Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover

by James Steven Clark

One of the problems with living on a small Island is the volatile weather. Summer is changeable. Dark grey clouds quickly gather across the Island, pushing aside the blue skies in minutes.

  It’s spitting lightly as I approach the topsy-turvy home of my eccentric professor friend.

  I’m fighting a particularly pungent urge to escape on my cycle to the edge of the Island, maybe hide away in one of the old World War II bunkers, or catch a ferry from Boule to England. My thoughts are dark and terrifying, and I need to counter them with the importance and urgency of my mission.

  Thirteen years young and several life-times of responsibility lay above me like suffocating concrete.

  I consider how a lot of the pupils I know (I wouldn’t call them friends) are so completely selfish, thinking the world revolves around them, whereas, in fact they are oblivious to the real world around them. If they only just could experience the pain of others and see lots of people out there in great need; then they wouldn’t be quite so self-absorbed. They give their parents so much grief, and feel victimised if they’re asked to do something. Here I am now – awakened, enlightened you might say, fighting an unknown assailant called the Carrion Crow, and trying to save lives. I just didn’t have any thoughts or feelings as remotely obligating rattling around my brain until yesterday. I’m completely at a loss as to my own steps in all of this; I must rely on the book dangling precariously inside my one-strap back-pack.

  I remember to check my phone that rang in the graveyard. So, I stop my bike and extract my mobile. I see one missed call from Dezza. Good, he’s okay.

  Lazy bugger - not getting back to me.

  I try again; my phone buzzes as it dials out, but his phone goes straight to answering machine, so I leave a quick message,

  ‘Doo-Lally Where are you? Call me as soon as you’ve got this message. As soon as...okay?’

  Just a little while later, I pull up outside Arthur’s house. I see him instantly, standing there holding a silver umbrella, looking back in the direction of his upside-down home. The sun peaks through the clouds and I can see him pointing skywards.

  He’s as mad as I am.

  ‘Hello Mr McFadden.’

  He turns with a huge grin on his face and sweat pouring from his forehead, soaking his wispy white moustache.

  ‘Ahhh, the delightful Ms Clover.’

  I pull the gatepost down to enter.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

  ‘It’s my solar-panelled umbrella: Keeps your head warm on cold, rainy days; already been invented of course but, not with my solar panels.’

  He rubs his pink forehead vigorously.

  ‘All your inventions are sun-related at the moment; how are the tan-tattoos?’

  He laughs as he pulls the brolly down.

  ‘I’m going to have to adjust how much heat it gives out – a little too hot for my head anyway. Here, what do you think about these?’

  He puts it down, wipes his moist brow, and this time rolls up his sleeve, revealing a groovy patterned forearm. It actually looks really, really cool, even on a fifty plus year old.

  Again, I recognise the designs.

  I wonder about the implications of health and safety with Arthur’s inventions; skin cancer; first degree burns to the forehead; artificial sleep alarms. At least he’s got the common sense to try them out on himself before anybody else. He is his own experimental guinea-pig, unless he’s using me.

  ‘Very nice.’ I observe.

  ‘How did the sleep alarm workout for you?’

  ‘Incredibly well.’

  He looks thoughtful.

  ‘Fair enough young lady. Keep me informed.’

  ‘I actually think it helped send me to sleep, as well as waking me up. I was very grateful. I have far too many thoughts swimming around my head at the moment.’

  ‘Ahhh...!’ he replies wistfully.

  ‘Arthur, if you are not too busy – I know you said that you’d be out a bit over the next few days – but could I get you to have a look at something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We set off towards the house, Arthur stooping to turn the low-door knob on his upside-down door.

  AKM heads towards the kettle instinctively while I place my bag on the table, and take out my large book along with the historical collection I took from Mr Washwater’s cupboard.

  To the right hand side near the door is a suitcase.

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  Arthur has his back to me, I can’t see his face.

  ‘...No, just having a sort out.’

  ‘Elvis drove through the school main building on a dirt bike this morning, and whilst that was going on, Mr Washwater was being poisoned with arsenic.’

  Arthur turns slowly and stares at me in disbelief.

