Engines of Empathy (Drakeforth Series Book 1)

by Paul Mannering

  ‘You appear to be out of milk,’ he said and I nodded. The fact was undeniable.

  ‘Charlotte. Or may I call you Miss Pudding?’ Coluthon said, smoke the colour of autumn leaves curling around her ears.

  ‘This is my house?’ I didn’t mean to phrase it as a question, but the sudden anxiety that I had somehow wandered into the wrong address by mistake felt as tangible as the dark welding goggles on Benedict’s head.

  ‘Have you lived here long, Charlotte?’ Benedict asked as he pulled a chair out from the table.

  ‘Less than a year,’ I said. I took a deep breath and focused my mind on the situation. ‘Who are you people and what the bibliography are you doing in my house?’

  Coluthon ignored my question. ‘You have a lovely home,’ she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. I scowled in response and she replied with a sneer.

  ‘What was it that attracted you to this house?’ Benedict climbed into the chair with a grunt of effort. I resisted the urge to step forward and give him a boost up.

  ‘Honestly?’ I said. There had been no trace of Callousthetics in his voice, which took me by surprise.

  ‘If you like,’ Benedict said amicably, his short legs sticking out in front of him. I answered carefully, ‘The broom closet. I mean, my office. The previous owner—’

  ‘Used it as a broom closet. How hysterically charming.’ Coluthon blew a fresh torrent of orange smoke from her nose and rolled her eyes.

  ‘We all seem to agree that this is my house. So what are you doing here?’ I snapped. Coluthon’s attitude was vile. She didn’t even bother to simulate politeness.

  ‘We would like to relieve you of certain emotional burdens,’ Benedict said, engaging a sympathetic tonality.

  ‘Emotional burdens?’

  ‘She’s like one of those dolls, the ones you pull a string and they wet themselves,’ Coluthon remarked.

  ‘We know,’ Benedict said firmly, ‘that certain items of nostalgic or sentimental value, can in fact be the cause of a great deal of untreated pain and anguish. We would like to relieve you of that pain by removing such objects from your life.’

  ‘What items are you referring to?’ I spoke to Benedict while watching Coluthon. The way that the pink tip of her tongue peeped from between those perfect white teeth suggested perhaps even the sweet-sensing papilla of her taste buds found the interior environment too bitter for their liking.

  ‘Antiques, family heirlooms, that kind of thing,’ Benedict said. His voice pattern told me he was hiding something. In the circumstances that seemed like parking a car in my kitchen and trying to hide it under a tea-cosy.

  ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something that makes you go boo-hoo-hoo,’ Coluthon sang, and tapped her spent pipe out against the leg of the chair.

  ‘Your living oak desk, for example,’ Benedict said.

  ‘My great-grandmother’s desk?’ I said, my anger breaking through.

  ‘Bongo,’ said Benedict. ‘We felt it would ease the transition for you if we were to simply remove the offending item while you were out of the house. However, you have returned unexpectedly, which puts us in something of an awkward position.’

  ‘My coming home and discovering you attempting to burgle my house put you in an awkward position?’ I felt myself on the verge of spluttering with incandescent fury. ‘Oh, give it a rest!’ I blurted at Coluthon who was miming holding a doll and pulling an invisible string out of its back.

  ‘Indeed,’ Benedict said gravely. ‘If you would be so kind as to open the vault door, we will be out of your hair as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Five minutes, tops,’ Coluthon said.

  ‘In and out. All done in a jiffy,’ Benedict confirmed.

  I took a deep breath and held it until the pressure equalised somewhere behind my pancreas.

  ‘I am calling the police. Please leave. Please leave immediately. Take your equipment and your rudeness and never return.’

  ‘Well,’ said Benedict, wriggling forward to the edge of the chair and from there to the floor. ‘If you change your mind, here’s my card.’

  I took the small plastic shape numbly.

  EGS Benedict and Associates

  Angst and Antique Removals

  ‘Sarcasm is just one of the services we provide!’

