The Calming Rain at Night

He wondered if the extra second that it took for him to break his reverie allowed the man to escape. Two gunshots from some distance away pierced through the gloom of the cloudy, still night. Having heard the sounds many times, he recognized the sound of a police held Glock pistol immediately. And in the seventy one seconds it took him to reach the alleys around where he judged the shots were fired, jumping from one roof to another, he had figured eight possibilities for the gunshots in that area at that ungodly hour of 2am. The thought if there ever was a godly hour also had crossed his mind. But what was at the forefront of his thoughts was the worry that out of the eight possibilities, only one of them involved the shots being fired from a policeman and he’d assigned that a very low probability.

A very quick surveillance of the alleys, still from rooftops, couldn’t reveal the nature of the crime that he suspected to have been committed. There were no policemen around, and even from his vantage point, he hadn’t noticed a speeding vehicle or a dispersing crowd. He couldn’t spot a burglary, nor could he spot a corpse. Intercepting the police radio, he figured that the detectives were on their way. He didn’t have enough time to scour for the ejected shells. He didn’t need to, anyway. As always, he’d get the results of the forensic firearm examination through his friend in the force.

Retreating into a dark corner of the roof on which he currently perched, he began the evaluation of the seven remaining theories. Three of those theories were around the mafia that was speculated to be building around the Congressman Theodore Koppel. It had taken him months of research to see the connections between the goons and their employer. His interrogation methods still yielded better results compared to what the cops could achieve, as his name still breathed fear. These methods aided him to see the thin threads connecting the various crimes to Koppel. The evidence he’d uncovered was certainly not sufficient and barely admissible in court. Yet, there were patterns that he couldn’t ignore. And today, he’d need more evidence before he could theorize further.

As a light drizzle set in, he hoped to hear the police sirens soon, before the scene of crime was washed clean. Even after all these years, the sound of two isolated gunshots rattled a deep nerve within him. Sights and sounds from his childhood had started resurfacing, igniting a sense of fear. The pattering of the raindrops though, adding to the ebbing din of the city and the wailing blues of the guitars he heard from the house below served to compose him. He felt the fear turn to anger, and the anger soon turned to determination. The city had to be cleansed. And now as the rain grew strong, he’d do just that.

The police sirens in the distance announced the arrival of the police. Through the intercepted feed, he had gathered that homicide detective James Hardy was on the team, and so was forensics expert Irene Lawrence. Both were new to the city, but they came with great repute. He knew of Hardy’s resolute work in the Todd double murder case which had brought him fame, while the untiring Lawrence’s temerity and keen observation skills had established her as the best among the forensics detectives. Mentally he made a note to thank the Commissioner for bringing in the best detectives to the force. With them on the case, he was certain of quick progress. He felt calmness arrive, as the rain beat down on the city and the detectives got to work.

Every night, as the tired city turned to find some rest, his prowl started. He had salvaged the city nights from thugs for years now. The night belonged to him. His was a sight that spelt terror for the unlawful, a sight that caused their knees to shiver and crumble. People still spoke of him in hushed tones, their voices contagious with fear. And for those who deserved his care, his reign of night was calming. Yet, the unlawful didn’t stop breeding. They sneaked around the city like roaches in the dark. They were the city’s stench. And they would continue to breed if someone didn’t put a stop to it all. He’d be relentless until he uprooted them and weeded them out. The city would one day be clean. The city would one day be glorious.

Commissioner Gordon’s men continued their work in the torrential rain as the Batman spread his cape and leapt to another rooftop to follow a lead in a different case, vowing that he’d keep Gotham safe. He would take Gotham to glory.

Just Another Day at Work

Tired as he was, he grinned from ear to ear when he saw it.

