The Alliteration Assassin

Posted by Mark on Apr 4, 2013 | 0 Comments

The mirror’s steamed up on account of all the hot, wet bodies sheltering from the rain but the obscured reflection that greets me still looks haggard. I’ve been putting the decision off long enough and it’s not as if the weather’s going to improve any time soon so I down the golden film coating the base of my whiskey glass, pull my still-damp hat from the hook under the bar, and make to leave.

There’s a hand gripping the crook of my arm.

“You’re not going are you?”

I know this guy by sight; a recent transfer to the local police department from some out-of-city place I never bothered to learn. Some kind of big-shot detective, only unlike me he’s the kind that gets a regular paycheck.

“Are you buying?” I figure I’ve got nothing to lose by asking.

Mister Big-Shot gets Brett’s attention behind the bar straightaway – not a difficult job seeing as this cop is built like one of those new upright refrigerators; bulky, long-faced, distinctive nose – and indicates three whiskeys. He’s either being very generous, needs to drink twice as much to maintain his fluid levels, or he’s got a partner here I haven’t spotted yet.

“Let’s take them outside,” he says, handing me one of the glasses. “We might be able to hear ourselves speak.”

I don’t have much to say but I’m happy to listen if he wants an ear. It’s not that much quieter outside, truth to tell. The rain’s pelting down on the sidewalk and the guttering of the bar’s blocked, sending a waterfall crashing onto an iron chair not quite under the canopy out front. Still, it’s a little cooler and that’s something. The third guy in our group who was waiting outside has the look of a rookie cop and I figure if I get close enough to him he’s probably got that new cop smell too.

“Cheers!” I say, nodding appreciation and taking a sip of my gift. It could do with a little water and fortunately there’s plenty of that around so I stick the glass out from under the covers. I wait for an automobile to pass and for the waves in the surface water to hit the kerb. “You’re after my help with something, I take it,” I say, since nobody else seems to want to chat.

“Yeah,” says Big-Shot while chewing his lip. “People say you’re quite good at your job and we could do with a fresh look at a case. Any information, insights, ideas. That sort of thing.”

I raise the glass against one of the lights outside the bar to see if the colour looks about right. “I appreciate the drink,” I say, “but even I don’t work this cheap.”

“No sense of civic pride, Mister Rake?” That’s the rookie and I’m glad to see there’s a warm smile on his face. It’s quickly followed by a grimace as he tries to swallow the least amount of whiskey possible.

“The city will pay for your services,” I’m assured by the walking chiller cabinet. He then starts telling me about a series of murders that have been kept out of the press to avoid a panic or give any other lowlife an idea.

Auntie Annie was the first victim, attacked with an axe in the alley at the back of the brothel she runs – sorry, ran – down near the quay. I’d heard about her death but not the grisly manner in which it took place and like everyone else who knew her or her girls I’d figured it was probably someone upset at the cost or the crabs who’d finally flipped out. A butcher named Brian was then found beheaded at the back of the bus depot and this was quickly followed by the discovery of the cut-up corpse of Carlos, head chef at one of the few legal gambling venues in the city centre.

“I ate at that casino once,” I tell my cop friends. “Sick for a couple of days after. You sure this wasn’t just an upset customer with an upset stomach too?”

Detective Big-Shot shrugs. “Anything’s possible and I’m learning that in this city that is literally true.”

Two more killings are described to me. Some drifter forcibly drowned and then dragged up into the dunes to be discovered, and Edward Edwards, an engineer for the Eastern Express rail company, tied up and electrocuted in his apartment.

“I may be spotting a pattern,” I say sarcastically. My whiskey needs a little more water in it.

“Those people who said you’re good at your job weren’t joking then?” asks the rookie with a glint in his eye. I like him more than his partner.

“Obviously, you may well have a vested interest in this case now,” says Big-Shot sticking his head out from under the canopy and briefly squinting up into the sky. If he’s wondering if the rain will stop then I could let him know the bad news but I figure if he’s as good as his reputation then he should be given a chance to work it out for himself.

I swallow the end of my glass. “I reckon I can start to worry in around ten murders.”

I’ve learnt a lot in the past couple of months. Police pay isn’t great, for one. Still, it’s regular and it all adds up. Rookie’s name is Tommy Simpson. Big-Shot’s got a real name too but he’s not easy to get along with so I keep choosing to forget it. He’s not exactly police either but rather part of a unit dealing with serious interstate crimes – he’s been tracking and catching or killing people like this for years – and what we’re dealing with is something he classifies as a “serial killer”. For my own records I’m still labelling the perp as “sick nutter”. I’ve learnt that this sick nutter is nasty, nobody I know knows a damn thing about him, and that what he did to Larry the Leper in the library will give me nightmares to the day I die.

Even as I slam the door on the cab up I realise it’s going to be difficult to keep this particular death out of the papers. J.P. Patricks, publisher of the City Press is lying in the middle of the road, face down, arms spread. The rain’s diluting his blood and brain matter, washing bits of both down the overflowing drains. Even without the inherent media interest in this killing there have been witnesses this time and I guess that Big-Shot is talking to one of them. I sidle over as they’re standing in a doorway of an old city council building so it’s got the two benefits of being sheltered and not being quite so close the mess on the tarmac.

Make that three benefits: the witness is a brunette with perkiness in all the right places. Her eyeliner’s smudged and she looks pale but that more-or-less describes every dame in the city.

“This is Rick Rake, Miss Johnson, assisting us in this investigation,” says Big-Shot as he sees me. I’m silently grateful that he doesn’t emphasise “assisting” in quite the same way that everyone else at the police department does which makes it clear I’ve not been the great help I was made out to be. “She saw Patricks getting pulled out onto the parapet up there,” says Big-Shot, jerking his thumb upwards. “Large guy, dressed in black. Patricks was tied up and shouting. Knife used to silence Patricks, then pushed off.”

“Pushed off a parapet in public,” I say quietly. I can see Rookie a bit further down the road talking to some beat cops. “That must have been horrible to see, Miss Johnson,” I offer. “Can I ask where you were at the time?”

“Over there,” she says, pointing at a corner deli. Through the window I can see the owner giving a statement to a junior inspector. By the ground at Miss Johnson’s feet is the brown paper bag containing whatever she’d bought, soaked through now. For some reason, in spite of everything, it’s making me hungry.

“She says nobody’s come out of the building since the incident but there are too many windows around the back and two fire escapes to be certain. Uniforms have been in and combed the place; I’ve taken a quick look at the Patricks’ office too. Nothing.”

I’m looking at Miss Johnson’s lower lip. It’s dry and cracked and trembling slightly.

“You look like you could do with a drink and something to eat, Miss Johnson,” I say with not the greatest expectation of a positive answer but she surprises me with an emphatic yes.

Big-Shot then surprises me further by pointing down a side street. “There’s a French place I’ve tried a few times down there,” he says. “Why don’t you see if you can come up with any new questions for Miss Johnson. She’s an eye-witness so we’ll need to arrange protection for her anyway. I’ll go speak with the chief.”

“Call me Victoria.”

