This was written for the Writers Anonymous Night Owl Challenge. The challenge was as follows: write a story set entirely at night or over the course of several nights; but no daytime scenes are allowed.
The Paint and the Pig Skull
Kyuno de Ryuter is not yet hungover but he does have a cold. His thin greying shirt is no match for the night air. The coppery hair on his forearms rise as he sees the steam rising from his coffee cup, dancing in the flickering lights of the office like he was only an hour or so ago. When he is like this – that is, when he is too high for his bed – he likes to come to the office and sift through the unsolvable cases. Though insomnia is not symptomatic of RAC, it's not a bad trait in an officer. HQ is open at all hours and rattles with drunken shouting. Usually, this noise is the citizens. He likes the noise; it helps him focus, grounds him in the hours where his mind runs and bounces like an old pinball machine. Sleep is impossible when he is like this but he will not wake for days when he comes down. No more than twice a week nowadays, never injected and absolutely. No. Alcohol.
…
The call comes as the high goes – at about 4am. A woman's body lighting up an open van like a headless fairy doll. Headless is a slight exaggeration. Her chin-length hair is sunset orange, flowing out in beams around her broken face, which seems to have been hit with great force repeatedly by a hard object. In one hand, she clutches a smelly green hat. As if to compensate for the dented face, someone has dragged two long, wide smudges of fluorescent paint along the woman's chest. She is fully dressed, except for her shoes; she is a size five or six, and her long calf muscle suggests a preference for flat shoes; her socks are soaked with rain. The field autopsy assumes blunt force trauma. There are locusts – live ones, like you buy at a fishing shop – in her open mouth. Regrettably, the rain has washed her clean; there was no blood left to conceal the damage. A white stripe of skin on her left ring-finger declares a loss.
"I didn't kill her," the lorry driver says, without prompting. His two top incisors slightly overhang his bottom lip; this, along with his prominent ears, give him the appearance of a troubled guinea pig.
"Thank you for telling us," he imagines Carla, his partner, saying as she often does when people make that statement. "It is always very helpful when people inform us of their innocence up-front." Normally, Kyuno would snort at that she's not here and he's too tired. Wearily, he takes out his notebook and notes down the man's replies. Went for a cigarette break. Came back to find her there. Didn't see anyone else. Yes, he does normally leave the vehicle unattended – it's not his merchandise. Perhaps it's one of those religious types. That's what they like, isn't it, the glowing lungs?
De Ryuter knows practically nothing about moralism. He knows practically nothing about any politics. He's embarrassed to have missed the resemblance now that the driver has made it obvious. The fluorescent paint certainly does look like lungs. If the death is an art piece, he's not sure what the point was. It's a fish truck. That's why it's at the fishing village. Ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Well, no… he may have gone dancing afterwards, what of it? It wasn't his shift anymore. Well, no, he didn't walk in this weather…
...
Between the rain and the darkness, the tracks are slush in the mud. The back left tire is punctured; something white lays broken in the mud. De Ruyter picks it up. The pieces are ivory smooth. The moonlight gleams over them and gives them the allusion of wholeness; two eyes, a snout. Under the mud is blood. Someone has placed this in front of the wheel to destroy the murder weapon.
The skull was longer and squatter than a human's. Officer de Ryuter had seen one once before, in The Case of the Angel in the Abattoir. This is a pig's skull. His mind races. He remembers the woman again, her cold skin under his gloves. He remembers her jacket and suddenly remembers that speed, at times, makes him generous. He remembers a woman shivering and smoking. He remembers the fluorescent symbols freshly painted on the outside of the church to help people see it in the dark. He remembers sunset red hair and a bright smile, and he realises how he came to walk from the Anodic Dance Club to HQ in only a grey shirt.
…
This is his third night of amphetamines in a row and he can hear his heart in his ears. Carla's fiancé has been calling the precinct because she has not come home. Harry has gone to break the news. Officer de Ryuter squints at the skull, which he has glued back together. Normally, he'd like this type of thing. Puzzle shit, brain shit. He'd want to take it home and make it a plant pot; he loves that life/death, juxtaposition shit. With coffee and quiet, it's normally perfect work to shake off an amphetamine comedown while Carla takes statements. She's got a way of it. People just talk to Carla – one version or another. Carla has variations of herself – nice Carla, harsh Carla, loud Carla, scary Carla – and she knows how to use them. Kyuno never mastered that. He has one, multipurpose Kyuno and that's it.
He can't look at the skull anymore. It's making him angry, and he's got too much adrenaline as it is. He taps – slaps – McClain on the shoulder and asks where he got that black eye. Apparently, they were searching an old building and came across a squatter. She didn't like them. You should see Mack.
Did they want a hand with her?
Yes. She's in the interrogation room if you can handle her. Maybe take a sandwich in with you – she tried to eat some cassette tapes when we caught her.
Kyuno takes a sandwich and a swagger to the room. This is what he needs. A change of pace. This will get him back on track while he waits for his heart rate to settle down.
He opens the door. Red hair, Dark bags under dark eyes.
His heart feels like it's going to whir its way out his arse.
…
Cunoesse is wet and shaking the same way as when they met, though thankfully she hasn't pissed herself this time. There are pink lines on her face – ghostly scratches. A piece of something black sticks between her teeth. She was in a room with nothing but a dirty mattress and a radio with four cassette tapes. There's a bile yellow streak on her sleeve cuff. Three were saved for later listening. Her eyes stretch with surprise.
"Cuno? What the fuck are you wearing?"
He swallows. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. He tries something Harry's old friend used to do and takes out his notebook. He writes slowly, only the key words.
"I can't believe you're one of the fucking pigs," she laments, curling her fist on the table. There is something smeared on her palm.
"What is this pig shit, Cuno?" Her shrill voice has a downward inflection – she wasn't really asking him. "Why are you bringing up this old shit?"
"Did you kill Carla, C?"
"Carla crawls along the habour, gutted like a fish." Her voice is sing-song. He knows that voice. Its her cop voice.
"Hey, is that what I asked you?" he tried, changing tactic. Authoritative Kyuno. She just rolls her eyes.
"You're such a pig now. They've fucking ruined you."
A horrifying thought slid across his mind. He stands, puts his hands on the table, leans forward – tries to ignore the speed. ""The pig skull is from Locust City, isn't it? The City of Rage."
A pause. A sudden quiet. A shaky note in her voice.
"What the fuck are you on about? What are you reading?"
Kyuno is in his notebook, flicking through other cases. The Saint Baptiste Bludgeoning. The Man with the Hole for a head. The Case of the Falling Globe. All bludgeonings. All nearby where Cunoesse was found. All in the dead of night. Four cassettes in the room.
"C, what was on those tapes?"
She looks at him, her raggedy red hair crossing over itself in a way that made it impossible to see her parting. Her hair was wet through. She was shivering again. She looked at him without gentleness.
"Fuck does Cuno care?" she says flatly. It's an accusation, not a question. It would never have happened again if you had stayed, Cuno.
The street light flickers outside; it won't be light for a few more hours. He cannot keep her here forever. Without a word, Kyuno stands and walks towards the light switch. He presses down and Cunoesse's hands glow with fluorescent paint.
I hope you enjoyed the story. This is my first foray into detective fiction so please let me know if there's anything that can be improved.