Garda Harry is at the door to Tom’s bed-sit.
His chest rises and falls rapidly, his nostrils flare with the pressure of each exhalation.
As if he has been running, Tom thinks, and steps aside so he can enter.
He strides to the opposite end of the bed-sit, turns and scans the room, his eyes frequently returning to Tom. The light overhead accentuates the sweat on his face and there is stiffness to his movements as if he is encumbered with limited flexibility.
It is the pose of someone who is tense.
The pose of someone who is expecting something to happen.
Tom’s camera is on the counter and Harry picks it up and rotates it in his hands carelessly.
‘What do you want?’ Tom asks.
‘This is a digital camera, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where’s your printer?’
‘I just print photos off in the library.’
‘Where are the photos you printed off?’ He slaps the camera roughly against the counter.
‘Hey,’ Tom steps towards him.
‘What?’ Tom stops. ‘Why? What’s this about?’
Harry raises his palm to indicate that he is waiting on an answer.
‘I cut them up,’ Tom squeezes the fingers of his left hand nervously.
Harry frowns. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t need the whole photograph.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just needed pieces of them.’
Harry thinks about this for a moment. His eyebrows dip and he looks at Tom’s hands.
‘Where are the cuttings?’
‘Most of them went out with the rubbish. They’re probably still in the bin downstairs. I’ll get them for you if you want,’ Tom moves in the direction of the door.
‘Stay where you are,’ Harry snaps loudly, the tendons in his neck standing out.
‘What’s going on here?’ Tom asks.
‘You tell me Stacey,’ he takes a step towards Tom.
‘I don’t know what you want,’ Tom’s chest tightens. His hand moves to his forehead, his fingers tremor. ‘What do you want?’
‘Jesus, Stacey.’
‘What?’ Tom says quietly.
‘Where are the photos?’ Harry drops the camera.
The cracking sound seems to fill the space long after it has landed.
Tom stoops and reaches for the camera.
‘Get back,’ Harry warns.
Tom ignores him. He grabs the camera, kneels and begins to collect the broken pieces which are scattered around.
‘Get up Stacey.’ Harry’s hand moves under his coat. When his hand comes into view again he is clutching a baton.
‘Get up,’ he says.
Tom rises.
‘Get over there,’ he nods to the far wall of the bed-sit.
‘It’s wrecked,’ Tom holds the camera towards the policeman.
Harry brings the baton forward quickly, hitting Tom on his left shoulder. Tom loses his footing and falls backwards. It is an undignified fall, the type that seems as if it is happening in slow motion. He lands painfully on his behind and twists his arm slightly in the effort of protecting his head. It is only when he is in a seated position that a sudden rush of fear envelops him.
‘You stay there,’ Harry says.
Tom’s instinct is to run.
He tries to stand but his movement is sluggish and he is pushed back down.
‘I said stay,’ Harry hisses through gritted teeth.
Tom holds an awkward position for a moment, his arms bearing his weight so he feels his pulse hammering through his palms. Gradually Tom eases himself to a seated position and Harry begins to walk around the room.
‘Where are the fuckin’ things?’ he says.
He moves to Tom’s chair, the one which faces the small window.
He violently shoves it forward. There is a snapping sound.
Tom feels a dipping in his chest, a curling arc of dismay.
A groan follows that arc.
My chair.
Harry glances at him quickly before moving to a bookcase at the back of the room. He straightens his arm and runs it along the books so they thump to the floor. He hunkers to the floor and begins to shake the books. A bookmark falls from one. He lifts it up quickly and inspects it before flicking it away. It spirals in the air and lands at Tom’s feet.
‘I know about you groping that woman in work, Stacey. I know plenty about you.’
Tom shakes his head and closes his eyes.
Harry moves to the cupboards, roughly scoops the contents to the side so they crash onto the floor, tins, glass spice jars that crack and splinter. A plastic airtight container bounces from the counter, the lid popping open and sticks of spaghetti spilling onto the floor. They crunch under Harry’s feet as he moves to another cupboard.
Pieces of food are kicked under the fridge and the oven.
How am I going to get them out of there?
How am I going to clean this place?
A low hum begins to emerge from the questions in his head. It moves as a drill would, boring towards him, growing louder with each second.
It’s not a drill, he thinks. Of course it’s not a drill.
It is a bee.
That damned bee.
