Out of Time

by Steven Allinson

Neil arrived by taxi at Artimus’ office shortly before eight.

  Just an hour and a half ago he awoke on his couch, to the first of a string of sensations he had never previously experienced.

  Firstly was the pain settled behind his eyes. Sure, Neil had felt the delicate torture of hangovers, but this was unlike any of those distant experiences. This was as if his brain were collapsing; like some distant neutron star in a far-flung corner of the universe, consumed by its own gravity, the pain of its passing somehow spreading down his back.

  Then there was the inability to function. It had been a while since Neil had felt the uneasiness of footing that alcohol produced, but once again, this was ten times worse. It was as if every footstep, every hand movement, every single action were taken through an invisible torrent of tar swarming round his being. He bobbed as he moved, looking as though he was shadow-boxing, occasionally grunting as he bumped into random items of furniture as his unsure meanderings wove him through his abode.

  However, lastly and most frighteningly was the memory loss. Huge portions of time were missing, his mind seemingly wiped. Neil had never in his life been able to say he had forgotten anything. Last night, alcohol had managed to induce the impossible.

  Standing in the doorway to Artimus’ cellar room and sweating profusely, Neil tried to get some composure. He had no idea if Artimus were already here, but he could not take the chance of giving him something else to tease him about.

  “Stop lingering outside like a bad smell Neil.” said Artimus, his voice drifting through the closed door. “Besides, you are panting so hard I think you are about to give yourself a seizure.”

  Neil sighed, trudging through the door, as Artimus lifted his head from his notes.

  “Oh my word.” said Artimus, in a state of disbelief. “I think I may have damaged you.” He stood, assisting Neil into a seat and grabbing a handful of ice from his bucket. Removing a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he folded the ice into it and gave it to Neil to hold to his brow. “Feel any better?”

  Neil did not know what to say. He was in tatters. His brain was swimming and he just wanted to go back home to bed. How Artimus was even alive he could not fathom. Neil had drunk perhaps seven or eight pints, but Artimus had drunk twice that, if not more. How he was standing, let alone functioning normally, was beyond him.

  “I feel like a rat has climbed into my head and died.” said Neil, groaning lightly. “And I believe its mate has just arrived and is busily humping the carcass.”

  “Well,” said Artimus, nodding knowingly, “it doesn’t sound like a bad hangover. You’ll be fine.”

  “Not bad?” said Neil, barely able to open his eyes. “I feel like shit.”

  “Like I said,” continued Artimus, returning to his notes. “I’ve lost vision twice, once for three days, and Cyril was admitted to hospital with possible kidney failure after one of our really big sessions. So, a bit of a headache? Minor hangover at best.”

  “Remind me never to drink with you again.”

  “You think you need reminders?” said Artimus, playfully, as he turned and continued sifting through the notes on the table.

  “What are you doing?” said Neil, trying to shake his fuddle.

  “I’ve spent the majority of the morning trying to update our sheets.” said Artimus, pointing up to the board. “and now I’m going to recolour our connectors.” He looked round, pushing paper aside as he tried to find something important. “Can you see the scissors anywhere Neil?”

  Neil grunted, righting himself from his awkward slump, and leaning toward the desk. Squinting to cut the light entering his eyes to a minimum, he scanned the desk’s surface. Mess was everywhere, but his usual compunction to get annoyed by the state of decay on the work surface did not come to the fore. Perhaps it was hiding with the rest of his psyche, waiting for the all clear. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Are you stating a fact, or was that a request for urgent medical assistance?”

  “A bit of both, probably.” said Neil, sliding back with a growl.

  “One thing is still bothering me.” said Artimus, continuing his search. “Missus Grayson’s account to us being different from her initial statement.”

  “I thought about that too. She may just have been confused.” said Neil, eyes closed and feet up on the desk. “I’ve seen that many times before, especially with murders.”

  “That’s not what it looked like to me.” said Artimus, confidently. “Missus Grayson is a woman who thinks very carefully about every word that escapes her lips. It was an error, plain and simple. I believe the second story is the truth, and the first story she gave your officers is the falsehood.”

  “And what would that tell us?” said Neil, trying to get his brain to work and wincing with the pain the effort brought on.

  Artimus turned, replacing a length of green cord with a length of pink cord between Missus Grayson and her initial deposition. “I don’t know, but I’m damn well going to find out.”

  Neil glanced over the board. So much new data was added that the first two sheets had begun to mix; coloured string linking items and giving the wall the air of a spider web. He looked up to the top of the second sheet. There, under Initial Supposition, it read ‘Twins’.

  “We’re giving up on lookalikes then?” said Neil, slouching back into his chair and closing his eyes once more.

  “Not completely Neil, no.” said Artimus, his continued rustling adding a soothing layer of white noise to Neil’s recovery attempts. “However, after our findings yesterday, I think it’s at least worth thinking about our second most likely possibility.”

  “If twins are second most likely, do I want to know what the other two are.”

  “Possibly not.”

  The snipping of paper added to the gentle noises surrounding Neil and began to form a numbing buzz in the top of his head. The sensation was pleasing, and Neil found himself drifting off.

  “Rest time over.” said Artimus, shaking Neil by the shoulder. "If we don’t leave now we’ll be late for our interviews.”

  “We’ve got plenty of time, it’s only…” Neil stared at his watch. It was half past nine. Somehow, he had dozed off for over an hour. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t…” He said, stumbling to his feet.

  “It is alright, detective.” said Artimus, pulling on his jacket. “I assume full responsibility for putting you in this state. Let’s just get to your car…”

  “I came by taxi.” said Neil, apologetically. “I’m really in no fit state to drive.”

  “I see.” said Artimus, turning to the desk and picking up the phone there. After dialling a number and waiting, a smile drew across his face. “Mister Osborne, I assumed you’d be here early.”

  An exchange of pleasantries followed, which Artimus curtailed.

  “I need to borrow your Bentley. I would ask Mister Clegg, but he and I are not on speaking terms since I called him a snot-faced upstart with all the grace and breeding of a maggot at that reception we attended the other month.” Artimus nodded as responses returned. “Well, he should have known I was only teasing. I clearly meant worm, not maggot.” Artimus giggled, smiling. “Thanks George. I’ll get one of my men to return it before the day is out.”

  “Did you just borrow the car of the Chancellor of…”

  Artimus shooed the comment away, heading for the door. “I’ve known his father, Sir Peter, since before George was ejaculated into existence. I think that gives me the right to borrow his car occasionally.”

  “And insulting the Deputy Prime Minister?”

  “Oh, that was just a bit of fun.” said Artimus, holding the door open. “He likes to pretend he’s a liberal. He deserves a bit of poking occasionally.”

  Chapter 18

  Contact Points