Page 8 of Kept
4
The police officer who knocks on the door the next morning is in for a shock.
Neither Margarita nor I look good in the morning, and I look particularly strange because the hair colour we had tried to put through my locks in the early hours of the morning, when we were both very drunk, did not suit me at all.
Normally I’m a dirty blonde, but Henna was our choice for me last night, a cheap bottle that Margarita had kept in her cupboard for years. It was a bad idea, but it took her mind off the horror of the night, and we could both, by the end of it, laugh as she held her hands up, covered in red dye and screamed; “it’s a boy, it’s a boy.”
I almost start laughing again, just at the memory, but my giggle is stifled as I look through the peephole and see two officers.
“Crap. Margarita,” I shout, “it’s for you.”
Opening the door, I invite the officers in, beckoning them to take a seat on the couch. I note they are both quite handsome, one more than the other, and as the blonde one gives me an amused look, I blush and scurry into the bathroom.
Margarita keeps them waiting a good five minutes before she crawls out of bed and into the living room.
I can hear the dull murmur of their conversation as I dry myself. Obviously, they are taking her witness account from the night before with a bit more seriousness this morning. I wonder what they found out that might have caused that.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I shake my head at my hair. I will have to go black now, nothing else will cover up this terrible red. Perhaps, I decide, I might even get it cut shorter – long hair is
such a hassle in the heat of the kitchen.
Shrugging, I pull on my tracksuit and head out in search of coffee.
“Uh, can I get you officers a coffee?”
“No thanks,” the first says, but the second, the handsome blonde one, meets my eyes and nods, before returning his attention to Margarita.
I wander into the kitchen and put on the kettle. Even in my hung-over state, I can appreciate a thing of beauty, and that cop washot.But then, I’d always had a thing for blondes with blue eyes and big muscles. And that is exactly why, I tell myself now, I will stay the hell away from this one. Nothing but trouble these blue-eyed boys, nothing but heartbreak and trouble.
I wander back through a few minutes later with coffee, milk, and sugar on a tray, but the police are already standing.
“If you think of anything else, Miss, please call,” the good looking one says, handing Margarita his card.
She nods, but I can see she is already over the whole drama and wishes it would just go away.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he smiles at me and nods at the tray as they turn to leave.
I shake my head and sit down next to Margarita; they can find their own way out. But as they reach the door, the coffee waster turns back.
“I don’t suppose,” he asks as if his question was thought up on the spot, “that either of you were in the back alley behind this building last night after you came home from that club?”
“No,” we both say, shaking our heads.
“Why?” I ask.
“No reason,” he shrugs, “keep your door locked, ladies.”
He shuts the door before we can ask any further questions.
“Well, if that isn’t just plain creepy,” Margarita rolls her eyes.
I nod and rise, watching from the window as they get into their squad car and pull away from the kerb, before I race out the door, down the hall and through the fire exit at the rear of the building.
Leaning out I see nothing untoward at all; the dumpster is where it always is, the alley otherwise bare of life. The cat only comes out at night, so there is no point calling to see if she is OK.
I shrug and turn back inside.
Back in the apartment, I see that Margarita has ditched the officer’s card straight into the bin, or as she calls it; ‘the great round filing cabinet’ - but I fish it out and slip it into the old book I was reading as a page marker.
