Today you're investigating the case of a woman who fell from the top floor of one of those twenty storey high rises in Grand Couron. The elevator is broken, so you're forced to take the stairs.
Initially it appears to be a suicide, but from speaking to some of the neighbours you and Kim are inclined to suspect murder. Unfortunately these neighbours appear to be under the influence of something, and argue with each other over the details of what they think happened. The top floor is a common area with both inside and outside parts. Probably intended to be quite flash back when it was first constructed, but it's gone downhill since then.
Kim makes a list of all the other residents their initial witnesses think were present at the time of the murder, and you set off to pay a visit to each of them in turn. This involves a lot of walking up and down stairs, and the pain in your leg steadily increases. The list of potential witnesses grows as the more people you speak to, the more people they mention who weren't on your original list. As Kim is writing in his notebook, you take the opportunity to slip a painkiller into your mouth. He glances at you with concern, but says nothing.
At the next floor you pause to take a breather, then you follow Kim to look for the next apartment. "There's something not right here, the apartment numbers are completely different," he says. Then he looks at his notebook and gasps. "I'm so sorry Harry, I read that wrong. This person lives on the eighteenth floor, not the eighth."
You look at Kim. "You don't suppose we could just… miss them out? They might not even be home."
"That would be sloppy, detective. Do you want to sit this one out?"
Your leg says yes, yes please. But you don't like the thought of not being there if Kim needs backup. You shake your head and follow him back up the stairs.
With that interview complete, you and Kim start the slow walk downstairs again. You try to focus on the case. Something doesn't add up. It's clear that some people are lying as their stories don't match up, but it's not immediately obvious whom. The walls are poorly insulated and noise travels in this building, so you and Kim have to stay quiet in the stairwell. You'll have to leave discussions until you get out of here.
It's not possible to figure out this mystery right now. The pain in your leg is becoming unbearable again. You turn your attention to Kim and try instead to think about how gentle and caring he was last night. He is wearing his professional facade right now, but does he think of you too? Did he enjoy comforting you last night? Would he like to do it again? Maybe you should ask him.
The thought of this is enough to get you the rest of the way downstairs and out of the front door without screaming about your pain.
Outside, Kim stops dead.
You're about to ask him what's wrong, and then you see it too. Someone has parked a Kineema next to the Model 40. The Kineema has a jazzy red and yellow paint job. It looks like someone's pet project because in spite of the new paint job, not all of its parts are shiny and new, some of them look worn and in need of repair.
You lay a hand on Kim's shoulder. He's probably thinking the same thing. Scrutinising it in more detail than you have. Missing his old Kineema.
You lean down close to his ear. "Do you want a hug?" you whisper.
Kim tenses up and shrugs your hand off his shoulder. "What? Not right now, lieutenant double-yefreitor."
Now it's your turn to tense up. It's serious when Kim reminds you of your rank. "Yeah, maybe later," you say in a far more casual and relaxed manner than you feel.
Kim doesn't answer, he just goes and gets into the Model 40. You follow him, part of you making a mental note to ask him for that hug again later when you're alone. Another part of you is yelling at you for making that incident worse for him than it needed to be. Now Kim will be thinking today I saw a Kineema, then Harry said something stupid to me and made me uncomfortable instead of just today I saw a Kineema.
"We'll come back tomorrow and speak to the rest of the potential witnesses. If we come here first thing, we might catch the people who weren't home today," Kim says.
"I don't suppose the elevator repairman will have been by then?"
"By the looks of things, that thing has been out of service for a while."
"I'm gonna be honest Kim, I don't know if my leg can take any more of this."
Kim glances at you, concerned. "This isn't right. It's been a while since you were shot. I'm no professional but I did my best taking the bullet out and sewing you back up."
You cringe at the thought of Kim cutting you open. Thank god you were unconscious. And thank god it was Kim. But now he's worried he did something wrong. "I'm sure you did, Kim. It can't be your fault."
"Maybe not. But by now I would have expected you to be at least starting to feel better."
"Maybe I should go see Gottlieb."
Kim doesn't comment.
It's late when you get back to the precinct, and the light is off in the doctor's office. You convince yourself that he probably wouldn't have done anything to help you anyway.
Thankfully the pain subsides a little once you get home. You put off taking more strong painkillers, in the hope that you won't need them. Kim insists you rest while he cooks dinner for you both, and cleans up afterwards. You feel bad that he's doing all this for you in your own home, but you also feel very grateful towards him. Without him, you'd probably just drink a beer and pass out from exhaustion.
It's only after you climb into bed that you remember that you were going to ask Kim for a hug. It's too awkward now that you're both in bed. Is it? Is it too awkward? You think about how nice it would be to snuggle up together, Kim's arms around you, pressing his chest into your back. No, that's too intimate. It's a level of intimacy that's far beyond what the two of you currently have. You desperately wish you knew how to get there. From what you remember, you used to bluntly crash your way into those situations, hoping that the other party would humour you. Kim means too much to you to risk it all like that. But then what can you do?
