JACK OF DIAMONDS, REDUX

Chapter 10, the edited version

CHAPTER 10

Nigel looked up from the sketch he was working on, his eyes on the hallway, watching. He could still hear the low echo of the door slamming shut downstairs, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. There’s only one person that can be, he told himself, wondering what Charlie had forgotten now.

He had half the lights turned off, thinking there was no need to have all the lights on, not with everyone at the Fair and the town relatively quiet. It was the main reason he’d volunteered to stay behind in the first place. To answer any calls that might come in—knowing there’d be no calls because of the Fair—but also, because it gave him a chance to sketch, something he’d neglected doing for far too long. 

He didn’t plan to spend the rest of his life locked up in the middle of Devon; the War had shown him there was more to life than the English countryside. He had his mind set on moving to London, and there was nothing he was going to let get in the way of his dreams. The only way for him to be noticed was to present his work at the Academy. But he was a man who was easily distracted, and found himself working on another picture—a different picture—a face in the crowd as he liked to call it, where he drew random sketches from memory.

“Had e-fukin’-nough of it, have you, Charlie?” he asked, hiding a grin as Murphy limped to a chair and sat down, pushing his shoes off and voicing a heavy sigh. 

“Been on your feet all night, chasing down fuckin’ bad guys, have you Charlie?”

Nigel hadn’t even looked up from the portrait he was drawing. It was someone from the War, maybe an officer, he thought.

“I’d beg for a pair of new shoes if it weren’t for this bloody hemorrhoid I’m sitting on,” Charlie said with a quick wince, shifting his weight on the chair.

“Oh Jesus—fuck Charlie! Thanks for putting that into my fuckin’ head,” Nigel said, tossing the sketchbook on the desk and leaning back in his chair. He grinned and slowly began laughing. “It’s an ugly fuckin’ picture, it is Charlie.”

“Honestly, Nigel, I’m telling you, it’s the size of a bloody marble. I’m only telling you this in case I bleed out on account of it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Charlie? You can’t die from a fuckin’ hemorrhoid.”

“Bloody hell, you can’t!” Charlie protested as the phone rang. He was a large, overweight, burden of a man; a man who’d gladly tell you he was saddled down with a wife and three kids if you gave him time to grab a breath of air. Nigel wasn’t about to let that happen. Charlie was scheduled for outside patrols because the Chief Constable thought the walking would do him some good.

“All night,” Nigel said, looking at Charlie. “Eh? All night long, and not a single fuckin’ call. The minute you show up, and what happens? The phone rings,” he said, reaching across the desk to pick it up.

“Nigel Bannister, Devon Constabulary, Chumley Grove? How can I help?”