Now, come with me, if you will, on a little linguistic journey. Just ignore, for a brief moment, the fact that I'm strangling an bizarrely dressed young lady in a very public place with every intention of murder, and let's do a bit of Franglais.
Mademoiselle Darling Wreck.
French, English, English.
The obvious tipping point then, is at that first comma there. Between the French and the English. So let's tip it, then. It shall be the seesaw of our translatory playground
English, French, French.
Miss.
Cher.
Loque.
And that, your honour, is why I had to murder her on the floor of a Southern Fried Chicken in Brighton. No jury in the world would convict me, your honour, under that kind of provocation. Plead 'guilty', your honour? I plead fucking heroism, sir! Wiping scum like this off the face of the and a big cheffy type in greasy whites now has me by the back of the collar. That's alright, though, he can lift me on up, I'm taking the little bitch with me.
But between him pulling and her clawing at my hands, she drops back onto her hooker-heels in no time.
And sticks out one flat, 'stop' hand to the big cheffy type and says, "Easy, mate, he's only messing about." Staring at me, meaningful eye-contact, "Aren't you, Joe?"
"No!"
So she forces a laugh, apologizes over my shoulder to the cheffy type, then, "Joe, seriously, the man's not joking."
Making my apologies, getting me out of trouble and what for? If she's praying for mercy she can fuck right off. The angels have no jurisdiction here, cher, I made fucking well sure of that.
Of course, she's a teeny bit right. If I'm going to kill her I should at least do it somewhere out of the way. Give me a break; I haven't done this with my own hands in a long time. I've got Moran. Fuck, it's like having a dog and barking yourself.
And to cut a long story short, the little bitch gets her way. And as part of the 'just messing about' cover story, I actually leave that fetid little dive with my arm round her shoulders. Once we're round the corner I throw her off, straighten my suit. And she does the stupidest thing. I swear to you, ladies and gentlemen, dear and constant reader, she giggles. Giggles, rubbing the great, blossoming bruises on her throat and says, "Yeah, alright. The name was a stupid idea then."
"Keep talking while I choose the best way to kill you."
"Acid."
"See just because you said that, we're not doing acid."
"Really? Because I have a guy for that."
"Oh, fuck off." She sighs, tosses her head, like I've just done something to massively let her down. Me. Irritating her. And since she clearly has no fear of death, and I know of nothing that I can take away from her, what can I threaten her with? What can I say except 'What?'? Which, I realize, gives the distinct impression that I care, but what am I left with? Questions. Everywhere, questions. And I'm not the one with the answers, I'm the one doing the asking. And I swear to you, hand on that hard-working lump of muscle under my left set of ribs, the last time this happened was long before the last time I properly murdered somebody. "What the hell is your problem!"
"It's not mine, it's yours. This is exactly why we're here. Because of 'Fuck off', because of 'What's your problem?', because of you fucking torturing televisions, can I have your jacket?"
"What? No!"
"C'mon, I'm freezing."
"It's my good Armani."
"Well, then can we go wherever you left your parka, because-"
"How do you know about my parka?" She actually stops. Puts one of her grubby, chickeny hands on my sleeve and turns me. Lips parted, wide-eyed, the parody of disbelief. I don't even ask her what she's staring at. That's exactly what she wants. When I don't, she reaches up behind and drags her hair down out of the topknot, stands with a slight slouch, but her chin tipped up, pouting her lips that little bit extra. "Fuck me, Georgie the Flower Girl."
"No, thanks, I'm too stuffed from eating."
A moment of mirthless silence.
"That's an old joke," I tell her.
"I know."
"I… That's actually a bit beneath you, that joke."
"I know. Here's a better one, though. I was on your train and all."
Fuck me, she was and all. She was a medical student with best frenemies and a fuck-buddy she wanted more from and a dealer called fecking Cone, and I decided against her for utter destruction. Favoured the stockbroker, which was, in retrospect, really quite clever of me. His story was real. Ginger here would only have frustrated me. She wouldn't have been right, wouldn't have crumbled, because none of it would have been real. I would have lost heart, gone home to my cornflakes and my Jeremy Kyle.
