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1. The Cat
Early morning is usually a quiet time, when only the lightest sleeping of birds and New York detectives are out of bed and calling.
There is tea brewing in the pot, wisps of steam trailing up from the pot and D watches the patterns they form in the warming air; he sees a busy day ahead and smiles.
“I was wondering,” the Detective says on the other end of the telephone line, “I was wondering if you liked marzipan.” There are bustling sounds, hooting and shouting that tell D the Detective is already at work. Perhaps he has yet to leave. Outside it is dawn and the pigeons are gossiping.
“I can’t imagine there’s anything I dislike, Detective,” D replies.
“I can imagine plenty,” the Detective scoffs. “I can imagine how you spat out those macaroons I brought last Thursday.”
“I would not spit anything.” D affects offence, considers telling the Detective he can keep his marzipan if he’s going to be rude, but then the bell above the door in the shop upstairs rings and D knows there is work to be done.
“I have to go,” he says, trying not to sound regretful. It is often a disturbing realization to find that he does, despite his best efforts, enjoy the Detective’s company. It would not do for the Detective to know that.
One the other end of the line the Detective’s tone turns serious. “A customer? Count, you’re not gonna give them something weird, right? I should be there-“
D hangs up. It would not do, either, for the Detective to become any more embroiled in his business than he already is.
Behind him, the telephone rings and D ignores it easily. From the store upstairs the voice of a young woman calls, “Hello?” and D smiles.
**
The pot of tea is cold by the time the Detective arrives. He had not offered any to his customer; he never offered tea to any of his customers.
The Detective stands on the threshold of the store, the point of transition between the public space and D’s own private sphere, where it is warmer, closer, the smell of incense making way for bergamot and sugar. He seems almost unsure and D is always fascinated to watch the way the Detective instinctively knows danger when he does not ever consciously recognize it.
“I came as fast as I could,” he pants. The Detective is sweating beneath a heavy winter coat. His shoes are covered with mud and snow and D looks at them pointedly, grimacing at the mess. “What did you- “He pauses, follows D’s gaze to his feet and rolls his eyes. “Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s just a little dirt.”
“A little would be something I could dust or sweep, that is a great mess; a great mess staining the carpet.”
“Jesus,” the Detective grumbles under his breath, but he reaches down and pulls his shoes off. D grimaces at the state of his socks.
“Barely an improvement at all.”
The Detective glances up, scowls at the disgust written across D’s face.
“Fuck off. You know what to get me for my birthday now.”
The presumption, the ease with which the Detective has insinuated himself into D’s life and his dealings, the fearlessness he continues to display despite all he has seen, these are all things D has come to expect. Along with the bag of cakes in his hand.
D liberates the bag from the Detective’s grasps, all the better for his balance in removing his boots.
“There was someone here,” the Detective says. Not a question.
“So certain, Detective.” D smiles, and he knows it isn’t kind. This customer, D thinks, as with them all, deserves whatever comes to them. It is their own doing, and no matter how many times D tells the Detective- shows him- he still does not learn. But then, that is the way of humans.
“I didn’t get my detective’s badge at a toy store.” The Detective is looking back towards the store, frowning thoughtfully. “There was a cage.”
“There are no cages here,” D snaps. It is all show. It is illusion; how humans expect things to be because they believe themselves to be in control of their world, as though they have created it. As though it bows to their will alone. Of course this is what the Detective sees. He knows no better, and D is unsure as to why that bothers him at all. The Detective’s eyes are wide, surprised.
“Right,” he says, the word drawn out carefully, disbelieving. “So. A- not cage. There was- one of those. In the back.” He points to a corner draped with yellow and red silk. An empty table sits there; old, one of his grandfather’s from his travels. The Detective’s eyes do not leave D’s. “With a tabby cat in it. It’s gone now.”
“Observant,” D allows.
“I have eyes,” the Detective bristles, but he stomps over D’s carpets, crossing to the chaise longue as though this were his own home, perfectly comfortable in his ignorance. He sprawls himself across the furniture, watches D expectantly.
