NaNoWriMo Novel: The Redactor

Sunday 2 November 2014

The Redactor, Chapter 02

Morning rose in glorious light, but I didn’t make it to Bedbarn.
  A newspaper had been stuffed through my mailbox, even though I’d killed the subscription a month ago.
  I read it over breakfast. It was on page seven that I found the article about the assault.
  The previous night the victim—described as being in her early twenties—had been jogging the path that winds around Point Walter on the river, when a hooded man had leapt from the bushland adjoining it and wrestled her to the ground.
  I didn’t want to hear if she’d been successfully sexually assaulted. My eyes flicked forward by habit to the next article.
  But they caught on a word in italics: kyoketsu-shoge.
  Kyoketsu-shoge.
  It came after the words ‘knife’ and ‘cord’ and was in brackets, and was no doubt the late-night research of some bored intern, but there it was.
  The attacker’s intent had not been rape. He had meant to garrote the girl. Murder her. With a kyoketsu-shoge.
  My vision glazed for a moment, then refocused to read the rest of the article. With relief I read that she had ‘fought her attacker off”, escaping with minor lacerations to the throat—and the weapon.
  The kyoketsu-shoge was the sole reason the assault was news, and perhaps why it had been crammed into the stop press.
  A tearing sound briefly drowned my senses. It came from within, and I think it was the sound of my life peeling away from what the average guy calls Reality.
  When it subsided, my head tried anxiously to stick it back down.
  Hiero’s dossier had said “Asphyxiation. Sure. But how many assaults did the city of Perth host each year? Tons. Whole handfuls. And assault by museum artefact...?
  The dossier said Evening. Well, that was the obvious time to strangle someone.
  It said Female, too. So what? Weren’t they all.
  No photos, so I couldn’t check if she had red hair or big boobs.
  It said, Kyoketsu-shoge.
  Shit. (Peeling sound).
  I hurried to my writing bureau, where I’d left Hiero’s dossier, hunched over like an old man, and pawed through the sheets for the one I wanted.
  When I found it and read the notes on asphyxiation, a ripple of relief rolled through me. No — it didn’t say kyoketsu-shoge. It mentioned kyoketsu-shoge, among many, many alternatives. The stats were looking up again.
  Come on home, Reality. The coffee’s on.
  I stuck her back down, but as fast as I did, a corner dog-eared up: and what if this _girl_ who was attacked _jogging_ by a _river_ near _bush_ in the evening—with a kyoketsu-shoge!—had auburn bangs and big tits?
 
  “Murdoch Police Station,” said a voice. “What can I do for you?”
  I pressed the phone receiver to my ear. My mind went blank.
  “Hello?” said the receptionist.
  “Hi. I— Do...” Professor of literature, note.
  “Sir?” she said, and the sunshine had dropped out of her voice. “What is your name, and who do you want?”
  “My name?” I said. “I’d rather not say.”
  There was a pregnant pause on the line. It may have been my imagination that heard the line suddenly hiss as if it had been switched to speakerphone.
  “Would you like to be transferred to Crime Stoppers, sir?”
  “Yes, yes. Crime stoppers.” What the hell was I saying?
  There was a click, and the line swelled with a community announcement about opening hours and the commissioning of a hospital. Then it cut out mid-sentence.
  “Crime stoppers,” said another female voice.
  “I’m calling about the assault last night—the girl. The kyoketsu-shoge. I...” What?
  “Do you have information pertaining to the crime?” said the voice.
  “Yes. No. I wanted some information.”
  “This is not a reporting service, sir. If you would like to—”
  Then the mind-fart: “The girl. Did she have red hair and large breasts?”
  The receptionist said a word I didn’t catch, then one I did: “Sicko.” She hung up.
  I laughed. It was an odd sound.
  I dialled emergency.
  “Emergency services,” said yet another voice. “Which service do you require: police, ambulance, or fire?”
  “Police.” Why weren’t all the questions multiple choice?
  The line cut-over to a call tone, which was promptly picked up.
  “Police. Please describe the nature of your emergency.” A man’s voice. Clipped tones.
  “I need to know—”
  “Is there an emergency, sir?”
  “No. I—”
  “Then I must inform you that two false calls have been logged originating from this number. If you persist, charges will be pressed. Do you understand?”
  I hung up. Dropped the phone like a snake.
  Then I walked circles in my study with a palm pressed to my forehead.
  A police man had just been rude to me. Me, who had never had so much as a speeding ticket.
  Okay. Okay.
  I picked up the phone again and dialled international.
  The call ping-ponged through the network, and rang for what seemed an age.
  “Sparkes,” said my ex-wife.
  “Jean,” I said.
  “Shit, not today, Jack.”
  “Good morning to you, too,” I said.
  “It’s not morning here, Jack. It’s the afternoon. The morning finished hours ago, and I’m still trying to wash off the stink of faculty politics.”
  “Play their game, Jean, and you stink their stink.” I couldn’t help it.
  “Oh!” she said, and the sarcasm came dripping out of the handset. “I forgot I was talking to the man with the pristine arse. How’s that novel coming, Jack?”
  “How’s Tracey,” I said.
  “Always the segue,” she said, but the venom dried up. “Tracey’s on the east coast for the month. She’s taking a holiday. There’s a seminar by Robert McKee—some screenplay guru.”
  “Screenplays? When did my daughter develop Attention Deficit?”
  Jean laughed, and it made me smile till I remembered why I’d rung.
  “Jean, be honest—”
  “Always am.”
  I told her about Hiero’s notes and the assault.
  She said, “This Hiero—he’s in your exchange group?”
  “Yes. What do you think?” I said.
  “What do you mean, what do I think? Attention deficit. That would make a nice screenplay—you could be played by Tom Cruise in the movie, and your student could be Leonardo Di Caprio.”
  “I’m serious.”
  “So am I. Or maybe Tom Hanks.”
  “You think I look like Tom Hanks?”
  “Call me later, Jack. I feel like crap.” She hung up.

  

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