Almost Dead In Suburbia

by Douglas Pearce

  ‘Here we go,’ said Fred, as they reached the shop and he opened the door. A bell rang announcing their arrival. They stepped inside and Fred closed the door behind them. At first glance, the shop appeared empty.

  ‘Hello, anyone here?’ Fred called. They were greeted with silence.

  ‘I’ll have a scout around. The owner might be in the back,’ Hendrix offered. He only got as far as the end of the front desk; then immediately turned and called to the other two.

  ‘Quickly, someone here is having a fit!’

  Fred and Ralph hurried over. Someone did indeed look as though they were epileptic. The person was sitting in a chair, face all screwed up, shaking his arms and body uncontrollably. His lips were moving soundlessly, although every few seconds a sort of grunt escaped.

  Fred looked at Ralph.

  ‘Can’t blame the cat. How would he know?’ said Fred. He leant forward and pulled the cords that were attached to two earphones embedded in the young man’s ears.

  As the earphones came away, the boy nearly did have a fit.

  ‘Jesus! What the hell . . .?’

  ‘Morning!’ Fred smiled. ‘You work here?’ he asked.

  ‘Er . . . yeah, I do.’

  ‘Like to do some, then?’ Fred asked.

  ‘ ‘Scuse me?’ the youth replied sharply.

  ‘Work,’ Fred prompted. ‘I was here a few weeks ago and noticed you had a large book about fairies. I was wondering if you still had it.’

  The lad had been almost dragged into the shop by his mother and wasn’t feeling particularly disposed to pandering to some kinky old fart. It was mid-term break and working in a bookstore was obviously not his idea of fun.

  ‘Fairies? That’ll be under human relations. Sexuality.’ He almost sneered at the word. ‘Down the back. Second isle,’ he pointed.

  He had obviously worked in his mother’s shop before and appeared familiar with the layout and stock, even if his ears didn’t work properly.

  Although Fred didn’t have the luxury of all the time in the world these days, he remained patient, remembering he had been young like this once upon a time. He smiled at the boy.

  ‘Sorry, my fault. I’m not explaining myself properly. The book is called What Hides under the Toadstool, by Charmaine Greenslade.’

  Understanding dawned on the young man’s face. He had the decency to look embarrassed. Rising from his chair, he came around the counter.

  ‘Oh, er, hang on a minute, please. I know the book you’re talking about.’

  He quickly disappeared between the bookshelves and returned a few moments later carrying a large coffee-table volume.

  ‘That’s it!’ said Fred. ‘Could you gift-wrap it for me, please? It’s a present.’

  ‘Sure . . . er, sorry about the missun—’

  ‘It’s nothing. I would probably have reacted the same way,’ said Fred in a reassuring tone.

  Once the book was neatly and, Fred noted, quite expertly wrapped, it was placed in a large plastic carry-bag and handed over the counter.

  ‘Forty-three pounds fifty-seven, please,’ the young man said.

  Fred reached for his wallet, pulled out a few notes and paid.

  Pocketing the change, he thanked the boy once more then left the shop.

  As they stepped onto the pavement the mobile phone in Fred’s jacket pocket rang. Fishing it out, he frowned at the number displayed on the screen. He shrugged, then pressed the answer button.

  ‘Hello?’

  Ralph saw the colour of the phone, and realising at once that it wasn’t his, yanked it away from Fred’s ear.

  He took a quick glance at the screen, pressed the ‘end call’ button, and switched the phone off before Fred could cause any more potential damage.

  Fred looked shocked.

  But not half as shocked as did a female passer-by: having witnessed a mobile phone suspended in mid-air for about five seconds, she saw it dart, like a startled bird, into the man’s jacket pocket.

  ‘I . . . your phone . . . it . . . ,’ she stammered, as he went around the corner.

  The poor woman thought she had gone around the bend.

  *

  Sergeant Williams slowly removed the phone from his ear.

  He looked perplexed.

  ‘Well, well. Seems like somebody doesn’t want to talk to us.’

