1 of the 11

In relation to my earlier story, “The Boss”

https://muffledquail.wordpress.com/2015/05/08/the-boss/

 

The meadows were lush green, freshly kissed by the morning dew, leaving behind a glow that pleased Lenny’s senses. The sun had taken a break from a long, heralded assault throughout the year, and had given way to the cool breeze that carried the congenial rains on its back.

The visibility had taken a hit, the hills on the far end of the picturesque sight had vanished behind the thick curtain of rains, embellishing the view from his window, remarkably better. Lenny liked the hills, but he liked the misty curtain and the magical sleight of water and sun and wind even better. The other side of the coin got darker as the front got better. Tony and Alena did not permit him to go out into the world, deemed to be dangerous, that could swallow him up leaving no trace behind. Lenny obeyed their stringency until he was not young anymore, and developed a brain of his own.

He wanted to go out, he wanted to sit under the sun, soak up the brightness and find out if he can fly like the Superman. He wanted to get drenched in the rain, and learn if he can grow tall and green like the trees that adorned the yard outside. He wanted to climb the mountains, to know if he can really see the world from the top of it. He wanted to get to the top of the Klate City Tower and find out if it is taller or shorter than those faraway hills. All the places he wanted to go were spread across the city – the city he had seen from the backseat of their car. Isolation, lonesomeness and solitude, if compensated with an optimistic environment within his house, would probably have helped his mental health, or that he believed. However, the dark side of the coin was darker for him.

The reason what brought them to a decision of living away from the world, eluded him. All he was told was that “it is not safe for you, out there.” A house, far from the crowd, far from the society allowed seclusion to seep into him, and it carried gloom along with it.

On his eleventh birthday, Lenny decided to pull up the creaky wooden plank from the centre of the floor in his room. He had done this several times before, but with a hollow objective. The plank was loosely fit, and he knew it. His parents had never noticed it, and Lenny did not bother to apprise them. This time, his desperation assigned an objective to lifting up the plank. A shovel from the garage struck the soil beneath, with a glorious ambition.

 

“I am doing my job.” Tony asserted in a blaring tone so loud, shattering the windows around him in the dining hall. An army of sweat beads started marching down his balding forehead as his head was shaking uncontrollably under the weight of the anger that he felt within him. His fingers had curled into a balled fist, so hard that it could have broken the wooden dining table beneath his hands. Alena was worried more for the table, than for the anger, and she owed the nonchalance to the frequency at which he used to be a bear with a sore head.

“Stop being up in arms about this article, Tony!” Alena was ready with a catalysing tone, aiming to moderate the rising temper. “It is the Boss you are writing about. As it is, he is unpopular for taking several lives! Why are you so stiff-necked about wanting our little Lenny dead?”

The army paraded in a straight line, dripping itself from the furrows of Tony’s forehead. He banged the table, blowing off a gasket upon the mentioning of their offspring. He stood up at the table, leaving the food half-eaten, and dug his hand in his pocket. He slammed a roll of colourful bills on the table. “Who do you think I bring this for? Your ugly face?”

“Stop yelling for crying out loud!” Alena spoke up with a repressed grunt, spending most of her vigour in suppressing the indignation. “You will scare Lenny!”

Moments passed by when nobody spoke. The air surrounding the two found rest. “Listen, Alena,” spoke Tony with a voice with an unimaginable tenderness. “I am a reporter for the GNV News. The best channel in the country. It is a new assignment, and I cannot produce conventional news. In order to make a name and rise up through the ranks, they expect golden eggs. If I am to bring them the commonplace news about robberies and rape, I will remain indistinguishable, and if I remain indistinguishable, who is to bring food on this table, and who is to bring money for Lenny’s tuition?

“The Boss has his hands in the nastiest of businesses, and the network that he has built in Klate is the reason why Lenny is locked up like this. We don’t let him go to school by himself. We don’t let him meet his friends, if he has been able to make any. We don’t let him be by himself anywhere, anytime. I mean, how could we, Alena? Do you think we want this life for our kid? Soon, he will be grown enough to leave us. Do you think I want him to face the world for the first time at that age and not now? Boss crawls up under my skin, and stings me hard! I hate that son of a bitch and I will take him down, and I have a lot of material against him. One publication, and he will be out of Klate. We will be free.”

Alena felt a pang of fury along with Tony, but she stayed calm. Fire does not fight fire. Water does. She admittedly nodded. His heart, his intent was her weakness, and she deliberately gave in. Another side of her worried if they were slightly too paranoid about Lenny’s safety. She was also bothered by the fact that Lenny stopped protesting against locking him up in the house. He will understand when the time comes, she told herself.

“You got to be safe, Tony. You got to be safe for Lenny, and for me. For us, please don’t poke the dormant snake. Kill it while it is asleep.”

“Boss is no ordinary snake, Alena. He is a goddamn dragon.” Tony replied with a faint smile. “And he never sleeps.”

“You are not helping my anxiety.”

“Gun is in bedside drawer. Shoot that son of a bitch in his face, if it helps you.”

Lenny overheard the conversation, and quietly slid back into his room.

Months passed by. Night before the day when Tony planned to publish the article, a tingling sense of disquiet percolated his skin. A fusion of fear and ambition had rendered his heart shaking and his hands steady. “We are one day away from the news, Alena. One day.”

Alena was far more scared than Tony was, but his composure was contagious.

“I have booked the tickets for a faraway land. We will fly away tomorrow. Far, so far that the Boss will never be able to find us, in case he survives the media.”

Alena nodded, and reacted to the sound of the bell that chimed across every corner of the house. One man, in a dapper blue suit stood at the door, his tie a shimmering black, his shirt a sparkling white.

“What can I do for you?”

“Let us in.”

The cold voice delivered a chill to Alena, and the intruder barged in, making way for the man in a bright white suit, and a golden chain. The girth of the man was colossal, just able to walk in through the width of the door. His head was rich with hair, as white as the suit itself.

Boss.

He settled on the sofa, central to the room, facing the TV set directly. Tony protected Alena behind him, and stood at the corner of the room, next to the TV.

“What are you so afraid of, Mr. Neak? It seems like you did something wrong.” The chill in his voice was notably dreadful. Alena had Lenny in her mind, and she was shivering with fear – raw, pure, unadulterated fear. “Have you done anything wrong?”

Tony tried to pull out his phone from the trouser pocket.

“I presupposed you for a smarter person, Mr. Neak. You disappoint me.”

“What do you want?”

“You know well what I am here for. Your investigation is the reason I am here. In a way, you have invited me here, Mr. Neak. You called me here, today, among your beloved wife, your charming son. Would you not introduce me to them?”

“Dare you touch Lenny, you cold-hearted faggot!” The repressed anger blew up her top, and she verbally charged the Boss.

“Ooo, that anger! Don’t you find it attractive?” Boss asked his henchman, who loyally stood by his side.

“Not really, sir.”

“Then kill her.”

In a fraction of a second, a bullet split Alena’s head open, hot dark blood oozing out, running across her cold skin. She slumped onto the floor next to Tony, who stood there, helpless. He would have felt a burden of guilt, that his wife was dead, next to him, who had warned him of this, but his ambition had blinded his want for a safe and happy family. But, before the guilt began to settle in, another bullet spit cut through his chest, and another right next to the first one, and Tony’s eyes, wide and afraid, slowly saw only blackness – blackness of Boss’ filth.

