Fifty-Two

Daniel Addas






Drake. He fills my head with his authoritative voice. The car ride is impeccably short.
"Go home, Miles," I say to him when he drops me off at the station.
This stuns him. He blinks, looks more stunned than before, if I didn't know any better I'd think that he actually can't trust himself not to be dreaming. He stares at me as though he's expecting me to vanish any second now. "But—"
"Go on."
"What?" He shakes his head. "Are you sure? How are you going to get home?"
"Go home." My words leave no room for argument.
My heart pounds away, and my palms, when I run a hand over my face, are damp. I am not a horrible person. I am not a horrible person. Look, I just gave the guy the rest of the day off, see? I am not a horrible person.
I race up the stairs to the stations glass doors. From the outside I can see about three officers behind the front desk. They sip coffee, discussing spoilt brats and unappreciated wives.
"I'm here to talk to Jones," I tell no one in particular. Laughter and silly banter halts. Belittling eyes fall on me.
"You're that Addas kid..." He hesitates. His skin is pale with no hint whatsoever of a tan. Maybe the previous couple of days' sun skipped over him. "Daniel?"
"Yes." I look at him boldly, zeroing my eyes on his. Is that panic I see? A shiver of nervousness? I think: he's scared of me. He absolutely has to be. "Where's detective, Jones."
He gapes at me.
I'll call him Ghost. He's so white. He's the whitest white I've ever seen but then again I'm also more often than not the light skinned black person people have ever seen.
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
Wouldn't I have spilled already if I thought he'd handle what I came here for?
"No."
"Why do you want to talk to detective, Jones?" Ghost's words come out in a huge rush.
"I want to make a confession." My voice is completely flat and detached, and I look at the walls, avoiding his gaze.
"Smith—?" Ghost's hollowing to a guy with shabby but thin hair and big teeth. Smith's ear is red against the iPhone on his ear. The thin, tall thing looks up in question. "Take Mr. Addas' statement."
Smith nods, says his goodbyes to the phone. There's no way in hell I'm talking to that thing. I hate tall people. They rub me off the wrong way.
"Will you get me Jones or should I go home?"
"Look, kid, Jones is off today." He leans over the counter that separate us until his beer belly jellies on top of it. His breath is humid. "You can talk to Smith, he's very experienced, of Jones' caliber."
"Guess I'm going home then." I shrug and skip towards the door. They need me. They won't let me leave. "Good day gentlemen."
From the corner of my eye I notice one police officer dispose of his near uneaten cream doughnut and jump to his feet. More noise follows. I'm guessing the others also stand up. "Wait, we'll call Jones, is there something I can get you in the mean time?"
No, there isn't. I bite my tongue. No need to offend him.
There's a paralysing moment of silence. For a second I am convinced everyone can hear my heart dropping to my stomach. I'm not a horrible person. I am not a horrible person. I am not a horrible person. I'm doing this. It's for the best.
After they offer me coffee that smells as though Ghost's spit on it, they drop me into a box disguised as a room. The red walls scream at me, pointing fingers. I'm in deep shit. There's a camera sitting directly overhead in the corner opposite me.
They don't make me spend much time staring at the dark lines (shouldn't these be white?) between the linoleum tiles. Jones, his partner, Xavier and one other police officer squeeze in.
Jones has his shirt hanging out of his pants, mismatched socks and sweat races from his head down the back of his neck. Did he run all the way here? He must want this confession bad. Of course he does. With lack of evidence he knows he'll never close this case on his own.
"Did they offer you something to drink?" He walks forward, slow but I can tell he's anxious to get the small talk out of the way. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Ghost gave me a coffee. I couldn't stomach it. If you can get me coffee, not from the station though, that would be lovely. Thank you Mr.Jones."
"Ghost?"
"That guy from reception with a stinking breath."
Jones looks stunned. He clears his throat. "You wanted to see me?"
Time for show! "Yes."
"Why?" He turns towards the door and back towards me again. Restless. Excited. The way his chest raises and falls tells me he's excited. This is the first time I've come here on my own occurred.
"I have a confession to make."
"Okay— let's get started."
"Not a chance." I laugh scornfully. "I'll tell you about my father, Wendy Sherman, Samantha, and Clara's poisoning."
"So you're confessing to murder?"
I raise my chin and make a moue of distaste. "I'm not confessing. I'm saying we'll talk after I've had some lunch. I want coffee, must be burn-throat hot, a pizza with extra cheese and pine apples. I won't talk unless you get me everything I need."
"Alright fine," he says in complete consternation. He shouts over his shoulder. "Can we get Mr. Addas some pizza with double cheese and a strong black? — black cup of coffee. It should be hot. Home made. Let's move people."
"Thank you."
"It's my pleasure, Daniel." Of course it is. "Thank you for doing this. Sometimes people sit with information that would really make our jobs easier. Now... Tell me, are you talking about the same Samantha that went missing two months ago?"
I sigh. He's not listening. Not keeping up. "You really shouldn't work so hard to irritate me. Food first that's our deal."
"Sorry, Daniel." He's not sorry at all. Irritated, definitely. "We'll wait for the food."
He makes it sound like he has a choice. Sitting in silence while we wait for the food is absolute torture. Not for me though. I'm enjoying witnessing Jones pace the room with impatience. Every few minutes he pokes his head and shouts questions about my lunch. He's probably worried I might change my mind, and with good reason.
Now that the food is in front of me, nausea engulfs me. As I eat, I don't even pretend to practice good table manners, not the way Papa taught me. He'd be disappointed. Who cares about that anyway? He's long dead, and he's about to get his wish, I'm going to prison for a long time. The bastard finally managed to get rid of me. Even though he's dead, he still has power over me.
I sigh. Jones' foot tapping and fingers drumming makes me want to pull my own hair out and scream.
I beckon with my hand and Ghost, like some faithful servant, takes my leftovers and leaves the room. Jones' relentless drums halt and the taut, strained look smoothies from his face.
"Okay, now I want you to be as comfortable as you can be. Is there anything else I can get you? Water? Anything?" Jones says. He's not doing a great job pretending this is a normal investigation, the person in front of him like any other suspect, but his voice squeaks like a monkey fighting over the last banana. Is it just me or did he just say a short prayer? The last thing he wants right now is for me to take him up on his offer.
"Just water, thanks." Suddenly I'm nervous. I'm not so convinced coming here was the best decision after all. Now that Mr. Jones is sitting right in front of me, smoothing out his building moustache, I don't want to be here anymore. The prospect of going to prison isn't so appealing anymore.
I've always known this day would come. I even fantasize about being a leader inside but now that Jones is excitedly stating the time, his name and mine into the electronic recorder everything becomes final. I'm a horrible person and I'm going to prison. I can't go to jail, I'm just seventeen. I wouldn't survive in there.
Ghost is my personal chef today. He brings me ice-cold water, smiles politely before closing the door.
"Daniel Addas, you can start whenever you're ready."
"My name's Daniel Addas and I killed my father."
"Would you state your father's name for the record please."
"Zayed Addas."
"How did you kill him?"
I take a moment to think. Clara and I have been rehearsing my lines a lot lately and I can't afford to derail from the original script. I trust Clara. She said she'd make this disappear and I believe her.
"Last year December I found out my father was sleeping with my girlfriend and I spent a lot of time reading and researching the best ways to kill someone and leave zero evidence," I lie.