(15) The Crying Song
There’d been a short burst of it, rolling over his resistance. Already weakened by the gorgeous organ chording of Cirrus Minor and the heartbreaking interplay of piano, organ and acoustic guitar of Green Is The Colour, the soft smudgy duet of voice and guitar of The Crying Song spilled over into the walled enclosure of his warrior heart and sent it spinning.
He’d arrived back with a head full of ugly images and memories and a deep desire to drink and forget. There’d been messages from Benazir and Vee. Benazir had thought he was picking up Asha after her shift and was wondering why the little princess was bitching at her. Vee wanted to apologize. Again. She’d been in on the secret and had been sworn to secrecy. She hoped he could forgive her. Dennis had insisted it would work best in his ignorance, that he would never really be in danger, that the new transmitters were tiny, virtually untraceable and foolproof.
He’d seen Dennis at the raid, standing in the back with important looking strangers while uniformed cops did all the bustling about and what he assumed were CAS workers guided the children into vans. Swat team types, muscled and fierce, had already shoved the hooded and handcuffed into paddy wagons. Randy and two of his injured colleagues had been hastily treated and removed in ambulances. Dennis had approached and bowed. Andrew had been ready to be offended but not honoured. Dennis’s companion, some RCMP brass, insisted on shaking his hand, and told him that this had been a take-down of momentous proportions. With this they could crack an international chain, maybe take it down for good. Tip of the iceberg and all that. Andrew couldn’t tell whether he was too exhausted or too shocked to react. And he still couldn’t. Meekly, with a head not quite bowed but maybe slanted, he’d inherited the praise.
Now here he was, home alone, again. Well, if all else fails have a bath, so he did. The wet heat performed its customary magic: first on his body, stiff with stress, and then his psyche, previously slated for demolition but now reprieved. Life was still worth living after all. Misery was not endless and some sort of something could be done. He lay back, trying to enter the transcendence of Hildegard Von Bingen’s chanting but falling into the scurrilous little ego trap of recalling his earnest request not to be made into the hero of the moment. He’d been told it would be no problem, that they’d turn one of their own guys into the star. The press would never know the difference. Turning down the limelight had its own reverse glamour.
Okay, so despite the sublime singing of the Anonymous 4 he was stuck with thinking, replaying dramatic moments, some of them already on heavy rotation. Whatever his real name was, The Randy was badly injured and would not forget his attacker. Andrew would have to hope he would not ever get bail, but with the depth of criminality so far displayed, how could any of them argue that? Let me out till the trial I’ll be a good boy I promise. But even dirty money could buy the best lawyers. Especially dirty money. Look at Freddie Wingate. If you’re rich and guilty hire Freddie went the slogan. How many drivers on break had looked up from their tabloid and said that to him? More than two or three. Was The Randy connected enough to get Freddie Wingate or one of his tailor dummy stand-ins? Dennis would know. One of the twenty things he had to ask him. Tomorrow, or the next day.
Vee’s apology: not as convincing as he would have liked it to be. They had used him, his idealism, his determination. He’d been a pawn, a hunk of bait. They must have suspected The Randy as some kind if double agent as well as a sloppy drunk, and had been waiting for their chance, never for a second thinking that some rich guy idealist would sniff out a skanky fish in a local stabbing. And there’s Dennis acting all snooty over local fisticuffs, pretending to settle down to some old Inspector Morses while quietly arranging the set-up. How did he know Andrew’s intuition would guide them so accurately?
