The Invisible Man from Salem Read Free Page A

contempt in her dealings with him. She’s studying psychology, and works part-time at BAR , but I never see her reading textbooks. All she reads is great thick books with ambiguous covers. That’s all I know about her. It’s almost enough to pass as friendship.
    I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging behind the bar. I look like I’m wearing borrowed clothes. I’ve lost weight. I’m pale for the time of year, which is a tell-tale sign that someone’s been keeping a low profile. Anna puts her elbows on the bar and rests her head in her hands, looking at me with a cool gaze.
    â€˜You look awful,’ she says.
    â€˜You’re very perceptive.’
    â€˜Am I, hell! It’s completely bloody obvious.’
    I drink some absinthe.
    â€˜A woman was shot in my apartment block,’ I say, putting the glass down. ‘There’s something about it that … bothers me.’
    â€˜In your block?’
    â€˜In a homeless shelter on the first floor. She died.’
    â€˜So somebody killed her?’
    â€˜If anyone’s likely to die an untimely death in this city, it’s the addicts and the whores.’ I stare at the glass in front of me. ‘But more often than not it’s an overdose or suicide. The few who do get killed by someone else are nearly always men. This was a woman. It’s unusual.’ I rub my cheek and hear the scratchy sound. I could do with a shave. ‘It looked so … simple. Discreet and clean. That’s even more unusual, and that’s what bothers me most of all.’
    In the courtyard of my building there are a few kids — all one family, I think — who are always racing each other across the yard, from one side to the other, noisily, laughing, so that the sound echoes between the walls. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that now, but there’s something about that image, the way they look and the way they sound, that means something to me — an image of something that has been lost.
    â€˜That’s not your department, is it?’ Anna says. ‘Investigating homicide?’
    I shake my head.
    â€˜What is your department then?’
    â€˜Have I never told you?’
    She laughs. Anna’s mouth is symmetrical.
    â€˜You don’t say much when you’re here. But,’ she adds, ‘that’s fine with me.’
    â€˜I work on internal investigations.’
    I drink from the glass, realising I want another smoke.
    â€˜You investigate other police?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I thought only sixty-year-old gents got the honour of doing that. What are you, thirty?’
    â€˜Thirty-three.’
    She looks at the bar, dark and clean, then frowns and grabs a cloth, and sets about making it even cleaner.
    â€˜It is unusual,’ I say. ‘To get thirty-three - year-olds in IA. But it happens.’
    â€˜You must be a good cop,’ she says. She puts the cloth back, and then leans against the bar.
    Anna is wearing a black shirt with the arms rolled up, unbuttoned over her chest. A black piece of jewellery hangs round her neck on a thin chain. I look from the necklace to the glass, and the lighting flickers. There are no windows.
    â€˜Not exactly. I have certain faults.’
    â€˜Who doesn’t?’ she says. ‘Are you really thirty-three?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I thought you were younger.’
    â€˜You’re lying.’
    She smiles.
    â€˜Yeah. Take it as a compliment.’
    I glimpse myself in the mirror again, and for a second my reflection dissolves, becomes transparent. I’ve been out of the game for too long. I’m not really here.
    â€˜Why did you become a cop?’
    â€˜Why did you become a barmaid?’
    She seems to be considering her answer. I’m thinking about the little chain I saw in the dead woman’s hand. I wonder what it was. An amulet she needed so she could get to sleep? Perhaps, but unlikely. It looked