The Shift of Numbers (8 page)

“You are
n’t supposed to be back here,” h
e said in the same unruffled soft tone.

*

Tim works for the Monetary Stabilisation Division, or MSD, for short, a well-known and feared department amongst government law enforcement agencies and the general public. He has worked in law enforcement since he left university 15 years ago and has risen through the ranks quickly. As a senior field agent, he gets paid 65 thousand pounds a year for his efforts. His job consists of being assigned cases by his boss, then using all his investigatory know-how to bring swift justice upon any perpetrators of crime.

The MSD building is fairly large, much too large to justify the number of staff who
work
there. The architect knew that law enforcement in the financial sector is much more about image than actual work, so the building was designed to look as imposing and bleak as possible. Many people actually shudder when standing in the shadow of this strange gothic building and to be summoned there has been likened to receiving a letter to attend one’s own funeral. In fact, a recent study has shown that on average 3 people a year have heart attacks while opening a letter from the MSD
(Statistics from: Heart Attack Monthly – A practitioner’s perspective)
.

Deep in the basement of the building
,
Tim lined up the sights of hi
s handgun with
the target’s head, relaxed his arms and held his breath. A gentle squeeze of the trigger brought a muffled roar in his ears and his arm moved quickly backwards.

A particle of light from the target’s head moved in an instant down towards Tim’s eye, excited and full of energy. Perspective being what it is and giving the particle a conscience, time would have moved around it in a treacly, creamy malaise. It would have narrowly missed the bullet spinning on its axis, trailing a distorted path in the air molecules behind it. In front, a wave of sound, viewed like a perfectly round bubble belligerently trying to escape thick liquid. Over time, the accelerating silvery tip of the bullet pierced the slower-moving sound and broke away leaving a ragged outlet, resembling a hole poked through stretched clear plastic.  Then a face, fixed and still, a 3-dimensional picture made up of tiny points of light. Created by my friends on their equally speedy journey in the opposite direction to me. Then I see it, my bliss, my rapture,
paradise
… The retina. A black misty abyss drawing it seductively onwards passed its blue-y grey outer circle, positioned like ethereal landing lights forcing a direct hit on the centre of the cornea. Chemical changes created trigger nerve impulses, controlled explosions of activity down protein rods and cones, burrowing rapidly into the brain. Its interpretation was lost on Tim as his memory cells were sparking a different tune, making their own symphony. For today was Grace’s birthday and, however fleetingly, he was 12 years old again…

Tim, or Timmy as he was known back then
,
was hiding from the ra
in in his usual place, a
rarely-
used
bus shelter. He was sat with his best friend
,
W
alter, a chunky fresh-faced lad with a shock of ginger hair and clothes that were clearly 2 sizes to
o
small for him. They made an
un
usual coupling, born
e
out of necessity r
ather than any common interests: Walter protected Timmy from the bigger boys
being
, at 14, 2 years older,
w
hile Timmy provided
friendship in return. The 2
boys
were loners
,
with no other friends to speak of.  The estate they lived on di
dn’t offer much fun either. Run-
down, dilapidated and hopeless describe
d it best. It had been
built many years ago as a futuristic
,
c
oncrete utopia for the masses. N
ow
,
it housed the mainly jobless and disillusioned,
those
unable to escape
, imprisoned inside
identically-shaped
rooms.

Most of Timmy and Walter’s
conversa
tions revolved around leaving the estate in some way with talk of d
ream jobs and money never far from their lips. 
They were joined in their dry
haven by a middle-aged man
who was holding a newspaper over his head in an attempt to fend off the rain
. They assumed he was waiting for a bus until after a few minutes he spoke to them in a polite accentless voice.

“Excuse me,” h
e said.

“Why what you done?” s
niggered Walter
,
childishly
.

“I was wondering if you could
tell me who that young lady was.
She just got out of that red car, just over there.” The man pointed down the street to a car owned by 1 of Tim’s sister’s many friends.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I could give you this fiver…” The 2 sat in silence for a moment, looking at the man with some suspicion.

“Of course I know who she is. She’s my sister,” s
aid Tim
,
holding out his hand.

“Really...” s
aid the man triumphantly, seemingly deep in though
t
for a moment. He handed over the note
.
  “…How would y
ou like to earn some more money?
Let’s
say, 50 pounds.
”

“My mam always told
me not to talk to strange men. C
ome on
, Timmy. L
et
’
s go to the shops.”

