Lines

Chapter 1 Sheriff Bell's Office

Chapter 1 Sheriff Bell’s office

“Sit down and don’t rattle those damn cuffs” said Sheriff Bell. I want to rub my wrists but don’t. Deputy Leroy Strange hovers with a key. He frowns at the back of Sheriff Bell’s hatless head. Deputy Leroy tries to read Sheriff Bell’s mind. It doesn’t work. His grandma was psychic but this pro police gift eludes him. Leroy often puts on what he considers to be a psychic stare while the Sheriff interviews suspects using a more traditional Southern method. Today Leroy frowns. He worries he’s been over zealous with the cuffs. In my opinion he has.

Sheriff Bell makes an impatient gesture towards us both. He has the weary air of a man trying to raise too many thick kids. Both Leroy and I try to remove the cuffs without making a sound. Leroy winces as I slip them off and hand them back.

Deputy Leroy hurries off. Sheriff Bell picks up the phone. A rickety fan clicks from side to side. I try to concentrate on looking normal-no-that is not the right word. I try to look like an upstanding honest citizen or at least like Other People. This is difficult as I have no idea how Other People behave when arrested for a crime let alone murder.

 Just sit still and think. I haven’t killed anyone…yet. Yet…as accidents can happen, do happen and did happen today …or was it yesterday?

Bell watches my face. Did I just say that out loud? I’ve absorbed Leroy’s anxiety. Bell’s large foot taps the floor as he waits for Judge Parker to shuffle to the phone. A pile of paperwork flaps about under the fan. He swivels round with difficulty, his large gut blocking his arm and clicks off the fan. The air solidifies around us like warm glue. It’s difficult to breathe the temperature climbs it must be 82 degrees.

Even my eye lids are sweating.

“No sir, some sort of weird accident” he yells into the phone. Judge Parker is nearly deaf.

“No sir, I’m pretty darn sure…weird…no I said WEIRD…she…no sir, not local…New York” he laughs “Yes sir…”

Bell listens as Judge Parker continues; probably another anecdote about fool Yankees.

He mouths to me “You can go”. I begin to unstick myself from the chair but he raises his hand and points at the paperwork pile.

I sit back down. I pull my wet shirt away from my skin. I try to figure out the damage.

You are dead. Am I going to be charged? You have been recast in this little drama as a careless Yankee unaccustomed to Georgia ways …but you’re other roles friend, lover, rival have been deleted. You are a sketch, a cartoon, a cross in a box.

The screen door swings open as Deputy Dill Bevan enters to start his shift.

Leroy mutters to him in the outer office.

Sheriff Bell stabs a biro in the air to attract his son-in-law’s attention. When this doesn’t work he throws it at the glass door.

Bell scrabbles for another pen to write a note tipping the pens across the desk. 20 biros and a screwdriver cascade onto the floor.

Bevan enters the inner office taking in his father-in-law, me and the pen debris. Bevan as always is curious and deferential.

He moves towards me accompanied by a jingling chain sound. Bell shows him the note. Both men stare at me. The Judge carries on talking down the phone line like a wasp trapped in a jar.

Holy shit here it comes, my anxiety breaks like a wave. On a scale of 1 to 10 it is up to rabid Cat in a Sack. Did I misunderstand? “You can go…not home but TO JAIL? Is that what Bell meant?

“I need the restroom” I lurch up out of the seat towards the door, the edges of the room dissolve into black dots. Bell’s boys stand well back in deference to the fact I’m green and about to be very sick AGAIN.

In the restroom I slide down the wall onto a tiled floor. It is a relief to be cold, to shiver. If this was a film I’d flush my shit away but that’s just melodramatic. I’ve got blood and sick on my linen trousers; those guys aren’t coming anywhere near me. Besides Uncle Theo the Younger is on his way and Uncle Theo the Elder is an old poker pal of Judge Parker. I recalibrate the trouble I’m in.

Sheriff Bell is waiting for me outside the door; hands in pockets, chewing an unlit cigar. He jerks his head towards the exit.

He follows me out to the station porch. We sit down, he lights up. He wants to ask me something but won’t.

I lean forward head in hands. My hair crackles with sick. I stink of blood and sweat and someone else. The cigar smoke is a reprieve for us both.

Time moves like a river fast at the centre: the crime scene? Slow at the bank-this porch. A truck bounces past, someone shouts a greeting. Bell waves.

My nose burns and starts to bleed. Bell glances sideways, shifts his weight and passes me a handkerchief.

“D’you want a paper suit?” His bear like bulk reassuring.

No. I want a line, I need a bath. A dog barks.

I am hot then cold. I need to urinate. “I want to know what’s going on” I answer.

Sheriff Bell watches his son-in-law mince across the yard. He doesn’t miss a beat.

They are both brave men in their way.

“Your Uncle” he pauses, starts again “Theo’s coming to pick you up, there was an accident, your friend’s dead.”

“…because you’re mine I walk the line”, goes round in my head.

The coroner’s van stops with much slamming of doors. Sheriff Bell gets up scratches himself and walks out in to the midday sun. The men stand around talking quietly. They glance over now and again.