By Definition, A Crush Must Hurt 3

"You can't buy a bag of peanuts in this town without some one writing a song about you."
-Charles Foster Kane, Citizen Kane.

The fog. Tarquin has never seen fog like this. Not here. It smothers everything around it and seems to dull his senses. He feels like he just had a moment of clarity and realised that he is indeed mildly retarded. "Just to the left please." Awkward Taxi Driver responds with a confused look onwards through the dark yellow grey blackness of the dense low lying cloud and brought the cab to a gentle stop.Tarquin opens the door of the taxi and steps out onto fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street and slowly pulls away. Thanks.

The key enters. The knob turns. The bag is thrown. Thump. A breath. A deep, inevitable sigh. The light of apartment fifteen of the small fifteen apartment hate factory located on two hundred and thirty floor Fleet street cinched on. A flash indicating a new bulb is needed. Tarquin snaps the switch back to the off position and leant back against the entrance. A breath. He took off his beanie, scrunching it up, the thick synthetic knit against his clammy palm. Tarquin throws it into the kitchen, replying with sound indicating it hit the sink. The old sink. My beanie is probably wet now.

Two hours ago

"Yes" Tarquin replied to the doctor's question. Emotionless and still. Just like the thing in front of him. "We have some forms that you'll have to sign before you leave." Silence. "Do you need me to call you a cab?" Silence. "Is there anyone I can call?" Silence. "Take your time." Silence. Nothing but. It's quiet.

Three hours later

Tarquin sat, in the darkness, against the door, in apartment fifteen of two hundred and thirty four Fleet street, in the suburb across the road from the nice one, with a wet beanie and a burnt bulb, in the fog, in the darkness. Struggling to understand where he had just been, what had happened, what he had seen. I better call Dad.

Twenty three hours ago

"When was the last time you saw your brother Mr Dangerfield?" Suited Man asked, his tone empathetic with a barely visible scent of hostility strung through. "I don't know..." Stammered. "Probably at the tea house a couple of weeks ago"
"And what did you see talk to him about?"
"Nothing. We talked about nothing. We only ever talk about that."
"Then why would you go and see him?"
"Because he asked me dammit and he's my brother and when my fucked up brother who I never fucking see calls and asks me for coffee I go okay. Aren't you supposed to already know this stuff? Don't you people have satellites?"
"Mr Dangerfield you'll want to be calming down and helping us find your brother"
A breath. A pause. The careful hum of the light. "I saw him last Tuesday. He called me. Said he wanted to see me. We met at the tea house a block and a half away from me. I gave him some money and I haven't seen or heard from him since. We're not that close."
"How much money did you give him?"
Not enough.

Twenty four hours later

The phone clicked. The dial tone had changed into the faster tone, the one that lets you know you've waited too long to call someone. The tone oscillating and dancing next to Tarquin's ear then clicking silent. Tarquin dropped the phone and stared. The fog was clearing and the sun was showing the first signs of it's triumphant return. Babies cry, Postmen wake up, Bakers get on with it. Tarquin sits. Osric is dead.

To be continued...