 |
        |   
|
|
|||||
Murder smells of black pepper. Theft has a cinnamon top note. You carry your iniquities with you. They will always give you away, oozing through your pores. Your nose isn’t sensitive enough to smell them. Even if you could, it takes years of constant practice. Analyzing how someone’s odour differs with their emotional state, and what external factors affect it. I may seem like a mind reader, but I’m not. Just a PI who has spent long, lonely years investigating, analysing and concluding. I can smell your deceit, lies, and secret shames and crimes, as clearly as if you’ve slapped a Post-it on your forehead. Like the man I left in the Police car, as I ran to the departures hall at Tokyo Narita Airport. As I turned away, I saw Sadler held back by a policeman, his hands pressed to the glass, still unsure whether he faced deportation and prison in the US. If he would ever see his children and Japanese wife again. “My wife can’t fly,” he had said, “and she gets seasick.” I saw the crack in his armour. “Tell me where I can find him,” I waved a picture of my quarry. “We’ll set you up in witness protection. Then Mrs. Sadler won’t have to worry about how to cross the Pacific when she’s destitute.” Crude? Yes. Brutal? Doubtless. But effective. Trapped between an armed officer and me in the rank, sweaty claustrophobia of the back seat of Hoshio’s Lexus, the terrified Sadler called me a vile name and spat, “You know nothing about me.” I let him stew and he finally said, “but you’ll invent something, anyway.” He looked at me, named a name and, “Sydney Harbour.” Then added, “It’s not me that’ll need protecting.” I laughed. “I don’t scare easy.” “You should.” He said something else, but I was already climbing out of the car. I called out to Hoshio, the Tokyo Police Chief who’d been my liaison for the last week, “phone ahead and get me a seat to Sydney. Economy’s fine, just get me on a bloody plane.” With a briefcase in one hand, and my travel bag in the other, I pushed the door shut with my foot, before he could answer. I ran the fifty yards from the car to departures, where I was greeted by bowing door men and porters. I love the Japanese. So civilized. Unlike me, as I barged and through the throng that packed that cathedral of a hall, using my bags as battering rams. “Pardon,” I gasped, shoving people aside, treading on a foot here or there. “Sorry, I’m a foreigner.” The Japanese are remarkably placid, as they don’t understand personal space—all jostle one another—but I still attracted muttered comments and shouts. When I accidentally sent an old woman sprawling, a uniformed policeman held up his white-gloved hand and shouted “Halt!”  I ignored him, and kept shoving, my nostrils assailed by every scent, every shade of emotion, a battering that left me wanting to hold my nose, but I had both hands full. I expected to have to ask at several counters before I could pick up my ticket, but I decided to call at JAL’s desk first. They had many more check-in desks, and Hoshio might have a little more influence with the home airline. I got lucky, and discovered that Hoshio had called in a lot of favours. An unsmiling china doll of a check-in girl with a full bottom lip and a name-tag in Japanese and English said to me, “Yes, we have your ticket, Mis-r Casey. Passport?” I handed it over. I suddenly smelled a burnt odour, murderous rage with the rust smell of indignation that was its probable cause. The policeman I had ignored clamped his hand on my shoulder, and snapped at me. The check-in girl barked at him in machine gun Japanese for several seconds. He straightened up to his full six feet—two inches shorter than me—and snatched his hand away as if I were red hot. Outwardly, she was impassive, and correct. But as she typed on her keyboard and returned my passport, I caught the horny little minx’s waft of lust. Even an ordinary could have smelt stale sex on her, but as her colleague brushed past her—and I noticed the wedding ring on his finger—the briny smell of her lust spiked. Oho, I thought. I caught her glancing at the policeman as well. And me. She handed me my ticket. “Hoshio-san says all debts are paid. Hai?” Hoshio’s debt had been huge. That it was settled was fine with me. “Hai!” I bowed back, and caught the honeysuckle smell of sexual curiosity, too. I wanted to ask her if she’d ever wondered how it feels with a gaijin. But I merely smiled. “Where is the check-in gate, please—” I read the English part of her name-tag — “Kamura?” “I show you.” She stepped out from behind the counter, calling, “vee-eye-pee,” to her colleague. He glared at me and I wondered when that particular acronym had entered the Japanese language. “Follow, please,” she commanded, her heels