The Case Before Christmas: Chapter IV

Hugh Hamilton

Feeling the heat sans insulation, the shorter man began to question the prudence of his choice of wears, a near-blind get-up of heavy vests and thick suspender pants, while the larger groaned in a kitsch T-shirt whose pop culture credentials had long since cracked and faded in the wash. A whinge or two later, the two indivisibles panted their way to the crumpled address.

An unassumingly dressed woman frowned at the remainder-bin humans on her doorstep. Beneath the frown, her nose sloped like a model precipice, casting a shadow above her lip that was fortunately more Chaplin than Hitler. Ben was instantly attracted.
“Hi,” he said, forgetting to follow with an explanation. The ensuing silence, whose catalyst Ben entirely failed to comprehend, was made all the more awkward by his affecting some sort of hey-maybe-we-could-get-something-going demeanour, capped off with a slow and agonisingly deliberate nod, like that of a lunatic observing a wall not yet decorated with faeces. Noting the similarity, the unnamed made a point of omitting Ben from her field of vision, even if that meant focusing on the midget in the pants.
“You’re that guy’s sister, right?” said the pants, realising they had once again failed to discover a client’s name.
“Which guy?”
“Um...” He looked at Ben.
“That guy who lives here,” said Ben, finding himself again. “That guy whose sister you are.”
She resumed her frown. “You mean my brother?”
Hugh clicked his fingers unnecessarily. “That’s it. Your brother.”
“Then yes.”
“Yes what?”
“Yes I am my brother’s sister.”
“Splendid,” said Hugh. “May we come in?”
“What for?”
“Once we ditch the little guy, who knows?” Ben’s remark came out even worse than it reads.
“What?”
“What?”
(The latter, more aggressive variation was Hugh’s.)
“We’re here to investigate your brother’s unfortunate stabbing,” persisted Hugh, pretending Ben didn't happen.
“Slash murder.”
“Yes; we’re here to investigate your brother’s slash murder.”
“He actually found someone? Crikey.” Almost rudely, she began scratching one of her thighs. “How is the little bleeder doing?”
“I don’t know, but hopefully he’s doing it in a hospital somewhere,” quipped Hugh. “May we come in?”
“Hmm. Do you have a warrant?”
“I have a warrant.”
“Good enough.”

Despite the difference in height, the sunken couch had them both sitting knees-to-chin.
“Tea? Coffee?” asked the nose, picking up strewn books to find her seat.
“Um... One of each, please,” said Hugh.
“OK... And you?”
Ben pondered this for almost a minute.
“Milo,” he said finally, extending the final vowel as if entranced by its cadence, or mildly retarded.
“Very well.”
“Wait, I didn’t know we could do that,” said Hugh. “Can I have a Milo too? And maybe a smidgen of tonic water if you’ve got it.”
“I—”
“Speaking of which, you wouldn’t happen to have any Fanta, would you?” said Ben.
She threw a book into the corner irritably, though not without purpose. “Look, can we just get this out of the way first?”
“We could probably get it out of the way better with some drinks in us. It’s awfully hot out there.”
Ben turned Hugh’s adjective a few times in his head, trying to form something suggestive, but rejected the idea.