The scarred crescent, p.12
The Scarred Crescent, page 12
part #1 of The Crescent Series
‘They are not the same!’ Walter declared, his high pitch voice carrying over Mortimer’s objections.
Hugo chuckled softly. ‘Why don’t you ask the expert?’ He turned towards Aaron. ‘The boys are arguing whether or not baseball and cricket have the same foundation. What say you?’
Aaron shook his head. ‘Dunno, sorry. All I know is they both hail from the British Isles.’
Hugo laughed. ‘So the British Empire bequeathed two of its sports to its colonies. And they both play it better than them now. There’s irony there somewhere.’
Aaron offered a weak smile. He turned his head away from the gang, eyes glazing over at the portraits of Jesus adorning the AAA safe-house. The building may have been de-sanctified years ago when most of the religious population moved away from the impoverished town, but for some reason Abigail hadn’t cleared out the paintings.
His eyes travelled to the brown-skinned Jesus writhing in silent pain. What must it have been like to be able to do so much, and yet restrain yourself? Voices spoke in his head, a heady muddle of noise. He shook his head.
His thoughts drifted to Roberto. Why had his old mentor reached out to him? He cracked his knuckles, pondering the question. The man may have been his spiritual father, but didn’t he know Aaron wanted nothing to do with him? What had happened to mother may not have been his fault — as Roberto kept reminding — but that would never have happened had he not been the abomination he was.
‘Wakey, wakey, Jinab cricketer!’ Abigail cocked her head to a side, a mischievous grin on her face. She carried a six-pack of beers in her right hand. Nonchalantly, she offered him one.
‘No, thanks,’ he said.
Abigail clicked her tongue. ‘Not acceptable!’ She pressed the can into his protesting hands and winked. ‘I think we can all do with a bit of relaxation.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Walt said. When Abigail threw a can his way, he gave out a whoop catching it with a single hand. Leia strode over to Abigail, taking one back for Hugo who grunted his thanks.
‘Mortimer?’ Abigail shouted at Mortimer, the sole teetotaller in the gang. ‘Tonight’s no ordinary night. What say you to a drink?’
Mortimer scowled, shook his head. Abigail chuckled, threw one his way anyway.
‘You ever take no for an answer, lass?’ said Mortimer.
Abigail shrugged her delicate bare shoulders. If there was a chill in the room, it didn’t seem to touch her. She skipped over to the room’s centre, raised the beer in her hand, the slightly damp T-shirt clinging against her pale, toned belly.
She cleared her throat noisily. When she spoke, the fierceness in her voice took Aaron by surprise. ‘To friends!’ She raised the can to her mouth, the delicate throat working as she chugged. Aaron raised the beer to his lips, watching others follow her lead. Even Mortimer. Aaron grimaced as he swallowed.
‘This is not going to be a speech, or a boring pep talk.’ Abigail winked at them, raised her fingers. ‘That’s right, folks. No shop talk tonight, for two reasons. Number one, you guys are all stars.’ She waved a hand at the window. ‘Brighter than the moon at its fullest and there’s no point in stating what’s plainly obvious.’
Grinning, she sauntered over to stand beside Mortimer and Walt. ‘Oh Walt, I wouldn’t bet that much on such a shitty hand.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Walt grimaced and put his cards down. Then he raised the beer to his mouth, chugging the contents in long, greedy sips. A second later, he burped.
‘What’s the second reason?’ Hugo asked, a hand still resting on the gun.
Abigail furrowed her brows. ‘I was hoping no one would ask. The second reason… is…’ She shook her head. ‘Bah! Who the heck cares? Suffice it to say we’re all here tonight, hale and successful. So let’s drink and make merry!’ Walt whooped, bumped fists with Mortimer. She turned towards Leia. ‘Get us the music terminal, will you?’
Wordlessly, Leia walked over to the dark corner opposite Aaron and rummaged through the pile. With a groan, she pulled out Mortimer’s kit bag, then the hard case for his guitar.
She returned with a rectangular contraption Aaron had never seen before. Two square speakers attached to a boxy, plasticky thing, two aerials jutting out like bunny’s ears.
