~Sean~
It’s 02.00 pm and I am already craving for a drink. I know very well that’s not a good idea, but tempting as hell. At least it takes off the rough edges and gets me less bored. I decide to wait another hour, knowing the bottle is half empty already. It’s not like I drink expensive whisky, I take the cheapest on offer. The morning after, the expensive hangover is just as bad as the cheap one, believe me.
Instead of taking the bottle out of my drawer I light up another fag. Another expensive habit, but a man needs a few bad habits, doesn’t he ? For the umpteenth time today, I look at the door with the letter print on it, just readable from here, even in reverse.
“S. Bean, Private Investigator”
Cheesy, yeah. Like a bad movie, but that’s how my life feels up to now, like a very bad movie. I sometimes wonder how I got to this. Seems not so long ago I was an eager young police officer and made my way up very quickly. I had it all : a wife, children, a house, good health and a nice salary.
And then it started to show, the corruption, the easy way the blokes I worked with assumed I would go with that. Taking money for “protection” and getting free blowjobs and random fucks in the backseat of the police van.
I couldn’t live with that. But I also knew it would get very nasty if I tried to do something about it. So I chose the easy way out and resigned. Lost the salary and consequently the house, the wife and the rest. I still got the visiting rights to the children though. As long as I manage to pay for them that is.
That’s the only reason I am drinking cheap booze, because money is running out and I am not making money here. This two room office is ‘home’ now : this is where I work, eat, live, sleep and wank. The thought is so depressing that I start opening the drawer to find the bottle when I hear the knock on the door. Praying that it’s not the postman I yell : “Come in.”
In steps a women, tall, blonde and obviously in a state of anxiety. We shake hands : “Jane,” she says, not planning on giving me her full name. Well, I can understand that, so I just point out a chair to her. Her eyes search my face until she finally seems to decide.
“My boyfriend is cheating on me and I want you to find out with whom ! ,” she blurts out all of a sudden.
~Viggo~
As I move about the library shelving, putting books back in place, I get that uncanny feeling again that I am being watched. It’s a kind of ghostly feathering down my spine that I’ve had since childhood, whenever someone’s eyes are on me.
I turn quickly, but it is early closing and I am alone , except for that tall, blonde woman, who spends such a lot of time here. She has her head down, engrossed in her book, though, and making furious notes as usual. She told me she is researching for a romantic novel about the Vikings and I have been able to give her quite a bit of help.
Although I was born in New York, my dad was Danish and I have extended family over there and I was pretty much brought up on the Vikings and Norse legends.
I am a bit of a writer myself and I love books. If I can’t be outside appreciating nature, usually alone, then I would rather be surrounded by books than pretty much anything else.
I am also a bit of an artist and a photographer, all things that I can pursue by myself.
What I don’t pursue any more is relationships. Oh, I have had many, and I was married for ten years, even have a wonderful son, now at University in the States, but somehow they always fail in the end and I’ve just come to the conclusion that some people are meant to be alone. I can’t continue disappointing people by not coming up to their expectations.
I came over to England to get over my divorce and make a fresh start and I’m really OK. My apartment is small, but suits my needs, I like my job in the library and it gives me human contact. I spend my free time writing, painting and taking pictures.
I enjoy my own company, although sometimes I think it would be nice to have someone to come home to and to share things with. My landlord doesn’t even allow pets, though a dog would be nice. My usual companion in the evenings is the whisky bottle !
Looking up again, I see that the blonde woman has gone now. She never said goodbye, just left her books out on the table for me to put away. She’s also left some scraps of paper with sketches she must have been working on.
How weird ! They are sketches of me !
~Sean~
I try to look all confident and assured, while in fact, I cringe inside. Just the kind of client everybody warned me about, uncertain and unhappy, hoping that I will prove her wrong. Hoping that I will tell her their love life or marriage is not in danger, that the telephone number she found in the back pocket of his jeans was the jeweller’s, the one he ordered a diamond ring for her with.
But I try not to show my feelings : she’s a customer, and I am not in the position to be picky. I offer her coffee or tea and she asks me if I’ve got any maté . I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about and she explains something about South America and Indians while all I’ve got is a packet of Earl Grey. She finally settles for that and she calms down a bit while I boil water for the tea.
Cradling the mug in her hands she tries to explain, but she doesn’t make much sense, so I take the matter in my own hands and start questioning her. She’s still nervous, but manages to reply.
“What’s the name of your boyfriend, Jane and where does he live?”
”His name is Viggo, Viggo Mortensen and he lives right here in town.”
“So what makes you think he’s cheating on you ?’
“ I don’t know, he’s just.. not paying attention to me. I can see he’s thinking about someone else. And he’s not always there for me.”
‘Poor bastard, ’ I think, ‘probably just imagining a deserted island all for himself.’
“That’s not really hard evidence, Jane,” I say, and she reacts furiously.
“Well that’s what I want to hire you for !”
I don’t know why, but I don’t like her. Of course that’s beside the point : if I ever get rich and famous I might be able to pick only cases I want and people I like.
“So what do you want me to do ?”
“I want you to follow him, see what he’s up to, who he meets, how he spends the time he’s not with me. He works in the public library, you can start from there. I want you to take pictures of every women he meets or even talks to.
