The Case of the Strange White Van

I haven't posted a short story on the blog for a while, except for the weekly drabble.  This story is my entry to Patti Abbott's flash fiction challenge - to write a tale about a white van.  I wrote it last spring, but couldn't decide where to submit it to as it doesn't really fit the remit of most crime fiction outlets, as you'll see if you read on.  I'm usually pretty ambivalent about my own fiction, but I actually quite like this one and I might well write some more tales involving the same characters.  Hopefully, you'll enjoy it as well. 


The Case of the Strange White Van


As the offices of a private investigator went, 4 Chestnut Grove was the bees knees as far as P.I. Kevin Carter was concerned.  Beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers and rent free digs for a gumshoe down to his last brass cents were a godsend. 

The house was the third in a row of seven that backed onto open fields.  The first was little more than breeze block walls, eight feet high.  The second was missing a roof, windows and doors.  The third, fourth and fifth had roofs made of red tiles and weathered doors, but bare window frames. 

The final two were sealed and had internal stud walls, though a number of their windows had been smashed.  They had been claimed by a small gaggle of local teenagers who would congregate in and around them in the evenings and swap coarse humour and awkward flirtation.  On the weekends they would drink cans of cider and bottles of cheap vodka, playing music on their mobile phones as they gradually vandalised the dilapidated units, unlived in since they were built four years previously.

P.I. Kevin Carter pushed aside brambles in the overgrown back garden and entered his offices through the unlocked back door.  He took off his fedora and mac and hung them on a stand.

‘Hold all calls, cupcake,’ he said to the secretary and passed into the hallway.  ‘I’m working on a very important case.’

He clambered up a pallet he’d leant against two long planks, then worked his way up steps he’d nailed onto the right-hand plank to reach the upper floor.

He turned and hollered down into the hall below.  ‘And don’t let that rattlesnake, Sam Spade, bother me.  He’s a two bit liar and a braggart.  He’s done his last day’s work for the Carter Detective Agency.’

Through with instructing Agatha Christie in her duties, he snuck carefully to the bay window at the front of the house and peeked out cautiously.  The potholed road was empty.  Opposite were the fenced off concrete bases for an unrealised second row of units.  Beyond them a hawthorn hedge partially obscured the rest of the village.

Happy he was alone, he moved to what would have been a back bedroom and pushed aside a slab of wood and tugged out a cardboard box.  It contained the tools of his trade -- a magnifying glass, a compass, a pad and pen, fingerprint powder and a brush, a small pair of binoculars, a torch, some spare batteries, a penknife, a water pistol in case the dames got hysterical or the situation turned ugly, and a stash of detective magazines.  His pride and joy, a tiny silver camera, always stayed in his pocket, handy to record vital evidence.

He pulled a magazine free, sitting down on two stacked breeze blocks and opened the pages, searching for an interesting story.

‘Kevin?’ A woman’s voiced shouted from outside.  ‘Kevin are you in there?  It’s time for your tea.’

‘Drat,’ P.I. Carter muttered, stuffing the magazine back in the box and covering it with the board. 

‘Kevin?  Come-on, love.  What have we told you about playing in there?  It’s not safe.’

‘It’s as safe as houses,’ P.I. Carter muttered as he climbed down to the hallway.

‘I thought I told you to hold all my calls?’ he said to Agatha as he slipped on his hat and coat.  ‘I think it might be time to get a new secretary; one that knows how to deal with crazy older people.’

***

‘Well, look who it is -- if it isn’t that low-down rat, Sam Spade.  What’s the matter, Spade, got no home to go to?’

P.I. Carter didn’t wait for an answer, but moved from behind a low wall and crouch-walked to the edge of a dense thicket of brambles.  Kneeling in damp weeds he stared over at a white van parked outside of number seven.

‘I told you we were through,’ he whispered.  ‘I have a new sidekick now.  Meet Sherlock Holmes.  Sherlock this is Sam Spade.  He’s too fond of the drink, the ladies and fighting for proper detective work.  Sherlock’s just put the famous Professor Moriarty behind bars.’

P.I. Carter glanced over his shoulder.  ‘What’s the matter, Spade, you can’t take a hint?  Now, scram.’

