Roddy McCance
2. Home
Danielle was always late. He was he was all about precision, process and timing; she was the opposite. That’s why he loved her. She was pure chaos, in the best way imaginable. After twenty-five years he still thought about the differences between them occasionally when his mind had the chance to wander away from him. He glanced at the ceramic white cup filled with coffee that he had ordered for her, sitting on a table made to look older than it was. He hated things going to waste. The steam of the black coffee was hypnotic, drifting away into space. He was obsessed by things that would never be. The things that lingered, then disappeared.
Jeff Smallwood was very aware of his age. He was sixty-four years old. People told him he didn’t look his age and he didn’t know what to say to them, but privately it made him happy. He wondered if not looking your age was a strange, backhanded compliment, or just a normal compliment. Maybe it was an insult to other sixty-four year old men. His hair was all silver now, it used to be jet black and he now wore his hair short on the sides with it combed into a quiff at the top. He was always clean shaven, though he flirted with the idea of a beard. His morning ritual was a shower, followed by a shave. His black glasses rested on the bottom of his nose, his green eyes hovering over them. He has some wrinkles, but he looks youthful for his sixty four years.
He was very aware that time is fleeting, so he wanted to store every moment and appreciate every second he had, because one day none of it would be there. Leaning back into the puffy leather sofa in the upmarket Belfast coffee shop, he sipped at his black Americano and looked out the window at the cobblestone Cathedral Quarter street. He was aware that people of his age, probably got their coffee in Marks & Spencer of a quaint old tea shop where the chairs creaked and it smelled of musk. It made him feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t quite on his pension yet.
He liked this particular shop because this was modern Belfast. It wasn’t just coffee or tea on the menu, it had over 12 different variations of coffee and he liked that. Barista’s laughed at each other perfecting latte art, ground coffee beans in the coffee grinder and steamed milk with the milk wands on the coffee machine. All the background noise and chatter of a busy coffee shop helped him drift away. He was back to thinking about differences. The Drifter Killer may have walked down this very street, walking after his first victim on a late, rain soaked Belfast night. This cold Belfast day had the same feeling as any other. The harsh sunlight beamed down on a grey city, creating shadows that lingered on the walls of the streets in the daylight. Gothic facades of the nineteen hundreds stood next to red bricks buildings built in the nineteen seventies, and they were all covered in typical graffiti. Swear words, bad faces and neon green tags that he couldn’t understand. Belfast was a city of contrasts. Where he sat now was modern and sleek; all pristine glass windows stretching up into the sky. Office blocks, coffee docks and new hotels. Tourists peering into their phones for directions, the older ones holding up maps, looking for murals. A postcard version of Belfast; Titanic, Harland & Wolfe and The Peace Wall. People couldn’t help it could they? They all wanted to see the past, no matter how forward thinking and modern architects could make it, tourists only wanted one thing from Belfast, the past. It was the same thing Jeff Smallwood wanted, he wanted the past, more specifically, he wanted the truth.
Walk around the corner and it was like being back in those times. He thought of nineteen eighties Belfast. Not many tourists, only the brave ones, like Sebastian Magnussen and look where that got him. More British Army troops holding rifles than anything else. Graffiti over boarded up windows, RUC Checkpoints, British Army Land Rovers and bag checks. Life did go on, of course, but it was a different time. That was The Troubles, this was now. The Troubles were over in Northern Ireland, but they always lingered. Danielle rushed by the window, interrupting his thoughts. A flash of black suit and tights, blonde hair and briefcase. She came in through the door and he smiled at her gently, letting go of his small grievance against her lateness.
“Sorry! I couldn’t get away for ages” she said as she planted her things on a chair across from him. Leaving her briefcase and handbag she kissed her husband and sank into the sofa alongside him. “Thanks for the coffee!”
“Ah, it’s alright. I’ll forgive you this time” he said smugly. He loved sarcasm, she detested it. When she sat beside him and he caught her perfume, a flowery sweet smell. He wanted to ask her what it was, but wondered if he had asked before, so thought against it. Danielle was the smart one, the one who should be writing books. She was an executive for an environmental construction company. She adored her job and it showed. She had long sandy brown hair and wore black eyeliner around her brown eyes.
“Well, you have to tell me how it went” she asked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Yeah.” He scratched his head “It went really well. They want to take it to America and publish it there. It’s all a bit strange. Barnes & Noble signings, readings in independent shops and a book tour. Maybe on Television and Radio stations." he paused for a minute, just trying to remember the meeting "Young man like that would promise you the world, of course, but after he left Mark assured me it was all above board. It’s all very surreal to me, darling”
“Wow” she sipped her coffee, getting her red lipstick on the cup “That is amazing news Jeff. We’ll have to celebrate. What was their Rep like? Was Mark happy with the deal?”
“He was really knowledgeable, actually. It really surprised me. He had read the book and seems quite obsessed with the killings as well. I guess that happens to everyone, doesn’t it?” he gestured with his free hand. “He asked about Harry too.”
Jeff started outside for a moment. Thoughts can just catch you out of nowhere. He saw himself and Harry stumbling down the cobblestones pissed. A memory from God knows when, or several memories rolled into an image. He had no idea how many nights they’d spent in the Sunflower, but he smiled thinking of them all.
“Did he? Harry would be floored by this, Jeff, he really would.” She put her hand on his shoulder.
“I know. He’d be even more floored if we caught the Drifter.”
“Yeah, well, we can’t change the past can we?” she sipped at her coffee. "We can only go forward now"
He nodded at her "It’s strange isn’t it? I thought the book would be a release for me. Like letting go, but I think it’s gotten worse" I think it seems like everyone is celebrating it"
Danielle downed the rest of her coffee “They are celebrating you Jeff, not the Drifter. The Drifter may get publicity but it’s you. It’s happiness directed about you. You’ve done something good, you know. Bringing it to prominence again. You never know, it might jog a memory for someone or get them to reopen the case, but that’s not on your shoulders to worry about."
He leaned his head back on the sofa "I suppose you’re right. Something about it feels off, though"
"I understand that. I think you’ll have to accept it. You wrote the book, what did you think was going to happen!"
"I think I just didn’t expect for it to get this big. It’s gotten a bit scary now. I have an agent, a U.S deal, offers of these crime conventions. I don’t know what to do"
Danielle drank the rest of her coffee and said "Well, Shall we go? What do you fancy for tea? Shall we get a bottle of wine from M&S and make a night of it?”
He smiled at her and pulled himself off the sofa gingerly, he was older than he thought he was. “Yeah, why not”