the shoulders and upper arms laced with dark tattoos, spikes and swirls and dragons etched contrastingly into his somewhat pale complexion. It seemed as if he didn’t often venture out into the sunlight. He scratched his unkempt black tufts of hair and managed a croaky “What?” in the voice of someone aroused from sleep many hours before they were ready.

                Within the hour, the policemen had taken his fingerprints and other various DNA samples, those of which David hadn’t a clue how they could be used to convict anyone of anything; they had also applied for a search warrant for his home, and then continued to cart him off in a police car to ‘Interrogation Room B,’ as was whispered questioningly by the assistant police officer in the passenger seat on the way across, and confirmed by the ominous nod from the tough, cold officer driving. Much to his disadvantage, they had as of yet neglected to mention what it was exactly that he had done wrong, aside from the fact that he had been told he was being arrested for an ‘unexplained death’ as his rights were read to him. He had tried to ask for more details, but was always cut short by the sharp voice of the stern officer David had privately nicknamed Wrinkles. David concluded he must be nearing his sixties, if not seventies, as he had wrinkles something akin to those of a basset hound, with sad, dark eyes and the droopy expression to match. He was shockingly bald, the gleam of his empty scalp like the polished table David had always despised at his grandmothers when he was younger, and the elderly officers ears were pressed flat against his head, making him look rather frightening if viewed in profile. His face was permanently set in a frown, despairingly accentuating the lines carved deep into his face, webs of lines from the corners of his eyes and mouth, and wrinkles on his forehead like miniscule sand dunes of skin. His shoulders were wide and his waist slim, and David begrudgingly understood why this man was still allowed to work: He was damn good at his job, and always had been.

                They arrived at the police station in solemn silence, the ancient car shuddering to a dramatic halt outside the peeling blue paint of the double doors he would later be ushered through. The atmosphere inside the car was palpable; David felt an uneasy tingle in his chest, an empty, hollow sensation, like he was a pumpkin someone was preparing for Halloween, scraping away at his insides. The feeling was not particularly pleasant, and nor was it constant, it would numb down to a dull throb of unease in his stomach until there was a word or sound that triggered it, a beast that reared without any notice, and his stomach dropped as if he was on a rollercoaster, his chest tightened, and he had the urge to curl up into a tight ball and remain there until the sensation subsided.

                He was led like a horse to the interrogation room, as if he were being taken to the vets, and those leading him knew he was about to be put down and that he was oblivious, the mood sombre and thick and silent, secretive glances between the two policemen, who believed David did not catch them. The corridor was dimly lit, by intention, David thought, as he glimpsed mouldy walls and cracked stone, cloaked by shadows and grime. The contrast between this dank cave of a corridor and the building with the offices they had first come through was unthinkable, they had thick, luxurious red and blue carpets, patterned wallpaper and framed pictures lining the walls, varnished doors with delicately patterned and coloured glass embedded inside them; here they had one foot wide metal barricades of doors to hide the screams of the victims the police were ‘helping’ to their statements, or confessions.

                They entered a room empty of anything except a single metal table which dominated the room, and several chairs scattered untidily around it. There was a large, stained metal ring secured tightly to the centre of the table, which his already chafed and aching hands were then shackled to with the rusty bands of metal that were causing the pains in his wrists to worsen.

He was pushed roughly into a chair situated against the back wall, his back slamming hard into a scratched mirror, cold on his back, causing the rusty metal to dig harder into the skin on his wrists as he fell backwards. He had been allowed to retrieve a blue sweatshirt before being forced out of his home just this morning; what felt like days ago had only been an hour or so ago. His grim face stared back at him from two walls, one image obscured by the tall officer looming over David and the other behind him. 

The loud ‘click’ of the tape-recorder announced they had begun, and with that, the questions came quick and fast, Wrinkles and his meeker assistant playing good-cop/bad-cop without much success. David, no longer sheltered by his cocoon of fatigue and oblivion, caught on quickly to the events rapidly unfolding in his lap. It seemed to him like this was going to be an extremely long day.