P.I. Carter crept around the brambles and shuffled along the edge of a concrete base to get a better view of the house.  He pulled his camera from his pocket and took a photo of the van’s license plate.  There was no sign of its occupants.

‘I’ll go this way,’ P.I. Carter pointed to his left.  ‘You go that,’ he said to Sherlock, pointing right.  ‘And be careful, this country is full of dangerous and desperate men.  They’ll kill you as soon as look at you.’

‘Indubitably,’ Sherlock muttered, setting off.

P.I. Carter watched him stalk back to the brambles and disappear.  His sidekick was going to need more than a funny hat and a large magnifying glass if he wanted to solve the big cases.  He shook his head and darted off, running low.

As he made his way across the weed-infested piles of builder’s rubble P.I. Carter could see that Sherlock was already in place, sitting cross-legged on the ground under the back window.  As he neared the house he accidentally kicked a glass bottle, sending it twirling across the rough ground and clinking off the wall.

‘Drat!’ he muttered, dropping down next to Sherlock.

‘What was that?’ a man said from within the house.

‘What was what?’ another voice answered.

‘I thought I heard something outside.’

‘Oh-oh,’ P.I. Carter muttered.  ‘Come-on.’

He sprinted along the back of the houses and dashed in through the back door into his agency offices.

‘Quick, everyone upstairs,’ he said, running through to the hallway.

As they scrambled up the pallet, he made the introductions.  ‘Sherlock, this is Agatha.  She’s the office secretary.  Agatha, this is our new detective, Sherlock Holmes.  We’ll hide in the bathroom.  I have a rope there for an emergency escape.’

***

Wearing his mac and hat, P.I. Carter entered the kitchen where a radio was broadcasting the six o’clock news.  ‘Gardai are still searching for a gang of four men who robbed a Leitrim post office at gunpoint this afternoon.’

A woman turned the sound down and turned from the washing up to face him.

‘And where are you going?’

‘Detectiving with Agatha and Sherlock.’

‘What happened to Sam Spade?’

‘He had to go.  I’m undertaking a new investigation - The Case of the Strange White Van.’

‘You’re not going to that ghost estate are you?  I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s not safe.  You’re to stay away.  Do you hear?’

‘We’re working a stakeout,’ P.I. Carter said, ignoring her concerns.

‘You’re to be back before it gets dark, it’s a school day tomorrow.  I don’t want to have come looking for you again.  And try and stay out of trouble.  People don’t like peeping toms.’ 

‘Agatha and Sherlock don’t have to go to school and we’re not peeping, we’re on a stakeout.’

‘Well, they’re older fictional characters, dear, and they’ve already finished school.  They’ll just have to do the stakeout whilst you’re in class.’

‘But we’re about to crack this case wide open!’

‘Well, you better get it solved in the next hour or so, hadn’t you, Kevin?’

‘Come-on, Sherlock,’ P.I. Carter said, opening the door.  ‘Let’s leave this dame alone so she can finish the dishes.’

***

‘Maybe they’re builders,’ P.I. Carter said to Sherlock.  ‘In which case the company offices could be in danger.’

They’d had the house that the van was parked outside under observation for the past forty five minutes.  P.I. Carter raised his binoculars and stared at the downstairs window.  There were shadows moving inside, but that was as much as he could determine.  The light was fading fast and there were no street lamps on Chestnut Grove.  If they was going to solve the case, then he’d need to act soon. 

‘Come-on, let’s get closer,’ he said, rising to his feet, crouch-running across the road to the side of the van.

He crept to the edge of the vehicle and peeked round the side.

‘Okay, let’s go,’ he muttered, then dashed to the front corner of the house, leaping over a pile of flattened tin cans.  Catching his breath, he gingerly slid along the wall to the front window.  He could hear the voices of two men talking inside, but couldn’t quite make out their words.  A third voice added to the conversation.

After a couple of minutes, P.I. Carter carefully peered through the smashed window into the gloom.  There were three men sitting in a half circle on thick planks of wood resting on breeze block piles.  On the floor in front of them was a pile of bags.  One of the men leant forward and pulled something from one of the bags. 

A car pulled into the estate, its headlights bouncing along the house facades. 

‘Oh-oh,’ P.I. Carter said. 

