You Have Done It

You smile in satisfaction, adjusting the cuff of your suit and look around the room. It is barely furnished. A polished wooden table is in front of you, a brown nameplate the sole object resting on it. It has drawers. Two cushion chairs for customers and your own rotating chair are the only other things. The clock ticks steadily on the wall, the hands on your watch in perfect sync. You wait, gently swaying side to side on the chair, as ‘Staying Alive’ comes on again from below.

The music ends exactly as a knock sounds on the door, and you see shadows from underneath. Two people, a husband and a wife.

“Come in.” You are unhurried, calm, unlike the two who enter, their faces worried. You do not get up to greet them.

The woman stops as soon as she has stepped inside, letting out a gasp. Her husband is warned by it, and he stops too, hovering over her shoulder. They are looking at you, your scarred and mutilated face.

The woman is wearing a red dress that reaches her knees, and clutching an ugly yellow handbag, and the man is wearing low hanging faded jeans with a brown shirt that says ‘Mew York City’ with an illustration of a cat. You do not, however, gasp at them.

You smile at them instead, gesturing for them to be seated.

They do not move.

“Detective Dawson?” The man asks stupidly, glancing at the nameplate. “You’re the private detective?”

“Yes,” you say. “Please, sit down.”

You wait for them to exchange a glance, speaking with their eyes.

Her husband turns toward her, but the woman ignores him, and moving quickly, shuts the door and settles herself on the chair. He follows suit. As she sits down, a lock of her blonde hair falls down from her chignon. She doesn’t seem to notice. She removes her phone from the bag, placing it on the table.

The screen flickers on.

A small boy with twinkling eyes looks back at you, his mouth curled in a sweet smile. He does not seem to be more than 3 years old.

She cuts straight to the point.

“He’s gone.”

Her voice does not warble. You are impressed.

“And you want me to find him.”

She nods, before her husband makes to speak.

You direct your smile towards him, and he flinches back a little.

“His name is Jack. He’s been missing for 3 weeks now. We,” he glances at the woman for a second before continuing, “already approached the police. They haven’t managed to get any headway. W-we are, as expected, devastated. We were hoping you could help us.”

He does look upset, the tiniest bit of hope visible through the clouds on his face. Poor him. You set your hands on the table in front of you, interlocking your fingers.

“Details?”

The woman speaks this time, as the picture of the boy fades and then screen turns black. She takes the phone and puts in back in her bag. You make out some fraying letters- M S G M.

“Me and Henry had just put him to sleep in his room and we were- we were sending off the guests, it was really just 15 minutes that we were at the door and when we came back, he wasn’t there. He just just disappeared.”

The first traces of desperation escape her. You smile again, nodding for her to continue.

“The window to his room was open, and the fire escape stairs are under it. The police think the kidnapper, he got out that way.” She fidgets with the strap of the handbag, a new tic. “He didn’t take anything else, there was a laptop in the room, along with a few dollars under a book, but he didn’t take any of it.”

Henry continues. “The police couldn’t find any fingerprints, and the cameras on the back street don’t work. The kidnapper — he knew that. And they interrogated a few of our neighbours and found nothing.”

The woman interrupts. “Mrs. Gedshen, she lives beside us, did say that she saw someone around 8 o’clock that night, but as fond as we are of her-”; her voice softens, and you manage to stop yourself before you raise an eyebrow. “She can’t really see well, and the sweetheart is nearing 75, we don’t think she really saw someone.” She purses her lips at the end.

Henry puts a hand on her shoulder. His ring shines on his finger, a gold circle with an embedded diamond. He looks at you and asks, “You mentioned on the phone that you were a, a sort of professional in these matters, something about Durham?” The woman looks up at this. She wasn’t a part of the call. While she had seen the ad in the paper, Henry had called you and fixed an appointment. “We really hope you can get our son back.” He clenches his fingers on her shoulder.

“We’re ready to pay — just name the amount. Please get him back.”

“Do you need to come home and search for clues or evidence?” The woman asks.

You ignore her. “What makes you think the kidnapper was a ‘he’?”

The woman furrows her eyebrows, confused. “We — we just assumed it was a he. As a kidnapper usually is“. She looks to her husband for help. “We don’t know. Couldn’t it be a he?”

You shake your head, and before you can speak, Henry’s phone rings out. His wife looks at him in disbelief, and your own eyebrows are raised. He removes the phone out of his pocket, frowning at the name. He looks at her warily. “I -I need to take this. I’ll be five minutes, tops. It’s important.” He looks at me another time before leaving the room. The door slams behind him.

You lower your eyebrows and smile at the woman, the two of you now the sole occupants of the room.

“Now,” you say, “I need you to think carefully about this. Do you know of anyone who might have a grudge against you?”

She frowns. “No, the police asked us that too.” She pauses, as you open the drawer in front of you.