                When the police had finished interrogating him, he was allowed brief refuge in the form of a holding cell and a cup of hot, thin tar they insisted was coffee. He slumped remorsefully against a dirty white wall, flecked with who-knew-what. He believed he had held up rather well given the circumstances, although he knew he had committed no crime of any sort other than the odd red-light he’d driven by or CD he’d illegally downloaded. The way these people were talking though, he was in here for something far worse than not paying for an album from the ‘80s. They’d asked him firstly if he would like to make a phone call. This was asked calmly and politely in front of the receptionist, a young girl, perhaps just in her twenties. She was pretty and regarded him with a gentle kindness, something David had been surprised by in someone who must only see the worst kind of scum dragged through these hallways under her nose. She had offered him a glass of water, which he had declined, and then a sweet smile before returning to the mountain of paperwork on her desk. David had no lawyer and no family within driving distance, and no friends who would be of any use to him or that he’d want to tell about his predicament, so he declined the phone call also, and then once out of sight of the receptionist, was handled roughly until the moment he was forced into his cell. They had asked him all kinds of disconcerting questions about his whereabouts, his past, his ‘alibi’ and his career, his preference in women and how much and how often he drank. The answers he gave must have been unsatisfactory in some way as no matter what he said, Wrinkles only seemed to become more and more frustrated as time went on, his puggish features swallowed almost entirely by the weathered folds of skin by the time he had sighed in exasperation and hit the tape recorder to end his interrogation.

David now sat in silence and contemplated the next few hours and what they would bring when the receptionist walked past his cell. Upon seeing him, she faltered in her step and almost tripped out of her black heels. She turned to face him, smoothed out her black, pencil skirt with her hands in a nervous gesture, smiled once more at him, and then laughed. David found this behaviour to be rather absurd, and looked at her in bewilderment, wondering not only why she was here but now also why she was laughing. Had he mistook her smile? Had it in fact been menacing and cruel, that she knew what he had in store, and was now laughing at him, imprisoned like this for something he did not do? He couldn’t fathom why she would be here, as he had assumed these dark, dank corridors were patrolled only by the oldest, toughest members of the police force, those able to withstand or ignore the incessant jeering from the drunkards and the killers alike. He had assumed wrongly, it seemed, that the red and blue carpet façade was for the pretty, younger staff, such as the receptionist, and the lawyers and the families of the deceased, that no one who was not guilty or suspected guilty of a crime was allowed to be back here.
                Yet here stood young woman who looked now more timid after her outburst, nervous once more, now playing with a button on her shirt, and looking at David expectantly.

“What? Do they want me back again?” He asked, not entirely sure why he was the one initiating conversation when it was she who sought him out, and not the other way around.

“No. You’re free to go. They were going to come get you themselves and rough you up a bit more for a reason to keep you, but they’re pretty busy and I thought you might prefer it if I were the one who escorted you out.”

Her bright blue eyes now twinkled with mischief and she bent down playfully to unlock the cell door. The other prisoners cheered when she did so, and he realised then that she enjoyed the attention, regardless of whom it came from, righteous policemen or convicted criminals. It seemed David had mistaken her for an innocent, sweet girl in her twenties, when in fact she was the one of those blonde-attention-seeking-flirts he had spent most of his high school life trying not to be involved with. He hated everything about this place and scurried to his feet to be rid of it as soon as possible. She took him by the hand and led him through the transformation of dark and dreary to bright and modern, leaving the other inmates with a suggestive wink as she went. Once through the thick metal doors, she let go of his hand and put back on her mask of innocence and sweet timidity, the character transformation unnerving to David. Wrinkles was sat in a large, red armchair that engulfed his elderly frame, now looking frail and deceptively weak through the glass window of a white door David glanced through. Finally, after a labyrinth of glaringly light corridors, the girl stopped and opened a heavy wooden door for him and stood aside for him to pass, fresh air drifting in and caressing his face tauntingly.
“Don’t go on any holidays, now, will you?” She sneered as she turned and left him, grinning to herself, aware that he was watching her walk away, before the heavy wooden door swung shut on his traumatic day with an eerie thud that echoed through his brain as he blearily walked towards the taxi that was conviently located at the bottom of the steep flight of concrete stairs. He shook his head vigorously, as if attempting to shake away the days events, and yanked open the taxi door to see an all too familiar face staring back at him. He was already halfway into the taxi, and as he had no desire to go back inside the police station and wait for another taxi to arrive, he regretfully climbed in, shut the door behind him with finality, and stared as the police station, tinted blue from the taxi window, drew away from him as the taxi rumbled into movement without David ever having told the driver where he desired to go.
                He turned his head slowly to the passenger sat next to him in the other back seat, close enough to touch and yet David could still not hear the strands of whispery voice when they began another of their long, heart-sinking speeches; he only felt the icy cold breath scratch his skin as he leaned in to hear the words being spoken to him. The taxi felt claustrophobic, the plastic between himself, the other passenger and the driver making David feel more enclosed than he had even in his prison cell. It was dark from the tinted windows and the air in the taxi had been sucked dry by the atmospheric tension David could almost see in the air. He began to feel more and more breathless as he realised exactly what he was being told and the relief he felt from being released from his temporary hold in the police station quickly turned to dread, the feeling of lead in his chest and rollercoaster stomach coming back ten times as strong as earlier, and this time around, he did not resist the urge to curl up into a ball; he brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them tightly, burying his face in his arms as he sweated his anxiety out in the heat of the taxi, taking him to an unknown location as he felt his grip on reality fade as quickly as the buildings blurred past him outside the blue tinted windows; which gave a harsh, cold hue to the world outside.