He dug his camera out of his pocket and poked it through the broken pane.  The room lit up in a brilliant flash.

‘Drat!’  He’d forgotten to turn off the flash.

He faced the car pulling up behind the van and took another photograph.

‘Come-on, Sherlock, let’s split this joint.’ 

He set off like a gazelle with its tail on fire just as the front door to the house burst open.

‘Oi, you.  Stop!’

‘Get him!’ a voice said from the direction of the car.

P.I. Carter burst in through the front door to his offices.

Sam Spade was leaning against the wall, chewing a blade of grass.  ‘Don’t worry, kiddo, I’ll stop them.  I’ve already sent Agatha upstairs.’

P.I. Carter scrabbled up the pallet and onto the right hand plank.  Just as he reached the upper floor, the front door banged open.

‘There’s the little bastard,’ said a tall, thick-set man with a black stubble.

‘Well, he’s trapped now.  Throw us down the camera, little fella, and we’ll leave you alone.’

P.I. Carter stretched out his hand to help Sherlock up the last couple of steps, then winked at Sam Spade and stepped back out of sight.

‘Little bollix,’ the second man said.  ‘Come-on, let’s get him.’

P.I. Carter dashed to the would-be bathroom and threw his escape rope out of the window.  He tugged on it to test it was secure, then clambered out the window.  Back in the hallway there was an almighty crash as the pallets, planks and two beefy men fell to the ground. 

‘Despite all his faults, Sam Spade is a man of his word,’ he said, looking up to Sherlock.  ‘I’ll go for help.  You look after Agatha.’

He lowered himself to the ground and ran along the narrow path through the back gardens, brambles scratching at his trousers, and out onto the main road, not stopping until he reached a phone box.  He dived in, shutting the door behind him.

‘Who were they?’ Sherlock asked.

‘They were horrible,’ Agatha added.

‘It’s elementary, my dear Sherlock,’ P.I. Carter said, staring at the small screen on the back of his camera.  ‘It’s those gangsters who robbed the post office!’

He picked up the phone and dialled 999.

***

Two days later, having re-built his staircase, P.I. Carter sat in his upstairs office.  Although the robbers had fled the scene, the photographs of the van and car’s license plates, along with the three men counting the money, meant they were apprehended half an hour later as they drove along a country lane. 

Taking a pair of scissors he cut out the headline story in Leitrim Observer: "Boy Detective Solves Post Office Robbery."

‘This is going to be great for advertising,’ he said to Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes, and Sam Spade.  He pasted the cutting into a scrap book and shut its pages.  ‘I declare The Case of the Strange White Van now closed.’

END


I have another story involving a white van in, starring my hapless, feckless cops Harry and Pete.  It's called Speeding; click-on the link to take a read.

Scattered to the Four Winds

Here's a short yarn submitted to a story competition run in conjunction with Power's Whiskey.  Had to be less than 450 words and on the theme of 'Celebrating what truly matters'.


Last through the front door, Conor caught Jack and Siobhan sneaking hand-in-hand up the stairs.

‘Hey, where’d do you think you two are going?  Front room for a nightcap.  We’ll be scattered to the four winds from tomorrow.’  He looked at his watch.  ‘Today.’

The two lovebirds descended reluctantly and ducked into the lounge.  The other five house mates were already slouched on the two tatty sofas and two threadbare armchairs.

‘Sarah, see if you can find some candles, will you?’ Conor instructed a waif-like young woman dressed from head-to-toe in white.

‘What for?’ she answered, half-heartedly.

‘Atmosphere.  With this lighting we could be sitting in a supermarket.  I’ll get the drinks.’

He disappeared through a door into a messy kitchen.

‘Put some toast on, while you’re in there,’ Sean shouted through. 

‘You’re like an empty pit,’ Jack said, dropping two slices of thick white bread into the toaster.  He retrieved a tray from on top of the kitchen presses and on it placed an odd assortment of glasses.

Back in the lounge the lights were off, the room lit by four candles.  Somebody had put on some trance-like, electronic mood music.

Conor slid the tray onto a coffee table, nudging a pile of magazines to the floor.  He reached in behind the television and withdrew a bottle.

‘Whiskey?’ Jack said.