He may have eyes, but he does not ever see.
“There was a cat, yes,” D agrees, and seats himself opposite the Detective, as he always does, places the bag of sweets on the table between them.
“And?” the Detective prompts.
“A young girl was seeking a pet.” It is the truth, of a sort. “This is a pet shop.”
The Detective is still for a long moment, searching or perhaps thinking, as he sometimes does, before appearing satisfied. He shakes his head and looks away, down towards the teapot. There are figures dancing across its surface.
Suddenly, the Detective sags, as though he is too tired to retain his mistrust. He leans forward, pulls the lid off of the pot, peering inside.
“Your tea went cold,” he says.
D smiles. “It did.”
“No tea for your customer?”
D has always found the Detective’s particular brand of subtlety to be bordering on the ridiculous. But he is, as all humans are, persistent; trying to gain evidence of something that falls outside the realm of his comprehension, trying to understand what he cannot even perceive.
“No,” D tells him. He can be beneficent, when he wants to be. “But I will make a new pot for us, Detective.”
After all, later, D will have need of him.
2. The Burial
Silver moonlight cuts across the hard ground, forming lines like paths through the undergrowth. D remembers a tale he once heard of a man who had followed such a path and found himself lost in the dark edges of night for all eternity, wandering in the cold, emptiness until he went mad. He clawed at his own skin, trying to find escape there and the moon bled red. As he watches the Detective pick his way furiously, determinately, through the tangle of thorns they have found themselves in D tries to imagine him lost for ever, and cannot quite picture it. He sees the Detective finding a way out. Through.
“Fucking hell,” he swears. There is a price for entry here, in blood, and even D can feel the bite of sharp thorns breaking the skin of his ankles through the fabric of his clothes.
“You couldn’t have told me to bring my shears? I dunno, maybe a full armour body suit.”
D can see the cuts on the Detective’s hands in the moonlight.
“It wouldn’t help,” D tells him.
“Why am I doing this again?” the Detective asks. “Why did I agree to this? Did you drug me? Am I dreaming? Because if I am I really need to go see the station shrink. My subconscious is trying to tell me something. Something like, Don’t go for midnight strolls with Count D because those are just never going to end well. I brought a shovel. Jesus, you told me to bring a shovel and I brought one. This is totally a dream. I am not burying any bodies for you.”
D smiles sweetly. “I’m hurt, Detective, that you would not do even such a small favour for a friend.”
Following behind him the Detective stops dead in his tracks.
“You’re not serious.”
D keeps walking. He does not doubt that the Detective will follow him sooner or later. Sooner would be better.
“I cannot imagine,” D says, “where you imagine I am hiding a body for burial about my person.”
Footsteps running to catch up, the Detective swearing colourfully as the undergrowth protests the speed.
“I can never be sure with you,” the Detective grumbles. “And you did ask me to bring a shovel.”
“I did,” D nods slowly. “We’re nearly there. Stay close.”
“Right.”
They are watched; D can feel their presence; sometimes catches sight of a flash of eyes reflecting the moonlight, like silver beads suspended upon a black cloth. The Detective’s hands grip his shovel tightly, his shoulders tense; he stays close to D’s side.
“So this is, what, late night gardening?” The Detective’s tone is too casual, too light, to be anything but forced; feigned indifference hiding fear.
“No,” D answers. “It is quite the opposite of what you imagined.”
He comes to a stop within an area cleared of undergrowth. A recently disturbed pile of dirt rises from the flat ground before them.
A grave.
**
“Why,” the Detective pants, shifts another shovel of soil, “didn’t you just,” he digs the point into the ground again, drives it deep with all his weight, “tell me?”
“Would you have come if I had?” D asks.
The Detective pauses, narrows his eyes at D, and D watches the puffs of air the Detective breathes out. D shivers. It is cold and they have been outside for some hours now.
The Detective shrugs. “Probably. I’m an idiot like that.”
Not the reply D had expected. But this is what interested him in this human detective in the first place; he surprises D. He acts in ways D does not expect. In most of his actions and most of his words the Detective is the same as any other human, except that there are times, like this, when D finds him unpredictable; surprising, and that is both rare and fascinating.