 

            *                      *                      *

            She ran ahead of him, laughing so hard that her lungs vibrated with the effort of breathing at the same time. Her face was stretched to breaking from the smile plastered across her face, but it didn't feel unnatural. Nothing did, not with him nearby. She was incredibly comfortable, even at eleven o'clock at night in the middle of the countryside, alone.

The dark hills were painted on the dark skyline ahead and behind them, and beneath her bare feet they sat patiently, the grass grabbing her feet like children’s hands as she ran, begging her to stay. The glorious moon kissed the glass sky, its breath steaming it up and lighting the night. A warm breeze tickled her face and gently tugged her hair as she flew forward, an earthy scent drifting up her nose as she inhaled rapid gulps of oxygen. The stars glittered softly, babies in contrast with the moon, tiny specks of beauty breaking the empty, dark blue. The rush of air lessened as she slowed, stopping at the top of a hill to wait for him. Seconds went by. He wasn't there. Her heart began like a drum, steadily building up a beat forceful enough to shatter her chest, as her eyes frantically raced up and down the black hillside. Exhausted from running, she couldn’t catch her breath, but as time passed, she was breathless for a different reason. He was gone. Emptiness enveloped her, and the beautiful night suddenly seemed very cold. The trees scowled at her, the stars sneered, and the hills bragged of miles and miles of endless maze to be lost in. It hit her that her breath was as loud as a fog horn, and if there was someone out there to harm them, she was giving herself away like a cloud on a sunny day. She sank to the floor in silence, realising how cold it was when her cheek hit the damp ground. She replayed the last hour in her mind. He had been with her half an hour ago. Ten minutes ago, too, but from then on her mind drew a blank.

She'd been running alone, running away. He was somewhere out there too, but he had lost her. She had lost him. A harmless game; a playful mocking, showing off how fast she could run. She lay there for what felt like forever, hoping he would stumble up the hill out of breath and make some sarcastic comment. It never came, and nor did he. After what she thought was a few hours, the hillside swallowed her and she was surrounded in darkness; the moon stopped pitying her and vanished behind some thick clouds, no light to penetrate the inky blackness she was drowning in.

            *                      *                      *

David fell into the warm cocoon of safety, a marshmallow hugging him tightly; he felt safe here, finally. The softness enveloped him, and he was soon in a beautiful black sleep, with no dream, no nightmare, just that lovely unconsciousness where worries cease to exist and the only feeling is pure blissful darkness. He woke not once, the first real rest he had had in too long. David opened his restored eyes to a world bright and unforgiving, sharp and painful, blue-filtered light flickering across the back of the driver’s seat in patterns like the dappled light dancing on a seabed when sunlight shines through the ocean. It reminded him of holidays that seemed so distant now, happier times from when he was younger, when he hadn’t worried as much, when he had time to sit and watch shadows dance across sandy floors, competing for space with his shadow, as he had watched them peacefully through steamed up swimming goggles.