  I followed the pair out into the hallway. ‘It will take the police a good five minutes to arrive, another five for me to give them your description and another ten at the outside for them to apprehend you. I suggest you use your last twenty minutes of freedom wisely. ‘I’m sure the police will be sympathetic to your plight, Miss Pudding,’ Benedict called over his shoulder while Coluthon did the heavy lifting. The top of Benedict’s head rose no higher than her hip. She carried the gas tanks, while he trailed behind, carrying the nozzle. ‘But ultimately, you will find them unable to assist you in any meaningful way.’

  I watched them load their gear into the back of a truck parked across the street. After they had driven away I closed the front door and locked it. The house stank of scorched carbon, orange blossom-flavoured tobacco ash and the acid wash of my impotent fury.

  Chapter 5

  In a sudden spasm of rational thought I called the police before I called Drakeforth. ‘This is the police, if you have been the victim of a crime, please press one. If you have witnessed a crime, please press two. If you wish to confess to a crime, please press three …’

  I felt uncertain. Was I technically the victim if it was my vault door that had been scorched? I had been witness to Coluthon and Benedict entering, if not breaking my property. They had made it clear that the police would be of little use. I stood there for a moment, wondering how exactly to ask the police why that might be. I hung up without making a selection.

  ‘What?’ Drakeforth said, answering on the sixth ring. The vid-phone screen remained dark on a high privacy setting.

  ‘Oh, Drakeforth? It’s Charlotte. Charlotte Pudding. I’ve been burgled. Well not technically burgled, but my home has been invaded by a little man and the most awfully sarcastic woman I’ve ever met.’ I realised that Drakeforth was speaking over me. I stopped to listen.

  ‘—so leave a message, or even better don’t. Go outside, breathe the fresh air and try to forget how unnecessary this entire conversation has been. I’m not going to return your call. So don’t spend the rest of the week hanging out by your phone.’ This was followed by a loud BEEP! in my ear.

  ‘Hello?’ I said. Empathically empowered answering machines were capable of holding the facsimile of an actual conversation. There was no response. This was awkward.

  ‘Charlotte Pudding, calling for Vole Drakeforth,’ I finished, and hung up. He really was the most irritating man.

  My third phone and most frustrating call of the day was to my home security company, Security Blanket Alarm Services.

  I explained how I had been out, and upon returning found evidence of a break-in on my property, with which the alarm system they monitored seemed entirely unconcerned.

  ‘Was the alarm activated while you were away?’ the woman on the phone asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s got that mode where if I leave the house it arms automatically after ten seconds.’

  ‘And was that mode active when you returned?’ she continued her line of inquiry.

  ‘I assume so. It goes into standby mode when I unlock the door and come in. So it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Was the door unlocked when you returned?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No, well, yes, but I wasn’t expecting it to be unlocked.’

  ‘If your door was unlocked, then you must have entered and your presence disarmed the system,’ the woman concluded.

  ‘Someone else was in my house. They broke in,’ I explained through gritted teeth.

  ‘If that had happened, the alarm system would have activated. We have no record of any activation for your address.’

  ‘Which is why I am calling you,’ I said and pinched my nose to stave off the
pressure building in my sinuses.

  ‘Miss Pudding, we are an alarm monitoring service. You should only call if your alarm has activated. If your alarm hasn’t activated then you have no reason to contact us.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’ the woman on the phone had the blind-faith sincerity of one of those Arthurian door-to-door missionaries who just want a few moments of your time.

  ‘No … thank you.’ I hung up.

  *

  Cleaning the house took me the rest of the afternoon. The idea that my two uninvited guests may have touched anything of mine made my skin crawl. I scrubbed and disinfected and finally got rid of the sharp, burning stink of their attempted safe-cracking.

  The vault entrance was gleaming when the front door rattled. I unlocked and opened it. Drakeforth pushed past me, slammed the door, bolted it and then leaned against the wall, his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring with exertion.

  ‘You will not believe the day I’ve had,’ we both said in unison.

  Drakeforth cracked open one eye, ‘Why? Were you brutally assaulted by pygmy pterodactyls?’

