I didn’t smell what I expected, but more on that in a moment. What occurred to me immediately, along with a rush of relief, was that certain smells were absent. What smells? Well, clearly Glenn Jackson wasn’t in the habit of using scented fabric softeners, or detergent, for that matter. But other smells were missing too, smells that you might have expected to be there.
Like alcohol, or stale pee, vomit, or unwashed body. Not even a hint.
I sat up quickly. Bradley, by now, could tell that something was up, and looked at me with eyes full of questions.
I glanced at Jackson, still down on his hands and knees peering at the papers on the floor. I thought of trying to express in gestures, Hold on, something’s very off here. Hang back and follow my lead. But ASL is not one of my languages, so I settled for holding up a hand, hoping he’d get that I wanted him to wait.
I know that I’m kind of dwelling on smells, or lack thereof, but there’s a reason for that. I had just consciously verified something that my intuition had noticed a spurk of a long time before I did: That nothing in Glenn Jackson’s little room smelled, except for him. And that just didn’t make sense, if he’d been in here for hours sleeping it off and being indiscriminate with his bodily functions.
It did make sense, though, if he was wearing that stench like a suit of armour… or a costume.
Now my intuition was telling me that something was worrisome about what I did smell in Jackson’s bedding, but I didn’t have time to think about that right away.
Because I looked down, and there, at my feet, in plain sight, were what looked to me like discharge papers from the Canadian Armed Forces.
But I’d seen him search that part of the floor already. He could be stalling us, I thought. But why?
The other possibility, of course, was that he had no idea what the papers he was trying to find actually looked like.
I stood up, reached into my pocket and palmed my badge. I cleared my throat.
Jackson stopped going through the paperwork, and looked up at me.
“Do you like living here, Mr. Jackson?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We can’t all live in a fancy condominium, eh? It’s crap here, but it beats the shelter, or sleeping rough. Ever tried living under a bridge this time of year? I’m dry, I’ve got a bed and a door that locks.”
“You’re awfully close to the Border, though,”
He stood up, grimacing – a bit theatrically, I thought. “Eh, I don’t bother the Little People, and they don’t bother me. Where’s the fun in troubling a broken-down old man with their tricks, right?”
“Some of the Little People aren’t so little. And not all of them care much who they play tricks on… or what they eat, for that matter. I noticed that you don’t even have a ward on the door, like your neighbours do.”
“Used to, used to,” he said, not meeting my eyes, “But I lost it.”
Then, “You don’t ask a cop’s questions, Officer MacAvoy.”
“Sorry,” I said brightly, “I should have introduced myself. Officer Roberta MacAvoy,”
I held out my hand. Reflexively, he clasped it – clasped my hand, where I was still concealing my Iron Badge.
“Borderland Guard.” I added.
He screamed, in pain and in rage at the touch of cold iron, shoved me away. I flailed as I fell and dropped my badge.
And he staggered back, clutching his hand to his chest as though it burned him.
And he changed.