  He rang the number again. This time the call went straight to message. A synthesized voice declared ‘You’ve reached the voice mailbox of 0. . .’ Bill ended the call.

  ‘And this time they’ve turned the phone off.’

  ‘Sarge?’ Constable Finch enquired.

  ‘I wouldn’t say it was spooky. Maybe a bit odd, that’s all,’ said Bill.

  But a little voice – a copper’s voice – in his head whispered ‘So why did he switch the phone off immediately after he had answered, eh?’

  ‘Who answered the phone, sarge?’ Finch asked. He looked positively uncomfortable.

  ‘It went straight to message. But it wasn’t Fred, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  Relief washed across Ben Finch’s face. Bill saw the look.

  ‘Get a grip, lad. So Ralph Fenwick just happens to have Fred’s mobile. What of it? They did travel in the same ambulance together remember? Perhaps the phones were mixed up in the ride. Maybe Fred’s phone dropped out of his pocket at the hospital and Ralph picked it up, thinking it was his own.’

  Finch still didn’t look overly convinced by his sergeant’s explanation.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, if it will make you feel better how about I give the Ghostbusters a call?’ Bill suggested.

  Finch was smart enough not to rise to the bait, but the expression on his face showed that if he thought for one moment that Bill Williams was being serious he definitely would have agreed.

  Bill looked at the young man and shook his head.

  ‘Bagged all the evidence, constable?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sarge; it’s in your Jeep.’

  ‘Good. I need to pop up to Fred’s house’, Bill announced without offering a reason why. ‘I want you to drive around to the back of Fenwick’s house and see if our burglar left us anything on the verge?

  ‘Of course, sarge. No problem.’

  ‘Right, lad. Off you go then. I’ll see you back at the station, all right?’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ Finch acknowledged, and headed out to his car.

  Bill finished his tea and stood.

  ‘Mary, is Angela home, do you know? I’ll need a key,’ Bill asked. He was aware of the arrangement between the residents of the Close

  ‘Yes, she’s in. She popped down with the twins for a few moments before you two arrived, but had to go back to feed them.’

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Can you give Skinner’s Hardware a call and ask Ernest if he can spare his son for half an hour to come and put a pane of glass in Ralph Fenwick’s kitchen door?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Of course, sergeant. Care for a bacon sandwich for the road? There’s one left.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks.’

  *

  After jamming the phone back into Fred’s jacket pocket, Ralph grabbed him by the elbow and manhandled him towards the church.

  Fortunately there were no other pedestrians around at that moment to witness Fred appearing to lurch up the road, protesting all the way.

  There was a wooden gate set in a low hedge on the side of the church grounds. This led to the church gardens.

  The gardens, which doubled as a public park, were always open.

  Even if you weren’t seeking spiritual enlightenment amongst the beautiful flowers and shrubbery, you were reasonably sure of finding a few moments of peace and quiet.

  A short distance from the gate was a secluded pond. It was hidden from immediate view by an immaculately-trimmed privet hedge.

  Ralph had never visited the gardens before, but a pointing finger sign, and the sound of running water, indicated its location.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ralph,
steering Fred towards the sound of the water.

  They sat on one of the three benches closest to the splash of the fountain. The noise of the water, along with the seclusion, would help prevent being overheard by any casual passer-by.

  Fred looked positively shaken by the events of the last few minutes.

  Ralph wore an expression of worry and anger in equal amounts. Hendrix jumped up onto the low, stone wall surrounding the pond and faced his two human companions.

  ‘What are you doing carrying your own phone, for god’s sake?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Fred apologised, realising at once the potential trouble because of having answered that call.

  ‘How did you get it anyway?’ Ralph asked. ‘Weren’t you carrying it when you had your heart . . .?’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  ‘They were bringing my body into the hospital as I was leaving in yours. I stopped one of the paramedics and looked under the blanket. I saw the phone lying on the ground and picked it up. It must have fallen as they lifted me . . . my body out of the ambulance. I was still in shock,’ Fred tried to explain. ‘I . . .’ he paused.