She’s drawing in deep on a cigarette and it’s creating some beautiful dimples in her cheeks. Throwing that first gin and tonic down her neck has given her a lovely bit of colour too. I’m smiling for a lot of reasons.

“So, Victoria, what sort of look did you get at the attacker?”

She shrugs and blows a cloud over the restaurant table. With her free hand she lifts her second gin. “Nothing of the face. He was muscular under the coat, a lot bigger than Patricks.”

“And did you know Patricks at all?”

“Everyone who works down this area knows him a bit. I’ve never spoken to him if that’s what you’re asking.” She looks thoughtful for a few seconds. “I’ve never seen anyone killed before. I thought I might feel different. Have you seen many people killed Mister Rake?”

“Lots of dead bodies,” I say. “That comes with the territory. Not so many killings but, yes, a few. People react differently. You might be feeling fine now but later… who knows?”

“Will you be protecting me then?”

I shouldn’t be thinking the things I’m thinking but this is my sort of broad. Gutsy, forthright, and right now out-drinking me. I’m trying to think of something funny to say but the waiter’s turned up with our food. I’m eating steak because I want to see if the Europeans can do it better than Mickey’s Grill over on Fourth Street.

“What did you pick?” I ask, looking at the pastry dish Victoria’s busy slicing. She shows me the menu, her thumbnail pointing out her choice as she blows gently and prepares to take a bite. It’s turning out to be a day full of surprises for me. This time it’s my reactions that impress me as I grab the fork before she’s got a chance to put it in her mouth.

“Hey!” She begins to say something else but I cut her off.

“What do you do for a living Victoria?”

“I work for a family construction business. I thought we were done with questioning.” She’s trying to force the forkful of food towards her face again but I’m stronger than I look, take it off her, and put it down on the plate. She’s giving me a look that says that the chance of anything hot happening later is cooling down faster than her untouched meal. “Cost analysis, if you’re really interested,” she continues. I’ve got this horrible prickling sensation down my neck and spine. It’s that old detective’s hunch finally kicking into gear so I ask for her specific job title and she tells me. Damn.

“Any chance you were named after Queen Victoria?” I ask next and this time it’s her turn to look surprised.

“My mother was a British historian,” she tells me by way of explanation. “Are you going to tell me what the problem is?”

I’m thinking it through in my head, finally putting all the pieces together, and I’ve got a horrible feeling that we’re both in serious danger but I don’t want to create a panic. I’m about to say something when I see her glance over my shoulder. I start to turn but feel a hand press around the back of my neck. I’ve felt this hand on me before, only then it was in a crowded bar.

“We need to have a quick word,” says Detective Big-Shot. I can’t quite turn my head around or up enough to face him but I can tell there’s no suitable negative answer he’ll accept on account of a hard prodding in my upper back. Victoria’s looking confused but not overly concerned and I don’t think I’m going to be able to convey “get out of here and bring as many police officers as you can back with you” in a glance since we’ve only just met.

“Stay right there Miss Johnson. Someone’s coming to look after you in just a minute.” And now he’s leading me into the men’s rest room.

“A gun?” I ask when the door’s closed. “I felt sure it was going to be the rope you took off Patricks’ body. Miss Johnson said his arms were tied but they were spread when I arrived. I guess you just waited in the building until the regular cops arrived and then started searching with them.”

“You are smart Rake. I’ll give you that.” The hand not holding the weapon pats his pocket and then pulls out the climbing rope that earlier had been used to restrain the deceased publisher. “Be smart a little while longer and don’t struggle too much. Rick Rake in the restaurant with a revolver works for me just as well.”

“You’ve missed out Q though. Sorry to disappoint you but the quantity surveyor named after a queen never ate poisoned quiche. Why don’t you think about starting from A again?” I doubt he’s going to take up my suggestion.

“If Miss Johnson happens to die out of order… well, it’s only me who’ll know and I think I can live with that.” He’s gesturing for me to kneel down and I can’t see a way out of this so I do as he says. In a flash I feel the rope around by neck and I reach to pull it away but there’s a knee in my back keeping me still. I’m trying to breathe but the pressure on my windpipe is too much. I can feel the rope twist a little, burning slightly as it tears at my skin, and then it loosens enough for me to get a finger in place. I manage to get some air into my lungs.

There’s a loud bang and a crushing weight falls on me. A sharp pain in my head and then blackness.

The rain’s coming down much like it always does but there’s a make-shift shelter outside the restaurant which is keeping me dry. A medic from the police department is wiping blood off me. Some of it’s mine from the cut on the temple I received from the toilet bowl but most of it is Big-Shot’s. I don’t know for certain why he did what he did. Maybe he just spent so long tracking the insane he thought he could do it better.

I’ve shaken the hand of the rookie already and he’s off being congratulated by his colleagues and superiors for ending the life of this sick nutter or serial killer; whatever you want to call him.

“You saved my life,” says Victoria. I hadn’t heard her approach. She’s smoking in every sense of the word.

“And he saved mine. And probably yours too,” I reply, nodding at my saviour’s back.

Victoria shrugs and looks at her cigarette with disinterest. She drops it and stubs it out. “You’re still my hero Rick Rake.” She touches the mark on my neck gently and then kisses me on the cheek. It’s less than I hoped for and more than I deserve. Blind luck that the rookie came down to restaurant and needed to use the conveniences. I’ll take blind luck. “I heard them say he’ll probably be promoted to Sergeant for this.”

I nod. Saved from strangulation by Sergeant Simpson. On this case I shouldn’t have expected anything else.

Post-Apocalyptic Estate Agent

Posted by Mark on Jun 27, 2012 | 0 Comments

I’m dreadfully sorry for my tardiness Mr and Mrs Rags; there was a road traffic accident along the southern desert road which naturally has had a knock-on effect throughout the area… Did I get anything? Oh yes! After the Enforcers chased off the Carrion Legion – it was they who’d laid the trap; family all dead by the way, killed post-crash – I managed to fight through the scavengers and took a shoe off the father and a hub cap from one of the wheels… No, it was plastic but with a bit of a clean it might look metallish. Someone might want it. You? No? Okay then.

Anyway, have you viewed any other places since we last spoke? No? So much the better for me then, ha ha! No, but seriously, there’s not a lot out there right now so it’s not surprising… Did I happen to catch where the family was from and if their dwelling is now vacant? You know, I didn’t. But look, when I get back to the office I’ll see if I can put some feelers out among the gangs and I can get back to you on that. I mean, unless we find something perfect for you today, of course!

Okay, so the place I want to take you to first today is just behind this burnt-out car… You thought it might be the car? Oh, no. No, that’s not on the market to the best of my knowledge although I can always make enquiries on your behalf if you’d like… Yes, it might be out of your budget range. If something smaller with less of an intact chassis comes up though I will definitely be in touch. Where were we? Yes, here we are.

Right, this is what I wanted to show you first; this is an old sewer outlet that was already out of use before The Fall of Mankind in the Time of Pain and Fire so it’s got a lot of history in it and – as you can see – it’s solidly-built. You probably only need to do a little aesthetic work on the inside and, of course, I’d recommend some form of defensive reinforcement across the entrance here… Yes, the previous occupant was a little, er, lacking in common sense in that area… An old lady, I believe, but I don’t know her name… Taken to compete in the arena… I am assured that she won’t be returning to stake a claim on the property, yes. So why don’t you take a look around? Mind your head.