‘Powers.  Gold label.  I’ve been saving it.’

‘You bought it last week!’

‘As I said, I’ve been saving it.’

‘Come-on, Conor, how old are we?’ Charlie asked.  ‘Sixty?  Sitting around supping whiskey like we’re auld fellas.’

‘For god’s sake, Charlie, you don’t have to be an auld wan to enjoy a drop of the golden elixir.  And sitting round swapping stories, taking a wee drop, is part of our DNA.  What makes us, us.’

‘You’re a sentimental fool, Conor,’ Aine said.

‘Look, this is our last day together.  Jack and Siobhan are heading to Sydney tomorrow night.  Brenda’s heading over to London next week.  Charlie and Sean are off to Alberta in a month’s time.  This is last time we’ll be together in a long while.  That deserves a toast and the telling of yarns.’

‘Toast?  My flippin’ toast!’ Sean dug himself out of the armchair and headed for the kitchen.

‘Sean, forget the toast!  Get back here.’

‘Just give me a minute.  We’ve got the rest of the night, haven’t we?  Besides, it’s not good to drink on an empty stomach.’

They waited in silence until the big man returned, Conor passing out the glasses.

‘Right then,’ Conor raised his tumbler.  ‘To us, to supping whiskey and telling yarns, to the four winds and the future.’

‘To us,’ the others chorused, clinking glasses.

Flash, bang, miss ... Bloody Idiot

Below was my entry to the Flashbang writing challenge - 150 word or less crime story.  The long list was announced yesterday and I didn't make the last 25.  No great surprise - I got hung up on playing with the form (two sections, four paragraphs each, first and last lines echoing) rather than the story.  


Bloody Idiot

An idiot.  He’d been made to look an idiot. 

Well he’d have his revenge.  Rolly Thompson was a dead man walking.  Assuming he took the usual route home from the pub. 

His wiped his sweating palms on his jeans, felt his stomach knot and twist. 

A swaying figure came into view.  His fingers flexed on the knife handle, trying to get a comfortable grip as he prepared to launch himself out from behind the bushes.

***

Barry Halpin stared at the bathroom mirror.  The man staring back looked defeated; pasty skin, black bags under bloodshot eyes. 

Revenge had seemed a good idea with a skinful of beer and whisky chasers.  It had lost its appeal the second he tasted the blood spurting from Rolly’s neck.

There was a crash downstairs, the cry of ‘Police!’ and the thump of heavy boots on stairs. 

An idiot.  He’d been a bloody idiot.

Target Practice

The last couple of weeks have been a bit of a blur, first working on the census, then doing media work in relation to it and also the household charge. I completely missed that one of my Jimmy Kiley stories had been published on Near to the Knuckle. Target Practice. Head over there and check it out.

The Snake House

This is my entry into Patti Abbott's flash fiction challenge, 'A Day at the Zoo'. Another episode of Jimmy Kiley's movie making.


The scrawny kid couldn’t been more than nineteen years old. His feet were barely scraping the ground, though they were cycling fast, looking for purchase. Two hard, muscled men each had a hand wedged under an armpit, marching him along the path.

‘I never did it, Mr Kiley. I swear. You know me. I’d never do anything that might upset you.’

‘Reggie caught you red-handed, you little bollix,’ Jimmy Kiley said, walking alongside, staring across the lake through the gloom. They’d already been through this conversation twice.

A troop of monkeys on the far side of the still, dark water were whooping up a storm, filling the night air with cries of ‘ah-ah, ah-ah’ and ‘oh-ah, oh-ah’.

‘It was a misunderstanding. Look, you can have the money. Shit, you can even have the drugs, but look, leave the face alone, okay? Okay, Mr Kiley?’

‘You were dealing on my patch, Jason. Taking away trade that was rightfully mine.’

‘Look, I said I was sorry.’ The young man was starting to get desperate. He was being escorted through the city zoo at gone midnight by a man with a well earned reputation for violent enforcement. And if the rumours were to be believed, a lot more besides.

He’d been snatched whilst walking home from the pub, bundled into a car and driven to the Phoenix Park, a massive expanse in the middle of the city. They’d parked near the entrance to the zoo and had forced entry into the complex by over-powering the two hapless security guards, one of whom had been beaten half-senseless. Both had been tied up; the conscious one warned in very graphic terms as to his fate should he work his way free and call the police, whose national headquarters were visible just a couple of hundred metres away.

