The Quiet Man

Myna Bird

“Here. See?” That’s last Thursday’s classifieds. The code, my initials, my notes over the digits in pen. It’s obvious: He’ll see it. He’ll remember. “But that’s not even everything.”

I can show him all my research, if he wants to see it; the research that started the terrific row with Mary. Two months’ worth of classified ads, several days’ worth of digging and parsing a dozen more of these codes, many of them simply repeated several times, all with my initials. Some have odd notes attached: “seething pratt,” and “craven butcher”, “cons, wild trio” “retreat west park”, “standard gun.” They all include specific locations in the A to Z code for seven different arrests. I missed the first eleven of the ads; how could I miss them? I wasn’t looking. It didn’t occur to me. I didn’t know I was wanted.

But apparently I have been. By whom? I don’t know. Another mystery. It’s dangerous, I know, taking directions from the classifieds. These could be from anyone. But they’ve got to be from someone on the right side of things. Whoever it is posting them knew precisely when these criminals would be arrested and hauled away. I’ve traced each of them to a documented arrest. It’s someone on the inside of this operation, it has to be.

Someone on the inside is leaving notes for me. Me, of all people.

All seven of them were murderers. I don’t get invited to all the arrests; just the ones of the murderers. Someone is giving me murderers, as if those are my favourites. I suppose they are. They were your favourites, too. Serial killers. The tricky ones. And these are all tricky ones.

I’ve missed so much, not paying enough attention. I don’t pay enough attention in any area of my life, apparently.

The row would be over if I just apologised, if I actually looked sorry about it. I know that. It was my fault, but I didn’t back down. I shouted at her, she shouted back. It was childish of me, and I should have known better. It was like arguing with Harry, when we used to argue, back before I gave up on arguing with her. Ancient rage that isn’t anyone’s fault poured out of me in all directions. I should just apologise. It was my fault. I’m twisted the wrong way, now. I’m sorry, Mary. I could just say it.

What’s the point, though? What’s the point.

She didn’t know I had a temper like that. I think it frightened her, a little. I wonder if it made her think of my gun. I wonder if she feels unsafe now.

That’s terrible.

I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t. Not even in a rage. I was just angry. I was frustrated. I was annoyingly excited, it was too much. This makes no sense, who is calling to me through the newspapers? Who would do that? It’s my worst fear and my greatest desire; it’s unfair. Cruel.

I wasn’t paying any attention to her, and now she’s annoyed with me. Disappointed in me, too. I skipped lunch with the editors, I didn’t answer my phone, I didn’t read my email. I didn’t respond to her texts. I couldn’t: I was busy. I was finding codes. She doesn’t know about that. How do I explain?

Codes in the classifieds that line up with the dates and locations of a series of arrests, codes that translate into invitations. I could have been there all this time; I should have been. Watching. Helping, maybe, like I used to. Maybe I’d have met my benefactor by now. I’d know more, I’d have seen so much. But that would have been worse, in the end. She would have dumped me before now.

There was one arrest I didn’t know was related: I had to dig it up. Military police. I saw it at the time, I just didn’t think that was one of mine. But it is, it must be. Because here it is, in code. To JHW, in the classifieds. I was invited. “Bolt gate, long walk. Fair little sanctuary east.”