Protection

Posted by Mark on Apr 16, 2013 | 0 Comments

Melanie was shocked to discover her husband in the arms of another fish-beast but she took solace in the fact that they were both wearing protection.

Ask Me A Question

Posted by Mark on Apr 16, 2013 | 9 Comments

As the sign says: ask me a question.

I might even answer.

And the answer might contain some elements of truth.

But I wouldn't necessarily count on it.

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Star Trek And Mrs Thatcher

Posted by Mark on Apr 14, 2013 | 0 Comments

Former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher died this week and the world went a little crazy.

It’s been a week that’s seen British people partying in the streets because an old woman died of a stroke. It’s been a week that’s seen people who assert that they are rational, skeptical people liken Margaret Thatcher to Robert Mugabe. It’s been a week that’s tested my ability to hold my tongue and walk away in order to keep some semblance of peace and friendship with those who engage in and support the most vile of human actions. And anyone who knows me knows how difficult that has been.

Too difficult. I need to vent a smidge. Fortunately, I have my own website for just this purpose.

Almost universally, I would say that my friends and peers would describe themselves politically as left wing. I imagine that if any of them had considered it, based on arguments or discussions we’ve had in the past, they might think that I’m right wing. But they’re wrong. This belief that I am right wing might have been reinforced from the way I immediately started attacking those who celebrated the death of Mrs Thatcher. And it’s still wrong. And even though I voted Conservative in the last election it’s still wrong to think I’m right wing. I vote for the best candidate to fix the mess the last one made or to limit future damage; in recent years I’ve voted Labour and Liberal Democrats for the same reasons. Anyone who votes for the same party time after time without realising that the party’s politics are changing time after time is a complete moron.

I do believe in very liberal attitudes where it comes to society. And I do think that everyone deserves the chance to be what they want to be and get what they need. It all sounds very socialist; it all sounds left wing. And it is. I want the Star Trek future of peace and no wants.

But I realise we’re living in the wrong time for it. The best we can do is push the species forward towards that goal and hope to catch some of it before our molecules break apart and move into new homes. And to do that we need to prosper and innovate and improve the standards of life, lifting everything and everyone up around us. Keep at it and eventually we’ll get over that tipping point where everyone wins.

So, how does this differ from those people who sentimentally hold to the fiction that Margaret Thatcher single-handedly destroyed their lives three decades ago or some other such nonsense? Don’t they want a future of no wants too? Yes, they do, but only so long as nobody prospers more than anyone else. Instead of lifting everyone up to a better standard they’d rather everyone dropped down to the lowest common denominator of living; if anyone were better off than anyone else then that person would be privileged and that just won’t do. No, no, far better to give people work that makes no sense and take from those that would benefit the country to offset the difference. Far better to keep the country in poverty so everyone suffers rather than give anyone any incentive to better themselves. Far better to stifle progress in the name of equality. Let people do what they want and if that happens to be not enough to survive or live at exactly the same standard as everyone else then just take away from someone who’s worked a little harder or smarter.

This is that wonderful world that Margaret Thatcher destroyed. A world where everyone has a job, no matter how pointless, unless they don’t want that job or unless they want to get more for their job than actually makes sense. Isn’t it a wonderful place? A place where there is no aspiration and no competition for anything. Your tablet PCs and smartphones? Choice? No need for any of that! One size fits all! Personal possessions? Precious few! What’s the point?

Nobody really thinks we’d still be living like that without Thatcher, of course. The world changed and as a country we would have changed too no matter who was nominally in charge but we wouldn’t be where we are now. We’d probably be where Greece or Spain is, only without the nice weather. That blast of capitalist greed and fast expansion under Mrs Thatcher’s stewardship, however, was just what the country and the world needed to set us on the path to that Star Trek future I want; there are similarities to Isaac Asimov’s Foundation novels here, too: a bit of pain now to bring about a better life for our descendants.

In the Thatcher years and since then we’ve all been granted the chance to make a success for ourselves and make our lives better. Some people don’t want that. Some people want to be given everything for nothing and they look to blame anything and anybody they can for their own inherent laziness.

These sorts of people:

You know: scum.

I neither liked nor disliked Margaret Thatcher and her policies; some were good and some were bad because that’s the way the world works and sometimes you’re on one side and sometimes you’re on the other. Everyone’s going to have different viewpoints – I get that – and people are going to disagree with mine and come up with their own fantasy of what might have been and what might yet come to pass. Good for them! Hopefully, they’ll have their own website and can write about it too. It might even be compelling enough to cause me to question my opinions on this subject.