He snapped back into the present, aware of a goofy half-smile threatening to play across his features. During his unintended slumber he had slumped down into his seat comfortably, and this was unfortunately a luxury he could not afford in his situation; it made him feel weak and vulnerable. The taxi was still moving, and as he didn’t know how long he’d slept for, he didn’t know how long the taxi had been moving, so he had no idea where he was or how to work it out; he sat up and turned to face the passenger.
                To find an empty seat. He gingerly reached across with cold, stiff fingers. The seat wasn’t warm. Nor was there any sign of there having ever been anyone there to begin with. He shivered, feeling the chill one can only feel when waking up from a nice slumber, into an uncomfortable world one would rather not have woken into. He was confused and bleary once more and he cursed himself for allowing this to happen at such an urgent time. He realised now that the dancing lights came not from the sun but from lampposts and street lights piercing into the car; the rest of the world had disappeared into the inky hollow of night, limiting David’s chances of recognising his surroundings. Now that his dangerous passenger had evacuated, he wondered if he could gain some knowledge from the driver. Was he not a mere taxi driver, instructed to deliver his passenger somewhere? And if this was correct, why would he withhold the information from said passenger? David decided that by this point he hadn’t much to lose, and gingerly asked,
                “Excuse me, sir, where exactly are we headed?”
The driver was wearing a blue navy uniform hat, which David considered to be slightly odd and inappropriate for a taxi driver, a thick, moss green jacket with numerous pockets held tightly closed by buckles, zips and buttons alike to prevent the contents from popping out of the bulging holes. The jacket itself was barely held together, stitches lining most of the seams, patches of randomly assorted and coloured materials frequenting the otherwise plain fabric. It was torn in places, and on the drivers left forearm, it had been incised from his wrist to his elbow, revealing a gash not only in the jacket, but also in the drivers arm. It trickled blood into the frayed edges of the jacket, and David was suddenly fearful of his escort.
                Without turning round, the driver spoke mechanically as if he was reading from a script he had not seen before, and replied,

“I am not permitted to disclose or discuss any information with my passengers.”
His voice was gravelly and sounded as weary as David had felt earlier, before his long and blissful sleep. He wasn’t sure what to do with this, and felt awkward and out of place leaning forward. He mumbled an “okay,” and fell back into the cold leather seat. He would have to wait and see what life threw at him. He had no alternative.

He settled in for a long wait, pushing his knees up against the seat in front of him and letting his torso slide down comfortably. He wondered if he ought to sleep again, seeing as it was dark outside, but he felt so awake he dismissed the idea. The seconds dragged into minutes that fell by his alert eyes. He felt like he had drunk eight litres of black coffee. Real coffee, not the stuff he still had lining his throat from the police station. He pondered about the coffee they would have in the shiny exterior of the seedy underworld of the police station, where the receptionist loitered. He bet she was given proper coffee. David considered whether or not there would be a proper coffee machine there. He imagined a fully decorated kitchen, newly installed in the police station, hidden behind a polished white door with a window so clean you could use it as a mirror. He bet the receptionist did. The kitchen was also white, sparking white, white counters with wooden cupboard doors, shockingly drowned in white paint. The kitchen in his mind was small but lavishly adorned with everything an officer could require on his long, hard shift when working a tough case. A spangly silver coffee machine was a given, the stereotypical police man needed one to make the perfect steaming coffee to go with his box of doughnuts. There would be a small cooker for quick meals on the job; Pot Noodles sprang to mind. A kettle for Wrinkles, he seemed to be the typical tea-drinking type. David didn’t think Wrinkles would contaminate his smoothly oiled machine of a body with the likes of strong caffeine such as coffee, but the highly traditional English cup of tea might be acceptable. He wondered what the receptionist drank. He wondered if they really needed her there, or if she was just something pretty to look at when they couldn’t go home to their wives, when all they had seen in hours were autopsies professionally performed, grotesquely mutilated bodies thrown in ditches and the criminals responsible for the latter.                                    Thoughts like these laced David’s mind as he watched the lights blur past his window, preoccupying his brain while across the city he was racing away from, terrible events were uncoiling themselves with a little help from those who had intended to set them in motion.