My mind was on the mess of papers stuffed inside the filing cabinet. I'd been pouring over my investigations into, let's call it my condition, when Mr Brace interrupted me with the telephone's rattling dance. He'd called from the phone-box downstairs just moments ago and wouldn't be dissuaded from coming up. There was barely enough time for me to scrape together my clippings and notes, to get my less-than-sane looking research into the filing cabinet and out of sight before he’d made it up the stairs. Those dark parts of my life committed to paper now sat crumpled at the bottom of that dull, steel tower; years of asking and looking and digging and hunting, left cowering in the dark because of this impatient, entitled prick.
Brace's panicked footfalls barely slowed as he hit the door, flinging it into the bookcase behind. My bookcase, though, does not take any guff, especially from the likes of Brace, and it gave him the door right back. He took a good hit to the leg, cursed under his breath, and closed the door with a hard smack. The door did not respond again.
Brace brought in the smell of too many cigarettes and too little soap. He had the beaten, washed-out look of a failing salesman. The look of a man who sold carpets or vacuum-cleaners; a man telling himself he was doing just fine, that good days were just around the corner, while he remortgaged some rat-hole office and worked seven-day weeks; a man under-slept and overweight, with haemorrhoids and a stomach ulcer and, perhaps, a drinking problem. Brace’s shoes were old but polished. His suit, worse for wear and a bad fit that was somehow both crumpled and tight. His hat, with its water stains and crooked brim, topped off an ensemble that looked as if it owed a little money to a lot of people.
”Well?” He said. His voice, panic stirred with accusation.
”Well what, Mr Brace?”
”You said you'd found her!”
The poor bastard. I felt pity creeping up my chest before I remembered the time it would take to wade though the screwed-up mess of papers in the filing cabinet. I lifted my feet off the corner of the desk and turned to face him square.
”I have completed my investigations and you will have a full report by Monday,” I rattled off the message I'd left in a flat monotone, “does that sound like demand to see me immediately and don't take no for an answer to you, Mr Brace?”
”Less of the cheek, lady. You've done what you were hired for. Just tell me what you found.”
We stared at one another for a moment but, surprisingly, Brace did not blink, nor did he look away.
”I'm going to need my fee before that, Mr Brace.”
”You'll get your money, woman! Just tell me!”
He slapped his palm onto my desk.
”Now, normally I wouldn't demand payment like this,” I continued, ignoring him, “but you strike me as a fairly hot-headed individual and there's a concern that you won't want to part with money in exchange for bad news.”
”It's bad news?” he blurted, his hand still splayed on the desk, spreading sweaty condensation from between his clammy fingers.
”My fee, Mr Brace,” I said, while reaching over my shoulder and fishing an invoice from the tray on top of the filing cabinet.
I placed the slip of paper on the desk and he slid his hand over to take it, then sank into the seat. His jaw tightened as he looked the paper over, his eyes eventually falling to the bottom line.
”£165, Mr Brace.” I said. “You'll see that's including expenses.”
Brace grunted and shifted in the chair, working his hand between the seat-back and his arse. With his wallet successfully extracted, he began clumsily thumbing at the leather and notes. After a deep breath, he calmed a little and managed to select an appropriate assortment of paper currency. He pulled out the notes, folded them once and held the wad out over the desk. As I leaned forward to take my money, Brace lifted it out of my reach while our eyes paired off once again.
”Where is my wife?” his voice was quieter this time, calmer.
I stood up, Brace's eyes still held in mine, and I relieved his hand of its burden. My desk drawer squealed open and I swapped out the notes for a stack of photographs. The drawer closed with a dull groan as I tossed the photos at Brace.
”I tracked her spiritual adviser to a farm in the dales,” I said, sitting back down as he reached for the photographs, “he's some kind of priest now, charitable tax status and everything. Runs a commune with a bunch of strays. Burn-outs and runaways, that sort of thing. But they and your wife appear to be there of their own volition. No signs of coercion or kidnapping.”
Brace had been busy flipping through the photographs, his eyes soaking up the leaves of flat truth, but he'd stalled at a particular picture. And I knew just the one. A small room. One bed. Two people. A frame filled with sheets and skin and sweat. The kind of picture you don't want to get caught looking at, let alone taking. People talk about free-love and sexual liberation, but most still want it in the dark, behind a locked door. I do find parts of my job distasteful. All the stacks of filth I've got squirrelled away. But I'm afraid private lives and dirty secrets are my bread and butter and I can't afford much by way of a conscience.
”She's with that goddamned hippie?” he stammered, “but I love her!”
I thought I'd better let him get the bile out before I continued.
”I gave her everything she ever wanted. She wouldn't have anything if it wasn't for me!” He shouted at the photograph.
”As you say, Mr Brace, she's conducting an affair.”
He didn't look up.
”That, along with your separation over the past few months, should see to a quick and inexpensive divorce.”
”Divorce?” he echoed, eyes still on the photograph.
”I did tell you to prepare yourself for this very eventuality, Mr Brace,” I said, in my best attempt at a conciliatory tone.
”But,” he finally looked up, “that's just something you say to everyone, surely?”
His voice was equal parts desperation and defeat. It could still go either way.
”I do, Mr Brace, and do you know why?”
His eyes were still on me. Looking out over his wife and her hippie, holy-man lover.
”I say it because, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that's the way it is.”
I turned away from his wet eyes and found myself looking at the filing cabinet. Then I remembered the bottle I had in there. And then remembered the stuff that made the bottle necessary. When I looked back, all of Brace was still there, weeping and salty and pathetic.
”At least now, you know,” I said.
Brace avoided catching sight of his wife again as his head fell forward. The photographs flapped their way to the floor after his gaze.
”I'll have the completed file posted out to you,” I said, standing, “I suggest you pass it on to your solicitor.”
Brace was now defeat piled in a chair, bent over himself like a beaten question mark. As he had now ceased to move or speak, I quickly came to the conclusion that it was far past time he should leave. My first attempt to rouse him involved stomping around the desk and slamming my fist on the filing cabinet as I went. No reaction. I rattled the door knob and flung the door open, the bookcase knocking it back with a clatter into my hand. Still the sad heap in the chair. I kicked the chair-back gently. And then again, hard. The third kick nearly spilled Brace onto the floor but he just about caught himself, his head jerking up to attention.
”Good evening, Mr Brace,” I said.
His exit was slow but, thankfully, without fuss. Hopefully he'd be sad and broken for the rest of his days, but better that than show him what his wife and the rest of that frenzied rabble were actually up to in those desolate hills. With the wretch gone, I could at last liberate my mess of papers from the filing cabinet. Along with that blessed bottle. My desk drawer squealed before giving up a tumbler, which I quickly filled, then emptied and then filled again. And with the alcohol's jagged chill both calming and jump-starting my mind, I set about, once more, to make sense of my crumpled life.
-yotchki