by Sean Cameron
Eddie sensed the impending doom and had to interject, at most he could save himself. “I think Rex and I should be treated separately on this matter—”
“Don’t be so modest Eddie.” Rex brimmed with pride as if he expected a medal. “We both deserve what we’ve got coming to us. Right, Chief?”
“This is well overdue, gentlemen. You’re both finished.”
“Great meeting, Chief.” Rex stood.
“He doesn’t mean the meeting,” Eddie said. Rex settled back down with a puzzled expression.
“You two are a pair of—”
“Mavericks?” Rex said.
“You both knocked over a fragile old lady.”
Rex threw his hands up in the air. “Uh, apprehended an old lady with many stolen items in her bag.”
“She had receipts for everything.”
“It’s a good alibi, I’ll give her that. Why didn’t she use shopping bags? Huh? Huh?” Rex nodded at Eddie, happy with his victory.
“I think we’ve lost sight of how separate Rex and I are here. I’ve only known him since, uh, play school.” Eddie buried his head in his hands; he knew he hadn’t helped himself with that one.
“Chief, we protect the innocent customer, that’s our job. Sure, we use unconventional methods—”
“He uses unconventional methods,” Eddie said.
“Sure, we harmed and harassed such a customer—”
“He harmed and harassed such a customer.”
As each of them spoke, Griffin’s head turned back and forth.
Rex shook his head. “But don’t blame the method.”
Eddie nodded. “Blame the method.”
“The method works, and if you don’t like it, you best take our badges.”
“His badge, his badge.”
Rex struggled to take his plastic name badge off as Eddie sat in shock.
“Both of you. Badges. My desk. Now!”
The pair fidgeted with their IDs as Griffin’s eyes burned through their battered skulls. Eddie managed to unpin his and slowly slid it along the desk towards Griffin. Rex fiddled and pulled at his badge.
“Mine won’t come off.”
***
Rex and Eddie sat by the pub window. Shell-shocked, Eddie stared into his pint.
“Come on Eddie, it’s not that bad.”
“We’ve been fired from every job we’ve ever had. We have zero life skills. I can’t even join the army.”
“Have you tried lately?”
“Not after last time.”
“That was because of the chronic sinus infection, right? That’s not flared up in ages. You’re fine.”
“It was the perforated eardrum, which was your fault.”
“How was it my fault?”
“Because you jumped down the flume at Waves Leisure Pool before I’d finished. I landed in the pool, and before I got clear of the chute, you flew right out the tube and kicked me in the ear.”
“That wasn’t my fault. There should have been a lifeguard on duty.”
“We were the lifeguards. Up until that moment anyway.” Eddie swished the last of his beer. “I applied again last year, but I was a pound underweight. So I went and ate four quarter pounders for lunch, and when I returned I puked all over the weighing scales.”
Rex laughed enough to choke on his drink. “Are you serious?”
Eddie smiled. “Yeah.”
“What did they say?”
“The enrolment office took me to the side and unofficially told me I was too delicate.”
“I’m sorry, mate.”
“Last time I tried to join the police force, my asthma flared up during the physical. My mum says I always seem to get sick before a big day. She said I sabotage myself.”
“That’s harsh.”
“I asked my doctor if such a condition exists, and he said it’s called ‘lying’.”
“Maybe it’s just normal hypochondria?” Rex said.
“I asked about that. The doctor said ‘nope, lying’.”
“I’ll get the beers in, shall I?”
Rex headed to the bar while Eddie mulled over his situation. His only achievement was a 2.2 Bachelor of Arts. Eddie didn’t even know what a 2.2 was until after he graduated. While his classmates took photos and ate strawberries with cream, Eddie asked his lecturer to explain what a 2.2 meant. He told Eddie it meant he was average.
It’s kind of an achievement, Eddie thought. Having a certificate to tell everyone you’re a certified average person.