Rats? Yes, there will be some so no need to bring your own in… Damp? No, no issues there at all. The trickle you can see along the lower curve of the property there is a little run-off from one of the sewer openings further up the pipe network. As clean as it comes. You’ll have seen the grate back in the rear area – I thought that would probably be ideal for the main bedroom but it’s up to you – and you can feel free to try to remove that and give yourself a little more space if you want but I don’t think any previous inhabitants have managed it… No, I can’t guarantee that there’s nothing dangerous up there Mrs Rags. If only I could. That is why this particular place is so cheap. There’s a risk in every purchase after all… That’s right, it’s a balancing act.

Now, if you’ve seen all you want here perhaps we should move on; I don’t think any of us want to be in open ground once the shattered moon starts to rise, do we? Ha ha!

Okay, now I know you were looking for something close to the dried-up river in case by some miracle the waters should rise again – very wise, totally understandable – but if you’ll permit me to show you something a little farther out then I think you might be quite surprised with how far your barter supplies can get you in the housing market… The Plague-Ridden Flatlands? Well, yes – ha ha! – and no. The thing is that natural immunity is protecting more and more people so there’s less to worry about but, besides, where we’re going is technically just outside, on the edge of the flatlands anyway… Risk again, yes, that’s right Mr Rags. Oh! Oh, I saw that face, ha ha! You might need to do a bit more persuading to the lovely Mrs Rags I think, ha!

Right, so what we’re looking at here is a grouping of nine fair-sized boulders providing a number of areas to shelter from the wind no matter where it springs up from. Obviously, you’ll have to crouch or crawl to get the most benefit there. The boulders also provide a number of nooks and crannies into which you can store any belongings with an element of security… Yes, Mrs Rags, being near the Plague-Ridden Flatlands probably helps too, ha ha! Now, the killer part of this deal is that it also comes with land; this stretch between the boulders and that grouping of leafless bushes down in the hollow over there is all yours… Because nobody in their right mind would come up here? Ha ha, Mrs Rags! I don’t think you’re a fan, are you? As you can see there are tufts of grass growing here and there so the ground can clearly support some form of vegetation if you’re willing to… I think I’m not going to convince you, am I Mrs Rags? No, okay, well let’s not waste any more time here then.

A little bit of a walk now to the final place I want to show you… Have you been up near the ruins of the warehouses recently? I mean in the last couple of years? No? Well, I can tell you you’re in for a bit of a surprise then. It’s quite interesting just how many of my clients won’t come up here on account of the memories of the biker gangs and the Blood Games… Yes, that’s right, there was talk of mutants too. I don’t think anyone ever really believed that though… Oh, really? Ah well, if that was the case then it’s cleared up too… Ha ha! Well, I would, Mrs Rags, but I’m not sure you’d accept an estate agent’s guarantee anyway now, would you?

Now, I’m not going to pretend that the biker gang problem is gone completely but if you take a look once we get around this next series of craters and… there! You see? What you’re looking at is a new community that has grouped together for protection. You can see that they’ve torn down parts of the old warehouse complex and formed barricades along the old road. Inside you can expect to find shelters for everyone made from corrugated iron and they are even starting to bring in and store wood for burning when the ice storms sweep in over the coming months. This is a lovely group of people, I assure you. Can you see over the top of the spiked barrier there? Yes, that’s artwork! I bet you never thought you’d see that in your lifetime… What is it? Oh, I think it’s supposed to represent the Horned Chieftain of the Carrion Legion impaled on a spear of justice… No, me neither, ha ha!

What’s the catch? Oh, there’s no pulling the wool over your eyes Mrs Rags! Ha ha! Well, they’re an independent community, not adhering strictly to the rule of the Enforcers or aligning themselves with the various gangs and, as such, they are prone to being attacked from all sides. Not to put too fine a point on it but, well, women of breeding age are keenly sought-after and menfolk who can fight and scavenge are equally in demand. There is also talk of migrating west in search of better land if the community can salvage enough fuel and transportation for the job; no easy job there too.

So, in a nutshell: lovely community trying to make a better life for itself but you’ll be expected to fight and make dangerous excursions into the wildlands Mr Rags while your wife may be called upon to sleep with a number of men in order to boost the chance of diversifying the gene pool for the sake of the future of humanity. Add to that a potential move at some point so that may mean saying goodbye to any friends and family…

Mrs Rags, I do declare you’re smiling!

Murder At Metathesis Mansion

Posted by Mark on Apr 4, 2012 | 0 Comments

Well, this is luxury. I’m in the back seat of a car appreciating the fine stitching on the initials “H.W.” emboridered into the leather, and I’m taking in a view of the countryside just outside the city. It’s raining, but then it’s always raining. Still, trees make a nice change from grey buildings and flickering lights even though I’m not sure I could stand it for long.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mister Rake?” asks Joseph. Joseph’s my driver; not long-term, of course. I haven’t suddenly come into a fortune while I’ve been away, no. Joseph was sent to fetch me at the request of his employer who right now and for a tidy little daily retainer also happens to be my employer.

“Just admiring nature, Joseph,” I tell him. “I had a potted plant once but this is quite different.” I can tell from his eyes in the rear view mirror that he’s smiling at that but he doesn’t say anything. We’ve already had a short chat on the drive out from the city so there’s not a lot else to say. Joseph’s young and friendly and has told me bits and pieces about life working up at the mansion but I figure it’s easier to not press him too hard and conduct my full investigation when I get there. And if that means the case takes a little longer, well, my wallet certainly won’t complain.

The mansion’s a little smaller and a little more rundown than I was expecting but Mrs Warmer is just the same as when she surprised me in the office five days earlier.

“Joseph!” she addresses the driver in her nasally voice. “Take Mister Rake’s bag to the guest room in the west wing after you’ve parked the car. Mister Rake,” she says to me, slipping a hand around the crook of my arm, “let me give you a quick tour and then you’ll want to freshen up I have no doubt.”

I hope she’s not making some comment about my suit because it’s the only one I’ve got so I just smile and nod and let her take me for a quick wander through the house. It’s your standard mansion layout with a large entrance hall and its obligatory black-and-white tiles and required-by-law impressively wide staircase. Doors to the left and right at the front of the building lead to drawing rooms and dining rooms while there’s a gentlemen’s room to the rear and the servants’ quarters along with kitchen and pantry too. Upstairs it’s bedrooms, a cloak room, and a small library with some nice views to the tree-lined drive we arrived by out the front and a modest, well-tended lawn out back surrounded by various bushes and a small building.

“Is that where the professor usually worked?” I ask, gesturing at the building at the far end of the garden. Mrs Warmer confirms that it was so I tell her that I want to take look.

“It’s raining quite heavily,” she tells me, reaching for a bell pull near the window we’re gazing out from. “I’ll get Joseph to fetch umbrellas and take you across.”