  ‘What is it?’ Ralph asked.

  Fred sighed. ‘I remember now. While you and Hendrix went up to my place to fetch the money I wandered around your house, just to look. I had both phones in my pockets. I left yours on the desk in your office. I’m sorry.’

  Ralph shook his head in resignation. ‘Well, what’s done is done, but there’s more to that phone call than you realise,’ he said.

  ‘How so?’ Fred asked. ‘It could just be that whoever phoned merely dialled a wrong number.’

  ‘You think so? Well I don’t.’ Ralph was adamant. ‘Give me the phone a sec,’ he asked.

  Fred handed it over.

  Ralph switched it on, brought up the ‘calls received’ screen, and turned the phone to show Fred. This time he studied it more closely.

  ‘That’s your mobile number, isn’t it?’ said Fred.

  ‘Well done, Fred!’

  ‘I thought it looked familiar.’ Fred smiled looking pleased with himself.

  Oh dear, oh dear, Ralph thought, switching the phone off once more and stuffing it back in Fred’s pocket.

  ‘That call means at least two things. Neither of which is good.’

  Fred still did not click. He wasn’t up on technology. The multiple functions of mobile phones were as much a mystery to him as those of computers.

  ‘As your number is listed on my mobile, Fred, chances are that whoever called knew whose number they were dialling. What’s worse is they probably dialled from my house.

  ‘From your house?’ Fred repeated. ‘But that would mean . . .’’

  ‘Exactly! And you didn’t leave the key with anyone, did you? No. Right. You brought it with you. It’s in your pocket. Here.’ Ralph tapped the side of Fred’s jacket. ‘Do I have to spell it out?’ Ralph persisted.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Realisation finally dawned.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, indeed,’ Ralph agreed. ‘To get to my mobile, somebody must have broken into my house. But why would a burglar bother to phone you? Doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ said Ralph.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, Fred agreed.

  ‘Right. Because what burglars usually do is swipe what they can and then scarper.

  But Fred still wasn’t quite up to speed. ‘So . . .?

  ‘So . . . I believe whoever broke in is not the same person who phoned.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’ said Fred, now more confused.

  ‘I . . .’ Ralph paused, unsure if he wanted to reveal what he suspected. Then he reconsidered. What did it matter now, he thought? ‘I’m pretty certain that the person or persons who broke into my house were after a computer disc and the person who phoned was more than likely your policeman friend, that very clever copper, Bill Williams. Common sense suggests he would have phoned my number, as it’s my house that’s been burgled. But he didn’t, did he? Therefore, he must have known exactly whose number he was dialling’

  ‘Oh, right. Now I see what you mean. Your deductive powers are quite impressive. No doubt because of that daft raincoat you’re wearing and the terrible French accent you keep trying to affect from time to time,’ said Fred. ‘You mentioned the burglars were after a disc. Why? What disc?’

  ‘I design computer software; you knew that, didn’t you?’ Ralph asked.

  ‘I knew your job entailed something to do with computers, yes. Exactly what, no. Though I remember Michael telling me you designed some cool games. That’s his term, by the way.’

  Ralph smiled. ‘Michael, yes. Clever kid. Anyway, whoever broke into the house was after a specific disc about one of those very cool games Michael mentioned. Truth is, Fred, I am not, or to be more accurate, was not quite the person you think. I am the CEO of ISAW.’

  Fred’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

  ‘Let’s get out of here. I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve got a train to catch.’

  12: Let the Game Begin

  The game was called Treasure Hunt and it had become a phenomenon . . .

  Not too long ago, Ralph Fenwick went by the name of Gordon Hartley and worked in advertising. It wasn’t his passion, but it helped pay the bills. As with most people, a job is a job, is a job. It wasn’t that much different for Gordon.

  However, whereas most people eventually accept their job lot in life and confine their pursuit of dreams to the night-time hours of sleep, Gordon included the hours of daylight, too.