While Eddie sulked, Rex stood at the bar amazed by a local drunk’s magic tricks. Eddie knew Rex didn’t give unemployment a single thought. He had a simplicity about him, like how he was adamant the moon is flat, and anyone that said otherwise had been fooled by the government.
Eddie tried not to worry about work. He took a deep breath in and out. Once he managed to calm himself down, Eddie looked out the window and spotted two old homeless men sat at a bus stop.
Oh God, Eddie thought. That’s us. We’re gonna be homeless bums.
Rex plonked a fresh pint in front of Eddie. “Do you think we should’ve asked the chief for a reference before we left?”
Eddie rolled his eyes and looked over at the homeless pair. One of them peed into the rubbish bin.
“What am I gonna do now? No one’s gonna hire us.”
Rex grinned. “That’s not true. There are still two people that would hire us.”
“Who’s that?”
Rex’s eyes flashed with delight. Eddie was excited for a second, thinking Rex had a genuine trick up his sleeve, but then he realised Rex meant themselves. They were the only two people that would hire them.
“No.” Eddie stood up and backed away.
“Come on, you know it makes sense.”
“And I suppose you know what type of business we should run?”
“I do, and I think you know what it is as well, if you use your,” Rex paused for dramatic effect, “powers of deduction.”
“I’m not gonna open a detective agency with you, Rex.”
“Why not?”
“I need a real job, one where I can make a real living, make something of myself.”
“A boring job, you mean? One with no risks?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Come on, you don’t need Melinda anyway. Girls will fall at our feet when we’re detectives. Dangerous, sexy girls. Femme fatales—”
“No.”
“You can rub it in Melinda’s face.”
“Why do you want to work with me?” Eddie said.
“Because, you have a journalist degree, you have a driving licence, we do everything together.”
“And why would I want to work with you?”
“Because, we do everything together. We just covered this.”
“I don’t know, Rex. I need a proper income.”
Rex handed Eddie a cut-out from a detective’s newspaper ad. “Look at the hourly rate, fifty quid.”
They both earned eight pounds an hour as security guards. Tempted, Eddie ignored all the practical problems and thought about proving himself to Melinda.
He hesitated. “OK, I’m in.”
Rex jumped up onto his feet and offered his arms. “How about a hug?”
“I’m not really a hugger, Rex.”
“I thought you were just saving it for a special occasion.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, bring it in.”
Eddie shook his head with discomfort. Rex offered his hand instead, and they shook on it. Rex and Eddie were in business together.
Before the shake was even over, Rex asked “How much do you have in savings?”
THREE
“Is this it?” Rex asked.
Eddie checked the address. “Three-six-nine High Street. This is the place.”
The two friends made disappointed faces as they stood outside the row of Georgian town houses. Above the ground floor’s line of shops, the tall white window fr
ames seemed to pop out compared to the wall’s faint salmon color.
“It’s pink,” Rex said.
“I think that’s salmon.”
“Salmon is code for shamefully pink.”
They approached a door between the toyshop and the recruitment agency. The door was old and battered. Its black paint had chipped and peeled revealing the previous yellow colour; the yellow paint had also chipped revealing a coat of red paint.
Eddie pressed the buzzer.
“Please act professional, Rex. I want to give a good impression to the estate agent.”
A tall man in his early thirties, dressed in yoga pants and a deep V-neck t-shirt, opened the door. He had a heart-shaped face, a flat nose, shoulder-length jet-black hair, and a stubbly beard.
“Hello fellas.”
“Hi, Jim Jams,” Rex said.
“Oh no, what are you doing here?” Eddie asked.
Jim Jams gave a toothy grin. “I’m here to show you around.”
“What? You’re an estate agent slash drug dealer now?”
“I’m not a drug dealer.”
“Sorry, estate agent slash druggie.”
“The correct term is bio-hacker, but I don’t care to label myself.”
Eddie scoffed at the idea.