“No need, Mrs Warmer,” I answer quickly, stopping her hand gently. “Perhaps it will be best if I run across there on my own anyway.” She’s looking at me with a little suspicion in her eyes. I get that a lot – yeah, even from little, old, recently-widowed ladies – but I can be quite disarming when I flash my pearly whites. “I’m sure you’ve seen the lab plenty of times already.” She tells me Henry told her she was never to go in there and it holds no interest for her to disobey him now. “I just want to take a quick look and get a feel for the case,” I let her know and head off before she has a chance to drag Joseph into babysitting duty.

This definitely smells like a lab but it looks more like a private office so I’m trying not to drip too much on everything. There are a few beakers here and there and a couple of flasks of some liquid or another on shelves, plus some dangerous-looking copper wiring running up and around the walls which seems to be causing my skin to itch, but a lot of the building’s single room seems given over to books. I’m not completely stupid but I’m also not so smart that reading through this lot will give me much insight into whatever the professor was doing before his death. Still, the chalkboard mounted on the wall by the door catches my eye on account of the octagon outline, arrows, and odd markings on it. There are some words in educated-looking scrawl inside the diagram: “metathesis field”.

I pick up a couple of books and glance at the spines; yeah, there’s no way I’m reading these. I give them a shake just in case. I heard from a detective friend down on the coast a year or so back that a clue fell out of a book once when he did that. No such luck for me.

There’s the sound of splashing from outside and I spot Joseph running from the house along the puddle-covered path towards me. He’s got an umbrella up and another under his arm. Bless that old dear, but it’s not as if I’d be much wetter than I am anyway without it now.

“Hey! Mister Rake!” shouts Joseph, standing in the doorway a few seconds later. “Mrs Warmer said you needed some assistance getting back.”

“Thanks, Joseph,” I reply. “Call me Rick.” I get the feeling he probably won’t. I don’t think there’s anything obvious that’s going to help me here. I ask him if he wants to come in out of the rain but he shakes his head and tells me that Mrs Warmer would be happier if the people who knew Henry left this one place of his alone. I can think of better shrines. “I’ll just lock up,” I tell him and then something really quite strange happens.

“What are you doing down there?” asks Joseph. It’s a good question.

“That’s a good question,” I answer as I lift the startled-looking moggy off my chest and push myself out of the puddle and off the floor outside the building where I find myself laying. I’m now so wet that the umbrella Joseph hands me won’t make the slightest difference but I take it anyway.

“What happened?” asks Joseph. I buy some time trying to recollect and ask him to tell me what he just saw. “You came out of the lab and fell over while I was putting your umbrella up.” He looks confused and sounds unconvinced, but I might just be projecting.

“And then a ginger tom jumped on me,” I add slowly, watching it run across the grass towards the shelter of some bushes or just away from us. “Apparently. Did you see me fall over?” Joseph’s silence is all the answer I need. “Let’s get back to the house,” I say, and Joseph looks a little relieved to hear that. “I have got to get some dry clothes.” I can’t help but look back at the lab as we make our way to the mansion. Odd things happen in my line of work and I’m no stranger to them but this was peculiar even by my standards. I realise I never locked up, but who’s going to break in?

The bath’s helped me recover a bit but the need to borrow some of Professor Warmer’s clothes makes me feel a bit uncomfortable and not just because he was a couple of inches shorter than me. Mrs Warmer doesn’t seem to mind but she strikes me as one of those type of ladies who gets over tragedies quickly. I get a chance to talk to her when we meet on the landing and ask her to tell me what sort of man her husband was.

“Well, Mister Rake, Henry was a private man but he was a good husband. A little emotional,” she confides with a hint of a smile, “prone to blubbing, and dedicated to his work.”

“Which was?”

“Work for the government,” she said quickly. “It’s no secret that’s who he worked for, although the specifics were never explained, and I never asked. I do know he’d recently completed something important.” I persuade Mrs Warmer to tell me about his death. “Gloria, the cook, found him in the smoking room. The police say he had been hit from behind with a metal pole but couldn’t determine who by and found no indication of an intruder or any sign that anything had been taken. They gave up on him. We were all questioned but I don’t believe anyone in this house was responsible.”

“And the government?” I ask. “If he worked for them did they get in touch?”

“Two men took some papers from his laboratory, but nothing more.” I can see her lip tremble a little so I decide to ease away from the conversation with one last question.

“Did the professor have any outside interests?”

“He loved his car, Mister Rake,” she says after the shortest of pauses. It’s a nice car, I’ll admit; the ride was lovely and it was well looked-after but that pause is more interesting to me.

I’ve got time for a quick meeting with Gloria before she has to prepare food for the evening meal. I’m a detective so I’m used to reading people quickly and Gloria is no exception; this is one dangerous lady. She’s got eyes that can pierce plate armour and the kind of lips that could be used as a life preserver if you ever got washed overboard at sea. Tall, slender, and dressed to accentuate the curves she’s got, she looks out of place here in the countryside when she could be breaking hearts and causing car crashes in the city. She’s also very flustered right now.

“Gloria, it’s okay,” I say, trying to calm her down but there’s a mix of fury and fear behind those long eyelashes. “I’m a man of the world,” I add. I’m not trying to hit on her, although the thought is somewhere at the back of my mind. Gloria struggles and pulls up her underwear underneath her skirt. “That’s a hell of a first impression to make,” I say with what I hope is a genuine smile and then try to introduce myself.

“I know who you are Rick Rake. We all know who you are.” A voice like smoke trapped in an ice cube. That reminds me: it’s been a while since I had a drink and I’m hoping the old professor liked whiskey.

She lights a cigarette and tries to calm herself. She’s not the friendly sort so I try to assert a dominant position. “Would you mind telling me why you were doing exactly what you were just doing?” I ask, and nod towards the small puddle on the hallway tiles near her feet.

Gloria’s not the sort to be dominated and she draws herself up, straightening her clothing. It’s a nice sight. “I have no idea,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Perhaps we’re all still very stressed over Henry’s death.”

I tell her she’s probably right and ask if she’s happy to answer a few questions. She agrees so long as she can clean up the mess and water the plant in the window while I do so. I think it’s for the best that she does. I start by asking her about the day of the murder.

“I had driven the two of us into the city so that the professor could pick up some books from the library and I could pick out some new cutlery for the dining room. At around three I drove us back. I prepared food. I laid the food at six. The professor was not at the table so I went to look for him at Mrs Warmer’s request and that’s when I found him in the smoking room.”

“Do you often drive the professor around?”

“In the past year, yes.” I’m getting one of those hunches that occur whenever there’s wealthy men and stunningly attractive women on the scene so I ask her directly if she and the professor were seeing one another behind Mrs Warmer’s back. “Absolutely not!” Gloria hisses at me. She’s mopped up the floor now and I notice her glancing at the flowering thing in the pot in the window but she tells me she has to clean herself up before she prepares the late meal and leaves. She looks good leaving.