  ‘What? No. Is that what happened to you?’

  ‘Of course not. There hasn’t been a reported attack by a pygmy pterodactyl in years.’

  ‘I was almost burgled,’ I said. ‘But I saw them off.’

  ‘Did they do the housework? Can’t be much profit in that kind of burglary, breaking into people’s houses and polishing their silverware.’

  ‘No, they did not do my housework. I cleaned up after they left.’

  ‘Did they take anything?’ Drakeforth’s eyes closed again and his breathing became less harassed.

  ‘They offered to take the old desk. They offered after they tried to break in and steal it. I came home and found them in the kitchen. This most awful woman and a very small man.’

  ‘Remarkable,’ said Drakeforth, sounding bored.

  ‘They gave me their card.’ I showed Drakeforth the business card for EGS Benedict and Associates. He grunted and peeled himself away from the wallpaper.

  ‘I could use a cup of tea,’ he said, vanishing into the kitchen.

  ‘But I called the police,’ I insisted, following in his wake.

  ‘Over a cup of tea? Whatever for?’

  ‘The break-in. The blatant attempt to steal my desk!’

  ‘This alleged crime that you have now cleaned away all evidence of? Any other witnesses?’ Drakeforth switched the kettle on and made his selection from my tea supplies.

  ‘Well, no, but—’

  ‘And did the boys in green arrive?’

  ‘I didn’t actually report the break-in.’

  ‘That’s good. You’d be lucky not to find yourself being carted off to a therapy environment. Paranoia, they call it. The irrational fear that people are trying to hurt you.’

  ‘I am not paranoid.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. Have a cup of tea.’

  I glared at Drakeforth, unsure if he was being particularly condescending or if this was his way of being somehow sympathetic. I went to the cupboard and took out a baking tin. Inside were store-bought chocolate biscuits. I put them on a plate and set it on the table.

  ‘This calls for chocolate,’ I said defiantly. Drakeforth didn’t disagree. Instead he took a biscuit and bit into it.

  ‘Now that we’ve finished analysing your mental problems, perhaps you’d like to hear about the extraordinary events that have occupied my every waking moment since we last parted company?’

  ‘Go on then.’ I poured tea for us both and after the first sip he gave a sigh of satisfaction and began.

  ‘Patchouli oil is available from a range of health-food and natural remedy stores, naturopaths, herbalists, and, I was led to believe, a certain farmer’s market in South Owad.’

  ‘I’ll bet you can even buy it online,’ I said between sips and nibbles of my own tea and biscuit.

  ‘You can even buy it online,’ he echoed. ‘Am I going to suffer these interruptions every time I tell you a story?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, and stared into my mug.

  ‘I searched every site on the mesh. Patchouli oil is not available anywhere.’

  ‘Nowhere?’ I said.

  ‘Nowhere. You have more chance of buying a genuine hair from Arthur’s beard than you do of buying patchouli oil.’

  ‘That’s absurd.’ I felt a niggling sense of unease as if I had glimpsed something far greater than I ever expected, the boundaries of which were hidden in coiling shadow.

  ‘But why?’ I whispered.

  ‘Conspiracy, betrayal and a great deception. The same horrors which I have battled against for some time.’

  ‘What did you call it? Paranoia, the irrational fear that someone is out to get you?’ I said with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘In some instances, paranoia is a very effective survival instinct,’ Drakeforth replied with a sniff.

  I could feel a headache coming on. ‘The question of patchouli oil, is it relevant?’

  ‘Have you not been paying attention? Patchouli oil is off the menu. No store, no trader, no botanist has any of it.’

  ‘Surely they know where you can get some?’

  Drakeforth leaned forward, ‘They know of patchouli oil, but no one could advise me on where it might be procured.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘They have been warned, censored, intimidated and possibly threatened, to destroy all existing stocks of the stuff.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Someone else has become aware of your desk, and the importance of patchouli oil in the unlocking of its secrets.’

