Noir

Chapter One – Bjorn In The USA

The address looked vacant, like the eyes of the children standing on the street corners, waiting for life to pass them by. A single light glowed softly through in the driving downpour. I strode to the door, the filth of the puddles splashing around my boots and into the overflowing drains.

The room was warm, musty, the smell of old books swirling amongst the scent of mothballs and age. The figure sat in a dressing gown, the waft of steam drifting towards the cracked ceiling. “Tea?” he asked. “We don’t often get vistors at this hour.” I shook my head. Tea is for the English. I’m more of a coffee man. Irish coffee. To walk the tightrope you sometimes have to be wired.

“Do you know a Bjorn?” I demanded, words slamming like my open palm upon the ancient desk.

“I’m not sure I know anyone by that name,” the figure continued. “Let me consult the housekeeper.”

Waiting. The clock on the wall, swinging, each swing clicking with a single tick, as the pendulumn swung this way and that. Tick. The rain pattered against the windows, drumming like a loon on a street corner, shrieking for coins. Tick. A newspaper lay open, grainy photos looking up at me, lifeless. Tick. Something wasn’t right. On a hunch, I looked outside.

A figure stood in the forecourt, watching through the window. Suddenly, he vanished.

Cursing like a Catholic priest, I ran down the stairs and into the driving rain, through the scum that floats to the top from the sewers to street level at night, chasing the elusive shadow. As I chased the figure into an alleyway, I noticed a small, dark object bounce dully against a skip. My instincts screamed at me, and I flung myself round the corner as an explosion rang out, echoing down the streets, ringing in my ears.

I staggered into the blackened alley, after the fugitive. The roar of an engine lit up the alleyway, and I fell back, blinded, as a car shot past me, a birdie flying past through the open driver’s window.

Haggardly, I ran into the street, into the path of a screeching taxi. I swung myself into the seat, screaming at the terrified driver to follow the car, Indian pop jangling across the stereo. We raced into the countryside, scattering the sleeping denizens of the forest in terror. Eventually we came to the docks, where I spied the car, abandoned. Wordlessly, I hurried from the taxi, the driver’s abuse fading against the crashing waves, the roar of the sea, the rushing of the wind towards my…

I fell, blackness engulfing me for a second as I felt the wind rush from my body, the force of a jackhammer smashing into my chest. As the murky waters rushed over me, I suddenly felt at peace, the cold weightlessness embracing me, calming me, the deep, dark, depths calling for my surrender. As I began to drift away, I felt a jerk against my neck, an irrefutable force pulling me upwards. My lungs exploded as I broke the surface.

As I lay gasping, a face looked down at me.
“You think you can beat me, detective?” it mocked, spitting on my sea-slick stubble. “You don’t even know what you’re dealing with. You think you can take down Peggle? Do you even know what Peggle is? Do you?”
I wheezed, coughing up salt water onto the wooden jetty. The figure laughed.
“Do yourself a favour, detective. Stick to the back-seat pornography. Perhaps detectives investigating extra-marital affairs don’t tend to turn up at the bottom of rivers wearing a bespoke pair of Oxfords, if you know what I mean.”

I juddered as he left, the sound of the engine fading into the pattering rain. The sea dribbled back through the jetty into the waves washing onto the shore, the cold wind cutting into my shirt as it clung to my skin. Had I really bitten off more than I could chew? Would the dame finally be the death of me?

No matter. I felt into my pocket, unfolding the sodden photo I tore from the newspaper on the desk as I waited, spotting something in the way the page was left open. I had my next lead.