‘Aha!’ Abigail sat down on her haunches and tinkered with it. He leaned in to take a better look, as she pushed at the box to reveal a sliding mechanism. Abigail tapped at her hand terminal, pressed it against the box, and waited till it beeped.
Mortimer grunted. ‘R&B or early 90s Bollywood?’
‘Just sit back and enjoy, my darlings!’ Abigail replied, fiddling with the knobs.
Aaron blinked, not believing what he was seeing. A cassette player! He had heard of these things of course. Even seen a couple, a Sony and a Toshiba, at a museum he’d visited with mother. The things had made a return some two decades ago before falling out of fashion yet again.
‘Prepare yourselves, lady and gentlemen!’ Abigail announced, the pony tails bobbing as she got to her feet. She struck a strange pose, one foot in front of the other, an arm outstretched in the air. ‘Now we dance!’ She tapped at her hand terminal and the speakers blared into life, a fast techno number with the lyrics drowned out by percussion and bass. She rocked her head, shouted, ‘Oh yeah!’
A second later, she reached forward to pull Mortimer and Walt to their feet. Mortimer stood awkwardly for a second, then shrugging, began moving his body in sync with the beat. Walt needed no encouragement, his hips moving as if fighting off an invasion of the fire ants.
Aaron watched them in amusement, a smile spreading on his lips. Oliver would have liked it tonight too. For the two rogue magi, there was little better than what this moment provided — contentment, camaraderie, and enjoyable company.
He felt a tug at his sleeve. ‘Come,’ Leia whispered in his ear. He opened his mouth to interject, but Leia shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. Bereft of a valid excuse, he allowed her to pull him to his feet. Thoughts raced through his mind. Roberto would have loved tonight too. The man had always needed little excuse to get drunk and shake his hips.
And his mentor had offered him a way out. A choice to make a difference.
He joined the rest on the makeshift dance floor, allowed his body to sway with the beat. Leia stepped away after the first dance and he danced the next song by himself. Then Abigail was next to him, her lithe body a pleasing, arousing experience for the senses as her soft bits jiggled and strained against her clothing, her body pressing into his.
The song changed, a slower tune this time. Thunder clapped outside. In the dim light, her silhouette bled into the contours of the night, and after a while he sought her scent instead of sight to seek her out. She laughed at something, her hot breath sending tingles down his spine.
His heart beat against his chest, his hands sweating. Even in the moment, a nagging voice reminded him she was a married woman. Not that it mattered anyway in the moment. The world had shrunk down to the two of them, his senses captive to her every move as they spun about like heavenly bodies in orbit.
He bumped into something, almost fell down. Hugo extended a hand to right him, his lips moving but he couldn’t hear a single word. Leia gyrated over to Hugo, slid a shapely hand across the man’s middle section and Hugo turned away.
Abigail smiled at him, extended another beer. He never drank alcohol as a rule. No sorcerer in his right mind would willingly dull his senses to become an ordinary man.
He took a deep swallow, feeling the bitter liquid burn its way down his throat, settling into the warmth in his stomach.
The song changed again. String instruments played on the cassette player now accompanied by flutes. A softer, more sensual song.
Walt leaned into hug Leia, his shirt damp with sweat. ‘Ew’ said Leia playfully shoving him off.
Arms settled over his shoulders, the musky scent so strong his knees wobbled. ‘Thank you for sticking by us. By me,’ Abigail whispered, her normally azure eyes a nondescript grey. Arpeggios played the cassette player. Somehow, unbelievably, Abigail took another step forward, tall enough in her heels for his eyes to see nothing but her blurry face.
He licked his lips, very conscious of her breasts pressing firmly against his chest, her leg rubbing against the inside of his thigh. She laughed and he inhaled the essence of her soul. He swayed on his feet, powerless, vulnerable in the moment.
She breathed, her warm breath a caress on his cheek. An act more intimate than making love. He felt himself flush. She was the fire that would burn anything in its wake, yet he couldn’t step away. Not with his leaden feet. Panic still rose in his bile. And the urge to run. To flee.
Instead, his arms slid down her waist, resting on her backside. He left them there. It felt nice.
