Chapter Nine
Coming to, he felt spittle forming a sticky pool around his cheek which was resting on the desk, it took Bridger a few seconds to realise he was still in the office. The paperwork he was intending to complete was lying untouched in the tray beside him.
Looking at the clock on the wall it told him that he was well past knocking off time. It was getting dark outside the window leaving the office bathed in shadows. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool, the sugar from the chocolate milk doing what sugar did.
The short sleep, however deep, had done nothing to placate his thumping head. He thought about putting in an extra hour to make a start on the paperwork, but he was having trouble focusing his eyes so he decided to stop for the day.
Grabbing his bag he headed out the door and into the stairwell, the stairwell windows looked down into the police station gym on the side of the building, the lights were on and he saw a couple of young officers energetically chucking a basketball into one of the hoops. He was walking slowly himself; every step was thumping inside his head and his breath coming in short little rasps. As he reached the bottom and walked out into the night air he felt a little better but not by much.
He pushed his electronic key tag up against the pad on the rear gate, watching it slide open. He was followed by a patrol car as he walked out of the yard and into the alleyway beside the Police Station, it's red and blue lights blinked on as it accelerated out onto the one way system heading north, off to another call for help. He caught two somber looking faces in the blur of the windscreen as it flashed by, both passengers intent on their destination. He found his own car where he left it the night before; he fumbled with the lock having to jiggle it a little bit to get the door open.
Collapsing in behind the wheel, he let out a pained sigh. He was glad he did not have to get involved in the busy physical world of the uniform branch anymore. He would not have survived a day like this on the back of his hangover. He much preferred the more sedate style of a detective to catch the bad guys.
Bridger drove away from the car park and made his way up into the Octagon, which made up the hub of the central city. Early evening diners were sitting at tables inside the snug looking bar restaurants that lined the bottom half. Bars that looked sedentary now, people having a relaxed drink, or dinner, but later on he knew they would play host to hundreds of intoxicated people as the younger crowd made their way to town, all topped up on whatever cheap alcohol the supermarkets were selling as a loss leader this week.
A few groups of students were starting to dribble into town now as he drove through towards princess street.
I guess it is good for the publican’s coffers, he thought, passing by the first casualty of the night, a young bearded male vomiting in the gutter with an exasperated female standing above him furiously texting on her cell phone. The scene forced Bridger's mind to flash back to the previous evening, filling in a few more blank spots.
The traffic lights changed from green to amber then to red. He stopped his car, having to apply the handbrake on the slight incline. Above him, spotlights were shining on the Cathedral and Town Hall at the top of the Octagon.
Bridger was no student of architecture but he had read the plaques placed under the buildings. It was something he and Laura had done when they had first arrived in Dunedin. They had built the town hall in both the Neo Baroque and Neo Renaissance styles for reasons long forgotten to him. St Paul's Cathedral, he had read, was the mother Church of the Anglican Dioceses of New Zealand, all useless information that seemed to stick in his memory.
The statue of Robert Burns was sitting steadfast at their feet, both grand old ladies proudly watching over him. I bet he does not have a hangover, despite spending his life in the Octagon, he thought.
Bridger smiled to himself at the thought of the statue Robert swilling from the left over cans of intoxicated revelers.
There were fairy lights strung in the trees lining the road through the middle of the Octagon on the main carriageway, glittering in the winter twilight. At this time of night, the Octagon had a more genteel feel about it as if it was an older more civilized time in its history.
He wondered what Robert Burns would have made of the city and its inhabitants that now lay out before him.
The lights changed and he moved off as he pushed a compact disc into the stereo system. It was something he always looked forward to, a chance to unwind on the short journey home. It was Gregorian Chants, the rich baritones of the religious choir unaccompanied. Bridger was not religious in any way. He had stumbled across the music one day but he had found the mellow tones helped to relax him as he drove. It suited Dunedin's architecture and history.
He drove further from the Octagon letting the music wash over him. He had installed a new sound system recently and it had certainly made a difference. It was worth more than his car, but it was well worth the expense, he could almost pick out every subtle note.
The Gregorian’s were in full chorus as he turned right into High Street and started driving steeply uphill, his 20 year old Toyota crunching as it changed down a gear before struggling on. He wondered how the electric trams used to grind their way up the hill back in the early 1900's.
The large Victorian homes that clung on to the steep incline of High Street went by slowly, some of them gothic in style, the music helping him to imagine the history of them.
They had converted many of these houses into flats, but some remained large family homes, or bed and breakfasts catering mostly to the tourists. He actually knew someone who owned one of the bigger houses, but all he ever heard was complaints about how much it cost to heat.
For the most part, unsuspecting people would only see the charm of the facade on these homes that they saw from the street as they made their way uphill. A facade that was only as thick as the walls shielding some of the occupants from view. They were beautiful buildings housing many different people.
Maybe it was the hangover but he was thinking he had a rather jaded view of this area as he drove into Mornington.
The drive took just over five minutes but when he finally pulled up outside his address, he was done in, the hangover that had been hanging around all day finally starting to win the battle. Parking on the road and looking at his darkened house, he switched off the music. Silence invaded his head.
