Junipers
by Liberty Price
A
pair of scruffy
boots leaned against the doorframe. Caked in dried mud, they looked especially
feeble next to the potted junipers guarding the house. Stones in the driveway
crunched under approaching steps, but the knock at the door went unanswered.
Outside,
an engine
idled. Several more severe bangs echoed through the empty hallway, unanswered.
The house remained stoic, until the door itself was under attack—separated from
its hinges, it was thrown unceremoniously into the carpeted hallway. The plants
remained like pillars.
Three
uninvited
guests entered.
“Police!”
called
one, rubbing his shoulder.
“Mrs
Pettigrew?”
yelled another.
They
pushed deeper
into the rooms and called louder, their uniforms like soot against the flowery
wallpaper.
“Welfare
check,
police!” PC Steven Surmount went upstairs.
PC
Kaylee DeLasim
couldn’t shake the feeling that she had been here before. Her superstitious
partner, PC Anikha Seba, followed closely behind, looking over her shoulder at
the empty hallway they’d come through. The living room was void of any personality,
a beige room with white sofas, and some generic framed artwork on the walls.
However,
the kitschy
vase on the dining room table jolted Kaylee’s memory: this was where she would
sit, lulled by her mother Jane’s conversation with her old friend Mrs Pettigrew—
it was very familiar. You could see the driveway from the windows, and the tips
of one of those plants outside.
“And
she would
have sweets in this cabinet,” Kaylee continued, telling Anikha about how she
used to draw while the adults talked. “But they were always caramels. Hate
them!”
Within
the house,
the static of a radio blasted. The walls were so thin that upstairs they could
hear their colleague Steven’s every word. Every beating heart in the vicinity
dropped. The already-terse situation had been upgraded—the specialists were now
en route to document a murder.
Hesitant
to move, Kaylee
and Anikha stood grimly. A sense of duty to assist their boss tugged at their
sleeves with the same voracity of their fear, which pulled them firmly in the
opposite direction. Until this point, it hadn’t felt real to them— they hadn’t
expected to be launched straight into a murder so soon, after only a month of
policing between them.
The
house smelled
vaguely of Kaylee’s mother’s perfume.
But,
why?
A
retired
policewoman, Jane DeLasim had risen through the ranks faster than any of her
peers. She had been called a marvel, single-handedly responsible for the trend
in dropping crime rates, and she wanted nothing more than for her daughter
Kaylee to follow in her footsteps.
*
Kaylee
remembered
the last time she’d been in this house, before Mrs Pettigrew and Jane had
butted heads. An overexcited and clumsy child, Kaylee had been tearing around
the house, showing off her drawing to the women. She accidentally tripped over
Mrs Pettigrew’s foot, stepping on it.
Jane’s
pride had made
things worse. Kaylee never forgot the look on her mother’s face.
Kaylee
had been
ready to immediately apologize for the bruised foot— but Jane was not one to
back down.
All
to protect her
child, Jane still spat out cutting remarks about Mrs. Pettigrew.
*
“Why
couldn’t it just
be vandals?” Kaylee attempted to ease the tension, which stuck in the air like
a bleating fire alarm. “Or someone locked in their car?”
“Yeah,”
Anikha
said. “A nice easy one for us to start on.” After a pause, she said, “Do you think
we should—”
Kaylee
could
almost taste her mother’s tight-lipped pride, the seldom-seen praise ladled on
her, the ripples that would resonate to other family members. More than
anything, Kaylee didn’t want to go up there.
But
that dead body
was someone Kaylee had known.
“Probably,”
she told
Anikha, fearing what they would face. “Yeah, we probably should.”
The
stairs were
covered with plush cream carpet, much like the rest of the house, but each step
felt as if the officers were sinking.
When
she used to
visit, Kaylee was never allowed up here, and this only weighed her down more.
She felt as if she were intruding, even though Mrs Pettigrew wouldn’t mind,
anymore.
The
door was
already open, and the victim was in bed. Neither officer could resist glancing
over at her.
Kaylee
saw the
woman whom she had known for years, the woman she used to visit earnestly,
lying prone.
Mrs.
Pettigrew
looked as if she were simply asleep, her head lolling against the pillows, eyes
closed.