click-clacking on the floor. She barked a command at the policeman, and he marched ahead of us, clearing a path for her by shoving people out of the way. Fortunately, the Japanese seem to have respect for authority hardwired into them. Even so, we only inched toward passport control. When we did eventually get there, I was waved through. We left the policeman, and I checked my boarding pass, glancing up at the clock. That plane would be leaving any minute now. She marched me toward baggage control, her little legs taking two strides for my every one. She commandeered a buggy, and I sat beside her as she got her breath back. I removed my cell phone and keys from a pocket, and leaning against her, reached into another to pull out my wallet and Dictaphone. The smell of her desire intensified. I wondered if any number of men could ever fill her aching void. I had no illusions: as well as my exoticism, the obvious glamour lent to me by a phone call from a Tokyo police commissioner made me more appealing than I would have been otherwise. Women like Kamura fall towards powerful men as they would toward a black hole, never realizing that these are precisely the men who will never settle down—and if they do, their glamour soon fades. “This way,” she said, leading me to the x-ray machine used to scan the staff’s possessions. I lobbed my possessions into a little box as she spoke to the security man. I stepped through and reclaimed my possessions while Kamura commandeered another buggy. This time, I sat as close as I could get, almost climbing into her skirt. If we’d passed a broom cupboard, I’m sure she’d have dragged me in there. It was a cheap trick, but I’m eminently resistible to most women, and I tried to remember how many weeks had passed since I’d been with someone. I gave up when I realized it was months rather than weeks. Kamura’s lust and curiosity mixed with a third, almost chlorine-like, odour I didn’t smell very often. Self-loathing. I clicked on my Dictaphone. “I’m sitting beside the most beautiful woman in Japan.” I smiled, laying the flattery on. I smelled her self-esteem rise just a little, the chlorine fading a fraction. “What’s your telephone number?” She half smiled, and fired off a string of Japanese. I smelled a challenge, and rose to it. “I’ll have it translated, before I return,” I said. I probably wouldn’t be back this way, but if I’d been staying longer, I would certainly have tried my luck—even loveless sex with a self-destructive nympho is better than complete isolation. “What is that?” She pointed at my Dictaphone, smiling down at the pressure of my hand, which rested on her thigh. “Dictaphone. For notes on my cases. My trusty assistant.” We whizzed up to the gate, where an irate Australian was shouting, “What kind of airline bumps you off at the freaking gate?” I leapt off and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then I was waved through, and I carefully, deliberately forgot about her. The time for flirting was over. I had a job to do. This isn’t her story. She’s only here to show what a prince amongst men I am. Hah. They were closing the doors on the 747 when I dived into a seat between the window and a fat man with a heavy cold and most of the seven deadly sins. I buckled up as the stewardesses ran through their safety demo. One leaned over and said to me, “You may be required to help open the emergency exit, sir. You’re okay with this?” I nodded, then stared at her. Unadulterated happiness is a mixture of strawberries and cherry blossom. It’s so rare it stops me in my tracks. The fat man said, “They shouldn’t employ stewardesses who can’t open the doors. It’s unsafe. We wouldn’t allow it.” From his English accent and the general air of resentment, I guessed ’we’ were the English. He sneezed. I’ve never been sick in my life; perhaps my sense of smell takes up so much room that my body has none left for germs. I shrugged, not in the mood for a conversation, and said flatly, “most Japanese women aren’t big enough to open the doors, so they’d struggle to find even one crew who could meet your standards.” I pulled my Dictaphone out. “Acts smell stronger than desires, though desires thwarted burn stronger and longer. The subject smoulders with the garlic smell of long suppressed envy, and the pitcher-plant whiff of sloth that is the real reason he’s done nothing with his life.” I turned it off. Whether fat man realized that I was talking about him, or simply decided that I was a gibbering maniac, he turned away. Good, I thought. Lonely or not, I wasn’t so desperate I wanted to spend the next nine hours listening to him pour out his bile. I took out a clear plastic folder and studied a photo of Mr. Big. I looked into watery blue eyes, a