Conversation · Smoker on the Balcony

"Trash?" The young man shakes his head in confusion.

Please don't go, I'll even stop smoking inside.

"Looks like you've got a good view of the Whirling's backyard. Can you tell me anything about the hanging?"

"I can tell that you finally got him down. Thank you -- it was quite a disturbing sight, even by Martinaise standards."

"What were you doing last Sunday?"

"Oh..." He waves lazily with his cigarette. "You already asked me that, didn't you?"

Wait, is someone else investigating the lynching?

"Did you?" (Look at Kim.)

"No, not you two." He gestures idly. "Some more muscular type."

"And when did you speak to this more muscular gentleman?" The lieutenant takes out his little blue notebook and writes something down.

"Last week? I don't know, look..." He looks around the courtyard again. Snow blankets the old patio chairs and dead house plants, and all the neighbouring windows are black.

A downy blanket of white to cover up the miserable poverty of the scene.

"You didn't answer the question. What were you doing last Sunday?"

He sighs. "I had a friend over."

"What kind of friend?"

"It was my Sunday friend."

A Sunday friend? How intriguing...

Makes sense. Friends are nice on Sunday. You don't have to work, you can just spend time with pals, watching rugby and drinking beer.

"What's your friend's real name? Did he see something?"

He doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. Under the dull and darkening sky the neighbouring windows stand silent.

Someone hides behind a curtain: those windows have eyes and those eyes are watching, spying on you three.

Someone hides behind a curtain: those windows have eyes and those eyes are watching, spying on you two.

He doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. Under the grey sky the neighbouring windows are streaked with rain.

He doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. Under the grey sky snow continues to pile on the neighbouring window sills.

He doesn't reply, gesturing 'no' with his cigarette. In the neighbouring windows you can see faint reflections of his silhouette, all from different angles.

He's deflecting. He's young, with a sharp memory. He hasn't had time to drown it in booze and chemicals.

"You still haven't answered my question. What were you doing last Sunday?"

"Last week? I don't know, look..." He looks around the courtyard again. Rain patters on the window sills and dead house plants, too late to do them any good.

It'll take more than rain to bring this place back to life.

"Last week? I don't know, look..." He looks around the courtyard again. Old patio chairs and dead house plants litter the scene.

He's an actor declaiming a soliloquy. See how you hang on his every word?

"Was it someone from the police?"

"I couldn't tell you," he says, exhaling a little puff of smoke. "We don't usually see much of the gendarmerie around here."

"When was that?"

"I'm pretty sure I didn't."

"No, not you." He gestures idly. "Some more muscular type."

"Did I?"

"What did you do last Sunday?"

"I'd even go so far as to say that the view is a little too good, my dear gendarme. Do you have an estimate of when the body will be taken away?"

"We will remove the body as soon as possible. Now tell us, where were you last Sunday?"

"I'm working on it."

"Thank you."

"I need to get inside this apartment building. Can you help me?"

"Help you? No, sorry, gendarme..." He shakes his charming head. "I have to run."

"Listen, I really need your name."

"And I really need to finish this cigarette," he replies with a subtle smile.

But he hasn't left yet.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"My name? My name is Martin Martinaise."

That's definitely not his real name.

"You're not actually called Martin Martinaise, are you?"

"No, of course not. Could you please lower your voice?" He scans the courtyard. It's silent like the bottom of a well, every sound captured and reflected back.

Ask him again.

Martin Martinaise? Good local name. Let's go with that.

"Son, do you train?"

"Occasionally." He takes another drag, filling his lungs with nicotine. "Why?"

"Are you on the track team?"

"No, I just like to look good." A light breeze pulls back a flap of shirt.

"I get it. Nothing wrong with looking good."

He gives you a honeyed smile, before shaking off the cigarette ash.