Charade

Vic

When Lily woke, her fever had worsened.

Her temperature had skyrocketed and she had a new bruise on her kneecap, from where she'd hit it on the esky, or the 'coffee table', as my father believed it was. She was deteriorating quickly now – a lot quicker than what she was before. And as October neared its end, I knew that it wouldn't be long now.

In the late evening of Halloween night, I drove to Wuster's bar. The good doctor would be here soon, ready to take my cash, but I couldn't quite bring myself to get out of the car just yet. I sat behind the wheel of my taxi, staring at the dash, trying push down the stir of emotions inside. Fear, worry, helplessness, hopelessness. It was all in there, screaming at me.

The doors swung open and I breathed in the familiar scent of whiskey and smoke. Up the back, some fellas were playing pool, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, while some other guys were dealing out cards at a table. I sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and pulled out my phone.

"Hello?" Paul's voice crackled across the line.

"Paul?" I asked. "It's Vic. Have you got a minute?"

"Sure, Vic, what do you need?"

"I've a favour to ask," I said. "I'm in some serious trouble, and I think I know who's behind it."

"Yeah, I heard about your apartment, but you know you can't just disappear like that. Cops are looking for you for questioning."

"I already told them everything. But I need your help, Paul. It's about Lily. Someone is after us."

"No shit," he said. "Vic, you can't go solo on this. Let us take care of it."

"Paul, we both know that this case has no evidence and will end up as a file in some archives, where nobody will bother to look for the next decade. Look, I think I know who's behind this. All I need is a background check."

"Vic, you know I can't do that. It was risky enough when I ran one on the kid."

"Please," I said. "This isn't just about me. It's about Lily. She's my daughter. I can't let anything happen to her. I thought you of all people would understand that."

I thought back to the night we'd met, sitting at the bar, while he told me about his little girl who drowned in a backyard swimming pool. I knew what I was doing wasn't fair, but when it came to Lily, the line between right and wrong was blurred, to say the very least.

"Fine," he said. "Give me a name."

"Edward Quentin Louis, born May, 1963."

"Okay, got it."

"Thank you," I said. "Really. Thanks, Paul."

"Don't thank me yet. If I get fired, I'll team up with this guy to take you down."

"Okay, fair enough." I smiled, and hung up the phone.

Just as I tucked the phone back into my pocket, the door opened and Dr Chris Evans walked in. I glanced down at the box, holding my daughter's life in my hands, and then back at Chris.

Finally, this would all be over.

© A.G. Travers 2015