ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 26: nineteen blue balloons

      Is it possible to get sick of the words ‘Happy Birthday’? Because I’m sure as hell starting to get tired listening to them. I hadn’t even gotten out of the door of Blake’s apartment without being pounced on. Blake woke me up by pulling the blanket off me and thrusting a musical card in my face, he even cooked me bacon and eggs and stuck one candle into the over-done yolk.

      I applauded his efforts and I devoured the meal, but it didn’t feel like my birthday, I didn’t feel a year older. I had no extra privileges to look forward to, like drinking―so I could have an excuse to get smashed and forget how much I fucked up, but I can’t.

      Throughout the morning it continued with the ‘Happy Birthday’s’ or ‘Have a good nineteenth’ and I just give a simply nod in acknowledgment. People that I didn’t know wished me well on my day of birth and I thanked them. Faces that I didn’t recognised smiled at me and grinned, congratulating me for surviving another year and I tried to remain confident.

      I shake my head; birthdays were always a disaster for me. I guess it all started when I was a kid, when I asked to have a chalk-outline cake which scared half of the neighbourhood back when I lived in Sheffield or the time when I wanted to play ‘Slasher’ instead of pass-the-parcel when I was, say, seven?

      Dad and Mum thought they should distance their work from me, seeing that I was influenced too much by their profession. That didn’t stop me throwing a tantrum when I didn’t get a forensics kit at the age of nine, or not speaking to my parents for two weeks when I couldn’t see Dad’s registered firearm in the top left-hand kitchen cupboard.    

      I don’t feel a year older, nor do I look it, but apparently to the rest of the world, I’m nineteen and should be enjoying myself.

      I yawn and stretch out on the table in the Loft, I’m not going to let Sam’s abrupt termination of our partnership phase me. It’s my birthday and I’m going to chase up some leads on my day off―that way, I won’t allow the pain to fracture my insides.

      I hear the elevator ding.

      I sit up to see Banks, Dad and Snag exiting the elevator to come up to the Loft. They’re all dressed moderately festive, not birthday attire but I don’t make a fuss over it. Snag’s dressed in his white lab coat over a plaid shirt, slacks and leather shoes, oh and he’s wearing a sombrero. Dad’s lost his formal attire and is in a simple black suit, toting a blueberry Freon―my favourite. Banks, on the other hand, is in jeans and a sleeveless shirt with boots, bearing the gift of coffee.

      I suppose it’s an obscure picture of the three wise men giving the messiah gold, frankincense and myrrh. Instead, it’s the three personnel of the law giving the Detective coffee, a snack and Hispanic hats. It works for me.

      “Now before you overwhelm me with birthday wishes, I’m busy,” I say.

      I slide off the table and approach Banks, taking the steaming coffee from her hands and take a gulp. I grimace because American coffee tastes like piss; I push the Styrofoam cup back into Banks’ hands and continue my way down the line. I pluck the Freon from Dad and eye him cautiously; he must’ve had a change of heart since dumping Helena at the foot of the precinct. I stop at Snag and look up into his whitewash eyes, which seem to be shadowed by his frown; I flick the brim of the sombrero and start my descent down the stairs.

      “Is this a Diablo thing?” Banks queries.

      “No,” Snag adjusts his sombrero, “this is definitely an Akira thing.”   

      Dad sighs, “Akira it’s your birthday, I’m giving you the day off.”

      “Justice never rests,” I say but in my mind I think, it’s about time justice takes a fucking nap. “Thanks for the snack, I’ll be off now.”