10 March 2013
"I wonder if you can see from here. There, out the window. On the far side of the river... To the left if the little Edwardian park, all the way past the wallpaper-brown factory and about thirty yards clear of the little loading bay, standing up in front of the bald, scraggy willows: a house. You can see it, can't you? With definite brickwork the colour of scabs, and the reflectionless round window. Below the clock. You got it? I'll tell you something. It's not a house.
That part was obvious. It doesn't look like one. It stands out against the sky. The roof is bent like a citoren badge, and it's far too tall for it's windows. In the immense greys and greens of a wintery three o'clock such as this one, it could even be a church. A little community one, d'ya think?
Wait. There.
Do you see the guy? The one who's waiting under the first floor windows. He's just rung the bell. I'll bet his shoes crunch in the Tarmac when he shifts his weight, by George. He looks like he oughta have Andy written on 'em. They're good and polished. You can tell he's busy. Worried. not him, I don't think. That'd be far too dangerous. One thing you gotta remember is If he's busy he has to be someplace, and that place's gonna notice if he ain't there.
What about this guy? Clown, apprentice, puffing away at two fingers pinched together, clicking his mouth when he exhales and moving his hand away in violent gesticulation. What does he know about cigarettes? Nothing. Perfect. He's doing fine so far.
Look some more at him. He's not connected to anyone there. He's barely holding the attention of shoesguy. You could package his breath as a bathsalt, no doubt. Look, shoes is moving away! Complete nobody! Hah! Look, he chucks the fag over his shoulder. I bet it smoulders for hours. Could catch on something.
Sometimes, y'know, I feel I'm doing a service to society. I really do. You should laugh at that one, wiseguy.
Ooh. Shoesman's entered in through the weekly-polished doorway. Probably gone to a meeting. Loner's still outside. Probably waiting for something. There, he's stretching. He's tired, so he won't be doing any running today. That's good."
Carl sipped his coffee, never shifting his gaze from the man without a cigarette. He draped his hand down the cup, dangling it. The skin of his thin, weathered cheeks was tight, pock marked, and decisive in the grey ambient light, and as he sucked his gums, his eyes forgot to blink. "I tell ya. The guy's a natural. He should get a medal, he really should," he yapped, bobbing his coffee hand and raising some fingers in explanation, eyes darting for a second to the businessman's own. The businessman stared bluntly on at Carl. No drink sat before this proud, unsmiling behemoth. No imbalance of the lips. No hunch of the shoulders, like Carl. He wore a sparsely pinstriped suit: royal blue-grey and immaculately ironed. The sleeves curved like bending card, and at the collar, the formations of a paper aeroplane seemed to be unfolding. A tiny shudder emitted from his Elbow, but he crushed it like a political rebellion, Wincing ever so slightly. "MIS-ter Logan, we- appreciate- your concern for the suitability of our- volunteer-, but really, the most crucial factor here is speed. We just need him quickly, mister Logan. You understand that, don't you?" Carl tore his gaze from his mark, and tried to trace the eyes beneath the glasses, thinking he was looking dead on but actually misjudging by half a centimetre. "well sure, I guess. If speed's what you want, speed's what you get, my friend. speed- is- what- you'll- get-. Badabing, badab-" "thank you mister logan. That will be all for now. You have him processed and packaged at our doorstep by noon on Sunday and we'll talk a little more about your brother's wellbeing." Carl gazed still at where he had been staring before he clunked into standing position, pausing at the penultimate word, forearms tensing to support his weight. "yes. YesThankyou. I assure you we'll have him good and ready sir. good and ready, I should say." "thank you, mister Logan" "okay, you take care now. Don't go shootin' anybody well connected, or maybe some shit like that," Carl mumbled, before swerving to avoid the warning glare of the black glasses. "asshole," he breathed, before coughing, and forgetting to tip.
Pocketful Of Fingernails Pt 1. • Opuss № I