The alarm clock's sudden, harsh beeping didn't take Isembard by surprise. He had been laying awake, staring at it for 28 minutes. He'd been counting. Quickly, he reached out and turned it off, stretching out his legs and throwing his blanket aside. The pair of cats formerly asleep at the foot of the bed quietly protested as they too were tossed to the floor. "Oh, don't complain We talked about this." He mumbled; shuffling through the open door of the bedroom, through the narrow hallway and into the small bathroom. Pulling the shower curtain aside, he sighed, looking down at his feet. "Homicide. Yeah, I can do that." He muttered to himself, "Come on, just don't fuck it up Izzy. Don't fuck this up too. You can do this. Come on." He grew louder and more determined, looking up and reaching for the knob that controlled the shower. Turning it and stepping into the near freezing stream, he cried out, only standing in it long enough to vaguely lather up his body and scalp with a bar of soap and rinse himself off. He didn't choose to shower like this, but the boiler was broken. It was cold showers until a week tomorrow because of some part that needed to be flown in from god knows where or something. Whatever the reason; Izzy was forced into having the fastest possible showers, and shivering his way through brushing his teeth and shaving.
This morning he was especially careful not to cut himself, it was technically his first day after all. He knew that his new superior was, well, new. She didn't know all the reasons why he needed a "new assignment" (demotion) in the first place. He assumed, at least. How could he have got the post otherwise? No, he knew how much his old boss had wanted rid of him. "Not very nice of him to dump me, who is apparently such a problem, on the new guy, was it?" He muttered, venomously. "Fuck him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Pawning me off on some new team run by some newbie. Like he's embarrassed of being associated with me. Like I'm a liability. Fuck him." Striding back into his bedroom, he grabbed a coathanger from the doorknob, pulling the light grey shirt out of it and tossing it onto the bed. The shirt already had a thin, black tie tied loosely around its unbuttoned collar, and Izzy straightened it a little before pulling the shirt on over his head, tightening the tie a little as he opened the tiny wardrobe, pulling out a much darker grey suit. He lazily continued dressing himself, leaving his shirt half untucked and wearing odd, brightly coloured socks underneath his battered loafers. He roughly smoothed down his hair with one hand, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and perching them on the bridge of his nose.
Entering the kitchen-slash-living room, he walked past the kettle, flipping a switch to turn it on as he stopped to open a cupboard and pull out a loaf of bread. Taking two slices and just eating them dry, Izzy replaced the loaf and closed the cupboard, turning to a new one. Pulling out two pouches of cat food, he called out; "Morse! Frost! Food!" And was greeted by the scurrying of eight paws as the cats came bounding into the room. They purred and rubbed themselves around Izzy's legs as he filled their bowls and set them down. "Duck today, yeah. Lucky you." He straightened up again as the kettle announced itself with a loud click. Tossing a teabag from an open packet into a mug already sitting on the counter, he picked up the boiling kettle and poured himself a cup of tea. He had never liked the taste of coffee, and while tea had less caffeine, Izzy could rely on alternative stimulants when necessary. He waited a while; rubbing his eyes gently with one hand, his other resting on the counter, for it to brew. Pulling a spoon from a drawer, he lifted out the teabag and tossed it into the trash. Turning back to the open drawer, he picked out one of dozens of packets of sugar he had pocketed from cafes and diners before closing it. Paying for sugar (or salt, or any kind of sauce) was a sucker's game. After tearing the sachet open and emptying its contents into the mug, he tossed it onto the counter. It didn't need to go in the trash right now. It could wait. He stirred the rapidly cooling tea vigorously with the spoon before tossing it blindly towards the sink, missing, and sighing as it clattered along the counter. The tea was a little hotter than lukewarm, and pretty sweet, so Izzy threw the mug back in seconds.
