The Quiet Man

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Well, I don’t know who you are, or what you want me to do, but I’m here. Okay? I’m here, I’m following the directions as best I can. I read the classified ads now like they’re all meant for me. I decipher codes as if they make sense. All I need now is a tinfoil hat and a camper van and I’ll be all set. I’m watching. Happy now? I’m here, I’m watching, but nothing’s happening.

Nothing much happens in office buildings anyway, as far as I can tell. Fantasy money traded from one pair of well-groomed hands to another, papers stapled together, meetings. Women in short skirts and jackets with their hair pulled up, walking around with file folders. No one looks up. No one cares that I’m here. A phone is ringing; I can hear the low buzz of a photocopier. What am I doing here? Maybe I got it wrong.

Maybe I’m on the wrong floor.

Well, at least I have the right address. The potted palm and I can see the police van pull up through the window. I recognise it now; it’s bland and plain and no one would think twice about it, unless you’ve already seen it and know what’s inside. One police car, flanked by four unmarked cars. They’re being subtle with this one. Greg? Should I call him? No: If I see him, we can talk. Otherwise I’ll just wait. He doesn’t need more trouble over me. I can hear women laughing from one of the offices. It’s barely eleven. They’re getting coffee. It’s a normal day for them.

My gun feels overwhelmingly large against my back, like it’s obvious and everyone could see if it they looked. I’ll keep my back to the window. Their blinds are broken; I bet no one’s noticed. They don’t close them, not here. Why would they? They’re dusty. The palm is dusty, too.

A ping: that’s the lift. The doors are about to open. This must be it, it must be.

I love this part; the part right before. I’m ready. The doors will open, the police will spill out, guns blazing. Someone might fire, and bullets will spray everywhere. I’ll duck down, I’ll dodge. I’m ready for anything. Air is never as sweet as it is in the moments just before. All right. I’m ready. Go.

The doors open. There’s a pause; no rush into the corridor, no. It’s calmer than that, quieter. It’s just three uniformed policemen, very calm, very careful, stepping out. They are armed, but it’s only obvious if you’re looking for their weapons. They’re being discreet. They look around. I don’t think they even register my presence. I’m just a bloke standing by the window reading something on his phone, someone waiting for an appointment; nobody. I don’t recognise any of them. They’re not looking for me. The lift door stays open, waiting for them. They walk toward the open office door.

They go inside, hard heels on the floor.

Is that it? No gunfire, no drama? They can’t be here after a murderer, can they? There’s too few of them. The mundane details of arrests: I guess they’re not so exciting. I don’t always get to throw a man to the ground and incapacitate him. Sometimes I can only watch the handcuffs go on, heads pushed down as they’re escorted inside the backseat of a police car. That’s true, that’s often how it happens. A whimper rather than a bang. Sometimes they’ve been waiting for that knock on the door for years, and they go quietly. Maybe it will be like that: boring. Still. Better than anything else I was going to do today. Definitely better.

If I’d read the paper any later I would have missed this. There was only one message this time, with just a few hours’ notice. This must be a new discovery, then. There was barely time to invite me. But I got invited, and I’m here. Even if it’s boring, I’d rather be here.

I can hear their voices as they explain themselves to the secretary, but I can’t make out the words. They’re speaking softly. I can hear the secretary, though: he’s nervous. He’s too loud. Maybe he’s warning someone, giving someone time to prepare. To leave. To run.