BRG

THE JUDGE by Tom Sinclair

Day four - I'm going to be out the apartment a while. My fees include expenses, but I don't abuse it. Quiet B&B someplace. Within an hour I am packed, ready to roll. Lotta people can't stick this job. The snooping, moving around, secrecy. But I love it; the freedom, the escape.  
No personal contact. She was quite clear on that, the wife. A wandering husband case. Judge  Lawrence. Big shot in these parts, rules his County Court like a King, terrifies the Council, he was even rumoured for a CBE. He's got fingers in all kindsa pie, king of his castle, then one day, he's disappeared. I ast her why, first conversation. I knows these rich folks. They don't like a stink. But if there's dirt out there, I need to know. 
-Ma'am, was there anything else? Any clue?
-I told you, I haven't the foggiest. If I knew where the silly bugger was I wouldn't be negotiating the services of a ... a -
-I understand, Ma'am. But we need to be open here. Share our knowledge. Anything out of the ordinary this last couple days? Strange behaviour?
-What am I paying you for? You're the detective.
-Please, Ma'am.
-Well, a few days before he .... left .... the dog died. Red. Beautiful Irish setter she was.
-The dog?
-The dog.
-OK. Well, I'll start enquiries right away.
-Where shall I send your money.
-I'll leave you a card.
-All right. You leave it with Jones. Once again, no contact, you hear? 
I hang up. So, its the frickin dog. Red, dies, two days before the Judge flies the coup. Didn't take no clothes, no shoes, no nothing. Where you run to, Judge? 
Day Seven - She's given me some good tips. Favourite restaurant, tobacconist, addresses of close friends. Everywhere I look, everywhere I ast, same sense of confusion. No one knows where he been at... I can almost smell him. I know he's near. 
I need some smokes, so I figure I'll try his tobacconists. A man gotta smoke, right? I pull a left down the high street. Sea of pale faces, blinking in the spring sunshine, then I step into the gloom of the ancient store. 
- Your usual, sir? 
I nod. Today is going to be the day. I can feel it, I can feel him near. I'm getting closer and closer to the old man. 
-Twenty Maximo Alejandros. Fourty two pounds, please. Or shall I put it on the bill?
-Bill? You playing me? I don't smoke cigars. I smoke Alejandros.
-Maximo Alejandros, sir?
-20, greens. 
Poor old guy. Must be senile. Like the Judge. Maybe its catching... I can still feel him, he's close, but .... not there. He's removed himself deliberately. Old Judge Lawrence. Where did you go to? The question is, does he want to be found? 
Next thing to do is a trip to the law courts. I'd rather not go, but its unavoidable. Lets just say I got history with them folks. Posh grounds, this County Court, real beautiful gardens. And then I see it. The Judge's motor. A Triumph, painted in the brilliant racing green of spring time. Not one traffic cop has ticketed him. A true testament to the ole timer. I stroll into the reception, a young secretary, decide to take the direct approach. 
-Hello Ma'am, is this the office of Judge L Lawrence?
-Judge Lawrence?
-Yes Ma'am, its about his car
-Certainly, I'll have someone drive it to the front right away. 
Broads! She must think I'm a repo man come for his motor. She certainly didn't take much persuading. In the corner, I see a triptych. Three Judges, three portraits. Is that him? They all look the same. Who is the man behind that white wig? 
I sneak out before they bring the car round. I hate courts. Always have. Something about that place gives me the creeps. I’m making too much noise with this case. First the guy's car, then the wrong cigarettes - a man can't work like this. Jesus, has the whole world gone crazy? This job must be getting to me.
Day Nine – Easy. It shoulda been easy, your classic wandering husband job, but I can’t find a way into this case. A judge is bound to make a few enemies over the years, but there’s no-one obvious who’d knock him off. Not a kidnapping, cos there’s been no ransom. This is starting to give me a headache. I ring every hospital in the nearest five counties. Have my contacts trawl the police records. Even spend two hours checking the airports and ferries. Credit cards, savings ... the standing orders are still going out, but he’s not been touching the account. What’s he living on? Usually, a case like this, you follow the money. And if it aint the money, they’re in jail or the nuthouse. But the Judge has just clean vanished.
 

THE DETECTIVE
Day twelve. The page is printed, the report filed. The Judge is missing voluntarily. He doesn’t want to be found. The tap tap tap of the type-writer is lost and replaced by inky silence. I light a smoke, suck greedily and steadily. Get in there. Reach for the 12 year scotch and time stops. A Laphroaig, sailing towards the report. Earthy peaty bogland amber dripping onto the crisp stacked pages. And down, down, down with the case. I could retype it. But I know I won’t, I can’t drop it. Can’t face that wife again. The whiskey seeps over the still wet ink. As if this case can’t led itself close.
