Birdhood, a modern murder mystery (Camp NaNoWriMo July 2014)

First Chapter - in which apprenticeship dawns on our protagonist

A summer breeze blew by, not doing much to assuage the developing headache.  The stuffiness remained in her head, immovable.

And so, she thought. This is how it’s going to be.

Seventeen, inhonourably discharged, escaping responsibilities left at home on an open Word document, and not quite knowing what to do, the girl walked as though she was in a dream. She found her footsteps landing on grass. Looking around, she finds herself in a park.

A field would have been a more realistic term for it. The edges could be seen, a border of neat-trimmed hedge and wild grass. There was the obligatory play area, a collection of well-weathered swing sets and slides, surrounded by a bronzing fence – there were a few children milling about, as children do, which ruled out the option of loitering on a swing-seat. So she walked, with no break in pace, across the grass; the song ended.

And then she met Jacobs.

He ran across her vision. A blur of white and brown, there and then gone; on all fours, he streaked past her ankles, and she froze, in surprise. Pulling her headphones from her ears, footsteps could be heard. Not fast. Paced, patient; she could not hear a breath.

“Clarisse?”

It was with shock she turned round; that moment when you are sure that they are calling you, when for a moment you forget your own name. “Me?”

The first thing which she noticed – and there were so many things to notice, jostling for her attention all at once – was the sound. You couldn’t hear him breathe. And she noticed, as the figure was revealed, that you couldn’t even see him breathe. The only sign of life was shown by the slow, steady blinks.

He was talking to her, definitely. Unnerved, she replied. “Oh. Oh – I’m not, I’m sorry –”

“It’s my fault. Never mind.” But his voice contained no hint of concern – it was the voice of a man preoccupied with unknowable, abstract matters.

In the pause that followed, her thoughts settled. He was forty – around forty, she guessed, not a day each way. He wore a suit – a suit? In this weather? – smart, a dark brown, completely out of place in the hardly professional surroundings. He carried a gold band around his left ring finger; he was clean shaven, a sign of grey stubble around his chin.

He was, all in all, not the type of man you traditionally meet in a park near a residential estate.

He raised a hand to his lapel. “Did you see that dog that went past?”

Unsure of how else to respond, she nodded. “Yeah – yes, I mean. Your King Charles Spaniel, right?”

He stared at her, blankly. She stuttered. “Or your wife’s?”

“How did you know I had a wife?”

She felt her forehead rise in temperature. “I – I assumed? You have a ring, after all –”

“And a King Charles Spaniel.”

“It went past, I just noticed, that’s all –”

“And my profession?”

Not for the first time this conversation, she found herself spiralling back. The man was like a rapid. He flowed ahead in speech, leaving you behind in his wake.

“I don’t think you mentioned it, I’m sorry.”

He smiled, the corner of his mouth turning upwards in a gesture of irony. “Guess.”

Who does that? If this were a normal day – and there were many of those to come, the amount of which made her shudder – she would be away by now, walking with due haste across the grass towards some semblance of reality. But something held her attention, besides her natural fixation. He wasn’t threatening. It was his character which maintained her interest – as though he were pasted straight out of a novel.

So her thoughts flowed, with a speed that ventured to match his. Not a businessman. Businessmen wear dark grey suits, briefcases, and this is a Friday at 3pm. Businessmen don’t loiter in parks, go for walk with dogs at midday. He has a family – a partner, at least. And a pet. Not a job with long hours, vocational, maybe, but why –

Why would he ask such irrelevant questions?

“You’re a policeman,” she said. “Undercover.” It made sense, mostly. It fit, with some stretching of belief.

“Close.” There was a touch of patronisation. It riled her, slightly. She wasn’t playing detective with this man today.

“What is your job, then?” Why even ask?

(Except the answer was obvious. She was bored, and she was lonely, and there was little future ahead of her past this afternoon, so why not stretch out the time spent away as long as possible before she returned home, before the illusion shattered?

And he was a character. He was a protagonist. That much was clear.)

And the smile returned – no more than the corner of a mouth, turned upwards – and he answered her, as though proclaiming.

“I am a detective. A private detective. Jacobs.” He extended a hand.

She stood there, unsure, as the breeze whipped tendrils of hair. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

He remained in much the same position, without a trace of awkwardness. “You’re seventeen, I would guess. Not a day each way. You’re observant, you notice things. And you look lost.”

None of this really helped her impression. She remained fixed, something stopping her speaking, moving away. It was interest.

His serious eyes, from behind clear-framed glasses, stared out. “I want to offer you an apprenticeship.”

And then Vogel McClennan’s life found a direction.