Twenty-One

Clara Addas







When I pull up my blinds to allow the Sun's ray into my bedroom, three photographers are fighting each other for a better shot. Click. Click. Click. Like some Hollywood actress in the heat of a scandal.
Fucken shit mother fuckers. Shit ass reporters. They're from the local news station. One girl with newly bleached blue hair — shiny blue like nail polish — holds a microphone with the logo E.TV on the side. She's interviewing neighbours.
The police shipped us off to the house next door. Aunt Dahab's house. Something lame about making sure they get enough evidence and that no forensics is tempered with.
They hustled us out of the house so fast that I didn't even get to pack my toothbrush. Though I hate the slippery feel of clean teeth, I hate bad breath more.
The police asked for an interview just five hours after the death. It was Jones, grim faced.
"Would you like to call your mother, Clara?" Jones asks.
"I would if I knew where she is," I say, fill my mouth with air and let it out in one loud gush. "Mama left us. Daniel and me. Her children. Left dad. Even if I knew where she was, I doubt she'd want to come back."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Clara." He says with sympathy, though I said nothing that would be mistaken as heartbroken by her disappearance. Oh well. "I didn't mean to be insensitive. Are you okay? We could do this another time if you'd prefer."
"No. This is fine." Daniel —sitting next to me on the couch — squeezes my shoulder.
"We'd like to do a buccal test?"
I just stare at him not sure how to respond. If he can read expressions I'm sure mine says: What the fuck?
"Uh, what's that?"
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Clara. It's a DNA sample which can be taken either by swabbing the inside of your mouth (a “buccal test”), or by a blood test, usually done by pricking your finger. Which ever you're comfortable with. Oh and you too Daniel."
"Okay. Cool. Whatever you need," I say, shifting my flat ass on the couch. Been sitting for a while now. Ass hurts as fuck.
Daniel nods. Fiddles with the collar of my coat. "Fine with me. Squeamish. Needles are a hard handle for me. I'd rather you swab my mouth."
"Good. Thanks." He offers a wan smile, a frown too. Weird. "This stuff is just routine. Since it's your house we want to rule out any DNA that might belong to you so that we'd nail the guy who did this. Nail him hard. No room for inconsistences. Hope you understand."
"Okay, sure." I say.
"How old are you guys exactly?" He asks, his vigilant eyes overflowing with merriment.
Daniel and I frown at each other.
"Don't be so alarmed. If you’re under seventeen, you have the right to have a parent or caregiver with you when you give the sample, and also a lawyer or other person of your choice," Jones explains. He laughs conversationally. He waits a while before continuing, "As I said, we have to do things according to protocol. You don't have to worry. We can call your Aunt. Dahab. If you prefer."
"Um. Okay." Daniel leans forward. Holds my hand tighter. He's sweating. "That's fine too. Clara and I are seventeen. Celebrated the birthday March twenty-three."
"Twins?" Jones looks curious, if not excited.
Daniel sits back on his chair and breathes in. Loud. Shakily. "Yeah."
"You guys close?"
This tangles knots in my stomach but I'm careful to retain a calm tone. "Very."
"Hmm..." He glances between Daniel and I —straight faced— seeming to read our thoughts in seconds. He makes no comment on whatever prompted the curious observation. It must be the differences between Daniel and me. Skin tone. It always puzzles people as though there's a rule against it. "Oh, now I remember the party. What an extravagant bash. Your father hired the local rapper... What's his name?"
"Nasty C."
He looks at the floor, settles farther into his seat, and gives a sideways glance at our hands.
Daniel's sweating. Trembling with the barest of moves. Why?
"Yes. Nasty C. It was all Margate could talk about for weeks. Your father was a— I'm sorry. I'm sure you don't want to talk about him so soon. So can we get started."
"Yeah."
"Oh, we'd also like to take a Gun Shot Residue, on the hands and clothing." Jones says this the way you would if you're inviting someone to lunch: oh, and you're paying. He idly scans Daniel and I's faces one more time before continuing. "This will help us rule you out. As you know your father was shot. Hopefully this will determine that neither of you may have discharged a firearm. If you'd allow us to do that, that'll be very helpful."
"Are we suspects?" Asks Daniel.
Jones and another guy — must be lab guy — share a look. Triumphant. Maybe this is an admission of something. In their books. Please don't let it be code for I'm guilty.
"No, son." He retrieves a cigarette and lighter. Gestures with his hands: do you mind if I smoke in here? We don't. He burns it. I should tell him the truth: I hate the smell of burning cigarette. I don't. He's a policeman. He's investigating my father's murder. I must tread carefully. "As I said this is just shitty protocol. A routine. The stupid shit we have to get out of the way. We have reasonable grounds to believe that a DNA sample would confirm or disprove that you (not necessarily you. But generally) were involved in this murder. It'll only be used to aid with the investigation. It can't be used in court. Okay?"
Okay. Sounds simple enough. Only it isn't. Now I'm as nervous as Daniel.
"Are you guys okay?" Jones asks. He's looking at our hands. Daniel is trembling. Harder. Noticeable now. Making our conjoined hands wobble.
"I'll go with the finger prickle," I say. Meet Jones' gaze head on. He has on the no-nonsense -policeman intimidation posture.
"Daniel is just nervous about the needles. He always dodges his doctor's appointments. Always had. Since he was little," I lie. God. How many lies have I told for Daniel these last twenty-four hours?
Daniel has sweat glistening on his forehead. Aunt Dahab is standing at the corner now, catching every move, like a hyena. When did she come in?
As the guys in white coats scrub Daniel’s inside cheeks and pull hairs from his forearms and head, another set does the same to me. Prickling my middle-finger, gathering the blood so that no a single drop spills to the floor. Like hungry vampires. Jones engages us in small talk after he explains some hairs were found at the crime scene, specifically under dad's feet nails, which can come from only the killer.
"So: Daniel, Clara," Jones says. "We'd like to ask you some questions about your father. And Ma'am—"
"Call me Dahab."
"Dahab. please Go with my colleague here, Jared. He has a few questions for you. Don't worry the twins are safe with me. It's just some short, crappy questions that we have to get of the way. Nothing hectic."
"Okay," Aunt Dahab says. She bends down to touch her icy, wet lips to my forehead and then to Daniel's cheek. Daniel waits until she's out of the room before he wipes his cheek with the sleeve of his jacket.
The detectives swap looks. Silence befalls: one second. Two. Three. Counting. Six. Seven. Eight.
Quick I say: "Aunt Dahab has always been a wet kisser. Cold lips like a fish on a hook. Dying. Disadvantage of being ashore."
"Right," Jones says. "So: question. What was taken, if anything? I mean, I can have Reed take you back to the house. Quick. Cheek if anything is missing."
"There's no need. Everything was the same as before... Papa was... You know," I say evenly.
Jones nods. Looks next to me. "Daniel...?"
"No. As Clara said. Nothing is missing. If anything had been disturbed, I would know."
Jones sits rigid, eyes watchful, his pupils dark dams of curiosity. "What do you mean by that?"
I do my best to bring comfort back to the room. "Daniel likes his environments neat. My house is quite neat."