by Rohan Gavin
‘Guided meditation, lucid dreaming, whatever it is,’ said Darkus, ‘I thought it would give me answers, but it’s only raised more questions … like who I am and what I’m meant to be doing with my life. I’m sorry, Lex, but this whole thing, it’s not for me. If you’ll excuse me …’
Darkus got to his feet, picked up his distinctly un-Knightley-esque anorak and left the circle, crossing the bare wooden floor of the deserted, boarded-up Gothic house and descending the creaky staircase, stepping over the gaps where bits were missing.
Darkus used his shoulder to shove open the front door, exiting into a derelict lot, painted orange by the fading evening light.
‘Darkus, wait –’ Alexis caught up with him. ‘I was just trying to help. I owe you my life, remember?’
She curled a grey lock of hair under her hat and flashed him the cockeyed smile that had managed to stay intact through her trauma and the months of therapy that followed it. She had, without doubt, fared better than their other schoolmate, Brendan Doyle, whose mauling at the hands of King’s attack dogs had left the boy still recovering at an undisclosed clinic somewhere.
‘I don’t think we should hang out any more, Lex. I’m sorry.’ He looked for the right words. ‘It’s just too much of a reminder of the past.’
She fell silent for a beat. ‘OK,’ she answered, crestfallen. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Darkus nodded sadly and walked across a garden that had been left to ruin. He vanished under a row of sycamore trees and into the shadows.
Alexis removed her hat and watched him go.
The house party was in full swing. Electronic dance music reverberated through the modern, glass-fronted home as Darkus crossed the lawn, approaching the front door. He pressed the intercom and heard a bottle smash – which was presumably unconnected. A few moments later the door opened to reveal the host: teenage classmate Jason, an acquaintance more than a friend, decked out in an oversized baseball cap and baggy, drop-crotch pants.
Jason did a double take. ‘Oh … my … God. Are we talking a flat tyre, an alien abduction, or did hell just freeze over? It’s the legendary Darkus Knightley PI in the house. Check it out.’ A cluster of other youths crowded around the doorway.
‘Thought I’d take you up on your invitation,’ said Darkus. ‘To celebrate the summer holidays,’ he clarified.
‘Of course, by all means,’ replied the host and ushered him into the entrance hall, which was heaving with bodies. ‘As long as you’re off duty,’ he said with a wink.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ replied Darkus.
‘Well, this is what we here on Earth call a “party”. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Do you have Robinsons Barley Water?’
‘We have anything you require. Guys, you heard the man. On the rocks. And take him to the VIP area.’
Beyond the hallway, two reception rooms were packed with revellers. Darkus’s powers of observation (which could not so easily be switched off) instantly detected an average age of fifteen years old, a range of ethnicities and a preponderance of skin rather than clothing.
As he was led through the party, he felt his catastrophiser ticking and humming in time to the music. The catastrophiser was Darkus’s friend and his enemy. It allowed him to continually digest potential clues taken from his immediate surroundings, and it always suggested the worst-case scenario. Of course, most of the time, the worst-case scenario was not the case, and there was a much more mundane and ordinary explanation. But, occasionally, for example on the first two Knightley & Son investigations, the catastrophiser served up the cold, unvarnished truth.
However, that was past history now. He and his dad were not currently speaking, due to the catastrophic end to the Barabas King case (the Case of the Hampstead Heath Howler, as his father had named it; or K-9 as Darkus called it). Rightly or wrongly, Darkus held his father responsible for what had happened on that fateful full moon. Prior to forming Knightley & Son, his father had been absent for those four long years, confined to a coma by the hypnotic powers of Morton Underwood. But his dad had been absent long before that as well, when he’d confined himself to his office, working day and night and slowly losing his wife and family in the process. Darkus had essentially grown up without a father, until his dad had returned – virtually back from the dead – as a partner in crime-solving, bringing much-needed adventure into Darkus’s life, but not the level of intimacy or affection that a son might wish for from a parent. Plus, his dad never warned him about the profound loss that comes along with devoting one’s life to detective work. And Darkus never really had any other choice in life, with the catastrophiser continually gnawing at his mind. He was always going to follow in his father’s footsteps, and his father had never been around to tell him not to.
