Noah (sweven) wrote in genome_project, @ 2012-03-19 02:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | march 2012, noah riley |
Please don't say we're done when I'm not finished.
Who: Noah Riley
What: Crying in public.
When: backdated, last night
Where: Pearson's
Rating: Medium
St. Patrick's Day was one of the busiest days of the year at the Pub. And having worked it the past four years consecutively, Noah knew that he had to be ready for anything. People climbing on the bar to dance, fist fights, chair fights, knife fights, girls taking off their shirts, dudes taking off their shirts, bottles being broken over the backs of heads, people passing out in the bathroom, and so on and so forth. He and the three other bartenders working the last shift that night had gathered in the backroom, close amongst the boxes of various liquors, and took several shots each of tequila gold in quick succession - in preparation for the hellish eight hours that were to follow. - That all said, as much as he was ready for the drunks and their antics, there was nothing that could've possibly prepared Noah for the pair of policemen who elbowed their way through the crowds of sweaty young people to find him not an hour later.
His first thought was that there had been some kind of brawl in the parking lot, or something like that. He could think of no other reason for officers to show up unannounced. He'd just finished serving his nth Guinness of the night, when he spotted the uniformed bodies pressing through the mass and tangle of drunks. After wiping his forehead with a rag that lay nearby, Noah quickly lit a cigarette, avoiding eye contact with patrons who were pushing up, asking for drinks. The man had had enough run-ins with police in his lifetime - on a tiny island, where all the officers knew him as trouble - to know he just had to get this over with, whatever this happened to be. Noah adopted an expression of nonchalance as the officers, both men, drew up to the bar. He raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you were allowed to drink on the job," he said as if amused, tossing the rag he'd just used into the linen bucket by his feet.
The officers didn't respond to the jab. They both looked grim, tired, and like they wanted nothing more than to climb into their respective beds. One of them - the one who was taller, thinner, and had a long nose - leaned in close. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, a lank piece of dark hair clung to his damp forehead. "We need to speak with you outside, Mr. Riley. I'm afraid we have some bad news."
Blinking and uncertain, Noah didn't put up a fight as they lead him into the alley behind the pub. The crowd of people opened before them like the Red Sea to Moses. And, although he didn't yet know it, Noah would remember the finest details of this night for years to come. Outside, trash blew across the asphalt. The dumpster stood, partially open, bags piled high. The night was clear and unseasonably warm; still, coming from the cloying humidity of the bar, Noah felt a chill run down his spine as he leaned against the bricks just outside the backdoor. His white t-shirt was wet with sweat and goosebumps pricked up along his arms. He folded his arms across his chest, his cigarette stuck between his teeth. He gazed between the two uniformed men curiously, wondering what the hell was going on.
"Do you knows a Macy Jones?" The short, ugly one asked him, not meeting his eyes. Noah, eyes narrowed on the little man, gave a wordless nod. The officer jotted something down on the pad of paper in his hands. "Is it true you share a residence?"
"Yes, on the other side of town,... why?" The possible reasons for this ominous visit raced one after another through Noah's tipsy mind, each worse than the last.
"And Roberta Riley is your sister. Is that correct?"
His question had been ignored. Noah puffed on his cigarette a moment before answering. "Yes."
"Do you know how Ms. Riley might have come into the possession of a handgun, Mr. Riley?" Tall asked.
"What? Bobby? Fuck - no!"
"Had you noticed Ms. Riley acting strangely of late? Maybe acting out, angrier than usual?" The ugly officer had his pencil poised over his little notepad. Noah frowned deeply at the man. He tapped ashes from his cigarette and watched them fall. They landed softly on his scuffed, stained loafers. Someone yelled obscenties as they passed on the street.
"I haven't seen Bobby in God knows how long, but, no, I hadn't noticed. Now could you please tell me what-"
"Mr. Riley."
"Fucking what?"
"I don't know how to tell you this." The officers exchanged glances. "Ms. Jones was shot earlier this evening while at work. She was dead before the ambulance arrived. We've already notified her family - ...."
Noah no longer heard. Suddenly, the alley fell away and the blackness that gathered around the stars grew up and around everything before Noah's eyes. The hazy voices of the police officers wavered from the abyss, but their words fell on deaf ears. His mouth was dry, he realized inanely. He'd dropped his still burning cigarette. His heart skipped a beat. Then another. His chest hurt and his eyes stung. - The news... it hadn't registered. Not truly. Macy couldn't be dead. Noah had given her a kiss only a couple of hours ago. She'd been warm. She was smiling and talking about - what had she been talking about? It was important that he remember. Why couldn't he remember? Jesus fucking Christ. He was a terrible person. Unbidden, tears lept to Noah's eyes and within seconds, he was full blown sobbing in the alley, standing next to the officers on this warm St. Patrick's Day night.
Macy. He was despairing. He was helpless. There was no one - literally, no one - in the world who meant more to him than the girl he loved - than the girl he'd said goodbye to when the sun was still up. And the hole she left was bigger than Noah himself. - By now, the man was practicing the face in your hands, snotty kind of sobbing. The policemen had no choice by to stand by and wait. One of them, forgoing his training, patted Noah on the back in an awkward attempt to comfort him. But still he cried. He wondered wildly how he was going to arrange a funeral, if he was going to get to see her again, what happened, had she thought of him, had she been in pain, why, oh, Jesus, what was he going to do? How was he going to live?
A small wind whistled warmly through the alleyway as the officers led Noah to their patrol car some time later. They had asked him where they could take him. Not knowing where else to go, and feeling wholly unable to face the apartment as he and Macy had left it, he'd directed them to his parents' house. He was sobbing still as he rang the bell to the house he'd grown up in and hated. But he didn't know what else to do.