The Illusionist

Constable Hodgkins was not a particularly intelligent man, though not a particularly stupid one either. He belonged to that rather unfortunate category of people who spend their whole lives drifting about in the current without causing the slightest ripple on their own. He was a somewhat portly man of around fifty with dark, slowly graying hair and lips that had become stuck in a permanent frown from disuse. He had a curious way of communicating solely through small grunts and, occasionally, a shrug or a small wave of the hand. He had a wife but no children, and lived alone as a consequence of his wife’s work as a diplomat, whom he phoned once a week every Sunday.

Like many of this type of person, Hodgkins lived in a small town; his town just so happened to be named D—ire. He owned a cottage inherited from his mother (Hodgkins had never known his father, a pilot during the war) which he tried to always keep in prim condition, though the walls had long been overgrown with ivy and the once-painted walls had slowly begun to fade into the same gray shade that characterised every building in D—ire, a gray which even seemed to seep into people’s minds, infecting them with dullness and routine. 

Even the police station at which Hodgkins worked was practically indistinguishable from all other buildings: a cramped thing of a stony colour which had most probably already been called old by Roman soldiers at the time of Hadrian’s conquest. It was occupied by three people: Martha, the woman who worked part-time in charge of the upkeep, Armitage, a bright, young officer from London just starting her career, and Hodgkins himself. Their days were mostly spent drinking coffee and filling out paperwork and the occasional ticket (when there were any– Hodgkins and Armitage made up two out of the four people who owned a car). Suffice to say, nothing ever happened there in D—ire.

That was, at least, until the 26th of October. It had been a Thursday (Hodgkins always expressed his dislike of Thursdays by grunting his ‘g’morn’n’s with a bit more annoyance than usual), and, to the surprise of all three people at the station, the telephone suddenly rang. 

It was Armitage who picked up the line with a surprised ‘hello?’. The air in the room seemed to fall like a thick woolen blanket upon all three occupants of the room. Martha and Hodgkins both hung on with great impatience to every single ‘yes, I see’ uttered by the now-grinning officer on their side of the line. After what seemed like the hundredth ‘yes’ muttered, the line was finally hung up, and Armitage turned to face her coworkers with a great smile.

“It’s Johnson”, she said, with, perhaps, a bit too much zeal in her voice,“his car’s been stolen in the night. He found it gone this morning.”

Johnson was one of the farmers who lived on the outskirts of this particular town. He owned an old red pickup truck in which he drove down to the city once a month to visit his sister and granddaughter. Now, apparently, it was gone.

Though his mouth stayed still, Hodgkins’ eyes glittered in a smile. He harrumphed. A crime! Something like this was unheard of in the small town of D—ire.

After some excited discussion between Armitage and Hodgkins, of which Armitage did the talking, it was decided upon that they were both to go and interview Johnson in order to get a bit more information out of him. Armitage was no less brimming with excitement than Hodgkins was; she buzzed like a plucked string. Once Johnson was phoned with this news, the two walked over to the car–Armitage skipping and Hodgkins ambling on–-and drove off.

Johnson stood by the gate to his farm wearing a ratty Oxford cardigan and Wellingtons, his gray hair unkempt and his black, rat-like eyes gleaming with annoyance and dissatisfaction. He was looking into the distance, his eyes fixed on some point where the pale yellow of the hills met with the pale gray of the sky, but at the arrival of the two constables he turned his head in their direction and glared at the newcomers. Like Hodgkins, he had long since forgotten the importance of speech, and answered the questions posed by Armitage in a curt and short fashion. 

It was so found that Johnson, having come back from his sister’s the evening of the day before, had parked his car in the small shed he kept it in, as always, and had securely locked the door with a padlock, which had still been locked when he opened the door the next morning to check on a flat tyre he’d discovered the night before upon driving into the shed. It was then that he had discovered that his car had been stolen. 

“‘s a strange business, all ‘at”, he remarked, nodding absently. Armitage nodded along, hurriedly scribbling everything down in a small notepad.

After all the information had been extracted from the man, Hodgson grunted that he would go back to the station and finish up some paperwork he had to finish and leave Armitage to lead the case. She grinned like a spoiled child being offered candy.

That evening, while sitting in his armchair by the fire, Hodgkins heard his phone ring. No-one ever phoned him but his wife, who was currently fast asleep halfway across the globe. He trudged across the room and picked up the phone. It was Armitage.

“I’ve got him.” Her tone was serious, though a certain joy and pride peeked through from underneath it. She spoke hurriedly. “The suspect is a certain Robert Green, at least, that’s what he said his name was. He’s down at the station. Found him trying to buy a new tyre a few miles off, though the car’s still nowhere to be found. I was hoping you’d come and interrogate him–my mum’s waiting for me back home; it’s late and she’s worried. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The familiar dull tone rang in Hodgkins’ ear. He sighed. It was going to be a long night.

It was eleven thirty when he finally finished his drive down the well-known winding road. Only one light was on at the station–the room where this Green was kept. Hodgkins sighed again. The last time he had even seen a criminal of any sort must have been ten, twenty years ago. His shoulders tensed, and he shivered. Rain pattered on the windshield of his car. It was now or never, he thought.

At the station, he made himself a cup of tea.; Earl Gray, it must have been. He drank a few gulps and cleared his throat. The warmth spread through him the way a distant, dreamlike memory does, immaterial and glowing. He grabbed the tape recorder lying on his desk and walked with measured movements toward the other room. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The room was small and cramped, with a checkerboard tile floor and slightly mouldy, faded wallpaper. The only light was provided by a small lamp on the ceiling, which seemed to calm with its afternoonish golden glow. The sole furnishings were a table and three mismatched, rickety chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a tall, lean man with pitch black hair and wrinkles in the corners of his eyes which were the only indicators of his age. He was pale and wore a simple black jumper which only emphasised his almost-wan complexion. He raised his head at Hodgkins’ entrance and smiled with the left side of his mouth, meeting his eyes. He had an unsettling gaze; his eyes, hazel with specks of green and gold, seemed to glow faintly in the artificial light, and he seemed to almost look through the man, to see every single one of his thoughts as though laid out on paper. Neither said a word; both focused intently on studying the other. The insistent pattering of the rain somehow only made the silence more unbearable. 

Hodgkins sat down opposite the man and placed the tape recorder in between them. He cleared his throat and started recording. 

“Now, this whole conversation will be recorded, though I’m sure you know that”. His voice squeaked with disuse. “I’m sure you know why you’ve been brought here, as do I. That’s not what I want to know. What I want to know is who you are, where you came from, and what your problem is.” He hadn’t interrogated anyone in years, he realised, as the words flowed slowly and uneasily out of his mouth. Green smiled.

“Would you like the long version or the short one?” He had a quiet, measured voice with a slight lilt that came through in his vowels. Hodgkins stayed silent for a moment and checked his watch. It was eleven fifty. A moment of silence passed once more. This response had caught him off guard. He had expected a normal interrogation, with Green admitting everything, the car being found and the whole affair to be over quickly. But Green was calm, composed; if anything, he seemed bored. Hodgkins sighed.

“The long one.”

Green grinned and leaned back in his chair. He looked down at his hands for a moment, then cleared his throat and began. 

TO BE CONTINUED