He had been mentally rehearsing what he would say to Laura on the drive home, but not having come up with anything substantial he was partly relieved to see that her car was not in the driveway. It would give him a bit of time to wash up, maybe prepare a bit of dinner, and open a bottle of something nice. That might help things a bit.
The note he found on the kitchen table however told him a different story.
'Out with the girls, don't wait up', was scrawled onto the back of a used envelope in Laura's familiar handwriting.
With no pleasantries it was plain she was still upset with him.
Look on the bright side; he told himself, at least she left you a note so things cannot be that bad.
Whatever her mood was, he had the night to himself, again. Looking in the freezer he found what he wanted, placed the frozen meal in the microwave and set the dial. He went to the cupboard and found the bottle of Jameson, poured a generous two fingers adding nothing and went out onto the deck ignoring the cold breeze.
Bit late for Hair of the Dog, but what the hell, he thought, at least it will sort out the hangover.
He let the amber liquid slide down his throat, enjoying the warm feeling. He felt a slight burn as it hit his empty stomach. Bridger preferred the Irish whiskey as opposed to Scotch as it had a lighter taste. There were reasons for this, something to do with the way they made it. He tried to remember the long ago tasting session where he had learned of the difference, but could not recall. All he remembered was that they spelt the Scotch version Whisky, and the Irish was Whiskey. Ireland having been credited with inventing it, the Irish monks were first to discov
er the pleasures back in the 12th century.
He cupped the tumbler in his hands and looked out towards the windswept harbor in the distance, trying not to think of work or his home life, both with their trials. Taking another hit of the warm amber liquid, he let it sit for a second on his tongue before swallowing, the peaty taste becoming evident.
He was at the end of first day in his new rank and he did not feel any better about himself. Sometimes he wondered why he put in the effort. The older he got the more self doubt had been creeping into his thoughts. Ever since he had put himself up for promotion, the thoughts had intensified. He guessed it was comparing yourself with your colleagues, always seeing someone else’s work record compared with your own.
Trying to study for the promotion exams was tough as well. He had not had to rote learn anything since his days as a trainee detective and it was pretty taxing.
He realised in that process that he had few close friends in the job, if any. He had only been able to come up with a couple of names to act as referees in the selection process. He wondered if that was the same for most men his age. He had never been any good at nurturing friendships and it seemed the older he got the more introverted he became.
Having to sift through your accomplishments in life in order to satisfy the interview panel was also a chore. He had been weeks preparing his CV, trying to come up with examples of his work in the past five years that best fitted the desirable qualities that the interview panel would be looking for.
He had tried talking to Laura about it, but the Police promotions framework was slightly different from the civilian sector, so she had no real understanding of what he was trying to accomplish.
She had thought that you promoted through the ranks on a time served basis, ending your career at the top of the pile. Well she knew different now, he had spent hours at a time in the spare room they used as an office studying or preparing documents. He had been surprised as anyone to get the job, even though he was the only applicant.
Bridger just hoped he had made the right choice, taking on the extra responsibility.
Well it is a bit late to change your mind now, he thought. I will just have to get on with it and see what happens.
He checked his cell phone, he had no missed calls or text messages, and there were not any more messages from Jane. Maybe she got the message and had decided to leave their occasional fling just that, occasional.
He felt a slight relief.
One thing the job had taught him over the years was how to separate his emotions; he had become adept at putting them in a box in order to cope with the daily demands on his over taxed mind. He had a separate box for every part of his life, one for his work experiences and all the trauma that went with them, he had one for his home life and then he had Jane. Her box, supposed to house his fantasies, was a place where he could escape to when he needed; a place that was not real and could not hurt anyone. However, those fantasies had suddenly become real when he met Jane. Now they were spilling over into the other boxes, contaminating the contents.
He had no safe place to escape to now and it was starting to get to him. Laura did not deserve this; she had to be the most important thing in his life.
Putting his phone down, he thought about Jane, and about Laura. Laura with the fiery red hair he had fallen in love with all those years ago, Jane with her refreshing outlook on life, able to be so open and free. He thought about his professed love for Laura. What did he actually feel now after all this time, he knew he felt no guilt when he saw Jane, but could not see his life without Laura in it, even though they were hardly talking anymore. Maybe it was just that they had spent so much time together, had so many experiences, that it was like his obsession with older music. He felt comfortable with what he knew and was not willing to commit to anything different. No one had ever told him what he had to feel, for love to be real.
He knew that Jane was not the type to settle, he knew she would be seeing other men, maybe even had a boyfriend or husband. They had never really spoken about that side of her life. They had never really had a proper conversation, even in the cold light of day, just before the hangovers set in.
It was too complicated to think about with a couple of whiskies washing away a headache.
Whiskey and maudlin were firm friends this evening.
It is what it is, he thought.
He let the anesthetic wash through his bloodstream.
The rest of the evening past in a pleasant fog, Mazzy Star was playing quietly in the background.
Fade into you.
He did not even hear his wife come to bed that night, or feel her leave again so early in the morning.