The Glister by John Burnside Read Free Book Online Page A

he had moved into the police house. The local boy made good had been his usual, friendly self, though Morrison knew that the bottle of whiskey he'd brought, and all the work he'd done behind the scenes, first to make Alice's problems go away and then to set Morrison up as the only possible candidate for the police job, were favors that would eventually be called in. That was how it worked and Morrison knew as much, but he also knew that beggars couldn't be choosers. If you wanted to get on in the Innertown, you had to take whatever help you could get, from whoever was ready to give it—and that was usually Brian Smith. Besides, he'd had no choice but to smile graciously, accept the whiskey— though surely Smith knew that he didn't drink, that he never touched a drop because of Alice—and in so doing, accept the invitation that went with it. Not that anything was stated in so many words. Smith didn't ask for favors, he offered them. Nevertheless, it took nothing more than a smile and friendly handshake for Morrison to know that his soul was being claimed, and there was no turning back, once he'd accepted that bottle of whiskey and returned that insinuating smile. It was, of course, no accident that Smith's gift was something Morrison could not use.
    “Call on me anytime,” Smith had said, standing in Morrison's new hallway in the police house. He had only stopped by for a moment, on his way home from a meeting. Or so he had said.
    “Thank you,” Morrison had answered, feeling dwarfed by this big man in his fancy black coat and expensive shoes. He had only been in the house two days. “Though I'm not really supposed to accept gifts—”
    “Nonsense,” Smith had said. “We're all in this together and we're going to work together to make this a better place to live. Businesses, schools, the police. We should think of each other as friends and colleagues. What better way to show friendship than to offer a small gift, of congratulations and”—he had smiled then, because he had found his former night watchman's weak spot—”respect.”
    Now, facing a crisis he could never have been expected to handle by himself, Morrison was having to beg to get through to his supposed friend and colleague. “It's an emergency,” he said. “A police matter. I can't emphasize how urgent or how important it is.”
    The man wavered a moment, then consulted with his boss. Morrison heard the voices in that warm, faraway room, and stood waiting, wondering how much more change he had. Finally Smith came on the line.
    It hadn't taken the big man long to grasp the situation. “All right,” he said. “It's good that you called me. That shows clear thinking. You just wait there, and I'll send someone.”
    “Send someone?”
    “We need to sort this out quietly,” Smith said. “God knows what will happen if it gets out. We can't let this get in the way of our larger goal. We certainly don't want the whole world coming down on us. And think of the boy's parents. They're better off thinking their son has run off to join the circus than having to hear this awful—” He thought for a moment, like a PR man finding the right copy. “This awful, awful tragedy. Wouldn't you say so, Constable?”
    Morrison didn't know what to say. There had been a trace of irony, he thought, in the way Smith had put the question. Constable. “I think,” he began. He wanted to say that “this” had to get out, that there was no other way, that there would have to be an investigation before another child was murdered. He wanted to protest, to take back the call. He wanted to scream. Instead, he stood silent, unable to say anything. He wasn't a policeman, he was an employee of Homeland Peninsula. The police uniform might just as well have been livery.
    Smith broke in quickly. “We really don't want some big investigation over this,” he said. “The people of the Innertown have had enough to deal with, and we don't want to dash their hopes for the Homeland