Little Fingers! by Tim Roux

the smell. I cannot bear the paint in its chronic despair. I
cannot bear the flattened echoing sound that the corridor makes,
the position of the door handles, the x-ray neon
lighting.
    And I cannot
bear the sight of you.
    I have
resolved to hate you from the moment I woke up on the sofa this
afternoon.
    I imagine that
there are rumours flying around the village that I have murdered
Tom Willows. They will be standing grouped in the shops, they will
be gossiping by the beck, they will be commanding a
shock-enraptured audience at the Hanburgh Arms. “You don't say! She
was only staying right here a few weeks ago! We could all have been
murdered in our beds!” I arrived, I bought, I killed. What will
they fabricate as my motive? Jealousy, rage, refusal, rejection,
the humourlessness of lesbian wimmin?
    What I could
not have guessed at this moment is that those same rumours are
accompanied by another set implying that I may also have AIDS,
caught off Tom. Vilified as the village lesbian, I am the unwitting
victim of salacious irony.
    I watch you
with my careful eyes, and an iced-down heart.
    “ Did you know
that Tom Willows was probably suffering from AIDS, Miss
Blackburn?”
    I smile at
your impertinence.
    “ Oh dear. Did
you ever sleep with him, Inspector?” I ask.
    “ What?” you
reply, cocksure aggressive.
    “ If you
haven't, then you have nothing to fear.”
    “ No! I do not
sleep around.”
    “ You are
missing out, Inspector, although in your case buggery can make your
anus drop out.”
    You shift
tack.
    “ Tell me,”
you begin. “What is it like for a woman to make love to a
woman?”
    I raise one
eyebrow. “You get paid by the police force, not to mention the tax
payer, to ask these sorts of questions?”
    “ I am free to
ask any question that can lead me to the truth.”
    “ In that
case, for the benefit of the greater knowledge of the police force,
I will tell you that making love to a woman, when you are a woman,
is a whole lot better than making love to most men. Tom was an
exception.”
    “ And you
claim that you had left Tom Willows before he was
killed.”
    “ Yes.”
    “ Was he
dressed or undressed?”
    “ Naked.”
    “ Had you just
had carnal relations?”
    “ Yes.”
    “ Did you have
a fight, or angry words?”
    “ No, we were
too busy fucking.”
    “ Do you have
any idea who killed him?”
    “ Yes.”
    You pause,
surprised. “Will you tell me who you think it was?”
    “ No.”
    “ Do you
understand the situation you are in here? You could go to prison
for life, or you could be released and yourself be killed by the
murderer if he suspects that you know who he is.”
    “ He
doesn't.”
    “ If I can
arrest someone else with reasonable grounds to believe in their
guilt, I can let you go.”
    “ You will let
me go anyway.”
    You sit back
in your chair. “And what on earth makes you think that, Miss
Blackburn?”
    “ Because you
know that I am innocent, and while you may have your faults, you
will not knowingly lock up an innocent person for twenty years.
Besides ……………”
    “ Besides?”
    “ Besides.”
    Of course, I
do not know who killed Tom. How could I know? I barely know Tom, or
the village, or anything about the current situation. It seems to
me, though, that you will be more respectful of me if you think I
know who did it.
    I watch your
grey eyes. I watch your lips working. I hear your mind. Much as I
hate you, I feel strangely at ease with you. It is almost familial.
Our rhythms are the same. We can insult each other in the same
breath and we will literally be conspirators. I have never had this
experience before, of utter safety with another human being. I am
totally sure of you.
    I know the
story between us as it unfolds. You are as fixated with me as I am,
in an unexpected way, with you. It completely escapes me why I
would bother with you for an instant. You are not especially
attractive in any way I can think of, but there is still that
relational chemistry