nose broken long ago, and thin lips above a weak chin, accentuated rather than hidden by a grey-stubble goatee. He didn’t look like a crime lord, and I only had Sadler’s word, but I would know when I met him whether he was the man I’d sought for so long. Our plane lurched into the air. Once the seat belt signs were turned off, I sought sanctuary in the washroom. I stared at my hollow-eyed reflection, trying to see myself as Kamura would have. Balding, paunchy, moon faced, unremarkable in every way, my camouflage is perfect. I’m your next-door neighbour, your colleague, the guy in the bar in postal uniform who nurses one beer all evening. I’ve worked long and hard to stay so anonymous. My Aunt Lilith used to pat me on the head with hands still floury from baking scones. “Everyone has one special gift, even the athlete who is a jackass but can run quickly, or the tycoon who can do nothing except make money. Nurture your talent, little man.” Emerging from the washroom, I stared down the cabin at the mass of seething corruption that called itself humanity. Mostly Japanese, superficially inscrutable—though not to me—with a leavening of Caucasians. “Unappealing bunch, aren’t they?” A woman said. She closed the door to the opposite washroom, from which she had just emerged, and smiled to show she wasn’t completely serious. She was in her sixties, I guessed. A smart, tough looking, grey haired Australian. Unusual, I thought, to find two happy people in such a small sample. Her happiness was different from the stewardess’s. She was at peace with herself. The sickly sweet smell of cancer gave it away. She’s dying and knows it, I thought. But it’s stained with apples, so she’s come to terms with it. The cancer has burnt away all the old bitterness and hatreds, leaving just shadows of what was there before. She’d reached an equilibrium that most people only dream of. Especially me. But overlaying that was an intense, tart smell—of fear—leavened with a yeasty overtone that said the fear was a phobia, barely contained. “Very,” I said, and smiled, happy to talk, if she wanted. But she went back to her seat. I sat down as well, feeling a sudden pang of loss at a missed opportunity. To really talk to someone, not just exchange words. I checked my watch. Six hours until we landed. I flicked through another file from my briefcase. I studied the villains I’d nailed: The gangster, pornographer, thief, the hired thugs, contract killers, rapists and abusers. They were the tip of the iceberg. Someone was pulling the strings. They had to be. There was too much injustice, too little love in the world. I’ve been searching all my adult life for who that is. “Poor Tom,” my ex-wife mocked, as she took the children to their new Daddy’s apartment. “You should be a writer. They’re never content. They have dyspepsia of the soul, too.” I knew about her lover from the day they met, but it wouldn’t have done any good to have told her I could smell her lust, just as I could smell the man upstairs was cheating at something, maybe on his tax returns, or the weekly poker game. I flicked through the in-flight movies, but none of the latest dire remakes of classics, or blockbusters for the brain—dead appealed, so I leaned back, and dozed. I dreamed of when I was younger. My memory isn’t good, as if my nose has pushed everything else out, so I’m not really sure if I was born like this. I was always a child apart in school. All kids have a vestigial trace of my ability, and to be The Other is a greater sin than any. They sensed I was someone to be avoided. It’s been a lonely life, if rewarding. The smiling stewardess woke me, doling out drinks and pretzels. “A long flight,” I observed inanely, and she bobbed a smile. “Yes.” She was clearly on a tight schedule, so I didn’t keep her. I revisited the washroom, and stood in the aisle by the wing exits, stretching. Checked my watch: Two hours to go. Watching the clouds below, I wondered if Mr. Big had ever been so lonely. “Are you okay?” The woman asked, her now familiar Australian accent twanging. She smiled. I smiled back. “Fine.” I offered a hand. “Tom Casey. From California.” Her hand felt china delicate, and if I squeezed, I could have broken bones, but I was gentle. “Helen Latimer, retired housewife.” She said dryly, “From nowhere you’ll have heard of.” She named her town, then spelled it and explained, “It’s an aboriginal word.” She fell quiet, staring out of the window. Come on Casey, I thought. Make small talk. Instead, after a long pause she asked, “Have you been on holiday, too?” I remembered the dying man’s words that had led me from Paraguay to Singapore. Where a drug courier desperate to evade the death penalty, whispered a name, and “Afghanistan.” I have a