by Barnaby Yard
Shell Shocked
The Cosmic Carapace, Volume 1
Barnaby Yard
Published by Barnaby Yard, 2015.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
SHELL SHOCKED
First edition. August 5, 2015.
Copyright © 2015 Barnaby Yard.
Written by Barnaby Yard.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Barnaby Yard
1 | Multifabriced
2 | The Tortuga
3 | Ingress
4 | Drugged Bacon
5 | Mr Pall
6 | The Beret Nipple
7 | Morgue Thunder
8 | Bad News
9 | Missing
10 | Queen Lisa
11 | The Strangs
12 | Jail Time
13 | Nebwett
14 | The Cosmic Carapace
15 | Mrs Strang’s Rally
16 | Double Ended Vibobbler
17 | Distractions
18 | Scattered plans
19 | A Death
20 | The Overground
21 | Goodbyes
Epilogue
Also By Barnaby Yard
1
Multifabriced
It's hard to not stare when someone is wearing a bowler hat in modern England. It leaves the starer contemplating many things. Do they still make bowler hats? Is there still a market for them? If so, who is this market? Recently arrived time travellers from the 1920s? Mime artists?
The mind truly boggles when you then attempt to bring in the leather jacket to this ensemble.
This was a fifties style biker's jacket. Something a James Dean character would wear. Not something you would immediately accompany, mentally, with a bowler hat. By the time you reach the trousers, you are surely convinced that this person has either lost a bet with very severe consequences, or is someone to whom reality is but a fleeting dream. The trousers you see, are multicoloured.
'Multicoloured?!' I hear you cry. 'Is that all?!' No, it is not all.
These trousers are also multifabriced.
Now of course, multifabriced is not a real word, but that's how out on a limb we are right now. We have, in clothing terms, reached the end of the thread of rationality.
These trousers contained elements of silk, dashes of corduroy, hints of denim and a great deal of audacity. These trousers didn't just announce your arrival, they screamed it while hitting a very large gong.
The man whose arrival they were currently screaming had got on the N11 bus at Ealing Broadway and taken a seat at the rear. The other man, who was unable to stop staring at this nightmarish apparition of fashion, was one Spencer Blake. It had been a long day, and the pub had certainly taken it's toll on Spencer's mental faculties. When he'd first boarded the bus for instance, there had been a stumble which resulted in a certain amount of undignified splaying on the ground, earning him a tut of disapproval from a rather hawkish faced woman with a tight, bun hairdo. That said, he was fairly sure that what he was currently seeing, he of the screaming trousers, leather jacket and bowler hat, was not commonplace.
This strangely attired fellow had got on four stops ago, Spencer should have got off at the last, but he couldn't. He was transfixed by this strange little person. Almost as peculiar as his clothing, were the man's mannerisms. He had a rather plain, rounded face, accented by thin framed, round spectacles. Spencer thought he had the look of a bank manager about him which, unbeknown to Spencer, he was. His small, button nose was twitching like a rabbit who had recently had a large bag of carrots wafted in front of him only to have it snatched away as he was about to tuck in. He looked lost, a little confused, but most of all, he looked frightened. A small bead of sweat trickled down from under the bowler hat and came to rest in his right eye. Spencer waited for him to wipe it away and when he didn't he glanced at the man's hands. They were balled in tight fists, tinged white with the force.
Spencer had many faults, most of them finely honed over the years into full blown personality flaws, but a lack of inquisitiveness was not one of them. His interest had been piqued, which is a terrible thing to happen to a mind currently dulled on numerous pints of ale, but an even more terrible thing to happen to a mind like Spencer's. It created a mental itch of the brain, which could not be left unscratched. He was only dimly aware that he had missed his stop. He just knew he had to find out more about this man.
They sat at opposite ends of the back seat of the bus. Spencer being a master of subtlety, had only been spotted twice staring at the man, but this seemed to have been enough for the man to have become even more agitated, adding furious blinking to the twitching nose. Spencer decided that proactive action was required. He began sliding up the seat towards him. He decided to add what he thought was a friendly comforting grin to his face, which glowed in the yellowing lights of the bus with an alcoholic sheen.
“Are you ok?” Spencer thought this was a pretty safe opening gambit. Kind, friendly, not making a big deal about the fact that this chap was dressed like he'd fallen into a charity clothes donation bin. So it was somewhat of a surprise when the man screamed at a quite incredibly high pitch directly into Spencer's face, before leaping up and running down the aisle of the bus towards the door. Spencer's ears were ringing. As he tried to stand, the man screamed again, this time at the bus doors. The driver swerved to the curb and opened the automatic doors with a hissing noise, prompting another scream before the man ran out into the teeming rain of the night. Spencer's legs were decidedly wobbly, but despite this he took off in pursuit. He passed the lady with the tight bun who seemed to be clutching her handbag to her as though it was her life support, and a shocked looking driver who had his fingers jammed firmly into both ears. He jumped off the bus and saw the man running into a side street to his left, he continued his stumbling run after him, splashing the puddles he vainly sought to avoid as he went. His long, navy duffle coat flew out behind him as he ran. His faded and beaten jeans striding purposefully, if not accurately. He was catching the figure in front he noted, giving himself a mental pat on the back, he pushed on, down the pavement of the small deserted street. It looked like he was in a small commercial area. He passed a tiny carpet shop and a pet store, both closed. Parked cars lined both sides of the road. The man was running wildly, his arms flailing to the side as he moved. The screaming had stopped, but there was a sort of intense, loud humming coming from him, which echoed round the street. Spencer decided to shout.