‘ I’m sure we can come to some agreement. I can work for you. I’ve got contacts; got my own regulars. I can expand. I could be useful to you.’

‘You’re going to be useful for me right now.’

‘What? How?’ The youth couldn’t keep the fear out of his voice. ‘Please, Mr Kiley.’

A long, high pitched howl floated across the lake.

‘I make movies, Jason.’ He raised his right hand, revealing a small video camera. ‘I guess you could call them thrillers. Or live-action horror. I don’t know, I guess it’s my own unique genre.’

‘Live-action horror?’ Jason’s voice had risen an octave.

‘Maybe horror’s the wrong word. There’s none of that supernatural nonsense. More like violent psychological drama. And the stars of my movies do all their stunts.’

‘Stunts?’ Jason scanned his surroundings. ‘What the fuck? You’re going to feed me the lions?’

‘Now, there’s an idea, but no.’

‘Alligators? Crocodiles? Look, Mr Kiley, I’m sure we can come to some agreement. I’d be much more use to you alive than dead.’ He struggled in the vice-like grip of Kiley’s two companions, who ignored his writhing and ineffectual kicks.

‘I doubt that Jason. I really do. You’re going to be much more use to me in how you become dead.’

They pulled to a halt in front of unlit building. As if on cue, the moon peaked out from behind a cloud to faintly illuminate the entrance.

‘The Snake House,’ the youth said, reading the sign.

‘We’ll see how you get on amongst your own kind.’

‘Mr Kiley, please. I’ll do anything you want.’

‘You’re about to do exactly what I want. The way I like to direct things is to show the present star how the last performed; let them know what’s expected.’ Kiley lifted up the camera and pulled out the small screen at the back.

‘Oh fuck. Oh Jesus. Please, Mr Kiley. I have my whole life ahead of me.’

Kiley sniffed, then glanced down at the small puddle at Jason’s feet. ‘It would have been better if you could have saved that for the movie. Never mind. The last star was a journalist.’

The screen flickered into life showing an over-weight middle-aged man fixed to a large wooden cross.

‘Couldn’t keep his nose out of my affairs; heard stories that I’d been torturing people. I guess you could call crucifixion torture. He seemed to suffer a lot in any case. Took nearly two fucking days to die.’

Jason shifted his horrified gaze from the screen to Kiley.

‘You’re mad! You’ve actually lost plot like that nutter in Apocalypse Now. Kurtz. Colonel Kurtz.’

‘I’ll take that as a complement,’ Kiley said. ‘Marlon Brando has long been one of my heroes. You’ll like this bit.’

The camera zoomed in on the man’s face, pulled in a grimace, his eyes closed, bubbles of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. His eyes suddenly popped open and bulged, the whites crazed red, his mouth widened but no sound came out.

‘You have to put the nails in through the wrists, not the palms, did you know that? Palms can’t support the weight; the nails just rip through the hand. You also have to break the poor bastard’s legs otherwise it can take a week or more for him to die. In the end your arms and legs can’t support your torso and you sag forward and slowly asphyxiate. Amazing what you can learn on the internet. This fat fucker was all flab; no strength to support himself. Cried like a baby when I broke his legs.’

Kiley closed the viewing screen. ‘And so to you. We thought we’d see how you got on amongst a pit of dangerous snakes; that’s their collective name by the way - a pit of snakes. Lions have to be starving or angry to attack a human. They’re too well fed in this place to keep them docile. Snakes, however, snakes attack by instinct; best form of defence. Especially in a confined space. Reggie, get the door.’

One of the muscled men let go of Jason, the other gripping him more firmly. He pulled a short crowbar from his belt and set to work on the door. After half a minute of wrestling and cursing it popped open, closely followed by the quiet beeping of an alarm.

‘Fuck!’ Kiley muttered. ‘Come-on, get him inside.’

The four men entered the dark snake house. Kiley found the light switches and room flickered into light. A wide central corridor progressed between two banks of large windows. Kiley grabbed the crowbar from Reggie and moved to a door on the right leading in behind the pens. Ten seconds later he had it open.