Money seems to be no problem : when I tell her my rates she agrees immediately. She pays me a fair amount in advance, and I let her sign a contract. She hands me a drawing of that Viggo bloke, by her own hand she says proudly, so I can recognize him. Nice drawing, interesting face, probably flattering the poor bastard.
I am quite happy when she finally leaves, and I am on my own again, pouring a generous glass of whisky, making myself a dark promise of a nice bottle of Glenfiddich when this job is done.
But first I have to go after this Viggo. He is probably innocent, she’s the neurotic ´Oh Viggo, you don’t love me anymore’ type, but I could be wrong and he could be shagging every girl in town. I certainly wouldn’t blame him.
Now where did I leave my digital camera.. ?
~Viggo~
I am preoccupied as I leave the library and head for the park, with my camera.
The sketches that woman made of me have disturbed me a little. They are pretty good, though. She is clearly talented, but I am at a loss to know why she would choose me as her subject.
As soon as I am among the trees and headed for the lake, I feel the worries slipping away and a sense of calm flowing through me. Being outdoors has always had this effect on me, since I was a kid.
I was brought up in Argentina, until I was eleven and lived on farms. My dad and I used to go off on our horses and camp out, catching fish and cooking them on our camp fire. Although I live in the city now, I head for open spaces as often as I can and I slip off my shoes and socks now, to walk barefoot on the grass, shoving them into my back-pack.
As I walk down the hill, I breathe deeply and luxuriate in the feel of the earth between my toes. There is plenty of activity on the lake and I can see mallards, widgeon and coot, plus a pair of great crested grebes. Crouching in the reeds, I get my camera ready. I recently started a website and put up a selection of my wildlife pictures, which generated a lot of interest, so I am now making some extra money by selling them, framed.
I pretty much have the park to myself this afternoon, apart from a couple of dog-walkers in the distance, and the kids won’t be out of school for an hour, so it’s very peaceful!
There it goes again - that shiver down my back, convincing me that I am being watched. I turn, half expecting to see the blonde woman, but there’s no sign of anybody, just a flash of brown in he trees. She was wearing a blue coat, I remember, so it can’t be her. I shrug and concentrate on my work.
I tend to lose myself, when I am working, so I pretty much forget about time and I take a lot of pictures, until the sound of children running down the hill reminds me that I need to go home and eat, plus of course, I need to work on the pictures.
As I sit on a fallen tree to put my shoes on, I hear a rustling in the nearby bushes and I swear that I hear the click of a camera. Maybe I am not the only photographer around.
I look right at the bushes and think that I detect a movement in there, but thinking nothing of it, I set off for home.
It’s not until I am looking at my pictures later, on the computer, that I notice I have caught a couple of images of a man in a brown fleece, screened by a lacework of branches. Strange that I didn’t see him more clearly, as it would be interesting to compare notes with a fellow photographer!
As it is, I just have a suggestion of blondish hair, a strong face and for reasons I can’t explain, a vague feeling of unease.
~Sean~
I drive to the library and park on the other side of the street. The drawing she gave me is on my lap, I do hope I’ll be able to recognize him from that. I eat a sandwich while waiting and listen to the radio.
The moment he steps outside of the building, backpack on his back, I do recognize him. She has done an awful good job of drawing him, I must admit. Even from the other side of the street I can see the lines of those cheekbones and jaw.
I grab my camera and get out of the car, following him from a distance. I just hope he doesn’t have a car parked somewhere, if he does and drives away I won’t be able to get back to mine in time and I will have to get back here tomorrow.
He’s walking like he’s got all the time in the world and I can follow him easily. When I realize he’s heading to the park I smile to myself. It will be easy to follow him there, easy to hide. Perhaps he’ll be meeting that other woman there and I can take some pictures of them. Case solved. Now that would be great, easily earned money.
When I see him bending down to take off his shoes and socks, I know he’s probably not meeting anyone. He gets his camera out and starts taking pictures. He seems pretty absorbed by it, but suddenly he freezes and looks straight in my direction. I was just taking some close-ups and I still my movements, hoping he won’t see me if I don’t move. I do take a picture though : the opportunity being too good to let it pass.
After a few moments he continues, until some children come running by and he leaves. Again I follow him. He lives quite near to the park in an old building which used to be a warehouse, now divided in studios and apartments. There’s a small restaurant on the other side of the street from where I can keep an eye on the building.
I go in and order a coffee, planning to stay for a few hours. I am not hungry, the sandwiches I ate were enough. Nothing happens and after two hours and four coffees, I decide it’s time to go home and look at the pictures I took. But I cross the street first to have a closer look at the building he lives in.
The entrance door is open and I step in. I look at the little name plates on the letter boxes in the hall, trying to find his between all the others. I don’t have my reading glasses on me, so I bend over to have a better look. There it is, a hand written name tag : V. Mortensen, 24 b.
Then there’s the unmistakable American voice behind me : “Are you looking for someone ? Can I help ?”
I turn around and look him straight in the face, the Viggo bloke. Fuck!
Summary: Sean is a private detective in this, Viggo a librarian and photographer. Sean is hired by Vig's girlfriend.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: Photo OpportunityChapters: 3 Completed: Yes
Word count: 7028 Read: 2679
Published: 05 Aug 2009 Updated: 05 Aug 2009