3 hours. 14 minutes, 15 seconds. That was how much time Homicide Detective James Hardy had spent in the interrogation room. He’d just come out of the room with every inch covered in sweat, exhausted mentally and physically drained. The prime suspect in his latest assignment of the Todd double murder case was unyielding. He had gone inside the interrogation room convinced of the guilt of the suspect. A very methodical man, Hardy, had left no hair unnoticed during the investigation and after 9 nearly sleepless days and nights of relentless efforts, during which he had worked under the scrutiny of the media lenses employing his acute observation and reasoning skills, he was finally convinced of the sequence of the events. A confession from the prime suspect would seal everything up. Now at 2 in the morning, the tense situation notwithstanding, he was smiling at the picture that he had just received on WhatsApp.

Despite his firm conviction of the event sequence he had carefully and craftily reconstructed, the interrogation at some point had made him question himself. Hardy would never forgive himself if he was in any way responsible for a false conviction. He thought about how he would normally discuss every detail of the case with his partner-in-crime-detection Irene Lawrence. This case did not give him time for that. Nor did it give him Irene, because she was on her holiday, which was already put off three times. But he still had painstakingly gone over smallest of details the case presented (like the small stain of blood on the second floor window and the seemingly watertight alibi of the neighbour) at least thrice before arriving at his conclusions. During the doubtful junctures in the interrogation, he had gone over the copious details again in his head and had realized how his theory was indeed right. It had taken enormous concentration and character on his part to not just process the information the suspect was giving, but also to find a way to trap him. Having stepped out of the room after successfully extracting a confession, the weary detective continued to grin at his phone.

All he wanted now was some strong Sumatran coffee, brewed freshly from the coffee beans which were at his table, the bag still unopened. But this was only his second choice. What he truly longed for was on the rocks scotch and a night of peaceful sleep. It was a longing which started taking shape just after the confession. However, the just received picture had killed that longing in an instant. He hadn’t a choice but to settle for the second best now. Second best though it was, it didn’t make Hardy feel bad. And maybe, he thought, that was the effect of the picture he had just received.

The picture was just madness, really. Talk to any civilian about it, she’d feel disturbed at the very least. But that’s what, he figured, jobs like his drove people to. He felt more certain that without a degree of madness, one couldn’t do all the work, which involved looking at bodies over and over and at each part with total attention, looking for bodies in places where you are least likely to find them, coming up with theories about how the bodies came to be in that state, came to be where they did, then looking at the area around the body, talking to people who could in any way be related to the bodies, find those relations too on many occasions, and finally finding the somebody - people or a group of people - who was responsible for the body being there. And they invariably worked with a strict deadline. The picture was one epitome of the madness.

How the Todd double murder case alone hadn’t driven him to madness, Hardy didn’t know. High publicity and Irene’s absence had made it more difficult than it could’ve been. But more madness awaited him now. The picture had been Irene’s selfie. No, it wasn’t a selfie from her holiday trip; it was her customary selfie with the new murder victim. She was called back to work and the game was afoot again. Yet, for one last time, he smiled at the picture.

The longest walk… to ruin or fame!

He forced a smile on his face. It was imperative for him to keep his calm; to keep his nerve. Faltering was not an option. It never was. But especially not now.

His time had come. He started the walk, still trying to force a smile on his face. He wasn’t so sure about how fast he was walking, but he felt like a snail could beat him for pace now. He was tired, yes. The past couple of hours were draining. He had very little energy left in him, because he had given more than he ever had. Mentally too, it was a tough two hours. These, though, weren’t the reasons why he was walking slowly.

Every passing second would one day go down in history, and it took him closer to being a part of history himself. No matter what happens, he will be etched into history books. It was this knowledge that made him slow.

“Not just the books, even documentaries I’m sure!”

That thought in his head actually made him smile. For a fraction, he felt confidence surge in him. But it only lasted that long.

He felt a hundred thousand pairs of eyes on him. Some rooting for him, some willing against him. The people around him were screaming their lungs out. If there ever was a situation where one could feel the weight of 100kgs on him, though he was carrying nothing, this was it. Expectation weighed on him. He was also aware of a million other eyes across the globe that were fixated on him. Again, some rooting for him, some willing against him. He continued to walk, at the same unknown pace.