Just one thing, though: there is no chance in hell that I would ever want to live in the Union of Soviet Socialist Planets, flying from world to world in the USS Ken Livingstone. I’m just saying.

Free House

Posted by Mark on Apr 13, 2013 | 11 Comments

Free house? Tom stopped dead in his tracks. It was an enticing offer. Obviously, he already had a house – the one he shared with Linda, his wife of forty years – but who couldn't use a second one? Maybe he could get around to getting one of those mistresses he'd read about and setting her up in it. Or, naturally, he could always sell the building and use the proceeds on a sports car; that was something he didn't already have.

No, no, he thought to himself. I've come out for some stationery and that's all I'm going back with. And Tom resumed his slow shuffle towards the bus stop to wait for the number 84.

Behind the windows of the building two figures glanced at one another with looks of mild frustration on their faces. The taller of the two ran his fingers through the ice cubes floating on the surface of the water in the bathtub; his partner placed the surgical blade he'd been holding in anticipation back onto the tablecloth by his side. "That's four now," he said forcefully.

"Patience, Charles," the tall man replied quietly, shaking the cold water from this fingertips. "Someone will come in. Someone always comes in."

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A Warning From History

Posted by Mark on Apr 6, 2013 | 3 Comments

You've probably never heard of the Great Cutlery War if you're not an actual piece of cutlery, and even if you were a piece of cutlery with a Google+ account you may still never have heard of it as it was a dark period in the items' history; many knives and forks will still not mention this bloody period to their little teaspoons and sporks to this day.

You can imagine, therefore, that it took a great many meetings with lots of unsettling negotiating to finally get permission and funding for a memorial to this awful event and I was pleased to be there at the unveiling yesterday. The choice of sculpture – a reconstruction of the execution of paper cup traitors who sided with the plastic cutlery against the silverware in the Battle of Chichester Train Station – did not meet with everyone's approval, being seen as grisly by some or simply inappropriate by others. However,  I commend the artist for not producing something that celebrates war and, instead, shows what terrible things people – or cutlery in this instance – can do, no matter which side of the conflict they're fighting on. Traitors or heroes? Victors or barbarians? I think the ambiguity and thoughts that it provokes make it a fitting tribute and a powerful warning to future would-be-warmongers.

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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.

Questions

Posted by Mark on Mar 27, 2013 | 11 Comments

"Hi, do you have a minute to answer a few questions?"

"That depends; are they about hats?"

"Hats? Oh, ha ha! No, no, nothing like that."

"Well that's good. I don't really know much about hats."

"No, these are questions about…"

"My wife, on the other hand, is quite knowledgeable where it comes to headwear. It's quite odd, really. I'm not sure why she knows the things she knows."

"Hmmm, that is odd, but, anyway, these questions aren't about hats at all."

"Then again, she has an irrational hatred of Peruvians – she considers them a deceptive bunch and it ires her immensely – and your hat looks like it's from that region."

"I see."

"She'd probably get quite agitated if she saw your hat, thinking you were a Peruvian. You're not a Peruvian are you?"

"I'm not a Peruvian, no."

"Mind, you'd probably deny it if you were on account of your deceptive nature."

"I… don't really know what to say to that."

"Never mind. I've got nothing against Peruvians anyway, so you can ask me anything."

"Excellent, I'll…"

"Just nothing about hats."

"It won't be about hats, I promise."

"Then fire away!"

"Great! Which would you prefer to wear: a trilby or a sombrero?"

"You said you wouldn't…"

"Por la gloria del Perú!"

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Fashion Faves – Kate Moss

Posted by Mark on Mar 24, 2013 | 0 Comments

A Latin American feel to this photoshoot featuring Kate Moss as photographed by Mario Testino for Vogue Paris.

I’ve been thinking of getting a hat for a long time and thanks to this photo of Kate I can now add this particular style of headwear to my Oh Dear Lord No! list. I have a big enough head as it is without drawing more attention to it.

So that’s what happened to my parents’ old, green, leather sofa. I loved that sofa. I mean I’m glad it’s found a home wrapped around someone of the standing of Kate Moss but still…

An homage to Supergirl here and Kate carries the look off well. Personally, though, I’m still a Helen Slater fan. I’m old school like that.