As far as the building was concerned no one came in this early in the day unless they meant business.<br/>From it's shiny, empty windows, sat like eyes, at the top of the structure it could see all the way down the road and back. It would watch and wait patiently all evening for the first glimpse of light, inching up from the crooked structural horizon like it had seeped in through a crack under the door of the cosmos and for the first shuddering stirrings of life from the concrete below, cars pulling up, people appearing at its feet-- ants at a picnic.<br/>Six Ai-hem.<br/>Cometh the hour, cometh the man.<br/>And speaking of the man, the owner and key proprietor of said building would then appear , keys jingling from one beefy, middle aged fist. The door would click open and life would pour into the grateful structure. The whitewashed walls would light up, the hush-hushing of generators would burst into life, the pool cleaners would burst into life and the building sighed a long, relieved breath of chlorine through the fans nailed to it's hefty, winding brick side.<br/><br/>At this time of day, workers on harnesses and wooden scaffolding still squeegee-wiping the sleep from its eyes, it only ever saw the select few grace it with their company. The owners, the workers, the janitors and the I-Mean-Business customers, the ones with enough puckered veins to run a small tracks worth of trains across, the ones who really believed in the my-body-is-a-temple slogan Mr Patrick had peppered the walls with,<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>kind; so when a small, thin suit waltzed up to the clear glass double doors they immediately looked out of place.<br/><br/>They left as quickly as they left, leaving a small pre-printed envelope and a lump of tape on the face of a bent, silver box of a locker. It read;<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Kaufman's Insurance Emporium<br/>Locker 17B,<br/>Paddies Gymnasium, <br/>62 Garfield Av,<br/>Ives Hill West<br/><br/>Subject: happy birthday buddy xx <br/>Addressee Location: a long hot drive to the next town over.</span><br/><br/><br/>***      ****      ***<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Meanwhile, half a Mile away...</span><br/><br/>Aubrey ran a long, bony hand through the thick of his dark mane before turning over, allowing the warmth of sleep to digest him for just a little longer. Today felt wrong somehow. The air felt thick and stiff, tasted like stale breath and outside there wasn't so much as a bicycle squeak of traffic to be heard. Only the repetitive headache buzz of the fish tank gave him some vocal truth that the world hadn't stopped overnight or died in its sleep.<br/>It was cold outside the covers.<br/><br/>That morning was composed of the usual rituals. Teeth, face, downstairs. Flick the switch, start the coffee, gather the paper breakfast. Dressed-- taking special care to iron the shirt crisp and tie his shoe laces just right-- keys, out the door.<br/><br/>Aubrey was mad. Not angry, just crazy. Don't get him wrong, we aren't talking your baby munching, butterfly tormenting guy next door, just someone with a psychiatrist, the kind that as a child had to eat his candy evenly, gather the red ones and make a red shape, make all the blue ones swap places four times each, line up all the yellow ones, even if he didn't like the taste he'd<span style="font-style: italic">have</span>to eat them or risk ruining their order. Not much had changed in the way of sweets as Aub developed, but he'd not stopped the compulsive habits from creeping in to the rest of his life.<br/>The morning rituals were just one of numerous examples.<br/><br/>He tapped a code into the steering wheel leather with his nails as he drove, wild, pale eyes scanning the road ahead. The business was going well, well enough it was said, that he couldn't afford offices of his own. Not true. He simply believed lockers were nicer. True story. Little or nothing to do with the, admittedly, dwindling funds at all.<br/><br/>Still, running a business from a locker was never the public image of idealistic, but then he wasn't really interested in the usual public jobs (or money) they put him through a lot of fiddly work with little or no emotional gain or mental feedback.<br/>Besides they were dull.<br/>Like any office work it burnt what soul or any passionate iota of your disposition alive inside your rib cage. He'd seen them before, workers shuffling about like zombies, brief case attached to the crook of one arm, like a child's mitten on string. These individuals were jaded in human form, in the flesh, for one night only and every night following and Aubrey swore blind he'd never tail after them down that dark, statistic filled path. No. He was far too paranoid for that anyway. The idea of sharing the space with a pretty female co-worker grabbing some coffee and making idol, yet pleasant chit chat made his skin crawl. The only cooperative partners compatible to his company included introspective loners, deaf-mute invisible people, and, everyones favourite, mannequins.