It is a sign. The judge isn’t missing. It just doesn’t fit. He needs the spotlight; he needs other people. He is watching, waiting, and soon he will come out.
Day fourteen. Still no contact with the wife. I had a wife myself once. I guess we'd gotten used to her... long time ago. But back to the case. I’ve been getting signals. Scraps of paper, ripped out sections of the court news. And on the other side, the name of a restaurant... It seems someone is trying to help ... I can't describe it any other way. These messages, everywhere, as if a guiding hand is pointing the way. The twitch of a curtain, the half remembered dream, ignore them at your peril. I must find this correspondent.
Day fifteen - I’ve followed every clue, ast every acquaintance, been every damn place that judge could have holed up. Everywhere resistance and confusion. That’s me, not just these shmucks I have to interview. The wife has been ringing about the case. I can’t face it. It is with relief that I get the text from the network – my phone is being cut off. 
Day seventeen - Time is short. The correspondent made contact again. The old lady is stopping payments. But I won’t stop. The correspondent was quite explicit. We're going to crack this one anyway. I can't tell you much more. Update to follow. 
Day twenty - I am hiding out. It's all his idea, the correspondent I mean. Hiding in the thick hedgerow round back o the ole Judge's place. Watching, waiting - the Judge will be here soon. I know it. Three days now since I was back at the apartment. Haven't shaved, haven't washed. Been staking out the Judge's place. Looking for clues. There's something here, its drawing me in. Finally it is not hunger but curiosity which leads me out. A dog! A stray mongrel dog! The first conversation I've had in days, and its a frickin dog. I hold out my hand for him to sniff, and feel the hot sharp stink of his breath. Or is it mine? I follow him out, over the Judge's garden, and back towards town. 
We edge East, ever trotting, the dog a hundred yards ahead. At one point I lose him, and as I round a corner, he is there, expectant. Inviting. He’s a motley beast, scared and scarred, a survivor scenting his way through the evening streets. Out of the Judge’s suburbs and towards town. I lope along behind. Where is he taking us? Still no sign of the correspondent, no sign of the judge. I used to be the best detective in five counties. Used to have ability, intuition ... now I can’t even guess where he’s at. I used to have a wife. Shit. I done got old, and I lost my mojo. I’m losing the judge, and I’m losing my mind. So why am I chasing this stray mutt around town? Well, if I can’t find the judge, maybe this dog will...
I follow him beyond the shopping centres, supermarkets, last solitary kebab house, past the train station, and housing estates. The rough part of town, always by the station, like some ancient law. We leave the streetlights behind, and then I smell it too – open water, open air. He stops amongst the grass. Sniffing, waiting. I look up. Dogs don’t like to look you directly in the eye – certainly this one won’t hold my gaze. I crick my neck back, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. When was the last time I ran like that? Dogs can hear your heartbeat from this close. I sit down, soothed by the cool air of twilight. I rummage in my pockets. Nothing to give the dog – he doesn’t look like he’s eaten in days. And then I realise, neither have I.
By the time we lie down, exhausted, the stars are all out. Normally obscured by the acid glow of the streetlights, they wink at me in the night. Everything is going to be all right. The dog huddles up for warmth. What was that quote? Dogs look up to us, cats look down on us, pigs see us as their equals. And I don’t know why, but I feel happy. Lying on the bare ground, tired and muddy from chasing round a flea-bitten hound. Smoking my second to last Alejandro as I drift into sleep, I start to get a learning – the Judge didn’t go nuts. Didn’t die. He just woke up.
THE TRAMP
The tramp tussles further into the bushes. In amongst the rushes. Lets out a steaming stream of piss into the early morning, The jet shifts scuttling insects and scatters leaves. He pulls up his faded trousers, wipes his nose on his sleeve. And there she is. The Bag Lady. She washes her lank, steel hair, smiles a toothless smile, and sings to herself. She must be at least seventy, but there is something in her eyes of the twenty year old. A glittering green, a celtic gleam, that shines as she sings. He moves back unnoticed, careful not to disturb her. Beyond the bushes a cough rouses crows from their slumber. A pile of blankets moves, stirs, rises into the hulking back of Joppy the Scot.
-Is that you, Joppy?
-Aye, aye. Its me. How we doing?
-Good good, fine morning.
-No, I meant, how are we doing for drink?
