Halves

The cigarette smell is all pervading. It seems to hover like a grey cloud and the rain is relentless. The room is not big. It is not heavily decorated. The furniture is minimal. The furniture is occupied. Short cropped hair, nicotine stained smile, disheveled clothes are sitting in an armchair. The opposite chair is occupied by a lady wearing brow-line glasses. Both are unaware that I'm listening. I’m pretending to be asleep but I'm awake. I need to know.

"How are you today Sam?"

"Peachy. And you?", the chafed lips blow a ring of smoke as they speak.

"I'm fine Sam. But I'm worried."

"Why? You are scared for her? I’ve promised to behave, haven’t I? I’ve been sober for six months now. And you are still unconvinced?"

"That somehow doesn't reassure me. You have been violent in the past - very violent. I need more than promises and sobriety. Where is she?"

“You know bloody well where she is.”

“Is she alright?”

Silence, and a smile. That smile again. That total confidence of survival. The lady didn't understand yet. Our fates are intertwined. Nothing she said or did would change that. I have accepted that. But I am worried today too. I am watching from the sidelines, well aware that what happened today would determine my life's course, irrevocably.

"Give me something to work with Sam. I know you don't want this."

"You don't have the first idea about what I want. Or what she wants for that matter. You have the gall to call yourself a counselor.", the last word was pronounced so viciously that it sounded like an expletive. The features are now contorted. Manic rage is in the eye, the set mouth, the furrowed forehead.

"Now, you're being difficult", she says coolly.

"You can't keep us apart. She'll take me back. She always does. You can't change peoples' natures any more than you can change your fingerprints."

She knew what that meant. The homicide all those years ago. She had always treated as a taboo subject. Something never to be discussed. But seeing it voluntarily brought up, she decides to pursue it. Still unsure if that was indeed the best course of action, she says, "of course. But you can always burn them away, right?"

This certainly wasn't expected. "You watch too many movies counselor. All that doesn't matter now anyway. I'm sending her away. Someplace safe. You won't get to her."

I can't see the paper in which my counselor is writing but I don't have to. I know what is on that paper.

"Patient: Samantha D. Session type: Follow up. Date: 05/05/11

* Still smokes. Shows no sign of quitting.
* Uses rhetoric to avoid answering questions.
* Aggressive outlook. Brings up reference to Jones, Eric case.
* Male alter threatening COMPLETE takeover. Immediate action required."

All in a day's work

I spy with my not so little eye, too many people. People in buildings, people on roads, people spilling out of buses, people running, people waiting. This is what I do to amuse myself these days. Pick up something ubiquitous and ponder upon it. You're lucky not to have caught me two days ago. For then, I was pondering the filth.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not one to lament on "whatever will be, will be - que sera sera". It's just that the mind is most fecund during the early hours. If I don't think about something, then it's just me staring very hard and very blank. Now that that's out of the way, where were we? Oh yes, people.

It was a while back that I read Sherlock Holmes and I'm reminded of his so called "parlour trick" of guessing a person's profession by simply observing. I daresay that the trick would not have been very successful in the present day and time. Because everyone and everything strives for homogeneity. Everyone is straitjacketed into shirts, pants, socks, shoes. Every tattoo is demurely hidden. Every rogue wisp of hair is gelled into place. This is the age of the clerical. Hell, half the agents are paper-pushers.

Then there are those who stand out. The woman in bright make up waiting for her ride. You can almost smell her perfume, watching her from behind three mm of laminated glass. The man on his noisy bike. He wears a Playboy T and bulges out of it in every way possible. He wears a colourful bandana which peeps out of his helmet. The kid with her guitar. She is ordinary in all other aspects except for that contraption on her back. In all probability her middle class parents scraped together the money for it and used the gift as a bribe to coax her to study better. If not - if she is really pursuing her passion, I truly envy her.

My stop has arrived. My destination though, is a short walk from here. As I walk, I encounter more people. A harried mother dragging her two kids along. She is a working mom, evident from the working class straitjacket. There is a candy shop and the owner seems to leer at everything that is even remotely feminine. There is a road that needs to be crossed. My co-crossers are few in number and are in a hurry to get to the other side and beyond.

I reach the dilapidated building. This is what I've been walking towards. I hadn't paid much attention before but there was a fine rain falling earlier on. It is now raining in sheets. Not much of a concern. Any other day and it would have put me off considerably. But today it is fine. It doesn't matter because a getaway is out of the equation. I reach the second floor. I have a clear view and the M40 is competent enough. The target has arrived. I take aim. I, Spy.