In the muted light leaking in from outside, you see Kim give you a slight smile. He's noticed you looking at him. Again.
He reaches out to ruffle your hair, and lets his hand slide down the back of your head, stopping to curl around your neck. The touch of his fingers is so light yet so deliberate. You let out a sigh.
"Good night, Harry," he says, withdrawing his hand as you silently will him to move closer.
You consider grabbing his wrist. Begging him to stroke your hair again. But you don't want to ruin the moment. Kim's eyes are already falling closed. "Good night, Kim," you breathe.
The day after, you and Kim organise your visits to apartments in the high rise to minimise walking up and down steps, but there is nonetheless a great deal of it. You tell yourself that your leg is hurting less today, but you're not sure if you're kidding yourself.
By the time you get back to the precinct, you have to take some painkillers. The light is on in the doctor's office today. You decide to try your luck.
"Whaddaya want?" is the way Gottlieb greets you when you walk in. No hello, nothing like that. Gottlieb must have been introduced to the concept of bedside manner at some point, and said no thanks. This probably contributed to him being appointed to the station's lazareth.
"You know I was shot, right?"
The doctor groans.
"I don't think my wound is healing right."
"Is it bleeding? Any pus? Yellowness in the area?"
You shudder at the mere thought. If you don't say yes, you get the impression he won't take you seriously. But if you do, he'll want you to show him, and will see you're lying. "No, it just hurts, real bad."
"You want some candy?" Gottlieb says, taking a piece of candy from the bowl on his desk and instead of offering it to you, he unwraps it and puts in his mouth.
"Well that depends, is it magic candy that will make all my pain go away?"
Gottlieb crunches the hard candy between his teeth. "You're in the wrong place for that," he says. "So, still drinking?"
You consider saying no, but that would be a lie. "In moderation," you say.
"Well, stop that."
"Is that your only suggestion?" you ask, knowing you're onto a losing streak by the way the doctor furiously crunches on the candy.
"More magnesium."
"And if it doesn't help, I can come back?"
Gottlieb opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He unwraps another piece of candy. "You know what, sure. If you stop drinking and that doesn't solve your problem, you can come back."
You're not sure which the doctor is more sure of, that drinking is the cause of all your problems no matter how far-fetched, or the slim likelihood that you will actually get sober. Discouraged, you slink out of the office.
"Kim, the hospital is free, right?" you ask as you lower yourself down into your chair.
"Are you feeling that bad?" he asks.
"I dunno, maybe it's just all those stairs," you say, not wanting to mention your attempts at running.
"In answer to your question, no, the hospital is not free. And as your condition is unlikely to be life threatening, you're going to be in for a long wait."
"Oh."
"Still, I'll drive you if you like."
"No. That's okay. You need to get home."
"I know you are walking, but perhaps you could try some other gentle form of exercise. Swimming, perhaps?"
"Do you swim, Kim?" you ask. You're not sure you own anything to swim in but the thought of getting to admire Kim's body makes it an appealing prospect.
"No, not really my thing."
That's a disappointment. You know Kim is trying to help, but the thought of more exercise right now makes you want to crawl into bed and stay there for as many weeks or months it takes for the pain to magically go away.
You get Kim to drop you off near one of the bigger Frittte stores on his way home. You pick up some food and a few other essential items, and on the way out you go to the noticeboard. The first thing you notice is something has been torn down, leaving only a bit of paper stuck to the pin and Wazzer waz ere scrawled directly on the cork board underneath.
The next thing you notice is a missing cat poster, complete with crudely drawn picture of said cat. You resist the urge to take it on as a side project, and move on to read flyers regarding things for sale, and a threat that Wazzer's gonna fuck you up scrawled in an unwisely left white space on a note about selling firewood. You imagine Cuno would get on well with this Wazzer. Either that or he really really wouldn't.
You pause on a flyer for a gym. Maybe that's what you need, to get your pump on? Build up your muscles again so you become a creature who is beyond feeling pain. No, that doesn't sound quite right. And they want twenty reál a month for the pleasure of your company. You decide you'll have to get your pump on elsewhere.
Passing over various other adverts and flyers, and more scrawls from Wazzer, you eventually see a flyer for low intensity aerobics. It says all ages and abilities are welcome. And it's only ten cents. You make a note of the details, half expecting this Wazzer to come and ambush you and steal your pen.
The aerobics class is on Thursday evenings. You set off to find the venue, which turns out to be a run down community centre in the middle of a park. There's something familiar about the park. You remember walking in this park regularly. Yes, with her. It was nicer then, less overgrown. In your memory, those were all impossibly sunny days. That was when times were good.
Times will be good again, you tell yourself. Times aren't bad right now. You have Kim. He cares about you, you care about him. All you need to do is figure out how to get closer to him.
