Four Seconds
Tracy Seeger
Georgette's feet were killing him. It was near impossible to find nice women's shoes that were a good fit for his size twelves. As he arrived at the bus stop he wished for the hundredth time that the council would put up a proper bus shelter with seats. At the end of a 3 hour Saturday night performance, all he wanted to do was sit down for five minutes and get out of the rain. But all he got was a metal post with a bus stop sign stuck to the top. So he leaned against the post, pulled off one of the bright red stilettos, and began rubbing his bent, stumpy toes, moaning softly under his breath. His lungs ached for a cigarette, but he knew it would never stay alight in this rain.
The thunder had been rumbling ever since he left the club. Now he saw the first flash of lightening in the east. Instinctively he began counting; one…..two…..three…..four. The thunder was louder this time, and by his calculations was about 4 miles away. A smile almost played at his poppy red lips as he remembered a distant childhood sitting at the farmhouse window with his four sisters, counting the seconds between the lightening and the thunder to work out how far away the storm was. He wondered how he had ever ended up in this life.
Another flash. One…..two…..three. The rumble was louder again. The storm was moving in for the kill. Georgette put his aching foot back in its tomb, then reached down to give the other foot the same treatment. The rain was falling harder, and was easily soaking through his white satin trousers. The red leather jacket kept his body dry for now, but the rain's cold fingers were starting to creep inside the collar. Georgette shivered, and pulled back his sleeve to check the time on the diamante watch that gripped his wrist. The bus was due any second now. He ran his fingers through his sopping wet bleached blond hair, and wished he had brought a hat with him. Or at least checked the weather report before he left home.
Another five minutes passed. Flash. One…..two. CRACK! It seemed the storm was going to pass right overhead. Georgette curled his red polished fingertips into his palms, and tucked them under his armpits, hugging himself in an attempt to keep some heat in his body. He looked down the street, wondering where the bus was. It was late, and he was tired. The street was deserted. No cars. No people. Not even a cat. There were a few streetlights, but the rain was falling harder, and everything appeared covered in a haze. Georgette had walked down this street every Saturday night for the last two years, and he knew there was nowhere to shelter from the rain. Yet still he looked. The street was edged on both sides with a row of identical dull brick terraced houses. A few had lighted windows, but most were dark, blind eyes staring out sadly into the depressing night.
Flash, CRACK! Georgette jumped. The storm was right overhead, and the thunder sounded like it was ripping the sky into pieces. He could smell the ozone, could taste it in his mouth mixed with lager and peppermint gum. The rain was falling in rivers now, and he knew there was no way he would not end up completely soaked. He leaned back against the bus stop, and tipped his head back to look directly up into the falling torrent. He actually saw the bolt of lightening that hit the bus stop, but this time he did not hear the thunder. His eardrums were already blown out. Elegantly, he slid to the ground, paused for a second, then fell back, the sound of his head hitting the concrete drowned out by another perfectly timed clap of thunder.
Detective Montgomery switched off the TV and ejected the cassette from the video player. He tapped it against his forehead a few times as he looked at the young man sitting across the table from him. He was dressed in a standard prison issue red jumpsuit, with a chain around the waist connected to his wrists and ankles. His black hair was dirty and overgrown. His eyes were dark and dull, and his contrasting white skin had a clammy sheen. His nose looked red and sore, his lips were dry and cracked, making his breath whisper as it passed through them. Both arms were covered with tattoos of snakes, daggers, skulls, spiders. His nails too were dirty, bitten, and his hands were shaking slightly in their chains. With his head still lowered, he raised his eyes to meet Montgomery's.
"Well, Barry," said Montgomery, "looks like you were telling us the truth about George Osborn after all. I guess the fagot was already dead when you found him."
Barry blinked slowly, taking the detective's words in. Then he spoke softly, dully, repeating words he had said over and over, without feeling. "Like I said, when I got to the bus stop I saw the dude laying on the ground. It was pissing down with rain so I figured he must be dead, or nearly. I just grabbed his wallet and ran."
"And that was your big mistake," said Montgomery, exasperation beginning to enter his tone. "If you hadn't taken the wallet you wouldn't be here, and we wouldn't have wasted the last six weeks on you."
Barry said nothing, his eyes returned to the floor.
"So why'd you do it Barry? Eh? Why'd you feel the need to pickpocket a dead drag queen?"
Barry instinctively rubbed his nose with one hand. "I needed drugs," he said simply. Then he looked up at Montgomery again, the tiniest sparkle beginning to return to his eyes as the possibility of what this might mean began to sink in. "Where'd you get the tape?"
Montgomery looked back at Barry, then turned his eyes to the wall. "It just arrived in the post this morning." He turned away. "What do you care anyway? It means you're a free man." He turned back to Barry. "Lucky you; you get to go back to your drugs." He grabbed the cassette and walked quickly out of the cell, as a uniformed officer entered with a bunch of keys.
Copyright © 2009 Tracy Seeger. All rights reserved.