I take a quick look at the scene of the alleged crime but it’s pretty much exactly as I expected. A couple of leather chairs, a bookcase, a view out onto the garden through large, locked doors. I can tell where the body was found because of the familiar, dark stain on the floorboards behind the standalone bar. I’m more interested in the bar; it’s one of those highly-polished, rosewood jobs, curved and containing an assortment of bottles including an unopened, twenty-year-old single malt. I’m tempted to crack the seal but I don’t want to press my luck as it’s not often I have any.

I notice Joseph getting soaked outside, pruning some bushes back, and I see that he keeps well away from the professor’s lab. Something about the shape of that building starts nagging at me but I’m finding it hard to think straight. I figure I’m a little tired so I decide to take a nap before food.

I’ve just made a strange noise while sitting in a toboggan in my bedroom. You’re probably wondering why and, truth be told, so am I as I’ve got no memory of climbing the stairs and this wooden contraption certainly wasn’t next to my bed earlier. That’s twice now that something very odd has happened. No, I correct myself, three times if I include Gloria’s strange behaviour too. And just like that I think I’ve solved this case. Mrs Warmer’s not going to like it.

I’m sitting opposite Mrs Warmer in the dining room and Gloria’s just walked in with the bowls of soup that constitute our first course. Gloria does a good job of keeping her face neutral in my presence. Joseph had held open the door for her as her hands were full so I take advantage of everyone being present and ask him to step in. Mrs Warmer and Gloria look shocked and Joseph flinches but I beckon him in with a “please.”

“Mrs Warmer,” I start, “I’m afraid that your husband’s death was an accident.” I was right; Mrs Warmer doesn’t look like she likes this revelation.

“Mister Rake, if you are going to tell me that my husband accidentally killed himself with a metal pole then it would appear that your detecting skill may have been overstated by the inspector and I’ll get Joseph to drop you back to the city immediately.”

I make a mental note to thank the inspector for sending work my way but raise a finger to stop Mrs Warmer and Joseph who looked like he was getting ready to fulfill his employer’s wishes right that second. “Let me explain,” I say and then I throw a letter down on the table.

“What’s that?” asks Gloria but I can see she recognises it.

“That’s a letter of recommendation from the professor to his friend Harvey at the city planetarium. It’s recommending you and your cooking skills, Gloria. I took it from your bedside table before coming down here.”

“How dare you!” spits Gloria, reaching across for the letter and grabbing it. I let her have it.

“Mrs Warmer,” I say, addressing her face-to-face, “your husband was about to relocate as he had completed this phase of work for the government. Your husband had affections for Gloria here and wanted to make sure she had work to look forward to.”

“He mentioned it but there were no firm plans,” admits Mrs Warmer, and then looks at Gloria. “I can’t believe you’re saying that Gloria killed Henry because he confided in her that he wouldn’t take her along. I can’t believe that at all.”

“No,” I interrupt, before Gloria has a chance to reply in a way that will probably see her blacklisted from employment in the state for years to come. “Gloria’s not as innocent as you may think but she’s not guilty of any crime either. As I said: the death was an accident but this letter was the trigger. The professor was working on something called the ‘metathesis field’. More than that, he’d finished it and has it working right now in his laboratory. There’s a board on the wall by the door in there that shows a plan of the building and indicates that the wiring around it is generating this field right now. Anyone who goes inside it faces the risk of unpredictable metathesis events at any time.”

“Can I ask what this metathesis thing is,” asks Joe, looking decidedly confused but only a little more so than the others in the room.

“A metathesis event swaps sounds or letters around in sentences making entirely new events take place,” I explain. It’s the sort of explanation that’s lost on Joseph so I continue: “For example, when I went to leave the laboratory, do you remember what happened?”

“You fell over,” Joseph answers slowly.

“No, I didn’t,” I reply, standing up. “I had intended to lock up and place the key under the mat as Mrs Warmer had asked. What happened was that I suddenly found me under a cat. Do you understand?”

“That’s preposterous!” Gloria’s looking like she thinks she’s being taken for a fool and I know she’s got a bit of a temper so I need to persuade her most of all.

“You’ve been in the lab, Gloria, so you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve had some strange events happen to you too.”

Mrs Warmer starts to say that nobody was allowed in the lab but Gloria talks over her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about detective and I don’t like the insinuation.”

I sigh. “Fine, you pushed me Gloria. Mrs Warmer, Gloria and your husband were having an affair, probably for the best part of a year. The trips into the city were part of it but meetings obviously took place in the building in the garden too.”

“Do you have any evidence, Mister Rake? This is a horrible accusation to level at a good employee.” I like Mrs Warmer’s loyalty but it all has to come out now.

“When I first met Gloria, I’m guessing she had been intending to see to her plant,” I nod at the fiery cook. She nods back and I think I see a lightbulb switch on somewhere in the back of her gorgeous eyes. “Instead, I found her at a slant and, well, engaging in something a little unladylike.” Gloria stays silent, Joseph still looks confused, and Mrs Warmer might just be slumping a little in her seat so I press on and try to wrap it all up quickly for everyone’s sake. “A little earlier I felt tired and thought about having a short sleep in bed before dinner. I found myself instantly beeping in a sled. The metathesis field is affecting me just as it affected Gloria and, unfortunately, it also affected the professor on the day of his death.”

I walk around to Gloria and ask her to tell us the truth of that last trip into the city. Gloria brushes down her clothing – she looks so good doing that – and takes a deep breath before telling us all that she had fought with the professor when he had told her of his plans and handed her the recommendation letter. “I called him names,” she directs to Mrs Warmer, “and I’m sorry for that. When we got back he was upset and said he’d need time to make himself presentable so I left him in the car. That was the last time I saw him alive.”

“Mrs Warmer told me that the professor was an emotional man,” I say. “I’m afraid he blubbed in the car, and that’s what killed him.”

It’s taken a phonecall to the government office for which the professor was working to get them to come and dismantle his laboratory and they’re now giving me a lift back to the city as thanks for solving the mystery of why two of their field agents reported some rather odd events taking place following a recent visit to ensure sensitive material wasn’t lost. I don’t know why they were all working on this metathesis field but anyone who thinks governments work for the good of the people was probably dropped on the head as a kid. Best thing is not to dig too deeply, even if you’re a pretty good detective like me.

Joseph’s staying on with Mrs Warmer for the time being. She’s not hurting for money and he’s got a fairly cushy job that won’t tax his limited intellect. Gloria’s disappeared already, but dames like that will land on their feet somewhere in the city and I hope I bump into her sometime.

And me, well, I’m taking a last look at a bit of nature through rain-covered windows before I get back where it’s just as crazy but slightly more predictable. And I’m hoping I don’t receive a call from Mrs Warmer asking me to investigate what happened to her husband’s malt whiskey.

Causal And Effects

Posted by Mark on Jan 14, 2012 | 0 Comments

“Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

The couple turned their heads and looked at one another, she glancing down and he staring up on account of their relevant heights. A quizzical look passed between them and they turned slowly back towards James.

“Not Jehovah’s Witnesses then,” said James who prided himself on his quick uptake but mostly wanted to break the uneasy silence.

“No,” said the woman, slowly and carefully, almost concentrating on how the word formed and spilled from her lips. She smiled at this apparent success and continued in a more normal fashion: “You are James Trent of number three, Cosgrove Gardens.”