“Hey!” Ok, Spencer considered, it wasn't very original, but it was a classic, and to the point. Also, it seemed to have worked. The man had stopped dead. The humming had stopped. Spencer slowed his run as he realised that he was now running towards a stationary madman rather than one that was moving away from him. This changed the complexion of the situation somewhat. The man raised his arms slowly up above his head, his fingers straight, pointing to the heavens.
Spencer was walking now, just a few feet from the silent, outstretched figure. If he could only see his face... There was something slightly disturbing about looking at the back of this particular outfit.
“Can I help at all? You seem to be...”
It wasn't that Spencer had become lost for words at this point, that would have been an unlikely event. No. Spencer's unlikely pause was due to a sudden, unexplained loss of consciousness. Well, unexplained to Spencer. The explanation was perfectly obvious to the young woman who stood over him holding the sock full of coins.
~~~~
Mist wallowed in the streets like fat on the city's arteries. It was late, but the
city didn't notice. The streets were just as busy, work still continued, people still milled about with nothing better to do. The only difference was that these were a different set of people than during the day time. There are certain professions after all, that are better performed in the dark.
The jet black carriage came down the street at speed. Just inside its metal framed wheels were mounted springs which allowed the wheels to rise and fall with the bumps of the road, but not the carriage. It's four black horses wore dark feathered plumage and glistened with sweat as they moved. People, without looking up, moved back against the walls either side of the narrow street as it approached. The occupant sat upright, hands steepled in front of his face. He was close, he could feel it. He had received the message twenty minutes ago, they should have her by now.
~~~~
She could feel her heart beating almost out of her chest, a mixture of adrenaline, fear and the fact she was running as fast as she could. She had no idea why the two men were chasing her, but they looked like the kind you shouldn't stop and ask. She ducked into a narrow alleyway and sprinted on. She knew this area, maybe they didn't? At the end of the alley was a street always busy at this time of night, not necessarily with the right sort of people, but men were often willing to help out a female in distress, even round here. That is, until they could work out some distress they could give her of their own.
She'd spotted them when she'd left the Rose and Crown after another long shift behind the bar. Whoever they were hadn't been very subtle. From leaning under the lamppost looking conspicuous, they had leapt up and started coming for her the moment she had crossed the street. Her pace had quickened, as had theirs, until they had become locked in a chase. She could see the end of the alley and summoned up everything she had into moving quicker. She could hear their breath echoing up the narrow walls behind her. She burst from the alley onto the street.
~~~~
The occupant of the black carriage felt the driver heave on the reins of the horses and apply the wheel lock. The deafening scrape of metal as the carriage jerked sideways, he hung to the loop of material which hung from the ceiling for passengers to steady themselves. The horses screamed and wood splintered until the cacophony of noise ended with a sickening thump and crack of flesh and bone next to him on the outside of the carriage, before it rocked to a halt. The occupant straightened his velvet waistcoat and jacket before reaching up and with both hands, smoothing and twirling the end of his mustache out. Once he had also smoothed his hair back in place, he pulled a thick cord which made the heavy blind lift revealing the open window of the carriage on the side the impact had occurred. His driver was crouching over a woman whose neck was bent in an obscene fashion, her dead eyes open towards him.
“I didn't see 'er coming Master, she just shot out!” The driver was shaking, tears rolled down his grubby cheeks which he wiped away with his neckerchief. The occupant looked up at the two large men who were at the end of the alley, panting and looking sheepish.
“Stop sniveling and put some light on her face man!” The driver visibly jumped at the snapped instructions and lurched over to the front of the carriage where he removed one of the lanterns from the brass clasp that held it in place and held it to the dead woman's face. The occupant's face showed a flash of his suspicions being realised before he turned his face to the two large men.
“Alive I said." His narrow eyes bore into them, suggesting that disappointing him was not a long term problem. In fact, the men thought he was looking at them as though they wouldn’t have many long term anythings anymore. A crowd was beginning to form around the scene. The two large men were looking sheepishly around.
Not bright enough to know they should run, thought the occupant of the carriage.
“Take the body and make sure no one can see who she is. Driver! Home!” He let the blind fall back over the small window and sat back into the leather seat, lighting a thin cigar. This was unfortunate, but he could still go ahead with his plan. As soon as he'd realised that she existed, he'd known he had more than one chance of getting her. One down...
