Within touching distance

TW - language, alcohol, crime.



A few inches of snow today and you can hear the crunch made by my brand-new Chelsea boots. With each step, I enjoy this warming sunshine, something only a sunny day in winter could bring, that crisp feeling. I go to my usual coffee spot near the roundabout of the police station. That warm coffee juice on a crisp morning is to die for.

“Morning Graeme. Usual?”

“Usual, Solomon, thank you.”

Solomon is the owner of Java Cups. A Jewish Brit who owns a few shops in West London. This was his first so he still works here, relentlessly day in, and day out. He pours me the coffee, I nod at him and cross the street to the station.

As usual, I hand my badge in and follow the steps down to the interrogation room where PC Knowles waits alongside a new recruit.

“Morning Graeme. This is training officer Stybel. He asked if he could join one of your interrogation sessions, apparently your fame is doing rounds in school.”

He leans in, to whisper.

“They are doing sign-up sheets so they can apply to see your…uhm…techniques.”

I smile, shake his hand and extend my hand to the training officer.

“Flattered, Detective,” he says with a star-struck face.

“Aw, for nothing.” I try to put him at ease. “What do we have here then?”

They run me through the case. 20-year-old Albanian male arrived in the country two months ago and was arrested in connection to three burglaries and one stabbing in the neighbourhood, the victim being in critical condition. Neighbours have described his looks but CCTV can not be traced to him in either location. Operating theory is that he knew different access points, hidden from the cameras. Theft has been reported on each occasion, but his property revealed no stolen items. Alas, the motive is clear on the burglaries – high-value items. The question remains about stabbing one of his victims. Resistance, maybe? Most robberies tend to be non-violent.

I walk into the room and see this young-looking fella, staring down at the table in front of him. A baby face, in the true meaning of the idiom. He has a scar running down from his left ear lobe to his chin.

“Hello, Altin. I’m Detective McKay, I’m here to help understand all of this. I see the scar, is that from back home?”

He raises his eyebrows ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of me. He nods.

“I understand you deny any of the crimes you were arrested for, saying you were in various other parts of town, is that true?”

“Yes.” He replies bluntly.

“I’m mesmerised by that scar, do you mind if I get a closer look?”

He nods and turns his face.

As I approach him, I lay my hand on his head ever so slightly. He resists at first but ever so slightly. I rush out of the room.

“PC, check Storage Rooms on the High Street. Room 204. Lock pass key is 280381, his mother’s birthday.”

“Wow.” says the young training officer.

Later that afternoon I got a call from Knowles. They got it, the knife was also found, left to soak in a bleach pot. I’m invited later that evening to join the station for a few after-work drinks. I politely refuse, as I have dinner plans with a friend, but I’m glad to help as usual. Ever since my new role, I don’t have a police station to call home. I work remotely and help on cases they cannot crack. In a way, I enjoy this more as I’m free to roam the streets as I please, working freelance and having more ownership of my time.

Later that evening, I arrive at Casablanca ten minutes late - fashionably, some might argue. I see John, waiting by the window as he raises his glass towards me. I leave my coat before a good old friendly hug.

“Been a while, old dog.” He greets me. “Haven’t seen you since a couple of weeks before the accident. How are you keeping?”

“Good, thanks I’ve… uhm. I’m back to work now. Just cracked another case.”

“Wow. That’s how many since you got back?” he asks while munching on breadsticks.

“Twelve,” I say with a sense of pride. “Yeah, it’s been some comeback since our days on the field.”

John used to be my partner before the accident. We used to track down London’s most notorious criminals and try to crack the most complicated cases. Sometimes we’d win, sometimes we’d lose. My life, however turned upside down 6 months ago, when the wheels of my brand new car skidded uncontrollably on black ice and hit the wall on the M25. Having miraculously made a recovery after what the doctors described as, a horrible concussion, the Met initially did not want me back.

The waiter arrives and interrupts our small chat.

“Yes,” opens John, “could we have a large lamb tagine to share, please?”

The waiter nods.

“Aw, and Graeme, are you having a glass of wine, or?”

“No – not anymore.” I reply politely.

“I see, make that another one for me fella, please.”

The waiter departs and John, through no fault of his own, as he didn’t see me since the accident, is up to more interrogation.

“So… you know I got to ask mate. What is this superpower?”

I laugh. But even I didn’t know exactly how to explain it.

“All I know,” I say getting closer to him “is that ever since the accident, I can reach into people’s short term memory, when touching them on the side of the head, where the Hippocampus is located.”

He spits his wine.

“Get the fuck outta here!” he says half-laughing, half-intrigued.

I reach my hand and ask him to lean in. I touch his left side of the scalp and I can see his whole day.

“Coffee and sausage roll for breakfast, diarrhoea after, Louise calling to tell you she might not make this dinner, paperwork…”

“Stop.” He yells and then quietens down “What the actual fuck mate, how is that possible?”

I shrug my shoulders. I had no clue. All I knew was that since I’ve hit that wall, I’ve uncovered some power to connect deeply with people and their memories.

The waiter brings our food around and we start digging in. Aw, the flavours. They tickle all over.

“See this memory thing, yeah,” he adds with a mouthful, “bet you had this with Gemma, when you thought she was cheating on you.

I nodded. I wish I did.

“Still haven’t heard from her?” he presses on.

