The speakers project Pablo Lentini Riv’s masterful Bach classical guitar renditions while Adam and Dave work side by side at the workbench in Adam’s basement. Bits of metal and wire are scattered everywhere. Dave carefully solders a cellphone sized motherboard while Adam wires yellow LEDs into the metal face of the robot they are building.
The young woman stirs her coffee, looking deep into the mug, as if she’ll find her fortune there. It helps avoid eye contact with the cop sitting across the table.
Quietly taking a sip, Lewis waits, patiently. She’s seen this before, knows not to push. “This is good, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” the young woman shrugs. “Sorry about your partner. It’s just, just …”
Lewis nods. “That he’s a man.”
“Yes.” Eve Brooks looks at Lewis gratefully. “I can’t have any men here. It’s just too dangerous in this rape culture. Safer.” She looks at Lewis. “You’re here about that pig Neil, aren’t you?”
This time it’s Lewis who looks away. “We’re conducting an investigation. If there’s anything you can tell me, it will be appreciated.”
“You won’t do anything.” Miss Brooks shakes her head. “Nobody ever does.”
“Look, I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”
Brooks laughs mirthlessly. “Even if I tell you everything you won’t be able to help. Not in this world. This culture.”
Lewis says, “I’ll do what I can. That’s all I can promise.”
Brooks shakes her head again. “People say it’s stupid and I’m over reacting. It was in an elevator full of people. He … he … was rubbing against me …”
Lewis is startled as Eve Brooks abruptly pushes her chair back with such force it overturns. Even so the woman barely makes it to the sink in time to heaves up the contents of her stomach. Lewis rights the chair, then returns to her own, carefully looking away, trying to offer what little privacy she can. Eve Brooks finishes, then washes everything down the drain before rinsing her mouth out with the clean running tap water. She remains at the counter, leaning over the sink.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” says Lewis, looking at the witness, she sees white knuckles gripping the lip of the sink for support.
“I’d better stay here.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Um. Look, I tell you, and then you go. Okay?”
Detective Lewis nods. “Alright. Can I call you later?”
“If you want. Just you won’t want. What happened. Well. We were packed in the elevator like sardines, and I didn’t realize. I mean I didn’t notice him at first, and I didn’t realize what was happening. I thought it was just so crowded. People couldn’t really help it we were all so close together. I thought we were just pushed against each other.
“But then … then I could feel his breath on my neck, hear him grunting.
“And I knew. But … but I was trapped in the back. And I could feel him rubbing … rubbing his penis against me, and I started having a panic attack but I was trapped. The elevator kept going and he kept pushing into me and … and … there was no air.”
She stops to throw up some more and Lewis feels a cold chill as she realizes the young woman is right. No prosecutor will ever bring charges over a “she says he says” in an elevator.
Even if they believe her, the bastard will walk because she didn’t say anything to stop him at the time. But the signs are there; Lewis knows. Eve Brooks was already a rape victim before that pig Neil Molony dry raped her in an elevator full of people.
sundayTamara comes into the apartment, not sure what horror to expect, especially late on a Saturday night. Just the thought of another night at Barbie’s is worse than dealing with Q. She needs resolution.
Unlocking the door, her nose twitches as she reaches for the light. It smells different. No pot anyway. What is that odour? Perfume?
As light floods the living room she is startled to see that everything is in order. Neat. No dead bottles or pizza boxes, or ashtrays. Well. Now that she sees this unnatural sight she can identify the smell– the perfume is Febreze. Maybe he’s trying to change …
Wait a minute. Why is she giving him credit for this.
She knows Q.
No way. Q does not clean.
It was probably the cunt he was fucking who cleaned the place up for him.
Tamara’s moment of happiness is killed by fury that Q fucked another woman in her bed. The man she married wouldn’t have done that.
Bastard.
Tamara sets down the cheap empty suitcase she’s brought in the doorway. She’d better go see if he’s here before packing. Make sure he’s not fucking anyone else right now. Although, Saturday night. Great night for partying. Even students who work at their courses are out partying tonight.
Taking a deep breath — Febreze, shit — Tamara goes down the little hall to the bedroom. The bimbo probably bought it. Q would never … And she opens the door. The window is open a crack, the bed is made, hell, it looks laundered. Clean sheets. Smells fresher in here. Hiding the evidence no doubt.
She opens her side of the closet. Reaching in she freezes seeing his side only holds empty hangers. Tamara’s breath catches in her throat and she sinks down on the bed.
Shit.
He’s moved out. Tamara bursts into tears.
Bastard.
Elsie sits in a coffee shop, poring over the browser. There are only a few possible rooms for rent left, and so far nothing has been even close.
All of these rooms are places with families, for god’s sakes.
The last thing she wants is a basement apartment with a precocious five year old at home rifling through her things, or the one where the Italian Mama is gonna watch her like a hawk to ensure she doesn’t seduce one of the sons. Or worse yet tries to fix her up with one.
Isn’t it possible to live privately anymore? She shakes her head and dials the number of the next one.
