by steve higgs
‘Goodness,’ Jane said staring at me. ‘I don’t know whether to be alarmed or elated. You never eat cake, not even skinny ones. Is everything okay? Ignoring the broken ribs, that is.’
I smiled. Jane was right. As a practice, I did not eat cake, but I felt that I could get away with it for once. She wasn't actually waiting for an answer; it had been a rhetorical question. She was getting up and putting her phone into her bag.
‘Won’t be long,’ she announced. ‘Macchiato or Americano?’
‘The Macchiato please.’
I had clients due any moment. I had no idea what they wanted, what case they were going to present me with or even if they would turn up for that matter. I expected that they would though and sure enough, not a minute later, I heard the bottom door open and men’s voices echoing up the stairs.
Making out what they were saying was not possible, but it appeared to be a discussion about whether they were indeed in the right place.
‘Come up, gentlemen,’ I called out. My request was rewarded with the sound of many feet trudging up the stairs toward my office. The chair I was sitting on was directly opposite the stairs, so I saw the top of a head followed by a face, then another head popped up behind the first and then another. The face of the first man was devoid of mirth, looking in fact as if nothing fun had ever happened to the man in his entire life. I estimated his age as late fifties. Most of his hair was gone and the ring of it that was left above his ears was almost all turned to grey. He was clean-shaven, which must have been quite fresh as I spotted a small piece of toilet paper still stuck to his neck. He was almost all the way up the stairs now, so I could see that he was quite short, perhaps less than five feet six inches. A small roll of body fat hung over the belt of his trousers to show the world that he was soft and pudgy. Very typical of the species.
I forced myself out of my chair without indulging myself with a grimace at my ribs and moved forward to greet them all.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Tempest Michaels, owner of Blue Moon Investigations Agency. Please come in.' I stood back to allow them to file in. The three men that had followed the first were all the same yet all also somehow different from the first man. Their ages were similar, their clothing as well but their heights and features could not have been more contrasting. The third man was well over six feet tall and as thin as a candy cane. He had long limbs like a spider and a long face as if someone had stretched it. The fourth man was less than four feet tall. I struggled with the right terminology. What was PC currently? Dwarf? Small person? I labelled him as R2D2 stand-by in my head and shook his hand anyway.
None of them had spoken yet. ‘So, gentlemen. How may I assist you?’ I prompted.
‘We called you yesterday,’ said the tall man. ‘We need your help to stop the Klowns.’
‘Okay,’ I replied, coaxing him or any of the others to provide a little more information.
The dwarf/small person took up the explanation. ‘There are fourteen of us so far and more joining every day. We are having to band together to stay safe and we cannot work. We dare not put on our work clothes and no one wants to hire us anyway.’
‘Hold on, sir. We need to back up a little. I feel that I have come in halfway through a conversation. Shall we start with some introductions.' I disliked when people failed to introduce themselves. ‘My name is Tempest Michaels, but you knew that anyway.' I looked at the man who had been first to arrive and popped my eyebrows as a question.
‘Oh. Err, David McLeash,’ he blurted, as if startled by the need to say his name. ‘Work name, Binky.’
Binky?
The second man told me his name was Mike Barfield then followed his friend and announced his work name as Mr. Cuddles. The tall man went next as he was next in line. His name was Kevin Brownfield and I realised then why they were in my office and what they wanted when he told me his work name was Coconutty Honkster and honked a horn that was hidden in his pocket.
They were all clowns.
The final chap to speak was the munchkin. His name, he told me, was Richard Levaraugh and he went by the workname Big Dick. I had to fold my bottom lip over my top and pretend to get something off of my desk so that he could not see me trying to suppress my laughter.
‘Can I assume that you are children’s entertainers?’ I asked.
‘Indeed, we are,’ answered Big Dick. I was trying to think of him as Richard, I really was, ‘and we need your help,’ he finished to a chorus of nods from his colleagues.