“Which number were these?”

“10 and 11, sir,” the henchman replied.

“Good. I do not wish to make a 12 tonight. 11 kills a day is good. On target.”

The henchman took care of the bodies, as the Boss walked across the rooms, to find Lenny. Unlocking the door at the far end in the house, Lenny stood in the middle of the room, his hand steady as those hills he dreamt of. A gun held in his hands, pointed at the Boss, who laughed, and discredited Lenny of his ability to be able to pull the trigger.

“If you kill me little boy, a very evil man is outside, who is going to take you away and hurt you severely.”

“Only if he catches me, you bastard.”

The smile vanished off his face, and in a moment came a painful drill in his belly. His fingers that held the wound were stained with blood, that did not cease to stop. Another fire, and another blood leak.

“You’re my 1st of the 11,” Lenny spat. “And now, I am the Boss.” Lenny grunted, unleashing his wrath.

He pulled up the plank that he was standing on, and made way along the extremely narrow tunnels that he had carved over the months. Several bifurcations underneath had led the way to different places that he dreamed of going to. One to the meadows, one to the vicinity of the TV tower, one to the hills, and so on. He crawled towards his dreams, he crawled to stand up on those hills. He chose a path, that the pursuer could not find, and the Boss was still alive, except that he was younger, and driven by a disparate ambition.

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The Purple Death

She waited anxiously. She sat on the curb, oblivious to her surroundings, which were full with nothing. It was close to midnight, and the vicinity was clear of people. She was alone, but yet she was waiting for someone…waiting for something…

As an honest academician, Chloe climbed the ladders away from the abject poverty that had cast an ominous shadow over her childhood, only to find herself at the same spot of penury. She was not among the ones who’d blame anyone else for any misfortune that came her way, but rather, she sucked it up. Her father had made severe financial blunders, which caused them dive face first into the ocean of debt, the surface of which felt like thin glass. A dull life with just enough money to live had started to eat her from within, and vacuumed her life out of satisfaction.

Teaching was not something that she saw herself doing, but to make her way through, she taught to the needy, and made money only enough to nourish herself and her small family. She did not complain, neither did she crib over her situation. She fought and she survived, but was robbed of any possibility that would make her happy from her heart. The happiness that appeared on her face was disconnected from what ran in her heart. Fighting for survival and then money, barely enough to keep her alive, made her feel as if she were a hamster running on a wheel. Ending exactly where it started. She was looking for a window out of which she can escape.

She got a job at a public school that paid her in meagre quantities. She was offered a position in a private school that promised her the money that she only dreamt of. However, she knew it in her head that her chase for money will ruin the future of public schools, and soon, there would exist none. Poor kids will remain uneducated, availing a monopolistic advantage for the private giants. Besides, her greed for money was lost. She didn’t think that she would enjoy it like the way she could have if she had more money ten years ago. She continued at the public school.

Frustrated, she went to a place where she usually went when she was low. A jewellery shop. She was browsing things she gave up hopes of owning. However, her desire could not be subsided. She ached for some necklace, or a ring, or a tiara or anything else that she couldn’t afford. The owner knew her and her tragic life since she was a young little girl, who wasn’t dried off of the joy and glee. His life was not as glorious as it was a decade ago, when he could take walk with a straight back.

“This is a new collection!” Chloe stated with a smile on her face, clearly joyed by the glitter of the gold, and the shimmer of the silver.

“It certainly is, Chloe! How are you, today?” The man spoke with an aging voice, rough due an overuse of cigarettes.

Chloe hoped he did not ask this question since it brings her back to reality from this magical land of gleam and shine. “I am doing okay, Mr. Brown.”

Mr. Brown could see the pain beneath her face every time he heard the response. He asked this question every time to read how she really is from her face. It only got worse from the last many times.

“Come,” said Mr. Brown, pointing his hand towards a staircase that led to the warehouse underneath the shop. “I will show you something that will make you lose your senses!” He locked the shop door from the inside and led the way downstairs. He walked with a limp, every step a shot of pain through her legs.

They settled in a room, big enough only to fit two people and a small table between them. However, the walls were full of shelves and drawers where Mr. Brown stored his jewellery. He took out an elegant black box from the topmost drawer on Chloe’s side and placed it on the table between them. He shut the light off, and turned on a small white light that was powerfully hitting the surface of the black box. Curious as to what lay inside the box, Chloe leaned forward towards the table. As the box opened, a magnificent glow of purple washed her face. Her expressions of joy could not have been described better than this purple shine on her face. Mr. Brown observed her face; he could not dig that deep in his memory to a time when he had seen Chloe his astounded.

Mesmerized and lost, Chloe’s amazement of the grandeur of the small purple stone was brought to a steady halt by My Brown’s polite interruption. “This is called as a Blue Garnet. I know it is purple, but that is why this is a special stone. It is blue by nature, but it turns purple every night. It is among the rarest of the stones! As small as this is, selling this will help me earn a fortune.”

“I am sure it would.” Chloe was yet to come out of the incredulity.

“However, there are many stories associated with his stone, Chloe. I need to tell this to someone. If I tell this to a prospect buyer, he will never buy this stone from me.”

Chloe was bewildered. “Why is that? What is the story?”

Mr. Brown cleared his throat. His grey hair shone brighter in the small light in the room. “This stone has changed several hands. I have learnt the reason why. As mesmerized as you were, other enthusiasts were trapped by the charm of this stone, but they bought it. The first owner of this stone bought it from a jewel exhibition in Mumbai. An enthusiast, wealthy businessman bought the stone with a blink of an eye. Now, as if this stone is cursed, the man’s car was slammed by a truck just when his driver pulled off the car out of the parking. The driver survived, the owner of the stone did not.”

Chloe’s eyes spoke of the horror that she felt.

“This stone was shipped to Dar es Salaam, to his only son, who inherited all his possessions. He sold it the First Lady of Tanzania. Her position rewarded her with a lot of money, and his work had her in constant touch with her. She bought it without having to try to sell it to her. The stone has a magical spell that lured the audience into falling for it. It is akin to Siren, who deceptively attracted the shipmen towards her, breaking their boats apart. She choked on her next meal the same day. It is also said that she was attracted to the stone enough to bring it with her everywhere she went.”

Chloe was smart enough to understand what is going on. “Mr. Brown, are you feeling superstitious about this stone?”

“If I were superstitious, I would not buy the stone off the grieving lady who came yesterday. Co-incidences are more powerful than superstitions. Superstitions are merely incidences that humans fail to comprehend.” Mr. Brown stated plainly, expecting her question. “Now, this brings me to the last known owner of this beauty. Mr. Grim. A connoisseur of rare stones and jewels, and more importantly, a man who ridiculed the curse that hovered over this multi-coloured stone. She wanted to sell away the stone, the blasphemy that made her beloved fall off the roof to death.”

Chloe was shocked and puzzled. Dumbfound as never before, her lips were parted and her eyes stared at the table where the black box was placed. Mr. Brown, with his stooped back, was putting away the box with careful steps on the small ladder, placed right behind Chloe. Grasped by the mystic powers of the purple stone, Chloe handled a box of jewellery from beside her in the shelf, and slammed it on the back of Mr. Brown. She smashed the glass and the wood on him and before he could gather his senses around what was happening, he succumbed to the possessed woman who out of desperation put an end to his life. She delivered the curse that the stone possessed.