“You should’ve worn a jacket,” the Detective says. “If you catch a cold I’m not looking after you.”
He goes back to digging; it is a surprisingly deep grave.
As the night has worn on the light of the moon has become shrouded in clouds; a veil across the sky, as though hiding them from its sight. D is glad for it. Now he holds a flashlight to where the Detective is working so that he can see. It sheds what is a poor imitation of light, but human vision is pitiable, D knows, and it is all they have.
D watches the Detective work, waiting. He is accustomed to waiting.
The eyes that had followed them before watch now too, and whisper into the night; warnings and insults at the Detective who is too inexorably blind to anything beyond his limited conception of reality to notice; curiosity, questions towards D, asking, Why do you bring a human here? and Leave her to us.
D, too, ignores them.
There is a crunching sound then and the Detective’s face twists into an expression of horror and disgust.
I think I found something,” he says unnecessarily, stepping back. There is blood on the sharp edge of his shovel and the smell of it fills the icy air.
“I had not thought you so squeamish, Detective,” D teases.
The Detective grimaces, “This is different.”
Despite his obvious distaste, and even D is not unaffected by the cloying, decayed smell, the Detective leans forward, peering down at the grave.
“Seriously. This had better not be a human.”
“If it is,” D smiles, “you can’t say I didn’t call the police.”
The Detective scowls at D, but does then focus on the grave, clearing away the dirt with his shovel until there lies exposed the body of a cat.
“It’s not the one from the shop,” the Detective says.
“No,” D agrees. Her hair is black; her eyes wide with surprise. This is retribution, D thinks, but does not say. “I had to be certain.”
“Why?” the Detective asks.
It would be impossible to explain; it would be pointless to explain, and yet a part of D wishes the Detective might understand. A very small part.
“I feared I would be too late,” D says, because it is true.
The Detective looks incredulous, looks between D and the corpse laid out, not long dead, cold and rotting. “You were.”
No, D would say, if he thought the Detective could comprehend it, he wasn’t. Instead, he allows the Detective to come to whatever conclusions he may and turns to leave.
3. The Girl
The interview room is cooler than D would have liked; painted grey and grey with highlights of more grey. Lifeless. Boring.
There is a cup of cooling, supposed tea sitting on the table in front of him. There is a tea bag suspended in water, grey-brown colour seeping into liquid and creeping up the string. It’s a paper cup; flimsy and cheap and D does not dare even try to drink it. He would be appalled a year, perhaps even half a year ago; no time in the scheme of things. A breath. A single thought. D wonders if the Detective has ever had a thought pass through his mind in all his short years. He should have known better than to bring D this insulting facsimile of tea.
The Detective is certainly trying his patience, but there is something of a debt to be paid.
The grey door creaks on its hinges as it opens, and the Detective stomps into the room, manila folder stuffed with papers tucked under his arm. He looks, D thinks, almost as though he knows what he’s doing.
“Hey,” the Detective greets, raises an eyebrow when D looks back at him impassively. He follows D’s gaze down to the cup.
“Yeah. Right.” The Detective’s expression twists into something of a grimace. “Sorry about that. I tried.”
“Detective, I’m sure you’re very aware that in reality it really isn’t the thought that counts.”
The Detective snorts, grins. “Fair enough. Thanks for coming down anyway, I guess.”
D magnanimously inclines his head. “How could I refuse after your assistance last night?”
The Detective scowls at him, leans forward, hissing, “Jesus, D. Don’t say things like that here.”
D’s smile grows predatory. “Why, Detective. You’re blushing. You shouldn’t be ashamed. You worked so hard for me.”
“Fuck.” The Detective covers his face with his hands and D wonders who is watching. He could find out. He could know, if he cared to.
He doesn’t.
For once, he takes pity. He is, after all, not human. D folds his hands serenely in his lap and waits for the Detective to look at him.
“You were the one who asked me here,” D points out.
