Bradley sniffed as he entered the room, just behind me. “Maybe time for a little spring cleaning, Mr. Jackson?” he asked.
“Oh, surely,” Jackson said, with a mucusy chuckle, “I’ll just be telling the maid to get to it, before the Queen arrives for tea, eh?”
I looked around. Bradley had been talking about the smell, but the odd thing was that, aside from that, the room really wasn’t all that badly in need of cleaning. It was cramped, dingy and run-down, but it was tidy. No clothes lying around, no dirty dishes next to the hot plate, and the grime on the tiny window was on the outer pane, not inside. It didn’t look like anyone had been stumbling around in a drunken stupor.
Either Glenn Jackson was the world’s neatest drunk, or he’d retained more habits from his days in the army than was otherwise obvious, or…
“You were going to show us your discharge papers?” I said gently.
“Oh yes. Yes, yes.” he nodded, and turned to a beat-up dresser that would have been laughed out of the Goodwill. “Right here.”
He pulled at the top drawer. It rattled, but seemed stuck. He tugged again, making more noise, but without managing to open it.
Bradley shook his head, and turned to a shelf beside the door. He picked up what looked like some pieces of unopened mail and flipped through them.
“Do you need a hand, Mr. Jackson?” I asked.
“No. No thank you, I’ve got it.” he said, then muttered, “There’s a trick to it, I remember…”
I was curious to see how his papers were arranged, so I moved a little closer – not quite breathing down his neck, but so I could look down into the drawer when he opened it. The room was, like I said, really organized, and the state of his paperwork would corroborate the “kept up his habits from the army” theory. Or not.
He tensed up at my approach, and half-turned to shoot me a look that was all suspicion and daggers.
“I said I’ve got it,” he snapped, and then he pulled hard on the drawer and lifted it a bit at the same time – and it slid open and kept going, somehow not hitting Jackson on its way through the air towards me.
I didn’t have time to swear, let alone dodge, just lifted my arms to shield my body and head and block it as best I could.
It hit my crossed forearms and damn but it hurt, then bounced off. It spewed paper like leprechaun after St. Patrick’s Day then hit the floor with a clatter
Bradley was already moving for Jackson, who held up his hands to placate and gave us a simpering smile. “I’m real sorry, real sorry.” He said quickly. “It was an accident.”
Ow spurk me ow, I thought.
Then, So much for seeing how his papers were organized.And then, How did he get out of the way?“It’s okay,” I said, more to Bradley than Jackson. Bradley nodded and stepped back.
“Why don’t you find your papers,” I told Jackson, “And… that took a bit out of me. Do you mind if I sit down?” I pointed at the bed.
“Um, you might not want to do that, Miss,” he said. Bradley, understanding, wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“Please,” I said.
Jackson shrugged helplessly, and crouched to go through the papers that littered the floor. “Well, be my guest, then.”
I sat. Jackson was looking down at the floor as he combed through a life’s worth of errant documents. He didn’t see me lean down into his bedding and – with some trepidation – inhale deeply.
