by J Battle
I still have to get my own coffee most of the time and, if I’m being totally honest, it tastes like the beans have been filtered through overused cat litter, but it is shiny.
**********
‘I’ll just get the last of my books, dear, then I’ll be out of your hair.’
Mary looked up from her maps of the Himalayas. ‘Dear? There’s no-one else here, so you don’t have to pretend,’
‘Just habit, I suppose.’ Chips piled the next heavy tome on to his trolley; then he stopped to take a look inside.
It was one of his favorite books, The ‘Spanish’ Armada. He’d never been able to understand the stir it had caused when it came out a few years ago, with its main theme being that The ‘Spanish’ Armada was actually a force dispatched by the Dutch to take on the English navy and that it got its name because the Dutch sailors’ rations had been laced with Spanish Fly, rendering them completely unable to make a decent fight of it, yet strangely amorous during the eventual surrender.
Just below it was one of his favourite works, a treatise on the history of America, entitled Very Nearly Columbia (and German), depicting the game of poker between Amerigo Vespucci and Christopher Columbus to decide the name of the newly discovered continent, and finishing with the hotly contested paper, scissor, rock contest to decide on the national language of the USA, between English and German. In the best of 25 contest, English won by 13 to 12.
He was lost for a moment as he flicked through these books. Each one was special to him; his whole life was framed by which book he was writing at the time. The American book had been written during his first break up with Mary; the Armada book was finished just as they came together in a short-lived and bitter rapprochement.
‘I’ll just get the series on British Prime Ministers Sing Karaoke from the back room and then that’ll be it, I think.’
Mary watched him go and sighed. She’d wanted better from him, expected better from him; but, as with everyone else in her life, he’d failed to live up to her expectations.
She put away her maps and went into the expansive kitchen. The least she could do was send him away with a hot drink in his stomach.
She sensed rather than heard the movement behind her. If she’d been alone, her highly trained defense reactions would have kicked in, but she naturally thought that it must be Chips, so she didn’t even turn.
‘Wh…?’ she began as she felt rough hands on her shoulders. Immediately she pushed with both hands against the worktop and drove back at her attacker. It felt as though she’d thrown herself at a brick wall.
She dropped to the floor, intending to kick up at his groin with both feet, but, since her hip operation, which she wasn’t telling anyone about, she wasn’t quite as quick or flexible as she had once been.
She found herself dangling upside down, held by her ankles in the massive fists of the ugly intruder.
‘Hello, little lady,’ he grunted, just before she head-butted him in the groin.
She wasn’t in a position to put much power into the blow, but her aim was spot on.
As she was dropped, she tucked her head into her chest and rolled easily to her feet, with barely a sound.
With an easy fluid movement, she whipped her foot around and caught him flush on the jaw. If she’d been wearing her normal boots, it would have been the decisive blow, but her fluffy slippers weren’t really up to the task.
As she prepared to strike again, a pair of arms grabbed her from behind, and began to squeeze.
‘Chips!’ she gasped whilst she still could, kicking back to no effect with her slippered feet.
The arms that held her were very strong, and the pressure was relentless. She could feel herself about to pass out, so she tried to twist her body, but she couldn’t move.
There was a sudden grunt behind her and, locked together, she and her hugger-mugger fell to the floor.
She quickly rolled to her feet and jabbed her straight fingers into the carotid of the first attacker as he got to his knees, sending him back to the floor.
She turned back to the second attacker, but he was already little more than a messy lump on her kitchen floor.
Standing over him was Chips, looking a little shaky with one of his thicker books clasped to his chest.
Tutankamen’s Terrible Teenage Years hadn’t made much of an impact when it was first published, but it had certainly left an impression on the head of the guy on the ground.
‘Is the kettle on, Dear?’ asked Chips, as he searched for something to restrain their unexpected visitors.
Chapter 4 - Then…Is that me singing?
‘I don’t think that worked out very well.’
Millie tugged her teddy from her backpack. She could have taken offence, but she didn’t. He was right.
‘They were so big and butch, I thought they’d be able to deal with a little old lady.’
‘Well, I’m sure the rest of your plans are working out better.’
Now that did give her pause. Was he being sincere, or making a point? She could have ripped off his head and pulled out all of his stuffing, but where would that get her?
‘Oh, I think everything else is going just as planned.’ She skipped around the little room because, well that seemed to be the thing to do.
Her base here in the Myanmar Highlands was safe and secure, with the most wonderful of views. She had storage rooms for all of the pets she’d stolen and a special cage for Phil’s mum. She knew just how much human males revered their mothers, so she wasn’t going to give up on that part of her plan.
Next time she’d have to take a more hands-on approach.
As she considered her plans, she picked up teddy and held him close.
*********
‘OK, sir, what can we do for you?’ I smiled; all that training paying off.
‘You can explain yourself.’ He wasn’t very tall, but he was so broad that I couldn’t see around him. His head was shaved to within an inch of its life, but he’d left an annoying little patch of hair in the center of his forehead, like a third eyebrow.
