A coincidence (2)

Life is full of coincidences.

This morning, Allen got a report that the author Nigel Greener’s house was burgled. The owner himself didn’t make the report, but the deputies got wind of it and told his Superior Officer, who told Allen. Allen rushed to Greener’s house in his patrol car, blaring sirens, thinking to himself that a burgled author, especially Greener’s, was nothing but bad luck for the whole Ward. “Rich” couldn’t possibly explain Greener’s property. He travelled a lot, and everywhere he went he bought something as a souvenir, so frequently and so much so that he dedicated a whole house for the things he’s acquired. And although he was never married, nor had he ever hired a maid, everything was kept unbelievably neat, obsessively, outrageously, annoyingly neat. So neat it created a sort of uncanny valley, like seeing a giant rock balance on a smaller rock. That was also probably, Allen thought, why he was always on the road, and why the old author never invited anyone any of the numerous ladies he could always been seen with. Like many things about Greener’s life, it wasn’t an exaggeration to say he changed woman as he changed clothes.

-         I respect you, Mr Allen, for ye ol’ philosophy of monogamy. I also demand the same respect from you, for not following the same train of thought. – Anyone else speaking like that and they risked the cellar. Greener, he could buy his way around.

-         What are you afraid of then, Greener? – Allen once asked.

-         Losing my muse.

They had that conversation when Greenr’s neighbour, out of jealousy anyone could assume, reported him for going to the hotel too often with too many different muses. Allen parked his car outside, wiped his foot on the predetermined spot for guests, then knocked. Greener seems human when he came out to greet Allen. The old author seemed listless, his usual artist demeanour, the one where they act above mankind, was gone, his eyes red shot with alcohol, his clothes apparently immaculate, except for a misbutton. Greener invited Allen in, pour both of them a cup of liquor, and before Allen could refuse, drank up.

-         What did they get? – Allen asked.

-         Something priceless. – Greener answered.

-         Anything has a price.

-         Not when there isn’t.

-         I put up with a lot of your shits, Greener. But we can’t let you deface the Ward like this.

Greener let out a sigh. It was a woman. He’d been through hundred of cases of what he’d called dine-and-dash, where it was either he leaves or they leave the next morning. Yet, nothing’d left him this dejected. His booze-filled voice was that of a teenager falling in love for the first time, calling the mysterious girl an angel who was “bestowed on him for his contribution to art.” He knew she was in love with him, the way she held his hand, fell into his chest, whisper into his ears. She gave him her life, no, she was willing to risk her soul for him. He knew not why, but he enjoyed it, even the tears she shed afterwards. She was gone in the morning. As a veteran, he never brought valuables on him nor a lot of cash. One thing he’d never left home, however, was a picture, yellowed with age, his pride and joy, his magnum opus, the very picture that won him The National Award. It was, of course, a replica, worthless, but he's had it with him for two decades. The reason he felt into such melancholy, was “Why?”

-         Where did you meet her?

-         At the café. She was gone by the time I got there. Mr Allen, may I propose something?

-         Anything, Greener, for the right price.

-         10.000 credits, yours alone.

Allen didn’t have to be a genius to know Greener’s request: find the girl. Or to be more precise, find Barb.

-         I’m afraid she’s gone, Greener.

-         I know, Mr Allen. I know.

Greener fell asleep after the session. It was, to him, a session, but to Barb, it was a dream came true. In his slumber, he would never have known how Barb stare at every single line of his face, how she thought she could fly, to finally find her lover after all this time. Her idol was sleeping, right in front of her, after such passionate embrace and kiss. Barb reached for his wallet again, to see herself in the picture, the one she’d been expecting for years, the one she saw when he paid for the taxi. The little girl was smiling, eyes squinting, sunlight piercing the trees, delicately resting upon her clothes. Barb looked at herself, her fingers felt warm, her legs weak. Until she tried to take it out, to see behind the picture were other, similarly happy, similarly had the light caressing their cheeks. And Barb knew then she wasn’t the only one.

It's been a year since Nigel Greener’s been loitering around the neighborhood, asking if anyone’s met his angel. He would tell anyone who would listen about that night and the burglar who stole everything from him. None would believe him.