“It works. Jim Jams developed a regime that means he hasn’t had a hangover in five years.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
Jim Jams smiled. “It’s true. Thanks to a ridiculous combination of booze and narcotics mixed with strategised yoga, green smoothies, supplements, power naps, and the occasional chocolate bar, I’m an optimally functioning human being; which includes not having a hangover for five years.”
“Because you haven’t been sober in five years, that’s why.”
“You want to see this place or what?”
The stairs were so narrow, the three of them went up in single file. Halfway down the corridor Rex and Eddie found their new address: Number 4, 369 High Street, Cloisterham, Kent.
Inside, featured a small reception followed by an office space with tall windows and brand new carpet. An old desk sat awkwardly in the centre and a few dented filing cabinets leaned against a wall. In the corner, a mini fridge, a microwave, and an electric hob with kettle were stacked on top of each other.
Jim Jams waved his finger around the office. “The previous tenant left the furnishings, and that’s a brand new carpet.”
Eddie ran his hand along the filing cabinets. A thick layer of dust clung to his fingers.
Rex span around in admiration. “It’s perfect.”
“Why’s it so cheap?” Eddie asked.
“It’s been empty for six months,” Jim Jams said. “They want it occupied.”
“Come on, there has to be something dodgy, or you wouldn’t be involved.”
“I’m not involved. They just had me install the carpet is all. I told them I knew someone who needed an office.”
Rex pointed out the window “Look at that river view. It’s lovely.”
“You mean that sliver of blue between the train tracks and the factory silos?”
Rex smiled. “I told you it was great.”
“How much is it?”
“It’s two-hundred-and-fifty a month,” Jim Jams said. “Plus one month as deposit, and the first six months in advance.”
“Is that normal?” Eddie said.
“You got no credit history so they’re going by my word.”
“Are they though? If they take six months rent, are they taking your word or just my money?”
“Well, my words not worth much.”
Eddie did the maths in his head. “So that’s one thousand, seven hundred, and fifty pounds.’
“Don’t forget the first week’s free, and you can keep the furnishings. It’s a pucker deal.”
“What a steal. Aye, Eddie?”
“So what’s the catch?”
Jim Jams put his arms around Rex and Eddie. “Can’t you be entitled to a lucky day once in a while?”
***
“A detective needs a car,” Rex said.
“I still think we need to wait for our first case. Eight hundred is a lot of money.”
The bus came to a stop and let a trio of teenagers on. Their mobile phones played hip hop to the whole bus.
Eddie rolled his eyes. “At least if we had a car we wouldn’t have to put up with the likes of DJ Tinny over there.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“But I’m not gonna spend more than eight hundred.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it. After paying for the office rent, I’ve got two thousand, eight hundred and seventy-two pounds in the bank. You’ve got three-hundred and thirty-nine from—”
“From under my bed.”
“And you’re sure that’s all your savings?”
“I told my nan we started a business and she gave us ten pounds too.”
“All the same, our total budget is four-thousand nine-hundred and seventy-one pounds. We have to keep things tight.”
“This is our stop.”
The pair exited the bus and walked a few doors down. There on the driveway stood the 1971 Morris Minor 1000 Traveller. Rex found the car on Craigslist for eight hundred pounds and immediately fell in love with it.
Described as an economy car in the same way as a cramped house is called modest, the Morris Minor was a lime-green estate with the passenger section made out of a wooden-frame. The minimal dashboard meant lots of room in the glove compartment for their surveillance gear. It was by no means an antique, but the car was old enough to be considered historic, so Rex and Eddie didn’t have to pay road tax.
“What’s road tax now?” Rex said. “One hundred and fifty a year? In six years it will have paid for itself.”
“If it doesn’t fall apart by then,” Eddie said.