‘Right then, chaps. Please grab a seat where you can and take me back to the beginning. I need to know everything.’
The chaps looked about themselves, then all moved to get to a chair. There were enough chairs, so each chap needed only to reverse a bit to find one, but instead, they pratted about, bumping into each other and occasionally pretending to trip as they manoeuvred to find a place to perch. Coconutty Honkster honked his horn several times as they shuffled and span. It seemed that they could not operate without playing the fool.
Eventually, all taking a seat, they looked at each other once more, each seemingly waiting for another to take up the story. In the end, Richard (well done, Tempest) rolled his eyes in defeat and started speaking.
‘We are here to seek protection for ourselves and our fellow clowns. We are being persecuted because the Klowns are hurting people. We formed a coalition of clowns so that we could find safety in numbers or perhaps present ourselves as a body of clowns that are managed and thus separate from the mayhem being perpetrated currently.’ The man handed me a card. It read: Clowns Living in Threat of Retribution in the South. I mumbled the words to myself a couple of times then laughed.
‘You are aware that the acronym for your little group spells CLITORIS?’
‘Show me that,' said Coconutty Honkster. ‘It does as well.' He honked his horn as he handed it to David McLeash. A short debate ensued regarding who was to blame for the damned silly name. I felt forced to bring them back to the matter at hand.
‘Gentlemen,’ I prompted with some volume.
They bickered for another second or so before Big Dick took up the narrative again. ‘We are being starved of business because no one wants to hire us in case we turn up and murder everyone. Clowns are very unpopular at the moment.' He went on to describe a few instances that the four of them and some of their colleagues had suffered in the past week or so. Coconutty Honkster honked his horn in places during the dialogue when he thought it appropriate. The noise it made was beginning to annoy me. About halfway through the explanation, Jane returned. The chaps glanced at the stairs as the bottom door opened audibly and again as she clip-clopped her way up the stairs in her size eleven Mary Janes. Jane handed over my coffee without speaking and with no available seats she hovered near the door.
Mike Barfield did the gentlemanly thing and gave up his chair for the young lady, which Jane declined in her wonderful bass-baritone, much to the surprise of the four men. Thankfully, none of them saw reason to comment.
After a while, I decided I had heard enough. I had a simple question for them. ‘Gentlemen, I empathise with your plight, but I am struggling to understand why you have come to me. Surely this is a job for the police. They are already committing manpower and resources to track down the Klowns.'
The four men all stared at me and then glanced at each other with curious expressions. It was Richard that spoke first. ‘But, Mr. Michaels, surely the police cannot catch them.'
‘Why ever not?’ I asked, truly curious.
He looked confused when he replied with, ‘Because they are from hell.’
‘From hell?’ I asked, my curiosity peaked.
‘Well, we figured you would know all about this stuff. Surely, they must be demons or devils or something like that. The police cannot catch them because they don’t know how to. A demon circle will trap them and then you can banish them back to hell.’ said David, glancing between me and his colleagues.
‘Yeah. I’ve seen it on TV,’ chipped i
n Mike.
I considered this for a moment. I had plenty of cases I could be pursuing. However, I was going to go after the Klowns anyway so it would be nice to be getting paid for it. Would I be taking advantage of them though? I considered it silently for a few seconds.
‘Gentlemen, I am willing to take your case, but I have to explain a few things first.' I locked eyes with each man, in turn, to make sure they were listening. ‘There is nothing paranormal about the Klowns. They are just men. Ordinary men with a very unusual hobby. If I find them, I will ensure that the police are brought to their location.'
‘So, you will not be banishing them to hell then? asked Mike.
‘No, sir. Wormwood Scrubs perhaps. But I need to make it clear that I am an investigator. I investigate. I have no special powers of arrest, so when I find them it will be the police that deal with them.'
The four men turned towards each other and began hastily discussing something in hushed tones. I could not hear what they were saying but when the horn honked once more I was not surprised to hear Big Dick swear.
