Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (9 page)

A few groups of students were starting to
dribble into town now as he drove through towards princess
street.

I guess it is good for the
publican
’
s
coffers, he thought, passing by the first casualty of the night, a
young bearded male vomiting in the gutter with an exasperated
female standing above him furiously texting on her cell phone. The
scene forced Bridger's mind to flash back to the previous evening,
filling in a few more blank spots.

The traffic lights changed from green to
amber then to red. He stopped his car, having to apply the
handbrake on the slight incline. Above him, spotlights were shining
on the Cathedral and Town Hall at the top of the Octagon.

Bridger was no student of architecture but
he had read the plaques placed under the buildings. It was
something he and Laura had done when they had first arrived in
Dunedin. They had built the town hall in both the Neo Baroque and
Neo Renaissance styles for reasons long forgotten to him. St Paul's
Cathedral, he had read, was the mother Church of the Anglican
Dioceses of New Zealand, all useless information that seemed to
stick in his memory.

The statue of Robert Burns was sitting
steadfast at their feet, both grand old ladies proudly watching
over him. I bet he does not have a hangover, despite spending his
life in the Octagon, he thought.

Bridger smiled to himself at the thought of
the statue Robert swilling from the left over cans of intoxicated
revelers.

There were fairy lights strung in the trees
lining the road through the middle of the Octagon on the main
carriageway, glittering in the winter twilight. At this time of
night, the Octagon had a more genteel feel about it as if it was an
older more civilized time in its history.

He wondered what Robert Burns would have
made of the city and its inhabitants that now lay out before
him.

The lights changed and he moved off as he
pushed a compact disc into the stereo system. It was something he
always looked forward to, a chance to unwind on the short journey
home. It was Gregorian Chants, the rich baritones of the religious
choir unaccompanied. Bridger was not religious in any way. He had
stumbled across the music one day but he had found the mellow tones
helped to relax him as he drove. It suited Dunedin's architecture
and history.

He drove further from the Octagon letting
the music wash over him. He had installed a new sound system
recently and it had certainly made a difference. It was worth more
than his car, but it was well worth the expense, he could almost
pick out every subtle note.

The Gregorian
’
s were in full chorus as he turned
right into High Street and started driving steeply uphill, his 20
year old Toyota crunching as it changed down a gear before
struggling on. He wondered how the electric trams used to grind
their way up the hill back in the early 1900's.

The large Victorian homes that clung on to
the steep incline of High Street went by slowly, some of them
gothic in style, the music helping him to imagine the history of
them.

They had converted many of these houses into
flats, but some remained large family homes, or bed and breakfasts
catering mostly to the tourists. He actually knew someone who owned
one of the bigger houses, but all he ever heard was complaints
about how much it cost to heat.

For the most part, unsuspecting people would
only see the charm of the facade on these homes that they saw from
the street as they made their way uphill. A facade that was only as
thick as the walls shielding some of the occupants from view. They
were beautiful buildings housing many different people.

Maybe it was the hangover but he was
thinking he had a rather jaded view of this area as he drove into
Mornington.

The drive took just over five minutes but
when he finally pulled up outside his address, he was done in, the
hangover that had been hanging around all day finally starting to
win the battle. Parking on the road and looking at his darkened
house, he switched off the music. Silence invaded his head.

He had been mentally rehearsing what he
would say to Laura on the drive home, but not having come up with
anything substantial he was partly relieved to see that her car was
not in the driveway. It would give him a bit of time to wash up,
maybe prepare a bit of dinner, and open a bottle of something nice.
That might help things a bit.

The note he found on the kitchen table
however told him a different story.

'Out with the girls, don't wait up', was
scrawled onto the back of a used envelope in Laura's familiar
handwriting.

With no pleasantries it was plain she was
still upset with him.

Look on the bright side; he told himself, at
least she left you a note so things cannot be that bad.

Whatever her mood was, he had the night to
himself, again. Looking in the freezer he found what he wanted,
placed the frozen meal in the microwave and set the dial. He went
to the cupboard and found the bottle of Jameson, poured a generous
two fingers adding nothing and went out onto the deck ignoring the
cold breeze.

Bit late for Hair of the Dog, but what the
hell, he thought, at least it will sort out the hangover.

He let the amber liquid slide down his
throat, enjoying the warm feeling. He felt a slight burn as it hit
his empty stomach. Bridger preferred the Irish whiskey as opposed
to Scotch as it had a lighter taste. There were reasons for this,
something to do with the way they made it. He tried to remember the
long ago tasting session where he had learned of the difference,
but could not recall. All he remembered was that they spelt the
Scotch version Whisky, and the Irish was Whiskey. Ireland having
been credited with inventing it, the Irish monks were first to
discover the pleasures back in the 12th century.

He cupped the tumbler in his hands and
looked out towards the windswept harbor in the distance, trying not
to think of work or his home life, both with their trials. Taking
another hit of the warm amber liquid, he let it sit for a second on
his tongue before swallowing, the peaty taste becoming evident.

He was at the end of first day in his
new rank and he did not feel any better about himself. Sometimes he
wondered why he put in the effort. The older he got the more self
doubt had been creeping into his thoughts. Ever since he had put
himself up for promotion, the thoughts had intensified. He guessed
it was comparing yourself with your colleagues, always seeing
someone else
’
s work record compared with your
own.

Trying to study for the promotion exams was
tough as well. He had not had to rote learn anything since his days
as a trainee detective and it was pretty taxing.