Licking his lips; he turned and strode through to the living room portion of the room. On a battered low wooden coffee table, surrounded by an equally battered couch and armchair, were the tools of his trade. His holster, his gun, his car keys, and his badge. Temporarily removing his jacket, he pulled the holster on over his shoulders and picked up the pistol. He paused for a second, feeling it in his hand. They didn't give officers this gun any more, there was a newer standard issue now; lighter, smaller, more efficient. Izzy had tried it and his aim was all off. He was too used to the weight of his old gun. There was probably something deep and meaningful about that, he thought to himself, sliding it into the holster and clipping it shut. As he put his jacket back on, he felt the subtle, familiar weight of the gun underneath it and it was almost a comfort. He dropped the keys into one of the side pockets, and slid the leather wallet holding the badge and ID into the breast pocket carefully. As well as all those things, though, there was another group of stuff on the table. Next to the badge and the gun; there was a frameless square mirror with a small mound and three narrow lines of white powder on it, an out of date bank card encrusted with the same, and a tightly rolled banknote, held in place with a small strip of masking tape. Izzy pulled the mirror and the banknote slowly towards him on the table as he sat lightly down. He craned his head to one side and exhaled hard. Simultaneously looking back and lowering his head, he quickly picked up the note and brought it to his nostril, tilting his head and holding the other closed as he sucked up the thin trails of cocaine. He dropped the note gently onto the mirror, screwing up his face and snorting as he sucked air in through his nose, the bitter drip of the coke starting to sting the back of his throat. Snorting and clearing his throat noisily, Izzy took to his feet. It was time to go to work.
Spinning round on the balls of his feet, he took off through the room into the hallway, stopping to take a thick, black, fraying overcoat from its hanger and drape it over his arm. Bidding farewell to the cats, who were full of food and had returned to sleep, Izzy flew out of the door and took the stairs three at a time: he was starting to feel those lines. His car was parked close to the front door of his building: a battered Subaru painted an ugly dark green. Idling the engine, he popped open the cigarette case, pulling out a dented, scruffy white tube. Replacing the case, he took out his lighter with one hand; rolling down the window with the other. Taking a drag as he pulled out into the street, he smiled for the first time that day.
Izzy parked, quickly and messily, as close to the front door of the station as he could, grabbing his overcoat from the passenger seat before he stepped out into the cold air once more. He shivered a little as he pulled it on: he wasn't feeling the same invincible rush he was twenty minutes ago. Trudging to the entrance, he pulled another cigarette from his case. He stopped just outside the door, nodding in greeting to the officer standing there. "G'morning, Daniels." He muttered, flicking his lighter alight and bringing it, with the cigarette, up to his mouth.
"Detective Keith." The patrolman acknowledged him curtly, barely looking round.
"Oh come on, you're not freezing me out too, are you?" Izzy growled, staring the man down, smoke pouring menacingly from between his teeth. Daniels didn't react. "Well, fuck you very much then. Is there anyone left here who'll have a damn friendly conversation with me, or am I just totally scarlet letter'd now?" Daniels looked away, shuffling awkwardly. Izzy drew deeply from his cigarette. "Oh, what? Am I embarrassing you?" He snorted derisively, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." He snarled, taking a final draw of his cigarette before tossing most of it away. He stormed off into the building, leaving Officer Daniels to pick up his litter: that would teach him.
This morning he was especially careful not to cut himself, it was technically his first day after all. He knew that his new superior was, well, new. She didn't know all the reasons why he needed a "new assignment" (demotion) in the first place. He assumed, at least. How could he have got the post otherwise? No, he knew how much his old boss had wanted rid of him. "Not very nice of him to dump me, who is apparently such a problem, on the new guy, was it?" He muttered, venomously. "Fuck him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Pawning me off on some new team run by some newbie. Like he's embarrassed of being associated with me. Like I'm a liability. Fuck him." Striding back into his bedroom, he grabbed a coathanger from the doorknob, pulling the light grey shirt out of it and tossing it onto the bed. The shirt already had a thin, black tie tied loosely around its unbuttoned collar, and Izzy straightened it a little before pulling the shirt on over his head, tightening the tie a little as he opened the tiny wardrobe, pulling out a much darker grey suit. He lazily continued dressing himself, leaving his shirt half untucked and wearing odd, brightly coloured socks underneath his battered loafers. He roughly smoothed down his hair with one hand, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and perching them on the bridge of his nose.
