and cheer of the marketplace. The bearded pan-handler on the corner, the tiny, almost prepubescent sex trade worker advertising her wares at the traffic light, two skinheads in leather and chains swaggering down the street with a muzzled pit bull tightly held in hand. Perhaps the two were innocent, but more likely they were looking for sport. A solitary black, or a woman in a hijab. I have my eye on you punks, he thought, as his son chattered excitedly beside him.
Green claimed it was a curse, but in truth, the menace of the streets set his pulse racing. Here, amid the diesel fumes and crumbling streets, the eclipsed dreams and discarded hopes, he’d first felt his calling. He thought ahead to his week of meetings within the corporate walls of the Elgin Street mothership. Meetings with the RCMP, with his NCOs, with his boss, Superintendent Barbara Devine, who was shoring up her bid for the vacant Deputy Chief’s job. Would he even survive?
“Daddy, listen!” Tony cried, jumping off the bench. “A police car! Maybe it’s an accident.”
Green grabbed his hand to restrain him. There was no sign of cruisers, but in the distance, he picked up the sound of sirens. One vehicle, then a second and a third. His own curiosity stirred.
“Is it an accident, Daddy? Or a fire?”
“Could be lots of things, buddy.” A collision, a fight, a brazen robbery at the height of weekend shopping? Green scanned the area, but business was continuing as usual. The sounds appeared to be concentrated farther east and south, perhaps on Rideau Street.
“But we have to go see,” Tony insisted, his forgotten gelato dripping down his hand.
Sharon drew her son to her and rescued the gelato. “Other police officers are taking care of it, honey.” She cast Green a wary look. Her dark curls had been whipped by the wind, and a smudge of strawberry gelato clung to her delicate chin. “Daddy is busy helping us today.”
He reassured her with a sheepish grin. How well she knew him. He swooped his sticky son into his arms and turned to the bicycles. “Yes, we’re on the hunt for a pumpkin!”
“Three pumpkins!”
“Peppers and cauliflower too,” Sharon said, laughing. “Do you think we can fit everything in the trailer?”
Green contemplated the long ride back along the Ottawa River bike path. The view was inspirational, the terrain gentle, and the breeze a mere whisper. It should be manageable, if only he weren’t in such abysmal shape. He uttered a small prayer of resolve to hit the running track more often. Let the guys laugh.
As they walked their bikes along the crowded sidewalk stalls, Sharon gradually buried a gleeful Tony with brightly-coloured apples, peppers and squash. Between his knees, one long-faced, doleful pumpkin. The trailer grew heavier and heavier.
Another siren went by.
There was still no sign of the source of trouble, nor of public concern. No one was whispering or running to look. Green forced his thoughts back on track. Half an hour later, every cranny of the trailer and Sharon’s backpack was stuffed, and even she laughed ruefully about whether they were going to survive the ride home. She was barely five-foot two, and although she kept herself trim and fit, her fortieth birthday loomed.
Two more sirens sounded up ahead, and now even Sharon noticed his distraction. They were stopping at a red light, waiting to cross over Confederation Bridge and down beside the locks to the river path. Green twisted around, trying to see down Rideau Street behind him. In the distance he could distinguish a forest of flashing red.
“Not every emergency in the city is your responsibility,” she said.
“I know. Occupational hazard. But it looks major. That’s at least six responders.”
Tony was also craning his neck to see. “It must be a humongous fire, right, Daddy?”
Sharon snorted. “I’ve known a police car, ambulance and two fire trucks to respond to a cat in a tree.”
Green gave her an apologetic smile as he turned back to the light. Not in this neighbourhood, he thought. On his hip, his cellphone rang. He glanced at the ID. Ignoring Sharon’s warning scowl, he snatched it up. On a Sunday morning, a call from Staff Sergeant Brian Sullivan could only mean one thing.
Screech had slept poorly, curled up in his usual spot behind the Rideau Street grocery store. He’d woken far earlier than he’d wanted, still awash in the vodka he’d bought the night before but freezing cold. His hand had groped around for his sleeping bag, but closed on empty air. He cursed. Some worthless bum had stolen it right off his back! He unfolded himself and struggled stiffly upright, supporting himself against the rough bricks of the store wall. The sun was climbing overhead, and it cut harsh lines through the buildings on Rideau Street. He squinted as he scanned the shadowy nooks and crannies where the traitor might have settled. Nothing.
He limped to the sidewalk and headed up the block, dragging his left foot, which refused to obey him any more. He’d given up caring. Lots of things didn’t obey him any more, including his brain, which dropped things faster than he shoved them in, and his tongue which no longer formed the sounds he wanted. His fingers, frostbitten more times than he could remember, had trouble doing up zippers or opening bottles, so he never bothered to wrap himself properly in his sleeping bag. This wasn’t the first sleeping bag he’d lost, but it was the warmest. With the autumn frosts coming, he was damned if he would give it up without a fight.
A little ways up, he spotted it in an alleyway, almost hidden in the window well of a building, like the bum had tried to get out of sight. Outrage propelled him forward, a string of insults already forming on his lips. The culprit was completely wrapped in the bag except for his stockinged feet. Not a single hole in those fancy socks, Screech thought, adding fuel to his outrage. He propped himself against the wall so he could aim a good kick. His foot connected with soft flesh, but there was no grunt. No recoil. Understanding penetrated Screech’s brain. He’d felt that dead weight before. Either the guy was totally wasted, or he was dead.
Either way, it was not Screech’s business, but there was no point in a good sleeping bag going to waste. But when he leaned down to grab a corner, the bag felt crusty and damp. He snatched his hand away in disgust and stared at the red stains on it. Then he noticed the red all over the ground in half-dried streaks and pools spreading from beneath the body.
Fuck! He reeled back and tripped on the curb, twisting his good ankle and landing hard on his rear. Crablike, he scuttled backwards into the middle of Rideau Street. Horns blared, tires squealed, and a car swerved by him so close he felt its heat. He scrambled back to the curb. Waved a hand to flag someone down. What was everybody’s goddamn hurry?
Finally a car veered over to the curb, a door slammed and boots stomped around the car.
“What the fuck, Screech?” A familiar voice shouted.
Screech recognized a beat cop who brought him food and supplies when times were tough. Surprised at his relief, he tried to get his rattled brain in gear. “There’s a sleeping bag,” he said. “Bleeding. Dying.” Then he gave up and used his trembling finger to point.
Green locked up the bikes and piled Sharon, Tony and the vegetables into a cab. Although her eyes were glum, Sharon hadn’t