Now, she waited. She waited on the street. Sitting under the gleaming moon, she waited for the end of the joyless life that she had invited for herself. Every person who has possessed this stone has died, she thought as she ran her finger across the stone, thinking of Mr. Brown who was delivered a release that he needed, now waiting for her own release that would set her free from the manacles of the joyless and unambitious life. “Superstition,” she said to herself, bringing a smile to her face as she ran her hand through the smooth surface of the stone. She waited..

The Untamed Fire

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…”. I saw the leading man of the jury on the other side of the glass door as he led the jury that walked marching towards the court room, where I in all my solitude, waited. They held in their hands a piece of paper that would determine which turn the vehicle of my life will steer into. Whether it will crash into a wall made of solid steel or if will be lobbed into the skies of freedom and glory was a decision that will be at the mercy of what the jury believes in. To my dismay, I had given up the fate of my existence in the hands of those twelve people as well, for I could have been the lawbreaker, or I could not have been. Befuddling, isn’t it?

Accustomed to the burden of frustration, I spend my dull afternoons taking a break from the humdrums of the grey life that I have brought myself to. Perhaps I have more than what I deserve to have, but none of it makes me happy. I would not try to glorify myself by telling you what I am not. I am a salesman, who sells exercise equipment for the morbidly fat and the rich. The equipment is robbed of every possible utility, and is a device that aids me in earning some money off the desperate obese populace.

Some weeks ago, I sat at fountain that adorned like a jewel, alongside the curved path of the Central Park. An empty bench was reserved for me, it felt. A bunch of boys came to the path precisely ten minutes after me, glee on their faces, except one. That one boy reminded me of my childhood. As the only boy with spectacles on, he was bullied over by the other boys who followed him. Don’t mistake me for a nice person, for I am not one. I am bereft of sympathy and compassion. Life has filled me enough apathy to serve for this one life at least. I was the shortest in height among my fellow schoolmates who took the same route home. My belongings were tossed, placed on a tree branch high up and more. The days were as dreadful as I imagine them to be, today. My parents handed this matter to the teachers and the teachers put it on my parents. Ultimately, I was left alone to be exploited by my schoolmates. I went through similar emotions, if not same as this boy’s. However, I did not feel bad for the boy, but as the days passed by, the various forms of harassment that he went through had brewed a mixture of rage and anger within him, which blazed his eyes with a fire that I was not an alien to. He would have painted the park red if his physical strength matched with his inner rage.

Some days later, the boy approached me and sat by my side. “Why don’t you help me, sir?”

Surprised by the question, I dove into a pool of thoughts, swimming from one to another. One thought was about how I was as a child. Unlike this boy by my side, I never sought for help. I never thought that I needed help. I had perceived everything that happened in my life as something that is meant to be. My father worked for very long hours, my mom cheated on him and my babysitter barely took care of me. My mother fed herself a belief that I fell for her lies. Nobody needs a dentist three times a week and I was acquainted with that. Fights and violence dominated the small house that my parents could afford and it made me insensitive to both. Neither affected me. Sensitivity is like a lemon; once dried up, it is only worthy of debris.

As a child, I demonstrated violence in my own way. With barely anyone to supervise me, I was at the liberty of experimentation and at the mercy of no one. Fire. I love fire. I loathe cigarettes or any other smoke, but fire mesmerizes me. It fascinates even today, when I am over thirty, how almost the entirety of the object turns black upon burning. The wrappers of the Christmas presents were the subjects of my first experiments. They shrivelled, cowered and got supressed by the raw might of the orange-yellow power, rendering them ruthlessly of their purpose.

I did not stop here. The brutality of my actions climbed the ladder. I know these as brutal acts because I learnt the meaning of sensitivity from others, when I had already surpassed the barrier, time and again. It was too late until I knew that I was a monster! Do I regret any of it? No. Remorse alights from the train along with benevolence. I went to my front yard, and put a burning match inside the ant hill. The pleasure that I now know to be so sadistic was once a matter of joy for me. It fed my endless curiosity. I did not stop at ants. I lit roaches and lizards alive as well. If there were someone who corrected me while I was young, I might have stopped being apathetic, but then I would have been robbed of the ultimate pleasure that I derived from burning those little helpless bastards alive!

“Why do you think should I help, boy?” I responded after a while, taking a deep dig into my sandwich.

“Because you seem to care,” said the boy with barely any expression or hope for help.

I ignored the boy, for I don’t consider myself to be the best of the men one must seek out for advice. The boy went away, alone, dejected. His loneliness followed him unmistakably and was deafeningly loud. Being accustomed to seclusion, the supressed, quiet rage within him came an inch closer to the surface. It was an issue that went miles ahead of simply bullying. It scars the person for life. A human is nothing but an amalgamation of all the experiences that he has in his entire lifetime. There is a reason why I am who I am. Improper direction of right and wrong, insufficient childcare, limitless mistreatment and guiltless pleasures.

The scene repeated day after day, as I ate my lunch, I saw that boy get beleaguered by the boys out of his league. Still, sympathy is not the word that I would use to describe how I felt. I could not care less. As a matter of fact, I mentally tried to run away from the situation, as it reminded me of the unpleasant times from my past that bring me trepidation.

After some more days, he came and sat next to me for another time. For a boy that age, he spoke some words of a wise man. “For someone who could witness and tolerate the injustice on a young boy so casually, one has to consider this juvenile and unimportant.” The wrath that was bred within him was closer to the surface than the last time I had felt.

I was taken aback by his words. Maybe he was right. Perhaps I do not find this to be a big deal. Or perhaps it was only an extension of my unconcern for anything that goes around of me. How do I explain it to him? I tried.

“Have you tried talking to your elders about this?” I asked, surprising myself with the level of maturity that I had in my talk.

“You think I would resort to a complete stranger eating his lunch in a park before resorting to my parents and teachers? Do you see what they are doing to me? Do you see how limbless I feel when they are harassing me?”

His voice rose with every question that he asked. His face trembled, his lips parted and he sweltered like a pig. I simply stared back at his eyes and he calmed down, started staring at his shoes – shoe, just one shoe. The other was hanging up the tree in the park.

Agitated, I frowned at the boy’s situation. The realization hit me like a truck on my face that the bullied life that I had is not the one that I wish for this boy, here. It was one of the reasons why I grew up to be an ungrateful piece of being. A personality is at the mercy of how things are around you when you grow up. I am sullen, apathetic, unconcerned, indifferent, cruel and violent due to the circumstances that impressed me in my childhood were full of it. Do I love it? If I understood what love was, I would not love who I am, I am doubtless.

A sudden wave of anger swept me red. I noticed the boy feel empowered as my fury boiled within me.

As I stand now in the court, awaiting judgement, the echoes from my past still haunt me, but I feel that I brought about a change in this world. A world of shame was swirling within me, but my face had a happy curve on it. Never had I known what disgust means until today, when I helped prevent a boy from turning into who I am—a hateful and spiteful piece of wreckage. The solution is to slice down the roots!

“Six, five, four, three, two, one…”

“With regards to the case charged against you for the murder of three teenagers, we find you…” the pause between now and the decision felt to be the longest. “Guilty.” The voice came from the skies. Hazy, yet perceptible. For reasons I could not comprehend, it felt like a piece fell right in place. I felt complete.

The boy followed me as they took me away for a life in prison. I knelt down, and looked in his teary eyes, free of the rage. “How am I to live with this, sir?”

