Beyond Grace [ON INDEFINITE HOLD]

Beyond Grace: 8

It was 2006 all over again. The red and blue lights illuminated the lawn. Police cars parked askew to the sordid scene. Onlookers filled the scene with whispers of false empathy, naïve to whom the broken family screamed for.

Flames malignantly licked up and down a once-beautiful house. A spark leaped, and then another house was bathed in effulgent fire. Suddenly, the sirens were everywhere, blaring through the confusion. A thousand images of him crippled over in agony peppered each lawn. A thousand looming black body bags wheeled away. A thousand burning tears...

“Cash,” Officer Dawson banged on the window. Leaning in close, the wiry hairs of his greying moustache brushed against the glass, “thought we'd lost you in there.”

The brightness of the fires morphed into the glare of the street lights. The neatly kept ash-filled lawns receded to littered cement curbs. And the body bags faded to black. Cash blinked, finding himself in front of the steering wheel. Alone.

'Me too,' he added in silent afterthought.

Stumbling out of his car, a new scene unfolded. A slight swagger marred his steps; the unavertable consequence of too many beers. Shrouded by the darkness, a throng of people were barred by strings of plastic police tape. Concern etched lines into the faces of some – others, merely interest.

The sunset cast and eerie glow, catching on the gloss of the vulture-like cars encircling the scene. Omens of death unmistakeably lingered in the air. Already busy, the detective and DNA squads crouched over the concrete, plastic gloves on their hands. A few other police officers scoured the area for witnesses, notebooks ready.

Keira paced over, speaking into the handheld transceiver. Squinting, Cash sauntered to greet her, grinning to disguise the weight of the alcohol pounding against all five senses. She frowned at the slightly crooked police hat, the slack belt and creased shirt. Like a mother, almost.

Eyes connected and then with a jerked twist back around, Keira indicated he should follow. Groggily, Cash paused, and then acquiesced. However, the taped scene held little pull compared to the inexorable lust for escape.

A man – a victim, sprawled awkwardly in a pool of vermillion red blood. Legs bent as if they were running on air. Arms flopped lifelessly at the side like limp noodles. Scattered across the body were crusted rubicund splotches. Gunshot wounds. A final fatal indenture marked straight through the forehead.

Edges of the man’s sleek ebony hair were drenched in sweat and blood. It was alarming in the way the hooded lifeless eyes seemed to stretch wide open, challenging the witnesses. As if in silent wait. Cash uncomfortably looked away.

“Don’t get distracted,” Keira stated matter-of-factly, crouching down to analyse the scene.

She looked up, her eyes sliding to something behind the police barrier. Or someone. Mariah leaned forward over the black and yellow police tape, bright eyes piqued with a curious mixture of concern and curiosity. Cash stood up to greet her, yet Keira pulled him down.

“You know her?” Keira enquired sharply, “She brought up your name a few times when we took her brother in for questioning.”

“Yeah,” Cash paused, “We’re in, uh, a… relationship?”

The way it was said made it more of a question. It was a question, almost. Open relationship – that was Jose would say, yet there was more to it than that. The notion of faithfulness still weighed down on his conscious – yet risking what was already there to make it more than just sex was too dangerous.

“The brother?” he pressed. Mariah had a brother?

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Keira replied pokerfaced. “They’re black,” she added in disgust, breaking nonchalance to curl up a lip.