The night had passed and not a single minute of it did I waste on sleep.
My weight settled on a chair too stiff to be forgotten and already worn enough to be replaced. With my legs pulled up and coat still on, it seemed as if I was waiting to be evicted from someone else's life. The ticking of the mantle clock across the room sounded of a metronome meant for madness. It was slow and happened on purpose, far too steady for a soul like mine.
Outside the single-pane window, one can observe that the rain had finally stopped. However, its dampness lingered. It clung to the glass like some sort of stain that wouldn't lift, frosting itself with condensation. The fog hadn't moved either. It only swelled with every breath like a slow heartbeat on glass. I wiped it once not too long ago, but all it did was just smear.
This was my office now, wasn't it?
Rather, it was his.
A vivid image of the scenario I encountered the moment I opened the door last night flashed to mind.
The entire room was cluttered as if a storm had passed through the place. A series of ration coupons, multiple tobacco tins, several curled-edge photographs, and a half-eaten bar of chocolate wrapped in waxed paper—all of these scattered on different areas of the room, ground and desks alike. I could only stare at it initially. It was too recent to be covered in dust, but too lonely to be loved.
I rose from my seat. Now walking the length of the room like a man on trial, silently hoping the floorboards would creak a confession. The cot in the corner had an itchy wool blanket, seemingly patterned with the shape of a body that hadn't left it for weeks. A coal stove I assume to be the heater, probably long retired, sat cold beside a pile of old folded newspapers. Its headlines whispered of the Churchill and rationing. Some of those I once studied in class. Old numerical codes and names. I couldn't help but notice the ink bled differently compared to my time.
I turned back and was about sat on the seat behind my desk, when my gaze landed at a tall shelf on the right side of the office. I moved closer towards it.
Envelopes.
Hundreds of them.
They were filed meticulously in alphabetical order as they were labeled along one side each. Some already turned yellow at the edges, while other cases were still fresh. There were also letters in between. A lifetime sorted by surname and sleeplessness. My fingers skimmed through each one until it didn't. I pulled one from the middle where my hand had stopped.
Winthrop, E.
Inside the file was a coupon, a scrawled letter, a sketch of a shoeprint in soft mud, and clipped beside it was a personal note in handwriting far neater than mine had ever been in the past lifetime.
Observe the prints, left heel first. Bad knee? No, t'was but nervous pacing. Watch the edge of the stoop, her foot turns inward here. A deliberate pause...
I shut it quickly, putting it back on the shelf before I could damage it like it was some prized possession.
The real Catch Everard was good, alright.
I circled back towards the opposite end of the shelf. A name written on an envelope caught my eye. I thought I knew of someone with this surname back then. A public persona or someone from my department. I took hold of the file, then opened it.
Albright, S.
Inside were a child's drawing and a printed report belonging to the victim of the case. There were even notes on ink type and envelope weight of the paper used along with the clipped note of the inspector.
I take back what I had said earlier. He wasn't just good. He was damn obsessive.
I rifled faster, no longer sure what I was looking for. My own reflection flickered in the dark window. My complexion was pale. My eyes were too wide awake. I didn't look like a man pretending to be someone else. It now seemed as if I was haunted by the act of becoming him.
Then I caught sight of another.
A small envelope tucked between selected files. It was unlabeled and seemingly older than most of the newer cases I passed by earlier. Inside of it was a photograph of four people. Three of them but one's lips curved from ear to ear.
That one was him—me.
Catch Everard stared out of the frame with a look that dared me to continue what I was doing. To remain pretentious, trying hard not to smear his hard-earned reputation.
I couldn't look away from his eyes.
I didn't know how long I sat there. Eventually, the mantle clock chimed and startled me from whatever half-sleep I'd drifted into. My shoulder ached from the angle I sat with. My mouth tasted like rust and rationed tea.
The desk lamp buzzed overhead, a low hum that seemed louder in solitude. I reached toward the bookshelf nearby. There were dusty volumes of what seem to be criminology, psychology, pulp magazines that wore their clichéd uniforms. Most of them had bookmarks and margin notes. I picked one at random and flipped to a page. Highlighted were the words...
"The criminal almost always returns to the scene of the crime. They fear justice, but they crave memory."
His dedication fascinated me.
Once I put down the paper, my eyes roamed to the markings on the floor. Based on the actual detective's personality, these were probably grooves from pacing back and forth, probably due to mindless thinking. As if a rhythm had carved itself into the planks. I lined my own steps against them. To no surprise, they were the same. My stride was the exact match his.
If we ever switch back, I have to return the life undamaged. How could I promise that when it was already breaking into me like a tide?
I flexed my fingers. The stiffness wasn't mine, I was sure of it. It was his—the habits, tension of my joints, down to the posture. The way my hand curled automatically toward the tray of fountain pens on top of the desk. How it reached toward the kettle before even noticing I was thirsty.
I didn't know when it started. Maybe since the very beginning, but I was losing track of where I ended.
Ring.
Ring. Ring.
The ringing of an old telephone came. I checked the clock, it was around 2:00 o'clock early in the morning. My eyes then dropped at the location of the phone. It was a rotary telephone.
How do you pick up a call with a rotary telephone? Is it the same with a regular one? Heck, even at my time, I never got the chance to hold a telephone.
I moved towards it. Reached for the phone and closed my fingers around it, lifting it toward my lips. I took a deep breath. My hand shook at first. Finally, I wrapped the phone between my right palm and pressing it near my ear.
Shit, how should I respond to a call?
Do I announce myself in a casual way or a more formal tone? Do I let silence pretend I belong here instead? Will the receiver understand me even if I say nothing? He must, no?
I have been trying to study the owner of this body's persona, but I haven't reached to the part where I understand how he deals with people just yet. I didn't know how I was expected to respond even to a mere phonecall that wouldn't give me away especially to people that knew him well.
The one that currently called must be someone that is close to him, since he didn't seem like the type that had his number plastered everywhere. The absence of calling cards and not being featured on newspapers despite his rumored genius. He must have been someone that keeps to himself, I read that somewhere on a psychological article describing why smart people are the way they are. Although, I might be wrong. In conclusion, I still didn't know what to say to whoever called me.
"It's me. As expected, you're still awake. Regarding last night's case, we'll need you at the office by noon." The womanly voice informed and then hung up without second thoughts before I could even respond.
And how in hell was I supposed to find my way to Scotland Yard?