I checked the corridor. There was no sign of anyone coming to investigate.
“On the gate,” I called. “Officer Jackman. This guy has a problem. You need to move him out of here. He needs help.”
There was no reply.
“Out of luck, asshole,” the Nazi said, taking a step toward me. “They never move me. Takes three of them. So it’s just you and me till morning. And I ain’t the one gonna need help.”
“Derek, it’s only a bench,” I said. “It’s not worth getting hurt over.”
“I’m not gonna get hurt,” he said, taking another step. “You are.”
“Derek, I’ve given you one chance. I’m not giving you another. Now sit down and be quiet.”
He stayed where he was for another thirty seconds. Just long enough for me to hope he might have the sense to let it drop. But no. People like him never do. He started to move toward me again. I eased onto my feet and backed up against the bars, ready to go.
“Derek, don’t do this,” I said. “It’s really not worth it.”
He took a final step, close enough for me to nearly choke on his vile breath. Then he smiled and shaped up to hit me with his left hand. It was a good idea, but again he lacked sufficient finesse. He just couldn’t disguise the movement in his right leg as he pulled it back, getting ready to kick me. So before he could complete his move I launched myself off the bars and swung my left elbow around, driving it into his temple.
He was already off balance preparing for the kick, so the force of the blow knocked him right off his feet. He fell backward, spinning around toward the side wall. The back of his head crashed into the metal. He slumped down, smashing his right temple into the bench. His momentum kept him going and he half bounced, half rolled face-first into the rim of the toilet and then down onto the floor. His left temple cracked against the ground and he finally came to rest between the bowl and the side wall. As his head connected with the concrete an arc of blood shook free from his shattered face, splattering the legs of “his” bench with little shiny droplets.
That was the closest he got to his prize.
After the medics had dragged the Nazi away Jackman came back and stood in the corridor, staring in at me through the bars.
“What was that all about?” he said.
I looked at him and shrugged.
“You do that to him?” he said.
“Me?” I said. “No.”
“So what happened?”
“No idea. The guy just collapsed.”
“And you were doing what? Sleeping?”
“No. Calling you to come and help him. I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Let me see your hands.”
“Why?”
“The guy just collapsed, all on his own, and somehow got his face all smashed in. That seem a little strange to you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t help him on his way?”
“No. I didn’t touch him.”
“Show me anyway.”
I shrugged and pulled my hands out of my pockets. I held them up so he could see my palms.
“Other side,” he said.
I turned them over. There wasn’t a blemish to be seen. Jackman stared intently as if hoping something would magically appear if he looked hard enough. Then he glared at me, snorted, and stalked away to the lobby. I thought about calling him back. The morning suddenly seemed a long time away. I was tempted to ask him to call the consulate for me. I know the right people. They could pull me out in no time. The NYPD would be told to forget all about me. Then I thought about all the paperwork that would involve me in when I arrived in England. The endless, stupid questions I’d have to answer. Maybe a reprimand of some kind. So I decided against it. I was safe where I was. I’d done nothing wrong. There was no reason not to let things run their course.
As long as I got to JFK on time, no one ever need know what had happened.
FOUR
You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
That could have been my new school’s motto. When the teachers finally showed their faces in the playground that first day all they saw was me on my feet and the other boy on the ground. I was new, and one of their guys was hurt. It was clearly my fault. I was marked down as a hooligan. A thug. Someone with a faulty attitude who needed close supervision. I was kept in at lunchtime for a month. Banned from the playground for the rest of the term. And barred from soccer indefinitely.
Things weren’t much better in the classroom. If I asked a question the teachers wouldn’t take it seriously. They just said I was being disruptive. Then they’d send me to sit at the back, on my own. Report me to the headmaster. Write moaning letters to my parents. Give me bad reports. It made no difference what I was questioning, or whether I was right or wrong. Whenever real life didn’t match their comfortable theories, it wasn’t the theories they doubted. It was real life.
That never made any sense to me.
And nothing’s happened in the meantime to change my mind.
The day-tour detectives didn’t arrive too early. Somewhere in the region of 9:30 A.M., I’d guess. There were two of them. A uniformed officer named Cauldwell let them into my cell. He must have relieved Jackman when the night shift went off duty.
Apart from wearing suits instead of uniforms, the detectives reminded me of the officers who had picked me up in the alley. They had the same weathered, capable appearance, though one of them was a little younger. Probably in his early forties. He was the first to speak.
“My name’s Detective Gibson,” he said. “This is my partner, Detective Harris.”
I nodded.
“We’ve been assigned to your case,” Gibson said. “We need to get a couple of formalities out of the way, then I thought we could go upstairs and get this whole thing worked out?”
“Got any coffee upstairs?” I said.
“As much as you can drink.”
“Any food?”
“Maybe some doughnuts. Could be stale.”
“They’ll have to do,” I said, standing up. “Let’s get on with it.”
We stopped on the first floor for photographs and fingerprints, then carried on up to the detectives’ squad room on the fourth. It was basically an ordinary open-plan office, but there was a strangely austere, regimented feel to the place. The rows of storage cabinets behind the administrator’s desk were inch-parallel, and they were all neatly closed. There were no keys in any of the locks, and no papers peeping out from between any of the doors. The desks were evenly distributed around the room. There were six pairs, all facing the same way, all with identical chairs tucked in underneath. The surface of each one was absolutely clear, apart from the matching computer keyboards and mice. There were no mugs or family photos or personal effects of any kind, and the sleek flat-panel monitors were all switched off. There was nothing on the windowsills, and all the trash cans I could see were completely empty. It felt more like a furniture showroom than a place where real people did important work.
Harris and Gibson led me around the side of a small booth that had been built in the center of the room. We passed the entrance and kept going toward the far wall. A line of doors was spaced out along it. There were six. We headed for the last one, which was almost in the corner. INTERVIEW ROOM THREE. Harris flipped a slider across to the OCCUPIED position and pushed the door open. Lights set into the ceiling flickered on automatically as Gibson and I followed him inside.
The room felt small and cramped after the expanse of the main office. The ceiling was lower, and the blinds were shut across the window, blocking out any natural light. Most of the space was taken up by a wooden table. It looked solid and sturdy, as if it were built to withstand some abuse. It had already taken some, judging by the dents and blemishes in its surface. There were three chairs around it. Harris took the one at the far side. Gibson guided me to the next one, which was on its own at the long side of the table.