Of course I'd have had to watch it on the computer, since the tellies are all fucked…
Oh, and five minutes later, Jim Moriarty gets the fecking joke.
"Because of me torturing televisions?"
"Oh, Jesus Christ, the moment that defined the last bleeding straw…"
She's been in my flat. Knows me and I never knew she existed. Because I wasn't looking for her, was I? Who was supposed to take any interest in me? Who was supposed to know who I was except for His Majesty? And somehow I don't think he sent her. Because, in spite of everything, and yes, I realize my instincts have been a little bit off lately and that there is, therefore, no reason why I can't just maybe be wrong again but-
I don't think she's messing me about.
I get nothing off her but blunt, upfront bitch-honesty.
And the last time that happened was long, long before the last time I was the Question Man. People aren't like that, y'see. They're just not. And anybody who tells you they're an honest, upfront person is the worst of the lot. Me, I just say I'm a bastard and have it over with. Look, here it comes; I, James Gordon Moriarty, am a bastard. There it is, stated for the world to see and I'll stand by it. But the problem with that is, and I don't know if you've maybe noticed this yourself yet, but I'm not like normal people. That's another thing I've come to terms with.
No, normal people lie and they cheat and they play games and even when they don't think they're doing it, they still have all these little rules and fences that control the way they act. People are always, always gauging things, how this will work, who's not going to like this, how people will react to that… Being a normal person must be a full-time job. No wonder you shower of bastards never get anything done, you're too busy keeping up with yourselves, chasing your bloody tails around your little semi-traditional-Facebook-blogger mazes, fuck, it'd break your heart if you had one.
She takes my long silence for confusion and says, "Well, who did you think was feeding your cat?"
"I do not have a cat."
"I have changed a litter tray twice since you went into your hermitry."
"Oh. Really?"
"And the Eternal Bushmills Bottle? Gift from a leprechaun, was it? And all the cornflakes? Here's a massive big hint, Mr Moriarty, you put milk on your cornflakes. Milk goes off. And you haven't bought milk since the last time you left your flat, which was the morning of St Bart's, so-"
The impulse to scream 'Who the fuck are you?' right in her blank, honest little face, right before tearing it off with shingle, sea water and good old fashioned elbow grease somehow transmutes into a low, stupid-sounding echo, "What's your name?"
"Whatever you want. Is that really the big question right now? Ask one more, Jim. Then we'll start getting you back to what you know, I promise."
"…Why are you doing this?"
"Because what were you going to look like if he came back tomorrow? Sad, lonely little man looking like death in his flat because they Stopped All The Clocks. I couldn't stand and watch it anymore, you were starting to sicken me."
You've probably seen It's A Wonderful Life. There's been some godawful Christmas you were too stuffed or pissed or both to be arsed changing the channel, and you've seen It's A Wonderful Life.
This, my friends, oh, my dear, wonderful friends out there, all you good good people, all you idiots, all you One-Born-Every-Minutes, you Can-You-Fix-It-For-Mes, you fucking shitpile of wasters, fodder for my cannons, grist for my mill, all you glorious, beautiful fucking people, this is my Jimmy Stewart moment.
Every time a bell rings, you can finish that sentence for yourself.
But as I think it a police car sails by, sirens wailing. Such glorious noise. They used to just have little swinging bells on the top, back in the old days. Every time a bell rings…
She grins, the way she did when I guessed at Darling Wreck, like some thrilled child, "Are you still going to kill me?" Twisted child. Satan child. She is that which fell off my left shoulder all those weeks ago. She has not abandoned me, through it all.
"Oh, God yes," I tell her. "But not on the floor of a chippy, I promise you that. I'll find something elaborate and unsolvable for you. You'll live forever in the annals of crime history. They'll puzzle over you for years. Sherlock himself will never solve you. You'll be eternal, you wonderful bloody bitch, that much I promise you. You fancied acid, didn't you?"
"Only so I could do the dealer joke."
"No acid then."
"Always thought drowning would be alright."
"Oh, then drown you shall, you demon wonder from hell, drown you shall. But not tonight."