Orchestral manoeuvres in the dark
Chapter 1: First movement
'You're not like other people, are you?' Joan asked. Morse winced. It was the sort of thing Jakes might have said with a sneer. Joan's tone was friendly enough, but the question confused him. On the one hand, it was clearly more of a statement than a question. On the other hand, the lilting thing her voice did at the end of the sentence was a verbal question mark and would indicate that it was indeed a question. It might have been a rhetorical question. He had never been good at recognising those. Sometimes he was far too inclined to take things literally. Morse settled for a remark that was related to what had quite possibly been a question.
'Nobody is like other people,' he replied, managing to sound stern. Joan was neither deterred nor impressed. She chuckled while her eyes searched his face. He fought the urge to fidget. No, no, he wasn't going to stuff his hands into his pockets either. That was a sign of weakness. He should be capable of controlling his hands without resorting to hiding them.
'It probably wouldn't hurt to adapt. No, I don't mean adapt. Pretend to adapt a little,' she amended and nodded. Don't engage, Morse told himself.
'Feign?' he inquired.
'You probably can't feign. You look like you wouldn't be able to. Admirable quality.'
Joan was definitely mocking him now. Oh, why did Inspector Thursday always take so long to get ready? What was Mrs. Thursday doing in the kitchen that was so damn important? Where the hell was Sam? Morse cleared his throat.
'I could feign, perhaps. However, I don't think I possess the necessary information to feign. Nor, I'm afraid, the inclination,' Morse admitted. A stern note had crept into his voice again. He sounded positively fatherly. Pompous.
'Well, one of those I can help with,' Joan responded. Ignoring his stricken expression, she dashed up the stairs. Left alone on the doorstep, Morse allowed himself a brief fiddle with the hair at the nape of his neck. It was all going wrong; again.
Before leaving home for work, he had taken care to prepare a few safe topics for conversation. The weather. Nothing could go wrong when discussing the weather. Nobody had strong opinions about the weather. Music. They had talked about music before. They had vastly different tastes, but Joan was curious about opera and he was respectful towards the popular music she favoured. Music was a pleasant topic. Come to think of it, was music a tad too personal a topic? Surely not. At least, Morse fervently hoped that wasn't the case, because that would leave only the weather.
They couldn't discuss work, because of Inspector Thursday and Jakes and the rule of leaving it on the hall stand. They couldn't discuss clothes, films, haircuts, cars, the news, politics and so on. Every topic besides the weather and music either bored Joan to tears or elicited opinions that Morse could not for the life of him get behind. Honestly, the weather most likely also bored her, but that couldn't be helped.
Yet, here they were somehow not discussing either of the safe topics available. Joan always led him astray. One innocuous comment and what had he gotten himself into? How could he allow this to happen every single time?
Morse averted his eyes when Joan came down the stairs. It was the decent thing to do. Her clothing wasn't ideal for descending.
'Here,' she said, thrusting something at him. She was holding a record. Morse studied the cover. It looked absolutely dreadful. That one bloke's name alone... Well, he wasn't one to judge when it came to names, but still: Garfunkel. Parents can be beastly sometimes. Or was it perhaps his surname?
'I'm going to put it here, so that you don't have to carry it around all day. You can pick it up this evening when you drop...' Joan abruptly stopped speaking when the Inspector entered the hallway. He was frowning and looked preoccupied.
'Joan, have you seen my hat?'
Instead of answering, Joan giggled and winked at Morse. He suppressed a smile. Crankily, the Inspector turned towards Morse.
'It's on your head, sir,' he quickly pointed out.
'Ah. Well, I'm off then. Are you coming?'
Morse tipped his hat at Joan, momentarily forgetting that – unlike the Inspector – he was not wearing a hat. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, exhaled and followed the Inspector to the car. Congratulations were in order. He had survived another one of Joan's interrogations.
The strange thing wasn't that Joan could unravel him within seconds. It was that he didn't seem to mind terribly. In fact, he looked forward to their chats in the morning. And, yes, it made him awfully nervous and he never knew where to put his hands, but it was also nice. Talking with a gentle push and pull. His social awkwardness for the most part not remarked upon. Perhaps even accepted? He didn't know how it was possible to feel at ease and like a raw bundle of nerves at the same time, but that was the effect Joan had on him. It was interesting, so say the least.