I sighed. I did this because this gave my life some meaning, some purpose. “I did this for myself, boy. You live like a man should. Learn not from me.”

“But,” the boy cried profusely. His words were unspoken, but yet heard. He felt the fire within him subside, as I saw the one he set on the boys roar aloud.

A Leap of Faith

“What would you have done on this beautiful Sunday if were not for this demanding case?” Willy asked Freemont as the latter looked outside the plane window into the milky-white clouds.
Freemont sighed. “The usual. Sunday afternoons are for gaming.”

Willy expected to listen to a mature answer than what he heard and it was evident from his facial expressions.

Freemont noticed the same, laughed and said, “It is necessary to keep the kid inside you alive, Willy.”

Their private plane booked for them by the Government of a city-state of Juana landed on the rain-washed runway. Juana is connected by trains with few islands around, that are well-connected with the rest of the world, currently in a better political state than Juana. For almost every travel in and out of this city, airplanes are the most promising mode of transport. The airport was washed, but no amount of rain could wash out the tyranny of the unknown intruders who have been eating the life out of the city by harbouring a brutal regime under Juana’s glorified skin.

A group of terrorists attacked this benign state that lay far away from the globalization, in the middle of the Atlantic. They came by boats. Dozens of them, and took over the administration of half of the petite state.

“The only thing we know about these savages is their reasoning that they scream out loud through videos and banners.” The DCI of Juana, who asked for a favour from Svent Freemont, expressed the borderline despair that he was experiencing.

“And that is?” Svent asked as he leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on the wooden table in between them.

The DCI stared Freemont in his deep black eyes and said, “Revenge is inevitable. You took something away from me. I will take everything from you.”

The monstrous demonstrations of murders and total autocracy in half of the city had brought Juana to its knees. If not stopped, the city-state will be eliminated before it could receive any foreign aid, in case it does. The message that the assailants yell out sent a chill down the spines of Svent and Willy, as they both rested back on their chairs.

“It sounds like you have mistaken me for someone who stops terrorism, Mr. DCI.”

“I know exactly where your expertise lies in, Mr. Freemont. I have read and heard a lot about you. I called you here trusting your stellar zeal in solving cases. In the better part of the city where we are right now, several number of people are missing since last few days, and no investigation has come to fruition, yet.”

Freemont was not impressed. He was looking for a reason why he was requested to travel hundreds of kilometers into this war-torn city-state.

“And the reason why I want the best detective here in my city,” the DCI continued, assured to wipe out the frown off Svent’s face. “Is because it is almost impossible to flee this city via cars and passenger trains are rusting in the yard. Goods trains are on, for even the terrorists need them, but they are under constant surveillance. All the modes of transportation have been monitored and controlled by the assailants. They had no idea that the airfield where you landed on could be operational if we want it to. It is like a curfew in the other part of my city-state! The case of missing people is only loosely linked with terrorism. It is something else. Here is where we need your help, Mr. Freemont.”

The sun shone bleakly over the plagued city of Juana as Freemont and Willy made their way towards the private car that the Government of Juana had arranged for the two. On the other side of the street, a man dressed in black overalls, with his eyes, his magnificent azure eyes bore into Freemont’s as if sending him a message. Svent’s prying eyes caught the attention of a pistol shabbily hidden under the man’s loose dress. Without any sudden movement, Svent and Willy took off from the police station and fled the scene, leaving Svent into a swirl of thoughts that centred around the peculiar man who stood behind a tree with a unique pair of eyes.

The hotel room over overlooked the area, which had noticed a lot of missing people- the central railway station of Juana. As the night fell, Svent was deep in his thoughts, and Willy sat right by him, clueless on where to begin with the search. The moon shone with all its might over the railway bridge where a man passed through with a feline stealth. He stopped in the middle of the bridge and after a couple of minutes and jumped off the bridge over an oncoming train! Svent was startled to see this and he hurried himself to the bridge and try to comprehend the eerie series of scenes that took place right in front of his eyes. Willy was instructed to stay at home, in case they are approached by someone in this matter.

Svent came back to the room, disappointed and tensed. Willy asked him, releasing the repressed restlessness, “What happened back there?”

Svent was absolutely clueless, but headstrong on solving this case. There was no body there. Neither on the bridge, nor on the tracks!

They witnessed another eight mysterious jumps from over the bridge onto the trains and this seemed to be in total slip of his hands. He had no grasp on the matter. While Svent was baffled, Willy made a keen observation that threw a very bright light on this case. Willy pointed out that every person who has jumped from this bridge has stopped there for some time with their head sunk into their chests as if they were reading something. Since their hands seemed to be empty, it must be a small note.

“It cannot be a co-incidence that everyone had something to read right before they jumped. Someone is making them do this!” Freemont got up of the chair, and rushed himself to the bridge, once again asking Willy to continue with the case if he does not return back. Svent’s energy was overwhelming to the point that Willy shed a couple tears at the thought of Freemont giving away his life only to solve a case.

Svent waited for some hours and nothing. It was a forlorn afternoon when the clouds dominated the mighty sun, making it look feeble and ineffective. He stood at the bridge and observed the only few people who passed him on the bridge. He could feel the oppression that the citizens felt, making them wait in the shelter of their homes until the dark clouds cleared from their lives. When he put his hands inside his jacket pocket, he found himself fumbling for a small note that someone sneaked into his pocket when he stood there. Feeling infringed, Svent was utterly shocked for the fact that he, being an excellent detective, let the witness away with not much of a sense of when and how!

The note read, “Take a leap of faith on the next train that passes from under you. See you on the other side.” Sweat broke on Freemont’s brow, but he had to jump. This was the only way to find out the truth. He did not know if he is going to come out alive, but this was a chance his passion for the profession demanded him to take. The train came, the coaches all roof open, filled with white goods. He did not know what they were, but he knew that they would prevent him from getting killed. he closed his eyes, jumped on it and the next thing that he saw was a train station where the train was opened up and he was rescued. Fear trickled from every bone of his body, but he had learnt to hide it well. He stepped out of the train as some men tried to help him with it. It was a very small train station.

Before he could orient himself after the train journey to an unknown land, a voice greeted him from behind, “I was waiting for you, Mr. Freemont.”

It was the man with the azure eyes. Svent was shocked to see him there and he immediately realized the he is a part of a bigger plan and he did not know why. “You! You are trapping people here in this faraway land!”

The man with the azure eyes heard Freemont out, understanding his accusation completely. It was not hard for detective like Svent Freemont to find a gun on a man’s body. “Mr. Freemont, I am aware that Juana has brought you here for a cause, and I am here to help you in this cause. I am not against you.”

Freemont was astonished at what he heard. He was in utter disbelief. Before he could speak further, the man with azure eyes continued. “You are the only one whom I can trust right now. If I were to confess to a Juana military personnel or even the DCI, I would be shot dead or imprisoned under premises of terrorism. Nobody but you will believe me.”

Svent sensed a tone of sincerity from his man. Gathering all his patience, he listened to him. He met some Juana citizens who awaited Freemont’s arrival, in order to convince him of the nobility of the man with azure eyes.

“I am indeed a part of the terrorist group, but it is not my choice. They have my family hostage and any hint that they would receive against me, they will all be dead. I cannot tolerate this horrendous inhumanity and I have been doing my part in trying to rescue people from unaffected areas of Juana to his part of the region, where that madman is not creating havoc, and won’t. He has nothing to do with here. Juana is his only target. This needs to be very low-profile and therefore, it is very secretive.”

