Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite! Read Online Free
Author: Douglas Lindsay
take-off.
Twenty-four hours later I was sitting in an interrogation room.
4
––––––––
I think I was in America, but maybe I only thought that because my inquisitors had American accents.
It was a plain room, much as one would see in any US TV crime drama. One door, one large mirror along the wall. I guess there were people on the other side of the glass, but I was barely thinking even that. I was barely thinking at all.
I was sitting at a desk. All my clothes had been removed and I was wearing a plain, dark blue jumpsuit. I hadn't been given any underwear. Between undressing me and allowing me to put on the jump suit, they had X-rayed me, shaved off my beard, and given me a full body cavity search. That was possibly the most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to me, except I couldn't think straight and so wasn't in a position to compare it to other unpleasant things that had happened.
The top of the desk was clear. There were two people sitting across from me. So far they didn't seem to be good cop/bad cop. They were just hard and humourless. I think it was their utter humourlessness that was the most striking thing about them. One gets too used to TV cops having a nice turn in glib remarks. Maybe they were saving the glib remarks until they had an audience on the other side of the mirror.
The woman was in her forties. Hair swept back off her forehead, tied tightly. No make-up. This combination had no effect on whether or not she was attractive – I was in no fit state to make that judgement – it served to make her look hard, business-like and formidable. Her partner, a small African-American man with thick dark hair and a small moustache, had a friendlier look about him, yet there had been nothing friendly about his words or tone. The woman was the lead interrogator.
'Tell us about your family,' she said. The words sounded innocuous, but every question was delivered as if she was asking why I'd flown the plane into the World Trade Centre.
'I've got a wife, Brin. Bryony. I call her Brin. And there's Baggins, our daughter. She's eleven.'
'What kind of name is Baggins?'
I was finding it hard to concentrate, even though this particular line of questioning was fairly straightforward. I had a pain in my anus as a result of the body search. Sometime I was bound to get angry about that, but at the moment I just craved Nurofen, a telephone and somewhere to lie down.
'It's a nickname,' I said, when I'd thought of the words. 'Her name's Amanda.'
'What kind of nickname is Baggins?'
What kind of nickname is Baggins? Was that even a question? I tried to think of something to say, but nothing other than the obvious occurred to me.
'It's from The Lord of the Rings ... The Hobbit ... The name of the Hobbit is Bilbo Baggins.'
'Why did you name your daughter after a character in a film?'
I made a slightly dismissive movement with my right hand.
'Don't move your hands,' said the guy with the moustache. 'You want us to 'cuff you?'
I shook my head.
'Well, don't move your hands. Or we'll 'cuff you.'
'Why did you name your daughter after a character in a film?'
I straightened my thoughts, tried to get words to come out in the right order.
'She was short. One of her friends said she wasn't growing and must be a hobbit... That's all.'
'When was this?'
'When?... I don't know, about four years ago, maybe.'
'What age would your daughter have been then?'
'... seven...'
'Aren't all seven-year-old girls short?'
I didn't answer that. She waited another couple of seconds.
'You thought it was all right to give your child a name that mocked her size?'
'It was a joke. She liked it. It wa—'
'Why weren't you on the plane?'
It was the guy with the moustache, cutting in. The rest of it was just small talk. Background. They really wanted to know why I hadn't been on the plane. Except I had been on the plane. I know I was on the plane. I'd eaten chicken fricassee and drunk a Californian white and wiped my face
Twenty-four hours later I was sitting in an interrogation room.
4
––––––––
I think I was in America, but maybe I only thought that because my inquisitors had American accents.
It was a plain room, much as one would see in any US TV crime drama. One door, one large mirror along the wall. I guess there were people on the other side of the glass, but I was barely thinking even that. I was barely thinking at all.
I was sitting at a desk. All my clothes had been removed and I was wearing a plain, dark blue jumpsuit. I hadn't been given any underwear. Between undressing me and allowing me to put on the jump suit, they had X-rayed me, shaved off my beard, and given me a full body cavity search. That was possibly the most unpleasant thing that had ever happened to me, except I couldn't think straight and so wasn't in a position to compare it to other unpleasant things that had happened.
The top of the desk was clear. There were two people sitting across from me. So far they didn't seem to be good cop/bad cop. They were just hard and humourless. I think it was their utter humourlessness that was the most striking thing about them. One gets too used to TV cops having a nice turn in glib remarks. Maybe they were saving the glib remarks until they had an audience on the other side of the mirror.
The woman was in her forties. Hair swept back off her forehead, tied tightly. No make-up. This combination had no effect on whether or not she was attractive – I was in no fit state to make that judgement – it served to make her look hard, business-like and formidable. Her partner, a small African-American man with thick dark hair and a small moustache, had a friendlier look about him, yet there had been nothing friendly about his words or tone. The woman was the lead interrogator.
'Tell us about your family,' she said. The words sounded innocuous, but every question was delivered as if she was asking why I'd flown the plane into the World Trade Centre.
'I've got a wife, Brin. Bryony. I call her Brin. And there's Baggins, our daughter. She's eleven.'
'What kind of name is Baggins?'
I was finding it hard to concentrate, even though this particular line of questioning was fairly straightforward. I had a pain in my anus as a result of the body search. Sometime I was bound to get angry about that, but at the moment I just craved Nurofen, a telephone and somewhere to lie down.
'It's a nickname,' I said, when I'd thought of the words. 'Her name's Amanda.'
'What kind of nickname is Baggins?'
What kind of nickname is Baggins? Was that even a question? I tried to think of something to say, but nothing other than the obvious occurred to me.
'It's from The Lord of the Rings ... The Hobbit ... The name of the Hobbit is Bilbo Baggins.'
'Why did you name your daughter after a character in a film?'
I made a slightly dismissive movement with my right hand.
'Don't move your hands,' said the guy with the moustache. 'You want us to 'cuff you?'
I shook my head.
'Well, don't move your hands. Or we'll 'cuff you.'
'Why did you name your daughter after a character in a film?'
I straightened my thoughts, tried to get words to come out in the right order.
'She was short. One of her friends said she wasn't growing and must be a hobbit... That's all.'
'When was this?'
'When?... I don't know, about four years ago, maybe.'
'What age would your daughter have been then?'
'... seven...'
'Aren't all seven-year-old girls short?'
I didn't answer that. She waited another couple of seconds.
'You thought it was all right to give your child a name that mocked her size?'
'It was a joke. She liked it. It wa—'
'Why weren't you on the plane?'
It was the guy with the moustache, cutting in. The rest of it was just small talk. Background. They really wanted to know why I hadn't been on the plane. Except I had been on the plane. I know I was on the plane. I'd eaten chicken fricassee and drunk a Californian white and wiped my face
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