‘Kevin, if you honk that bloody horn one more time, I will shove it up your arse.'
‘I have to honk it, Richard. It’s my calling card,’ he said with a honk, at which point Big Dick snatched the horn from him and tore the rubber bulb clean off the horn.
‘Not anymore it isn’t,’ he claimed triumphantly.
With an impressively nonchalant delivery, Kevin reached into his jacket and produced another horn. He honked it with a smile.
‘That does it,’ shouted Big Dick, jumping to his feet. The effect of leaping off his chair actually made him shorter, but his face was thunderous, and he looked ready to kill.
‘Perhaps we should wait outside,' said Mike, grabbing Big Dick's shoulder and spinning him around to face the stairs. ‘You fellows conclude business here, please,' he said over his shoulder as he departed, pushing his short friend in front of him.
Jane walked across the room and sat in one of the now empty chairs.
‘If you want me to pursue this case for you, I need to explain my rates.' I spent the next few minutes going over what I charge and explaining that the very nature of the case meant it was not possible to guarantee how long it would take to solve or even if I would. They were certain they wanted to engage my services though, so I shook their hands, took a deposit while they were still with me and bid them a good day. The horn honked twice more as Coconutty Honkster went down the stairs and several more times outside in the street before he was far enough away for the noise to no longer carry.
‘How are you going to find the Klowns?’ asked Jane after they had left.
‘I honestly have not the faintest idea,’ I replied. I wasn’t lying. There just were no clues to follow at this stage. That had not deterred me before though, so I was going to put my best sleuthing boots on and see what I could find.
The first thing to do though was visit Frank. Frank knew all manner of weird stuff, so I was not going to be surprised if he already had some form of theory worked out for the Klowns. Of course, his theory would most likely be that they were demons from hell and that we needed to form a demon trap in order to pin them down and perform a banishing spell. Frank was a little out there, but his theories often gave rise to new ideas of my own. It was worth going to see him anyway, so I drained my coffee, dropped the cup in the bin and went out the door.
Mystery Men Bookshop, Rochester. Monday, October 24th 1115hrs
The mystery men bookshop sat just off the High Street on a road called Northgate. The shop itself was on the first floor and almost invisible from the street unless one knew to look up. Frank did much of his trade via the internet as you might imagine but he also enjoyed a steady stream of patrons in the shop, all of whom found their way there quite deliberately and made regular purchases. Frank was doing alright.
He only had one member of staff; a nineteen-year-old, sexy, athletic little minx named Ivy. She went by the name Poison though and that was what was displayed on her badge. Her naturally black hair was usually accented with a colour which seemed to change more often than the weather. Today it was a deep-sea green hedging towards turquoise and matched her stretchy long-sleeved top. The top, and in fact her entire outfit had that distressed look about it as if the wearer had recently been in a terrible fight with a large dog. The effect was deliberate though so despite my reservations, I kept my mouth shut for fear of sounding like a dinosaur.
‘Good morning, Poison. Good morning, Frank,’ I called out as I went in.
Poison looked up. She had been leaning on the counter reading a graphic novel. ‘Hi, Tempest,' she said, her voice laden with a definite sultry tone. There was a little heat between us that I was continuing to ignore for reasons that I myself did not fully understand or would at least struggle to explain adequately to anyone else. She believed that she owed me her life and wanted to repay me using a fairly traditional method. I felt she was too young for me to be fooling around with.
Frank had his back to the door when I went in, caught in the task of pinning a poster to the wall behind the counter. The poster was for a Hallowe’en event in a week’s time – some big jamboree in the grounds of Rochester Castle. ‘Good morning, Tempest,’ he said over one shoulder. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
He finished what he was doing and stepped down from the footstool thing he was on. My brain had not connected the bits of information to tell me he was standing on something. Frank is about five feet and four inches tall, so the extra step had only made him man height.
‘What do you have there, Frank?’ I asked, taking an interest.