Freemont was impressed and sympathetic towards the man. His emotions took an about turn. He heard the man out, completely. He now knew the reason why the madman is on a killing spree, and why he is targeting Juana. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take this train back, and urge the DCI to stop his search for the missing men. They are missing for a good cause. They are all safe here, and my small network of people in Juana are rescuing as many as they can before they see themselves on the madman’s target. If DCI advances his search any further and if he hears about it, the consequences are going to be gorier than now.”

“I will do that,” Freemont said with a new-found zest and motive for the case. “Why cannot I recollect hearing this madman’s name before?” Freemont thought to himself, “Victor Klashkinov.”

“Sure you have,” replied the man with azure eyes. “He is otherwise known as The Boss!”

Ninth Time’s a Charm

The loud and energetic anthem sung by the students and professors alike marked the unearthly day that brought down the pillar of the Chetford Institute. The annual function headed off with a zest of hundreds of motivated students, who were on the field to compete on a non-academic platform.

As the event began, six teams represented by different classes and courses took their corners on the open ground that was central to the two tall buildings that housed mediocre facilities of books and IT for the students who paid enormously for the education. To the outside world, the monetary demands of the institute was worth its name and face value in the job market, filling the hearts of the young men and women with hopes of a secured life post the education at Chetford.

As the event progressed, the organization was being handled magnificently. The games started on time; the teams that held the scores and schedule of the event did their job with impressive efficiency. At lunch, the professors returned to their chairs under the shade of a giant tree that stood solitary in the edge of the ground.

“Are the students not doing an excellent job?” The Assistant Head of the Institute Ms. Madson said in a rhetorical tone, clearly impressed by her students.

“They sure are. To me, they are already managers,” replied Bhackin, the head, zestfully, while munching from her plate, the delicious Sunday meal.

“The students from the Class B are clearly dominating the charts in every game. Only wish they did the same in their upcoming examinations,” said Prof. Khades in a lighter tone.

Minutes after that little conversation, they were immersed in the joyful competition of young men in the game of football. The next few minutes changed the fate and the mood of the event as well as of the Institute. As soon as the lunch was devoured, Bhackin felt uneasy, struggling with her breathing, as she threw her empty plate away in the moments of absolute helplessness and fell down on the ground on her face. Before anyone could register the horror that she was going through inside her body, she was dead. In front of hundreds of people, she lay on the ground, dirtied by the soil and insulted by her trust on the ones around, one of who killed her.

“A murder inside a college, you say?” Freemont raised his eyebrows, expressing a mild shock.

“Yes, sir,” replied Willy promptly as he was excited to go on such an interesting case with his boss and the best detective in the town, Svent Freemont.

Svent Freemont arrived at the crime scene, which was gloomy to the skin of it. It was not unusual for him to breathe in this kind of melancholy that was in the air on that Sunday afternoon. Some students cried, some were aloof and apathetic. Some professors sat next to the dead body, while some stood by with a stern expression on their faces. Willy made note of every valuable information that he could gather.

Upon instructions, Willy barred the entry and the exit of the premises. The rest of the police force joined in to keep the crowd in check. Willy went into the crowd and started interviewing several students individually about what they saw, and their relationship with the Head of the Institute, Mrs. Bhackin.

Meanwhile, Freemont requested the professors to avail him a free room, where interrogations could be held. Being assured of this being an inside job, he hoped to nudge the ones closest to the victim—the professors.

Prof. Shieve, an ex-Air Force cadet, had decided to take it upon himself to teach the lessons of morality, righteousness and ethics to the students—the future of the nation. “I am shocked,” said Prof. Shieve with an unnatural air of emotional expression. Freemont expected him to be stern and in control of his emotions as he had served the national Air Force. Svent was disappointed at Prof. Shieve’s dramatic reaction. Professor used a very controlling tone over his defense and the dismay that consumed him upon losing his idol.

The next in the queue was Prof. Khades, a mastermind in the Computer studies, who was a passionate professor with a clear, yet a hyper temperament. “I do not have anything to say except that she had her own ways of dealing with difficult situations, but she was an excellent leader. She has held this Institute together for decades.”

Ms. Madson, took a while to adjust in the chair in front of Svent Freemont. She was medically obese, and to make her balance worse, she was sobbing profusely at the loss of the Head of the Institute, with him she had very close ties. Freemont was not able to learn much from her, besides the fact that she was with Mrs. Bhackin since the morning. Freemont was absolutely clueless at the end of the three interviews.

Willy joined Freemont in the interrogation room, and they both took their time in discussing the matter, trying to reach to an acceptable theory behind it. Freemont looked outside the window and saw the ambulance carefully take out the lifeless body of Mrs. Bhackin, still with her glasses on her face that appeared pale. Her soon-to-be white hair were neatly buckled, giving her a strict appearance, which passed away along with her. Who would poison her, and how?

“The students I inquired have a very harsh opinion about this Institute and Mrs. Bhackin.” Willy was walking across the room, with a visible tension in his voice and demeanour. “Gathering all the information I received from various students, this Institute’s public image is a hokum. The promises of job placement and eye-catching number of zeros in the salary promises have attracted students from various corners of the country, but however, not one student is in accord with the Institute’s promises.” Freemont was keenly listening. “The Chetford institute is a giant spider web, luring students with its politically bolstered image of consistency and excellence, and the political influence is so high, that the voice of the students gets suppressed before it reaches the outside world. It has ridiculously high standards that suck the students dry, and to add to it, the penalties that the students are made to pay are monetary, which pressurizes them to follow the harshly set rules, considering the mercilessness of Mrs. Bhackin. Some of the students have not received their degree certificate due to their outstanding monetary dues that was blindly imposed on them, unforgivably.”

Freemont’s head was in a gear now, listening to Willy carefully as Willy continued with his comments. “Clearly, students don’t hold a very nice impression for Mrs. Bhackin. They have an appropriate motive to end her life— the root of their problems that decides their fate. This is was an excellent chance to poison her as they were in charge of everything today in the event. The food, the games and the maintenance.”

“There is a fair chance, Willy that one or some of the students planned this murder. However, this kind of planning and execution requires sensibility and genius, and no genius would want to take such a risk with their lives, when they know that the unfair treatment by the Institute will last for only two years.” Willy was not prepared to hear what came next.

“The ones who have to live under the tyranny of highly political, controlling and manipulative Head of the Institute are her colleagues.” Willy was shaken at the possibility of it. “Willy, let us review the camera recording that captured the moments before her death. I am certain it is one of them. Let us hunt for the proof.”

The recording played from several minutes before the professors got up to get their lunch. They came back to the seat and nothing seemed abnormal to Freemont. While munching down the meal, Prof. Khades got up and resumed back to her seat after a short break. Nothing seemed amiss. And then it happened. Mrs. Bhackin fell down on the ground, throwing her plate away in despair that she went through in her final moments.

Frustration mounted Freemont’s face as he scanned through the entire video for eight times. He closed his eyes and let the pictures play in the back of his eye, letting his mind do all the work. Willy sat there quietly, lost in the baffling puzzle. Svent’s phone rang. It was the department of forensics, who had a report of the poison that killed Mrs. Bhackin. Poison X. Freemont had heard about Poison X from his colleague, who described the classified information regarding the high-tech chemical weapons that the National Military was designing for the Secret Agents of the nation. Prof. Shieve. Freemont had a smile on his face, as the case came closer to completion.