“W-We’re regular folk. We don’t have any sort of enemi…” She trails off as you set three empty flasks on the table. They’re lab instruments, things that could be found in any high school chemistry class.

She sounds confused as she asks, “What are you doing?”

You shake your head, maybe in a few more minutes. “Please, go on. I need you to think harder.” You extract a pair of standard laboratory gloves from the drawer, pulling them up your hands.

Her eyebrows are still furrowed but she continues. “No, we’ve given it a good deal of thought. Henry’s a great guy, all of his friends attest to that, he couldn’t possibly have someone aiming to hurt hi-“

You interrupt her with a piercing look. “I wasn’t asking about him. I asked you, Agatha.”

You can feel it, the exact moment that realisation dawns on her face, and suddenly you’re both transported to a different moment. Agatha is younger, and the three flasks in front of you are filled with bubbling liquids. Chemistry class, junior year, Whittledale High school. The rest of the laboratory is empty. It’s just you and her, in the black and white school uniform, glaring at each other across the table.

She’s snarling something at you, something that ends in “-ew yourself.”

You’re not scared of her, so you shout back. “Like I give a damn! It isn’t my fault that you’re not good enough for-“. But, you don’t get to complete the sentence, because she’s suddenly right beside you, and you see the look of pure fury on her face before her hands clench at the back of your head. She twists, and the sharp pain makes you yell. But she doesn’t stop.

She slams your head onto the table, and your neck turns to the side, knocking down the flasks, and in the heat of the moment, you barely remember the teacher saying ‘Don’t, and I mean it, do not mix these chemicals together unless you want to give yourself a nasty burn and a failed grade’ before you squeeze your eyes shut tight. You already know what is going to happen, and you remember seeing the liquids seeping towards each other the exact moment before you closed your eyes, and yet when it happens you cannot help but scream.

You barely register Agatha’s yelling turning into panic as pain rips through your face. Your skin is burning, and the heat is in your eyes and it feels as though the flames will consume you whole, because it is searing through your cheeks. It is but an instant of agony before you lift yourself up and away from the fire, and dimly recognise through the haze of white, a familiar silhouette, Agatha, running away.

Running away. The ear-splitting sound of the fire alarm echoes through the room as you fall down, your vision going black.

But you’re not unconscious right now. You’re back in the consulting room, and Agatha is in front of you, her eyes wide and terrified. She jerks up, her purse falling out of her grip, and her fingers twitch at her side. You remove the gloves gently, a smile forming on your face, as her eyes follow your every movement. She takes a step backwards, and then another, and another until she’s pressed against the door. You stare at her, daring her to run away, to run away again and leave, leave because she’s a coward, a coward who won’t stay and face her problems. She makes a quick movement, and your eyes widen a little in disbelief and you start to sneer because she doesn’t know she won’t be able to run away this time, but she just slides down, falling onto the floor.

You still stare at her, unflinching.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what I- I’m sorry, I never meant it to-“ . She stutters, her voice so fragile, you knew it wouldn’t be long before they break.

You get up from your chair and take a step towards her.

“Did you know they thought I fell asleep and did that to myself?” You say, your voice as hard as steel.

You smile wryly, taking another step. “I was angry at first, so very angry. When I came to, the only thing that prevented me from calling out your name as the reason for this was that I couldn’t yet speak properly. In the end, I didn’t rat you out. I thought you’d be thankful. I was still willing to forgive you then, if you’d come visited me in the hospital. I would’ve understood if you came to me, apologising then. But you never came.”

Tears, one by one, make their way down her face. You notice that your own face is wet. Another step.

“You didn’t come that day, nor the next week. You didn’t come at all.” A dry laugh escapes your mouth.

“And you forgot about me, you went fooling around and enjoying your laugh as if it never happened.

As if you never did this to me.” You point a finger at your own face, at the scarring. Her face is twisted in pain, and yet you don’t stop. Like she didn’t.

“You never cared about how I was doing. I spent years! Years hiding in my home, refusing to get out, because I didn’t want anyone to see what you made me.”

You stop right in front of her.

“I did get better eventually. I came out. I made some friends. I finished college. But you,” you spit out, “you were always in my mind. Every day, every year, I had the same nightmare, replaying the same moment again and again.”

You pause for a moment, looking at her contorted face.

“But you never thought about it again, did you?”

She finally manages to gasp out a few words. “I- I- didn’t- I’m so sorry, I couldn’t-“

Your voice tightens, and you yell out in rage. “What? You couldn’t bear to remember it? You couldn’t stop yourself that day? You couldn’t- what? Do you think I could? You forced me to. You made me the way I am right now!”

She closes her eyes, her mouth forming the shapes of words, but no sound coming out.

You crouch down, leaning towards her. “You’ll never see your son again. Suffer now,” you whisper into her ears, “As I did.”

And then you get up, push her out of the way and exit the room. You smile, because at last, you’ve done it. You’ve taken revenge.