‘Take him to the far end,’ he instructed Reggie. ‘Then on the way back open all the doors to the pens.’

Reggie pushed Jason into the narrow corridor forced him to the far end.

‘Don’t even think about making a run for it,’ Kiley said, pointing the video camera and a handgun at the distressed teenager.

Reggie made it back to his boss and slipped out into the atrium. At first nothing happened, then gradually a handful of snakes emerged from their pens, slithering across the floor, differing in colour, length, thickness and speed.

Kiley could just about hear Jason muttering a mantra as he tried to shrink in on himself. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit ...’

In the distance the whoop of an approaching police siren grew stronger. For the next two minutes, the snakes balefully eyed each other whilst exploring the new space. Kiley had all but closed the door, leaving a crack just wide enough to point the camera. Jason was shaking with fear, rooted to the spot, too petrified to make a dash for the door.

‘Boss, we need to go,’ the other muscled man said. ‘The shades are here.’

‘Just a minute.’

A thick, strongly patterned King Cobra had worked its way to the cowering youth and lifted its hooded head two feet clear of the ground, swaying gently left and right.

‘Boss!’

‘I said just a minute.’

‘You don’t have a fucking minute.’

Kiley turned his head to see two guards arriving at the front entrance. ‘Fuck!’

He glanced back into the room. Jason was folded over. Closing over the door he dashed out into the fresh night air, brandishing the gun. The unarmed guards reeled back. Kiley closed the gap between them, smashing the butt of the gun down on one of their heads, sending the man sprawling to the ground. The other retreated out of reach.

Rather than pursue him, Kiley set off at a canter through the zoo, his two men in tow. The unhurt guard started to follow then stopped, heading back to help his colleague.

Kiley had all but forgotten about the guards. All he wanted to know was whether the cobra had struck. Not only would the movie be ruined if he’d missed it, but the young drug dealer was now in the possession of way too much information. He needed to watch the tape back, but first he had to find a safe way out of the zoo.

Off to their right the dark shape of an elephant lumbered across its enclosure. Away to their left the monkeys had started to chant again, this time joined by a menagerie of other cries. In the distance a drove of pigs whooped, the sky tinged with blue flashing lights.

Laughter shack

One of my flash fiction pieces is up on Laughter Shack. Had to be less that 500 words and be funny without telling jokes. My piece is a riff on that theme - a host of almost told jokes. Two men get thrown out of a bar ...

Preparing the Lure

The next installment of Jimmy Kiley's movie making exploits - Preparing the Lure - is up at Spinetingler. The first three can be found at:

King Canute - Powder Burn Flash
On a High Wire - Flash Fiction Offensive
Infrared Dead - Shotgun Honey

I've sent off the next 'movie', so hopefully that might be published in the next few weeks.

The next installment is up

The third installment of the Jimmy Kiley series was published today on Shotgun Honey - Infrared Dead. The first two can be found at:

King Canute - Powder Burn Flash
On a High Wire - Flash Fiction Offensive

I've got the next two episodes drafted, the first of them sent out for review. I hope today's shot of Irish noir hits the spot.

On a High Wire

My flash fiction piece 'On a High Wire' has been published over on Flash Fiction Offensive. A little slice of Irish urban noir.

Casanova Succumbs to Two Ton Tina

Harry and Pete, two hapless, lazy, misogynist cops wobbling along the slow road to retirement, are back in another slice of politically incorrect, screwball noir. Casanova Succumbs to Two Ton Tina was published on A Twist of Noir yesterday. Check out the other flash fiction stories there. There's some great five minute fixes for story addicts.

The El up 9th Avenue

The challenge set by Patti, over at Pattinase, was to write a short story, no more than a 1,000 words long, inspired by the art of Reginald Marsh.


The picture my story relates to is "Why not use the L" (1930) which is held in the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York.


All the other stories are listed over on Patti's site, with some great contributors. Check them out.


Marian folded over The New York Post and peeked round the corner, swaying with the rhythm of the railcar. ‘How you doing, sugar?’

