Delilah Des Anges - Protect Me From What I Want

by Delilah Des Anges
Delilah Des Anges 2011
Published by House of D Publications & Lulu.com ISBN: # 978-1-4478-3482-3
All rights reserved

Other books by this author published by House of D Know Your Words (with Al Kennedy & Amy Kreines) Shots in the Dark
Kissing Carrion (with G K Blekkenhorst) Hamilton
Pass the Parcel
For the Love of a City: Poems for and About London Tiny Fiction #1
Tiny Fiction #2
Tiny Fiction #3
Tiny Fiction #4
How Not To Write By Someone Who Doesnt Poems for MSF
The Other Daughter

Other books published by House of D Help: Twelve Tales of Healing

To Katherine: an apology. Understand / vous comprehende

Although it is set in a building which has seen similar controversy, and was inspired by thoughts arising from the media reports of Haut de la Garenne in 2008/2009, this story is not intended to portray actual events, nor to suggest that this story is in any way an accurate account of what may or may not have happened, nor to speculate on occurrences information of which the author does not have access to, nor to represent any real persons, living or dead.

Well, one of the characters may slightly be based on a real person, to whom the author will apologise unreservedly should she ever read this book and recognise herself.

The author has no personal opinion one way or another on the truth/lack of truth in the assertions of the press during this period, and no animosity toward or indeed experience of the Jersey States Police or Scotland Yard.

The author has also never visited Jersey, and would like to apologise in advance for any inaccuracies or misrepresentations that may arise as a result of this inexperience.

O

kay, I dont think this is going to be easy for me to tell or for you to listen to.

Not that Im expecting you to think this tarnishes my otherwise spotless reputation, Im not delusional, but its still not the nice, neat, simple story I bet youre looking for, either. And because Im still alive, I dont really know how it ends.

I promise this isnt going to be some Tristram Shandy shit. We got off to a bad start. Let me try again.

In the season of mists and fruitfulness, I found myself in Jersey. Thats the Channel Island, not the state. I lived there too for a couple of years, but this time I mean the island.

Where was I?
It was pretty misty, and not very fruitful.

Shit, I cant start there. I know I said this wasnt going to be some David Copperfield deal but I do have to introduce myself before I get into this. I mean, youre going to need a name to denounce when we get to the end of this. I guess I do respond effectively to shut up but my mother did also give me a name so people could get my attention before they cuss at me.

I know, I know you already know, but the tape recorder doesnt know. I dont want the tape recorder alright, SD recorder, pardon me for not keeping up with the time . I dont want it to feel slighted.

Alright?

Right. Im John Hennessey. Yes, like the drink. No, no relation. Just keep adding Ns and Ss to my surname and youll get it eventually. The bank dont approve of Hennnnesssssseys and other facetious crap but they like the interest on my overdraft so fuck them.

Thats all you need about me for now; you can pick up the rest as we go along.

Good luck with that, by the way. I am a shitty narrator. And I still dont know where to start, but I have to start somewhere, so well call this the beginning since its more or less where shit started getting fucked up this time.

So. It was an oppressive morning on Jersey late in the year, and I was in the office playing porn-filter ping-pong with my new partner, Phil.

The entire island, by the way, smells of the sea. Apparently. I consider nicotine to be a vital food group necessary for my function as a human being before sunset, so I have no idea what the place smells of, but everyone else takes lung-smacking breaths and talks about it in happy loud voices. Also its full of rich people and farmers, like where I grew up.

Oh, right, and if youve never played porn-filter ping-pong, its a game you play when your dedicated work email has a different filter to your browser. You find pictures of, say, April Flores being fisted by Jiz Lee (or whatever youre into, or want other people to think youre into), which you can access on your office browser. Then you paste the URL into an email, and fire emails back and forth; first person to get an angry message from IT support has to make the coffee.

Not a game you play if you like your job and intend to keep it. Fuck, what else oh yeah. Partner, partner, by the way, its not some homoerotic thing, its a police thing.

Youre assigned a division like homicide which on Jersey is a joke division, the big deal here is smuggling, smuggling drugs (just in case you were imagining pirates, like I was when they told me) and a partner you work with.

In this case, Phil. Thats not his real name
Ill explain later.

Our office was full of boxes of old files. In theory we were supposed to be entering our predecessors and in Phils case former coworkers information into the new system, until real work shows up, like overqualified and overpaid data entry monkeys, but in practice Phil was watching Bergerac on YouTube and emailing me conspiracy theorist websites, and I was arguing with Flat Earthers on a blog and looking at April Flores, and we were both drinking quite a lot of coffee.

Alright, I probably shouldnt have unplugged my desk phone.

Every so often our division head, Desmarais, stuck his head around the door to ask what we were doing, and Phil would not even bother turning down the volume on Bergerac before telling him we were researching.

The fifth time he did this, my then-boss looked like he would have happily killed us both with his bare hands. Im used to that. We found something for you to do, he said, with a face like a slapped arse.

That sounds like the prelude to excitement, right? I know. I cant help it if it didnt sound portentous when it actually came out. Broom cupboards not my responsibility, I checked my contract.

Turn your phone on, Desmarais snapped over the sound of Jim Bergerac laying down the law to someone with improbable hair. Desmarais is not a man with a bantering sense of humour. Hes French (of Lille), and proud of that. He also looks like a vole fucked a moose. And then, I dont know. Put on a suit and proceeded to look better in it than I ever will because he can actually wear clothes rather than awkwardly inhabit them. Dispatch have been trying to get through to you for half a fucking hour.

I thought it was on , I told him with as close to the grail of perfect innocence this hangdog face would ever take me, I dont think Im technologically advanced enough for this equipment.

Er, for that to work as a joke I should probably have told you that while the computers in our department might have been new enough to smell of factories, the phone system was still in the process of being replaced and the thing on my desk Id unplugged was only slightly younger than I am.

No, Im not telling you how old that is. Yet.
Desmarais gave me this look like Id shat in his salad and told Phil never mind that officially I was the senior partner here, Vicky needs you at Haut de la Garenne. Down by St Martins.

Well, I wasnt buying that, so I poked at the refresh button a few more times. You sure masonry didnt just fall on a trespasser?

Get out and do your job, Desmarais exercised his lack of humour by pointing at the door with his coffee. It must have been mostly empty, because Desmarais had already demonstrated a certain tendency to chuck cold latte on himself, and Id only been there a week.

Phil picked up his car keys and tried to make his computer shut down and all that, which left me to ask, Why does she need us? Desmarais gave me this fantastically Gallic combination of a shrug and a look of disdain, I am not your secretary.