jack of diamonds

i

Nigel closed the Bentley’s door.

“Are you serious! We have a suspect right in front of us—even if we don’t know what he’s guilty of, we know he’s guilty of something—not murder, but something—and we have to leave because he accuses you of smoking opium? Opium? The worst part is, you’ve been smoking it since I met you,” Sonia said, turning to face him. “And all you can say is that didn’t go the way you’d hoped it would? My one chance to make an impression on those smug bastards, and you—you do this?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t know how I didn’t notice,” she said, more to herself than him; she began searching her purse for her keys, found them, and tried settling her nerves. Her hands were shaking she was so angry.

“Why would you?” he asked.

“Why would I what?” It was an exasperated tone, not quite a sigh, and almost sounding self-defeating.

“Why would you notice it?”

“Why? Because I was a nurse, that’s why! I should know what it goddamned-well smells like!” She turned the key and started the engine, shifting into gear and releasing the brake, slowly creeping out of the driveway. She could see Richard leaning against the smooth painted rails of the paddock, urging the boy to let out more lead for the horse; in a moment the scene was out of sight, lost behind the immense West wing of the building and the stables.

“What smug bastards do you mean?” Nigel asked.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. She was trying to think of which direction the body could’ve come from, and how far. She would’ve liked to ask Richard which was the most likely stream the body would’ve followed. He probably knew which stream rose the highest during the flood season—or even during a heavy rain—and now she doubted if she’d ever have the opportunity to speak to him again.

Perhaps I’ll catch him in the village?

The drive to Chumley was quiet.

The sky was clear, a light azure that faded into the horizon, the distant hills looking pale, the trees awash in colours of red, yellow and orange, sweeping gently against the sky. Sonia looked at Nigel who was staring out at the countryside, lost in his own thoughts, she imagined. She knew she should’ve said something more encouraging, perhaps addressing his problem, but she was still angry.

Finally, she spoke.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What happened?” he asked, trying to force a smile that reminded her of a young boy caught doing something he shouldn’t. There was a small dimple in his left cheek she’d failed to notice before—or was it that he’d never looked at her like that before?

“Why are you smoking opium?”

“I had an accident. Two years ago,” he said after a moment.

“So it’s not from the war?”

“I don’t know how I got through it unscratched, but I did.”

She pulled off to the side of the road, the Bentley bouncing into place as it settled into a small depression under the shade of a weeping willow. She knew the town was a short distance away. She could see the church steeple and part of its roof, though the village itself was not in view. The road had widened gradually, the dirt lane becoming a road set with paving stones which in turn had given way to cobblestones. She turned the engine off and turned to look at him. He appeared unfazed, and when he finally looked at her, she could only think it was with a look of shame. He was quiet for a moment, rubbing his thigh without even realizing he was; she waited for him to continue.

“It happened in town; just around that corner there. A lorry was coming around it, but he cut it too close. I was on my Triumph, coming from the other direction. He hit me. It was over in a second, and when it was, I had a broken leg—a compound fracture; I could see the bone sticking out through a tear in my trousers. I also had a broken arm, shattered pelvis, three broken ribs, and a punctured lung; my heart even stopped. Concussed, too. I was out of it for weeks. They said I should’ve died. I was in so much pain. They gave me morphine as soon as they picked me up—scraped me up is more like it. I was reminded of what I’d heard about the ambulance drivers at the Front. They had me strapped in and rolling down the road in a heartbeat. My God, the pain…it was unbearable going over the cobblestones. I wanted more morphine because what they gave me wasn’t taking the edge off--but they wouldn’t give it to me. They said too much would kill me. I thought I’d already died.”

“But they kept you on morphine?”

“Lots of it,” he smiled, looking sheepish.

“Is that why you keep rubbing your thigh?”

“It still hurts. I don’t think it set properly. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor, but I met a physician, and he told me he could help take the edge off. He gave me a pouch of tobacco that and said it2 was laced with opium. I didn’t care. He told me if I smoked a pipeful in the morning, I’d feel better. I’d still be able to function…and I have, but I’ve been smoking more and more of late.”

“Is the pain that bad?”

“I only notice it when I don’t smoke enough.”

“You’ll have to wean yourself off,” she said, turning back in her seat to start the engine up again. “Does Charlie know? That’s his name, isn’t it? The other Constable I met earlier?”

“Charlie, yes. And no, he doesn’t know. No one knows, except for you. Are you going to tell?”

“I’m going to help you.”

“Help me? How? You don’t even live in Chumley.”

“I’ll take you to Okehampton. You can stay at my place, because believe me, I’ve seen what can happen to a man when he tries to quit. It’s not easy, and it hurts—not as bad as a compound fracture—but enough,” she added with a sympathetic smile. “If you don’t do this, it will eventually take over your life. You won’t be able to function without it.”

“Wonderful,” he said, sitting back in his seat.

“I was a nurse, remember? You’ll be fine.”

If you want your name in the story—as a gangster or some such thing—leave me a tip. The bigger the tip, the bigger the role.