A Plain and Ordinary Girl

The Long Walk

Bloom walked sullenly to the corner shop, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. He had on a long black trench coat that he pulled from a bargain bin some eighteen months earlier in an effort to look more like a detective, but which was now a grimy, stained mess. He also wore a jumper, and some dark blue trousers. His feet clacked against the footpath, his black shoes the smartest things he owned, now scuffed, and scraped. He truly was a sorry sight to behold. Framed against the cream white of the surrounding buildings, he cut a striking sight. A dark shadow, outlined against the white of the world. He began thinking of his career, and what had brought him so low. 

"Marcus"                                                                                                                                                                          His wife's voice. Alice Bloom, formerly McKenna. Her green eyes stared down at him, still in bed, and her blonde hair fell down over her shoulders, drifting slowly over his face.                                                       "Yeah"                                                                                                                                                                              "It's 10 in the morning, I'm going to head out now, will you be okay?"                                                                "Sure. It's just a cold, I'll be grand in the morning" He smiled up at her. Her voice was still filled with love, after the six years of marriage. It had been a blissful union, a rare marriage that was as perfect underneath as those involved made it out to be on the surface. There were no secret fights in the bathroom at friend's parties, no separations for months on end, no infidelities or secret lovers. No, they were happy, and on this day, it had seemed like it would never end. 

He had watched her leave the apartment through the crack in the bedroom door. His nose and throat were throbbing, painfully, with the flu. It had begun to pain him the previous night and he was still recovering. 

A few hours later, he had managed to get up out of bed. His nose was running, and stuffy, and he had suffered a dizzy spell when he had first got up out of bed. He had been unemployed, but his wife's salary had been more than enough to keep them both on their feet. She was a barrister. He brought himself to the kitchen, having haphazardly thrown on some trousers, and began making toast. He had resolved to find employment, and from his training with the Gardaí, admittedly from years ago, he could be a Private Investigator. In the months since he had been laid off, he had watched some old detective movies, and he could think of nothing else he would rather do. He had an image in his head, one he knew was false, of being involved in glamourous stings and going undercover, the same he had had when he first trained with the Guards, but he needed the work, however boring. His toast popped up, and he ate it dry, an old woman's remedy for stomach ache. 

That was when he got the call. 

His wife had been attacked. She had won her case, apparently, and when the judge handed out the sentence to the accused, now guilty, the man had run from the stands, and beaten Alice severely. He was pulled off her, but not before hitting he twice in the temple, and breaking her nose and jaw. She lay, comatose, in hospital, and he was advised to come right away. When he arrived, he was taken in to see her. There was some dried blood in her hair, and her usually sharp, defined nose was twisted to one side and deviated at the end, but it was still Alice, still his wife. It was still the woman he loved, and yet it wasn't. She was braindead, unlikely to ever recover, and she was struggling to hold on as it was. He was told this by a doctor, a small, tanned man, who brought him into a private room to explain this situation to him. The doctor then said the words that no one wants to hear about any loved one

"If there's anything you want to say to your wife, now would be the time to say it" 

How does someone respond to something like that? Marcus Bloom had been left, speechless with grief, with that statement, and unsure about what to do next. He spent an age in that small room, staring at nothing while his wife slowly died across the hall. What could he possible say to her? That he loved her? She knew that. He couldn't tell her anything she didn't know about the way he felt, he couldn't tell her any of her flaws, not now. Goodbye was far too formal, and too final, and, he realised, with a sinking feeling of utter despair, it didn't really matter what he said to her, she wouldn't even know he was there. Instead, he resigned himself to remain, by her bed, until it happened. Until she died. And she did, after thirty-six hours on life support, and thirty-four years alive, Alice Bloom died.

That had been three years ago now. For the first 18 months after she died, he had been a mess. He lost their apartment, Jobseeker's Benefit far too little to maintain it, and he spiralled out of control. He had been depressed, and then angry, and then depressed again. Alcohol had been a relief, and most of his money had gone towards the growing bottle addiction. And then he had almost died. He had been in a depressive slump, and had taken cocaine to boost him a bit. It had mixed with the alcohol in his system and formed coca-ethanol, and he had overdosed so badly he was hospitalised for weeks. Friends he hadn't seen since they had offered him sympathies and understanding following his bereavement came in flocks, sent him flowers, and helped him back on his feet. He set up the Private Investigation practice and for the last 18 months, he had had one case. A neighbour had stolen their friend's cat, and that was that. Now down on his luck again, he was hitting the drink hard, and he had recurring nightmares of failure and depression, but he was resolved never to get as bad as he was again. 

He reached the shop, and bought the few items he needed. He needed a case, his brain was unstimulated and getting slow, drowning in alcohol and boredom. He sighed as he began his journey back home, striding, his 6ft frame moving sullenly throught the streets. He needed something fast.