James looked at the number on his open door and then across the road to the sign attached to the house on the corner opposite. He stopped himself from instantly admitting that there was no fault in what had just been said to him. “What do you want with him?” he asked cautiously so that he could still claim any surprise inheritance or pretend he’d moved long ago depending on how this played out.

“We are the police,” said the male half of the couple.

“We are Temporal Causality Police from your twenty-seventh century,” corrected the female.

James nodded and sighed. “Of course you are,” he said with a slight smile. There was a drugs rehab centre three streets over and he’d encountered a scruffy, young man only last year who’d clearly fallen off the rehabilitation wagon and wanted to let the world know he was happy about it, as were the invisible, green unicorns on the rooftops. “Make sure none of the green unicorns get in your Tardis,” he said, and made to close the door.

The woman took her hand from her pocket and placed it on James’ arm making him flinch and step away; she had icy cold fingers and it was a decidedly mild March day. “We are here to arrest you,” she said firmly.

James felt certain that he must have misheard. “Sorry, you’re what police?” he asked, rubbing at his arm.

“Temporal Causality,” said the man with a smile and a nod, and he then fished inside his jacket pocket for a card which was held up towards James. It looked like metal with a fine, translucent mesh across its surface and seemed to flex slightly in the grip of the stranger; there were some markings too that might have been letters, words, and pictures but they seemed to shimmer like holograms and disappear from view when looked at directly.

James shook his head to clear the confusion. “You’re what?” he asked again. He hoped this was a new approach by the Jehovah’s Witnesses because nothing else made much sense.

“James Trent, you are accused of violating temporal causality by instigating two time leaps on consecutive days to the exact same chronojunction to perform contradictory causal actions.” The woman wasn’t smiling as she recited this apparently rehearsed phrase.

“I… what? How?”

“The time device you created, Mr Trent,” explained the man after a short nod of approval from his colleague, “has opened humankind up to all manner of wonders but it is not to be trifled with. Even you, its creator, are not immune from prosecution.”

“What?” splurted James. “I haven’t invented anything! I’m a bricklayer.”

“Come now, your history as a bricklayer is well-known, Mr Trent, but the insight that helped you bridge the gap of knowledge between quantum time and the workings of a sandwich toaster in a freezer after that most fateful New Year’s Eve party put that particular career behind you many years ago.”

“What?” said James again. Even he was getting tired of saying it.

“Enough,” said the woman forcefully but quietly. “We are here to issue an arrest. James Trent, on this local date of the ninth of March, two-thousand and nineteen you are hereby notified that…”

“It’s twenty twelve,” said James.

“What?” said the man. It made a nice change. He looked at the palm of his own hand and made a face. “Ah.” His colleague looked down at the palm too.

“Oh,” she added. “This can’t be good. I wouldn’t be surprised if we didn’t receive a…”

“Eek!” eeked James, which made both visitors look first at him and then swivel quickly to look behind them at what it was that he was looking at in alarm.

“You are officers Qualm Three Four and Spinks One Nineteen of the Imperial Temporal Constabulary,” said the immaculately-dressed, well-spoken, muscular, orange mouse that blocked the pathway away from the house, “and I am here to effect judgement on a reality violation.”

“That figures,” said the woman. “It was an honest mistake though.”

“A mistake that has had terrible repercussions. We will need to render your life event to nothing; I’m sure you understand.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said the man, holding up a finger and wagging it in the large rodent’s direction. Nothing else was forthcoming as both the man and woman were suddenly no longer there. This left James alone with the newly-arrived thing.

“You’re a mouse,” said James quietly.

“Technically, I’m a giraffe,” said the mouse, “but it’s a little bit more complicated than that and a lot of it has to do with your invention of the Reality Rewriter in eight years time.”

“I thought I invented a time machine,” said James.

“Don’t be silly!” laughed the giraffe-mouse. “Time travel is impossible. Fortunately, it’s you who finally works this out many years from now and it’s why you then dedicate your life to constructing a device that will warp reality to your will, allow you to make anything possible, and yet still protect you from the changes wrought. The quantum time lessons you learn will set you on the right path but it’s only the start. Eventually, you will need a mountain of sandwich toasters to complete your work.”

“Should you be telling me all this?” asked James. “I mean… those two people… didn’t you erase them from history or something?”

“What two people?” asked the giraffe-mouse, genuinely interested.

“The man and the woman. They were just here. You accused them of a reality something and then they were gone.”

The giraffe-mouse clasped his hands together and closed his eyes for a moment. “That sounds plausible,” he said after a few seconds. “If you have already switched on the Reality Rewriter then it’s possible that you’re being protected right now against changes you’re making outside which would include me and these two phantom people.”

“Wouldn’t I know I’d done that?” asked James.

“You should,” agreed the giraffe-mouse, opening his eyes and looking into the man’s eyes. “Well,” he smiled, “in my reality you should.”

“What do I do?” asked James. He looked up and down the street. Everything else looked perfectly normal; it was just this small area of his world right in front of him that made no sense.

“Carry on as normal. Do the things you were always meant to do. It’s all you can do.” And with that he turned around, walked down the path, and wandered around the corner out of sight.

James stepped back into his house and closed the door quietly, then leaned his head against it and let out a deep breath. He would need to sell things, he realised, and he would need to start hitting the electrical retail stores. He should see if he could get in contact with the manufacturers too, he thought; he’d need a mountain, that’s what he’d been told. Things were going to change. Reality was going to change.

Had anyone been looking they might have witnessed a man and woman suddenly appear as if from nowhere just around the corner from Cosgrove Gardens. A second later a mouse in a suit walked up to them. It shimmered like a mirage and then became a tall, balding man who instantly rubbed his face vigorously.

“Itchy?” asked the woman sarcastically as she pulled out an ice bag from her pocket and threw it in a hedge.

“You be the bloody mouse next time Claire,” came the reply.

“Seemed to go well,” said the other man.

“Hmmm,” Claire answered, opening her handbag. “Vision cloaks and mutation projectors away now,” she commanded. The two men took out small, smooth stones from their trouser pockets and deposited them with their companion. “That will do for today,” she said, and the three started to walk towards a small, blue car parked nearby.

“You don’t think we’re going to an awful lot of trouble just to increase sales in our sandwich toaster outlet, do you?” asked the man who had only recently been a rodent.

Claire and the other man glanced at one another briefly. “No,” they said in unison.

Frogs Everywhere

Posted by Mark on Dec 22, 2011 | 0 Comments

There were frogs everywhere. Of the carpet there could be seen not one inch and the amphibians also adorned the three piece suite, curtains, photos, nested tables, television stand, and mantelpiece. Tens of thousands of eyelids opened and closed at regular intervals and a small number of the many creatures shifted or squirmed over neighbours but there was an otherwise strange stillness to the room.

“There are frogs everywhere,” said Jay quietly, but not quietly enough. A wave of startled movement broke out near the taller of the two men’s feet but swiftly ebbed into the uneasy calm once more.

“I know,” whispered Luke. “I have the gift.”

Jay looked down at the top of his friend’s head, unable to see his face but certain it would show exaltation from the tone of voice. “There are frogs everywhere,” he repeated, quieter than before.

