by steve higgs
I was going slow though, just trying to keep my wheels moving. The alien was coming toward me, the distance closing fast. I powered down the window and yelled for it to jump with all the volume I could muster.
I had turned so I was parallel with it, so it could run along beside me and dive in headfirst. With a distinctly human lack of grace, that was what it did. We were still moving, the upside-down alien flailing around and knocking my arms as I tried to protect myself from its feet. I pointed the car back toward the road and tried to stay ahead of the BARF truck as it barrelled along the far smoother tarmac.
I got the mini back to the edge of the grass and regained the road. Not a moment too soon as the BARF truck was bearing down on me. I stomped on the gas pedal to get away, then saw another vehicle with BARF markings coming toward me from the other direction and yet more vehicles behind that. They were being pursued by more police cars though, the sound of sirens now everywhere.
Frustrated soldiers were emerging from the woods to my left and would be on the road and in my way in seconds if I didn’t floor it. They were pointing their weapons at me but none of them fired because the alien was still upside down with its head stuck in the footwell and its feet flailing.
I could see just one chance. Ahead of me, there was a turning, it looked like a track, rather than a road. Something you might take a horse down, but I needed to get the alien away from the crazy BARF nutters that might shoot without questioning what was inside the suit and away from the police, as they would undoubtedly ask too many questions.
The mini leaped forward, its sporty little engine leaving the slow-moving BARF Land Rover and the soldiers in its wake but creating a game of chicken with those coming toward me. I needed to go faster if I was going to make it.
Adrenaline was making my pulse race. I felt slightly sick and a bit light headed as I gritted my teeth against the terror headed my way. I was the smallest car in this equation. Get it wrong and I might not survive the crash.
Then a shot rang out to redouble my desire to escape.
With the convoy of BARF military vehicles filling my windscreen, I had to brake to make the turn and only got through because the driver bearing down on me, who got so close I could see his eye colour, realised that if he didn’t brake, he was going to hit the vehicle chasing me.
I had left my own deceleration just a moment too late, so as I two-wheeled it around the corner, my back end drifted out, slipped off the gravel track and threatened to flip me. Then, just when I thought my teeth were going to shatter I was clenching them so hard, the front-wheel-drive tyres gripped the surface of the track to propel the car onward and I was gone.
In my rearview, I could see the BARF vehicles all screech to a juddering stop as they fought to follow me and caused a block at the entrance to the track. I reached another turning as the track went into some woods and saw, with my final glance, that the police were swarming over the BARF nutters. They had been running around the woods shooting weapons that were most likely not licensed firearms. There was going to be a stack of arrests.
I powered the window back up.
In the calm quiet of the cab, the alien had righted itself. I could hear its heavy, out of breath gasps of air through its suit.
I allowed my shoulders to relax. We were safe. ‘Seatbelt please, Uncle.’
Lockup. Sunday, November 13th 2125hrs
I waited in the dark for over an hour. Just as I was beginning to get a numb bottom and starting to worry that I might have guessed wrong, I heard the sound of a car pull up outside.
Jane had once again been able to find the information I wanted only moments after I had asked it. She always said the internet could tell you anything so long as you knew how to ask. In this case, I had asked her to find property rented under a certain name. It had taken her no time at all to prove that my guess was correct.
I stayed still, waiting for the door to open.
I had gained entry using a set of lock picks, the first time I had ever used such a tool. Tempest had a set at the office, but they were harder to use than they seem in the movies which had forced me to utilise a YouTube tutorial after fifteen minutes of fruitless fiddling.
I wasn’t sure if he would be alone or not. There was a distinct danger he might have his accomplice with him, but I was willing to run that risk.
I had taken the precaution of already filming all the evidence in the lockup and sending it to Tempest via email.
A shaft of light from outside illuminated the space inside as the door opened. I had been sitting in darkness for long enough that my eyes had adjusted. The bright glare from the floodlights outside caused me to blink.
He came through the door and flicked on the lights. Illumination spread across the lockup, at the same time bringing light and creating shadows.
I stayed still and watched as he crossed to the roller door. It was an old manual door that required the user to hoist and lower the door using a chain. He unhooked the chain and pulled the door open.
‘I’ll give you a hand, Bob.’ Said Jack as he went outside to help.
I stepped out of the shadow I had been standing in but didn't say anything. Instead, I filmed on my phone as the two men wheeled the spaceship back into the lockup. Up close, it was easy to see that the spaceship was a modified microlight aircraft. It was covered in sheets of what appeared to be carbon fibre that shimmered with iridescence under the halogen bulbs. It was shaped to look nothing like a microlight, so from the sky, or from a distance it would look like an alien spacecraft. Likewise, the alien’s spacesuit looked good from a distance, but up close one could see how man -made it was. The cast from the boot matched exactly the bottom of the boots sat next to the suit. They were large rubber wellingtons boots onto which an oversize foot had been moulded.