‘What?’ Elsie turned her head, her eyes blinking behind round glasses like a mole trying to adapt to sunlight. She’d been staring out the grimy window opposite. Perched thirty feet up on a steel frame, as the train passed the side streets she could catch glimpses of the dark waters of the Hudson River speckled with reflecting, fractured lights, and the flat expanse of New Jersey.

‘Are you doing okay, petal?’

Elsie nodded her head shyly, trying to block out the acrid, cloying smell of the bum next to her. Or perhaps he worked a manual job; something that built up a heat. Maybe he laboured at the docks or one of the waterfront factories. Regardless, his thick woollen coat was stained with oil and god knows what and reeked of wet dog and cheap liquor.

‘You want to take in a movie?’ Marian asked. ‘There’s a Gary Cooper talkie at Loew’s. Morocco. A romance about a legionnaire and a cabaret singer who meet in the desert. The canary’s that blond kraut with the bedroom eyes.’ Marian tapped the advert in the paper with a manicured nail. ‘Marlene Dietrich.’

‘I ... I’m not so taken with Gary Cooper,’ Elsie admitted.

The bum snorted a laugh without opening his eyes. ‘Honey, all you white broads love Gary Cooper.’

Elsie looked at Marian, but her companion’s amused smile offered little support.

‘Well ... well, I don’t.’ She preferred Clark Gable. He seemed more ... dashing.

‘Maybe you need to get those glasses checked, lady?’

‘And maybe you’d better mind your own business.’ She couldn’t quite believe she’d said it. Six months previously, when they’d first moved to the city seeking work and a little adventure, she wouldn’t have said boo to a goose. Marian had instantly slid into the bustle, noise, dirt and language of the city. Elsie still felt like she was living in an alien world.

The bum opened one eye, stared at her for a second, then closed it again.

‘Forget the movie palace, sisters,’ he mumbled. ‘The only place to be is Connie’s up on Seventh and 131st.’

The train pulled to a halt, passengers stepping out onto the platform.

Marian took a seat opposite Elsie. ‘That’s up in Harlem,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh.’ His eyes were still closed, his oversized cap pulled down low.

The train set off again, rocking and clunking to a rising beat.

‘Connie’s is a theater?’

‘Jazz club, honey. Satchmo hisself will be playing there tonight.’

‘Satchmo?’

‘Louie.’

‘Louie?’

‘Where you been at, Sister? Louie Armstrong. The top cat. Everyone knows Pops.’

‘It’s a ... black club?’

‘Only on the stage. White only out front. You’d fit right in, like snowflakes at the North Pole.’

‘So how do you know about it, if it’s a white’s only joint?’

‘I’s the best axe man from here to Chicago, kitten. Play there off and on.’

‘You’re in a band?’

‘Well ... I’ve played with them all. Fats, Duke, Ella, Cab, Dizzy. I set their rhythm rocking.’

The women stared across at one another, trying to decide if the bum was telling the truth.

‘I’s just ... I’s just between bands right now,’ he continued. ‘But I’ll be playing with Pops tonight. Pops always done right by Paws Jackson.’

‘Paws?’

He held up his massive hands, their palms pale, the fingertips calloused. He cracked open an eye to watch their reaction.

Marian’s eyes widened. She’d never seen fingers so thick and long. They were like something you’d see in a comic. Like giant octopi.

‘I could help get you muffins in, if you wanted. I know the doorman pretty good. He lets me store my fresh togs there, so I can make a bee-line straight from the front line.’

‘I ... I don’t ... I don’t think so,’ Elsie said, unable to believe that the ruffled man next to them was anything more than a bum or labourer; that they were even talking to him.

‘We’d need to get changed; if we’re going on the hop,’ Marian said.

‘Marian!’

‘You ladies look just fine. Workin’ girls are always welcome at Connie’s.’

‘We ain’t no working girls, Mister,’ Elsie said.

‘Sure you ain’t. I never said you were.’ Paws pulled a sly grin, closing his eyes again.

The train started to slow to a halt. Elsie rose to her feet and shuffled to the door, unable to hide her relief. ‘This is our stop, Marian.’

‘How about we head up to Harlem,’ her friend replied, not moving, ‘listen to some jazz?’

‘I don’t ... I don’t know.’ The Gary Cooper movie now sounded swell. They could watch the feature, grab a coffee and a bite to eat in Sammy’s before heading back to their cramped apartment.