Tom covers his ears with his hands but the buzzing continues. He increases the pressure, pressing his palms against his ears.
Harry is beside the opened fridge, his head ducked inside. He scoops things from the fridge and throws them to the floor, cheese, eggs, milk, a glass jar of sauce, the wetness of the contents transforming the sound of breakage into a dull splat. The sauce spreads like paint, splashes his feet, flecks the wall.
Bzzzzz
Tom blinks his eyes tightly. He struggles to his feet.
The pain in his head glows and intensifies with any sudden movement.
Harry has his arms inside the fridge as if he’s trying to climb in.
Bzzzzz
Tom slowly walks to the door and to a sweeping brush that leans against the wall.
This room, he thinks. I have to clean this room.
His left foot slides out on the sauce, so quickly that his thigh muscle sings sharply and he almost loses his balance. He steadies himself and continues on.
There is glass underfoot.
It crunches with each step and alerts the policeman.
Harry is quick. He is beside Tom in an instant and swinging his right fist. It connects with the top of Tom’s crown. Tom falls, the momentum pushing his head back so it strikes the edge of the door.
There is this feeling of dullness, a moment like wakening in the darkness of night.
His sight soon sprinkles with dots of shadow and light. The pain follows, like water rushing into a space. Tom’s hand moves to the point where the door has struck. There is heat and stickiness in his hair. He looks at his hand and it is covered in blood.
‘You stay where you are,’ Harry points at him. ‘Fuckin’ pervert.’ He moves closer to Tom.
‘Where’s all your stuff? Your photos, where do you keep them?’
Tom doesn’t answer. The buzzing has become a looping sound, the way a plane will spin and crash in those old war films, the engine sound changing as if he was right there watching it, somehow sitting on a cloud in the stratosphere.
The Doppler effect, Tom thinks. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?
The darkness pulls at him. It is a weight at the base of his crown.
The policeman taps his foot against Tom’s shin.
‘Come on, where’s all your stuff?’
‘It’s a change in the waves,’ Tom mumbles, his eyes blinking rapidly with the effort of keeping them open. ‘Depending on where your position is.’
‘What?’ Harry is confused.
‘The way the noise of a car sounds higher when approaching you and lower when moving away from you.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Tom closes his eyes and sees an image of the bee riding the waves, up and down on the looping line, wings buzzing furiously.
The sight is so ridiculous. He feels like vomiting and laughing at the same time.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Harry shouts.
Tom feels his shirt tightening around his neck, feels the ground move away from him.
He opens his eyes and sees Harry’s face coming closer to his.
The pain that suddenly courses through his head is so fierce that it causes his eyes to roll upward, his legs to go limp momentarily.
The policeman supports his weight.
‘You think this is funny?’ He pushes Tom against the wall.
Tom groans loudly, his hands moving to his head.
‘I’m not leaving until I find something. You understand that.’ He moves away from Tom. ‘It’s not so funny now, is it?’
Tom is weak. He bends forward and places his hands on his thighs for support.
‘What were you buying women’s clothes for?’ Harry is beside his chest of drawers. He takes each one of Tom’s drawers out and upends them. ‘I know you have some in here.’
‘I don’t have them any more,’ Tom mumbles.
Harry stops suddenly. ‘Where are they?’
‘To who?’ His eyes widen.
‘Shatner,’ he mutters. ‘I gave them to Shatner.’
‘Who is Shatner?’
‘The model.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In the bed-sit.’
‘Jesus Christ, Stacey. You think I won’t find something?’ he storms back to the kitchen area. ‘I know there’s something. Even if I don’t find it now I’ll be back. You’ll slip up, wherever you’re hiding your fuckin—’ he kicks the counter, the noise vibrating loudly in the small bed-sit ‘—photos. Or the women’s fuckin’ clothes,’ he kicks out at the bin.
It falls over, the lid opening.
An object falls out, wrapped in a clear plastic bag. It rolls a couple of metres before hitting a wall. Red is the dominant colour inside, but as the bag settles the shape of a nose can be made out. And eyes, dark colours behind the opaque covering.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry takes a step backwards. ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ.’
Tom slumps to the ground. The world is spinning too quickly now, the lights are streaks of brightness. He tries to stand but the pain is unbearable.
He sinks. His sight is blackness.
Words reach him, panicked words rattling down the phone.
‘Yes, that’s what I said. A fuckin’ head. A real fuckin’ human head.’