-Ah. Nothing doing.
Joppy’s coughs grinds into a growling battle of man against mucus, until finally he shakes, turns, expertly spits a dark wad of phlegm into the blackened park bin.
-Nay matter. I think I have some doots.
Doots is old Glasgow slang for cigarette butts. The Tramp feels he has learned a new language from his new, weather beaten companion. He has learned much these weeks past.
-Ye know, life is full of wee doots...
Joppy girdles his blankets, nods his head, and begins his crouching shuffle into the day. His outermost garment may once have been a bath towel, a fisherman’s shawl, or countless other mantels, but now, stained, scratched, the crusted cape rides down like a reaper’s robe. At full stretch the Scott would once have stood at six foot three. Now, the Tramp at five eleven meets his gaze shoulder to shoulder.
-Wait, Jop. How long have I been in this park?
-Ah, I’d say ... fifteen days. Aye, fifteen days.
-Twelve of them, the Bag Lady has been robbed during the night. And yet every morning, she wakes up singing.
-What’s your meaning?
-Its just, a funny thing. This life of ours. Living on the edges, the imbetween spaces, robbed of everything, no belongings ... She’s ankle deep in the muddy river and smiling.
-Get to the point, man.
- I’m going to find out who is stealing from her, and stop them. Today’s the day. Will you help me?
Joppy pulls out three cigarette butts from somewhere amongst his gowns, tears them apart, and carefully rerolls the doots into a new cigarette.
-A mission, eh? Aye, I’ll help you. But one condition.
-What’s that?
-She’s usually surprised at night, am I right?
-Correct.
-Well, its the morning now. Ye need to help me find a drink!
-Excellent sir!
-We’ll need to be well oiled if there’s to be any swinging fists.
-Let’s get some booze!
As the duo set out towards town, the Tramp’s thoughts turn again to the mission. Out here, if you’re not on the social, you need something else. Not extra, just something to live on. Bag Lady, she collected plastic bags, wove them into new bags. Or bracelets, or purses. Sold them for small change in the centre. Until recently, when someone has taken to robbing her... The Tramp strides on with a new bounce in his step. The rising sun warming his neck.
When he awakes, it is fully dark, and Joppy is snoring beside him, the empty bottles likes drained corpses between them. A dog barks. The Bag Lady! He shakes Joppy, lets out a scream of rage, and tears across the park. The Bag Lady sleeps in an enclosed shelter, formerly belonging to the golf club, now closed and disused. Not two hundred yards from his and Joppy’s nest. He breaks into a sweat and sees two shortish shadows looming over the pile of rags and crates that is the Bag Lady’s unofficial store and bed. As he gets closer he sees the first figure is crouching, holding her still, whilst the second pushes her meagre possessions into a holdall. The woven bracelets, a packet of biscuits, a large jarful of change. He even puts in her day’s collection of plastic bags. But it is the one holding her that the Tramp careers into. They tumble, all four, amongst the weeds and broken glass, until the two thieves are standing. They are free of the Tramp’s wrath, but cornered in the shelter.
-Give back what’s in that bag
-Who the fuck are you?
-Who the fuck am I? You little shit. I see you. Wait ... I know you. Give it back
-You married to the old Bag Lady? What are you going to do?
The thieves are smaller than the Tramp, but they are younger, fitter, and there are two of them. They begin to circle in opposite directions, classic pincer movement.
-This is my park. You can’t just come in here, robbing someone! Put down the bag. This is my park and justice will be done.
-You best move on, old man.
The two are edging further and further to each side. He won’t be able to catch them both. Play for time.
-I know you. You’re Andy.
-How do you know my name?
-Andy, Andrew Kingston, you sell ketamin and ecstasy down here, but you don’t touch it yourself. You’re a speed man. Filth. Friend only to the pig and the rat. And that’s your brother, the mooncalf, a doltard. You stupid boys.
-Right, have him!
Two ugly glitters as the boys pick up a broken bottle each from the moist ground. And then Joppy is upon them, a roaring, stinking mess of rags, whirling them to the floor, knocking the Lady’s bag to one side. In the briefest of moments they are cowering.
-Stop! Lay off, Macduff! We don’t want to kill them. Now, boys, I told you. This is my park. And hers. Aint yours. You’re a common thief, and a pusher, and a bully. I’ve got your name, Andrew Kingston. It wouldn’t take much to let people know who deals those cheap pills. And if you ever come into my park again –
-We won’t!
-Well, next time, I won’t be calling off my friend...
Joppy stands aside and lets the youths dart out into the night. He kneels to collect the Lady’s belongings, and she hobbles up.