“Steve,”
Kaylee
said, “Are you sure she didn’t go in her sleep?”
“Yeah,
she looks
really . . . I . . . don’t know. Just—” Anikha said, “Like, peaceful, and—”
“Not
to worry,
ladies, you can be assured that I have done my job properly.” Steve was an aged
officer, with salt-and-pepper sprinkles flecking his stubble, and he wasn’t
about to be proven wrong— especially by newbies.
Deep
within his
steely exterior, he possessed insurmountable knowledge but lacked tact. His
patience for social norms was either bled from him that time he got nicked with
a knife, or forcefully extracted after the blows he had earned from violent
scuffles.
This
may be why he
indicated the spreading bloodstain that the policewomen had previously thought
was part of the bedspread design, an oversized paint splatter.
“Bint
was
murdered.”
Kaylee
and Anihka
stood horrified. Steve’s refusal to adhere to politeness was assumedly why he
continued—flipping the duvet up, he exposed the pale leg of the victim, and the
beginnings of the bloodied stump where the other one should have been.
“See?”
he gloated.
“Ealayha
alsalam,” Anikha whispered.
Kaylee
was
speechless. The image would stick with her for some time.
As
she stared
agape at the mutilated corpse, a cold association between crime and perpetrator
began to fester. Steve’s unfriendly chuckle had become a harsh tune etched into
her skull, and that surge of justice present in every fresh recruit was
beginning to take hold.
Kaylee
was certain
that she would be the one to carve out justice, to get the person (or people)
responsible to face the consequences.
“Was
probably done
after she’d been killed, or else this whole room would look like a bleedin’
cranberry,” Steve continued. “Less oxygen, less blood flow . . . Are you ladies
gonna barf?”
When
neither
answered, Steve let them go outside, one at a time.
When
Anikha came
back, claiming she’d only needed to readjust her headscarf, Kaylee noticed that
she was the quietest she had ever been, and her eyes were red-tinged and puffy.
Kaylee
went back
through the house, lingering on the décor before stepping through the doorway.
She thought for a moment about propping the door back up but decided against
it. Today, the disruption was impossible to clean up.
*
If
she had simply apologised,
Kaylee felt, everything would have been forgotten.
But
Jane had stood
firm, marching her away by the hand. “Eventually,” Jane told her, “The witch
would get her comeuppance.”
Even
then, Kaylee
had felt sorry for Mrs. Pettigrew. For years after, Jane’s resentment had grown,
with “Mrs Pettigrew” becoming a name tinged in hatred, mentioned often.
*
The
junipers
didn’t divulge what they had witnessed— the woman following Mrs Pettigrew into
her house, carrying her shopping, their cheerful conversation swallowed by the
closed door. A good deed: the payoff would come. She had waited long enough
already.
“I’m
sorry, dear,
but I’m getting tired. Happens a lot these days! You can let yourself out,
can’t you? It was lovely to catch up again.”
It
takes a certain
kind of person to be a police officer.
The
days are
differentiated— one day a theft, the next an assault, but eventually the years do
desensitise you to things. The sooner this process began, the more effective an
officer would be in the line of duty.
Of
course, daily
exposure to many different types of crime hardens the right type of person.
“Of
course, no
problem.”
Before
she turned,
Mrs Pettigrew called her back. “Jane, dear!” By now, she was already in her
bed, bringing the covers up to her chin. “When are you going to bring Kaylee by
to visit? I haven’t seen her in ages!” She yawned.
After
so long, Mrs
Pettigrew had been astounded to hear from Jane. She’d forgotten the argument
completely, welcomed her old friend into her home without a second thought.
But
Jane knew that
there could be no black mark against Kaylee’s name, no matter how small or
insignificant— she had to be certain.
*
Kaylee
took deep
breaths before she pressed the button, hopeful that her mind was just
overactive, that things were too convenient.
Her
mother
answered.
“Hello?”
Jane
could barely speak.
“When
you were
late back yesterday . . . I . . . Did you ki—”
“Kaylee,
what a preposterous
question.” But Kaylee could hear the smirk in Jane’s voice.
She
hadn’t even
finished the question.
THE END