Freemont watched the entire video for the ninth time, and this time he saw it. The answer was right there in front of his eyes all the time. Everything made sense. “Willy, arrest them all.”

Willy did not go immediately. He was very keen on learning why Freemont ordered him to go for all three of them.

Freemont rewound the video and showed Willy a glitch that ran for a little moment. It was easy for an untrained eye to overlook it. Freemont did not miss that tiny error this time that Prof. Khades made in pausing the video for less than half a second, and resuming the recording as it is. This subtle pause was shrewdly planned. She had got up to go to the control room, as she had access and the skill that was necessary to hamper with the recording. That small pause was enough for Ms. Madson to poison her food and get back to her original position, making it appear like she did not move one bit. Even with a use of wireless communication devices, the timeliness of the planning was commendable. The poison that Prof. Shieve had made arrangements of from his Military contacts, was one of an experimental kind that does not show any reaction on the dead body, making it look like a natural death!

“Did they really think that they would get away with this murder?” Willy asked with a hint of disgust in his tone.

“They would have for today, at least, if it were not for the tiny little mistake that Prof. Khades made. Later, their political status and influence could have taken them far from this case in a matter of phone calls, Willy. We just got lucky.”

The Boss

The train thundered through the beautiful landscape, only a few kilometres before it made its journey through the mountainous terrain of the picturesque snow-clad scenery. The quietude outside the train, in the serene hills, was in contrast with the environment inside. An old couple in the far end of the coach exemplified the truthfulness of a relationship as they laughed together. A group of young students were on a trip and they appeared absolutely vibrant. A young woman was reading a romantic book, which turned her cheeks red, probably missing her love. Everyone on the coach looked thrilled, except for one man.

A middle-aged man, sitting by himself by the window stared into the depth of the woods from the window. His dark eyes were fixed outside the window for quite some time. He was lost in thoughts, which apparently ate him up from the inside. He seemed to be worried about the what came next and was clearly and quietly expressive about his anxiety.

Frank Gordon, a slightly older man, sat opposite to this middle-aged man; he could not help but notice the growing anxiety on the man’s face. He wore a perfume that had a musty scent. It was very distinguishable and it caught Frank’s olfactory senses. Gordon interrupted his thoughts, breaking the depth of them. “Excuse me, good sir. I hate to bother you, but I could not stop thinking about the nervousness on your face. Clearly something is bothering you. You seem to be in some trouble. Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?”

The man stared at Gordon with a disturbing look, clearly displeased with the unwelcoming interruption. The shadows were playing on his face as the sun was setting down behind the hills outside. His dark hair were neatly set and the piercing eyes were not helping Gordon to perceive the ferociousness of his stare any lesser. Frank was a little shaken by the silent aggression, but he maintained his cool.

The dark-haired man stared back outside the windows, squinting a little against the shine of the sun. Frank was feeling disconcerted upon the odd contempt of his honest concern.

“Everything will be alright, sir,” Gordon said with a forceful smile, trying his best to be nice with the man.

He adjusted his hat over his vanishing hairline and adjusted back in his seat. The train arrived at the station, and the impolite man stood up, taking his discourtesy with him. Oddly, even his impending departure did not help Frank attain rest. It had become harder for him to survive the heat that rose out of the disturbing silence that dominated the space between them, and his behaviour bothered Gordon.

The man left through the door, leaving a trail of the musty scent of his perfume. Apparently, Brent was the only one who got off the train. For a moment or two, Gordon was lost in the strangeness of the man that he encountered. Frank’s eyes came wandering to the bottom of the seat where that unpleasant man sat, and there was a black briefcase that he had left behind. Immediately, Gordon looked out in search for the man and he saw him vanishing behind the walls that led to the exit of the station. Compelled by his instinct of setting things right, Gordon picked up the briefcase from under the seat, which was heavier than it appeared to be, and he rushed for the door at the same time when the announcement of the train’s departure was over. He escaped the train just in time as he saw felt the automatic doors close behind him.

“Curses!” Frank muttered some angered words over the fate of his journey. The station he got down was surprisingly small, signifying that the region did not hold a lot of people. There was one small room, made of bricks for the station master, who was nowhere to be seen. The station was as unmanned as the moon.

The sky was glowing purple. Frank, without wasting much time walked briskly on the same path, which he saw the man take. Assuming that he must not have gone too far just yet, he hoped to get the next train, whenever it was. Upon turning the corner at the wall towards the exit, Frank walked out of the glass door and he saw the man boarding onto the backseat of a black sedan that sped down the road as soon as he was in. Everything happened so fast that Frank had no time to call him and deliver the briefcase.

Luck was not in his favour, but Gordon had ample of patience. Frank boarded a taxi that was waiting at the curb, and asked him to follow the black sedan that went ahead. The taxi driver obeyed and after a chase of nearly twenty minutes, the sedan came to a halt in a sketchy neighbourhood, deprived of rich infrastructure, or even decent buildings. An array of short brick buildings dominated the poor side of the town that he was in. Most of the street lights were non-functional and the only few that were lit faintly highlighted the quiet, broken and messed streets of the area. Frank found it odd that a man dressed as professionally as him would have business in the underbelly of a town. Frank felt the discomfort of landing in such a place, but he had to deliver the briefcase, which might be important to the man. The streets were not filled with a lot of people, and the lonely streets in such a shady night served poorly to his comfort. He had come this far, he thought. He carried on.

He got off the taxi, paid the driver and walked behind the man, who just entered a small green door in an alley between two buildings, where the cars would not fit. It got darker there. He watched his step carefully as the poorly lit street did not help him well with the visibility of the possible potholes; maybe even an open sewage hole. Gordon was as careful as he possibly could. He wished he had a gun for his safety tonight. He kept walking and then just as he approached the green door, he heard some voices. He stopped and overheard the conversation. Two men. They spoke about something that shocked Gordon and blew his senses off.

“You’re still on your number four, Brent. Another seven kills in another thirteen hours. What is making you so sluggish?” The voice was rough; the kind that comes with years of addiction of cigarettes.

Gordon was frightened, and considered fleeing from the scene. His morals held him back. There was not a chance that Frank would not act upon the knowledge of the identity of the criminals.

“I lost my briefcase in the train. My weapon is in it, and I cannot carry on without it. I need your pistol.”

Gordon understood that the man he had met in the train was on a killing spree. He shook in fear, he sweat through every pore on his body, but he still did not flee.

“Here it is. Remember, you have to notify Boss as you climb up the ladder. If he doesn’t receive a notification…”

“I know,” interrupted Vergo with an angry grunt. “He’ll kill my family.”

Gordon’s astonishment knew no bounds. He heard the pain in his voice. Whatever he thought about this man changed every few minutes; from a distressed person to a killer to a probable victim. His head spun with the heavy thoughts of having gotten involved with killers. The briefcase fell on the floor with a slam the moment he realized that it had a weapon inside!

The noise of the briefcase falling on the ground was loud enough to alert the two men and Frank heard the rush of their footsteps closing in. Without wasting another second, Gordon left the scene with the briefcase with him, and ran in the other direction from the train station on a pavement that was filled with people sleeping or shooting injections to their veins. After a long run in the forsaken neighbourhood and very less help from the people around in the area, he felt that he had escaped.