lot of influence nowadays, but not enough to persuade his government to commute his sentence. I sometimes wonder whether he died cursing me. “I’m a man on a mission,” I said mock-solemnly. “To rid the world of stinkers.” She would think I spoke figuratively, not literally. “That’s a big mission,” she said, face serious, but eyes crinkled with laughter. “Are you winning?” I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Every time I get one, another one pops up. I’m a Private Investigator.” She ’oh’-ed understanding. “I’ve never met a real detective before.” I laughed. “I’m not sure you’ve met a real one yet.” The seatbelt sign chiming interrupted us. The captain’s announcement was in Japanese and such thickly accented English, I only caught the word ’turbulence’. I prayed that we wouldn’t be diverted, delayed so long that someone could tip my quarry off, and he would dive under another rock. Back in my seat, fat man had oozed across the chair arm, wedging me against the window. He’d spread the other way, and the poor woman on the other side was as cramped as I. He’d developed another odour problem as well, so looking back toward Helen, I pinged my bell. I asked the nice stewardess, “My auntie is scared of flying. I wondered if she could move up here?” I gave Fat Brit a friendly smile. “Auntie has an aisle seat, so you’d probably have more room than here.” “I don’t want to move,” he protested. “Oh, you do,” I grinned my maddest Jack Nicholson grin. “You don’t wanna piss me off, buddy. Move, or you’ll find your employers bought out, and no longer needing you.” Pure bluff, but it worked. Muttering, he scuttled down the cabin. Moments later, as the plane started bouncing, a very scared Helen sat down. “I wondered if you were my nephew,” she said with a tremulous smile, buckling up hurriedly. “I thought you might like company,” I said. “I got the impression you’re a nervous flyer.” “Not so much nervous,” she said in a breathless voice. “As terrified.” I smelt vodka on her breath. “Are you married?” She asked, clearly desperate for conversation to save her from thinking. Now that the plane’s behaviour had confirmed all her worst fears, the veneer of acceptance was stripped away, her equilibrium overwhelmed by panic. “I was,” I said. “I met Juliette in the third year at University.” A year after Aunt Lilith died. I didn’t tell Helen about the awful years of adolescence, of thinking that I was a freak. How when I’d met Juliette and felt a spark of mutual attraction, I’d flung myself at her with the same desperation as Helen gripped her armrest. I still don’t know if what Juliette said when she left was true. There was so much anger and pain in her, she was an unreadable mishmash. She says now that she only wanted to hurt me, but maybe it was true, and she’s being kind now because she’s mellowed. Would a woman really sleep with a man just because she felt sorry for him? I didn’t say it—one doesn’t blurt such things out to a stranger, no matter how sympathetic. Instead I asked, “Why is someone who’s so scared, flying long haul?” “I’ve always wanted to see Japan,” she said, “ever since I read about geishas and samurai as a child. If I was ever going to go, it needed to be now.” I nodded, understanding she meant the cancer. Helen said, changing the subject, “How does one become a detective?” “Are you thinking of applying?” “Maybe,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “I needed a job,” I said. “Catching criminals is all I’ve ever wanted to do, but Juliette was pregnant. I tried convincing the agencies that I was worth employing, but they weren’t interested, and I’m too short for the Police. So I did everything, shelf stacking, sidewalk sweeping, you name it, to bring in enough cash, to start up on my own.” I smiled at a memory: “The day I put the plaque with the agency name on the wall was the proudest of my life...” “Go on,” she said half-abstractedly, but as if interested now, listening for something in my answers, wrapping a lock of hair around her forefinger. The plane plummeted. Overhead lockers opened, showering passengers with bags. Helen screamed, then stifled it. I glanced out at the tropical storm whose edge we skirted. Lightning flashed, and a passing stewardess slammed the blind shut. “It took many long, hard days, but we prospered,” I said, desperate to distract her. “Juliette even stopped carping for a while, before she got bored and took a lover.