  ‘Are you okay? Is he okay?’

  ‘I’m okay; I think he’s a goner though.’

  Arthur is stunned.

  ‘Gosh. Did anybody give him any activated charcoal?’

  ‘They did.’

  I nod at Arthur. Not sure what activated charcoal is, but he is a genuine Genius! I wouldn’t have a clue what to do in that situation.

  ‘Well, I hope they can do something.’

  He looks genuinely perturbed and he turns away to stew the tea, hiding his face again.

  ‘Sounds like subterfuge.’ his face still turned.

  ‘What’s subterfuge?’

  He empties the tea bag into a green recycling bin.

  ‘Sounds like Elvis’ little show was designed to distract and divert people’s attention from your History teacher while he was being poisoned.’

  Oh my goodness; that makes a bit of sense. Elvis didn’t do an awful lot apart from rally-around.

  ‘But, who would want to poison Mr Washwater?’

  ‘Well, who knows?’ he turns to face me with two steaming mugs. ‘But, if someone is to be ‘removed’, he either knows something he shouldn’t, or has done something he shouldn’t. Maybe Elvis was collaborating with someone...’

  I shake my head – it kind of makes sense, but doesn’t at the same time.

  ‘But, who would Elvis be collaborating with? He hates everybody; I mean everybody - especially at school.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t someone at school.

  ‘He has a mentor?’ I whisper.

  Detective Inspector Rosenthal said he had a mentor.

  As Arthur sets down the mugs, a horrible thought - a truly horrible thought occurs to me:

  I picture the Reverend Llewellyn standing with a bloodied tongue dripping all over his palms; ministering to the school about how this organ has the power to build and destroy. I recall the white tongue in Alan’s mouth when Shannon the medic pulled his jaw down. I picture the Minister standing and watching the events of the afternoon unfold without responding. I picture him talking to Elvis at length quietly at the school gate on the afternoon of his exclusion – thinking: how well he was holding my brother’s attention.

  ‘Oh my gosh…’

  The Reverend hardly ever speaks to me on a Wednesday when I’m bell-ringing; just kind of greets everybody.

  ‘Do you think you know who it is?’

  I lift up the book towards Arthur.

  ‘Arthur, everything that’s happening has something to do with this…’

  He places the mugs next to me and puts on his reading spectacles.

  ‘What kind of book is it Shelly?’

  ‘I think it’s some kind of warning.’

  ‘Some…kind...of...warning.’ he repeats slowly examining the spine of the old brown tome.

  ‘I don’t want you to laugh; I know that you won’t, but it speaks to me in nursery rhymes. I think it wants me to solve the...’ I swallow, aware of how ridiculous this all sounds, ‘…I think the nursery rhymes hold the clue to what is happening around here.’

  ‘Indeed, what is happening around here?’

  He eyes me under the rim of his glasses.

  ‘By it, you mean the
book wants you to solve mysteries?’

  The bell starts to chime and Arthur’s gaze is diverted to my bag.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s a bell; it accompanies the book. I think it’s some kind of warning device as well. It rings when there’s some kind of discovery, or if there’s danger around.’

  Without invitation, Arthur moves across to my bag and takes hold of the golden bell nestled in the top. It continues its din as he grasps it like a floundering fish pulled from the sea.

  He studies it curiously, stroking his hand up and down the shaft, scrutinising its surface, the seams, feeling its texture. He begins to unscrew the handle, immediately aware that the component detaches. He peers inside for just a few moments before fastening it together, holding it aloft and watching; eyeing it through his reading spectacles and allowing it to sing its song.

  ‘You have a discovery and a half here, Miss Clover; very impressive; almost myogenic. I don’t know how at present. It’s more biological than mechanical.’

  I click back to my biology lessons and I remember something about how our heart seems to kick-start itself without much help.

  ‘I got a scroll from the compartment. I wrapped it around my arm and it left this tattoo behind.’

  I unfasten the button and pull up my sleeve. Arthur puts the bell down and examines my arm. He mouths ‘Dutch Courage’ silently as I gaze at the rather unusual symbols adorning his own arms from his tanning escapades. He lifts my arm and reads the ‘wrap around arm’ segment on the underside.

