The Girls Beneath. Ross Armstrong

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      Bartu says, ‘The problem is… drink driving is actually no joke.’

      I think about asking her about the girl. My body shifts towards her.

      Bartu looks at me from the stage and doesn’t like what he sees.

      I think about openers: ‘We wondered… I’m interested…’

      ‘Drink driving isn’t a petty offence, it’s life threatening…’

      I settle on ‘Incidentally, is…’ and slot it into the firing chamber.

      ‘… both your lives and the lives of others are at stake…’

      She turns to me. She stares at the scar on my head.

      He speaks while still staring at me. He knows what I’m up to.

      She recognises me from the paper, I think. Unwanted celebrity.

      He speeds up, rushing through the script as we lock eyes.

      ‘This is my old school,’ I whisper to her. She softens.

      ‘… all for the sake of being too lazy to walk home…’

      Her face makes an ‘Oh, right’ expression.

      ‘So next time you think about drinking and driving…’

      ‘Yes. That was a few years ago now, ha. Incidentally…’ I say.

      ‘Remember the beer goggles and think about if you…’

      ‘Incidentally, is the girl that went…’

      ‘…really want to put lives at stake for the price of a taxi home, thank you!’

      Applause. The noise of which ruins our moment. I ask her the question again but the decibel level rises further.

      ‘The girl that went missing, was she…’ I say.

      She can’t hear me. The suddenly exuberant boys and girls seem to be letting off some boredom steam through sarcastic cheering, rather than earnestly thanking Emre Bartu for his performance. But whatever the reason, they’re making too much noise for me to proceed. Advantage Bartu.

      ‘Great! Thank you for listening. Thank you for having myself and PCSO Mondrian.’

      He looks to me to try and cue a simple thank you. This is his tactical error. I step forward and speak at full volume.

      I knew something was going to happen. This is it.

      ‘Right, before we go we’d just like to ask if anyone has any information about the missing girl?’

      Silence.

      A shuffle of feet.

      I sense Miss Nixon’s stony visage in my periphery.

      More silence.

      I scan their stunned faces. Maybe Bartu’s right, maybe I am pretty blunt these days. I make a judgement. I think they had no idea that one of their number was missing, until now. That’s what it looks like. I check just to make sure.

      ‘Anyone at all? Know anything?’

      Emre Bartu’s open mouth comes into focus, making a small dark ‘o’. His eyes are like snooker balls, bare and marmoreal.

      I wait a few seconds. One, two, three. Then someone speaks. But unfortunately it’s only Emre Bartu.

      ‘No? That’s fine. Thank you. Dismissed!’

      They detonate into a flurry of chatter, standing and jostling each other as they start to flow out. Nixon comes towards me and speaks out of the corner of her mouth.

      ‘PC Stevens agreed we shouldn’t tell them about this yet,’ she says.

      ‘Sorry, miscommunication. It’s standard practice to… throw it out there early, you know.’

      Emre is at the back. Trapped as he sees me talking to Miss Nixon.

      ‘I wish you would have told me you were going to do that.’

      ‘Apologies again. He shouldn’t have told you it was possible to keep it under wraps. I can only apologise… on his behalf.’

      ‘So what do we do now?’ She says.

      Emre hears none of this. He can only see our mouths move as he swims through the crowd, smiling, trying to seem in control. He turns for a second and mouths a few words to a couple of them. This allows me to do what I do next.

      ‘Here you are,’ I say, palming her my number.

      I decided to make a few cards and keep them in my right pocket. You have to be prepared.

      If you want to dive in face first.

      If you want to crawl against the current.

      If you want to make your own tide.

      ‘Let’s see what happens. You might get a knock on your office door. If you do, let me know about it.’

      I’m pleased with the clarity of my sentiment.

      ‘Putting an idea in the water always tends to dig up something,’ I say, mixing metaphors like a real pro.

      I do all this while scratching my head as if talking about the weather, keeping it casual for the eyes of Bartu, the mirage of small talk when it scarcely gets much larger.

      But he suspects by now. He’s not smiling anymore, no matter how hard he tries.

      I beat him.

      I won.

      I got to ask my questions.

      He puts his hand up, drowning in a sea of boys and girls. He’s too far away.

      He’s paralysed to stop what comes next.

8

       ‘Can’t, Dah dah dah dee dah, out of, my head…’

      The girl’s home smells of orange. Not of oranges. Not citrus. It smells of the colour orange. I’d learnt to associate smells with colours, a new trick, and not one of my willing. Another brain adaptation, an aroma-based synaesthesia. You can, in effect, see scents.

      It’s got stronger every day since the bullet. A purple fog appearing in the school as I smelt the cleaning fluid, a waterfall of light green trickling from the ceiling of Dr Ryans’ office made by his herbaceous smoke remnants.

      But orange grips me hard here as her mother lets us into the house. If it were a musical note it would be an ‘A’. I picture an СКАЧАТЬ