  Gordon had left school not having a clue what he wanted to do with his life, but he did know he wanted to do something. After six months watching television and hanging out at the pub it was a case of get a job, or else!

  The only thing Gordon hated more than school was the thought of work, which was why he agreed to go to university. There, at least, he was able to continue watching television and hanging out in the pub. That was what students did, didn’t they? Attending university gave his lifestyle legitimacy.

  He discovered that most of the lecturers had only marginally more interest in attending lectures than he did. This was probably because they were paid to attend.

  Gordon decided to take a degree in history, not because he had any real interest in the subject, but merely because he enjoyed watching films about Romans. So that was what he signed on for: Roman History.

  ‘A degree opens doors,’ he had been brought up to believe. It showed the world you were capable of a measure of responsibility by being able to study or something like that. The doors it opened more frequently were,

  1. The Ship Inn, as that was where his history professor used to like to spend almost as much time as he did; and

  2. The Dean’s office, where he would be subtly lambasted for non-attendance.

  It didn’t worry Gordon too much. He found he learnt more listening to the professor - fondly known as ‘The Boot’[1] - over a couple of pints of beer (which Gordon usually paid for) than attending any number of lectures. He failed the first year; some observers believe he did this on purpose. One of these observers being The Boot, who knew Gordon Hartley to be a lot smarter than he made out.

  Sometime during the course of his studies Gordon realised that living the life of the perennial student was not going to get him anywhere. Well, not where he wanted to get. Stretching himself just a tad, he obtained his degree and collected his scroll plus a suspicious handshake from the Dean.

  The Dean could not quite come to terms with the fact that such a ‘long-haired scruffy-looking Herbert’ had obtained a degree without as much as one sleepless night.

  The only other thing Gordon had done at university was play computer games.

  He joined a gaming society and became friends with a fellow student named Steve Goldin.

  Gordon became so fascinated by the world of computers that he took a second degree in computer programming in his spare time. At that stage he hadn’t planned on doing anything with this qualification; he just wa
nted to know all about computer language.

  Before leaving university, Steve Goldin had secured a job at a

  graphics design studio in Watford and the day he was due to start work he suggested Gordon tag along. He felt sure there would be a place for Gordon. Steve was also one of those observers who believed Gordon was a lot smarter than he made out.

  Gordon agreed to go, but only to ‘check it out’. Steve had in fact already had words with the company CEO, who’d said that if Gordon was as smart as Steve claimed, there would be a job waiting for him as soon as he walked through the door.

  As they drove into the company car park, Gordon started to get cold feet. He couldn’t explain the feeling rationally, but it had something to do with suits and ties.

  Steve parked his car and they got out. It was then that Gordon noticed the small handwritten sign stuck in the window of the pizza shop next door to the graphic design company. A look of relief came over him. He told Steve to go on ahead.

  ‘I just want to pop in here for a minute.’

  Twenty minutes later, he had a job as a delivery person.

  It took a bit of convincing to get the owner of the shop, Mario, to offer him the position, considering how overqualified he obviously was. But after demonstrating that he could remember every single pizza on the menu, including all the prices, after reading it only three times, Mario was so impressed that he couldn’t say no.

  ‘I like pizza and motorbikes, and you have both,’ was Gordon’s reason for asking for the job.

  Half an hour later, when Steve had wandered outside to look for his friend, he found Gordon astride a 25o c.c. Honda, busy adjusting his helmet before setting off on his first pizza delivery.

  For the first time in his life Gordon had found something to do that, although it was officially labelled ‘work’, he really enjoyed.

  His deliveries took him all over Watford and the surrounding environs. One such delivery was to Watford football ground. The club had recently been bought by a famous pop star. Although he didn’t care for that style of music, it seemed to be important to those back at the pizza place that he had made a delivery to Sir Elton John. Gordon thought it more important that he was given a season ticket and he met John Barnes, who was in ‘The Gaffer’s’ office when he arrived.