I looked out at the rain, the blinds cast black lines through thick grey. This place never got much sun. All I could ever see on this street were prostitutes and drug addicts, there was always some place in the city that made the hair on your neck stand up, and I happen to be renting in it. It was no wonder business was down, I think people were afraid to walk through the place. The phone rang, I looked at it, I felt like letting it ring and not bothering. It felt like a day at home, drinking myself into an angry stupor. But I picked it up anyway. Is this the private investigation agency? a man’s voice said. It is I said, what can I do you for. Well it’s a bit of a sensitive topic said the voice. Don’t worry I said, I’ve seen and heard more weird shit then you could ever imagine. I got a feeling he wanted someone to spy on his wife. It’s my wife he said, I think… I think she… I think she might be playing away from home. There was a silence, a pause for a moment, I know she is, I’m absolutely sure of it said the voice. I laughed then composed myself, it was a very unprofessional thing but it happened instinctively and I couldn’t hold it in. It was hard to avoid doing unprofessional shit with some of the things you sometimes seen and heard.
I’ll be honest with you I told the man, the majority of times the wives and girlfriends we follow are not even cheating, it’s usually just paranoid husbands over thinking things. I’d be lying if I said we never found some wives caught in the act of extra marital activity, but they were few and far between. The man paused… I’m not paranoid he said, I just need the proof so I can end it. I didn’t like the way he said end it. End it? I asked. The marriage I mean he replied softly. I paused… OK I said, but it wont come cheap. I thought it wouldn’t said the man. You thought right I replied. Have you ever heard the quote by the writer Declan Geraghty he says… I butted in, no I haven’t and I don’t particularly want to either. Could I come in to you tomorrow asked the man. Let me check my schedule I said, I looked at the schedule, a dusty black leather book on the shelf beside my dying plant.
The schedule was completely blank for almost every page, I might just be able to fit you in in I said. Is nine o'clock OK asked the voice. No, I have a client appointment at nine I replied, all the while staring at a blank schedule. I can fit you in at twelve. OK said the voice said. Don’t be late I said. He mumbled his thanks and goodbyes, I hung up. Just what I needed, another jealous husband. I filled a glass and watered my dying plant on the window sill, there were two dead flies laying on the yellowing paint below it. I considered getting a tissue to pick them up and throw them in the bin but my laziness took over and I walked back to my desk. The mini fridge I kept beers in underneath my desk seemed about the only thing that worked constantly, I took a beer and suds spilled down my shirt as I opened the bottle. I launched the green cap toward the bin and missed. The beer went back, half the bottle in one gulp, I winced then looked back through the blinds at a prostitute waiting at the corner. She looked rough, and even if I wanted to I couldn’t.
I was broke, and it hurt. The hangover was beginning to wear off with the beer, things suddenly looked a little less gloomy. I switch on the TV in the corner, the rack I drilled into the wall to hold it seems to be dipping down slightly, and I’d probably need to put in new wall plugs soon. But I keep putting it off, I can see that TV smashing to the ground any moment, but I’m still too lazy to do anything about it. I just stare at the screen as it stares back at me from an angle that seems to be sinking. I look at the screw driver on the shelf then look away, back to the falling TV. The phone rings again, Jesus Christ do these people ever give me a second, I’m trying to run a business here. I answered the phone, it was a woman’s voice. It’s me she said. I paused, not recognising the voice yet instantly knowing it was a familiar one. How has life been treating you? she said. At first I didn’t know what to say, is it you? it’s been so long. I know she said, maybe too long. Have you got a pen she said, Hold on I said. Jesus Christ she said, you don’t even have a pen on your desk. I do I do, I said. She gave me an address, Bolton ave, 13, 2 B. Two pm. Wednesday. If the porter asks tell him you’re there to see Peter. Peter? I asked. It’s been too long she said. What’s going on I said, but I was already talking to an empty line, just a long unyielding beep replied. I picked up me hat and coat and went across the street to that filthy bar on the corner, the one all the prostitutes come out of. I paid my tab off a while back, maybe they’d let me start a new one.
It was twenty past one on Bolton street, I was usually never early for anything, but this was different. I knew were the building was anyway, just in case there was any tardiness finding the exact place. I ordered a pint in a small pub across the street while I waited, it went down quick and I wasn’t sure whether or not to order another one, as it was taking too long to get the barman’s attention. The bastard seemed to look at every spot in the room except the one I was sitting in. By the time he got to me and pulled the pint, took me money and had the drink in front of me it was already five to two. I was never one for drinking fast, it always made me too sloppy when I tried it. But I went for it anyway, taking big quick gulps, fucked if I’m wasting a fiver. Darting my eyes back and fourth like somebody’s watching, like time was somehow going slower. It was two minutes to two, I stood up too fast and immediately felt dizzy, I tried to walk it off but my leg went dead from the way I was sitting. I limped towards the exit feeling dizzy and drunk. The regulars looked at me like I was an extra terrestrial.
I’m walking across the street tipsy nearly getting hit by a tram in the process, a bell ringing, knocking me back into reality and my reflexes seem suddenly back. There it was, number thirteen, I looked at the address on the piece of paper, thirteen 2 B it said. But as I looked up at the building I realised that the second floor was the only floor without windows, as they appeared completely bricked over, like it never existed. Maybe it was a recording studio, didn’t recording studios not have windows. I couldn’t be sure, as I get to the door it buzzes automatically. I look above and down the hall but see nobody. My leg is still dead and as I turn my head I see a porter in a glass cubicle. I tell him I’m just going to see Peter. He gives me a puzzled look and returns to his newspaper. I open a red door and make my way to the second floor,
The stairs are old and concrete, they’re painted a dark green that’s faded over the years. For some reason it reminds me of hospital, but I’m not sure why. I find 2B, there is no bell, I knock on the door, my knuckles hurt. The door opens immediately, she answers in a tight black nightgown. She smiles and turns, leaving the door open for me to follow. There are candles everywhere, there seems to be a profound darkness beyond there flicker. There are no words said even though my mind is screaming, shouting for me to speak. That’s how it used to work anyway, and it seems it still does, but I don’t ask because I don’t want to ruin it. Just in case it still works that way. And her clothes are off, so casual it seems wrong but you know it can’t be. And mine are off too, and our breasts touch and she pulls the hair back from my face and looks me in the eye. We open up on the bed, open like flowers and the dim flickers get brighter in the windowless apartment. And we groan and relax and reach summits of our addiction to each others bodies. And the candles go dim then flicker bright again. And slowly like a volume turning, the room begins to fill with an incredible overwhelming light.
DoubleSpeak 