She smiled and the world lit up. Eyes closed, the heart shaved face lost in ecstasy leaned in. The remaining dregs of resolve melted. Her eyelids fluttered open. Her lips parted and she looked him right in the eye. Then pulling herself even closer, she pressed her lips to his.
14
The Press Conference
‘Are the citizens of Florida in any danger, Deputy Chief?’ Carol Limpkins, head reporter at Atlantis and Beyond, shouted over the other voices. Her shrill, piercing voice cut through the din and Zuwena turned towards the podium. Considering it was a question almost all reporters were clamouring to ask, silence fell.
Six and a half feet tall, built like a tank, a bushy moustache covering his upper lip, Omar Ghazali, the Deputy Chief laughed a deep belly laugh. He scratched his bulbous nose, pushed back the Fez on his wide forehead. Despite the anger Zuwena harboured towards the man for not taking her suggestions seriously, she had to admit he cut an imposing figure on the dais, towering over the fifty or so reporters in the conference room.
‘He’ll make an excuse,’ whispered General Brad Coetzee in her ear, ‘just wait and see.’
Omar cleared his throat. ‘Florida is a big province. And our resources are stretched.’ He spread his arms, open palms facing them. ‘But no matter what happens, it’s our job to maintain law and order. And that we promise to do.’
His booming declaration did little to quiet the room. Hands shot up in the air, reporters speaking over each other. She sighed, taking notes on her stylus.
‘Told you,’ said the general.
She spun to face him. Decked out in the dull khaki uniform of a Major General, the short, balding man blinked back at her. ‘Why are you even here?’ she asked, conscious of the reporters turning to look at them. ‘I wouldn’t have imagined a marine general would find a police conference much fun.’
He shrugged, his massive eyebrows furrowing together. ‘Orders are orders.’
She turned her attention back to the dais when the general didn’t explain himself. Omar was smiling, and so were most of the female reporters. The sight sickened her. Instead of getting answers to the hard questions, they were being fed drivel with a wink.
Hitesh slid in beside her. ‘Sorry, I am late,’ he whispered, panting. ‘Chuck just wouldn’t stop and the traffic was horrendous. I swear I can’t wait for this hurricane to blow over.’
The general turned towards an open window looking out at the tumultuous ocean. ‘I’ve got to go. Good luck!’ He wheeled about and made for the exit.
Zuwena pursed her lips. She’d need to have another sit down with the general. Something was going on and she intended to find out more.
‘Is it true that Lashkar Brown, Assistant Chief of the Northern Precinct has been missing for the past two weeks?’ Carol shouted. ‘Is it a sign that even the keepers of peace aren’t safe in Florida?’
The big man laughed again, but this time she could see through the bluster. ‘Frankly, I don’t know how you come across these rumours. We have to remember that personal lives of police officers are their own business and we shouldn’t pry.’ Nigel, his plump assistant, standing beside him nodded solemnly.
‘Are you suggesting that the Assistant Director is not missing?’ Carol persisted.
Omar pursed his lips, a dark cloud passing through his face. Zuwena recognised the expression. Not unlike what she’d seen when they had met. Despite the unflappable exterior, dissent seemed to prickle him easily enough. ‘Believe it or not, we policemen are humans as well. Sometimes even we have accidents. Or go snorkelling and forget the terminals behind,’ Omar boomed, his strong voice easily carrying to the furthest corners of the press room. He smiled at Carol. ‘Or maybe, the wife finally kicked out the poor man.’ Hitesh and a few reporters beside her chuckled.
Omar pointed his finger in the crowd of raised hands, ignoring her again. ‘Yes, you! Go ahead.’
‘Esmeralda Stein from The Fort Lauderdale Herald,’ said the blonde reporter. She tossed her hair back, smiled at the Deputy Chief. ‘Considering we’re averaging at least one bombing per day now, police chiefs are going missing, the Russian and Sino Republics are threatening war, can you tell us again why we shouldn’t be worried?’
Omar shook his head, lips pursed again. An unexpected surge of sympathy rose in Zuwena’s heart for the cornered man. So easy being on this side of the press conference pointing the finger. She bit her tongue to stop herself from responding.