“Hold up
,
Walter. What would we have to do for 50 quid?
” a
sked Tim
,
boldly.
“
We ain’t going anywhere with you.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” s
aid the man mildly with a wave of his hand
. “A
ll I want you to do is find something for me. That woman, your sister, took somethi
ng of mine and I want it back. E
asy money for you, I’m sure.”

“Well, what is
i
t
?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. All I will tell you is that it’s got the initials SNJ on it somewhere and it’s quite small. The rest you will have to figure out yourself.”

“Sounds stupid, why can’t you tell us?”

“Put simply, I don’t want you to know what it is, should you not find it. If you do find it, phone this number and leave a message, just a time, nothing else. I will meet you here with the money. Is that clear?”

“Yea
h, I suppose 50 quid each is worth
it
…” r
eplied Tim with a cheeky glint in his eye.

“I never said each.”

“Well I’m sure you can find someone else.” Tim turned to walk away.

“
Okay
,
okay
. Hold up… 50 each it is, but not a word to anyone.” And with that he had vanished down the street into the rain.

“What a waste of time. W
e don’t even know what he wants us to find for him
,” said Walter angrily.

Tim gazed thoughtfully at the ground.
“Nah, it
’s not that hard. T
hink about it. Grace stole it off him,
but he can’t go to the police. W
hy?”

“Dunno.
”

“He
don’t
want anyone to find out it
’
s gone missing. It’s small, val
uable, with some initials on it;
probably his
, if he got it stole off him…” L
ost in thought
,
for a few minutes
, Tim wandered round the bus shelter
until
,
finally
,
he came to
a
stop, looking directly at Walter with an air of tri
umphant arrogance.
  “I bet you that fiver it
’
s his wedding ring.”

“How
’d
you figure that?”

“Simple
, ain’t it?
”

As soon as Tim got home
,
he waited until his sister had gone out before he carefully and silently set about burgling her room. It was too easy; in the top draw of her dresser he removed a small wooden music box. What was inside
,
however
,
surprised him momentarily and set his mind racing. Glinting in the light of his small bicycle lamp were about 30 wedding rings, all men’s. Quickly searching through them he found 1 bearing the initials SNJ and retreated to his room with his prize.

The next day, phoning the number and leaving a message
,
the 2 boys had met with the mysterious man and
,
without a word being spoken in expl
anation, received their reward.
1 of Tim’s lastin
g memories of the ‘Case of the Missing R
ing’
,
as Walter had termed it
,
occurred l
ater that evening around the dinner table. Seated on mismatc
hed chairs
in their concret
e palace, sat Tim, Grace and their mom and d
ad. After finish
ing
supper, a weekly treat of fish and chips, Grace declared to the room that she was off out.

“You’re
going out again?” exclaimed their
dad
,
loudly
.

“That
’s nearly every night this week,” c
hirped in mom.
“
I just don’t know where you find the money.”

Grace’s
noc
turnal wa
nderings,
though, were
now as clear to Tim as that fancy bottled water they sold down the shops. His new knowledge
,
bubbling just under the surface of his mind,
was
forced out with the arrogance and innocence of youth
:
“Don’t you get
it? It’s so obvious?”

“What’s so obvious?”
Without waiting for a reply their
mother turned to Grace, “You going down that night club again?”

“It
’
s none of your business
, mom. I can go where I please.” Grace’s face betrayed her though, but only Tim could see it: f
or a split second
,
before she went back to being angry
,
he caught a glimpse of sadness in her eyes.

“It is when you
’
r
e
living under o
ur roof. Isn’t that…
”

Before their mom
could finish her sentence and start with another lecture
,
Tim had stood up from the table, almost on autopilot, and blurted out the truth.
“She’s a prostitute. D
on’t you get it?”

Instantly
, their father had ri
se
n
from the table
,
grabbing Tim’s arm, dragging him into the hall, all the while shouting incoherently at him. Crying, Tim was sent to his room.

He didn’t know what happened that night, or what was said, but the next day his sist
er moved out of the family home
and
,
to the best of his knowledge
,
his parents never spoke of her, or to her
,
ever again. Years later, while employed in his first job as a policeman
,
he found out about her. She had apparently never gone back to her previous line of work and lived in a dingy flat, finding employment as a hairdresser, dreaming all the while of travelling the world.  He found all this out – unbeknownst to his sister – by briefly dating her best friend. Born partly of guilt and
,
in no small part love, he
had
concocted a plan. With all the money he had saved and
,
taking a loan for the rest
, he purchased an all-
expenses paid trip round the world. Disguising it in such a way as to make it seem like she had won a competition, he sent the tickets to his sister. Watching her from a distance at the airport
,
he had never seen her smile so much in all his life. That was the last he ever saw of her.