Faultline

Chaos is the most natural form of existence, we both birth and die within it. It’s a defining part of humanity, and how nothing can become something in an instant. I was born in literal chaos, on an adrift ferry unshackled from its course by a storm. My mother loves to tell the story. Of the minute peace, she felt once she had heard my cry. And she loves to tell me how much it’s hurting her that I’m a detective, that I’m begging to get shot and killed in a drug investigation or something else just as dangerous. No matter what I say it doesn’t appease her worries, no matter that I’ve had years of training and work in a well-supported precinct, it doesn’t work. But that doesn’t diminish my desire or aptitude for detective work, for analysing behaviour and pattern. For finding a sort of justice or vengeance, depending on how you look at it. For the victims of crime, it can be one and the same. Like filling an empty hole, I suppose. It’s a fulfilling role though, despite all the languid bureaucracy.

I text my mother as I leave my car. Arrived at work. I’m safe. It’s our routine to text when we start and end work, as well as in-between. It’s our bread and butter, as frustrating it once was-still is sometimes. At least it helps my mother and her unguarded fears.  

“Morning Officer Phillips!”, I greet the old guard. The 80-year-old retired at age 60 as an officer, but re-joined just months later, apparently frustrated by the abeyance of chaos. Well, he re-joined as a civilian assistant but with his experience and grandeur, the title doesn’t do him justice. And doesn’t stop him or let anyone else limit his role. Just like any old soldier, he doesn’t give in easily and it’s always fun to watch the new recruits try to peg him down and fail.

“Good Day, Detective Reed.” He obliges with a refined formal tone. A keen fan of social order and etiquette, he likes the routine of it I think, despite its superficial nature.

“Pleasant day, did you have a nice weekend?”, I oblige.

“A spot of fishing. How was yours?”, he inquires.

“As equally enjoyable, I went hiking in the country”.

“How lovely. I’ll see you at the 9am staff meeting then.” He replies.

“Yes, sir. See you then.”

I nod, the usual easy end of conversation and swiftly make my way to my desk, a corner of space at the back of the precinct. Its placement allows for some sort of barrier from the clamour of the precinct. A shaded solace from the malign tantrums and cries of arrested criminals or indignant teenagers, alongside the overall hum of the office. It gives me a good outside view too, allowing me to observe the furore without notice. Or much notice in the case of career criminals that exist more like vultures than people. They often leave lingering omnipotence, a premonition of disquiet before tragedy.

I sit at my dishevelled desk and log into the computer, begrudgingly waiting for the litter of civic tasks to appear. Damn bureaucracy. Sometimes I feel more akin to an office assistant than a detective, dealing with the waves of forms, courtesy emails, and several other red herrings.

2 hours later.

Finally, enough time has passed for an alleviating repose. All in the form of a staff meeting but at least it’s something. Even if I mostly listen and get assigned to a shadowing position or mild insurrections, my time will come to be the lead detective. Eventually. However small it may be.

I enter the conference room in all its 70’s glory, with its confounded stains and mould mottled chairs. It’s almost as if I can smell the cigarette smoke, but it’s more likely the damp that crawls like rotting rust from the ceiling. Still, the imagined nostalgia is somewhat invigorating to have, reminding me how things have changed, and what I could do too.

My acquiesce is interrupted by the gruff entrance of Chief Foggart, a greying, slightly rotund man who enjoys a heavy gait. I think he likes the attention and the authority that comes with it. As well as the salary.

“Morning Officers. I will begin this briefing at the strike of nine o’clock, no more, no less.”.

And he waits. It’s irritating this silent waiting, the oafish game of who’s in charge. I think he likes to remind people he’s in charge, knows that he can steal other people’s time and gasconade in it. At last, he seems placated after his power play and begins as the clock reads 9 o’clock.

“The first order of business is to congratulate the recent success of Detectives Ringer and Lin on their handling of the Devon Drug case…The last few months have seen increased rates of theft and burglary… ”, the usual kind of updates, of recent closures and evidence to show the mayor of how well-used the funding is, the uniform demands to be better, to be vigilant and insistence of closing cases. Sometimes I miss walking the beat but the opportunity to do something more is too irresistible to me, especially the process of learning something new, finding a lead and being right, and getting the result.

“Onto the next course of business, Officer Kahn will handle the Graham Murder, Officer Monger the York laundering case…”. Chief Foggart throws his tower of case files to each officer given a case, another power move, making the room stiffen in attention. “Officer Mara the High Street vandalism…And Officer Reed, the courtesy call to Mrs Stone”. He chucks the file at me and I catch it at a belated speed and clutch it tightly to my chest. Woah. My first case, my first sole case. It’s a small job but a job nonetheless, a symptom of growing trust. Or more likely, a test of trust but still. And I’m so momentarily caught by surprise I can’t hear Chief Foggart’s’ continued rumbling until some shock subsides.

“…we’ve had recent calls of ruckus late at night; therefore, patrols will be increasing in number to reassure residents.” A small pause, a small reminder of who’s in charge, “Any questions?”. No response. No ring of communication here, it seems there’s just enough room for Chief Foggart’s orders and his enlarged hubris. Then he leaves, seemingly pleased at his uncontested word and the room releases some coiled tension like a deflating balloon.

25 minutes later, in the Detective’s car.

After the staff meeting, I collected myself and sat at my desk, eager to read my case file. A courtesy call to Mrs Stone, a widowed pensioner who’s repeatedly reported some reoccurring sounds and other happenings. The case file enclosed a note for subtle appeasement/investigation, clearly a low priority case despite the precinct’s mantra of Care, Share & Protect. Perfect PR apparently. A little too perfect for the statistics though if you ask the higher-ups, a little increase in reported crime, apparently.

