Every Street,

Every Street, Chapter 17

--see previous chapters for notes--

They were in the staff lounge in seconds, Al understanding the urgency but rubbing his lower back, which was complaining about all the fast movement. Doug had banged the door open and startled Carter and a new doctor, but he hadn't noticed. He sat down at the table and took the proffered file from Al's hand. It was only then that he slowed down, and every movement, every lift of a hand seemed like an effort. He felt weighed down, limbs heavy to move as the cardboard case lay on the table in front of him, between his hands. He brushed dirt from the cover, and laid his palms face down either side of it. He stared at it for a short while, feeling the burning of eyes on him. He glanced up at Al once, quickly, before he flipped the cover and exposed the photographs. On the other side of the room, Carter stood by the open door, watching Doug's face. The second door opened and Kerry stuck her head in, nodding hello to Al. Lydia was visible behind him, her arms folded as she tried to see into the room. Al kept his gaze on Doug, and after a few moments, asked gruffly, "Is it her?" Doug's hands, placed either side of the folder once again, stayed as still as the rest of his body as his eyes bored holes through the images in front of him. He said nothing but picked up the first photo and turned it face down as if starting a game of gin rummy. He followed the same pattern, gazing slowly and methodically over each photo, his eyes roaming them, memorising them. He reached the last picture and turned it face down on top of the pile, sitting back in the seat as he flipped the pile over once again, placed it back into the file and closed the cover.
"Doug?" Kerry was quiet, concerned.
Doug got to his feet, indiscernible feelings rippling across his features as he marched across the room.
"It's her."
And the doors of the ER flapped behind him angrily as he banged out through them.

The area was far from the image in his mind that he'd prayed would be a reality. The streets were dark. The buildings were dark and tall, those that were inhabited, if that's what you'd call it, were damp and echoed with lost voices. Those that weren't inhabited emanated the smell of fear through the cracks in walls and around the edges of the boards that were tacked over the windows. Billposters littered the boards, advertising new movies in a district that had no cinema, nightclubs in an area that provided all its own late night attractions. Whiskey bottles in brown paper bags littered the streets, and although humanity was not unseen it felt like a ghost town, struck by some late-nineties depression specific to these five blocks.

He stood on the spot, the tarmac that was potholed and due for resurfacing and bordered by a kerbstone loose in its place, which long before had been marked with chalk. He crouched down and rubbed the place on the road where he could have sworn he'd seen flecks of white dust, and a tinge of deep red. But it was just the lights of the nearby bar - the neon sign flashing "Budweiser" inanely to no one in particular and reflecting off the wet street. The heavy Chicago rain that had soaked the area that morning and had continued to pound off the concrete wilderness all day and into the night, now beat down hard on Doug's back, shoulders and head as he stood up and tipped his head back. Looking up into the sky, he let the hard water smack on his closed eyelids and wash away the image of the seedy bar, the trash lying on the sidewalk, the black Mercedes. He hoped that the cold wind would blow away the sounds of screeching brakes in the distance, and the whispers of silence that haunted the region in his mind that would withhold the fear and sorrow for the remainder of his life.

Doug sat on the couch late that night. His look was unfocussed and the shadows of hurt, rejection, pain, history, honour, despair and surrender were all visible through his eyes. The clock on the wall ticked 3am but he didn't move. He hadn't moved for hours. He let the house talk to him, the walls exuding fun, laughter and smiles. Memories that were priceless and so sharp that every nerve in his body was cut to pieces. The window was open, and a light night mist floated in, chilling the dark room, lit only by the occasional fragment of light from the moon. The letterbox flapped and snapped the thin glass plate of silence and thought. Duly collecting the piece of paper from the floor, with little thought as to the mystery of such an early delivery, Doug resumed his position on the couch, filling the same spot as before, warmed from his presence. He ran a finger underneath the closed piece of paper, opening it up so he could see the hand written message inside. Within seconds of reading it, he was on his feet. Into the bag by his feet he threw as much as he could, anything to keep his memories alive. The paper fluttered to the bare floor as he banged the front door closed on the happiest times of his life.

"They know you know. But they do not know about your children. Find them."

THE END

Epilogue

"There is no street with mute stones and no house without echoes.” Gongora

The rain continued to pound off that spot in the road. Hit by a black government issue automobile, Carol had bounced off the front and crumpled to the floor as the big car crushed her with its left wheels, the driver only making a face when he considered the suspension. The car disappeared almost instantly into the torrential rain, steam hissing off the roof and blood pooling in the potholes of the road. Inside the nearest building, a child's cry ripped through the air. The ruined body lay like litter in the street, distorted and twisted. The thin fingers jumped as the muscles contorted, once, twice before all movement ceased. Her last view was one of the cold night rain rushing towards her, tainted by blood red smears and the sound of screeching tyres. And the sound, and the view, and the rain continued, unforgiving, as he looked for her face on every street.

On Every Street by Dire Straits

There's gotta be a record of you someplace
You gotta be on somebody's books
The low down picture of your face
Your injured looks, the sacred and profane
The pleasure and the pain
Somewhere your fingerprints remain concrete
And it's your face I'm looking for
On every street

A lady-killer, regulation tattoo
Silver spurs on his heels
Says, "What can I tell you, 'cause I'm standing next to you.
She threw herself under my wheels"
It's a dangerous road, and a hazardous load
And the fireworks over Liberty explode in the heat
And it's your face I'm looking for
On every street

Three chord symphony crashes into space
The moon is hanging upside down
I don't know why it is I'm still on the case
It's a ravenous town; you still refuse to be traced
Seems to me such a waste
Every victory has a taste that's bittersweet
And it's you face I'm looking for
On every street
Yeah it's your face I'm looking for
On every street

Private Investigations by Dire Straits

It's a mystery to me, the game commences
For the usual fee, plus expenses
Confidential information, it's in a diary
This is my investigation; it's not a public enquiry

I go checking out the reports, digging up the dirt
You get to meet allsorts in this line of work
Treachery and treason, there's always an excuse for it
And when I find the reason, I still can't get used to it

And what have you got, at the end of the day?
What have you got to take away?
A bottle of whiskey, and a new set of lies
Blinds on the windows and a pain behind the eyes

Scarred for life. No compensation. Private investigation.