Conversation · Mattress Nest
Speakers · 17
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Conceptualization
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There's a rain-soaked mattress on a concrete slab, only half-covered by the crumbling roof. At the head of it -- double embrasures -- firing slits, like two eyes in the wall.
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"B triple prime..." The lieutenant lowers his voice, stepping closer with his hand on his gun. "This looks like a good place to shoot from."
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- "This looks like a good place to aim from..." The lieutenant looks around. He steps closer with his hand on his gun.
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- "B triple prime..." The lieutenant lowers his voice, stepping closer with his hand on his gun. "This looks like a good place to shoot from."
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- This is B triple prime -- on the island... A nest.
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- A rain-soaked mattress on a concrete slab. In front of it -- double embrasures -- firing slits like two eyes in the wall.
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A single-person mattress. Modern, civilian use. Brand name: Marjorie. There's a fuel stain on the cover, along with cigarette burns.
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And an empty can of beans on the ground next to it -- filled to the brim with cigarette butts.
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A rain-soaked mattress on a concrete slab. In front of it -- double embrasures -- firing slits like two eyes in the wall.
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The silhouette of a tobacco picker adorns the paper filter. The brand: Tioumoutiri.
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He nods. "The smoker's a clean person. I didn't see any signs of smoking inside. Keeps it tidy -- prefers to come out here to smoke."
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"Could be a coincidence. Or -- the same person has visited Land's End and..." He looks around, "...here."
"I didn't see any signs of smoking inside, though. If people live there, they keep it tidy -- this here may also be a smoking spot."
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"I may have been wrong -- when I said it was unimportant." He stares into the can for a second. "This means the same person could have visited both locations."
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Contemporary Revacholians prefer Drouin (a local blend from the southern islands) or Astra, the legendary cigarette from Graad. Tioumoutiri is favoured by older men for its paper filter tips, sweet smell, and added tar.
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Inspect the wall through which the shot was made again.
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A small piece of Martinaise coastline opens up in the square in front of you -- like a tiny landscape painting, one kilometre across the water. The ruins look familiar.
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A small piece of Martinaise coastline opens up in the square in front of you, like a tiny landscape painting, one kilometre across the water. Dead in the centre is the Whirling-in-Rags.
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- Got you. [Leave.]
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A towering skyscraper, its top floors shaved off by artillery fire -- Capeside Apartments: Rue de Saint Ghislaine 33A and 33B.
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The box-shaped silhouette of the Whirling-in-Rags. Its sloped roof. A tiny fleck of light catches your eye on the rooftop -- sunlight reflecting off the upstairs window of Klaasje's room.
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The box-shaped silhouette of the Whirling-in-Rags. You see the rooftop at night -- the upstairs window of Klaasje's room reflecting a streetlamp outside.
The box-shaped silhouette of the Whirling-in-Rags. You see a small fleck of white on the rooftop -- the upstairs window of Klaasje's room in the rain, reflecting light.
The box-shaped silhouette of the Whirling-in-Rags. You see a small fleck of white on the rooftop -- the upstairs window of Klaasje's room in the snow, reflecting light.
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"A pair of binoculars? Or a scope of a rifle?" He points to the makeshift bed. "You'd be prone, lying on the mattress, barrel resting on the embrasure..."
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Cheek against the cheek rest, hand on the hair trigger. On a calm day like this...
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"I think we have it. The origin of the shot -- this is the sniper's nest." He pats you on the back, three small pats in a row.
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He's conflicted for a second. There's guilt there, it takes him a moment to rationalize it away.
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He does not answer, just nods. With his back hunched, he looks around once more and says...