Saving Grace

16

When the morning took over from the restless night, Grace and I wandered down to the police station on Plymouth.

"We'd like to file a report," she said to the lady at the front desk.

The woman – mid-thirties with dark skin and big, round eyes – looked at us rather boredly, as if we were interrupting an afternoon nap.

"What sort of report?"

Grace and I exchanged glances. I leaned forward.

"Is Phillip on today?"

The lady blinked slowly.

"Detective Phillip Day?"

"Yes."

"I believe so."

"Could you tell him it's Richie, Stan's son, and that I need to see him?"

She looked at us rather strangely, as if I'd asked where the nearest strip club was, before nodding sluggishly in reply.

"Wait here," she said, getting up from her desk.

Grace turned to me, eyed me curiously. A moment later, the woman returned.

"Go through that door. Detective Day will meet with you soon."

We thanked her and she buzzed us through. As we passed into the hallway, the overwhelming scent of new carpet and fresh paint sunk deep into our lungs, wafting down from the end of the corridor. A handful of guys were hard at work – two repainting the yellowy old walls in bleach white while the others laid soft blue carpet over the splintering boards.

"It looks like they finally got the funds to do up the place," I remarked as we approached the side door.

"About time, too," Grace observed. "Doesn't look like anyone has touched this place since 1978."

I reached out, grabbed the side door and swung it open. A river of anarchy spilled out into the hall, the room shaking with flickering fluorescent lights, cops yelling across the room, the consistent hum of the coffee machine and telephones ringing off the hook. It was a building of contained chaos.

"Look," Grace said, pointing to a desk three rows in, labelled Det. Phillip Day.

We began weaving between sweaty officers and sprinting interns down to the desk, listening as superiors barked orders and the fax machine groaned in the corner. Grace perched on the single seat in front of Phillip's desk while I stood beside her, observing this glorious disorder with a tingling fascination. Phillip emerged a moment later, carrying with him an enormous take-away coffee. When he saw me, his eyes lit up.

"Richie!"

He plonked his coffee on the desk and threw his arms around me.

"How are you, my boy? You've gotten so tall – much taller than your father ever was."

I pulled back to look him in the eye, a wide grin on my face. Phillip was blessed with an Italian mother and Greek father, which left his skin a deep shade of olive, his eyes big and brown, and his gut hanging just a little over his belt – probably from his sister's incredible cooking. He smiled at me tenderly before his eyes began to sink.

"Dear boy," he exclaimed. "Look at you! What's happened to your face?"

Absentmindedly, I gently ran my fingertips over my swollen jawbone, blinked with one black eye.

"It's a long story, but that's why we're here. It's good to see you again, Uncle."

"The same here, Richie," he said, cupping my face in his hands. "You look more like Stan every time I see you." My father's name caused a terrible pain in my gut and my smile wobbled out of place. "And who is this beautiful young woman?" He went on, not noticing.

"This is Grace," I said, stepping aside. "She's a friend of mine."

"A friend?" Phillip raised an eyebrow. "Why, what I would've given to have a friend like this when I was your age."

"Uncle, behave," I laughed.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Grace," he said, shaking her one hand with both of his.

"You too, Detective."

"Now," he said, slipping behind his desk. "What can I help you with, dear boy?"

"Well, Uncle, I'm afraid it's not me who's troubled."

I looked to Grace, who looked between us and cleared her throat. Slowly, with sunken, wandering eyes, she explained everything to Phillip, from the very beginning to the previous night's events. My uncle listened intently, eyes never wandering as his face was pulled into an expression of both sympathy and professionalism. When she was finished, I thought I saw a tear wobble on her eyelid before she bit it back and cracked her neck.

"Oh, sweetheart," Phillip said. "I'm so sorry this has happened to you – and to you too, Richie. Stalking is a terrible thing. Do you have any idea who might be behind this? Anyone who is holding a grudge against you, or wants to hurt you?"

"No, I haven't got any idea – " Grace paused, jerked her head to lock eyes with mine. "Wait," she said. "Jack Russo. My ex-boyfriend. He's definitely holding a grudge against me and Richie."

Phillip eyed me for a moment, a question in his throat. I held up a hand before it tumbled out.

"Do you have proof of this?" Phillip went on. "Perhaps you kept a record of these events – a phone history or any of the gifts he left?"

Grace lowered her eyes.

"I deleted everything," she said. "Messages, histories – I threw out all the presents. I hoped if I ignored it, pretended it wasn't happening, He might just go away. But it's only gotten worse."

Phillip tsked, biting his lip and crossing his arms.

"Okay," he said after a moment's thought, "I'm happy to file a report, but I'm afraid that with no evidence, there isn't much I can do. We've just spent our entire budget trying to fix this place up before the roof caves in and so there aren't many cops in here who would have the time to sit outside your house and make sure nothing goes awry."

"Then what can we do, Uncle? We have no idea what this man is capable of or the lengths he will go to."

"Richie, please," he said. Phillip sucked in a deep a breath, pressed his lips together. "As your uncle, your father's best friend of thirty-odd years, my advice is to run – but only if you feel in your heart this man means you harm. See, a lot of stalkers get bored and don't look for old victims when there are new ones all around them. It's not always fool-proof, though. Alternatively, I'd go out right now and buy deadlocks, a good alarm system, even a guard dog, if you so wanted. Get prepared. And if you receive any more gifts or messages, I'd keep them, record them, even in a diary format until something more can be done."

I sighed, crossing my arms.

"I know it's not the news you wanted, Richie," Phillip said. "But for now, that's all that can be done."

I nodded, mind racing. Grace offered a small, grateful smile, and stood up from the chair.

"Thank you, Detective Day," she said.

They shook hands over the desk and he wandered over to me a moment later.

"Nephew," he said, hands gripping my shoulders reassuringly. "I know this is difficult, especially at such a tender time of year, but please know that you can come to me with anything that troubles you, at any time and in any place. Both of you," he said, glancing at Grace.

I nodded, smiling sadly. My uncle again threw his arms around me and held me tightly for a heartbeat or two.

"I love you," he said, eyes ever patient and genuine.

"You too, Uncle."

And we left.

© A.G. Travers 2018