Old Cold

“I can’t believe we’re arguing over this,” Liam says to me, fog coming from his mouth as he speaks.

I hold back a smile. “It’s an important decision. Do we leave her here or call it in?”

Liam looks at me in disbelief, “We call it in!”

I pull the collar of my jacket tighter around my neck and nod, quietly smiling, “Roger that.”

I love winding Liam up. It’s so easy.

We both look at Mrs Jones who sits on a large, puffy chair. Her legs and arms are splayed out and her mouth is open. Her cheek skin sags to all buggery and I can see her dentures displaced from their cosy home, half protruding from her mouth. Her lips are a super pale white and the old, grey whiskers coming out of her nose are caked in frost. I grab the remote next to her and flick the TV off.

Mrs Jones looks a bit like my mother, RIP. I’m glad my mother didn’t freeze to death. She was run over by a bus on the way to the shop with me one day in her 80s. Not a bad way to go the doctor told me. Instant death. Not like poor Mrs Jones here. Probably a day of slowly freezing. First her fingers and toes would start to get cold and she would get frostbite. Then hyperthermia. Then her organs would start to shut down and – actually, I have no idea. I’m not a doctor and chances are neither are you.

Besides Liam I’m the only cop (and sheriff and town planner and bloody everything) in this small town called Dansville and it’s full of oldies like Mrs Jones. Do you know how hard it is to get a town motivated and excited and build community spirit when half the population can’t move from their sofas? Hard is the answer. It’s hard.

Liam is inspecting the heater. He’s my deputy. Although he has good intentions he’s a lazy cop always taking shortcuts. He groans as he gets down on one knee. His shirt untucks under his jacket and his huge belly flops out.

“Can’t see anything too weird but I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he tells me.

“Heaters just break sometimes,” I say back. But I do go over and look at the heater. Seems normal to me.

“Death by natural causes, I suppose,” I say, writing on my notepad.

“Yep,” Liam says.

We call the local doc and head back to the office. I don’t have any contact details for the family. And they all left this town years ago. This shitty little mining town in the middle of nowhere. Now without even a working mine. No one visits and it seems no one leaves unless it’s in a body bag. And even then they don’t actually leave they just get buried in the local cemetery.

Back at the office I flip through Mrs Jones’ papers. She left the house to her only known family member, her son Garrett, who died in the mines back in 98. In this instance usually the house is put up for sale and the proceeds go into a trust which can be claimed by a family member at a later stage.

I call up the local real estate agent, Selia, and mention it to her. She feigns sympathy for Mrs Jones but really she’s a cold hard bitch whose only real loves in life are selling houses and bottomless martinis. Best to get it on the market ASAP I always think. Try not to mention to possible buyers an old lady froze to her death in the living room while watching Antique Roadshow only a week or two ago.

Liam walks into my office eating a sandwich. “Dropping like flies hey.”

I nod. He was talking about the local residents. “You spoken to Dave yet?”

“The new guy? Yeah, once or twice.”

“He’s a great guy. And he has great steaks too, check his new shop out,” I say.

Dave had bought old Mr Greg’s house last month and opened up a butcher here. That’s what I’m talking about. Now we have a butcher. He’s young and excited to be here. The cheap house price got him of course.

“I saw him at his new home,” Liam tells me as he plops down in the chair in my office. Lucky I only buy furniture made with hardwood.

“He mentioned he looked at the heating unit at his house because he used to be an electrician and said someone had been tampering with it.”

My head shoots up from my papers. “Is that so?”

Liam talks through half chewed chicken sandwich. “Yeah, weird hey?”

I nod. “Yeah, very weird.”

I scratch my beard. “I’m sure I checked his heater was working properly. I checked all of them.”

“Yeah, well, obviously not good enough,” Liam chuckles.

I look out the window. It’s snowing. Again. It’s beautiful, I give you that. But it’s always so damn cold in this town. Winter all year round. It really does suck the life out of, this constant cold. Plants don’t grow and you’re constantly wearing jacket on jacket. But I just love it. I really do. And look what I’ve done for it. I’ve tried my best to make it an actual real town that people actually want to be in.

***

Anyway, that was all five years ago now. It’s cold in this cell, of course. That fucker Liam got me. Not as lazy as I thought, obviously. In a way I got what I wished. Once they found out I was behind all the deaths, journalists flocked to the town and interviewed everyone they could get their hands on. Big story. Arrested me in my own office, goddamnit. I wish I could see the town now, see how it has changed. I’ve heard snippets here and there. Dave is still at the butcher. Liam is now in charge. No more deaths by dodgy heating units I’ve heard. That’s good. But, come on, is it really murder if they are basically dead anyway? Seriously. Is it?

And I’m not asking you to try and feel sorry for me or sympathise or understand me. I can only tell you my reasons and you can do with them what you will.

I’ve always believed the only way to change is from the ground up. That’s how we got rid of the bad eggs in the factory in the 80s. We couldn’t just fire one or two. We got rid of them all and started again, afresh. It was a complete nightmare to be honest. The training, teaching them about safety, all that shit. But we had no more secret team meetings plotting about how to fuck over the company. No, sir. We had smooth, obedient workers. Start from the ground up.

And that’s what I was doing with Dansville. I was trying to change history. A town full of oldies who can’t even leave their house isn’t a town. That’s a hospice.

I got us Dave the butcher.

I reinvigorated the local sports team and we had enough members to actually play.

I increased the value of the real estate by 20 per cent and kept that cold hard bitch Selia in a job.

I pushed the plans for the park and look at it now, it’s damn beautiful.

I bought three young families in here and now we’re looking at getting an actual school.

I did all that. Me. And sometimes you have to get rid of the rotten apples for the tree to flourish.

I’m sorry Mr Greg (89).

I’m sorry Mrs Jones (86).

I’m sorry Angus (92).

I’m sorry Mr and Mrs Haggart (96 and 86).

I’m sorry Phyllis (90).

I’m sorry the other Phyllis (91).

And I’m sorry mum (only 82). Sometimes a shove looks real close to a fall. And when I’m old and grey and can hardly walk, talk or eat I hope someone knocks me off, puts me out of my misery. Because being old ain’t no fun.

So say what you want, I don’t care. But I know what I’ve done. I’ve changed history. And even though I won’t be able to see it for a minimum parole period of 18 years it’s still worth it.

It’s always so cold in here. And no matter how many prison approved jackets I wear it doesn’t help. Someone’s coming now to bring me food. It’s Liam probably. I always ask him what’s happening out in Dansville and he usually doesn’t tell me. Sometimes he comes in late at night after a few beers and spills the beans. But usually I just have to fantasise about what it’s like out there.

I always told Liam these prison cells would come in handy and, damn it, I was right.