His opponents would have studied him in all detail. He wasn’t going to do anything new. It was something he had practiced before and done effectively over the years. But if that was an advantage at all, he didn’t think so now. He wondered if it would play against him.

His walk had carried him to his destination, but that wasn’t the end of it. He had done only the easiest part right. Now came the defining moment. A moment that would make a celebrated hero whose name would be sung in praise or the villain of an entire nation who would always be known as the man who let them down when it really mattered. His heart was hammering against his ribcage. His mind was still racing with thoughts of the aftermath. What would happen now?

He stood with his arms on his hips, legs apart. Suddenly, he felt adrenaline rushing inside him. He knew what he should do. And to do that, he threw the thoughts of the consequences out of his head. The screams of the people, though loud as ever, were reduced to a mere whisper. He had one quick glance at the opponent in front of him. He focused his mind and picked his target. His face held an expression that wasn’t quite decipherable, but it decidedly was what a confident man would wear.

From the edge of the area, he took measured steps towards the penalty area and struck the ball firmly to the bottom right corner of the goal. Even before the ball was halfway through to the goal, he was aware of the keeper diving to his right. He had managed to deceive the keeper, it was only a matter of the shot being on target! Before he could finish thinking this, the ball had found the bottom corner it was aimed at. He had just struck the winning penalty! Falling to his knees, he felt a massive emotion take him over, as emotion that’s felt when your nation has just won the world cup!

Breathe...

The light was fading away quickly and evening would soon be night. Walking around her quiet neighbourhood, the relevance of this on her situation was not lost on her. But no, the light in her life had already faded. The night in her life would never cease. She forced her quick and shallow breaths to change to long and deep ones. Yet, she felt her pulse beat as fast as it always had for the past few days. She struggled in vain to keep those drops of tears from escaping her eyes. Suddenly, she found that she could walk no more and sat down in a heap on the pavement, under the yellow street light.

“I’m learning to walk again...” (Walk, Foo Fighters)

A song on her phone hummed in her ears. The trickling tears were quickly becoming a torrent. Burying her face in her hands did not help. She felt tormented by the emptiness. Where now was his shoulder, upon which she’d laid her head on many occasions? Where now was his comforting voice that had always reassured her? Where now was his warm hug that made him her safe haven? Where now was his sweet kiss that made her feel cared for? Where now, was he?

“My soul yearns for one last look at you...” (Patience, Skyharbor)

Composing herself with great effort - though it still did not prevent her from heaving - she looked up at the sky. The chill wind blowing could not affect her; she had turned cold over the days in his absence. Every second since that dreadful moment was spent in reminiscence of the memories they shared: the cheers and the tears, the thrills and the fears and their dreams and their failures. As she was momentarily distracted from those thoughts by the wind that briefly grew stronger, she realised what she was looking at in the sky. Until then, she was merely looking at it, without actually taking it in. It was the brightest star in the sky, Sirius. The irony, now, of the situation was not lost on her. She had lost the brightest star in her life.

“Always the summers are slipping away… Find me a way for making it stay...” (Trains, Porcupine Tree)

She got up and trudged back home. She did not know why she did any of the things that she did of late. She did not see how anything mattered at all. Surely it will all come to nothing one day! Nothing made sense to her anymore. Living seemed like a burden to her. Just then, a small voice that sounded very much like him spoke to her, inside her head. It filled her with something that made her want to hold on and to carry on. It even wanted her to make him feel proud. His voice had said, “You know this is not how I want you to live right now.” Or was it her own voice? Through all her exhaustion, she couldn’t say. But it had lit the light of defiance in her. A light to dispel the night. Though she didn’t know it, it would soon be morning again.

“And your tears have been worthwhile

They got you through to a different place and time where all is new

To the start of something fine 

Like morning dew...” (Love Will Come to You, Poets of the Fall)