  ‘Most unusual.' He looks concerned.

  I stare over his shoulder like you would when a doctor’s examining you. I catch sight of the Island’s free newspaper and I am looking, but not looking, if you know what I mean. I tilt my head to read the headline, and can just about make out the headline:

  Parish Priest’s Paramilitary Past.

  I have to strain to make out the name of the writer as it’s upside down.

  W…J…

  Arthur is rubbing his finger along my tattoo.

  ‘...and you say you have only just got this; there’s no scabbing at all....’

  I’ll bet my bottom dollar - this been the only local newspaper on the Island – that it must be referring to the Reverend Llewellyn. I wish I knew what paramilitary meant. In fact, I’m just about to grab it and look when Arthur suddenly proclaims,

  ‘I might be wrong, but I think the bottom part of the tattoo is just as important as the top!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Wrap around arm, looks innocuous enough, but I think it’s part of the complete tattoo.’

  Arthur gives my arm back to me and starts examining the contents page of the book, rolling his fingers across the diagonal burn mark on the front.

  I pause, taking this in. Does that make sense? I thought that the ‘wrap around arm’ part was just the instruction, and that it was just some kind of weird mistake or side-effect. I’m not convinced and I’m about to query Arthur, when he declares:

  ‘There’s pages missing between the chapters; they must be in another book. There must be a book that accompanies this. There may even be a bell that accompanies the other one too, or something else, instead of a bell.’

  Bang, there we go. Bulls-eye again.

  Good point about the tattoo. Interesting point about the missing chapters, and...Camille’s clearly got the other book. I could have really pursued that - spouting off nursery rhymes at me in the churchyard. I then remember Camille’s adamant stance at school yesterday. She’d accused me of stealing her bell. Camille has a book, but no longer has a bell; that’s weird. Who would have stolen it?

  ‘Mr McFadden, have a look at the back; that’s where the bell came from.’

  The professor glances at me before opening it up at the back. The serrated dome springs out and Arthur nearly drops the book in surprise.

  ‘The bell popped out from that hole in the centre. I put my hand in and pulled it out. Careful on those edges, I cut myself and bled into the hole and my blood completely vanished.’

  ‘How did you get your hand in this small hole? Did you solve the code?’ Arthur’s already pushing the sharp triangular leavers up and down.

  ‘No, Buddy did.’

  ‘Buddy did!’ He eyes me above the rims of his glasses, astounded. ‘Your brother harbours many secret talents – I’m not surprised in the least.’

  He continues.

  ‘I guess you gave it your blood and it gave you the bell in return. One can only wonder how many other objects lie hidden inside.’

  ‘My blood…for the bell?’

  ‘Actually, I’m speculating there. What do you think this thing at the back is?

  ‘I have no idea: I thought that you’d know.’

  Straight away, ‘Some type of portal, I would say, but to where, I have no idea.’

  He shakes his head, almost as if he is disbelieving of the words coming from his own mouth.

  ‘What do you mean by portal?’

  ‘A portal is like a gate between one place and another – Now, I’m clearly hypothesising outlandishly here.’

  He eyes me once more under his spectacles – thoroughly mesmerised by what he’s examining.

  ‘Oh. To where, do you think?’

  ‘Anybody’s guess.’

  He’s looking under the book now, truly marvelling at it.

  ‘There’s something else. Well actually, there are so many things to tell you; ask you. I have nobody else I can talk to about these things. The book was given to me on my thirteenth birthday by Mrs Dawson. It’s got my name on the inside cover.’

  Arthur now flicks to the front, whilst giving me the platform to continue.

  ‘Arthur, who is the Carron Crow?’

  ‘Beg Pardon.’

  ‘I was told that Harley, Snarlington and Boule, and everyone in it, are in grave danger and someone or something called the Carrion Crow is behind the evil.’

  I’m not sure if I can reveal that it was Stone Angel that told me this. I’m already stretching the boundaries of imagination.

  Arthur Kinglsey McFadden blows out some air whilst studying furiously.

