Intricate
How does one describe the events that a life is comprised of? To me, there is no luck, only things that happen and things that do not, yet fate seems to be an insufficient word and term. You can go through life being almost entirely alone, yet you can never free yourself of the web of actions of the rest of the world, it will always return to impose its effect on your life. Not that I necessarily wish it to not do so. Every occurrence holds its own points of interest, no matter how terrifying it may be at the exact moment that it takes place, and no matter what devastating consequences it may seem to have at first. Every event, every thought holds its own chances. A chance and a choice to learn, perhaps.
To sum up, my life has been rather eventful lately, not just in my mind, but on a more tangible level as well.
I noticed the stir caused by police cars further down the harbour some days after my last entry. It is quite unusual to see one, much less such a multitude of members of the police force out here, so I instantly felt a touch of curiosity, though I told myself that whatever tragedy or drama their investigation centred upon, it hardly had anything to do with me, and I should stay away. I suppose I did have a subconscious negative feeling about it, but finally I could contain my curiosity no longer and went to look at what was going on. The activity was concentrated on a large long abandoned silo. Several vans were present, and people who were obviously scientists or technicians of some sort, dressed in white suits, the entire scene enclosed in tape telling people not to enter. Quite obviously something severe and extraordinary had happened. I found myself to be the only spectator there, so my presence did not seem to be instantly unacceptable to the police, though whatever the commotion was all about, it was most definitely serious in nature. It took me a long while to gather the courage to ask what was going on, as I stood a bit away, trying to look casual. I engaged a policeman who stood by the tape by himself. I was smoking and I had noticed that he looked hungrily at my cigarette when I approached. I do not believe in luck, but that craving in him was definitely conclusive to my case. I offered him one and he accepted it gratefully. In spite of myself I managed to hit up some light conversation, as people say, about the proceedings and he answered me without any airs, that he was unsure of what was going on, but that it had to do with a possible abduction case, perhaps even the Christian A. case. He told me with a grave face that four policemen had been killed there the night before. I think I managed to not disclose any emotion in my face at his words. I nodded and continued the conversation a little bit longer. They had received a tip-off, he said. Behind him, some of his colleagues seemed suddenly to gain an added edge of business. One of them quickly ran up to him and mumbled to him, and though the tone of his words was designed to make the message unheard by me, I caught the substance of it. That the blood tests had come back, and that it was definitely his. I needed not ask which the person they referred to, even if it had been appropriate for me to ask anything. They exchanged some complaints about how this was going to cause a lot of trouble, then he turned back to me and smiled joylessly and apologetically, probably realising that he should not have been talking to me, saying that he was afraid I had to leave now. I told him that it was no problem and went home, keeping the questions in my mind tightly sealed under a layer of uneasiness and resoluteness. A strange mixture, but it performed its intended function.
But I could not keep them away for long. What was that place and what had it to do with him? I had thought that surely he must have died from the fall or soon after. Yet his blood was in there, they said, and he could not have crept in there himself. But if he was mortally wounded, why was his body not present? A diminutive thought, aspiring to be rational, crept in, saying that perhaps it had been discarded in the harbour. It might be. Then another thought struck me, one that had been with me for a while, lying ignored, but now quiet yet strangely horrifying. The strange boy who saved me. When I met him that night between the buildings he said that he had a workshop down here, and gestured in the direction of the silo. Did that have any significance…?
I had a strong urge to go and see that place for myself. I could not explain it, and I still cannot quite. I wondered if they would have posted guards all though the night, and other things of an almost practical, yet entirely unrealistic nature. The impulse remained with me for days, as I stayed inside, working and reading, going about my life as usual. Usual in the way that I define the word, anyway.
In the end I called Grae.
To sum up, my life has been rather eventful lately, not just in my mind, but on a more tangible level as well.
I noticed the stir caused by police cars further down the harbour some days after my last entry. It is quite unusual to see one, much less such a multitude of members of the police force out here, so I instantly felt a touch of curiosity, though I told myself that whatever tragedy or drama their investigation centred upon, it hardly had anything to do with me, and I should stay away. I suppose I did have a subconscious negative feeling about it, but finally I could contain my curiosity no longer and went to look at what was going on. The activity was concentrated on a large long abandoned silo. Several vans were present, and people who were obviously scientists or technicians of some sort, dressed in white suits, the entire scene enclosed in tape telling people not to enter. Quite obviously something severe and extraordinary had happened. I found myself to be the only spectator there, so my presence did not seem to be instantly unacceptable to the police, though whatever the commotion was all about, it was most definitely serious in nature. It took me a long while to gather the courage to ask what was going on, as I stood a bit away, trying to look casual. I engaged a policeman who stood by the tape by himself. I was smoking and I had noticed that he looked hungrily at my cigarette when I approached. I do not believe in luck, but that craving in him was definitely conclusive to my case. I offered him one and he accepted it gratefully. In spite of myself I managed to hit up some light conversation, as people say, about the proceedings and he answered me without any airs, that he was unsure of what was going on, but that it had to do with a possible abduction case, perhaps even the Christian A. case. He told me with a grave face that four policemen had been killed there the night before. I think I managed to not disclose any emotion in my face at his words. I nodded and continued the conversation a little bit longer. They had received a tip-off, he said. Behind him, some of his colleagues seemed suddenly to gain an added edge of business. One of them quickly ran up to him and mumbled to him, and though the tone of his words was designed to make the message unheard by me, I caught the substance of it. That the blood tests had come back, and that it was definitely his. I needed not ask which the person they referred to, even if it had been appropriate for me to ask anything. They exchanged some complaints about how this was going to cause a lot of trouble, then he turned back to me and smiled joylessly and apologetically, probably realising that he should not have been talking to me, saying that he was afraid I had to leave now. I told him that it was no problem and went home, keeping the questions in my mind tightly sealed under a layer of uneasiness and resoluteness. A strange mixture, but it performed its intended function.
But I could not keep them away for long. What was that place and what had it to do with him? I had thought that surely he must have died from the fall or soon after. Yet his blood was in there, they said, and he could not have crept in there himself. But if he was mortally wounded, why was his body not present? A diminutive thought, aspiring to be rational, crept in, saying that perhaps it had been discarded in the harbour. It might be. Then another thought struck me, one that had been with me for a while, lying ignored, but now quiet yet strangely horrifying. The strange boy who saved me. When I met him that night between the buildings he said that he had a workshop down here, and gestured in the direction of the silo. Did that have any significance…?
I had a strong urge to go and see that place for myself. I could not explain it, and I still cannot quite. I wondered if they would have posted guards all though the night, and other things of an almost practical, yet entirely unrealistic nature. The impulse remained with me for days, as I stayed inside, working and reading, going about my life as usual. Usual in the way that I define the word, anyway.
In the end I called Grae.