The Lost Sister Read Online Free Page A
Author: Russel D McLean
people.
When the Chief Constable poked his head out and asked me to come in, I wasnât even sure I could stand. In those days I was always waiting to be found out as some kind of fraud. As much as I loved and respected the Job, I always worried that maybe I wasnât right for it. Or it wasnât right for me.
When I walked in, I saw three men behind the desk. The Chief, imperious. The air of Ming the Merciless about him. Minus the dodgy facial hair. And he was shorter, fatter than the Emperor of Mongo. Of course, it was all in the eyes. Attitude is what people remember about you.
On the other side of the Chief sat two men in uniform. One was DCI Black; a grumpy bastard, originally from Lothian. Griped constantly about Dundee. Kept going on about how much cleaner Edinburgh was. How much more beautiful. Christ, even if it wasnât true, I had the feeling heâd find some way to justify his hatred of the city; Dundee has a polarising effect on those who come from the outside.
The other copper present was Ernie Bright. In those days I only knew him by sight and reputation. He had a good reputation. The word, fair was used. Along with, a good man . Aye, try throwing a brick in a room full of senior officers and see if you hit many of those.
The meeting went as well as could be expected. I didnât know anything, they tried to make out like maybe I did. I kept to my line, they finally let me go.
When I was walking down the hall, I heard footsteps behind me, turned and saw Ernie Bright following me. I stopped, let him catch up. He leaned close, and said in a voice close to whisper: âYou ever want to transfer to CID, let me know.â
Anyone asks what I did in there to impress him, their guess is as good as mine.
Do I ever regret it? Leaving the force?
Aye, of course I do.
But there are a lot of things I regret. Some of them are stupid. Others make me want to get hit by lightning. But isnât everyone the same?
We all have our ways of dealing. Time was Iâd have hashed things out with Elaine. My sounding board. No idea how she put up with the rants, my disjointed monologues and irrational annoyances. Ask me why she loved me and I couldnât say. Iâm just glad she did.
When she died, I couldnât go to her graveside. Afraid of how it might affect me. To break down like I feared was a sign of weakness that Scottish men are taught to dismiss.
We donât break down. We donât cry.
At least, that was the excuse I used for myself.
What I held on to for the longest time was the anger. Finding it hard to let go.
But after a while, I came to accept her death. And the anger that came with it. Started making regular visits to the cemetery. Feeling like maybe I should talk, but not wanting to be one of those lunatics mumbling to themselves in the graveyard. They say itâs perfectly healthy; I say itâs just an embarrassment.
Didnât stop me wanting to say things, though.
The grave is simple, erected by her family. I didnât have much say in the matter. Thereâs an inscription in French on the headstone. I donât speak the language so well, but her sister told me what it meant:
Our nature consists in movement. Absolute rest is death.
Maybe if Iâd known that earlier, a lot of things would have been brought into perspective.
It was late afternoon when I stood in front of the stone, read the inscription even though I could quote it without hesitation.
I closed my eyes, tried to remember her face. Little by little, she was escaping me. Getting so I could only remember how she looked when I came across old photographs.
Some days, I thought I was betraying her by starting to heal.
Overhead, heavy skies threatened. The grass at my feet was stiff, with a thin covering of frost that sparkled gently in the late afternoon light. I could feel it crush when I pressed my weight down on the ground. Wind rattled at the branches of old trees that stood in the
When the Chief Constable poked his head out and asked me to come in, I wasnât even sure I could stand. In those days I was always waiting to be found out as some kind of fraud. As much as I loved and respected the Job, I always worried that maybe I wasnât right for it. Or it wasnât right for me.
When I walked in, I saw three men behind the desk. The Chief, imperious. The air of Ming the Merciless about him. Minus the dodgy facial hair. And he was shorter, fatter than the Emperor of Mongo. Of course, it was all in the eyes. Attitude is what people remember about you.
On the other side of the Chief sat two men in uniform. One was DCI Black; a grumpy bastard, originally from Lothian. Griped constantly about Dundee. Kept going on about how much cleaner Edinburgh was. How much more beautiful. Christ, even if it wasnât true, I had the feeling heâd find some way to justify his hatred of the city; Dundee has a polarising effect on those who come from the outside.
The other copper present was Ernie Bright. In those days I only knew him by sight and reputation. He had a good reputation. The word, fair was used. Along with, a good man . Aye, try throwing a brick in a room full of senior officers and see if you hit many of those.
The meeting went as well as could be expected. I didnât know anything, they tried to make out like maybe I did. I kept to my line, they finally let me go.
When I was walking down the hall, I heard footsteps behind me, turned and saw Ernie Bright following me. I stopped, let him catch up. He leaned close, and said in a voice close to whisper: âYou ever want to transfer to CID, let me know.â
Anyone asks what I did in there to impress him, their guess is as good as mine.
Do I ever regret it? Leaving the force?
Aye, of course I do.
But there are a lot of things I regret. Some of them are stupid. Others make me want to get hit by lightning. But isnât everyone the same?
We all have our ways of dealing. Time was Iâd have hashed things out with Elaine. My sounding board. No idea how she put up with the rants, my disjointed monologues and irrational annoyances. Ask me why she loved me and I couldnât say. Iâm just glad she did.
When she died, I couldnât go to her graveside. Afraid of how it might affect me. To break down like I feared was a sign of weakness that Scottish men are taught to dismiss.
We donât break down. We donât cry.
At least, that was the excuse I used for myself.
What I held on to for the longest time was the anger. Finding it hard to let go.
But after a while, I came to accept her death. And the anger that came with it. Started making regular visits to the cemetery. Feeling like maybe I should talk, but not wanting to be one of those lunatics mumbling to themselves in the graveyard. They say itâs perfectly healthy; I say itâs just an embarrassment.
Didnât stop me wanting to say things, though.
The grave is simple, erected by her family. I didnât have much say in the matter. Thereâs an inscription in French on the headstone. I donât speak the language so well, but her sister told me what it meant:
Our nature consists in movement. Absolute rest is death.
Maybe if Iâd known that earlier, a lot of things would have been brought into perspective.
It was late afternoon when I stood in front of the stone, read the inscription even though I could quote it without hesitation.
I closed my eyes, tried to remember her face. Little by little, she was escaping me. Getting so I could only remember how she looked when I came across old photographs.
Some days, I thought I was betraying her by starting to heal.
Overhead, heavy skies threatened. The grass at my feet was stiff, with a thin covering of frost that sparkled gently in the late afternoon light. I could feel it crush when I pressed my weight down on the ground. Wind rattled at the branches of old trees that stood in the
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