Swans a Swimming

Swans a Swimming

Freeman:
Oliver is guilty and everybody within a five-mile radius knows this. He's a thief, a liar and, worst of all, a teenager. It is my duty and responsibility to lock Oliver away forever and I would take great pleasure and pride in doing so, I only needed to prove it first.

Oliver is chewing on chewing gum. He is going to have to spit that out immediately. I hand him a sheet of paper, silently and he takes it, silently.

“Oliver.” I take my place at the other side of the table, sip my coffee and embrace the pain of the headache that has set it.

‘The never-ending question: Are you a boy or a girl?’

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‘I’m 16 years old, raised on the Barn of the Crumlin Road’

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A mean fish called Cancer: A new story by Amy Cahill

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“Ryan.” He replies. I suddenly realise that I hate this kid.

“It’s Officer Freeman.” I knew he was going to say it before he even opened his mouth.

“Like Morgan,” and he spins the chair again in a perfect 360. “Where’s Polly? I like her better because she brings me tea.”

“Officer Scott will be joining us shortly but that should be the least of your concern. We have witness accounts, you’re a repeat offender and the person in that video footage, well, he could be your twin. I know you did it; you know you did, and if we make this knowing official...” He’d be an idiot not to confess.

“I didn’t do it.”

He’s an idiot.

Polly bursts through the door with two cups of tea and a croissant, soaked from the rain. Polly Scott has a habit of embarrassing herself but at least she has brought me a pastry, I stick my hand out to retrieve it but she gives it to the criminal instead.

“Sorry Oli, no scones today.” She places the tea and the French snack in front of Oliver and I think I’m having a stroke.

“This is extremely unprofessional Scott. In future please refrain from supplying our suspect with baked goods.” I look down at my notes and hear laughing: this is my idea of a nightmare.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” the two reply in unison and this is what I imagine a school teacher feels like. I have to leave the room, escape this for a few minutes. I step outside and I hear their conversation begin to flow, I hear more laughing, and I have to stop it.

“Officer Scott, can I speak to you outside, please?” She was too naive to understand we’re dealing with dangerous criminals.

She rolls her eyes and I have to resist calling her out on it. Before we leave, Oliver hands her the piece from earlier now folded into an origami swan. She smiles.

“Merci.” she says.

“De rien,” he replies and I think great, they have in-jokes.

We leave the room and I have my lecture pre-planned in my head. Before I get to speak, Polly is dismantling the swan. She is one strange girl.

“Knew it!” She yells and shoves the paper into my hands.

Written in childlike handwriting are the words: “I did it.”

This is a written confession and it’s starting to feel like Christmas. I rush back in and...

He’s gone. I can’t help but notice Scott’s smile.

Polly:
I don't know if Oliver is guilty, I just know he takes his tea with two sugars and no milk. I like Oli, he reminds me of my brother and he annoys Freeman, so that's a plus.

I wait in the pouring rain and rethink Oli’s case.

A 16 year old walks into an art gallery and leaves within five minutes. In those five minutes the building’s entire security system goes offline, €2 million worth of artwork is stolen and there is a city-wide power cut. The only witness was the lady at the front desk who printed his ticket but the only video footage is from a grainy Tesco security camera next door. It’s just not enough.

Oli has been arrested before, for hacking into his school’s principal private Facebook and then exposing him for cheating on his wife, crashing the British’s prime minister’s wedding and interrupting the vows... and who can forget the time he ran a fake charity to help buy glass eyes for blind dogs? I admit it’s impressive.

I’m late, and Freeman looks like he’s going to kick the bucket, he sticks out his arm for reasons that are beyond me, perhaps a stroke, and almost has a conniption when I start to hand Oli his brekkie.

“This is extremely unprofessional Scott, in future, please refrain from supplying our suspect with baked goods,” says Freeman and I can’t help but pull a face.

Freeman is dying to know what’s going on but I’m not telling him and neither is Oli. Sometimes I fear me and Oli make a better team than me and Freeman ever will.

Freeman, the poor guy, has arrived at his wits’ end.

It’s just me and Oli now.

“Run away with me.”

“Excuse me?” I nearly choke on my tea.

“To Paris.”

“I hate Paris.”

“You’ve never been.” How does he know that?

“I’ve seen Ratatouille.”

“It’s not an accurate depiction.”

“You only want to go because you want to fleece the Louvre.”

He laughs at that.

“It could be fun.” And he looks off into the distance, thinking, I assume.

“You’re 16.” As if that’s the only problem. With that, Freeman runs back in.

Freeman is demanding a chat with yours truly: it must be my lucky day.

Oli hands me a small swan, as a gift, so I allow for some French banter as I watch Freeman go a lovely shade of red.

He’s fuming but before I allow him to monologue, I look at the swan. This is Oli we’re dealing with; nothing is ever as it seems.

“I knew it!” As much as I like Oli, I like my job more.

Freeman takes it all in and, in an acute attempt to totally steal my thunder, he rushes into the interview room.

But Oli’s gone.

And I can’t help but smile.

Oliver:
I am totally guilty, I nearly always am. Any crime you think I did? I did it, but this is just between you and me.

This has to be the most uncomfortable chair I have ever sat on, so much so I don’t think anyone has noticed that I have been removing the stuffing for the last couple of days. Freeman has entered, showtime.

I spin in my chair and shove a piece of chair stuffing into my mouth. Yes, it’s childish but I have to work with what I got and what I’ve got is Ikea furniture. I start to chew, loudly obnoxiously some might say, just enough to annoy Freeman. He hands me the paper, thank you Ryan.

“Oliver,” he sighs and his hatred for me is clear as day.

“Ryan,” I say and this tips him over the edge, it always does.

I distract, that’s how I do things, that’s how I stole the paintings. The power cuts, the system fails... this isn’t my first rodeo, I chew loudly, I ask about Polly and I hope he can’t hear me rip the paper in half.

He doesn’t, he fancies himself too much to notice and he’s talking to me: all I can hear is “Bla, bla, bla.”

“I didn’t do it.” It’s my go-to answer, always safe.

He’s about to blow a fuse. Then Polly, love of my life, my saving grace, walks in.

I’m too focused on folding my papers, one into the swan, the other over and over again until it’s thick enough to jam a door. Polly pulls a face and poor elderly Ryan is gone, he’s out, we’ve broken him.

It’s me and Polly now, so I have to think on my feet.

“Run away with me.”

“Excuse me?” she nearly chokes on her tea.

“To Paris.”

“I hate Paris.”

“You’ve never been.” I’m guessing.

“I’ve seen Ratatouille.”

“It’s not an accurate depiction.”

“You only want to go because you want to fleece the Louvre.”

I laugh at that. Don’t give me any more ideas.

“It could be fun. “

“You’re 16.” As if that’s the only problem, and before I can argue back Freeman runs in.

It’s now or never.

I hand her the small swan hoping she doesn’t see the other paper under the table and she thanks me in French. Maybe I’ll give her a call in two years.

They walk out and before the door closes, I kick the paper under it, it doesn’t close properly and I remember: the only thing you need to be a good criminal is luck.

I open the door. They’re so close, but they’re distracted by the swan, thank God, and I duck under a bench. They storm back into the room and I lock them in.

I spare one last glance through the small glass panel before I begin running for my life, and I can’t help but notice that I made Officer Polly Scott smile.