The Lover's Children

Chapter 48 – The Idylls of March #20

KLEMPNER

On the face of it, the figure is doing the same as I am, watching the world go by. But my interest in the

activity by the park is casual. His seems more… focused.

Arsonists famously get off on watching the fire services deal with the consequences of their handiwork.

Several serial killers I can think of got their kicks by making themselves the centre of attention with the

police, giving staged appeals for daughters, wives and girlfriends to be returned by alleged kidnappers,

when all the while the poor bitch was already buried under the patio.

Am I being ridiculous?

Letting my imagination run riot?

I don’t know.

So… I watch him… watching them…

After a while, he knocks back his beer, then leaves his table, strolling across to the snacks van. He

pauses, then moves along with a cone of fries.

Long-legged, in jeans, sneakers and that damn hoodie, he walks with a spring in his step, jaunty,

crossing the square to sit on a bench, still facing toward the gate but now viewing from a different

angle. He pops a fry into a mouth I can't see, but he's still clearly enjoying the police circus.

My waiter hovers. “Anything else, sir?”

“Just my bill. Do you sell cigarettes?”

“There's a vending machine in the bar.”

“Fetch me a pack. Menthols. And a lighter.”

Cigarette in hand, trying not to inhale the filthy thing, I dawdle along, angling to see the face behind the

hood.

A couple of police in uniform stand by the gate, moving along any obvious loiterers, so I retreat toward

the van.

The vendor is hawking donuts coffee and cans of fizz, burgers and dogs, waylaying the innocent with

the waft of frying onions. Occasionally he casts the evil eye at the tramp, sitting on a sheet of

cardboard, a cap, shiny with wear, set down in front of him. Passers-by skirt around both tramp and

cap.

My stomach growls, reminding me of my abbreviated brunch. Eyeing the sizzling wares, I peer over the

counter to check out the state of the kitchen...

Seems clean enough...

Coffee and a hot dog seems a safe enough purchase and gives me an excuse to hang. The vendor

scoops bun, sausage and onions together with practised speed... "Mustard and ketchup on the end." ...

and I retreat with my steaming cup and napkin to a bench by the rails, shadowed under an overhanging

shrub, not exactly hidden, but inconspicuous enough for me to watch unnoticed.

Cradling my lunch in its napkin, I bite in...

Hmmm...

Genuine dog...

No wonder they always serve these things with mustard...

The tramp's watching me, fixed on the thing in my hand. "Want it?" He nods, and I pass it down to him,

minus one bite...

Whatever he did to end up on the street, he doesn't deserve what's in that sausage. On an impulse, I

toss a couple of coins into his hat.

Cradling my coffee, I sip from my prop...

... and watch...

Wind gusts, and the hood billows. For a moment I think I'm going to see the face, but Hoodie Man

shrugs it back into place, tosses his empty cardboard cone into a trashcan, and ambles away.

He follows the footpath running along the boundary wall of the park. I saunter behind him, lagging by a

couple of hundred yards, my newspaper tucked under one arm.

The path is used by joggers, dog-walkers and women with babies and small children. A teenager with

an overweight spaniel pauses while the dog relieves itself, tugging the dog to one side as Hoodie Man

passes. A pair of women pushing strollers part, letting him pass between them.

A jogger, earphones arcing over his skull, veers around him.

Five minutes walking and he reaches the next entrance to the park, crowded with children gathered

around an ice cream kiosk. He joins the queue and I halt, lighting another cigarette, smoking it as he

works to the front of the line and buys a cornet.

Making a sharp left turn into the entrance, he vanishes through the gate and grinding the butt under my

toe, I set off at a smart pace after him.

Inside…

… I don’t see him…

Damn!

I scan open grass and trees. He can’t possibly have wandered out of sight in the short time he had.

Kids bat balls with fathers…

Teenage girls giggle at a group of boys, flaunting their doubtful assets…

A smartly dressed woman throws a ball for her mongrel…

Ah…

… There he is…

Hoodie’s leaning against a tree, eating his ice cream. And still, maddeningly, his face is concealed. And

his expression. I can read his body-language. I want to see his expression. Strolling in a round-about

loop, once more, I try to get the angle for a line-of-sight on him.