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, appalled. Helen said nothing, her knuckles white. She rallied. “What do you do? Robberies? Missing wives?” She laughed, half-hysterically. “Missing pets?” I laughed too, as she added: “I’m sure detective work isn’t as exciting as on television.” “It isn’t,” I said. “Most of it is really dreary. When I started I got lucky—a warehouse owner was desperate to stop his stock disappearing every night. Only one man was involved, so I followed him, and photographed him in the act.” The plane lurched, and she gripped my arm. I took the hint, and kept talking. “I kept working after Juliette left with the kids. There wasn’t much else to do. I do anything that’s legitimate. A few big insurance jobs have set me up for life—ten per cent of several million is money enough that I can cherry-pick jobs.” The plane lurched again, and her fingers dug deep into my arm “What are you looking for?” She asked. I thought about giving her a glib answer, but her gaze pulled the truth from me. “I don’t really know.” I spread my hands. “Maybe there’s a master criminal. If I can catch him, I’ll make the world a better place.” I laughed humourlessly. “Sometimes though, I realize that the big fish criminal is extinct, if he ever existed, gnawed to the bone by shoals of little piranhas.” The plane bucked and leapt in the turbulence, and with the televisions switched off amidst the pinging signs, and the suddenly white, pinched faces of the stewardesses, Helen said hoarsely, “Keep talking.” So I told her of Columbia, of meeting a man who refused to step out of the shadows, but who said the words, “Bangkok Hilton.” I continued, “A phone call in Bangkok took me to Manila, where a dying man whispered a name.” Sadler. I told her about Sadler, adding, “As I left the car, he shouted, ’I used to be just like you. Can’t you smell the truth on me?’ As if he knew something.” We were silent. The silence lengthened, until she asked, “What do you think he meant?” “I think that he used to have integrity,” I said, and thought I smelled a whiff of disappointment. We finally passed through the turbulence, and the stewardesses cleared away headphones, blankets and rubbish. Our conversation trailed off. I felt drained; I hadn’t talked to anyone so much in years. As we banked over Sydney, Helen said, “Thanks for keeping me occupied.” “That’s okay.” I said. “Funny how easy I found it to talk to you.” “I wanted to be a therapist,” she said. “Before I married Ronnie and had kids. In those days you either chose children or a career, but not both. I guess I’ve never stopped listening. To those who want to talk.” She touched my arm. “Good luck.” I caught a whiff of sadness, and wondered when her family had stopped talking to her. I felt a pang of guilt, too, that I’d learnt little about her, while unloading my life story. We landed, but just as I could feel my quarry’s presence, could almost hear him breathing, everything conspired against me. Three long haul flights had landed simultaneously, so we sat on the runway, while the ground staff debated which to unload first. I had no Hoshio to call in favours from. I’d just have to wait. As we finally stood, Helen said, “I hope you find who you’re looking for. And that he’s what you’re looking for.” We queued for two hours in the furnace of Immigration, with the air-conditioning broken. I enviously watched the aircrew wheel their trolleys straight through their designated checkpoint. For a moment, I thought of Sadler. I used to be just like you. Can’t you smell the truth on me? Funny, he wasn’t the first to have said that. As an Australian, Helen cleared customs comparatively quickly. She turned and waved farewell. I felt suddenly alone again, in the midst of a sea of people. For a moment I wondered if there could be others like me, with the ability to see or hear things that others couldn’t—but no, I’d have heard of them. The terminal had been hot, but the heat outside was even worse, hitting me like a punch to the chest. To the North, the looming darkness of the storm seemed to be tracking me. I took a cab to a hotel overlooking Darling Harbour. I didn’t intend to stay long, but I always prepare for the worst, such as a long stay. The rain came while I was checking in, lashing the windows like a big cat raking its prey. After I’d unpacked I paced around the room, checking my watch every few minutes. The rain stopped as abruptly as a turned-off tap. I went outside and drank in cool air that was scrubbed clean, then went in search of Mr. Big. