Conversation · The Deserter

"So in conclusion, it wasn't about him. It was about her." (Conclude.)

"Her..." He repeats, staring at the ashes -- then the reeds. There's a twitch in the corner of his eye.

You hear a low frequency hiss, barely. Beneath the audible spectrum. Then it's gone.

The lieutenant nods at you, in acknowledgement.

That's it. Motive. We have it.

"Where is she?" The old man looks at you. "I haven't seen her there for days."

"She got away. I don't know where she is."

"Good for her..." He looks to the city and nods: "That girl kept staring into the scope, you know -- in the end. This last week, kept staring at the island..."

"At night, crying or smoking on the roof. Like she knew I was here..." He says to no one in particular: "It doesn't matter."

Across the harbour, on the banks of the River Esperance, cold rain falls on Precinct 57 -- a two story box of duraluminum near the gates to Terminal H.

Look east...

Inside, in a cell, a young woman is withdrawing from amphetamines, barbiturates and alcohol. All at once. While two men in brown suits wave ICP badges at a young policeman. She hears the door open...

...and knows it's over. They've come for her. Outside the dusk gathers, the river flows by, gold and orange into the Bay of Martinaise.

There, on a dilapidated jetty in a nameless village, two police officers and one special consultant look across a narrow strip of sea. The ruins of a seafort stick out of the water, built by Filippe II, re-appropriated by the Commune, then lost in the Landing...

"He's there, doing... what exactly I don't know," Satellite-Officer Vicquemare points at the ruins. "Behind that anti-aircraft-something. That's why we can't see him."

Special consultant Heidelstam is optimistic: "We'll see the boat when he comes. Let's go get a coffee until then. I know this interesting little place, where..." His voice trails off as the three walk down the jetty.

As the men go, Patrol Officer Minot looks back over her shoulder -- at the crumbling fortification in the rain, like a rotten tooth rising out of the water...

Good luck, Harry, she thinks. You need something good for this...

The old man has fallen silent, staring at your feet. The burnt logs in the fire are moist from the sea air.

"We could get more..." the lieutenant uses the opportunity to tell you -- in a lowered voice. "We've got him talking..."

Who knows what he's seen and done over the years?

You could get more out of him... He likes talking.

Enough. Take him in. Bend his arms behind his back and end this.

"We can totally get more out of him..." the kid whispers. "He's squeelin'..."

The old man falls silent. Staring at your feet, the burnt logs.

As the men go, Patrol Officer Minot looks back over her shoulder -- at the crumbling fortification in the snowfall, like a rotten tooth rising out of the water...

As the men go, Patrol Officer Minot looks back over her shoulder -- at the crumbling fortification, like a rotten tooth rising out of the water...

He knew she knows. She was looking at the island, figuring it out -- day by day, cigarette by cigarette...

Across the water, on a dilapidated jetty in a nameless village -- made of grey cinder block houses with eternite roofs -- two police officers and one special consultant look across a narrow strip of sea.

...and knows it's over. They've come for her. Outside night falls, the river flows by, treacle black into the Bay of Martinaise.

...and knows it's over. They've come for her. Outside it's springtime, the river flows blue and green into the Bay of Martinaise.

Shake it off.

Inside, in a cell, a young woman is withdrawing from amphetamines, barbiturates and alcohol. Shivering, she fades from your mind's eye...

Across the harbour, on the South bank of the River Esperance, white snow falls on a two story box of duraluminum. Precinct 57, near the gates to Terminal H.

Across the harbour, on the South bank of the River Esperance, the air stands still outside Precinct 57 -- a two story box of duraluminum near the gates to Terminal H.

Midtown, across the bay of Revachol. Cold rain falls on forty-story towers. Above them -- Lausanne Central Aerodrome; a cocoon suspended in the grey sky by a web of suspension wiring, encircled by hybrid aircraft.

Look north...

On the platform a young woman is withdrawing from amphetamines, barbiturates and alcohol. Yet still she smiles among the crowd, among the great ghost of the city she's leaving -- for another, far south.

Smaller. Distant. Hidden. Not like the great chandelier she sees sparkle in the dusk below her. Streets, towers, tenements and cold water; and across the water -- a dark strip of ruins barely visible, if she didn't squint her eyes...

Good bye, Martinaise.

Smaller. Distant. Hidden. Not like the great chandelier she sees sparkle in the night below her. Street lights, towers, tenements and water -- and across it, a dark strip of ruins barely visible, if she didn't squint her eyes...

Smaller. Distant. Hidden. Not like the great chandelier she sees sparkle in the spring air below her. Streets and towers, tenements and water -- and across it, a dark strip of ruins barely visible, if she didn't squint her eyes...

Shake it off.

On the platform a young woman is withdrawing from amphetamines, barbiturates and alcohol. Yet still she smiles among the crowd, fading from your mind's eye...

Midtown, across the bay of Revachol. Snow falls on forty-story towers. Above them -- Lausanne Central Aerodrome; a cocoon suspended in the snowy sky by a web of suspension wiring, encircled by hybrid aircraft.

Midtown, across the bay of Revachol. The oceanic wind washes forty-story towers. Above them -- Lausanne Central Aerodrome; a cocoon suspended in the sky by a web of suspension wiring, encircled by hybrid aircraft.

"She got away, but she led me here first. She figured out someone was watching her from the seafort."

"Gone..." He looks to the city and nods: "I knew it. She kept staring into the scope this last week. At the island, like she knew...." He sighs.

"She'd look -- at night, crying or smoking on the roof -- staring right into me..." He adds, to no one in particular: "It doesn't matter."

"I am not at liberty to say."

"I know she's gone." He looks to the city. "Locked up, or on the run.... She kept staring into the scope, you know. In the end, this last week. At the fort. Like she knew."

"Like she knew I was here..." He adds, to no one in particular: "It doesn't matter."

"I arrested her."

"Locked up with your masters, like I'll be... maybe we'll meet?" He looks to the city. "She kept staring into the scope, you know -- in the end. Like she knew."

"Staring at the island, the fort, like she knew I was here..." He adds, to no one in particular: "It doesn't matter."

"I arrested her." (Lie.)

Safe and sound, sire. Surely you have not misplaced the witness.

"It was about bitches." The boy nods grimly.

There -- motive, detective. We have it.

"Her..." He repeats, staring at the ashes -- then at the reeds. There's a twitch in the corner of his eye.