“Hi there, Joe.” She gives me a big smile.
“Hi, Miss Selena. How are you?”
“Very well, Joe,” she answers, punching my ticket. “Missed you yesterday, Joe.”
I couldn’t exactly catch the bus to Angela’s house. “I was late, Miss Selena.”
She hands back my ticket. I study how she moves, how she sounds, the way her eyes look me up and down. She smells like soap and perfume and makes me think of other women I’ve been with. Her shoulder-length black hair is slightly damp, and I can only assume she has showered with seeing me in mind, and since I’m in the process of assuming that, I like to assume she was in pretty good spirits as she soaped herself down. All that assuming makes the front of my overalls go a little tight. Her olive skin gives her a slightly exotic look, and she talks with an accent that’s erotic. She has a nice tight body and firm skin. Her dark blue eyes look into mine, and they see me differently from how Mr. Stanley sees me. He sees a defunct personality caught inside a healthy body. Miss Selena sees me as a man who can satisfy her. Her fingers deliberately brush against my hand. She wants me. Unfortunately, I like her too much as a bus driver to indulge her. Perhaps I’ll wait until she changes jobs.
I walk down the aisle. The bus isn’t packed, but I’m forced to sit next to some young guy dressed as a punk. He looks like he couldn’t make conversation about the weather unless it included beating the shit out of a weatherman. He’s dressed entirely in black, with a black studded collar around his neck. He has red hair, spikes in his nose, and faucet washers stretching his earlobes. Another regular citizen of this fine city. A chain runs from his lower lip to his throat. I consider pulling on it to see if I can flush his mind. His T-shirt says Don’t worry, I know the hymen maneuver.
It’s five thirty when I get home, by which time the front of my building is in complete shade. Somebody has tipped over some trash bins, so the sidewalk right outside is covered in old food and lawn clippings, and the old food and lawn clippings are themselves covered in flies. I climb the steps to the top floor and the first thing I do when I get into my apartment is open the window, then the second thing I do is close it because something out there smells bad.
I turn on an electric fan that looks just like the one at work and, I must confess, actually came from work. I open my briefcase on the sofa, take out the microcassette tape, and listen to it while I change out of my overalls. The tape contains nothing interesting. Inside the conference room they admit to themselves they have nothing. Outside to the media, they have several leads.
I stifle a laugh and toss the tape back into the briefcase. I’ll swap them again tomorrow.
I sit on the sofa and watch my goldfish. I give them some food and they swim up and start eating. Five-second memories or not, they always recognize food. They also recognize me. When I put my finger on the edge of the bowl, they follow it. I sometimes think that society would be great if we all had five-second memories. I could kill as many people as I wanted. Of course, maybe I wouldn’t remember that I liked killing people, so maybe it wouldn’t be that great after all. I could be right in the middle of tying somebody up when I’d forget why I was there. A five-second-memory society would just be full of awkward moments like that.
When Pickle and Jehovah have eaten and are back into their happy routine of swimming around and around, I lock up and head downstairs, keeping a tight grip on my briefcase.
I walk a few blocks, studying all the cars parked along the side of the road. Fifteen minutes later I’m driving to the address on page two of the folder I picked up earlier. I’m in a Honda that’s ten years old and has the aroma of cigarette smoke stained into the seats and carpet, but despite that it’s a pretty nice ride. I find them easier to steer without the weight of a body in the trunk. I drive slowly past Daniela Walker’s house. It is a two-story town house that looks like it was built only yesterday-bright red brick, dark brown steel roof, aluminum window framing. I’m surprised there’s no price tag hanging off one of the corners. The garden is looking scruffy, not that it’s very extensive: a few shrubs, a couple of baby trees, clumps of flowers that have wilted in the sun. No price tags on those either. The driveway is paved with paving stones. A pathway to the front door is cobbled with cobblestones. The lawn is dry and long. The mailbox is full of circulars. A garden gnome with painted red pants and a painted blue shirt is lying on its side in the garden. It looks like it’s been shot.
I circle the block and come back, then, satisfied nobody is watching, I pull up outside. I hop out of the car, straighten my tie, adjust my jacket, then realize the back of my pants have been tucked into my socks on the left side. I flick it out. I take my briefcase to the front door with me. I seldom leave it behind.
Knock.
Wait.
Knock again.
Wait. Again.
Nobody home. Just as the report confirmed. Since the murder, the husband-who I have already chalked up as suspect number one-hasn’t been back in the house. His mail has been redirected to his parents’ house, where he’s now staying with the kids.
The police tape crisscrossing the front door was taken down two days after the murder. That’s the sort of thing that invites trouble. Invites vandalism. It’s like putting up a large button with a sign saying Don’t Push. I figure it’ll be a miracle if I walk inside and don’t find giant penises painted all over the walls and the furniture not nailed down missing. I fish into my pocket and find my keys hiding beneath my handkerchief. Fumble with the lock for maybe ten seconds. I’m good at this.
I take a quick glance over my shoulder into the street. I’m all alone.
I open the door and walk inside.
CHAPTER NINE
Sally leaves work the same time Joe does, and though she tries to catch up to him, even calls out to him more than once, he doesn’t hear her. He reaches the bus stop, and a moment later the bus pulls away, spitting out a cloud of diesel fumes, some of which stick to the back of the bus, the rest disappearing into the air. She’s curious about where Joe goes. Sometimes he walks, sometimes he catches the bus. Does he live with his parents? Does he live with others like him? One of the things she likes the most about Joe is that he appears independent, and it wouldn’t surprise her if he lived in a flat or an apartment somewhere, fending for himself. Does he even have family? He’s never spoken of them. She hopes he does. The idea of Joe being all alone in this world is unsettling. She must make more of an effort to involve herself in his life, the same way she would want people to involve themselves in Martin’s life. If he were still alive.
He would be twenty-one today. What would they have been doing to celebrate? They would have thrown a party, invited family and friends, strung up a bunch of balloons and stabbed twenty-one candles into a chocolate cake shaped like a racing car.
She walks toward the parking building where she keeps her car. She ought to offer Joe rides home-he might like that. And she’d get to know him better too. Tomorrow she’ll ask him.
Christchurch is beautiful, she thinks, and she especially loves walking alongside the Avon River with its dark waters and lush, green banks-a strip of nature running through the city. Though the banks aren’t quite as lush as normal because of the lasting summer, but they’re still pretty green close to the waterline. Sometimes she eats her lunch out here, sitting on the grass, watching the ducks, throwing them pieces of bread as they play and feed in the water. She ought to ask Joe to join her. She’s sure he would like it. More and more he reminds her of her brother, and since she can no longer help Martin, perhaps she can help Joe. Is that such a crazy idea?