Luke looked up, smiling. “I can make the noise and summon them,” he said, and took a deep breath.

“Stop!” said Jay a little too forcefully as he grabbed his friend’s arm. A short chorus of croaks and other assorted noises broke out in the room and there was a concerted effort by several hundred of the room’s cold-blooded denizens to get away from the loud and scary man. A kaleidoscope of greens and yellows and browns with occasional gems of bright blues, reds, and oranges undulated across the floor.

After about a minute near-silence and near-stillness returned.

“You’ve ruined Katie’s birthday,” whispered Jay. He saw Luke’s shoulders drop slightly but there was no response. “Six today,” Jay continued, “and all she’ll remember is a semi-aquatic home invasion, her cake ruined, her friends in tears, and her screaming in terror in her room.”

“I’m sorry,” said Luke, and it sounded like he meant it.

“Why today? Why would you choose to try this gift out today of all days?”

Luke looked around the room, seemingly seeing it and studying it for the first time. He couldn’t deny that there were frogs everywhere; some were on the walls and a couple had even made it across the ceiling and set up home amongst the light fittings in its centre. And the smell hit him suddenly too. Frogs had a distinctive odour and in this volume it was quite overpowering.

“I’m sorry,” repeated Luke. “I’ve felt I had this gift all my life and I don’t know… I just felt compelled to try it today.”

“All your life!?” Jay said incredulously, keeping his voice low. “Even six months ago?” There was a barely perceptible nod by way of reply. “Six months ago! Damn! Our planet is invaded by things so alien we’ve still not agreed on names for them. Millions die, so much damage, and then they fall foul of some allergy to frogs which addles their brains or brain-equivalents and they all commit mass suicide in the sea. And you couldn’t have tried out your gift back then and ended everything quicker? When Jenny was alive? Damn! Damn it man!”

Luke wanted to say he was sorry again but kept his mouth shut. Two frogs in the room started croaking in turn. Competing with one another or simply communicating, neither Luke nor Jay knew.

Jay took a deep breath, fought the gag reflex briefly, and then said calmly: “Do you feel you have a gift for getting rid of the frogs?”

“Maybe,” said Luke with a strange shake of his head.

“What is it?” asked Jay with some trepidation.

“I think it summons horses. Frogs don’t like horses.”

Jay looked at his glistening living room and at the smashed windows in the bay window; the amphibians had caused quite a bit of damage getting in and horses would probably cause quite a bit more.

“Katie’s always wanted a pony,” said Jay after a moment. “Do it.”

Justifiable Homicide

Posted by Mark on Aug 31, 2011 | 0 Comments

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No.”

“Okay, well then… why don’t you start? Take us back to that morning.”

“We went for a walk.”

“Your wife and you?”

“Yes.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

“Carry on.”

“I picked up my camera bag and we left the house. We went for a walk. I photographed a few things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Anything. I photograph anything interesting. Buildings, people, views, rubbish, anything.”

“Carry on.”

“We got near the pub – the Rose – and she told me to put the camera away.”

“This camera?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it. I don’t know much about them.”

“Digital SLR. Canon. Telephoto lens. I’m not sure what you want to know.”

“That’s fine. So, you got to the pub and put your camera away?”

“No. I don’t put my camera away. I might see something interesting.”

“So you argued?”

“No. Not really. We went in a had a drink and I didn’t put the camera away. I didn’t spill anything on the camera. I don’t know what her problem was.”

“Indeed. Did anything else happen there?”

“No. We left after the drink and carried on with the walk. Then we noticed the clouds coming in and we decided we should probably make for another pub.”

“People after my own heart. Did anything happen here?”

“She told me to put the camera away when the first spots of rain came down.”

“Sensible.”

“No, the camera is water-resistant. A few spots won’t hurt it.”

“So you didn’t put the camera away?”

“No. Rain can be good to photograph.”

“And when you got to the second pub?”

“I kept the camera out there too. We were indoors then. And there were some interesting people in the pub.”

“Did you photograph them?”

“No, but I could have.”

“And how did your wife feel about this?”

“She was irritated, but she always is.”

“Irritated enough to fight?”

“No, we didn’t fight. We left the pub and saw an old woman fall over in the street so I photographed her. My wife was not pleased. She said we should have helped but it was on the other side of the road and there were other people nearer. Here, here’s the photo I took.”

“Ouch! Face in the turd!”

“I know. Classic. Anyway, it would have been difficult to get across the road as there was a funeral procession driving slowly through just about then.”

“And you… photographed it?”

“Yes. The reflections in the rain puddles of the cars and their flowers was too good to miss.”

“I’ll bet your wife didn’t think the same thing.”

“She thought it was disrespectful; said I should have kept the camera down at the very least. I pointed out that what takes place in public is fair game but she has this bee in her bonnet about people’s privacy and all that crap. She just hates my hobby.”

“Did you fight then?”

“No. I wouldn’t fight about that. Why would I?”

“Perhaps you should move the story forward to when you fought.”

“It was later. Quite a bit later. We had been to a few places. She had asked me to put the camera away on a number of occasions.”

“And you hadn’t?”

“No, but eventually I decided to humour her. You know, for a bit of peace since she looked so grumpy.”

“Go on.”

“I put the camera away.”

“And?”

“Then we saw a crocodile.”

“That’s unusual for an English city.”

“I know.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to get my camera back out of the camera bag.”

“Tried?”

“I got distracted by the eagle. It flew right over our heads and grabbed the crocodile from the ground.”

“Right.”

“I got my camera out as it took off with the crocodile writhing in its talons.”

“Did you take a shot?”

“The lens cap was still on and we were knocked back just then by the electrical vortex that sparked into existence just in front of us.”

“A vortex?”

“I can’t describe it any other way. An astronaut stepped from it and pointed some brick-shaped device at the crocodile and eagle. They froze and faded and just disappeared.”

“What were you doing at this time?”

“Trying to set aperture priority on the camera.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Just after the vortex took the astronaut away from us; he waved, by the way.”

“That’s pretty strange.”

“Yes.”

“And the fight?”

“My wife asked me if I’d caught any of it on camera so I cleaved her skull in with it.”

Doctor Maniac’s Meeting

Posted by Mark on Aug 7, 2011 | 0 Comments

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Such a prestigious group of the world’s greatest criminal masterminds the world has truly never seen, nor shall it ever with our skill at evading the law. Most of you are probably wondering why I’ve asked you all to this meeting and why I’ve insisted on such secrecy and I… the chair recognises Wan Tring of the Hong Kong triads.”

“Thank you Doctor Maniac. I am Wan Tring. Most here are not Wan Tring.”

“Right. Wondering. Won-der-ing. Not Wan Tring. Can I continue? Thank you. I have asked you to this… the chair recognises El Diablo.”

“Is this one of those meetings where you kill anyone who dissents with you?”

“No! No! Where do you get these ideas?”

“I steal movies. I watch movies. Do these chairs slide down into a pit of spikes and fire?”

