An Object
fergus tremar menendez
Monday Had a worker come to the station earlier. Didn’t like him from the outset: mottled skin, unkempt stubble, and a chin jutting out like a bonnet, locking his jaw in permanent grimace. What’s more, he had come here to rat on a colleague: one of the sailors down at the docks. The informant said he was a mechanic. Not that I’d trust him fixing anything; you could smell the liquor on his breath. He said the sailor he was reporting had stolen an object from the workers, something that did not belong to him. The docks are run as a collective; any fish captured at sea are pooled together in the warehouse, then the profits are evenly split. Apparently this particular sailor has been spotted stealing a crate, dragging it out of sight behind a net. The man was rubbing his hands together while he spoke, grinning manically, with glee. It was clear he didn’t like the sailor; this was recompense for an old grudge. I put my pen to the side and considered. Rural policing isn’t up to much. I mostly spend my time helping cats or comforting kids who dropped their ice cream. This town is quaint but it is sluggish. I should have gone into writing instead. Stories have always been my true passion. So while I disliked my informant, and I perceived his hidden vendetta (if you have a grudge with someone, where’s the honour in going to the police?), I had no reason not to pursue it. This town t.v.