Scratches, a smashed-in rear light, and leather seats held together with electrical tape showed how much of a mess the car was in. The paint job had faded so much it had a ghostly quality, like it haunted the driveway. Although the advert said it only had two previous owners, it failed to mention the current owner was a seventeen-year-old chav. The youthful mouth-breather, decked out in imitation designer sports clothes, swaggered down the driveway with a sneer. Gold bling jangled on his thin frame as he walked.
Although the first owner was a sweet old lady who took good care of the car, the current owner, Tim, managed to clock up an extra sixty thousand miles in little more than nine months.
Eddie bobbed his head side-to-side. “Eight-hundred is a lot of money.”
Rex sat in the driver’s seat and played with the steering wheel. “It probably cost that much when it was new. That’s zero depreciation. It’s an investment.”
Eddie opened the glove compartment and checked the legal stuff. He was pleased to see the car had just passed the MOT. Now he knew it was road-worthy, or as worthy as a car partly made of wood could be, he was interested.
“OK, I’ll get it as long as we can haggle him down to seven-fifty at most.”
“Thanks, Eddie.”
They approached Tim who waxed his new car, a bright red 1999 BMW 3 Series, while the car radio blasted out drum and bass. Tim got the Morris Minor because his parents wanted him to prove he could be trusted with a cheap first car before they bought him something better. When Tim won five thousand pounds on a scratch card and spent it on the new wheels, his life lesson was cut short. He even had enough change to tint the windows and install a DVD player. This was of no interest to Eddie, but he learnt it all the same because Rex kept asking questions.
“What a beauty, and the DVD is well sweet.” Rex forced in chav lingo in the hope of being accepted, or at least not beaten up. “We should get one of these next, Eddie.”
“We need to be a bit more inconspicuous than that.”
“You sayin’ I’ve got a gay car?” Tim asked, chest puffed out.
“No, I’m not,” Eddie said. How had this
escalated so fast? he wondered.
“What you sayin’ then?” Tim stepped forward, his pointy face leaned into Eddie’s personal space. This would be why Rex talked chav, so he didn’t cause offence and accidentally start a fight.
“I mean we don’t want to get noticed, that’s all.” Eddie realised how ridiculous this sounded when he remembered he was buying a lime-green car with wooden framing. “The BMW is great, it’s masculine, it’s bold, it’s, uh, it’s—”
“He’s saying you have a wicked ride,” Rex chimed in. “Everyone is gonna notice how cool it is.”
Tim relaxed. “Thanks, mate.”
“Will you take seven-hundred for it?” Eddie asked.
Tim licked his teeth. “Go on then.”
Rex raised a finger for attention. “What about seven-fifty?”
“Sold.”
“Rex, what are you doing?”
“Haggling?”
“Up?”
“Oh, right, sorry about that.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “I’ll get the seven-hundred.”
“Sorry, mate. But this fella’s giving me seven hundred and fifty.”
“What? No he’s not,” Eddie said. “Tell him you’re not.”
“I’m not.”
Tim thumped Rex in the shoulder. “You gotta stand up for yourself mate, don’t back down like that. He’s trying to steal the car from right under yah.”
Misinterpreting the playful push as physical violence, Rex didn’t know what to do. “Yeah, OK. Seven-fifty it is.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Fine,” Eddie snapped, knowing he was on the losing end of an idiotic argument. “Seven-fifty.” He counted the money and passed it to Tim.
“Nah mate, you can’t offer the same as the competition’s bid, he still gets it.”
“We are not separate buyers. Rex and I are together.”
“Together aye?” Tim turned to Rex “This true? Are you and him, together?”
Rex’s body froze, only his eyes shifted. Violence always sent him inward. In a panic he’d forgotten about the car and thought this was a mugging.
“Oi? Don’t ignore me. It’s disrespectful. Are you two together?”
Rex turned to Eddie and back at Tim.
“No.”
Eddie raised his hands. “What are you saying?” Rex thought he was being asked if they were a couple. Tim’s push followed by his irritated tone made Rex think he was about to become the victim of a misidentified hate-crime.