There's a group of older people standing around talking in front of the old community centre. You walk past them and step through the open door. Inside, there are more older people sitting down. A few of them look up at you as you enter.
"Is this the right place for the exercise class?" you ask, expecting to be told no, this is the knitting circle.
"What's a young whipper-snapper like you doing here? Come to put us old codgers to shame, eh?" a man with sparse grey hair snaps.
"I'm sure you'll put me to shame, sir," you say, rubbing your bad leg. "So is this where the exercise class is?"
"You're in the right place, honey," a plump old lady says. "We're just waiting for Mrs Lopez. She's normally here by now."
More people arrive. They all seem to know one another and you feel a little out of place. You're the youngest here by far. The flyer did say all ages welcome, you're sure of that. Maybe that was actually code for elderly only.
"It doesn't look like she's gonna show up," someone says.
"But Mrs Lopez always shows up!"
"She's ten minutes late. We should just leave."
Everyone looks very disappointed, and slowly they begin to leave in ones and twos.
You suddenly realise you can't let this happen. These people came here for exercise, and it would be a travesty if you let them leave without moving a muscle. "Wait," you say. "I know a few things about exercise. I could teach the class."
The others hesitate on their way out of the door, they look at you, and look at each other. Slowly, they begin the come back in and sit down on the chairs, which are arranged in a few rows of semi-circles.
You walk to the front of the room. You can do this, you tell yourself. You've done it before. Nothing specific is immediately springing to mind, but you're sure it will once you get started. Muscle memory. You've heard that's a thing.
As the last of the members of the class take their seats, you turn your own chair around and sit on it backwards. The kids thought it was cool when you used to do this. There's no-one here who's younger than you, but the coolness of sitting backwards on a chair can't have an upper age limit, right?
"Um," you begin, aware of everyone's eyes on you. "I'm Harry Du Bois. I work for the RCM, but that doesn't matter right now." You trail off, worried that you're going to let these people down. You keep forgetting that people don't always feel reassured by the presence of the RCM, and that it's actually the opposite for many. You take a breath. "Wait, yeah it does. I got injured while I was working and I'm in a lot pain."
Suddenly people are nodding and giving you sympathetic looks.
"That's why I'm here. To try and loosen up my stiff muscles, ease that pain a bit. I used to be a gym teacher. I don't remember much, it was a long time ago."
Again, this seems to garner a lot of sympathetic smiles from the class. It's a good feeling to be getting through to them, but nobody here could possibly be less than twenty years older than you. Maybe you should be concerned about what you've done to your body and your mind if you're so relatable to much older people.
You try to put that thought out of your mind. You might be able to help them even if this doesn't help you at all. And that'll feel good, so maybe it'll end up helping you after all, just not in the way you were hoping.
"Right, on your feet, let's get those miserable bodies moving!" you say, standing up. "Let's do a couple of laps of the… um, room."
A man with a large moustache in the second row raises a hand. "But Mr Harry, Mrs Lopez usually teaches the class seated."
You look round at the class. Some of these people look very frail and stiff. The thought of some of them making even one lap of the room at a walk is quite unlikely. "Oh," you say, "of course, I knew that."
"It's okay sweetie, you've never been here before," a white haired lady says. "Mrs Lopez usually starts with getting us to move our heads and shoulders."
"Yeah, need to warm up first before we get onto the advanced stuff," you say, turning your chair around and sitting on it the right way. A few people look concerned when you say advanced.
"Okay, turn your head this way and hold it for a few seconds. Now over to the other side. And put your chin on your chest. Now look up to the ceiling," you say. It's all coming back to you now. You have to suppress the urge to yell no spitting despite the fact that none of them are.
"Roll your shoulders forwards, and then backwards," you say, and the class copies you to the best of their abilities. "Now stretch your arms up to the ceiling." A few people seem to struggle with this. "It's okay if you can't, just try your best. Now, arms out to the side. No hitting each other! Sorry. I mean, be careful not to hit each other."
You watch your class as you get them to try out different movements, trying to gauge what would be within their abilities. Some of them offer suggestions of what Mrs Lopez usually does. Once you get into it, the hour passes quickly. Afterwards, many people come up to you and thank you personally, and make you promise to come back next week. More disconcertingly, they start pushing coins into your hand or pocket. You try to refuse their money, but none of them will take it back. You also notice a small pile of reál has also appeared by the chair you were sitting on. It makes quite a weight in your pocket, and you tell yourself you'll find some good use for this money, you'll just keep hold of it until you do.
You walk back home feeling proud of yourself. Your leg is still hurting, and you ache a little from sitting on the wooden chair, but you helped those people and now you're starting to remember a few of the stretches you used to do in your more athletic years. You look forward to seeing Kim tomorrow and telling him about unexpectedly teaching an exercise class. You think he'll be proud of you too.
