The rain slashed down on the windows. The hustle and bustle of the work day was done, the rubbish emptied, the boards wiped clean. The lonely DI still sat in his office, phone on the table - no one to call. His tidied desk the only reminder of the day's passing.
Moving slowly, as if not to disturb the quiet of the air, he unscrewed the tin lid of the Tiger Balm - its sliding against the glass the only sound in the eerie office - and carefully dabbed his fingertip first to the pot, then to his temples. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment. A deep breath filled his lungs. The knot in his chest was still there; a symbol of the stress that he couldn't quite escape.
A glance at his delicately placed watch revealed the office would be alive again in only 6 1/2 hours time. Just long enough to fool himself into thinking he could get a good night's rest. Taking in the serenity of the vacant office in a final breath, the DI stood, tucked his leather chair in and reached for his long coat.
This was just a private moment, and with a flick of the lamp switch, he left it in the dark.
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The engine of the slick, dark car hummed to a halt. The morning sun had peeked its eager head above the horizon and the tall police building towered above the pedestrian world. A new day had begun.
DI Chandler sat in his cool, pristine car, soaking up the silence before the start of a new shift. The smell of the freshly cleaned upholstery dominated his senses as he carefully retracted his seat-belt and sunk into his seat. Soon the working day would begin; he'd be at the whiteboard, at his desk, at everyone else's beck and call but for now, just for now, he was his own man. Chandler reached out and untangled the air freshener dangling from the mirror, checking his watch as he recalled his arm: A quarter to 7. Pulling down on his shirt cuffs, one after the other, and then straightening the knot of his tie, he softly closed his eyes.
"10", he muttered to himself in an exhale, "9, 8, 7", he descended the numbers slowly, calmly; something of a ritual as he brought himself round and readied himself for the day. "6, 5, 4, 3…" the gaps ever so slightly lengthened, "2…1."
This was just a private moment, and with a pull of the door handle, he left it behind.
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The stream of running water hit the basin, it's gushing sound echoing around the empty restroom. The DI and his sergeant had just returned from their first investigative trip of the day - a charming little home in the middle of a rather dodgy street - and he was full of tea and spinning theories.
Steam rose from the porcelain, signalling the time had come to use its plug and with a practiced gesture, Chandler placed it in the perfectly fitting hole.
Lather, pink then white, overtook the rosy peach of his hands as they swam around each other as if in a playful courtship. Another pump on the dispenser and the slowly vanishing bubbles were suddenly replaced, fresh and new.
Staring ahead at pale blue eyes, seemingly belonging to another silent observer rather than his own reflection, he allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts. Images of the kind old lady - pouring yet more tea with shaking hands, of his weathered friend and colleague - keeping his motivation on point with every word of hardened encouragement and of his team of subordinates - accomplished and loyal, willing to move the Earth for him should he only command it, all relying on him to do his job to perfection.
He filled the sink for the last time and rinsed the soap away, thoughts and pictures draining away with it, replaced by a feeling of renewed cleanliness and confidence. He wasn't sure how long he'd been in there but they were waiting for him to make his next move; all of them.
This was just a private moment, and with a swing of the double hinged door, he left it to drain away.
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Chandler stood in front of the whiteboard, a great oversized blank space enticing his every thought and lead into the public eye.
He had an ever-changing relationship with the board, gaining encouragement and confidence from the wall of evidence he had strived to accumulate when it was full and yet loathing its mocking taunts when he had failed to make a single mark. Today was, thankfully, somewhere in the middle, with a puddle of recently gathered intelligence huddled to one side.
The lecture was about to begin - a free gift from the ever-eager consultant Ed, a habitual visitor of the incident room, but before the detectives flocked reluctantly round the crowded tables, Chandler wanted to take a moment in the relative calm and space to order his board a little.
It didn't really need doing. The information was up there correctly, and it was still legible but it had become something of a palate cleanser for his mind to review it himself between tasks. It wasn't so much that it needed doing as much as he needed to do it.
Slowly, meticulously, he peeled and replaced the various photographs and documents, each perfectly perpendicular to another. Pulling the pen from his inside pocket, he carefully replaced the information which now sat slightly above the new alignment. When the cap was replaced and the board was right he allowed himself a second of stillness, silently reviewing it. The room faded into the background and the face of a happy 24 year old girl governed his view. He was going to do this for her.
Voices and people started filling the room as he reoriented himself to the matter at hand, ready to introduce his bumbling friend. With a last glance at the relevant information, he drew a breath.
This was just a private moment, and with the clearing of his throat, he left it to fade.
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Kent - his youngest constable - was standing in his office, innocent brown eyes gazing down at him expectantly. After a day's leg work, his team was encouraged to bring any new developments to his attention and some of the men found more of a reason to come than others. Chandler noticed, of course he did, but like so many other things in his life, he'd left it unspoken about so long it eventually became another habit that he no longer knew how to address.
After exhausting every means available to keep the intimate diversion going, Chandler eventually had to accept that it was unfair to keep him there any further; that prolonging the lonely night wouldn't stop it coming.
After convincing his young DC to take himself home safely, well after the hurried footsteps of the others had echoed out of the room, he returned his attention to the routine beckoning him to be completed.
With every well rehearsed gesture, Chandler tidied away the conversations, the dead ends and the minutia of the day, feeling the work-day burdens slowly lift one by one.
A pull on the long string next to the window and the dark blind obscured what little street light was polluting his office. With the switch of the small desk light now pressed, a dull glow hovered over his neat desk, inviting his breathing to slow. Sinking back with a long exhale, the DI allowed his eyes to close for a moment. He would soon be rising again, navigating his way expertly through the familiar darkened hallways to the car waiting to take him away. The smallest turn in the corner of his mouth was the only indicator of his thoughts - that he would never, could never, truly be away. Not with his mind.
A small, practiced dab of the tiger balm would convince him that he was relaxing, if only for a minute; the scratching of tin against glass the only sound to fill the room. Chandler took another long breath, both resenting and relishing the solitude that staying into the night brought.
The knot in his chest was still there; a symbol of the stress that he couldn't quite escape.
A glance at his delicately placed watch revealed the office would be alive again in only 6 1/2 hours time. Just long enough to fool himself into thinking he could get a good night's rest.
Staring into the incident room, a wave of fondness for his work, his colleagues, even the victims waiting for him to liberate them either in life or, too often, in death enveloped him. Chandler was never quite sure exactly who he was, the relentless doubt that followed him affecting every thing he did, but he at least knew he would find those answers where he was. He had his weaknesses; he needed his quiet moments to refocus; to slow the ever-quickening world of the 21st century down to a pace he could just about manage; to still his mind when it threatened to run him into the ground. But those moments were how he dealt with being a DI and being a DI was how he dealt with life.
With a faint smile of appreciation at the once again ordered, once again silent world of the office, he stood, tucked his leather chair in and reached for his long coat.
This was just a private moment, and as he would do again tomorrow, he left it in wait.
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If you can think of any other moments you'd have liked included or have any suggestions or requests, feel free
to leave them by the door along with any reviews or comments you may have and I'll have a look! All are welcome.
~ Jitterfly ~