David Jackson - The Helper

It’s what she said. It’s the trust . When he looks into her eyes it’s like looking into the eyes of Amy, his daughter. There is undiluted trust there. Faith. Belief. Tabitha believes that he is her guardian angel. The white knight, as she put it. He has rescued the damsel in distress and next he will vanquish the dragon, and they will live happily ever after. That’s what she believes.

He’s not sure he’s ready for that responsibility. It makes him wish he wasn’t so trustworthy in her eyes.

Because what if he gets it wrong?

What if, despite his constant assertions to himself and his continued reassurances to her that she is out of danger, she still comes to harm?

It’s an unbearable thought. And that’s why he cannot look her in the eye. Loath though he is to admit it, he needs the emotional detachment. Just in case.

But no! Fuck that sick sonofabitch! He’s not going to get Tabitha Peyton. She is safe now.

The coffee arrives, and he’s glad of the interruption to his mental wrangling. Neither of them adds sugar to their drinks. Both take careful sips from their cups of steaming liquid.

‘Do you like this city?’ she asks.

The question throws Doyle. Not merely for its random nature, but also because it’s something which for him has a lot more depth than it might appear to possess. To Doyle, this city is far more than a collection of buildings and people and vehicles crammed into a few square miles of land. He was brought here at the age of eight from a country with vast open spaces and sheep and cows and an altogether gentler pace of life. The shock of that contrast — the excitement of it — has never left him. Yes, the city can be cruel, can even seem heartless at times, but there is a soul there which, once you recognize it and connect to it, never lets you go. You reach a point where your heart beats to the city’s rhythm. And then you’re a part of it.

‘I love it,’ he answers, and he is not exaggerating.

She nods, plays with her spoon. ‘I thought I would too. Sometimes I get this close to thinking I’m happy here. And then the city goes and shows me how wrong I can be.’

‘You’ve had a tough time.’

‘Ever since I got here. That fresh start idea of mine never worked out. I pictured friends, dancing, theater, movies. What I got was loneliness and despair. Millions of people all around me, and still I felt the loneliest woman on the planet. Crazy, huh?’

Doyle says nothing. Just sips his coffee. She needs to talk, to be listened to.

She says, ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s my fault, not the city’s. I’ve noticed that about New Yorkers: they’re very loyal. And maybe you’re right. Maybe me and New York were never going to get along. A clash of personalities. And I can see why you love it here. It has so many wonderful things, so much to offer. But I think that sometimes, for some people, it takes instead of gives. And when you’re the one it picks on, you don’t have a prayer. ’

Doyle sips. Waits.

‘It beat me, this city. Beat me into the ground. You know how low I got? I was going to finish it all, that’s how low. One night, drunk as a skunk, I actually went out to the Brooklyn Bridge with the intention of jumping into the East River.’

‘What stopped you?’

She smiles then, the first smile Doyle has seen from her. And on such a serious subject.

‘I picked the wrong bridge. You know how difficult it is to jump off that thing? The walkway goes right through the middle. You have to climb across the bridgework to miss the traffic below. I was so drunk that night I couldn’t even climb my own front stoop.’

Her smile broadens, and for a second it lights up her face before it dims again.

She says, ‘You’re only the second person I’ve ever told that story too. See what I mean about trusting you?’

‘Who was the first?’

‘Mrs Serafinowicz. I never even told Helena.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because. . because she was another fresh start. I didn’t want her pity. I wanted her happiness. I wanted her to be the same with me as she was when we were at college. And that’s what I got. For a short while.’

Doyle tries to work on what he should say. He’s not good with females who cry, and he’s not any better at giving advice on life. But he gives it a try.

‘Tabitha, listen. This is bad. As bad as it gets. There’s no way I can really understand how tough this must be for you. The only thing I do know is this: it’ll get better. Not right away. It’ll take time. But I know you can be happy again. You’re too young to give up without a fight.’

She raises her head, and this time he cannot avoid looking into her eyes. And he tries to convince her without words that everything will be all right again. And when he sees a tear bulge from her eye and roll down her cheek he wants to catch it and he wants to take her in his arms and shield her from the terrors of the big bad city she sees out there.

And he wishes he had never met this girl.

‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ she says.

He guesses that she’s going to cry again, and he’s ashamedly relieved to let her go and do that.

It also gives him the opportunity he needed. He was planning to use the washroom excuse himself, or maybe pretend he needed to go out and fetch something from the car.

He takes out his cellphone. He finds the number he wants in his contact list and makes the call.

‘It’s me. Detective Doyle. I need a favor.’

‘What kind of favor?’ says Gonzo.

‘I need you to look after something for me.’

‘Like what?’

‘A package. I can’t talk about it now. I’ll explain when I see you.’

A lengthy silence. ‘Detective Doyle, it’s really good speaking with you again, but you’re being very mysterious here.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. It’ll all be clear when we meet. What’s your address?’

‘My address? You mean now? You want to deliver this package right now?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Well. . yes it’s a problem. This is Friday night, Detective. I have plans, you know?’

‘What, you got a girl coming over? You hitting the clubs? What?’

‘Paradoxia.’

‘What?’

‘Paradoxia.’ He says it like the meaning should be obvious.

‘Gonzo, you’re talking gibberish. Is that a new nightclub or something?’

‘You never heard of Paradoxia? Where have you been, Detective? Paradoxia is only the hottest online game ever invented. I’m right in the middle of an all-night session here.’

Doyle hears the whoosh of a hand-drying machine as a washroom door is opened here in the coffee shop.

‘Gonzo, are you gonna help me out here or what?’

Gonzo sighs. ‘All right, Detective. But only because I like you, okay?’

He reels off an address, and Doyle files it in his brain.

‘I’ll be right over.’ He cuts the call just as Tabitha gets back to the table.

‘Last minute preparations,’ he explains. ‘You okay?’

She nods.

‘Then let’s go.’

‘This is it?’ she says. ‘This is your safe house?’

He gets the feeling she’s not impressed with this address on Henry Street in the Lower East Side. He’s not sure why. The signs on the store fronts are at least translated into English below the Chinese. The imposing sight of the Manhattan Bridge looming over the street is a whole block away. And the graffiti covering the front of the building they’re about to enter isn’t even pornographic.

Doyle buzzes and gets an immediate answering buzz. He pushes open the door and heads upstairs, Tabitha trailing cautiously behind. The air is heavy with the scent of Chinese food, and from behind one of the doors comes the sound of raised voices. It sounds heated to Doyle, but he’s not au fait with the tongue or the culture. For all he knows, it could be anything ranging from a murder in progress to a discussion about the cost of noodles.