| |
SOMETIMES LIGHT HURT.
You know that feeling when you’ve drunk about ten times the amount any sane person would? Well, that was me right now. The scruffed up excuse for a bed smelled like the inside of a wine bottle, the pillow smelled like stale smoke, and I was pretty sure I stank of both.
Yeah, me and my bright ideas.
I rolled out of bed, hoping the room would stop swaying, and stared at the reason why I was alone. You see, when you have a successful career, people like you. They rate what you have to say, and sometimes they even stick around long enough to build something meaningful. Society approves . . . ish.
When you’re a cripple, no one gives a shit. In fact, you don’t exist. I didn’t. I’d been a detective inspector, PIP level four. You know what that is? There are four levels of investigator, PIP level four was the top. You work the big crimes, you work the real juicy cases.
At thirty-four, I’d been an amazing detective, engaged, great financial health, loving friends, great at sports but this morning was my birthday and I was thirty-five years old with no job, a fiancé who didn’t answer her phone, a medical pension, one friend, and try playing sport when you have a prosthesis.
The room was still swaying. My bedside table looked miles away. My “hand” was on it, baiting me. Next to it was my phone. It used to ring all the time. I stumbled over and flicked my finger over the screen. Two messages: One was my answer machine, the other was Bob, my sole friend.
Wow, I was so popular . . . and grumpy. Hangovers would do that to a girl.
I called my voicemail and dared a peek in the mirror. Hint: I looked like shit. Bush instead of hair, glassy eyes, lipstick smeared over my cheek—not sure what that was about—and a black eye—I vaguely remembered assaulting the door of the taxi.
“It’s me,” my fiancé, Trin, muttered to my answering machine. “I guess you’re asleep. Anyway, a big case came in. I’ll call you when I get some free time.”
I raised my grazed eyebrow at myself in the mirror. The answering machine stated Trin had called at five in the morning. Guess she’d forgotten my birthday and dinner. How nice for my confidence.
I flicked to Bob’s message and smiled. Now I insulted him all the time. What self-respecting police officer lowered themselves to running school liaison? He was still a police constable too . . . because he wanted to be.
My phone rang and I jumped, then smiled. It was Bob.
“Morning, my dear. How is that epic hangover?” Bob chimed it at me with a full smug tone. I wasn’t a drinker . . . at all . . . and delighted in taunting him mid-hangover.
“Painful.” I grunted it much the same way he always grunted his reply at me.
“Good to hear.” He snickered and clanged something in the background. “So, Fiona and I were talking.” Fiona being his long-suffering wife and my old administrator. “She thinks you should go into investigations . . . or back to law.”
“Fiona thinks too much.” I stumbled from the mirror—painful sight—and into the pokey excuse for a kitchen. Think galley but galley in a cardboard box. I would have splashed out on somewhere more luxurious but I’d never been home.
“Yes, but sometimes she’s good at it.” Said like he didn’t dote on her. “She really thinks you’d make a good investigator. Someone where she grew up needs your help . . . she wondered if you’d think about it?”
Fiona was such a sweet lady. She’d been the kind of woman who brought in cakes, chatted freely and happily and organised me to the minute. Seemed like she still wanted to organise me.
“Bob, I don’t really want to follow people’s cheating spouses around.” I pulled open the fridge then shut it again as nausea hit me. Less about the hangover and more about the fact I hadn’t bothered to go shopping and the remaining slab of cheese was definitely out of date.
“This case is right for your taste buds. Have a think and let me know . . . it’s either that or Fiona will start looking for premises so you can set back up as a barrister.” Bob chomped on something and it made my stomach churn.
“Sure,” I mumbled. Uh oh . . . sickness rumbling.
“When you finish spewing, you need greasy. Trust the expert.” Bob snorted like he was delighted I was fighting my insides. “Happy birthday, my dear. Welcome to real adulthood.”
He hung up and I hung onto my stomach. Greasy . . . right . . . I’d do that.