  ‘This is insane …’

  ‘Insanity and genius are two sides of the same hand-knitted tea cosy,’ Drakeforth said.

  ‘If we can find some of the herb, we can make our own,’ I began.

  Drakeforth reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small bottle of clear glass with a cork stopper. Golden oil swirled as he shook the container.

  ‘Arthur’s undies! Is that patchouli oil?’ My glee at this small victory balanced my feeling of powerlessness at everything that seemed to be going on.

  ‘I purchased this sample of the elusive extract from a homeless man in a wheelchair. He had no arms or legs and appeared to get around by being led by a team of small dogs who stood in harnesses in front of his chair.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘He seemed happy with his lot and I felt he was trustworthy. Besides, who are we to judge the gravity of his choices?’

  I wanted to reply, to say that suggesting anyone chose to become a quadruple amputee and spend their life being pulled about by a dog-team was both heartless and impossibly naïve. My lecture was pre-empted by a heavy knocking on the front door.

  ‘This is the police,’ an amplified voice declared. ‘Open up or we will enter these premises unassisted.’

  Drakeforth and I looked at each other, and then we both leapt up and ran for the back door. He was faster, but I had the keys. After some rapid reshuffling I got the door open and we spilled out into the barren wasteland of my backyard.

  Drakeforth hit his stride and vaulted easily over the back fence. I took a moment to open the gate.

  We reconvened in the alleyway, crouching down next to the nervous recycling bins. ‘Where’s your car?’ Drakeforth asked.

  ‘Parked around the front,’ I said.

  ‘Goggle-eyed gophers, woman. What possible use is that parking position to us now?’ he whispered.

  ‘Well,’ I snapped back, ‘I wasn’t expecting to have to suddenly dash out the back door of my own home to escape the green hand of the law!’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you did whatever it was that drew their attention to us.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything!’ I seethed. Then, realising that I had no reason to be running from the authorities, I stood up.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Drakeforth whispered.


  ‘Why are we running away from the police?’ I asked, folding my arms.

  ‘Well, you’re a known accomplice of a wanted fugitive for a start. And let’s not forget the fact that you are in possession of what may well be a prohibited substance.’

  ‘A wanted fugitive? A prohibited—? Hang on, you’re the one with the patchouli oil!’

  ‘Will you keep your voice down?’ Drakeforth whispered.

  ‘How is it going to look, me trying to avoid the Lawn?’

  Drakeforth smiled, ‘It’s going to make you look very guilty.’

  I blinked. That is exactly what it would look like. On the other hand, if Drakeforth’s paranoia was based on actual facts, then giving myself up might not be the safest course of action.

  ‘You’ve got the gangster slang down. Next you’ll be calling the boys in green clippers,’ Drakeforth said.

  I grimaced at him while my mind awfulised the worst possible outcomes to the situation. Without warning Drakeforth sprang up and ran down the alleyway towards Squid Lane. From there, judging from his angle of trajectory, he intended to head for my car down on Bugle Street. I ran after him.

  We reached the end of the lane and crouched down by the fence of the corner property. Peering out into the street I could see the two unoccupied emerald green police cars parked outside my house.

  ‘Which one is yours?’ Drakeforth whispered.

  ‘The red one.’

  ‘A Flemetti Viscous,’ he nodded in approval. ‘Good cars in their day.’

  ‘She was my dad’s, so she’s been well looked after. You can always walk down to the bus stop if you prefer.’

  ‘Do you have the car keys?’ Drakeforth said, otherwise ignoring me. I didn’t reply, instead I darted out into the street, scuttling from car to car until I reached the perfectly engineered back end of my classic sports car.

  I unlocked the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. Drakeforth slithered in the other side, casting furtive glances towards my house, where I could see a uniformed officer leaning over to peer inside through the side windows. As I watched another car pulled up and disgorged two men in suits. One of them I recognised as Dilby Pretense. He and his associate walked up to the officer and showed some kind of identification. The policeman stepped aside and my eyes widened as Pretense’s companion kicked my front door in. The three of them then vanished inside.