and Neve, then turned, picked up a stained flashlight, and led them deeper into the plant.
“Your friend is waiting for you,” said the supervisor.
It took Oscar a moment to realize that the supervisor was referring not to a corpse but to the police officer who was already there.
“We’re a separate department,” Oscar explained.
“Aren’t you detectives?” The supervisor finished his smoke and immediately lit another without breaking stride. He didn’t share.
“Yes,” Neve replied.
“Murders?”
“Generally.”
“Then you’ll love this.”
The supervisor opened a final door, and they were out again in the rain. The smell struck the nostrils like a blow and wiped the back of the throat like a filthy thumb. Oscar understood why the supervisor chain-smoked. They followed his drunkenly swaying light up a set of metal stairs. When their path intersected an empty walkway, Oscar saw the supervisor glare out at a patch of darkness and curse under his breath.
Oscar shivered. “Who is yours?” he asked.
The supervisor looked back at Oscar, as if ready to tell him to fuck right off. Soon after Gray Wednesday, it became rude and intrusive to ask a stranger who his ghost is. It was as if the phantoms were dirty secrets that, if unacknowledged, might suddenly disappear as readily as they’d arrived. Of course, they had not. Oscar found the question aboutghosts a useful button to press: people didn’t expect it. The supervisor ran his fingers through his greasy hair, seeming to remind himself that it was a cop who’d asked, so he should answer.
“My father,” he said, and snorted a sour laugh. “Cocksucker always said if I didn’t pull my socks up my life wouldn’t be worth shit.” He aimed his flashlight into the empty corner and grinned savagely. “Yet here I am, Dad, in a world of shit, so what the fuck did you know?” The supervisor looked again at Oscar and Neve. “Don’t know why we yell at them. They never talk back, do they?” He continued up the wet metal stairs. Oscar stole a glance behind him, but there was no sign of the dead boy.
A minute later they emerged on a gridwork landing; under a solitary halogen light sat a constable wearing a uniform as new and well-finished as his patrol car, smoking a cigarette. When he saw Oscar and Neve, he got to his feet.
“Barelies?” he asked. “Nine-Ten, I mean?”
Oscar nodded.
“Thank God,” the constable said. “Yours.” He headed for the gate, but Oscar caught him by the arm.
“Wait on. Where’s Homicide?”
The constable shook his head. “I figured it’s for you guys. And my shift ended an hour ago.” He shook off Oscar’s grip and hurried down the metal stairs. A door slammed, and he was gone.
“Luke!” the supervisor called into the surrounding dark. His voice echoed off hard concrete and metal. “Luke!” He turned to Oscar. “Hopeless shit. I don’t know how you go, but all I got for staff are hopeless shits.”
“I have her,” Oscar said.
The supervisor looked at Neve, then nodded bitterly, as if that confirmed how some people have all the luck. He gestured for Oscar and Neve to follow him along another walkway.
“On nights I used to have two guys, but one left and never come back, so now I just got Warm Hand Luke. He’s probably in the can jerking off. The rest of us need blue bombers to bar up, but Luke? He slings cheese all day long.” The supervisor shook his head and started down a steel ladder. “He’s a lazy fucking retard, but he sticks around because I let him keep what he finds in the secondary filter box.”
Oscar tested the ladder. It wobbled but held. He descended. “Like?”
“Oh, all sortsa shit. Sometimes money, sometimes costume jewelry that might clean up. So Luke hangs around here like a bad smell.” The supervisor laughed at his own joke. The sound of machinery grew louder as they went lower. “It was Luke who found her.”
They reached another metal landing. The smell was so
“Your friend is waiting for you,” said the supervisor.
It took Oscar a moment to realize that the supervisor was referring not to a corpse but to the police officer who was already there.
“We’re a separate department,” Oscar explained.
“Aren’t you detectives?” The supervisor finished his smoke and immediately lit another without breaking stride. He didn’t share.
“Yes,” Neve replied.
“Murders?”
“Generally.”
“Then you’ll love this.”
The supervisor opened a final door, and they were out again in the rain. The smell struck the nostrils like a blow and wiped the back of the throat like a filthy thumb. Oscar understood why the supervisor chain-smoked. They followed his drunkenly swaying light up a set of metal stairs. When their path intersected an empty walkway, Oscar saw the supervisor glare out at a patch of darkness and curse under his breath.
Oscar shivered. “Who is yours?” he asked.
The supervisor looked back at Oscar, as if ready to tell him to fuck right off. Soon after Gray Wednesday, it became rude and intrusive to ask a stranger who his ghost is. It was as if the phantoms were dirty secrets that, if unacknowledged, might suddenly disappear as readily as they’d arrived. Of course, they had not. Oscar found the question aboutghosts a useful button to press: people didn’t expect it. The supervisor ran his fingers through his greasy hair, seeming to remind himself that it was a cop who’d asked, so he should answer.
“My father,” he said, and snorted a sour laugh. “Cocksucker always said if I didn’t pull my socks up my life wouldn’t be worth shit.” He aimed his flashlight into the empty corner and grinned savagely. “Yet here I am, Dad, in a world of shit, so what the fuck did you know?” The supervisor looked again at Oscar and Neve. “Don’t know why we yell at them. They never talk back, do they?” He continued up the wet metal stairs. Oscar stole a glance behind him, but there was no sign of the dead boy.
A minute later they emerged on a gridwork landing; under a solitary halogen light sat a constable wearing a uniform as new and well-finished as his patrol car, smoking a cigarette. When he saw Oscar and Neve, he got to his feet.
“Barelies?” he asked. “Nine-Ten, I mean?”
Oscar nodded.
“Thank God,” the constable said. “Yours.” He headed for the gate, but Oscar caught him by the arm.
“Wait on. Where’s Homicide?”
The constable shook his head. “I figured it’s for you guys. And my shift ended an hour ago.” He shook off Oscar’s grip and hurried down the metal stairs. A door slammed, and he was gone.
“Luke!” the supervisor called into the surrounding dark. His voice echoed off hard concrete and metal. “Luke!” He turned to Oscar. “Hopeless shit. I don’t know how you go, but all I got for staff are hopeless shits.”
“I have her,” Oscar said.
The supervisor looked at Neve, then nodded bitterly, as if that confirmed how some people have all the luck. He gestured for Oscar and Neve to follow him along another walkway.
“On nights I used to have two guys, but one left and never come back, so now I just got Warm Hand Luke. He’s probably in the can jerking off. The rest of us need blue bombers to bar up, but Luke? He slings cheese all day long.” The supervisor shook his head and started down a steel ladder. “He’s a lazy fucking retard, but he sticks around because I let him keep what he finds in the secondary filter box.”
Oscar tested the ladder. It wobbled but held. He descended. “Like?”
“Oh, all sortsa shit. Sometimes money, sometimes costume jewelry that might clean up. So Luke hangs around here like a bad smell.” The supervisor laughed at his own joke. The sound of machinery grew louder as they went lower. “It was Luke who found her.”
They reached another metal landing. The smell was so
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