said.
The first-aid guy gave him a baleful glance. ‘It’s how the kids think of their victims. Even before the knife’s gone in.’
All the way home Mace kept thinking, corpse. Dead man walking. Goner. Cadaver. What also plagued him was how he’d walked into it. Not even noticed the kids until it was too late. In the line of business that sort of negligence was scary. Enough to get you killed in the old days. Enough to get you killed in the present days too. It happened when your mind was elsewhere.
Going up Eastern Boulevard out of the city, he pressed in Captain Gonsalves’s direct line. The phone went to five rings before the captain answered: ‘What?’
Mace told him what. Whenever he paused he could hear the captain chewing.
‘So?’ said Gonsalves when Mace had finished.
‘So d’you want to get there before or afterwards?’ Mace said.
Gonsalves laughed. ‘This’s a come down, Mr Bishop?’ The chewing got louder. ‘Last time I looked you were security, right? Protecting the stars. I got the catch-line there? Those facelift gals’re your speciality. Not so? You and that Buso fella playing wanker boys to the stars and celebs. Hey, Mr Bishop stick with it. The club scene’s fulla shit. Your scenario’s right, tonight you’re gonna get blown up.’
‘Which doesn’t concern you?’
‘You’re a big boy, Mace Bishop. You’ve been around.’ Chew, chew. Gonsalves laughed again and the connection went dead.
Mace took Hospital Bend in the fast lane, down the straight and up towards the Mill, tight against the centre barrier. Gonsalves he’d bump into from time to time. In security you did. There were people who said he was a good cop, kept his nose in real crime through the dark years. Nowadays the guy was staring his pension in the face, probably not a joyful prospect. Five years down the line, Mace reckoned , he could be knocking on their door pleading for a babysit.
At the entrance to the security complex, the nightwatch rolled back the gate. A new man, did it with more speed than the day guard. Mace pulled up behind Oumou’s estate. Even before he’d parked, Christa came running out. A kitten had died. She’d named them Cat1, Cat2, and Cat3. Cat1 was dead.
‘Probably Cat3 is also going to be dead,’ she said, nodding, her mouth purposeful.
She wasn’t teary, more interested in where they were going to bury Cat1.
In the back garden, Mace suggested. Or what passed for a back garden: a block of lawn surrounded by empty flower beds where only weeds grew. Once in a while Oumou had a man in to trim the grass but the neatness never lasted more than a week. Occasionally there’d been notes from the complex’s body corporate complaining about the neglect, suggesting that they plant daisy bushes.
‘You can put a candle on the grave,’ said Oumou.
‘And flowers?’
‘We can buy flowers, ma puce.’
Mace searched through the cutlery for an old spoon to use as a trowel and found one spotted with rust.
‘You want to dig?’ Christa nodded and they went into the backyard to dig a shallow grave. While she scooped a hole in the earth, Oumou brought out a candle and Mace fetched the dead kitten.
‘I will, Papa,’ Christa said, taking the body, putting it carefully into the hole.
‘Now you’ve got to cover it.’
She shook her head, suddenly clutching at her mother. Mace made to push a handful of soil over the body but Christa stopped him. He crouched to be face to face with her.
‘What’s it?’
Her eyes were teary, she clutched Oumou’s hand.
Oumou said, ‘You want to cover the kitten first, chérie, with a blanket?’ Christa nodded.
They wrapped the kitten in a kitchen cloth and put it back in the hole. This time Christa let her father push over the soil and build it into a mound. Her mother lit a candle, sticking it in the ground about where the kitten’s head would be. For a while they stood, hand-in-hand, watching the flame sputter, shadows dancing on the wall
The first-aid guy gave him a baleful glance. ‘It’s how the kids think of their victims. Even before the knife’s gone in.’
All the way home Mace kept thinking, corpse. Dead man walking. Goner. Cadaver. What also plagued him was how he’d walked into it. Not even noticed the kids until it was too late. In the line of business that sort of negligence was scary. Enough to get you killed in the old days. Enough to get you killed in the present days too. It happened when your mind was elsewhere.
Going up Eastern Boulevard out of the city, he pressed in Captain Gonsalves’s direct line. The phone went to five rings before the captain answered: ‘What?’
Mace told him what. Whenever he paused he could hear the captain chewing.
‘So?’ said Gonsalves when Mace had finished.
‘So d’you want to get there before or afterwards?’ Mace said.
Gonsalves laughed. ‘This’s a come down, Mr Bishop?’ The chewing got louder. ‘Last time I looked you were security, right? Protecting the stars. I got the catch-line there? Those facelift gals’re your speciality. Not so? You and that Buso fella playing wanker boys to the stars and celebs. Hey, Mr Bishop stick with it. The club scene’s fulla shit. Your scenario’s right, tonight you’re gonna get blown up.’
‘Which doesn’t concern you?’
‘You’re a big boy, Mace Bishop. You’ve been around.’ Chew, chew. Gonsalves laughed again and the connection went dead.
Mace took Hospital Bend in the fast lane, down the straight and up towards the Mill, tight against the centre barrier. Gonsalves he’d bump into from time to time. In security you did. There were people who said he was a good cop, kept his nose in real crime through the dark years. Nowadays the guy was staring his pension in the face, probably not a joyful prospect. Five years down the line, Mace reckoned , he could be knocking on their door pleading for a babysit.
At the entrance to the security complex, the nightwatch rolled back the gate. A new man, did it with more speed than the day guard. Mace pulled up behind Oumou’s estate. Even before he’d parked, Christa came running out. A kitten had died. She’d named them Cat1, Cat2, and Cat3. Cat1 was dead.
‘Probably Cat3 is also going to be dead,’ she said, nodding, her mouth purposeful.
She wasn’t teary, more interested in where they were going to bury Cat1.
In the back garden, Mace suggested. Or what passed for a back garden: a block of lawn surrounded by empty flower beds where only weeds grew. Once in a while Oumou had a man in to trim the grass but the neatness never lasted more than a week. Occasionally there’d been notes from the complex’s body corporate complaining about the neglect, suggesting that they plant daisy bushes.
‘You can put a candle on the grave,’ said Oumou.
‘And flowers?’
‘We can buy flowers, ma puce.’
Mace searched through the cutlery for an old spoon to use as a trowel and found one spotted with rust.
‘You want to dig?’ Christa nodded and they went into the backyard to dig a shallow grave. While she scooped a hole in the earth, Oumou brought out a candle and Mace fetched the dead kitten.
‘I will, Papa,’ Christa said, taking the body, putting it carefully into the hole.
‘Now you’ve got to cover it.’
She shook her head, suddenly clutching at her mother. Mace made to push a handful of soil over the body but Christa stopped him. He crouched to be face to face with her.
‘What’s it?’
Her eyes were teary, she clutched Oumou’s hand.
Oumou said, ‘You want to cover the kitten first, chérie, with a blanket?’ Christa nodded.
They wrapped the kitten in a kitchen cloth and put it back in the hole. This time Christa let her father push over the soil and build it into a mound. Her mother lit a candle, sticking it in the ground about where the kitten’s head would be. For a while they stood, hand-in-hand, watching the flame sputter, shadows dancing on the wall
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