-They comes every night, them two.
-Not any more, Miss. We’ll see to that
Bag Lady picks through the holdall and finds her change jar. She counts out silver pieces in the brightening night, the five and twenty pieces clinking in the moonlight.
-There’s no need for that, Ma’am. We’ll not accept coin from you.
-But, how can I repay you both?
Again, Bag Lady’s eyes light up. Except this time, she is not singin by the river, she is wrong side of the moonlight, and her eyes are grey.
-Well, there is one thing. What is the name of that song you sing? By the river?
She steps up to the Tramp and whispers in his ear. A grin passes between them.
-There is one other way I could repay you both. Come sit by the river!
She leads them down to the riverbank. Takes off her shoes, tests the water with a toe, and steps in. Rummages in the reeds, and produces a dripping green bottle.
-I calls it moonshine wine. Make it from the elderberries and such. Plenty of things to eat, really, and drink. Just got to look. Here, take a swig!
This time the grin goes around all three of the ragged company. It slips back into the Tramp’s throat and cools the fire in his chest. Moonshine wine, makes you feel fine. They are still sat together as the sun comes up, and the last drop of the fiery brew is drained.

DETECTIVE, PART II
Day fourty five.
Sometimes I feel like every place I go,
Person I see
Takes a little part of me
I have developed an increasing affinity with the homeless community. Cos they don’t take. In fact, they give. Just as I was giving up, getting despondent, I get a contact from the correspondent. I’m in the game again.
Day – Hell, what day is it? Its very confusing. I get a call from an old police pal, who’s got some dope nut behind bars. He calls me while the guy is still at the station. I follow up, ask my pal. Turns out there’s two of them. This guy is a dealer, and he’s with his dim wit brother. Apparently, the dealer, he’s seen the Judge. Crazy fuck thinks it was the Judge beat him up! Christ. I’ve seen what this Judge fella used to be. Five eleven, skinny, shirt tucked into his frickin underpants. Aint no Judge gonna beat up two young hoodlums. They say we can find him in the park. I don’t trust them.
But then.
I don't even know what day it is anymore. 
I race down to the park, and get the full story. Speak to this old Scottish guy, reckons the Judge sometimes hides out near the Winter Gardens. Right behind the County Court. I see you Judge, I knew you couldn’t keep away from it. The Law.
Day sixty five? It doesn’t matter. Today is the day it ends. The correspondent, the dog, the tramp, they all came through. I’m waiting outside the parking lot at the court where the old man’s motor is still waiting. Except now, they’re taking it away. Can he sense it? Would he even care? I know it cuts me up some. I start to walk in, but have to stop for breath. Chest tightening. Double over. The beech leaves a strong strident green dappling the light around my feet. I have to finish this. Close my eyes. Hold that breath. Let it out, open eyes, straighten up God damnit! And then I spot him.
I race through the main doors, past the docile receptionists, and see him disappear around a conference delegation. I give chase, pursued now by a burly magistrate and his security guard. I drag a young clerk into their path and bound after the Judge. I follow through bright white institution light and sterile corridors. Where is he? And no sign of the correspondent. 
I see him pounding around one last hallway, and somehow, I know he is trapped. This place is familiar, its like running in a dream. I round the corner, and there he is. The actual man has vanished, but there, in the cabinet, is his face. Framed, grinning. Have you seen this man? A missing poster, behind a wall display case. And there next to him, in the polished glass, my own reflection. I sneeze, and for a moment, when my eyes open again, it seems that he is looking back at me. One last barrier between me and the Judge. I step towards the cabinet. My face presses against the cool glass, but still I need to be closer. And then they round the corner, the security men, the magistrate, the secretaries. I move my head back, close my eyes, and pound the glass with my forehead. Without thinking, without flinching. One, two three hits, and the glass pane crashes to the floor. I open my eyes, blood running down my face. The crowd looks on, I can sense them, but I can’t turn around. Can’t tear myself from the Judge’s austere countenance. I feel the floor rush up to meet me, my eyes still fixed on the Judge’s picture, and still his gaze seems to meet mine. When my head hits the ground, all colours stop, but not the sounds. A terrible burning in my chest. To be reborn, first you have to die. And I am glad. At last, I found him! He was here all along. I try and focus. My muddied feet. A stray blade of grass pokes obscurely, accusingly to the cabinet with the Judge’s picture. A trace of green in the lifeless corridor. The burning is cooling already, and I float up again. Now I can look him in the eye. The judge is now here. The judge is nowhere.