Free The Blue Helmet by William Bell Page B

edge and barricaded himself in a room, ranting about conspiracies.
    I called Reena to tell her what was happening. She began asking questions. “I gotta keep the line clear,” I said, and cut her off.
    The waiting was agony. Around me, neighbours whispered excitedly among themselves.
    “Who lives there, anyway?” someone asked.
    “I don’t know,” another answered. “Some guy. I’ve only seen him once or twice since he moved in.”
    “Whatever happened,” a woman commented from behind me, “it ain’t good.”
    Maybe Cutter isn’t even there, I thought. That’s why I haven’t heard from him. He went away someplace. Maybe there’s a gas leak orbacked-up sewer inside.
    A look around smashed my pathetic theories. There were no emergency vehicles other than the police cars and the ambulance. Its rear doors hung open, with no paramedics in view. The cops had been inside for a while. Cutter must be in there, too.
    Finally, a man in a suit jacket came out onto the verandah. A badge was clipped to his jacket pocket. He came down the steps and along Cutter’s sidewalk, flanked by two uniforms.
    “Hey!” I shouted. “I got information you need.”
    The plainclothes cop, a tall skinny guy with wire-rimmed glasses, peeled off a pair of medic’s gloves. “Who are you?” he asked.
    “I know the guy who lives here. What’s going on?”
    “What’s his name?”
    “Bruce Cutter.”
    “Are you and him related?”
    “No. He has no relatives here. He lives alone.”
    He ducked under the yellow tape. “Let’s get in the car,” he said.
    He led me to an unmarked car with a revolving red light sitting on the dash. We got inand he turned off the light and tossed it behind him onto the back seat. He spoke into his radio for a bit, dropped the handset onto the seat, then turned to me. Asked me to identify myself, give my address.
    “You say you know Mr. Cutter.”
    I swallowed and nodded.
    “Would you say you were close?”
    “Yeah,” I replied. Then I added, “Very.”
    “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. We can’t be sure yet, but it looks like suicide.”

PART TWO
CUTTER
    “And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.”
    —Joseph Conrad,
Heart of Darkness

ONE
    A UTUMN SWEPT AWAY THE summer heat and brought a blaze of orange and yellow to the maples in the park across the Lakeshore, and new rhythms to the neighbourhood. Droves of students spilled out of streetcars and buses, and the café tables reserved for the street people filled up again as the weather cooled.
    I didn’t go to school that fall. Reena was disappointed. I wasn’t ready for another big change in my life, I explained. I liked my job at the café, and I enjoyed getting out on the tank every day. I wanted things to stay the same for a while. She said she understood.
    I was pedalling against the wind along Symon Street in Mimico one afternoon after a drugdelivery, when the phone chirped. I pulled up at the curb.
    “It’s Mrs. Smith speaking.”
    “Yeah?”
    There was a pause. “I see your manners haven’t improved at all.”
    “I’d hate to disappoint you,” I said.
    “Are you able to come to the office at one o’clock?”
    I looked at my watch. “Sure.”
    “Don’t be late,” she said.
    “I’m never late,” I said, but she had hung up.
    Sharp on time I found cheery old Mrs. Smith behind her desk, jabbing stamps into a damp sponge before pressing them onto envelopes.
    “Got a package for me?” I asked.
    “Take a seat. Ms. Smith will be with you momentarily.” She picked up her phone, stabbed a button, and announced my presence.
    “Go on in,” she ordered, and went back to assaulting the outgoing mail.
    I had met Lakshmi a couple of times. She was a tall dark-skinned woman with a wide smile and a way of talking that didn’t fit the businesslike image that her mother-in-law tried to project. She was sitting behind her desk, a telephone headset on, tapping a pencil on a