I had to admire his ingenuity and wondered if the suit itself had come from an old sci-fi movie or TV series. Maybe one that got cancelled or was never aired. It felt highly probable that costumes and props would be made for failed shows and were then sold off for pennies when the budget got cut.
Nevertheless, the ruse was over. I tossed the odd metal component I had found in the woods onto the concrete in front of them.
It made a terrible clanging sound that reverberated off the walls in the silence, causing Jack to jump and Bob to clutch his chest as his heart restarted.
‘Did you wonder why your burner stopped working?’ I asked.
When I arrived an hour ago, I had taken the grand tour of all the fun artefacts I had found inside. One of them was an industrial weed burner with a big circular steel ring attached to the burner end. The ring looked like a giant cookie cutter and I didn't need to measure it to know that it had been used to contain the flames so Jack could make the twelve rings Fred had found in the woods. A spring hanging out of the device showed where the lever arm, for that was what it was, was supposed to fit.
For the first time since I met him, Jack was without comment.
I crossed the floor to stop right in front of Jack’s face. He was able to look down at me but there was no mistaking that I had the upper hand.
‘Worried Jack?’ I asked. ‘You should be. I already filmed all these props. I can expose you and your show. You took advantage of the odd occurrences in Cliffe Woods and added to them. Scaring people and interfering with a police investigation.’
He swallowed. ‘What are you going to do?’
I stared directly into his eyes. I had him, and he knew it. ‘I'm going to watch your show, Jack.'
‘Huh?’
‘You set my uncle as bait. To prove I was wrong and that you were not behind all the alien sightings, you had him dress up and cover for you. He thinks all the alien nonsense is real and he thinks you might actually give him a shot on your show, so he did what you asked and put himself in danger. For you. FOR YOU!' I roared.
‘Um.’
‘Shut up, Jack.’ My voice had returned to normal volume. ‘It was Bob in the microlight, wasn’t it?’
>
He nodded.
‘You are going to get back on the air, Jack and you are going to make your show as successful as you can, and you are going to do it with your co-host Norbert.’
He opened his mouth to protest but seeing my expression he closed it again.
‘I will do nothing with the footage I have, provided you pay him a fair wage, let's say thirty percent of profits.' Jack's eyes popped out. ‘Does that sound fair to you, Bob?'
‘Yeah, thirty percent sounds about right.' Bob replied, suddenly forgetting his coronary distress at the thought of money.
‘Thirty percent to each of your team still leaves forty percent to you, Jack. Or nothing. Take your pick.’
With no choice at all, Jack agreed, and I went home to rest. It had been an odd case.
The next show had gone on air the following Saturday, with Norbert Nichols getting almost equal air time. He did well too. Better than I had expected.
Uncle Knobhead had finally found something he might not make a mess of.
Number 18 Matthew’s Close, Cliffe Woods. Monday, November 14th 1912hrs
Gordon handed me my cup of tea and took a seat opposite me in his small living room. Sitting next to him was his wife Geraldine. His abrasive nature had made me trepidatious about knocking on his door this evening.
I had a final part of the mystery to deal with, so even though I was not being paid to solve this element of it, I wanted to do for my own satisfaction.
Gordon McIntosh’s attitude and demeanour were entirely different here though than they had been whenever we had spoken on the farm. Whether it was his wife’s influence on him, the impact of recent events, or just that he was under no pressure in his home environment I couldn’t tell.
Whatever the case, he was charming and pleasant now.
‘Do you believe you will be able to buy the farm?’ I asked. Gordon had sensed the impending failure of the farm co-operative and had been preparing for it. His meeting with the bank had been to secure a loan against Wendle farm if it came up for sale. He had investors lined up and a grand plan to raise ostriches for meat and llamas for wool.
‘I think so, yes. Mr. Fallon was very interested in my ideas when we sat down earlier today. That's not why you came though, is it? On the phone, you said something about lights in the sky.'
‘That’s right. You are part of a Falklands war re-enactment team, yes?’
He took a slurp of his tea. ‘Indeed. We meet twice a week.’
‘On Tuesdays and Thursdays, right?’
‘That’s right.’ Replied his wife as Gordon had his cup to his lips again. ‘Are you interested in battle re-enactment?’
‘Not exactly. You were a helicopter pilot, so can I assume that your role in the re-enactment is to fly a model helicopter?’
‘I didn't give you enough credit, miss. You are quite astute. There are three of us that fly the helicopters, it's devilish hard though, much harder than flying the real thing because you have to do it from the land and judge where each of them is in relation to the others. In the battle for Goose Green, we came in over the coast to drop supplies and report on enemy troop movement.'
‘And you have been practising at night over the land near Hogget’s Hill.’ It was a statement because I had already worked it out.
The war re-enactment bunch might be an odd lot, but not so strange as those that saw the light on the back of the helicopters and thought it was a spaceship. As we chatted and I finished my tea, I listened to Gordon and his wife and their hopes for the future of Wendle Farm. They hadn’t bought it yet, it wasn’t even up for sale and I had to admit I didn’t understand what happened to property when the owners went to jail and couldn’t pay the bills.