Gordon found one man in black hood at the corner of the street smoking a cigarette, who walked Gordon to the police station. It was a small office that lay in the middle of a malodourous compound at the end of the street. He rushed inside the surprisingly vacant office and spotted one room to his left and he barged inside it. The police station was as sketchy as the neighbourhood, but Gordon did not expect a lot from this god-forsaken region where he was stuck that night.

In that room, he was welcomed coldly by a burly man with greying hair and a big built. His thick grey moustache matched his stern personality. Gordon placed his faith in the stern policeman and narrated the entire incident to him.

“You’re the not the first one to have the knowledge about The Boss. He is feared all across. Kids, adults and others; anyone or everyone could be his target. He has a very strong influence over the political parties and gets away with every accusation with not even a scratch. Killing brings him pleasure and he has not stopped doing so in last some months. He has gripped the entire town under his giant web of violence and corruption, forcing everyone into murderers. Even the saints and the priests have dirtied their hands in this town. You came to the right place, here. You are safe.”

“I will leave this briefcase here.” The trauma in Gordon’s voice was overpowered by the anger that he felt rising in his belly. “It belongs to that man I met in the train.”

“I will take care of it. Soon, all this will be over. His strategy of making others kill, provides him a layer of extra protection. Once we get through that barrier, he will be dead as meat.” The policeman was as cold as he was in the beginning. It seemed to Frank that this was not the first time that he was hearing the anger of a citizen. He felt sad thinking about what happened to those people.

Gordon was flabbergasted. “I hope you have a plan in your mind.”

“What would you do when your family’s life is at stake?” The policeman stared at him with his big silver eyes. “Would you not kill to save them?”

Frank remained quiet. He was outraged at the horrid events that shaped that town. He could have screamed at the unexpected series of events that changed the entire story of his day…possibly his life. He slammed the briefcase on the top of the table with little regard to the respect that the policeman deserved. Before he got up from his seat, the door behind him opened with a creaky voice. He noticed a musty scent once again, and his eyes grew wide open. It was the man from the train. He knew it was him. The scent was so strong. Before his brain could register a reaction, Vergo’s large arms grappled Frank’s neck from behind and snapped it hard, rendering him dead.. His head fell on the table in front of him with a loud thud, his hat fell down on the floor.

“That is number five, Boss,” spoke Brent with very little emotions and he left the office where the Boss formed his shelter, disgusted over the depth of planning the Boss could implement for facilitating kills of innocent people. The man in the black hood followed Brent outside the station.

The Boss sat back in his chair, and a devilish smile was formed on his face at the sight of another dead man. This will never be over.

….to be continued

The 12 Slits

Darkness had swallowed the entire sky  hours after the sun dropped into the horizon, welcoming the horridly depressing night. It rained heavily, causing the wheels to lose traction over the slippery and narrow curves of the ascending slopes of Azibath.

“Is November always this bad, Inspector Freemont?” asked his assistant with a voice that was expressively dejected.

“It always is, Willy. Given a choice, I would work every day of the year in return for a holiday for these 30 dreadful days of this ungodly month,” replied Freemont.

The ascent vanished. The road was seemingly straight but neither of them knew how the road was ahead. The feeble distance that they could manage to see was guided by the headlight, which was overpowered by the depth and thickness of the dark night. The torrential fall of the rain made it worse.

Freemont was an inspector of a kind who had served the region for several years. He never kept a count, but his annual awards of excellence for which he cared only a little, did. Willy was new to his job and this was only his seventh case. First one under the guidance and leadership of the most popular and venerated Inspector of Azibath, Svent Freemont.

Freemont parked the car outside the humble house of the victim. He donned his coat, wore his hat and flicked his hand towards the house, indicating Willy to come along. They covered their heads with the enlarged collars of their jackets and made a quick run to the door. The rain fell like God’s wrath. It made Freemont lose his usual calm and relaxed temperament. He hoped that the victim’s family were not affected so. Willy rang the bell upon receiving a nod from Freemont.

A humble lady who was supposed to be in her late forties as per the records, opened the door. Her appearance was startling to both the men, but it was evident only from the naive face of Willy. Svent knew better than to react. Mrs. Lumen had a dry face, robbed of all the shine and fervour. Her hair was crispy grey that hung out from the edge of her forehead. There was no make-up on her face and her dress had a floral design over a false yellow background, illuminated by the gloomy yellow light at the door.

Freemont pulled his badge out from the inside pocket of his jacket. “We came as soon as we received the call Mrs. Lumen. I am assuming that you are the beloved of the victim.” Freemont was used to this kind of talk. Willy could barely speak. He intended to learn and get accustomed to situations like this. Willy was keen on leaving a good impression on his boss tonight. If not something right, Willy was determined to keep himself from making mistakes and lose credits.

The lady pointed to her right, towards a set of stairs that led to the cellar.

Willy took the first step in. He flicked on the lights and the stairs were lit up. Freemont and Willy were left to their business after Eva Lumen locked the door ahead of her. The cellar seemed to be equally dismal, washed with a dim yellow, highlighting the small plastic crates that dominated the space of the damp room.

“Alcoholism,” stated Willy instantly upon the smell of liquor all around the room. Freemont glanced at Willy, allowed himself a little smile and went ahead of him to discover the body. It was lying at the far end of the room, in the corner behind a table that seemed like the point where Greg immersed himself into the bottles of misery. The body sat in the corner with his head sunk inside the chest as if it were going to snap and separate itself. The huge body of Greg lay helpless, and despite the carvings he had gone through, he seemed to be at peace.

Willy stepped forward boldly. The pool of blood that surrounded the fat body did not disgust or repel him for he has witnessed quite some blood from the crime-infested neighbourhood of his childhood house. He dug himself closer to the victim’s mouth and confirmed that he stunk of alcohol. He removed a small notepad out of his jacket and made notes of every information he found relevant. “Multiple knife grazes on both the hands and a bloody knife in his chubby lap,” muttered Willy as he made his notes. Freemont made some points and observations with an ease that determined his prowess in detection. A skill as necessary as an observant eye is to a painter.

They returned back to the door, and took an appointment for the next day for further investigations and both took her leave with a heavy and sympathetic heart. The weather had cleared, but the mystery had not.

“What do you think of the death, sir?” asked Willy with a voice that expected an impressive answer from the Master in the art of crime solving.

“Nothing exceptional, young man. Nothing exceptional at all,” replied Svent in a gentle demeanour. Willy could see a faint smile on Freemont’s face under the glowing half-moon that soothed the chilling events of the uneventful night.

The clock hit ten when Svent and Willy left for further investigation on the matter. Willy sipped his habitual morning coffee as they glided through the sunny and comfortably cold day in Azibath. Willy was on a mission to knock as many doors as he possibly can in a day to acquire information on Greg Lumen. It was a small village, where everyone knew everyone. It wouldn’t be luck in case every person Willy met would have a word or two about Greg. Svent assigned himself to the victim’s family.

The house appeared very different to Freemont under the radiance of the glowing sun, washing its yellow all over the house, casting a long shadow to its right. Mrs. Lumen opened the door with the exact same expressions that marked her face last evening. The depth of her pain was unimaginable. The acrid smell of freshly fried fish hung in the entire house that was cramped between the dried and worn off light bluish walls. The furniture looked ancient and there was nothing adorning the furniture. The interior of the house spoke of the abject impecuniousness that burdened over the remaining two Lumens.