‘Are things currently… challenging? Yes, they are.’ Omar pointed a meaty finger at the reporters. ‘But if it’s the political state of affairs you want to know more about, ask the governor general’s staff, or the president-elect. As far as I’m concerned, we’re doing everything under our power to ensure the safety of all Floridians.’
Zuwena raised her hand again, standing on her tippy toes to get the Deputy Chief’s attention. She was sure Omar had smiled at her when she’d entered the press room. Now she was no longer sure whether that had been for her or the blonde by her side.
Nigel whispered into Omar’s ears, a manila folder pressed against his chest. The deputy chief’s eyes narrowed, his moustache fluttering as he nodded. Two rows ahead, Carol shouted another question, but even she couldn’t attract Omar’s attention.
Zuwena took in a deep breath, disgusted at the thought of all the time she was wasting here instead of chasing the Apostler lead. Chuck had been sympathetic to her pleas for more time, but still insisted she come down here with Hitesh to train up the rookie.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Omar’s voice thundered over the PA system, ‘I’ll take a couple of final questions now. Yes, Jinaba Brenkins from the Tribune.’
Brenkins cleared her throat, waited until a respectful silence had fallen. ‘The Apostlers are distributing literature calling for an overthrow of the Raj in towns at our northern borders. What will be the police’s response?’
Zuwena gritted her teeth. The old bird was obviously on the same trail as her. But if she was willing to speak out in public, she was ahead of her.
Omar flashed his teeth, the poker smile back on. ‘The Raj believes in freedom of expression and thought. Until we’ve got evidence of any wrongdoing, thought crimes remain off my purview.’ He lifted his finger at another reporter she couldn’t see. ‘Shoot!’
Zuwena yawned, stepped away. She had had enough. If there was anything worthwhile, Hitesh would catch her up. Her mind replayed her conversation with Brad. She’d need to setup another meeting with him. Being in the army, he surely would have inside knowledge on the Raj intended to respond militarily to threats of incursion.
Omar was still taking. He laughed again, but she thought she could still sense the falseness in the bravado.
A cool breeze blew in from the open windows and she shivered. Hitesh wasn’t wrong. Already people had started to leave the city, clogging up the roads. Her ride home would be a long, miserable one.
Reporters started melting away in groups of twos and threes, buzzing with talk, tapping at their terminals. She turned towards the dais. Omar was gesticulating at Nigel who shook his head defiantly. Not one who was cowed by his boss’s imposing frame.
‘Ah, the refreshments arrive!’ Karl Richards, chief reporter at the Dominion Post winked at her, pointing at trays of club sandwiches, samosas, and patties being carried in by waiting staff in smart green uniforms.
‘Fabulous,’ she said as Hitesh headed towards the nearest table.
Where was Omar? She elbowed her way towards the dais. In a corner, shielded by a semi circle of uniformed police jawans, Omar chatted animatedly with Nigel. She leaned in.
‘Can someone stop the president-elect from—’ he said, then paused to listen to Nigel. ‘No, I won’t have that.’
Her belly rumbled. When was the last time she had something to eat? Hopefully, there’ll be a samosa or two left over in the end. She looked up and found Omar’s large eyes boring into her.
He grinned. Nodding, she straightened her skirt.
‘Come on over!’ he said.
She needled her way through the jawans and took out her stylus. His eyes settled on her hand.
‘Tsk tsk, still on the clock, are we?’
She shrugged, doing her best to ignore the intensity of his gaze. How could such dark eyes hold so much fire in them? ‘A journalist only stops when the heart stops beating.’
He laughed easily.
She smiled. ‘You guys have quite a few issues.’
‘Tell me about it!’ He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Sometimes I think the entire world conspires against me to ensure I get no rest.’
Despite herself, she laughed. He still didn’t answer her questions, hadn’t acknowledged the way they had parted company last time, yet it was hard to resist his charm. She felt herself melting by the intensity of his gaze. From the corner of her eye, she saw a couple of reporters watching them. She racked her mind for a distraction. ‘A missing cop sounds bad!’
‘So long it’s not this deputy chief hiding from his significant other!’ He laughed again and she found herself smiling again.
Sort yourself out, girl! Weren’t you just chewing the other women for fawning over him minutes ago?
