Something tells me we're not in South Africa any more
Back straight. Shoulders squared. Her form is imposing. Short blond hair and intense brown eyes complete the look. She is a woman in a man's world. There is no room for emotion or uncertainty. That was why she had left England - weakness. It was too difficult to give up her front and when it had begun to crumble it was for nothing
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"Are you all right?" he inquires, the picture of polite concern, upon reaching her.
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Carol wasn't expecting someone to be there. It was a bit of a shock to have a voice that wasn't her own interrupting her moment of panic. She quickly pulls herself together and nods to the man.
"Can you tell me where I am?"
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Alan looks her over--not the usual brazen up-and-down but a mild, not unsympathetic glance.
"I can," he says, with a hesitance that can herald nothing good, "but I can't promise you'll like the answer. May I ask where you're from?"
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"I'm from South Africa. Now where am I?"
Her tone implies that she has little tolerance for tact at the moment.
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Here he pauses, both to gauge her reaction and allow time for questions, exclamations of disbelief, invective, etc.
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"You must be joking."
This guy had to be taking the piss. He just had to be. This sort of thing was not part of Carol Jordan's collective beliefs about the world. This did not fit within her parameters of fact.
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"Let me try this again - joking with me? Am I am really supposed to believe that I was plucked up from South Africa and dumped in some mysterious city with no boundaries.?"
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Unruffled, he meets her eyes. "I'd of course be willing to entertain any alternative explanation you'd care to propound. Would you perhaps like to continue this conversation somewhere that isn't the middle of the street?"
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She runs a hand through her hair and paces back and forth a moment before looking at him again.
"This is either the most insane dream I've ever had or I've been struck down by malaria."
His offer of a more suitable place to discuss this finally gets through Carol's frantic thoughts and she gives a huff of indignation. She doesn't want to admit that he has a valid point. It does her no good to fret about in the middle of the street in a strange city.
"And where would you suggest, Mr...?"
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"There's a cafe or two up the way"--he gestures in the direction from which he'd just come--"or if you'd rather I can show you the bar. First drink's on me."
(And the rest are on the house.)
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The detective is intent on calling this all an unpleasant dream until absolutely necessary. Denial - it's a beautiful thing.
"What do you prefer to go by? First name? Last name?" Another pause as she realizes she didn't even introduce herself. "My name is Carol Jordan."
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Her question doesn't quite elicit a laugh, but it does raise a smile. "'Alan' will do. The bar's several streets over--you can tell me your preferred appellation as we walk."
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Any other time those comments would have been meant as jokes. Here, though, they were less jokes and more her verbalizing her unease. Usually, she tried her best NOT to show that she's upset over something but in this instance - well, she certainly can't come up with a rational explanation as to how she was in the station one moment and in a random street the next.
It all has to be a dream. It has to be.
"How long have you been here, Alan?"
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"A little over an hour, I should think," he says, not bothering to consult his watch. "Now, if you're asking how long I've known of this place...four months, give or take. My arrival was similarly abrupt."
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However, before he can answer her question she answers it herself - she remembers what he promised her earlier. "You came back here. You left and came back."
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