Beyond Grace: 10

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The first and foremost thing that was immediately apparent about Harlough Hill Police Station was its appearance. Stacks of ‘70s red bricks were packed in under the orange terra-cotta tiled roof. A grey wood veranda snaked the way around its unusually square base, squeaking stairs complaining upon each step taken. From the front door swung a slapdash fly screen shielding the thick cobalt blue door.

Many years ago, the council had bought the estate — near new, after the homeowner passed away in '79. From then on the house was elected for the Harlough Hill police force. Little had changed since.

The interior barely deviated from the outside — tired fluorescent light tubes lining the roof and cluttered clusters of office desks cascading files of paper. Dawson's office had been partially segregated at the front left of the building, with wide tinted glass windows, his lethargically balding head visible as he bent over the latest tragedy.

Keira was already pacing within the interrogation room, her restless shadow in dim light slotting through the room's barely closed blinds. Next door shielded the surveyors — patiently analysing the subjects behind the guise of the two-way mirror. He contemplated pushing the door open. Maybe he could impassively waltz in and amaze them with his non-existent theories. Though really, by now, Dawson should have mentioned something — distinguished a link, and warningly growl, “Keep off the case.”

Cash sighed, and slouched into his riotous spin-chair. It expeditiously slid away, receiving an irked 'humph' upon capture. The desk seemed the same as its normal chaos, yet it seemed somewhat different. Had it been tidied? He frowned, spinning a pen in his fingertips. That was it; a new file sat proudly with a crisp yellow post-it note taped to its breast.

I didn't give you this...

Tell Dawson about Mariah.

(Now, not later)

Keira. One day, he'll buy a hundred packs of that favoured idiosyncratic item. For her next birthday, perhaps. They had to be yellow — eight centimetres squared and somehow emanate the razor-sharp scent of chemicals. Any larger and they would be instantaneously branded useless.

Cash snapped his attention back to the task at hand. 'Irrelevant,' he chided himself. 'Irrelevant.'

The thick yellow folder rustled as it was picked up, slightly off-white papers clambering to escape to the floor. They spilled in a mess onto the desk — people, places and dates amassing like shiny novelties in a magpie's nest. Jaleel Santiago's file stared bleakly forward as the sheets cleared away to reveal a high-contrast black and white scan of the features that looked all too much like Melody's.

There were those same wide lips. The identical nose which turned down ever-so-slightly at the tip. His expression, albeit dour, shamelessly screamed snatches of Mariah's character. Yet the eyes — oh, the eyes. Thin and narrowed with crow’s feet faintly stamped in the corners. Nothing like Mariah's.

Cash scanned down the sheet, searching for a mere insinuation of information. Male. 39. 183cm. African American. No prior convictions. He flipped the page over with the vain hope of more. Nothing.

Mr Santiago seemed like that kind of man. A Nothing. The kind that worked the average nine-to-five job and caught the average five-oh-five-pm bus. The man who would turn up in a business suit to type important reports with practiced keystrokes, yet the words would be the same. Day in, day out. He would have a briefcase — Cash imagined — a Nothing briefcase filled with equally paramount Nothing sheets. Like everyone else in the world (apart from the sparse few that loitered in those elite tea-and-coffee societies), the nothingness is and was his life. Yet, it wasn't like the world wasn't busy. There was the Nothing phones and the Nothing Internet sites. There was shopping and haircuts and texting and typing. Fancy CEOs with scintillating Bluetooth headsets plugged into an ear while their black-suit encased hands thrashed about on the sea of keys to drawl out words on profitability.

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⏰ Last updated: Sep 10, 2011 ⏰

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