The quiet, foggy evening seemed to cover the area so densely that the sheriff simply denied the very existence of the outside world. He quietly sipped yet another bottle of beer, sprawled out on the sofa, and watched the old TV, from which came its familiar hissing sounds. It was surprising that the device still functioned, despite its tenth year of service.
[I don't want to be a grandfather, but for you, I shall. Back in the day, technology was — WOW!]
There was almost no light in the room: the curtains were tightly drawn, with only faint glimmers coming from the hallway and the flickering screen of the old TV. In a way, it resembled self-imposed isolation.
Incidentally, the sheriff always took this television with him — on business trips and on vacation. Although he hardly ever went on the latter. The dimensions of the device allowed him to lug it everywhere he went.
If a fire had broken out, the first thing Moor would have taken out would definitely have been that old television — his anchor to reality. It was surprising that Johnson had never given it a name. Perhaps he simply didn't want to grow even more attached.
The television first showed the news, then movies, then the crime chronicles... even here, the universe had reached the unfortunate cop, clearly hinting that his binge had gone on for too long. The sheriff clicked his tongue, irritably turned off the television, and tossed the remote in an unknown direction. Then he drank the bottle to the last drop and tossed it into nowhere as well; it was surprising that it survived.
[And what kind of habit is that — throwing things into the unseen? Or are you planning to track them by sound, huh? Johnson?]
At that moment, a call came from a rather familiar number. Although the phone denied it, displaying the contact as 'private'. Yet the sheriff knew perfectly well who could be calling at this hour. Obviously, it was only one person.
He lazily reached for the phone and declined the call. Then again and again… and again. The caller's persistence was relentless. The sheriff let out a loud sigh, clenched the sofa's upholstery with his fingers so that it creaked, and finally lifted the receiver:
— What do you... you... want? I'm drinking... ditching! — he blurted out instantly. Obviously, in his logical chain of thought, he had to report before acting.
— Sheriff Moor, weren't you planning to quit drinking? — came the through the phone, tinged with light mockery. In the background, the faint gurgle of liquid could be heard, as if the caller was holding a glass.
— I was going to... — the sheriff murmured, suddenly frozen in thought. His heart fluttered in his chest, and his breathing grew uneven. —But what makes you think I'm drunk? — he added reproachfully, glancing around nervously.
— Mmmm... Mr. Moor, obviously, by the way you speak, — the caller murmured quietly, almost naively, as if testing his reaction while at the same time softening his aggressive mood.
— I'm fine, and you? — the sheriff snapped out, sharp and clipped. Clearly, his tongue was working faster than his brain.
— Alright, I'll explain as clearly as possible, —came the response, stern and even. A fine attempt to regain control of the conversation amid the chaos of a drunk cop, but would it succeed?
— No need to explain anything, I'm not stupid. I've been in the police...for five, ten... fiften years! — the sheriff spat out pompously, his chest tensed, his hands clenched into fists, and his eyes glared fiercely at the old TV. The tone of the interlocutor placed the sheriff in a clearly defensive position, though slightly comical.
— That's wonderful! — came the voice through the phone, vibrating with joy, then softening: — Just the right time to teach others...
— Nooo, it's no time for that, — he blurted out with effort; the sheriff's voice was hollow and hoarse. He felt his mind slightly clouded — the alcohol was hitting him harder than before.
— Aren't you tired of handling requests at your home? No peace, no space, no respect... — the interlocutor began to push methodically. He acted like a good negotiator — through needs and pain.
— YOU! Don't manipulate my brain! — Moor shouted, grimacing. — I will not take an intern!— he immediately realized where the other was heading and decided to cut it off at the root, diplomacy be damned. Life in the police force had taught him: this was the only way to avoid tedious bureaucracy.
— Even a drunk understood where I was heading? Remarkable wit, — came the voice with a slight chuckle, followed by a sip.
— You'll be laying it on thick with your partners, — the sheriff said sternly and tensed. His body suddenly curved, his shoulders jutting forward. There was a static in his head, as if from an old, broken TV.
— Heyaaa, I sincerely admire you, Mr. Moor! — the voice was enveloping, soft, lingering, almost syrupy. — You're a man of action: if you take responsibility, you carry it through to the end...
And this boy... he's so young... and they've put him under Rex's supervision... It's hard for him, — the voice carried a sweet manipulation through pity.
— Did you say Rex? — the sheriff froze for a moment, his gaze blurring to a single point. Had he misheard? — I thought he was going to leave the police... — he added warily, as if probing for hidden information.