Eva found a wooden chair where she laid back, with her eleven year old boy around her left arm. The boy wore a plain white shirt with holes at its armpits. Both of them. His sparkly green eyes spoke of the loss of understanding of the sudden gloominess that was infused in the environment around him. He looked at Freemont with despair.

“I understand the depth of your loss, Mrs. Lumen, but you know I have to do this.”

Eva and the young boy, Ellain sat obediently in front of the inspector and tried to be of his assistance.

“An autopsy is due, still, Mrs. Lumen. You would be the first to know about the report. I am sorry for your loss. I wish you the best.” Svent’s heart was sunk into the pool of emotions, but he knew better than to let that empathy interfere with his usual poised judgement.

At the end of the day, Freemont was with half as much material than Willy. Eva spent most of the investigation with a fatal silence while the kid knew and said nothing about the ongoing confusion. Willy gathered information from several villagers, which gave him information that filled a bunch of pages that he had meticulously written with a crisp handwriting. Freemont gathered the notes with him to his home and instead of choosing a comfort of his wife’s presence, Svent approached his work table, flicked the lamp on and spent the next few hours studying every note that Willy had collected with an honest zest. It reminded him of his early days in this job. Mrs. Freemont allowed herself to the bed after kissing Svent on his cheek, leaving him focussed at his work.

Svent hoped to find a clue about the people who might be involved or a reason why Greg had several cuts in his hands. Notes from the neighbouring bar that Greg frequented framed Greg as a loner. They understood him as a desperate gambler and an incessant drinker. But, they assured that he was not disliked by anyone there and there was no reason why anyone would want to kill that poor man with a lovely little boy. Some friends at the same bar who seldom drank with Greg knew a little more about him. Being thrown out from the former job, his drinking buddies were concerned about his growing loss of self-confidence and self-esteem. Few years ago, he was among the best looking man among all, desired by women all across this little village. The pride that devoured him upon the realization of his own beauty started to eat him in every aspect of his life. Willy managed to attach an old picture of Greg from few years ago that documented the proof that he had one hell of a personality that must have left several women drooling over him. Svent felt the pity for the man.

Greg’s pride sent him experimenting his charm and he started seducing women. It started with one, ended with a number that he left the count of. He thought his wife did not know, and perhaps she didn’t; his drinking buddies expressed with a doubt. The root of his following misery was pointed towards his job. The job that he loved. It was all about computers and he was good at it. Willy inquired the company that expelled Lumen. “He started to behave oddly. He was bloated with a rising proportion of arrogance, which was fine as long as he did his job. But, then, he didn’t. His focus was unpleasant and disturbing. His aggravating haughtiness sent him resorting to a language that spoke of the loose grip he had on his own character. People started to dislike him. Not one, but all, except for himself.” The employer cut him loose before he plagued the entire company with his greed for a lionizing treatment.

As bad as Freemont felt about the anticlimax of Greg’s life, and the following misery for his family, he concluded this case as a mere suicide. The dejection post the loss of job, frequent resorting to various women in order to gain his self-esteem up, which went in the exactly opposite direction, obsession over gambling and alcohol left him deprived of all the money and hope and he chose to end his life. He delivered the news to Mrs. Lumen, attended the humble funeral and prayed for a bigger quantity of hope in human beings.

15 years later

The sun was shining on the brilliant day at the beach in a Greek summer day. A couple much younger than him was packing up their sun bathing materials back with them. He saw them kiss one another, as they retreated from the sandy beach, Svent saw those sparkly green eyes that he knew he had seen before. He approached the couple, the young man in his prime, to be specific, and before he introduced himself to the young man, the young man had a smile on his face and was delighted to see Mr. Freemont after several years.

“Mr. Freemont,” said the man with an evident excitement. “I am Ellain. Ellain Lumen.”

Those sparkly green eyes were full of life today and Svent experienced a rush of emotions as the case of the alcoholic came back in front of his eyes, playing like a movie that he had seen fifteen years ago with vivid memories of the cold and rainy November night.

“It is such a surprise to see you here, Ellain…Lumen,” responded Svent, unaware of how to return the greeting, at an absolute loss of words.

“Mr. Freemont, you will forgive me, but my wife and I are in a hurry, but how would you like to join us at breakfast tomorrow at eleven?”

“My wife isn’t here, but I am assuming that she has nothing better to do tomorrow, so, count us in, son. There is a lot of catching up to do, I sense.” Svent shook hands with a man who had transformed ever so gracefully from that clueless little boy that he had met so long ago.

Following day, at the breakfast, Ellain and Freemont chatted up incessantly, almost ignoring their spouses. Ellain’s wife was a pretty blonde lady who asked if Mrs. Freemont would like to go for a walk on the sandy beach in the perfect summer sun after finishing up the slices of freshly toasted bread. Mrs. Freemont acknowledged and they left the men with the reminiscence of their early case.

“I sense you have several questions to ask Inspector Freemont,” started Ellain with a gentle smile.

“It is Senior Inspector now, son. And yes, I cannot help but ponder about how these fifteen years were for the both of you. I am curious to know all about it.”

“It is just me now, Mr. Freemont. My mother succumbed to a malignant tumour eight years after my father died. My mother’s health went south after the father’s incident. She spoke little, did little and lived by herself. As if something ate her up from inside. God forgive me, but I am glad that the life of misery ended for her. I imagine those eight years were hellish for her.”

“It hurts to see your loved ones suffer, indeed. How did you manage to live up to this day, Ellain?” Svent had an authentic concern for the young man.

“My life was supported by the relatives from my father’s side. We apparently had nothing to give or spend, I am sure you remember that. This story changed drastically when she passed away and I inherited what my mother had for me. My father had a will in my mother’s name, which he had inherited from his exceptionally rich father. His father had fortunately written both my parents as heirs to his abundant wealth. As a clause, if one of my parent passed away, the other would inherit his or her share. So, in this case, my mother had received a significant amount of money in form of cash and assets. When my father was out drinking and wasting himself, my mother shrewdly slipped his share of money to her account for all the twelve years of their marriage. She tried to save as much money as she could from my father, instead of letting him burn it over alcohol and bets. He lost the job because of his attitude, he cheated on her, sometimes treated her like an animal, but she swallowed it all for me. She did not let her anger over my father affect me. But, the suppression of emotions to this level ate her whole. She died of it. She never used the money she had. In absence of my father, if my mother had spent the money, questions would have been raised over the mysterious source of her income and money being evil, she did not want a shadow of evil over me until I learnt what money meant. I could base this assumption from the values that she tried to teach me all her life. As I inherited that money, first thing I did was repay my relatives who supported us for all these years,spent a part of it to provide a funeral that she deserved and spent the other money in a small business, which now is big enough to endure me and my future generations. That is where I met this lovely woman, who is taking a stroll on the beach with your kind wife.”

Svent felt the hardships of the brave mother who raised the child with enough love and care. She was successful in instilling the right virtues in her son at the cost of her life. “I would be very glad to assume that you have allowed the memory of the tragic incidences in your life to build yourself, and not disturb you.”

“There is one thing that disturbs me, Mr. Freemont.”

“What is that, son?”

“On the evening when my father died, my mom came to my room and woke me up. She was awfully calm and was in a shock. She muttered these words to me that bother me every night: ‘It is over, Ellain. It is over. One slit for every hellish year of the marriage.’ Who knew it was her all the time, Mr. Freemont?”