‘This?' he asked, turning back to look at the poster. ‘It is a new event actually. The Rochester Bloodbath promises to be a horror night that no other event can match. Lots of stalls set up, spooky sets to walk through where actors will be replaying favourite scenes from horror movies, that sort of thing. Poison and I have a stall there. I expect to turn quite a good profit and promote the business at the same time.'
‘Sounds good,’ I acknowledged. It would probably be great fun for those that were horror movie fans. Rochester attracted a lot of different events. The old cobbled streets and narrow alleyways made it a unique place to bring people. Plus, the Castle and Cathedral grounds were open plan and thus perfect for setting up a stage or, in this case, a horror movie set.
Just as I was about to ask Frank about the Klowns and what he might know about them, his eyes bugged out and he started tapping his hand on the counter to get my attention. ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh, I almost forgot,' he blurted with excitement.
‘Forgot what, Frank.’
‘Your competition.’ He drew a blank from me. ‘Your competition,’ he repeated, nodding his head as if that would help me to understand him. ‘Don’t you know?’
I was still drawing a blank. I had no idea what he was on about.
‘Tempest there is a new paranormal investigator in town. He set up shop just a few doors down from you.' This was news to me. Not welcome news either. I was not surprised that Frank knew before I did, he had some form of internal radar for anything with a paranormal slant. That the new guy was just a few doors down from my office was troubling though as if the person had deliberately put his business under my nose.
‘Is there really?’ Was all I could think of to say. ‘Well, I wish him luck.’
‘He won't need luck, Tempest. The clients are already overwhelming him.'
I did not like the sound of this one bit. Thinking about it though, I probably had myself to blame. My success with the vampire serial killer case and more recently the phantom case and others besides had made me into something of a minor local celebrity. That someone else had decided to cash in on the sudden popularity of investigating the paranormal should be no surprise. I made a mental note that I should go to see him, welcome him to the industry etcetera while of course checking him out. I could tackle that later, for now, I had questions to ask Frank.
‘Frank, what do you know about
the Klowns?' I asked him, changing the subject completely.
‘Funny you should ask, because I have just been doing research on exactly that subject for Lyndon.’
‘Lyndon?' I felt like I was asking a lot of questions this morning or had more gaps than usual in my knowledge.
‘Your competition,' Frank explained while beginning to look exasperated. ‘Lyndon Parrish is a traditional paranormal investigator. He has all the gear. He knows about runic incantations, witch codes and how to close a circle. He carries holy water and a crucifix with him…'
‘What you mean, Frank is that he believes in all the same hokum as you, whereas I do not,’ I replied with a smile. Frank and I were on very different sides of the same belief system. Frank remained convinced that everything from crop circles to weeping Madonna’s had something supernatural about them. I did not.
‘Yes, Tempest. That about sums it up. Shall we go and meet him?’ he asked.
‘Now?’
‘I have this research for him,' Frank said, dumping some paperwork on the counter between us. ‘I was about to go around there anyway. I can introduce you.'
I could not come up with a reason why I should not go. Frank had already picked up the pile of papers and was hugging it to his chest to keep control of it. ‘Lead the way.' I followed him back out of the shop with a quick wave goodbye to Poison who was already opening her graphic novel again.
That Frank was already doing research for the new guy bothered me. I had no right to claim Frank as my researcher, of course, he was nothing of the sort and I did not pay him. He was someone that I had learned to respect though and possibly even rely on at times.
‘Klowns then, Frank. What have you learned, please?’ I asked as we walked along Rochester High Street.
‘Not much, if I am honest, but I already made an extra copy of the research in case you came asking for it. Here we are.’ Frank announced as he headed towards a shop door.
We had gone past my office but only by about twelve metres. It was in the wrong direction for me, in that I always came in from the other direction and very rarely would I have passed the new business. Had I done so, I might have noticed the very new looking glass-front right under my nose. Casting my mind back, I could remember that this place had been empty for a while and had been covered up while it was being worked on recently. Clearly, the new owner had been getting it ready for business.