— Of course not, nonsense. He's been transferred to the capital, — his voice grew slightly louder, more confident. The caller immediately knew where to press.
— For what merits! — the sheriff barked hoarsely, pounding his fist on the table.
— Well, I'm not aware of that, Sheriff Moor, —the caller said evenly. — All I know is that he's with a trainee, teaching him something, a patron… — he pronounced the last word especially slowly, clearly wanting to stress it.
— He's useless! — the sheriff exclaimed as if shot. — He's bad at this job, constantly getting angry if he has to think too long! What interns does he need?! — the sheriff's arguments flew one after another, clearly irritated by the situation.
[But, Johnson, it's already been eight years…]
— That's exactly what I started worrying about! — the caller hastily interjected, as if he himself were indignant at the situation. — Imagine what that poor child faces, far from home… And you… you know what it's like to be a father, to be a teacher. And Rex what? He's never had children!
— Of course I know! I have a son... — Moor fell silent abruptly. He took a deep breath and added in a low voice: — It doesn't matter, — staring at the photo of Frank hanging on the wall behind the TV, just above the old dresser. And only the observant could make it out, seeing past everything in the foreground. Eight years had passed since the photo was taken. And it was the last thing the sheriff had left as a point of contact with his son.
— Please, Mr. Moore, — the caller's voice turned silky, as if in a state of supplication: — Take the boy under. Teach him properly... don't let the talent be wasted. And I, in turn… — the caller pressed on, his voice turning softer and softer, more yielding and yielding.
— Luci, there's no business, he'll just be wandering around, — Moor cut him off sharply, but in his voice sounded not only anger — there hid doubt, uncertainty, barely covered by a hoarse firmness.
— Don't worry about that, — Luci almost purred, but with that predatory confidence the sheriff knew too well. — Besides, it will help to officially reopen the police station.
— The police station?.. — the sheriff exclaimed, and his heart started beating stronger. He jerked up from the couch as if a current passed through him. From a desperate, weary cop he turned into the former officer in a second. — Really?
— Well, of course, — Luci assured, showing the point of control: — It stands there anyway, needed by no one, forgotten, inaccessible… — Luci was calmly and exquisitely emphasizing every word. Then he paused, sipped from the glass and added sharply: — It's aging.
The sheriff involuntarily recalled the station. In the void, as if echoed the voices of his colleagues — ringing, lively, in some ways even wild. The smell of coffee, which Rex always made, mixed with the aroma of Seclusio's tobacco. In his memory flashed the scattered reports that Cryptus lived by, and the ringing click of the pocket watch — the very one that Umbra constantly checked.
He saw them all as if now: Rex, forever dissatisfied when someone occupied his favorite spot by the window, and exploding with rage over the slightest detail; Cryptus, who endlessly sifted through old cases for no reason, arranging them in strict order — quite logical for him, but not for others; Seclusio — in dark glasses, with a cigarette, from which came a strange, sharp smell; and Umbra — obsessively checking whether his pocket watch is in place, and paranoidly asking: Is the case really closed?
Then they argued, built plans, and laughed at Moor's foolish jokes. And believed that the future — would come tomorrow. But it wasn't. Nor tomorrow, nor after. Nor in a month, nor in a year.
The sheriff kept every detail like an archive, which cannot be destroyed. Let these memories always pull back, cause longing, and never repeat in life. The sheriff will never erase them from memory. Not because he loved pain, but because he respected it.
Among them, he felt what it is to be a police officer — not just a cop. Because he protected not the law, but the people he believed in.
— Luci... — the sheriff's voice trembled: — There... nothing has changed, has it? — he asked childishly, but he did not want to hear the answer.
— Oh, know not know, — Luci responded lazily. — But I don't think anyone had a care about it.
— Understood... roger, — the sheriff regained hardness and sharply threw the phone. Now he looked neither at the photo of his son, nor at the television. Instead, he approached the dusty mirror, ran fingers over the glass, and looked at himself.
"Who are you" — flashed in the head. He immediately shook the head — not to forget, but to show own disappointment. To himself.
— Send the address by... — began Luci, but heard short beeps.
— Mail... — hissed he, rolling eyes. — Unbearable you are, Moor!
His voice trembled from irritation, but felt there some pleasure. This old game, they both knew inside out.
[No one remained with their own, but no one lost anything. Alright, joking. The winner is always one. Remember?]