“No, mate. Police said they tried to reach her after the accident to let her know that I’m at the Charing Cross Hospital but she didn’t return any message. My guess? She’s off with that colleague of hers, Tahir, starting a life somewhere else. That bitch.” I stopped to grab a sip of water as the spices were drying my mouth out. “That night we argued a lot over the whole deal. She kept saying it’s not like that, they’re just colleagues. That I’m jealous and paranoid.”

“How dare she…” John adds

“I know, right? I’m a detective for fucks sake. I have a gut feeling for things like this. Anyway… next thing I know, I grab my coat, storm out and take a ride down the motorway. Guess where that led me?”

“It led you to twelve fucking solved cases by touching murderers,” he says raising his glass.

I smile and raise mine too and we cheer. The meal ends naturally and we make our way home. It was good to see him again. Ten years we spent together on the streets. Good man, John. A bit of a joker, but a good man nonetheless.

I arrive to my block of flats and make my way to the lift. The ding of crossing the floors is giving tingles to a part of my brain. Ultimately I’m on level 4. I see the new rug for the hallway hasn’t arrived yet, but in a way, it’s nicer this way. Less scum gets in fibres, easier to clean. I take my shoes off and walk and grab a Coke from the fridge. I throw some old receipts and see an old bottle of whisky in the bins. Heavy kind, single malt, probably unfinished. Haven’t touched it since that night, probably the reason for the crash as I can’t remember how much I drank then. Anyway, at the bottom of the bin may it remain. I snooze in front of the TV watching some replays of today’s football.

The phone wakes me up. I glance my eyes at the alarm clock – it’s only 7 AM. I let it ring and decided to call later once I brushed my teeth and freshened up. It’s Knowles, he wants me down again. I pack my stuff and make my way.

“Morning Solomon.”

“Usual Graeme?”

“Usual please, make it extra hot.”

Today is a colder one, I grab my extra hot coffee and cross the street. I do the usual show of badge, and walk down the stairs where Knowles waits with another youngster. I greet them both.

“This is training officer Junaid. He won the lottery yesterday.”

“Pleasure,” I say shaking his hand.

“Now listen, Graeme, this might be trickier but if there’s anyone that can help, it is definitely you.” He says while passing me the dossier on the suspect. Early-stage dementia. Had a carer who looked after him. Neighbours reported sounds of fighting two nights ago and the carer has not been seen since then. Knowles’ theory is that some fight might’ve broken out and the suspect who is just 31 years old doesn’t remember the details of the fight and whether or not he harmed the carer.

I walk in and I can see the guy shaking.

“I don’t know where I am but I haven’t done anything I promise!” he pleads.

“Look, I know the condition is not helping” I say trying to reassure him, “But we need to get to the bottom of this. This young lady is missing and you’re the person that saw her last. Would you like to help?”

He nods aggressively and insists.

“Yes sir, I’ll do anything, please, I just want home.”

“Okay,” I continue “here’s what’s going to happen. I will touch you gently on the head and it will be over soon. I want to try something.”

He nods and lays his head down for me. I touch him and things are very muddy. As opposed to the previous times this one isn’t clear and I am concentrating very hard trying to decipher.

“Sir it’s been a while, what are you doing?” he asks.

“Shh…let me think here please!” I say as I close my eyes trying to get a clearer picture.

I keep concentrating and the images are still hazy but I can deduce some things. I see some fighting and hitting and then a freshly dug ground outside a shop. Yellow Tools shop maybe?

I rush to the PC and tell him what I’ve seen.

“I’m not 100% sure though Knowles. Don’t know where that is.”

Junaid is googling on his phone. He found one 7 miles from here, in Slough.

“Ok, thanks Graeme, I’ll call you back once I know more.”

“Sorry – it’s usually clearer, I hope it helps.” I say as I put my coat on, ready to make my way home.

It’s past lunchtime and I’m on the couch just doing sudoku and listening to some old tunes. I haven’t heard anything from Knowles yet, so I’m starting to feel very frustrated. Did my powers vanish, or lose potency? And if so, what am I going to do? What will happen to my reputation, my job? I start to stress out and I’m heading for the bin, looking for that bottle of whisky, hoping to calm the nerves.

NO, I stop myself before reaching for it. NOT GOING BACK

I give up on the intrusive thought and feeling still tired I launch myself in bed, where I nap profusely until a phone call wakes me up again. It’s John.

“Graeme, are you home bud?” he sounds urgent.

“Yes, mate, what’s up?” I say, still feeling a bit hazy from the nap.

“Mate, it’s Gemma. She’s been found…”

Another call comes in interrupting my current one. Its Knowles.

“John, I’m glad mate, look Knowles is calling, this is urgent I have to take it,”

“Mate, but Gemma…”

I hang up and accept Knowles’ call.

“Graeme, we followed your lead.” He sounds grave.

“Yes and? Found the carer?” I ask trying to get some reassurance.

“Uhm, the carer showed up today at work, but…” he takes a pause and a deep breath. “We’re going to come see you. We found your ex-girlfriend, covered in blood and wrapped in a rug. She was dug in the ground by Yellow Tools. We need to ask you some questions, please stay where you are.”

The phone call ends abruptly and my hands feel clammy.

I froze. I couldn’t believe it. Could it…

I rush to the bin. Fuck not drinking. I pick the bottle up. As I pour myself a glass of it, I see my hands bloody. The whole bottom of the bottle is.

It all came back to me.