Tales of the Storage Space, Part 98

Martin looked down at his handcuffs.  He couldn’t believe he’d told an officer of the law that the only place he could ever feel safe was prison.

Officer Ann Worth darted a look at him from across the police station.  The burly detective she was talking to turned to retrieve some forms he’s just printed. Officer Ann Worth, nee “No Name,” took the opportunity to mouth something at Martin.  She didn’t say it aloud, but he knew it was “Ma cushla.”  He still had no idea what it meant, but he knew it was from some overly macho Clint Eastwood movie.  That made it the final insult.  Rubbing it in whilst he was helpless in handcuffs.  May as well have called him the scrawny effeminate Brit she undoubtedly thought he was.  And with that fake heartbroken face to boot.

Martin didn’t have much.  Looking around, about the only thing he could think of that he had was that he wasn’thallucinating…not one teeny bit…and he didn’t see Jennifer.  But that was probably only because she was in a separate room in the police station, babbling her brains out…without even the vaguest nod to any extenuating circumstances…about how he’d killed Frank.  Well, he’d beaten her to the punch on that one; he’d already told that burly detective all about it.

He had included the extenuating circumstances, but the burly detective only raised an eyebrow and made the sarcastic remark that that explained why he’d notified the police immediately rather than fleeing 3,000 miles under an assumed name.

No, Martin didn’t have much.  And, yes, he was a scrawny effeminate Brit who’d taken too many hallucinogenic drugs when he was younger.  But he bloody well wasn’t going to let some cheap tart with that annoyingly broad American accent get the better of him.

Dear Ann was still staring at him with that fake heartbroken face, rubbing in that sarcasm by repeating “ma cushla” over and over again whilst the burly detective sorted all those bloody forms.

Martin drew himself up, raised an eyebrow and raked Ann Worth repeatedly with a look that would wither whole fields of crops on the vine.  If there was one thing a Brit had that no American could match, it was hauteur.

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