“What pit? This is clearly a laminated floor and we’re on the third storey of this building. You came past the floor below on the way here. You had the tour. Do you remember the office staff? The pretty secretary with the big you-know-whats? People, please! Can I get to the point of this meeting? Oh, for fu… the chair recognises Minister Montezuma.”

“I have a dentist’s appointment at three. Will this meeting take long?”

“Let’s… start again. And please: no interruptions. Oh… Minister Montezuma, again?”

“It’s just that it’s about an hour’s drive and I need to get there early to fill in some paperwork. I would really like to leave by one thirty.”

“You can leave at one thirty. That’s not a problem. Gentlemen, I’ve…”

“I will leave at the same time as the Minister. Unless the Minister doesn’t want that!”

“El Diablo, why would the…”

“My friend El Diablo, you may do whatever you please.”

“What’s going on with you two?”

“There’s nothing going on but let’s just say that I think we should all leave together or not at all.”

“Is this something from one of your movies again?”

“We have seen this movie in Hong Kong too. Wan Tring Enterprises has imported many copies. Good film. Robert Vaughn.”

“I wish you would take this meeting seriously.”

“You’re thinking of The Man From U.N.C.L.E.”

“Can we please stop talking about films?”

“Many apologies. Perhaps it is a common theme.”

“Really, please, please can we get back on track here? I’ve only booked the Death Room until four.”

“Aha! You are trying to kill us Maniac!”

“I am not! It’s named after the architect, Francis Death. He’s responsible for the unique lintels you see over there and the rosewood panelling designs. You people are… what now?”

“You haven’t forgotten that I want to leave at one thirty.”

“How the hell could I have forgotten? You’ve only barely finished… that’s not even for another two and a quarter hours anyway!”

“It’s just we don’t even know what this meeting’s about or how long it will go on for.”

“What!? I have been trying to tell you since you all got here. At least Lord Chaoticon has been quiet; the rest of you…”

“I think Lord Chaoticon is asleep.”

“He’s what?”

“To be fair, he’s probably jetlagged. And he did just mastermind stealing a nuclear sub from the Iranians. I think he was up until the early hours of the morning on Thursday and then flew straight here. It’s a nine hour flight.”

“You people are unbelievable.”

“Oh! He stole the submarine? I thought it was Papa Odessa and the Fingernail Gang.”

“No, they’ve been retired for over a year now. Papa has opened a bike repair shop on the Windward Islands. It’s what he always wanted.”

“Retired! Retired? That sounds like a great idea right now. That’s it, you lot have driven me to distraction. I’m out of this business for good. Let yourselves out. You can leave now or at one thirty or whenever the hell you like and you can all go separately or together. I. Don’t. Care. Goodbye.”

“What’s all the shouting about?”

“Lord Chaoticon’s awake!”

“Come back Doctor Maniac! Lord Chaoticon’s awake.”

“I was just resting my eyes.”

“Your meeting has finished early Doctor Maniac.”

“Yes it has Julie. Can you call down to the canteen and get them to send up some coffee? And can you hunt down some headache tablets too?”

“Right away Doctor Maniac. Did you manage to arrange anything for your wife’s surprise birthday?”

“No, no I didn’t. Can you also switch on the electric seals to the Death Room and release the poison gas while you’re at it too?”

“Right away Doctor Maniac. Will there be anything else?”

“I think we should just give the Science Team the go-ahead for Operation Lunar Volcano – liaise with Sharon on that – and can you draw me up a shortlist of party organisers? I think that’ll be all. Thank you.”

“Right away Doctor Maniac.”

The Jewish Invention

Posted by Mark on Jun 28, 2011 | 0 Comments

So, you want to know about my incredible invention and how it affects every Jewish person on the planet, yes? Very well. But where to begin?

I’m drawn to Poland in the early 1960s. You might not think it would be a hip and happening place – certainly nowhere near, say, London – but there were places you could go and things you could do that put London in the shade. In a sense, almost quite literally so, since it was just outside Warsaw that saw Europe’s largest solar array built, a vast collecting dish lined with early photovoltaic cells. They weren’t much like the things you see these days, though. You have to remember that this was during Poland’s decade of experimenting with genetic manipulation, before the animal rights people came in and freed the cooking, twitching silverfish from their power parabola prison.

I dated an animal rights activist for a while but we all do crazy things when we’re out of our faces on glue. No horses were harmed in the formation of that glue. The same can’t be said for my short run as head of innovations for the world famous Ragtag Circus during the summer of 1971, touring South America. I was convinced that a 21-horse pyramid was possible but, well, maybe we’ll never know for sure what caused the collapse. My dear friend Monsieur Bolobo the clown claimed a painted zebra had infiltrated our number on the night of the spectacle, its weaker back giving way under the weight, but this was his stock excuse for every failing. Made for an amusing divorce hearing from his wife.

Someone else who divorced his wife was Ignatius Lemming. Now, it’s a strange name but I’d be surprised if you’d heard it before since he went out of his way to hide it from the public, adopting noms-de-plume in much the same fashion that celebrities adopt children and charities. Among his many aliases for a while he was Charles Ford, tobacco importer; then he was Jermaine Montezuma, backing singer for the soul group The Five Spaniards; I remember a wild fortnight when he had clicks in his name because he’d seen some television documentary about a native tribe somewhere. This was right around the dolphin uprising at Chicago Zoo. And now you know why.

The Five Spaniards wasn’t a real group, unlike The Six Senoritas, although funk and soul weren’t their specialities; they preferred rumbles and robberies. They were rough, they were tough, and they were buff, but you accused them of being anything other than straight, angry women at your peril. I first encountered them as they broke into the bank I was in the process of stealing. There was a time when you could reason with people like that – “I’ve raised it up on wheels! I was clearly here first and about to make off with it!” – but this took place a couple of days after the great criminal honour truce ran out and, ultimately, it was six against one. Besides, I was always a gentleman first and a thief second.

I needed a second when I was challenged to a duel by Lord March (a misunderstanding over the rights – or, rather, lack thereof – of commoners to swear at swans at Goodwood House). His Lordship and I had both been drinking at the time and it seemed like a good way to resolve our avian differences of opinion but when the time came I, at least, had sobered up enough to realise that cricket bats were, if not dangerous, at least unbecoming for such an occasion. I asked my second – a tramp I had befriended by the name of Wallace – to attempt to persuade my upper class adversary to call off the fight but Lord March would have none of it. Another thing he would have none of was caviar.

I don’t like caviar either. Never have. I don’t like the texture in my mouth and it’s far too salty for my taste, although if you know a woman who likes caviar then you can make a couple of other assumptions about things she’ll like too. Balls, is one. And the tiaras you wear to them, naturally. My partner and I manufactured top-end tiaras in the mid-seventies. It was a brief flirtation with the business as a result of some rather unwanted and swift attention from the local headwear mafia.

On a cold morning in May we found ourselves face-to-face with rather burly and rather angry henchmen with just one thing on their collective minds: pummelling. Fortunately, the collective minds of headwear mafia henchmen amounts to very little grey matter and I was able to spin them a long tale that went off at tangents in such a way as to confuse them as to the reason they were there in the first place. Rest assured: that story finished most unsatisfyingly too.