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Refraction
Prologue
The edges of the lawn were nearly clipped, a testament to the quiet organisation of the incredibly perpendicular garden. That was the first thing he noticed; and with no small amount of detachment required by his occupation, he wondered who would be responsible for that now. He switched off the car, pulled the keys from the ignition and easily hoisted his frame from the seat. The door shut smartly behind him, a satisfying enough sound to distract him from the feeling of impending gloom descending upon the pit of his stomach. Up the concrete path, a sombre jump up the two stone steps and then he was face to face with the door. Taking a deep breath, Mickey Webb looked over at his partner. She nodded slightly – she was ready. Yet every time he raised his knuckles to the wood he wondered, was he? Muffled thumps – someone was coming down the hall. There was a series of metallic clicks as the locks slid back, and then there was an open door. The woman looked politely inquisitive, her hair still in rollers. Not for the first time, pity swelled in his chest. He smiled apologetically, and hated himself for it.
"Mrs Clarke?" She nodded, and right on cue worry creased the corners of her eyes.
"Yes. Can I help you?"
Mickey shifted uncomfortably, reaching for his badge. "I'm DC Mickey Webb, this is DC Kezia Walker, we're from Sunhill CID. Can we come in?"
Unconsciously, Mrs Clarke clutched at the doorframe, and Mickey knew that she wasn't moving. "What's this in relation to?"
Mickey gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry to tell you, but there's been an incident. Your husband…"
Before the rest of the words even left his mouth, her face crumpled, and Mickey squirmed inside. Already, it had begun.
I was a bloody beautiful child. My doting mother trumpeted this fact to nearly everyone she knew when she was alive. Albums upon scrapbooks upon boxes of framed photos, all painstakingly compiled, all documenting my golden curls, twinkling eyes and cheeky grin. A right proper baby-face. It was the first thing she would tell anyone, no matter who she met. "Mickey…such a beautiful child," she'd sigh, with a glistening eye. "Could win a contest with that face."
Needless to say, I don't get that kind of unadulterated idolism these days. It's not that I'm ugly, I think, though I'm not nearly as attractive as my mother made out. It's just…I don't know. I looked in the mirror the other day. Stared down those trapping of supposed wisdom – smile that's a little too crooked, eyes that don't shine – and wondered, not for the first time, if it's all been worth it. That's the thing with coppers, see. People think they don't worry about this sort of bullocks. But this job, by its very nature, makes us all the more susceptible.
Can you imagine what it's like to have someone hate your face? One of the most pure essences of self? Even if the reasons are completely irrational and based entirely on frenzied emotional conjecture? Don't get me wrong, it's justified. The frenzy that is, not the hatred. I am the bringer of the worst news, the bearer of a heavy burden that passes to their shoulders. So I understand, and realise there is nothing I can do but accept it.
That's why I make an effort in the mornings. I know what's coming, and I try; I really do. I comb my hair, brush my teeth – even iron my shirt if I have time. I achieve presentable; because I know as soon as the phone in my pocket trills out a little tune, that I arrive on a doorstep and ring the bell, the perception of me changes. In ten words I go from being the alright chap that knocked on the door out of the blue to that bastard-like thing that just birthed bad tidings in the living room. It's as if I'm no longer human. My eyes are cool distance. No warmth, just pits of bottomless despair. Too knowing, too watchful. Looking for clues with no compassion, and casting accusations. My nose is shock. That uncomfortable stab thrust into the pit of your stomach, the pressure of sudden awful changes on your chest. My mouth becomes false comfort. Meaningless words that have no relevance or ability to change or better anything. And the final of the quartet – my chin is unforgiving. Goading mourners to be stronger than the mess they are, making a mockery of their grief. Like a perfect transformation to this horrible mask, none of which the features are accurate. Not to big-note myself, but I'm an alright copper. And I've had my fair share of nastiness in my time, so I know what it's like. I'm nothing like what most of these grieving families, friends, partners see in me. But it doesn't matter; the finer qualities of my personality get lost in the blame finding and the "Why aren't you working hard enough."'
On the upside, that's just in the morning. I'm feeling better by lunch. Back in the nick, it helps being surrounded by people who get it, too. And all things going to plan, most of the day is an improvement. With some hard work and usually a bit of luck, I can have the face of a saviour by mid-afternoon. Now I bring answers, and a nice little target for their finger-pointing. But there's a distrust that still lingers. Wariness in their manner, as if I'll spring on them at any moment some other piece of awful news. They can't forget what you've just told them, and there's no way in hell they'll forgive you for it. And as well as you thought you were doing, another few hours of that is enough to send any man to the pub. So it's there you'll find me at six o'clock with a mug of the blessed ale. And there I stay, and drink 'til I feel normal again. Even muster up enough of the courage to smile at the pretty thing with same looking hurts sitting across the bar. Pretend that no one could hate this face. Put an arm around her, make her laugh. Make the most of this cheeky grin. Tell her, as we mount the stairs, kiss on the doorway. Tell her, as we find our way across the room, bumping into the furniture and tripping over our shoes. Tell her, as she becomes a beautiful, cold apparition in my bed…I was a bloody beautiful child.