Darkus returned his mind to the present as he was led up a glass staircase, underlit by discreet LED lights. Darkus knew Jason’s parents were wealthy and travelled a lot, leaving their son to throw regular parties that incensed the neighbours; but the gatherings were expertly cleaned up afterwards, with the precision of a criminal cleaning up a crime scene, erasing any trace of the party’s existence. It was even rumoured that the host made cash payments to the neighbours in return for their silence.
Darkus was led across a minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the main reception room where over a hundred kids were dancing with their hands raised in the air, waving plastic cups. On the far side, one brave parent had come along and was doing some embarrassing ‘Dad-dancing’ in front of the fireplace with great enthusiasm, his beard and glasses at odds with the fashionable dayglo and spandex on display.
The group of baseball caps escorted Darkus from the gallery to an outdoor balcony, overlooking a swimming pool that was glowing blue in the night. One of Jason’s minions poured Darkus a soft drink from an improvised bar consisting of a white linen cloth and an assortment of bottles. Several of the cooler kids in his year were lined up, sucking indeterminate green liquid through straws. A group of girls flocked together at the opposite end of the deck, glancing at Darkus and whispering to each other. It was hard to tell if the comments were negative or positive. Having never mastered lip-reading, Darkus was unable to understand what was being said, and their body language was equally baffling.
Far easier to read were the two boys who were scaling the tiled parapet roof beside the VIP area, overlooking the pool, which lay a distance of some ten metres from the house.
‘Go on, do it,’ one dared the other, pointing towards the alluring body of blue water.
‘In your dreams. You do it.’
The water was shimmering and inviting.
‘OK,’ the first one replied.
Darkus put down his cup, left the throng and approached the parapet. His eyes narrowed as he estimated the distance from the roof to the pool, the uncertain purchase of their shoes on the slate tiles, Newton’s laws of motion and the relative velocity that would have to be achieved to land safely in the water. The outlook was not encouraging.
‘Erm, guys?’ Darkus ventured. ‘I think you’ll find the laws of gravity make the odds of a successful landing approximately thirty to one … at best.’
‘Shut it, Dorkus!’
‘In that case, would you consider waiting long enough for us to create an improvised safety cushion to prevent serious injury or loss of life?’
Jason glanced up from the garden below and waved his hands around. ‘Get off of there. Dad’ll have a fit if those tiles come loose.’
Climber One looked at the other and grinned. ‘OK, who’s going first?’
Realising their judgement was quite seriously impaired, Darkus addressed the host. ‘I suggest calling the emergency services. Specify two ambulances.’
‘Seriously?!’ Jason yelled up again. ‘Get off of there or I’m never inviting you again. Ever!’
Climber Two nodded to his friend. ‘Maybe it’s not such a great idea.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ Climber One replied,
then involuntarily yelped, ‘Agh – !!’ He suddenly lost his footing and slid clattering down the ledge by the VIP area in a tangle of arms and legs. It would have looked like a comedy routine if there wasn’t a free fall of fifteen metres below him.
Revellers on the balcony and round the pool started screaming. The host stood frozen in horror.
Climber Two started down after his friend, but set off a minor avalanche of slate tiles that rattled down the incline and flew over the edge in quick succession, shattering loudly on the ground. Climber Two grabbed on to a chimney stack for dear life, while Climber One tripped over the loose slates, appearing to tap-dance, before cartwheeling down the remainder of the roof and dropping into the abyss.
Until a hand shot out and grabbed his arm.
‘Dorkus! What’re you doing?’ The climber stared up in shock.
‘Saving you. And it’s Darkus …’
The climber slipped again and screamed until Darkus gripped the boy’s wrist and wedged himself against the corner of the metal balcony – using his father’s preferred martial art, Wing Chun, to plant his feet instead of following the ill-fated mountaineer over the edge. But the force of gravity was too strong. The climber clawed on to Darkus’s arm. The sole of Darkus’s Dunlop Green Flash trainer slipped on the wooden decking and he lost his balance, toppling over the railing.