The Detective shakes his head. “Yeah. Yeah. I just have a couple of questions.”
“You could have asked me over the telephone.”
“No, not really.” The Detective opens his overly-stuffed file. There’s a photograph of a girl laying on top of the papers. D knows why he is here.
“She was at the pet shop,” D preempts.
“Yeah,” the Detective says, looks at D with suspicious eyes; the way the Detective looks at him in those moments when he comes to realise the things he sees are beyond what is normal for him. When he realises that something is different about D. “Witnesses saw her going into your shop. She came out with a cat.”
“The tabby,” D nods.
“Did she say anything to you, like where she was going afterwards? Why she wanted a cat?” the Detective asks, watching D carefully.
“She said many things,” D replies. “I cannot be expected to remember them all.”
“It was yesterday. You’re telling me you can’t remember a conversation you had yesterday?”
“Can you remember all the things we spoke of yesterday, Detective?”
The Detective’s lips thin in reply. “I remember a cat. You said you had to be sure it wasn’t the one from your shop.”
D had to admit the Detective had an impressive memory. There had been times when D had thought the Detective didn’t listen to him at all; that he didn’t understand a word D said.
“I had heard of a grave,” D says, would have continued but the Detective interrupts, “From who? How did you know it was there? Why did you care?”
D’s mouth stretch into something resembling a smile and his eyes meet the Detective’s. “I care for all my animals.”
It is not without some sense of amusement that D watches as the Detective sits back in his seat, as he shifts uncomfortably and not, D suspects, because the chairs in this room are cold and hard and built by sadists.
They sit in silence, the Detective staring at him and D looking sedately back.
Finally, when D has grown tired of staring and is thinking on all the many more interesting things he could be doing, he says, “Why am I here?”
“I had questions.”
“So you said. And why do you have questions?”
The Detective barks a laugh. “I always have questions with you, D.”
D lowers his head, looks up at the Detective through his eyelashes. “You’re being coy.”
The Detective scoffs. “No one’s ever accused me of that before.”
He looks tired, D thinks. There are grey smudges under his eyes, heavy-lidded and bloodshot. His shoulders slump stiffly and D wonders if he aches from the digging; if it is exhaustion from long hours and poor diet and smoking and drinking and all the other terrible things humans do to themselves to remember what living feels like. There is frustration too in the way the Detective watches D.
Sobering, he says, “The girl went missing.” He turns the photograph around, slides it across the table for D to look at. “Her name is Felicia.”
D nods. “I remember.”
“She was last seen at your shop.”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything more, Detective,” D says apologetically. The girl made her choice, after all.
After a long pause, the Detective asks, “I won’t find her, will I?”
There is none of the shouting, accusations, of when they first met. Perhaps the Detective has learned, after all, that there are a great many things he will never understand. Perhaps he has learned that it is humans who bring about their own demise.
“I don’t know why you imagine I would know,” D says. “You’re the Detective.”
The Detective folds his arms. He wears only his t-shirt, arms bare despite the coldness of this grey room.
“The mother, her mother, said something weird.” He pauses, his eyes momentarily shifting to the camera suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room. He leans forward, arms resting against the table. “She said Felicia used to do this thing where she’d find cats that had been run over or whatever and she’d kill them and bury them.”
“Then perhaps,” D says in a low voice that only the Detective will be able to hear, “A cat did her the same kindness.”
Half a year ago the Detective would have laughed, thinking perhaps that D had made a joke or was mad. Now he meets D’s eyes and D does not know what he hopes to find there but he nods and he thanks D for coming all the way down to the station and shows him out with some semblance of civility.
“I have a new kind of tea,” D offers as they descend the precinct steps, leaving behind a world of grey and paper and the unrelenting hum of air-conditioning for the blue warmth of the early afternoon sky. A light breeze. It will be a quiet day for D, and that, he tells himself, is why he is proposing anything at all. He will be bored otherwise. “I am told it aids with fatigue.”
D looks the Detective up and down pointedly and the Detective’s lips twitch into what might be a smile.
“Yeah okay,” he says.
.End.