Clearly, Gordon understood the process but I didn’t take much in when he was explaining it to me. I was too busy thinking about how convoluted the plot had been to swindle Kieron out of his farm and how unnecessary. Richard and Glen could have taken the gas from their land with Kieron unable to stop them. For that matter, Glen didn't need to go to the extremes of putting two women into play as the hapless farmer's wives. Why they had gone along with it I would never know.
They were all in jail with their fate to be determined by a judge. I only felt sorry for the baby.
Patience had called on Sunday evening to tell me how they had arrested forty-three armed civilians led by a retired Brigadier. BARF was not a government organisation but had presented themselves as one to the community of crazies that paid attention to alien conspiracy theories. I guess if you can believe an alien race want to tamper with our milk, then a secret arm of the British Army which specialises in monitoring the alien threat is hardly a leap at all.
When my tea was drunk, and Gordon had explained his plans for the farm, I thanked him and his wife for their hospitality, wished them luck and went back to my car.
It was dark in the countryside as I drove back from Cliffe Woods toward the sprawling Medway Towns ahead of me. Dark enough that I would be able to see any mysterious lights in the sky.
I leaned forward to squint out of my windscreen and satisfied that there was nothing there to see, I sat back again.
The case was closed.
There would be another case tomorrow. In fact, I think Jane said something about an Elf warrior this afternoon.
The End
Whispers
Whispers in the Rigging
Blue Moon Investigations
Book 9
Steve Higgs
Text Copyright © 2018 Steven J Higgs
Publisher: Steve Higgs
The right of Steve Higgs to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved.
The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘Whispers in the Rigging’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To the men and women of the Armed Forces. Now, then, and always.
Table of Contents
Trapped. Friday, November 25th 1222hrs
My Office. Monday, November 21st 0847hrs
Chatham Dockyard. Monday, November 21st 1018hrs
Big Ben. Monday, November 21st 1115hrs
The Office. Monday, November 21st 1157hrs
Lunch. Monday, November 21st 1237hrs
Medway Hospital. Monday, November 21st 1401hrs
Bluffing an Entire Business. Monday, November 21st 1447hrs
The Dockyard. Monday November 21st 1511hrs
Cleaning Crew. Monday, November 21st 2000hrs
Whispers in the Rigging Room. Monday, November 21st 2031hrs
Ghosts. Monday, November 21st 2105hrs
A Late Start. Tuesday, November 22nd 0912hrs
Upnor. Tuesday, November 22nd 1103hrs
Family. Tuesday, November 22nd 1222hrs
Lunchtime Flirtations. Tuesday, November 22nd 1249hrs
The Office. Tuesday 22nd November 1316hrs
Chatham Royal Dockyard. Tuesday, November 22nd 1412hrs
Chief Inspector Quinn. Tuesday, November 22nd 1530hrs
Tea and a Book. Tuesday, November 22nd 1640hrs
What about the Strippers? Tuesday, November 22nd 1830hrs
Cleaning Duties. Tuesday, November 22nd 2030hrs
The underground. Wednesday, November 23rd 0037hrs
Murder. Wednesday, November 23rd 0715hrs
Round Two with the Chief Inspector. Wednesday, November 23rd 0900hrs
The Invitation. Wednesday, November 23rd 1042hrs
Alex Jordan. Wednesday, November 23rd 1101hrs
Baby. Wednesday, November 23rd 1143hrs
Man stuff. Wednesday, November 23rd 1600hrs
Stag Night. Wednesday, November 23rd 2051hrs
Rude Awakening. Thursday, November 24th 0800hrs
Alex Jordan’s Office. Thursday, November 24th 1128hrs
Dirty Truth. November 24th 1142hrs
Captive. Thursday, November 24th 1201hrs
Not Trapped. Thursday, November 24th Roughly 1220hrs
Tunnel Fire Fight. Thursday, November 24th No Idea What Time it is. Don’t Really Care.
Henchman are Hard to Beat. Thursday, November 24th (still no idea what time it is)
Mopping Up. Thursday, November 24th 1504hrs
Going Home. Thursday, November 24th 1522hrs
Coomer Castle. Friday, November 25th 1000hrs
The Wedding of Jagjit Singh and Alice Windecote. Friday, November 25th 1630hrs
Postscript: Christmas Shopping. Tuesday, 29th November 1809hrs
Trapped. Friday, November 25th 1222hrs
I rubbed my wrists as if I could rub away the pain in them. The bindings had been tight enough to cause some numbness in my fingers and the process of freeing myself from them had caused them to cut into my skin. Pins and needles now as the blood returned to my digits.
How long before they came back to check on me? I had worried they were going to be diligent enough to leave a guard on me. It would not have been possible to free myself with someone watching and very difficult to subdue them with my hands behind my back.
The room I was in had only one door, so there was only one route for my escape. I had no idea who or what might be outside. The bag over my head on the way in ensured I was disorientated and hadn’t seen what lay beyond the four walls I could see.