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, but he’d left the hostel only minutes before, so I easily followed his trail—the stench of rotting seaweed left in the sun for a week—as if it were shining in the air. I found him in a greasy spoon café. When I slid into the opposite seat and put his photo on the table, his watery blue eyes widened, and he brushed crumbs from his goatee. I clicked on my Dictaphone again, and smiled my scariest smile. “Subject is a known paedophile, or he will be well-known by the time I’ve finished with him.” I switched it off, and said, “Tell me you’re not.” After an hour of increasingly desperate protests, I had to accept that he was just the latest in a long, long daisy chain. Beneath his fear, I could smell the truth, that while he was a paedophile, he was just more small fry. “If you let me alone, I’ll tell you where you can find him,” he said. “Everyone round here knows him.” I nodded. I was so close. The man I wanted sat in a bar beneath Sydney Harbour Bridge, the scent of eucalyptus heavy on the breeze. When my shadow blocked the sun, he said only, “you’re in my light.” I didn’t answer, but moved clear. When I saw his face I knew he was who I’d been looking for all these years. He had a slight paunch, but what really caught my eye were his sagging jowls, and sad red-rimmed eyes, which looked as though he’d witnessed every famine, every flood, every act of God, as well as the very worst thing that man and nature could do. He’d seen everything I’d ever seen, and far, far worse, with those eyes. They looked a thousand years old. I guessed what he’d seen and done had aged him, for he stank of every crime and veniality known to humanity. “I’ve been looking for you,” I said. “I know. I thought that it was time I let you find me.” His voice was a gravel growl, a slight Australian accent overlaying others. “What you going to do now you’ve found me?” He called to the barman, “Two beers.” “I’m going to take you in.” “Why?” I shrugged. “You’ll have done something. Your sort always does.” “My sort? What sort am I?” Grinning, he leaned closer, so I could really smell him. He stank of every vice imaginable, but he was somehow different. As if he’d bathed, then dressed in clothes that had been unwashed for a year. His soul was scourged like Helen’s. “You don’t have a bloody clue, do you?” He said, not unkindly. “Who am I?” “A criminal.” He shook his head. “Let’s try another tack. What’s your earliest memory?” I tried to argue that it was none of his business, but he was relentless. This conversation wasn’t going at all how I’d thought it would. “What’s the first thing you remember?” He pressed, and I abruptly lost control of my tongue; “My parents,” I said. “They died in a plane crash in Madagascar, just after my fifth birthday. But before that, it must have been when I was three, or four...” I mused. “...I remember them.” I gasped, “And you!” He nodded, smiling, a thin, grim smile. “They visited, flew in from the Serengeti plains.” “No, it was Borneo,” he said. “They brought you with them.” “You greeted me with the words bad man,” Mr. Big said. “Yes,” I said. “I saw fear in your eyes, and in theirs, though they looked satisfied too.” “So they should have.” “What did you do?” I whispered, my mouth desert dry. “Me?” He looked surprised. “Nothing. You did it all. I just waved some exotic herbs under your nose. Muttered a few words of encouragement. Patted you on the head.” “Herbs?” I wasn’t sure I wanted answers any more, but equally unsure that I didn’t. My imagination was starting to run riot. “What? You mean voodoo? Witchcraft, or something?” “Or psychotherapy. Faith healing, witchcraft, just words, labels to hang meaning on. We convince you that you can do something, so you can. I did nothing, except maybe liberated a part of your brain that everyone has, but is sadly underused. What’s the difference between you and a master wine taster, or the person who can smell cyanide?” “So you’re not a crime lord?” His laughter was a jackasses bray. “Funny, is it?” I said, struggling in vain to pull up out of the mental free fall that meeting him had plunged me into. I almost told him about the years that followed my parent’s death, about how when I started school I learned that my gift could also be a curse. The back of my friend’s sweater was covered with red paint. Asked if I’d seen it happen I said, “No, but I can smell the boy who did it,” and pointed him out. My friend soon abandoned me to the taunts and kicks of the other kids that I suffered when the adults weren’t around. It taught me to keep my mouth shut. Only Aunt Lilith knew, and encouraged me. Somehow I managed to keep my mouth shut now. I told myself I didn’t want his sympathy, or understanding. He said, “No, it’s bloody sad, to see how wrong you can get it.” “But what else could I do with this?” I tapped my nose. “Except to use it for something good, like catching villains.” He said gravely, “That’s the trouble, mate. You’ve put so much into catching people that you’ve never thought what happens afterwards. Finding them is the first part. Society punishes wrongdoers for two reasons: To protect society, and to rehabilitate offenders.” He sighed. “I’d hoped to be able to share