‘No – !’ the climber shouted as he saw his earnest classmate following him into space …
Until another pair of hands shot out and grabbed Darkus around the waist. Darkus maintained his grip on the climber and craned his neck, seeing the embarrassing dad from the dance floor, hyperventilating and heaving both boys back over the railing. Darkus held on tight as the three of them tumbled back on to the safety of the balcony.
The revellers gasped, catching their breath.
‘I assume your mother knows you’re here,’ the rescuer announced.
Darkus knew that voice. He did a double take and looked up to see his father standing over him, partially obscured by the fake beard and glasses.
‘Dad – ?’ Darkus exclaimed, eyes wide. ‘I can’t believe …’ his voice turned to an accusatory whisper, ‘you’d embarrass me like this.’
‘Would you rather I let you fall?’ Knightley protested. ‘The chances of survival were approximately thirty to one. At best.’
Darkus shook his head, and got to his feet. ‘Not here, Dad. Please.’ He walked from the balcony into the house.
Knightley followed his son around the minstrels’ gallery with the partygoers gyrating below as if nothing had happened. ‘I know you don’t want to see me … But I need to see you, Doc. It’s important.’
He spun. ‘It’s Darkus.’
Knightley recoiled, then straightened up, looking hurt. ‘As you wish.’ He trailed Darkus down the glass staircase, through the entrance hall and out of the front door.
Knightley caught up with him on the grass, until Darkus turned to block him.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Tilly did a sweep of social media. “Jason’s summer pool party”, I believe,’ said Knightley using finger quotes, then winced as he peeled the fake beard from his face. ‘You’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time online lately,’ he said disapprovingly.
‘You mean, like every other kid my age?’
‘I would question the assumption that you’re anything like other children in any way, Darkus.’ Knightley glanced at the revellers falling about around them.
‘Well, at least I’m trying …’
Knightley looked truly puzzled by this, as if the prospect of ‘normal’ was something to be avoided at all costs. ‘I suppose that would explain the outfit,’ he deduced, casting a disparaging eye over Darkus’s casual clothes and shoes, before returning to business. ‘The reason I’m here is I have a message for you … From Tilly.’
‘Since when have you become her errand boy?’
‘Well …’ Knightley mumbled, ‘well, we’ve sort of been working together as a matter of fact,’ he confessed and shrugged apologetically.
Darkus’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, like –’ this time he was the one using finger quotes – ‘“Knightley and … surrogate daughter?”’
His father shrugged again. ‘Something like an apprentice, you might say.’
Darkus’s face ran a gamut of emotions from disbelief, through amazement, to bewilderment – coming to rest on betrayal.
‘She’s unpredictable,’ warned Darkus. ‘A wild card. You said it yourself.’
‘Since you took your sabbatical, she’s the only card I’ve got.’ Knightley paused, looking for any hint of forgiveness. ‘Before you shoot the messenger, don’t you want to hear what the message is?’
Darkus turned away and walked towards the road.
‘We’ve apprehended Morton Underwood,’ his father called after him.
Darkus stopped in his tracks, glancing around to make sure no one else had heard – but the party continued its noisy progress.
‘The trouble is he’s put himself into a post-hypnotic trance,’ Knightley went on.
Darkus turned to face his dad, realising the gravity of the situation.
‘We have no idea how long this “episode” might last,’ Knightley added. ‘It’s a coma-like state, much the same as what he did to me. It could be years.’
‘Did he say anything before he entered this state?’ demanded Darkus.
‘He invited us to play a game. He said he had infor-mation about Tilly’s mother’s death. About Carol.’ Knightley’s eyes winced with painful recollection for a moment, before returning to their steely gaze.
‘What kind of information?’ said Darkus, his brow furrowing with concern.
‘He recited a code of some kind.’ Knightley unfolded a piece of paper containing a set of words and numbers, then read from it: ‘Fifty-three, sixty-four, chance, a relay, thirteen-thirty-nine.’