With a yelp, the mongrel skitters after its ball. It’s a scaled-up version of Michael’s mutt, nondescript,

with tufts of hair at random angles. Grizzled around the muzzle, it moves on stiff joints, pitching like a

rocking horse as it runs.

The ball lands by Hoodie’s feet and the mongrel skids to a halt, ball forgotten, angling hopefully up at

the last couple of inches of the ice cream cone. Hoodie yells something and the dog cringes and slinks

away, tail down. Hoodie tosses the remains of the cornet into the bushes.

His shoulders quiver.

Laughing?

Because he scared some geriatric mutt?

He checks a wristwatch, pushing back the sleeve to look, then hesitates, as though considering

something. Stepping out smartly, he follows a path leading up grassy slopes back toward the main

gate, the cordon and the screened off area.

Once more, I follow.

It’s growing busy and a steady stream of people follow the path with me. As I try to keep Hoodie in

view, I dodge and weave. He’s gaining on me, almost at the exit.

At the gate, partially blocked as it is, the stream of people tightens and I’m jostling and pushing to get

through. In the press of people, I catch a glimpse of the back of the grey hood then am blocked by a

woman with the arse and apparent temperament of a hippo. I sidestep left, then right, then push past

her…

“Do you mind!”

… but Hoodie’s vanished.

Shoving through the packed horde, I muscle my way out of the gate and into the clear space of the

square beyond…

… look left…

… right…

… forward…

He’s vanished.

*****

Fuck!

I spin, seeking my target. Past the press vans… across to the station entrance… the terraces of cafes

and restaurants…

He’s nowhere in sight.

At some level, I know I’m not being reasonable, trailing a complete stranger on barely more than a

whim. But something about Hoodie has set my alarms blaring.

Could he have gone into the police enclosure?

If he did, then my instincts could be altogether askew. He’s surely some sort of official or investigator.

But I trust my instincts. They’ve kept me alive so far.

I find a spot on a bench where I can weigh up my options.

The police have made a major deal of the affair. Day-glo orange and yellow striped tape, Police - Crime

Scene - Do Not Pass, flutters between posts, with only the single entrance and a pair of uniformed

officers standing sentry: passing some automatically, checking ID on others.

Within the cordon is the screened enclosure. The screen rises above eye-level and beyond that is what

looks like a tented area or marquee. Although the access point though the screen isn’t guarded, only

police and what look like medical or forensics staff are passing through, some in overshoes and full-

body paper coveralls.

The press are herded into a corral set between the outer cordon and the screen, blathering to cameras

and into microphones. One woman taps into her phone, apparently writing some report on the spot.

One of the gate officers, a blonde girl, looking barely old enough to legally wear the uniform, passes

someone through: a man clutching a tablet, talking non-stop into an ear-mike, wearing a lapel badge,

Glen Burwell: City Inquirer. She gestures him toward the press enclosure. Her companion, a big

bruiser, moves a couple of dawdling busybodies along.

A geeky-looking type staggers from one of the press vans, loaded with boxes and cases stacked too

high. At the entrance, Bruiser checks his badge then admits him, again waving him to the enclosure.

Geeky unloads his stuff and returns to his van, vanishing into the bowels.

When he exits again, a minute or so later, he’s loaded with reels of cable. Jostled by the crowd, several

loops of cable magically uncoil from their reel, trailing and tangling between his feet…

To the opportunist, the spoils…

“Here, let me help you.” Picking up his escaped cables, I wind them back onto the reel.

“Thanks, Man. It’s chaos in there.”

“I can imagine. What’s happening?”

“Haven’t you heard? The Slasher’s got another one, ‘cept that they’ve changed the name. They’re

calling him ‘The Surgeon’ now.” Clutching his cables, “Sorry, gotta go. I’m needed up there. Thanks for

your help.”

He lurches away, to be stopped by the uniform on duty, cursing as he’s not admitted and he realises

he’s not wearing his ID. Muttering to himself, he returns to his vehicle, I assume to look for his mislaid

badge. I make for the snacks van.

*****