In his red, ham-like fist, he held one of our cards.
‘I’m not sure what you want explained, but I’ll do my best.’ I didn’t smile that time; I went for concerned and earnest.
‘Why are you pulling that face? Do you need the toilet?’
Obviously my concerned and earnest face still needed a little work.
‘Perhaps if you explained your problem?’ No expression this time.
‘You’re my problem, mate.’
He placed the card delicately in the center of my desk.
‘You left this in my house.’
‘Did I? No, I’ve never been to your house. And it’s not our card. I’ve never seen it before today.’ I could feel that I was losing my cool, so I stopped talking.
‘It’s got your picture on it, ain’t it?’
Reluctantly, I nodded.
‘And that there is the name of your company, ain't it?’
He pointed at the offending words with an index finger so thick I wondered how it would even bend.
I nodded again.
‘And that’s your stupid tune.’
He brushed the card and the stupid tune began to play.
‘I bet that’s you singing.’
‘I really have no idea how…’
‘So.’
I stopped talking, and so did he.
There was an awkward Mexican stand-off moment, filled by Julie’s voice as she interviewed her own prospective client.
‘No,’ she said, as if she’d been talking all of her life. ‘There’s been a simple mistake. They are our cards; of course they are, with our name and the lead investigator’s picture on them, how can they be otherwise?’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lean forward, and her voice dropped a little.
‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this, as it’s an ongoing police investigation, but the cards, all 500 of them, and they were very expensive, I ca
n tell you, well, they were all stolen from the printers, so, I’m sorry to say, that, mortified though we are for your loss, the theft, if that is what it is, really has nothing to do with us, though, if hired, we will be happy to do everything in our power to help you to trace your beloved little Popsicle.’
I turned back to my client and smiled.
‘What she said,’ I said.
**********
I think I’m OK, for now.
He hasn’t eaten me yet, and with that tiny mouth of his, I’d have plenty of time to argue my case for survival, or for him to discover that I don’t taste very nice raw, and that maybe a little roasting, or a casserole, or just a dash of tabasco sauce might work better.
‘Thank you for coming out to meet me; I don’t like caves. On my home world there’s a saying about dark caves. ‘If you go into a dark cave, you’ll be eaten by an Orsbit.’'
As a saying, it lacks something, but I get his meaning.
‘What do you want, and how do you know my name?’ Maybe not the friendliest of race to race greetings, but I’ve been very tense lately, what with all this squirting and intergalactic exploration, and being so far away from my desk and my comfy chair.
‘He won’t respond well to direct questioning like that. Try to be more subtle and less direct.’
‘Be quiet, Neville, I know what I’m doing.’
I didn’t, but he really gets on my nerves sometimes; all of the time.
‘I really would prefer not to answer your questions, Mr. Philip Chandler; not at this present moment in time. Perhaps, when we’ve developed a loving relationship there will come a time when we can be completely open with each other.’
Loving relationship? I don’t think so mate. I like ladies; human ladies. I’m not into interspecies relationships, thank you very much.
‘I think there may be a misunderstanding here, Phil. He’s not planning to jump your bones, as I believe the expression goes. He’s more likely to be referring to a mutually beneficial relationship between two species that happen to have hopes and desires in common.’
‘I was OK there until you said ‘desires.’’
‘Did I mention that they are planning a remake of Groundhog Day?’
‘Yes! Of course you did, and it was funny; sort of. But repetition stops it from being funny.’
‘I think you’ll find that repetition is the whole crux of the film. Indeed, repetition is the mainstay device of many popular sketch shows from the past 150 years.’
‘Can we forget about that and just concentrate on the situation at hand?’
‘Have no fear, Philip. Fully six per cent of my consciousness is concentrated on your present circumstances, which I think you’ll agree is quite a lot.’
‘Six per cent?’
‘Yes, I can see you’re impressed. Since I said ‘Have no fear’ I‘ve downloaded and read all of the literature from the last two centuries on private detectives and studied their abilities, skills and practices and developed a number of programs to compare all of the named detectives along with your good self. Would you like to know how you rank, currently?’
‘No. No. No. Don’t ever tell me how far behind Marlow, Holmes or Templar I am.’
‘Are you sure? The knowledge might give you impetus to work your way up the ranks.’
‘I knew it. I’m at the bottom, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Phil. They were all fictional characters. You are real, so you can’t hope to compare favourably.’
‘So I am at the bottom.’
‘Not quite; you’re ahead of Miss Marple.’
‘Great!’
‘What’s this all about?’ I say to the big alien, getting back on track.
‘We have a great deal to do with ourselves, you and I, Mr. Philip Chandler. If you will come to my ship, perhaps we can develop our plans in greater comfort.’
Go to his ship? I don’t think I like that; in fact I’m sure I don’t like it. What if he kidnaps me and takes me back to his planet far away for I don’t know what - experiments and things?
‘I don’t believe that that is very likely, Phil. Do you?’
‘Look, when I’m panicking, I prefer to do it in the privacy of my own mind, if you don’t mind.’
