Blind Pedestrians

A montage for a world in turmoil. Tanks rolled down a city street. Police lines charged. Protesters scattered. As the theme music built to its climax the images shrank away: the presenter, professionally steeled, studied the loungerooms of the nation. ‘This is the news,’ she said. ‘If you don’t like it, too bad.’
The litany began. Two cyclones, a mine collapse, a bridge failure and a train wreck. The international quota of death and disaster was pulling out of a decline. Closer to home, banks were still attracting customers whose first withdrawal preceded a deposit. And cars remained as keen as ever for suicidal coitus with telephone poles. Alcohol-fuddled drivers couldn’t restrain them… On the couch beside me, Lydia squirmed.
‘The nightly pain parade.’
‘It’s a survival mechanism. The misfortunes of strangers make our own sad lot more bearable. There’s a man in China,’ I said. ‘His house was carried off in a flood. My boss is a crook, and my neighbours hate me. But I still have a roof over my head.’
‘I’d ram that microphone down her throat.’
‘A radio interviewer would ask the same insensitive questions. “How are you feeling right now?” “What are you going to do?” No difference.’
‘The difference is the camera that tears away the victim’s last shreds of dignity. That’s why radio is the civilised medium. Radio,’ Lydia breathed. Moving close, she elongated the syllables. ‘It’s TV for grownups, professor. Stories without pictures.’
She was ready but I let her wait. ‘The picture is the story,’ I said. ‘You’d understand that if you were normal.’
Blocking the first swing was against the rules. The cushion hit me in the shoulder, and suddenly Lyd was on top of me. I was fending off critical head wounds when a strong hand knocked at the door. ‘Come back another time!’ I called. ‘We’re not too charitable tonight.’ The hand was not amused; it came down again, heavier and sharper. I dragged myself out from underneath. Our visitor bore the weight of impatient authority.
‘Sorry to disturb your evening, sir. Detective Tennant, Detective Walker.’ Tennant was the team glamour. Aging schoolboy champion was my first thought; the flab was overtaking him, but he had a few years yet to charm the ladies. Walker was his anonymous background, a scarecrow with a long wooden face. I followed them through and found that everything had changed. The cushion was neatly arranged; Lyd was fixed upon the tube. We’d set aside carnage for commerce – ‘Bartleweet!’ a young mother enthused. ‘Give your growing family the breakfast they deserve. It’s nutritious – and it tastes like crap.’ YM winked. ‘So you know it’s good for them.’
Walker quietly agreed that she wasn’t lying about the flavour. Tennant asked, ‘Can we have that off?’
Lydia dug for the remote, and Tennant waved me down beside her. An athlete with a winning smile could avoid such courtesies as ‘please’. Tennant requested a few personal details. I supplied them, and was promptly forgotten. The dog had been shooed from his master’s favourite chair, but Tennant’s style with Lyd was noticeably warmer. ‘Lydia Samson – Samson’s Books.’ He might have been recalling the memory of a past lover. ‘Let’s talk about the Green Seagull,’ he said.
‘Has Nathan sent you around for his three dollars? Are you debt collectors as well as cops?’ Sarcasm often seems more venomous when it comes from an attractive woman. Lydia could sour milk and wither roses; Walker, scribbling by the door, didn’t react. Tennant was amused. Lyd eventually conceded. ‘I waited twenty minutes for coffee that was half cold when it arrived. The waitress apologised and took it back, but the artist behind the counter said it was perfect.’ I touched her gently, but Lydia’s arms were folded tight across her chest. ‘That’s not my idea of customer service.’
‘Someone heaved a brick into the Seagull last night,’ Walker said. ‘Maybe that’s your idea of a customer complaint.’
Everyone had a speaking role except me. A silent agreement between the others had moved me out to the stalls. Tennant barely noticed when I took the photos he offered Lydia; his gaze was fixed upon her, and hers on him. The photos showed the instrument of crime and pieces of shattered bird. The Green Seagull Cafe had lost its emblem. ‘We’ve taken statements,’ Walker added, ‘from Mr Avery and various witnesses. You make quite an impression when you’re angry, Miss Samson.’
‘A Mister Knight complained about your language,’ Tennant grinned.
‘He complained about her language. As he would, if he never visited a fucking schoolyard.’ One moment I was sitting down. The next I was on my feet. I was taller than Tennant, and I had him within arm’s reach. ‘You must be the laziest cops in town,’ I said. ‘My girlfriend gets lousy service, the cafe’s vandalised – kids are running wild around the city every night, but hell, that sounds like work. Okay, detective. Do your duty. Clap the bracelets on and take her downtown for a beating.’
Tennant’s grin had turned thoroughly ugly. Walker was suddenly between us, and very brisk. ‘Take a step backwards, Mr Crouch,’ he said, ‘we’re only following procedure. We’re questioning everybody who might be involved. Step back,’ Walker said again, with more emphasis, and I realised that he meant it literally. Lydia drew Tennant’s photos from my hand and passed them discreetly as he followed her out.
‘Police have named Lydia Samson as a suspect in the Green Seagull case.’ I caught the newsreader’s tone to perfection. Lydia came at me in a rush: I twisted left and right to keep the cushion from my face. ‘Miss Samson is well known to the authorities… a person of interest connected to many unsolved crimes. This menace to society… notorious felon and square dancer…’ Lyd’s mouth came hard against mine, and the contest moved into endgame. As we lay together afterwards I murmured, ‘Stick to Davina’s from now on.’
‘It’s true,’ Lydia sighed, ‘I am a square dancer.’ She reached for my nose and pinched it. ‘You’re too smart for me, professor. You’ve already discovered my darkest secret.’
‘I see many things, child, which lesser men fail to perceive.’ I pinched her nose in return. Skip the jokes about changing partners.

• favorite this
• report a concern

Add your comment

You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.

Tags:

fear, story, vandalism, infidelity and detectives