Free Blood Tears by Michael J. Malone Page B

or anything. Just, you know… I want to be a good cop, Ray. And sometimes the best way to learn is to copy someone who’s been there.’ She stops playing with the cutlery, her eyes fixed on mine.
    ‘As a policeman…’ I speak slowly, carefully considering my response. ‘He’s an OK cop. Does an OK job.’
    The waiter appears and slides a plate before me.
    ‘ Plat du Jour .’ Grin.
    More silence.
    ‘You sleeping ok, boss?’ Allessandra asks and again looks as if she regrets issuing the words.
    ‘What makes you ask that?’ I ask, surprised.
    ’You just look a wee bit tired, that’s all.’
    ‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ I answer through a mouthful of food. ‘Just a few sleepless nights. Nothing some greasy food can’t cure.’ Even I can feel my smile is too large and completely without humour.
    ‘Boss?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I’ve just had a thought.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘The murder happened the night we were all at the pub together. So you couldn’t be a suspect anyway.’
    ‘Correct.’ My smile is real this time.

Chapter 11
    He doesn’t know what the feeling is; only that he doesn’t like it. He compares it to walking around with a space beside him, a tear in the fabric of the energy field we are all part of. In any case, recognising it for what it is may well be beyond him. That would require some emotion, an ability to tap into the experience the rest of humankind shares. He recognises that it needs to be filled, but how? There are few things that satisfy him. He watches others watching children and is amazed at the energy they receive from what are simply human beings with smaller legs. So why are other men and woman so easily affected by them? They smile and laugh and cry while watching their behaviour, while he looks on with numb curiosity. Perhaps if he were to have one of his own, it might fill the space, he might learn the emotional reaction that brings the physical reaction of a smile?
    Could he learn it? Might it be the saving of him? He is undoubtedly intelligent, but it is an intelligence bereft of the experience of warmth. It functions best in the dark and looks for darkness to keep it company. Occasionally he touches it with his mind, sends out the probe of a thought, pushes against the membrane and then recoils as if burned. Heat and black nothingness is the only way he can describe it.
    He managed to touch it and enjoy the burn, the day he killed the old man. Then the heat welcomed him, sent energy coursing through him. The heat he now knows, from watching others, is emotion. Emotion is feeling.
    But the feeling is fading. He needs to get it back. He needs to chase away the darkness with more dark. With another death.
    Soon.
    Not yet, but soon.
    Then he might enjoy again the heat of a smile.

    I’m sitting up in bed in complete darkness, the quilt tangled around my feet. Every cell in my body is sparking with adrenalin. What the fuck was that? I’ve been dreaming again. Someone was walking towards me. Streetlights were shining off the puddles, but they weren’t strong enough to highlight his face. All I could see were two pale stripes on his jumper. His movements were quick and assured. Feral. I was his target. Frozen words formed a lump in my throat. I wanted to shout a warning at this man. Fuck off. You don’t know who you are messing with. I needed a weapon.
    I needed to move. Sheer terror held me tighter than rigor mortis. As he passed, his face turned to me. His features were encased in shadow, but I could sense his smile.
    Then it began to snow. White flakes floating down to coat the earth in a chilled cushion. Except they weren’t cold. They didn’t melt when they landed on my skin. I looked up into the sky and watched them fall. Something tickled my nose. This wasn’t snow. It was feathers. Small and white and unmistakeably feathers.  They are falling, falling, falling. I looked at my feet and kick through the mound of feathers I see there. Something catches. It’s a