Simon Lelic - A Thousand Cuts

‘Walter, let go.’ Lucia wrenched her chair just as Walter removed his hand. She spun and hit her knee against her desk. She bit down on her cry just as it threatened to escape her mouth.

‘Walter. Get in here.’ It was Cole, watching from the door to his office.

Walter held up a finger.

‘Would you shoot me, Lulu? Just because we have our fun. Would you shoot me and say that I deserved it? That I provoked you?’

Lucia held her knee. She did not answer.

‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Answer me, Lulu. Would you shoot me?’

Ignoring the pain, she got to her feet. ‘No, Walter. I wouldn’t shoot you. That would be like admitting that you bothered me.’ She bumped shoulders with Walter as she passed him. ‘Besides,’ she said and she turned. ‘A bullet would be too quick. You wouldn’t feel it. No, Walter. I’d use something blunt.’

The car park was beneath the building, not quite underground but covered and hemmed in by thick concrete columns. The light was poor. The sun had not yet set, though it was dragging the day with it as it dipped towards the horizon. Lucia peered into her bag for her keys. She gave up and tried rummaging with her hand. She shook the bag, peered in again.

She was late heading home only because she had waited for Cole to leave first. After that she had waited for Walter. She had hoped Cole would tell her something, that Walter might let something slip. Neither one of them had obliged. Instead, she would have to read about it in the papers. She would hear it on the news. It was her case but she would hear what had been decided on the news.

Lucia’s Volkswagen was parked in the corner furthest from the stairwell, opposite a line of empty squad cars. She reached it before she had found her keys. The light on the wall was faulty: it buzzed and it fizzed and it flickered on and off. Lucia angled the bag towards it. She cursed, dropped on to the balls of her feet and tipped the contents of the bag on to the floor. She found the car keys immediately. She swore again, scooped up the keys and refilled her bag. With her hands pressing on her unbruised knee, she struggled upright.

Walter had hold of her throat before she realised he was there. The bag dropped and the keys dropped and he had her against the wall. She saw his face in the light and then his silhouette and then his face again and she was thinking, that’s twice now, that’s twice I didn’t hear him coming. She could smell him. She could smell his hair, like hotel pillows beneath their cases; his breath, sour and needing water. She could smell oranges. His fingers across her mouth, they smelt of oranges, as though he had been peeling one while he had been waiting.

‘Something blunt. That’s what you said, isn’t it? Something blunt.’ He hissed. As he hissed he spat, he sprayed.

Lucia struggled. She tried swinging an arm but found it pinned. She tried lifting a leg but could barely shift her foot. Walter was against her, his thighs trapping hers, his elbows across her shoulders, his weight keeping her down.

‘How’s this?’ he said and he was wriggling now, the hand on her throat slipping downwards. ‘How’s this for something blunt?’ He shoved her away and she fell, grazing the wall and rebounding from her car. She gagged. She tried to stand and turned her ankle. She tried again. She looked at Walter.

He had his flies open. He had his dick in his hand.

‘How’s this?’ he said again and he moved closer. His crotch was level with Lucia’s eyes. ‘Is this the sort of thing you had in mind?’

Lucia gagged again. She tried to shout but found herself croaking. ‘Get away from me. Get the fuck away from me.’ She raised one hand to her throat. She held out the other in front of her, fingers curled, nails at the ready.

Walter stopped inches from Lucia’s hand. ‘Don’t get overexcited, ’ he said. ‘That’s as close as I’m going to let you get. I just want to show you what you’re missing. What you’re missing and what you’re lacking.’

Lucia swiped but Walter was ready. ‘Whoa! Easy, tiger.’ He cackled. He inched forwards again. ‘Do you see, Lulu? Do you see what I’m telling you? What I’m showing you? You need one of these to do this job. You need two of these.’ He cupped it, thrust towards her with his hips.

Lucia cringed. She withdrew her hand.

‘That’s your problem. That’s why you’re in the mess you’re in.’ He tucked away the thing he was holding. He bent at the waist and zipped his fly. ‘Let me give you some advice, Lulu. Grow some balls. Lose the lip and grow some balls. Because having one and not the other is going to get you into trouble.’

‘Is that it?’ Lucia wheezed. She was still on the floor, still crouched at Walter’s feet. ‘Is that all there is?’

Walter grinned. He shrugged. ‘It may not look like much, darling. But it’s enough to stop me getting weepy about some immigrant kid-killing freak. And if you like—’ he reached for his fly again ‘—if you like I can show you just how big this pal of mine can get.’

‘Walter. Hey, Walter!’

Walter turned and Lucia turned. It sounded like Harry but Lucia could see only Walter and concrete and car.

‘Everything okay? You lost something?’

‘Just helping Lucia here find her keys. She dropped them. Didn’t you, sweetheart?’ He looked down at her. He held out his hand. Lucia knocked it away. She reached past and used the car to steady herself as she stood.

‘Lucia’s there?’ Harry was closer now, a few cars away. Lucia did not look at him but she nodded. She held out her keys. Got them, she tried to say but the words did not get past her throat.

‘Well, that’s me for the day. You remember what I said, Lulu. You remember what I showed you.’ Walter stepped out from behind the car. He nodded at Harry as he passed him, dropped a palm on to his shoulder. ‘Nighty night, ladies.’

Lucia fumbled with the door handle. She jabbed the key at the lock and scraped the paintwork. She tried again. Harry edged towards her.

‘Lucia? Is everything okay?’

Still Lucia did not look at him. She held up her palm. She coughed. ‘Everything’s fine, Harry.’ All she could manage was a whisper.

‘Are you sure? I mean, you don’t sound—’

‘It’s fine.’ The key found the lock and Lucia tugged at the door. ‘Goodnight, Harry.’

She slid inside.

She wanted just to sit but she did not let herself. She tripped the ignition and fastened her seat belt. She did not cry.

She put the car into reverse and released the handbrake. She turned in her seat and eased the vehicle backwards. She did not cry.

When she was clear she applied the brake and shoved the gear lever into first. She released the clutch and eased away. She did not cry.

Harry stood aside to let the car pass. He held up a hand but Lucia stared ahead. She passed the squad cars and slowed at the barrier and pulled out into the road. She did not cry.

Fifty yards on she pulled the Volkswagen to the kerb and killed the engine. She closed her eyes and gripped the wheel and allowed her head to slump against it. She coughed. She swallowed. She did not, would not cry.

And yet the tears came. In spite of herself, Lucia cried. And she cried.

What are these things always about, Inspector?Samuel taught history, right? So let’s look at history. In all of history, what has been the common motivation in any act of lunacy, of depravity, of desperation? What more than anything else has driven people to steal, to lie, to cheat? To lose their minds sometimes. To kill.

Love, Inspector. Always love. Love of God, love of money, love of power, love of a woman. Of a man too but we’re women, we both know history is written by men so invariably it’s love of a woman. There’s hate of course but hate is just the flip-side of love. Hate is what happens when love turns rotten. Hate comes with betrayal.