~~~~
Spencer opened his eyes slowly in case they fell out sideways onto the pavement. He was flat on his back. As he lifted his head a sharp pain burst from the top of his spine up through the back of his skull, this was going to be some lump. He raised himself onto his elbows and looked around. It was still night. The street was deserted. He looked down to his chest and saw a small piece of paper. He sat up straight woozily and unfolded it. Just one word written in loopy, neat writing. 'SORRY.'
2
The Tortuga
Spencer stared at the tortoise and took another long guzzle of whiskey. His next move was a bit of a mystery. He knew they ate lettuce and he was pretty sure they hibernated at some point, but that was about the extent of his knowledge. He needed to give it to a pet shop or the RSPCA or something really... But that was going to be tricky...
The tortoise turned a lazy eye to him and stood stock-still. Its expression was one of solemn expectancy. One that said, 'I am willing to wait an infinite amount of time just to see, on the off chance, that at some point, just maybe, someone might give me some lettuce.' It was a philosophy and outlook that had always served it well in the past.
Spencer picked up a knife from the counter still encrusted with golden crumbs from this morning's toast, and tried gently scraping at the white substance on the tortoise's shell. It immediately retracted its head and feet at a surprising speed making Spencer jump. No, probably not the best way. Some sort of solvent perhaps?
Spencer sighed and finished his tea staring at the word painted in bright white letters across the side of the mottled shell... 'Prat'. The shell also had the number ‘1’ written across it but, Spencer thought glumly, this seemed to fade into insignificance next to the ‘Prat’.
Appearances would suggest that this animal defacement was the work of an irrational and unstable mind. Although appearances can often be deceptive, in this case, they were right on the money. Lisa Stroud was as irrational as a painting of dogs playing pool, and as unstable as the mind of the artist that drew them.
Spencer pulled at his right earlobe in thought. He knew he was going to have to do something about Lisa. It had been four weeks since they'd split up, and she really didn't seem to be any less angry, or any less odd in her retributions. Three days ago he had received ten handmade gingerbread men in the post, each with a painstakingly iced knife stabbing into an area that would be considered delicate even amongst the gingerbread populace. Two days before that, he had arrived home from work to find a bag full of soggy tissues, which contained 'tears, born of your brutality', according to the note.
Spencer finished his whiskey and stared at the empty tumbler in the rather dim hope it would refill itself. He readjusted the bag of frozen peas he had clasped to the back of his head. He hadn't been able to find any trace of the person who had attacked him. Initially, he thought the note had just been from a very considerate mugger, but his wallet had still been in his pocket when he'd woken up, his watch still on his wrist. He would have doubted the whole set of events, other than the fact he had a lump the size of an egg from an enthusiastic chicken on the back of his head. This would need further investigation, but it would wait until tomorrow, it was late. He had decided not to inform the police. For a start, the events of tonight would take quite a large amount of faith on the police's side, particularly bearing in mind the alcohol they would almost certainly smell on his breath. However, there was also the fact that Spencer wasn't currently flavour of the month at the local police station. In fact, if they were to assign him a flavour at the moment, it would probably be armpit.
It had not been a good day.
People have this romantic notion of private investigators. That they are all either Poirot, an eccentric gentleman figure with a superior intellect. Or Magnum PI, driving ridiculously expensive sports cars ridiculously quickly, and having a great moustache. Ok, Spencer would be the first
to hold his hands up to the superior intellect charge. He hadn't however, ever managed to grow a convincing moustache. Convincing as in, it always looked fake. He'd tried trimming it in various ways and to various lengths, but it always looked like it had been bought at a local joke shop for 99p. Sporting an obviously fake moustache tended to make you stand out more than you wanted to as a private detective. Even if it was in fact, a real one.
In reality being a PI involves sitting around and waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and then just when you think something is about to happen... you have to wait fourteen more hours with nothing more than a suspiciously droopy sausage roll and a warm drink that was designed to be consumed cold. Sadly, Spencer had been one of those under the illusion that it would be a glamorous profession. Growing up in foster care, he had mostly been raised by the short stories and comic books shared amongst his fellow orphans. That, and TV.
They had crowded in the small TV room with the cracked plastic chairs, their exposed foam stained from years of use. They watched everything they were allowed. Mostly this had consisted of the lighter, less grizzly detective shows, and the science fiction hour. The science fiction hour consisted of a different story every week, sometimes a dashing hero, flying through space firing lasers and saving the girl, another, aliens invading earth, the only thing standing in their way, the dashing hero (who would of course, save the girl).
The stories had captured him, excited him. He had from then on always known that he was either going to be a dashing, space roving hero, or a detective. As he realised that these were both quite difficult things to become when you were an average orphan form Ealing, London. He had become a private investigator, and awaited the exciting clashes with baddies. They hadn't come.
For instance, today he had (as he had been for the last three days) been trying to catch a glimpse of Mrs Edie Robertson, who was currently attempting to sue the Ealing Borough Council for a fall she sustained on an uneven paving slab two months ago. Normally on a case like this, with only minor injuries being sustained (a bad back in this instance) and the potential bad publicity that would be certain to arise if the case ever went to court, the council would simply send a cheque for a couple of hundred pounds to the plaintiff and no more would be said of the matter.