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Part 4-2: Jeans
“It has Dack,” I reported, upon snapping back to the cell.
“He’s alive?” said Deluxe, talking through a mimed yawn so her lips were covered. I commanded my eyes to stay still and not drift conspicuously to the security camera dome. A real yawn, inspired by the feint, invited itself into my entire being and I let it loose. It was one that made my eyes water and turned thoughts to jelly. It surrounded the chittering anxiety monster in a cotton ball of fatigue.
“I tell, we talk when, can I?” I blinked, slipping, pawing at the thin bedsheets on my cot.
“Of course, recharge, you’ve been so very busy,” she said, soft into my ear. It was as coaxing as a lullaby. “We’ll debrief in full once we’re out of here.”
“How-weeg-outahrm…”
Then there was a clanging noise, and I jolted from a dreamless sleep to find an officer of the law tapping at the bars with a baton.
“Alena Bisk?” he asked.
“Good… morning?” I said. Every part of me was stiff and aching.
“Barely. The detective will see you now.”
I glanced around the cell. Deluxe was gone.
“Don’t I get like, a phone call, or something?” I asked, having always wanted to ask that of a police officer.
He frowned and said, “Yes. I’ll take you to the phone.” Keys rattled and he began to unlock the cell.
“Oh, I… I don’t actually need to,” I explained. His frown deepened. I blathered on, “I don’t even think I actually know any real phone numbers… maybe the one for Zyggie Pizza… unless you can give me my cell phone, is that allowed?”
“No. Are you making a phone call or not?”
I blushed. “Uh, no. Sorry. I do need to use the washroom though.”
He was not charmed by my idiocy, and gestured curtly as he slid the door open. I was permitted to relieve myself before being plunked into a classic interrogation room: table, two chairs, one way mirror, no windows, camera.
During my washroom break, I’d woken up enough to shake the sleepy dumbness from my head. Somewhat rested, the gravity of last night’s fight reignited, and I worked hard to convince myself that it wasn’t a vivid nightmare. The weight of the immovable ring on my right middle finger helped convince me. The tearing sound of a man’s body being ripped apart by tiny wriggling ropes grounded me further.
Thanks to that, and to the returning sense of formless panic, my mind was sharp before my interview, and I had enough wits about me to know they were looking to see if all our stories corroborated. Why was I at that house? How did I know Constable Barranco? Problem was, even though they’d been sloppy enough to stick me and Deluxe in the same cell, we’d been sloppy enough not to go over these things. And what in the sweet thundering hall of Thor would Jimena have told them?
No clue.
The unideal fall back was, “I want a lawyer.” It would have been my only option, before I acquired magic.
The moment my sore butt hit the chair, ghost-me sprung out and hopped through the one-way mirror. It was even easier than last night—almost second nature now. Wifi was all over the place, reducing vision to about five or six feet before it was lost to white static. It felt like a scratchy dry sauna set two settings too high, but I endured it. Had to.
It paid off.
In the observation room, a woman in a sharp, expensive looking suit sipped a tiny cup of coffee, watching me. Her hair colour was lost in Clockworld, but it also looked hella expensive. Almost a metallic sheen and permed to such perfection it was as if each ringlet was exactly the same diameter.
A moment later, an older gentleman with a decidedly more local fashion sense (business casual, dress shirt a little too big) eased his way into the room and stood beside her, holding a bunch of papers. He ran a hand through thinning hair and read off information about me. Nothing juicy.
“This the last of them?” asked the woman, tilting her head. The curls sashayed in a snappy, mesmerizing wave.
“Uh, yes’m,” he replied.
“Move through her quick. Nothing prolonged. If she spouts the same bullshit about wild animals or tries to lawyer up like Miss Geek-a-leek play easy, ‘this is just procedure, paperwork, yadda yadda.’ Then cut her loose. I want them relaxed, understand? Analysis on her clothing?”
“I get it, I get it, clear as day, yah,” said the guy, all false politeness. “And yah. Jeans were positive for gunpowder. Urine as well. Human, hers most like.”
I winced.
“Ask about the firearm,” said the suit. “Don’t contradict her if she lies.”
“I appreciate all your… guidance, Ms. Terradyne.”
“And I your utmost cooperation, Detective,” she said, without looking at him. She took another sip, eyes locked on real-me. Detective Oldguy looked like he was biting back a reply, then sighed and made for the door to my room. I popped back.
“Hello Miss Bisk,” he said as he came in. I was offered what seemed like a genuine smile. “Detective Daniel Etbridge at your service.”
“Hi,” I said. Had to decide what kind of chess game I wanted to play here. Sounded like they were going to let me go no matter what. But why? For how long?
“As you can imagine,” he said, sitting, “I’ve a few questions about last night’s circumstances.”
Someone had made up a story about animals being involved. As the source of the violence, the reason for trying to flee in a truck? Sounded like Deluxe had been in my position, minus superspy sorcery, and took the safe bet. But she’d not fired a gun and left evidence of the fact. Crap. I had to say something.
“Am I in… am I under arrest?” I asked.
He stacked the papers in front of him, straightening them. “You are being detained for questioning, which I’m sure you understand. Can you tell me—”
“So no to the arrest?” I said, “Then I want— I want—”
I almost said ‘a phone call’ again, because I was beginning to lose it. The creeping panic that had been following me around ever since I woke up in jail had apparently gotten a good sleep too and was now making a fresh assault. I knew they were just going to fuck with me then ‘cut me loose’ for whatever stupid, probably important reason that I didn’t care about right now. I needed to be away, out of here, needed to talk to someone, or scream, because holy shit a guy got ripped apart in front of me and yes, it was my fault. The demon wanted a trade and clever ol’ me spit in its face and now a man was ripped apart holy shit.
“Miss Bisk, if you could just—”
I strained against blurting I want out!, so in a moment of pure ingenuity I once again reached out to and leveraged my soiled pants.
“I want my jeans,” I said, letting some tears well up, only half acting. “They were new. And and and… they’re ruined.” My fists were balled, and the good detective stole a glance at the mirror.
“Your jeans—” he began.
“Do. You. Know. Why. They’re. Ruined?” I pounded the table with each punctuation, tears flowing freely now. I didn’t think I was acting anymore.
“I—”
The weight of everything then poured out of me; a heavy mass of sorrow spilled forward as I buried my face in the nest of my arms. I hung it all up on a cheap pair of jeans that I think I bought online from Asia—of all my losses on the Walkerby field, perhaps it was the only one I could properly orient towards. The stranger I’d murdered, the friends I may have lost forever, this unreal yet definitely, impossibly real maze of magic and monsters, all of it stood so much taller and darker and scarier than the simple, blessed embarrassment and shame of a full grown woman peeing herself and having it be on her permanent record. The sum of my pain had no simple expression, but thanks to those jeans, I could screech a one-syllable word out into a stuttering, blubbering damnation that would do three-year old me very proud.
Yes, I certainly could wail, “Puh-huh-huh-heeeeeeeee,” and dissolve into hysterical, wracking sobs. So I did exactly that. I did exactly that and it felt equal parts horrific and cleansing. I imagine it was mostly horrific for poor Detective Etbridge.
On the bright side, he never did get around to asking about the gun.
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