Mystic detective(20)

Paul was restless he couldn’t settle to anything. His breakfast at Fuel that morning was not settling well inside him, he felt distinctly queasy. A frosty bike ride to visit Frankie had not improved his spirits like it usually did and neither did his time with his friend. Frankie had at least improved from his suicidal state to something resembling his ordinary state of misery. So perhaps Paul was feeling redundant now that Frankie no longer needed him and his own troubles crowded in. His evening of food and dancing and the subsequent night with Martha had been sweet. But their farewells had a bitter undercurrent unexpressed in words but communicated in the look she gave him – anguish? imploring? needing? – whatever it was he did not want to see it and certainly not speak of it.
Of course his vicar friend Keith would probably refer to this experience as ‘Your time on the cross’ or ‘Your dark night of the soul’. ‘Yeah thanks Keith… for nothing’ thought Paul, ‘Bloody clever, I don’t think’. Actually this was not the way his friend Keith would respond to whatever was up with Paul and Paul knew that. He was just angry.
After 30 years of relative quietness the students were revolting again, marching in their thousands against the proposed tripling of university fees and cuts in education spending. There was something about the quality of their anger which spoke to something in Paul. He knew that this good be a dangerous impulse, that he needed his cold analytic wits about him to tackle OM but it was a hotter anger that he felt. He was ready fro a fight. He was ready to fight for Percy, Abdullah, Frankie, Claudia and above all for himself.
Justice was a harsh mistress never truly satisfied always demanding more. Sometimes Paul wanted to turn his back on her and run away, hide, or play but again and again she called him back to her and he could not resist. He was the mystic detective after all and his trip to California could not longer be put off. ‘California here I come’ so online to book his flight and Santa Barbara hotel.

Paul was dreaming of Abdullah, moving through a hot sandy Turkish landscape. Abdullah was desperate to contact him but every time they nearly got to meet Abdullah was whisked away by some strange force. At first this not quite meeting almost seemed like fun, a kind of weird sort of dance but then it got more and more serious, more and more darker and at the last time of nearly meeting their fingertips brushed, there was a look of real terror on Abdullah’s face and pain surged up Paul’s arms causing him to cry and wake up yelling out Abdullah’s name.
The phone was ringing
- Paul?
- Whaa
- Paul it’s Mickey
- Yeah
- Yeah. I’ve just had a call from Kings Cross, yer mate Abdullah
- Whaat? (Paul came wide awake)
- He’s been beaten up, expertly, cracked ribs, broken, nose, broken cheekbone, lots of bruises.
- Oh fuck
- Yeah, he’ll live but he is mess
- Shit … I’m off to California the day after tomorrow but I can stop off in London and visit him first… what hospital?
- King’s Cross, near the station. I’ll fax through the Santa Barbara details
- And Paul?
- Yes?
- Take care
- I will you know me.
Paul was calm now. He had a job to do. Too many people were suffering, time to bring things to a head.