<br/>Even the fish were edging ever closer to having to warrant a squatters rights petition in their own home. Their insistent shifting of pebbles was giving him migraines.<br/><br/>The small, brown box of a car pulled up outside of Garfield Avenue with a rebellious groan before shuddering to a halt. A shiny, black pair of pointed shoes with a clipped heel stepped out. Attached to them were a pair of grey slacks, attached to the slacks was Aubrey who regarded his surroundings icily for a moment.<br/><br/>He didn't like it.<br/><br/>He knew that much.<br/><br/>Something felt off today... the small, stony street was no different, a green grocers opposite had their fruit out under a parasol even in the grey upon grey weather as if by acting as though it were sunny would will it out, there were a few cars parked either side, one or two old models banked up on the grass on the curb, a seagull perched on the street sign swallowing a chip of something down it's great, white gullet. It was it's usual self. An off seaside port trying achingly to work up the tourism and fun atmosphere it used to have on the 'in' season. Nothing had changed, at least nothing drastic, without his say so.... so why the nerves.<br/><br/>Aubrey frowned deeply, dark brow knitting in the middle and he counted the paving slabs as he headed inside to calm himself down.<br/><br/>Paddies was not the strictly modern affair you found in most gyms, it still had that glowing old fashioned prison work out feel to it, which was half the reason Aubrey had chosen it as his base of operations. Trick was to let word of mouth further its reputation. The word being; cheap. He also had no problem taking the jobs that other people wouldn't touch-- the small stuff, weird stuff or apparently emotional draining stuff. He'd never draw a line. Even when it came to alien abductions-- don't ask-- he'd taken the information and case aboard wholeheartedly.<br/><br/>And yet when he peeled the envelope off of his locker the grown man paled visibly.<br/><br/>"Shit," he mumbled under his breath, staring down the slip of paper like it had challenged him to a Mexican standoff, "Already..."<br/><br/>The suited man paused for a moments, throwing a bird claw of a hand through his hair, glancing about the slender locker corridor flustered. He paused eyes finding the community message board and gluing themselves to it's sorry cork hide. There was a calendar--<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Notthetwentyfourth.Notthetwentyfourth.Notthe--</span><br/><br/>It was. Thursday the twenty fourth.<br/><br/>"Fuck sake!" he spat, tearing open the envelope irritably, teeth gritted and eyes rolling back in his skull dramatically. He became hyper aware of a small square shape burning a hole through the material of his back pocket. How many missed calls were listed already, he wondered grimly. He wasn't about to check it. Once or twice a year they flooded any gateway into his life with 'come-home-for-once-darling's and 'Aub-you-little-shit-have-you-any-idea-how-much-this-upsets-mum-!-?'s. Birthdays and Christmas. The dreaded return of the blood relatives.<br/><br/>Sure he felt guilty, but that was called having a heart and he wasn't about to go home so that black-souled harpy could tear it back out for him. Better yet Jacob (Anger issues personified before older brother) had promised to rip Aub (Work before family) a new asshole for his big twenty-fifth. A promise Aubrey couldn't honestly say he was looking forwards to.<br/><br/>He swallowed back any insignificant hiccup of homesickness and dived into the content of the envelope furiously.<br/><br/>It contained several details. A newspaper clipping-- boy makes it to police station, dies promptly, a crime scene photograph--<br/><span style="font-style: italic">What was this....?</span><br/>An address. It was a university ordeal, dorm and room number included--<br/><span style="font-style: italic">Who in the nine gates of hell had sent all of this shit anyway?</span><br/>-- a copy of the officer on duties memo, including his own unofficial suspicions on cause of death--<br/><span style="font-style: italic">Wasn't this all strictly classified? Who was going to get their hands on--</span><br/>-- and a post it note with a lipstick kiss.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">Ah. That answered it.</span><br/><br/>Aubrey scowled folding away the contents. He'd inspect them in more detail over lunch anyway.<br/><br/>Deputy Gallan had a soft spot for him. She was the only woman in the world to and she was a screaming dyke, god bless her. Lucky Aub that meant she'd quietly push possible cases his way, ones he'd like. Work, he supposed, was work, but she'd never hand him anything easy problem here being.