my burden. Even to pass it on. You’re my apprentice.” He said, “We pick three or four for each sense, each generation. If we’re lucky, one will come through. If not, we start again. Sadler was your predecessor.” Sadler had said, “we’re alike, you and I.” I sat stunned. “But...” “Why did you hunt me down? Simple: I need to know if you’re the one I can hand over to. So I spread a few rumours to arouse your curiosity. I never dreamt you’d take a few whispers and turn them into an obsession.” He studied me sadly. “But I guess I’ll have to keep looking. Trouble is, it takes so long to be sure.” “Be sure of what?” “Be sure of what you can do with your ability. Any fool can have a talent, mate. It’s what you do with it. In this case what it’s done to you. You’ve warped beneath its weight.” He stood up. “I’m sorry, Tom. Thanks for the beer.” He was tall, but stooped slightly to disguise his height. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.” He reached out, not threateningly, but the way someone you know will reach out to straighten your hair. Before I could move he ran his hand left to right across my forehead. “Someone will come looking for you next time.” I felt as if I’d had the haircut to end all haircuts: My head felt ten pounds lighter. My shoulders felt twenty pounds lighter. I lifted my head up for the first time in years. He turned and walked away before I could cry, “Wait,” and could ask him all the other things that suddenly needed answering. The barman put another beer in front of me as I sneezed, my sinuses suddenly congested. I couldn’t smell anything. I wondered what Big had just done. Another conjuring trick? Mesmerism? Mentalism? Or witchcraft? The barman looked as villainous a character I’d ever seen, yet I couldn’t smell a sin on him, not a damn thing. All I had to go on was what he looked like—just like everyone else, I suppose. As the implications of that sank in, I sat still as stone, rooted to my seat by the terrifying prospect of the empty years ahead of me, stretching desolate to the grave, bereft of the one thing that set me apart from other men. I slowly drank my beer and clunked my glass down. “You want another one?” The barman asked. I nodded. Might as well fill the empty, lonely days. There have been times when I’d have given anything to be normal, whatever that is. Be careful what you wish for, the Chinese proverb says. You might just get it. I put my Dictaphone down. If you’ve been listening to it, you’ll probably be expecting some neat, emotionally satisfying ending, your expectations moulded by our Spielberg-brainwashed world into believing that everything from advertisements to reality documentaries has a neat ends-tied-together resolution. Well, sorry, I’ve no idea who Big was before he became my ... mentor, for want of a better word. He’s just a man, like me. But while there’s probably no criminal mastermind, there is a far bigger mystery out there. One which to be resolved, may involve my dead brain being dissected to compare with a normal one. I hope not, hope instead that I learn why there are a dozen, perhaps a score, of men and women roaming the world. People who can smell things normal people can’t, who can see and hear things that no ordinary person can, who can sense vibrations in absolute stillness, taste subtleties no one else can. I don’t know where the answers are, but I suspect that it may not be wise for people to know where into the wild blue yonder I’ve headed. So I’ll leave the Dictaphone on the bar. I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I sat there until it grew dark, piling up the empty beer glasses until I’d drunk myself almost sober. Desperate for someone to talk to, desperate for a friend, I even toyed with ringing Juliette, but only for a moment. Her shoulders were way too narrow for me to cry on. I even considered Kamura, for a microsecond, but decided against it. Even if she understood, she wouldn’t or couldn’t help. I checked my watch: Dead of night in California. Still, I rang, and left a message on voicemail: “I need a number for Helen Latimer, in...” I spelled out the town’s name. An hour later, the office rang back with Helen’s number. I put the phone down, still thinking, still deciding. I couldn’t put aside a lifetime of isolation in a moment. But something had to change. I could go after Big again, and get back what was mine. Not because the glass was half-full, but at least I have a glass, which is preferable to nothing. If what he’d said was true, the last thing Big would expect was for me to come back at him. First I need to finish my story. Not for my sake: For Helen’s, whose family has stopped talking to her. Fingers trembling, I picked up the phone, and dialed her number.
 |