  ‘I’m not sure who or what the Carrion Crow is? I have never heard of anything or anyone pertaining to that title. My, my, you really have had a busy last couple of days.’

  ‘He’s mentioned in the Nursery rhyme section, on page 134.’

  He turns to the page.

  ‘I was hoping that Mr Washwater would help me decipher it. It was the first rhyme the book gave me. I think it’s very important.’

  Arthur reads the opening line out loud, ‘Sing heigh ho, The Carrion Crow.’

  He spends a good couple of minutes digesting the rhyme, before giving his assessment.

  ‘Well, it seems to me that the Crow is antagonizing the man, the man is a tailor, shaping his coat, so maybe he is somebody who knows his own profession well; the man then tries to get rid of the crow, but his plan backfires and he ends up killing something important to him... shooting his own sow right through...the heart. It’s possible that the Crow wants this self-destruction to happen. Crow’s traditionally feed on carrion, or the remains of dead things left behind. They are scavengers.’

  ‘In other words, someone tries take on the Crow and his plan backfires.’

  I stroke back my fringe, and wonder who is architecting a plan that is going desperately wrong.

  ‘Basically that’s how it sounds from this rhyme, but you’ll need to discover the origins and context of this. A lot of nursery rhymes, like other ancient literature, pertain to the time when they were written, and for an audience who will understand them.’

  I pull up a chair next to the table. Sitting down, I sip some tea; I have to do some digesting of my own. Somebody’s plan backfires, the Crow dodges the arrow, and somebody else gets it.

  Arthur continues his last thought.

  ‘Take Ring o’ Ring of Roses, for instance. In medieval Britain they carried sweet-s
melling poses in their pockets because they believed that nice smells would ward off the plague - a pocket full of poses. Then, they all started sneezing and all fell down dead.’

  ‘Arthur, do you know any meanings behind the others?’

  ‘I’m afraid not Shelly. Only when you brought it up yesterday, did I start to recall its meaning. It’s such an innocent playground ditty for kids to sing about a disease that wiped out nearly half of Europe. Which other rhymes has the book revealed to you?’

  He holds the book aloft and I can see by his face that he is still taking all this in.

  ‘Mary, Mary quite contrary and Oranges and Lemons.’

  ‘Hmmm - the popular ones. I wonder if hidden meanings attached to each one, relate to what’s going on here.’

  ‘Before he was poisoned, Alan told me some of those meanings.’

  I persevere. I simply have to. I feel like a mad woman, but I have to hit and hope with Mr McFadden.

  ‘I was in Mr Washwater’s room and the bell led me to this.’

  I take out the clear plastic envelope that I found in the dusty cupboard at the back of his classroom. I’m shaking out the paper manuscript it contains, when a key falls out and lands at my feet. I stoop to pick it up, pocketing it. I pass the manuscript to Arthur whose eyes narrow like a detective following a lead.

  ‘Harley, Snarlington and Boule; the true story behind the Printing Press…the bell guided you to this, Shelly?’

  ‘Mr McFadden, I know this all sounds absurd, but I’m telling you the truth.’

  I feel the nerves creep into my voice.

  ‘On the contrary, you have already shown me a bell that has no possible reason for working in the manner that it does, and the pop-up book to beat all pop-up books. You are definitely onto something.’

  He’s already scanning the manuscript.

  ‘I have been doing some reading myself, in light of our conversation yesterday, namely, Alan Washwater’s online blog. Did you know that he was heading an archaeological dig at the old Printing Press later on this evening? I guess that it’s been cancelled now he’s been poisoned. A shame, I bet he was on the verge of discovering something quite important. He certainly was excited about something on his latest entry.’

  He smiles and looks directly at me.

  ‘Isn’t it interesting that the dig nearly didn’t happen tonight?’

  ‘I thought you said that it would be cancelled.’

  ‘Well, I was implying that the archaeological society may not be carrying out the dig tonight.’

  He eyes me mischievously, his curly moustache and pointy beard accentuating his tomfoolery. I click into what he is implying.

  ‘Now, Ms Clover, have you ever been on a tandem? ’