‘He’s a nice guy, Phil. Trust me. And if he’s not, we can just squirt back home.’
Normally the thought of squirting gets me all tense, but somehow, now the thought of squirting home is very appealing; and my tension levels are so high that an increase would hardly be noticed.
‘OK,’ I reply to the big fellow, not feeling at all happy about the developments.
I am walking beside him, matching him stride for stride and I’ve just had a thought. I know a bit about this squirting business, and I’m well aware that for a successful squirt, you need the exact coordinates of both the start and finish points.
If this creature flies off with us at some crazy faster than light speed, we won’t have our exact starting point figures.
So we can’t be sure of a squirt that ends nicely.
What does all that mean?
Either my super intelligent AI passenger has got something wrong; something my little brain has managed to work out all on its own, or he’s lying to me.
Chapter 5 - Then…helping the police with their enquiries
When the police arrived, it was the final straw on a day that just wouldn’t end.
I’d been at the office for eight straight hours and that’s a long day for me. I hadn’t had time for lunch and only had five or six coffees all day.
There were just so many people asking for my help. When Sam sidled in, I even had to have him talk to people; from behind his screen of course.
And every case was the same; lost animal in the night and my card left in an easy to find place.
At first I took him to be another client; these days policemen don’t wear uniforms, of course.
‘Good evening, Mr. Chandler,’ he began, reaching out to shake my hand as he sat in the chair opposite.
‘Good evening, Sir,’ I threw right back at him.
‘You seem very busy, don’t you?’ He was a small guy, with a nicely trimmed moustache, and completely untrimmed eyebrows.
‘Just one of those days, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps I should introduce myself? My name is Evans; Inspector Evans I should say.’
‘Inspector Evans?’
‘Police Inspector Evans.’
'What can I do for you officer?' I sat up a little straighter in my chair, trying not to think about my fridge and its contents. My rec. drugs are not actually illegal, but, if my office was construed as a public place, then there might be issues.
'As I said, I am Inspector Evans, private I should mention, as I actually work for a private security company, The Really Secure Company, to be exact. Here, I’ll zip you over our brochure.'
He did just that and my wrist-top gave a jolly little tinkle to let me know.
'We provide foot on the ground investigative services for the Law and Order AI, and we are always on the lookout for good quality investigators.'
'Oh,' I said, trying not to preen. 'So you're trying to head-hunt me, then?'
'Uh, well, if you don't mind, no; not really. Are you looking for a job?'
'Depends on the package?' I said, coyly. I didn't really want a job, but it's nice to be asked.
'I think you may have misinterpreted my presence here. I'm not recruiting; I'm investigating.'
'Oh, I see. Exactly what are you investigating?' I asked very quickly to avoid any suggestion of embarrassment.
'Well, you, actually.' He flipped open his wrist-top. 'We'll be recording the rest of the proceedings if you don't mind.'
I did mind, but I didn't think it would get me anywhere to protest.
'I haven't done anything!' I couldn't help the touch of a whine in my voice. He was kind enough to ignore it.
'Let me be the judge of that,' he said abruptly, and then he frowne
d. 'Was that rude? I didn't mean to be rude. We're trained not to be rude. Was it rude?'
I took pity on him. 'No, you're fine, officer. It'd take more than that to offend me,' I said, hoping he wouldn't take it as a challenge.
'OK, then. Let's get down to business. You are Philip Humphrey Chandler, the son of Chips and Mary Chandler, and you are 38 years of age on your next birthday. You have a small mole on your left buttock and you were a bed-wetter well into your seventh year.'
'Is all this really necessary? And it was only once, when I was just seven; I’d drunk too much pop at my party. It hasn't happened since; and how do you know about my mole?'
'Just establishing your identity; have to be sure who we're talking to.' He glanced at his wrist-top. 'Not married, I see. Never been married, and you're nearly 38. You don't currently have a girlfriend.'
'Not for the want of trying.' I laughed in an all-men-together sort of way.
'I see your mother has some quite disparaging things to say about you.'
'Look, that's enough. There's no need to bring her into it.'
'Sorry, Sir; did I hit a soft spot, Sir? My, my. I'll just make a note of that, Sir.'
He frowned again. 'Oh dear; that sounded unreconstructed to me. Did it sound unreconstructed to you? We have training to stop that as well, Sir.'
'You're fine, officer. If we can get to the point, Officer. You can see how busy I am.'
'Not too busy to help the law as it goes about its daily business, I hope, Sir.'
He closed his wrist-top and sat back.' Do you mind if I stop calling you Sir, Sir? We're supposed to say it at the end of every sentence, to show our respect, but it can get to be too much, sometimes, I think, Sir.'
I smiled. 'Call me Phil if it will speed things up.'
'Thanks, Phil. You don't realize how hard it is to keep up this level of politeness, day in day out. My grandad was a policeman at the end of the last century; he never said a polite word to anyone in his whole life. He was even rude to my nan on their wedding day, if you can believe it.'