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The Girl in the Neon Trainers
Thriller
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It was the phone call, in the dead of the night—I remember now—ringing in quick insistent demanding beeps. On the other end, a calm feminine voice addressed me: ‘‘Mr. Simone,’’ it paused only to carry on a minute later. ‘‘Can I speak to Mr. Simone?’’
Oh no, I thought, no, no. I hung up. When strangers call in the dead of the night, their message is usually not a pleasant one. A dazed silence prevailed but it did not persist. The shrill commanding sound of the phone pierced through the silence. I hate things that cannot be controlled, things that catch you off guard, tyrannical things that interrupt you against your will. I hate them. Fuck them!
Fuck them all!
Despite myself, as if in a trance (which I was sort of in) I answered it. This time, the voice seemed more desperate, urgent.
‘‘Mr. Simone.’’ It said. ‘‘I am Detective Inspector Mettle Bloom. Is it possible for you to come down at London Bridge police station?’’
The words ‘‘police station’’ tugged at my intoxicated brain.
‘‘Now?’’
‘‘Yes, now.’’
A pause.
‘‘Why?’’
‘‘We’ll have time to discuss that when you get here.’’
‘‘I cannot. It is the middle of the night.’’
‘‘Oh, we can pick you up.’’ She sounded optimistic. ‘‘Are you at home?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Alright see you shortly.’’
Before I could reply she had hung up. Overbearing sanctimonious bitch! That is as far as I can remember.
Now, I find myself sitting alone in a cold room being quizzed and patronised by two cops. One of the cops is a stern, seemingly agile woman who probably bears a strong grudge against good looking, rich, confident men like myself and the other one is an unprofessional, unkempt, ugly man with yellowing teeth that hint at a desperate cigarette addiction and greasy hair, greased to the side with gel. I imagine–while they are staring at me trying to imagine what I’m imagining–the two of them having sex somewhere inhabited where only bitches like her and ugly dogs like him go when they want to feel desired and accomplished and significant. The bitch would be on top, because he—DI Niles is so obese that he would probably suffocate her small, good-looking, serious-looking ass.
‘‘Mr. Simone?’’