Entering the kitchen-slash-living room, he walked past the kettle, flipping a switch to turn it on as he stopped to open a cupboard and pull out a loaf of bread. Taking two slices and just eating them dry, Izzy replaced the loaf and closed the cupboard, turning to a new one. Pulling out two pouches of cat food, he called out; "Morse! Frost! Food!" And was greeted by the scurrying of eight paws as the cats came bounding into the room. They purred and rubbed themselves around Izzy's legs as he filled their bowls and set them down. "Duck today, yeah. Lucky you." He straightened up again as the kettle announced itself with a loud click. Tossing a teabag from an open packet into a mug already sitting on the counter, he picked up the boiling kettle and poured himself a cup of tea. He had never liked the taste of coffee, and while tea had less caffeine, Izzy could rely on alternative stimulants when necessary. He waited a while; rubbing his eyes gently with one hand, his other resting on the counter, for it to brew. Pulling a spoon from a drawer, he lifted out the teabag and tossed it into the trash. Turning back to the open drawer, he picked out one of dozens of packets of sugar he had pocketed from cafes and diners before closing it. Paying for sugar (or salt, or any kind of sauce) was a sucker's game. After tearing the sachet open and emptying its contents into the mug, he tossed it onto the counter. It didn't need to go in the trash right now. It could wait. He stirred the rapidly cooling tea vigorously with the spoon before tossing it blindly towards the sink, missing, and sighing as it clattered along the counter. The tea was a little hotter than lukewarm, and pretty sweet, so Izzy threw the mug back in seconds.
Licking his lips; he turned and strode through to the living room portion of the room. On a battered low wooden coffee table, surrounded by an equally battered couch and armchair, were the tools of his trade. His holster, his gun, his car keys, and his badge. Temporarily removing his jacket, he pulled the holster on over his shoulders and picked up the pistol. He paused for a second, feeling it in his hand. They didn't give officers this gun any more, there was a newer standard issue now; lighter, smaller, more efficient. Izzy had tried it and his aim was all off. He was too used to the weight of his old gun. There was probably something deep and meaningful about that, he thought to himself, sliding it into the holster and clipping it shut. As he put his jacket back on, he felt the subtle, familiar weight of the gun underneath it and it was almost a comfort. He dropped the keys into one of the side pockets, and slid the leather wallet holding the badge and ID into the breast pocket carefully. As well as all those things, though, there was another group of stuff on the table. Next to the badge and the gun; there was a frameless square mirror with a small mound and three narrow lines of white powder on it, an out of date bank card encrusted with the same, and a tightly rolled banknote, held in place with a small strip of masking tape. Izzy pulled the mirror and the banknote slowly towards him on the table as he sat lightly down. He craned his head to one side and exhaled hard. Simultaneously looking back and lowering his head, he quickly picked up the note and brought it to his nostril, tilting his head and holding the other closed as he sucked up the thin trails of cocaine. He dropped the note gently onto the mirror, screwing up his face and snorting as he sucked air in through his nose, the bitter drip of the coke starting to sting the back of his throat. Snorting and clearing his throat noisily, Izzy took to his feet. It was time to go to work.
Spinning round on the balls of his feet, he took off through the room into the hallway, stopping to take a thick, black, fraying overcoat from its hanger and drape it over his arm. Bidding farewell to the cats, who were full of food and had returned to sleep, Izzy flew out of the door and took the stairs three at a time: he was starting to feel those lines. His car was parked close to the front door of his building: a battered Subaru painted an ugly dark green. Idling the engine, he popped open the cigarette case, pulling out a dented, scruffy white tube. Replacing the case, he took out his lighter with one hand; rolling down the window with the other. Taking a drag as he pulled out into the street, he smiled for the first time that day.
Izzy parked, quickly and messily, as close to the front door of the station as he could, grabbing his overcoat from the passenger seat before he stepped out into the cold air once more. He shivered a little as he pulled it on: he wasn't feeling the same invincible rush he was twenty minutes ago. Trudging to the entrance, he pulled another cigarette from his case. He stopped just outside the door, nodding in greeting to the officer standing there. "G'morning, Daniels." He muttered, flicking his lighter alight and bringing it, with the cigarette, up to his mouth.
"Detective Keith." The patrolman acknowledged him curtly, barely looking round.
"Oh come on, you're not freezing me out too, are you?" Izzy growled, staring the man down, smoke pouring menacingly from between his teeth. Daniels didn't react. "Well, fuck you very much then. Is there anyone left here who'll have a damn friendly conversation with me, or am I just totally scarlet letter'd now?" Daniels looked away, shuffling awkwardly. Izzy drew deeply from his cigarette. "Oh, what? Am I embarrassing you?" He snorted derisively, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." He snarled, taking a final draw of his cigarette before tossing most of it away. He stormed off into the building, leaving Officer Daniels to pick up his litter: that would teach him.