‘That’s exactly what he said?’ asked Darkus. ‘I mean precisely?’
His father nodded.
Darkus closed his eyes and let the words and numbers whirl around his mind, like balls on a roulette wheel, waiting to see where they’d land. Knightley knew from experience not to disturb his son during this process. Instead he watched with a mixture of awe and the faintest hint of professional jealousy.
‘Be so kind as to repeat the sequence again,’ said Darkus with his eyes still closed.
Knightley read the code the way a bingo caller announces the lucky numbers. ‘Fifty-three, sixty-four, chance … a relay … thirteen-thirty-nine.’
Darkus remained silent, examining the vortex of possibilities in his head. Then he began to speak quietly: ‘Once you stop trying to make sense of it, and just listen to the sounds themselves, a familiar pattern presents itself.’
Knightley raised his eyebrows. ‘It does?’ he said, surprised.
‘Yes,’ answered his son. ‘Underwood has a speech impediment that appears to have garbled what would otherwise be a perfectly comprehensible message – either spoken deliberately, or by accident, before he lost consciouness.’
‘You mean like a slip-up of the mind. A “brain fart” I believe it’s known as,’ Knightley speculated, before censuring himself: ‘Sorry, do proceed. How did you arrive at this deduction?’
‘Simple,’ said Darkus. ‘Why else would Underwood give us the location of a safe deposit box in Central London?’
‘A safe deposit box? How could you possibly know that?’
‘It’s not “chance, a relay”. It’s “Chancery Lane”. The Chancery Lane Safe Deposit Company is the oldest and most trusted in London. The address is fifty-three to sixty-four Chancery Lane. Therefore we can assume that the number of the safe deposit box is identified by the remaining digits in the sequence: one-three-three-nine.’
‘Outstanding,’ said Knightley, shaking his head in admiration. ‘You’ve still got it, Doc.’ He guided his son towards their trusty, souped-up London black cab that was parked in the shadows.
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br /> ‘But you’re still not getting it, Dad.’ Darkus resisted his father’s guidance. ‘Consider this solution a farewell gift.’
‘A farewell? From what?’
‘From the business. I’m not coming back to work, Dad. I’ve got GCSEs next year. And a lot of catching up to do … in all kinds of ways.’
‘I’m afraid it’s my turn to be rational. Tilly’s told me about you and Alexis, and her slightly … left-of-centre ideas.’
Darkus waited to see where this was going.
‘I know this is about Wilbur,’ said his father gently. ‘I know how much it hurt you, but I never could have predicted that outcome –’
‘I don’t want to talk about that right now.’
‘I loved that mutt as much as you did.’
‘Did you?’ Darkus challenged him, feeling his chest tighten with emotion.
‘I never wanted this line of work for you, Doc. But we both have to accept that detective work’s in your blood. There’s no escaping it.’
Darkus took a deep breath, then answered, ‘Congratulations on apprehending Underwood. I’m certain you’ll crack the Combination soon enough. Goodnight, Dad.’
Darkus started walking away, feeling a childish sense of victory, tempered with an unsettling, nauseous feeling in his stomach.
‘The Combination is a revolving door, you know that,’ his father implored. ‘One leader falls, another takes their place. Until we get them all in one place, crack the mechanism and take it apart, they’ll always be out there. They’ll never stop …’
‘I hope you and Tilly find what you’re looking for,’ Darkus responded, before turning away.
Knightley’s arms dropped to his sides and he stood on the pavement, hopeless, as his son passed by the familiar shape of the London black cab and walked off into the night.
CHAPTER 2
THE PUZZLE BOX
Tilly marched briskly past the row of office buildings, whose windows reflected the first rays of sunrise – which were not dissimilar to the orange tips of her hair, the remainder of which was currently dyed electric blue. Knightley struggled to keep up with her and Uncle Bill’s orthopaedic loafers waddled from under his coat-tails. Two plain clothes SO42 agents followed at a distance, their eyes flicking left and right to evaluate their surroundings.