He realised in that process that he had few
close friends in the job, if any. He had only been able to come up
with a couple of names to act as referees in the selection process.
He wondered if that was the same for most men his age. He had never
been any good at nurturing friendships and it seemed the older he
got the more introverted he became.

Having to sift through your accomplishments
in life in order to satisfy the interview panel was also a chore.
He had been weeks preparing his CV, trying to come up with examples
of his work in the past five years that best fitted the desirable
qualities that the interview panel would be looking for.

He had tried talking to Laura about it, but
the Police promotions framework was slightly different from the
civilian sector, so she had no real understanding of what he was
trying to accomplish.

She had thought that you promoted through
the ranks on a time served basis, ending your career at the top of
the pile. Well she knew different now, he had spent hours at a time
in the spare room they used as an office studying or preparing
documents. He had been surprised as anyone to get the job, even
though he was the only applicant.

Bridger just hoped he had made the right
choice, taking on the extra responsibility.

Well it is a bit late to change your mind
now, he thought. I will just have to get on with it and see what
happens.

He checked his cell phone, he had no missed
calls or text messages, and there were not any more messages from
Jane. Maybe she got the message and had decided to leave their
occasional fling just that, occasional.

He felt a slight relief.

One thing the job had taught him over the
years was how to separate his emotions; he had become adept at
putting them in a box in order to cope with the daily demands on
his over taxed mind. He had a separate box for every part of his
life, one for his work experiences and all the trauma that went
with them, he had one for his home life and then he had Jane. Her
box, supposed to house his fantasies, was a place where he could
escape to when he needed; a place that was not real and could not
hurt anyone. However, those fantasies had suddenly become real when
he met Jane. Now they were spilling over into the other boxes,
contaminating the contents.

He had no safe place to escape to now and it
was starting to get to him. Laura did not deserve this; she had to
be the most important thing in his life.

Putting his phone down, he thought about
Jane, and about Laura. Laura with the fiery red hair he had fallen
in love with all those years ago, Jane with her refreshing outlook
on life, able to be so open and free. He thought about his
professed love for Laura. What did he actually feel now after all
this time, he knew he felt no guilt when he saw Jane, but could not
see his life without Laura in it, even though they were hardly
talking anymore. Maybe it was just that they had spent so much time
together, had so many experiences, that it was like his obsession
with older music. He felt comfortable with what he knew and was not
willing to commit to anything different. No one had ever told him
what he had to feel, for love to be real.

He knew that Jane was not the type to
settle, he knew she would be seeing other men, maybe even had a
boyfriend or husband. They had never really spoken about that side
of her life. They had never really had a proper conversation, even
in the cold light of day, just before the hangovers set in.

It was too complicated to think about with a
couple of whiskies washing away a headache.

Whiskey and maudlin were firm friends this
evening.

It is what it is, he thought.

He let the anesthetic wash through his
bloodstream.

The rest of the evening past in a pleasant
fog, Mazzy Star was playing quietly in the background.

Fade into you.

He did not even hear his wife come to bed
that night, or feel her leave again so early in the morning.

The cell phone on the bedside table chirped
out Beethoven's ninth. Bridger leaned across Laura's still warm
side of the bed and made an unsuccessful grab at it, knocking it
onto the floor. Buy the time he retrieved it, the Symphony was in
full swing.

"Sorry to bother you at home Sergeant,
but the roster has you down as on call, is that
right?
”
a
timid female voice enquired. "Only a body has been found at the
bottom of Lawyers Head".

"Shit".

"Pardon me".

"Sorry, did I say that out
loud?
”
Bridger apologized, "It wasn't directed at you. I'll be there
in ten minutes".

Grabbing a jacket on the way out the door
Bridger thought about leaving note for Laura, but not seeing one
from her as to her whereabouts decided against it. Besides, she
knew this was his duty weekend.

Lawyers Head, he knew, was a scenic place
for tourists but a notorious spot for suicides. Situated at the end
of John Wilson Drive, it was a long straight piece of road that
followed the top of the sand dunes running along St Kilda beach. As
he drove up onto the embankment, he could not help but notice how
it afforded a great view of the now turbulent grey blue Pacific
Ocean, which to Bridger looked very cold and unforgiving in the
early morning light. He could see the whitecaps forming and
breaking on the white sandy foreshore, coming to rest near the high
tide line, and then they sucked back out to repeat the process
leaving a foamy residue on the sand.

The city council had closed John
Wilson drive off to vehicle traffic just over halfway along its
length to allow construction of the city
’
s wastewater outlet pipes; this had
an effect on the amount of suicides, with no on jumping to their
deaths for the entire construction process. It had opened briefly
after construction but within three days, there was another suicide
prompting the permanent closure. A closure, which looked like it
was going to be very inconvenient this morning, as Bridger pulled
up next to the marked patrol car parked beside the bollards in the
middle of the road.

A uniform Constable stood guard, shivering
in just a shirt and stab proof vest. Bridger recognized the
face.

"Steve, why won’t you ever learn to wear a
jacket? If you get any bluer in the face I might think you need
CPR".

"How would I show off these big guns if I
wore a jacket", he said, breaking into a pose that looked like a
constipated gorilla.

Bridger could think of better ways to spend
time in a grunting sweating closeness with other men at the gym,
only to stand in the cold with hardly any clothes on to show off
the results but he was not about to let Steve 'the muscle' Kirkland
know about any of them.

"Before you ask Sarge the council have
been called to come and unlock the bollards, but because
it
’
s Sunday
the on call guy has to come from home, he lives out of town
apparently".