I take a breath; anger isn’t a welcomed instinct in community liaison. And I’m going to conduct this case with the proper professionalism and care it deserves. If I want to be a good detective, I should act like it. It was only a 10-minute drive to the ageing building in which Mrs Stone lives, a tenement of flats, its Edwardian edifice coveted in dust and tarred blemishes. It has a sense of apathetic existence like it’s been omitted from time itself. A mute part of the city.

Leaving my car, I step forward, towards the growing shape of the building until I reach its thick-wooden doors, them too seemingly made in a different time as I feel its weighty density, having to use my shoulder to enter. Flat 5a, the case file stated. And on observing the lobby I notice the absence of a lift and the tall continuum of stairs. Fantastic.

Five sets of stairs later.

I don’t need a workout today after that, I reason while trying to gather as much air as I can. It takes quite a few moments to return to my natural rhythm of breath, and I regret not bringing my sitting bottle of water in my car. I know now though, and I’ll remember it next time. I take a final deep breath and prepare myself, standing straight and pressing a calm smile to my lips. I knock on the door. Nothing. I double-check, it is flat 5a, but she’s old and probably deaf or asleep. I knock louder, making a resounding sound that echoes around the hallway and seems to dribble down the cavernous stairs like a beer bottle hitting the concrete. Still nothing. I knock again but decide to accompany it.

“Police!”, I state with conviction. And follow it again with a fuller tone when met with further silence. As a courtesy call, I’m legally bound and committed to ensuring the individual's health and wellbeing, even though Chief Foggart would probably regard the case as closed by now, chuffed with a resounding tick in the box, I don’t want to cut corners. Or lie. After brief hesitance, I turn the doorknob, clicking open easily. I take a step inside, welcomed by a rich lounge with matching furniture, fine-coated with waves of cinders and dust. Elm shelves canvass the room, overwhelmingly oversaturated with books and other things, gilded with crawling trails of mould. And on the floor, there are a flower-woven carpet and abating shades of red and rust, like it's drunk in age.

Despite the dismal display of the opening room and its worrying connotations, it’s not the only one and Mrs Stone could always be fast asleep in bed, unbeknownst to my presence and her worrying living situation. Or out shopping, although I don’t know how she would manage those stairs. But she may be fit if she must manage all those stairs. Some hope. I carry on and open an adjoining door and begin to shout.

“Po-”, until I falter. A body. I have to call this in and check for signs of life, even though the body is laying hard and stiff, facing sideways like it’s frosted into place. I call the precinct, and Detectives Lin answers.

“Detective Lin speaking”.

“Uh, hi-”, I falter. “Detective Lin, it’s Detective Reed, I’ve found a body- uh a dead body-Mrs Stone”, I stammer annoyed at my perturbed competence.

“Oh kid”, He sounds deflated. “Oh, Reed, I’m on my way, ok. Sit tight”.

“Ok,” I reply. The call ends and I am left saddened at this outcome and the sudden realisation that the corpse was a person-Mrs Stone. And I feel a little numb, slightly on the edge of everything. But I only have to wait for 10-minutes, and I’m a detective, I’ll have to get used to this, even alone. I can start with 10-minutes.

I take steady breaths, and look around slowly, trying to find stillness. I would close my eyes for a moment to escape the sight for a moment but I’m too scared of being in the dark with a corpse. It feels like something you should have your eyes open for.

After some deep breaths, I feel more akin to myself, and I can tell myself the steps to investigating, so I choose to try and distract myself from, well-the body. Observing the room, I take notice of a large broken mirror and remark on the bending rip from its centre that has led to glass rubble scattering across the room. I see myself echoed in the mirror, in a rheumatic stance, trying to make myself small like trapped prey, a mouse. Not in charge of the situation like a detective should be. Not in command. I force myself to roll my shoulders back, trying to make myself bigger than I am, trying to look more like a detective. Alongside my mimic image is the body’s, her-its eyes open in a drawn-out gaze like pinpointed dots. Perhaps it was an accident, although there’s no observable blood, maybe a heart attack out of shock?

Deciding to investigate further, I crouch down closer to the body, seeing the paper-like blankness of skin, the curling blue-green veins travelling down her-the body’s arms. Definitely dead. Watching her unmoving face, her skin changes in consistency-it looks pickled. Like acid rain had poured over her face, dripping into her skin, and embedded itself. There’re curling shavings of skin dripping outwards like curled butter. I freeze. Anchored. Definitely abnormal. I feel as if I am trying to swallow a stone, trying to absorb this information and what it could mean.

But my alarm is ruptured by an electronic tuning, a crackling trill from behind. The suspended sound dislodges me, surprise tipping me back, rabid I turn and stand, more like a frightened rabbit than a collected detective. Although I can now see the source of the sound. A hooded effigy, buzzing in waves of static like a perceivable radio. Blinking and shuddering, saying nothing in the severed wall of mirror. I feel like rock, unmoving and unchanging. Too heavy to move. As if drowned in concrete.

The figure stands faceless in shadowed static with no discernible human features, no eyes, no mouth, no nose. Like a palpable slab of stone. In my frigid stillness, I don’t recognise his growing movement as he reveals a gun. And shoots. Glass splinters like an electric ricochet, crackling against the stale air as the fortifies force topples me to the ground, crumbling under the pressure like sand. Blood wells from my chest. There’s so much blood, I can’t find the wound, can’t feel it either. I scramble trying to find the wound as I taste salt cradle into my mouth. And the shape of the room seems to shudder and dim and fall inside itself. My sight slowly dissolving like stirring salt in water as darkness seems to concave in.

Nothingness.