‘You need to live a little, Sister,’ Paws said. ‘Let your hair down. Nobody going to put the drop on you less you want them to.’

‘I ...’

The train lurched, pulling out of the station, gaining speed.

Paws cracked open one eye and laughed. He could already feel the bass pounding, Pops’ trumpet blasting over the top, hitting sugary high notes.

There’d be some sweet music tonight.



Some info on Connie's Inn, Harlem (1923-33) can be found here.

A useful site for 1930s American slang can be found here.

A hundred thousand welcomes (Céad míle fáilte)

Céad míle fáilte is an Irish saying meaning a hundred thousand welcomes. I've used the phrase in English and Irish to frame a short passage I drafted on Monday. At the minute, I think it’s going to be the start of a longish short story. It might turn into something else. I’ve been thinking about the main character for a while and it was time to let him live a little. For those sensitive to profanities, I’m sorry about the first sentence of the second section. I did actually have this said to me once and it always seemed like it might come in handy at some point for a story. I'd welcome any feedback on the opening itself and also ideas for possible places to submit the piece to assuming it comes in under 10,000 words (which is the plan at the minute).


A hundred thousand welcomes (Céad míle fáilte)

‘Those Dubliners like to think that their city greets you with a hundred thousand welcomes. That the place is great craic altogether. Don’t believe a word of it, do you hear? The city shakes you by the one hand, pulling a fine old grin, whilst it filches your purse and your hopes and dreams with its other. Those Dubs know a trick or three. Nothing comes for free in that town. They’ll build you up with platitudes, then ... Are you listening, Catherine?’

‘What? Sorry, Mammy.’

The train from Sligo was five minutes late arriving into Carrick station.

‘Jesus, Catherine. They’ll see you coming from here. Be waiting on the platform for you, rubbing their hands with glee, welcoming a lamb to the slaughter.’

‘Mam, will you stop worrying! I’ll be fine. I’m going to Dublin not Ramallah. If I can cope with Longford Town on a Saturday night then I can cope with Dublin.’

‘Like a lamb to the slaughter. Don’t you be trusting anyone, do you hear? They won’t just be after one thing neither. I should be coming up with you. Make sure you get there in one piece. Get you settled in.’

‘Mam, will you stop! You know where I’m going. I’m staying with Rachel. It’s not like I’ll be alone there.’

The train pulled slowly round the corner and drew into the station. Catherine threw her arms around her mother and kissed her cheek.

‘I’ll text you when I get there.’

‘Just ...’

‘Mam! I’ll be fine.’

Catherine broke away as the train came to a halt, grabbing the handle of a large, black suitcase, half her size, tugging it on its wheels. She pressed the lighted button and doors slid open, and she dragged the case inside, turning to face her mother.

‘I’ll text you, okay?’

‘Okay. Here ... for the taxi.’ Bridie Regan thrust a twenty euro note into the carriage. She couldn’t help the tears. Catherine was her only daughter. Nineteen years old and heading off for a new life. ‘Cities like ...’ she trailed off as the doors closed automatically.

What she was going to say was ‘Cities like Dublin, they can swallow you whole.’ Her mother had told her that and she believed it. From the moment the doors clunked shut and the train started to pull out, she regretted not finishing the warning.

* * *

‘Why don’t you fuck off home, you English cunt!’ The old man has his hands on his hips, his flat cap pushed back on his head to reveal an angry frown.

Jesus, you’d think I was personally responsible for the 800 years of oppression prior to Irish independence. All I’d actually done was ask the cantankerous old git whether it might be possible to repair the fence between his field and my garden in order to stop his cattle wandering in and eating my vegetables. Right now I’d like to knock his bigoted, republican lights out, instead I counter with a sucker punch.

‘English? I’m as Irish as you are! I was born in Roscommon Town hospital. My parents moved to Manchester in 1966 when I was ten years old; just in time for the World Cup. Like thousands of other poor feckers, they had to emigrate to look for work.’

The old git breaks from my stare and gazes down at his wellington-clad feet and I know I’ve hit home, so I press my moral advantage.

‘I might have grown up there, but I’m feckin’ Irish. Irish born, Irish genes, Irish passport, living in Ireland. I am home.’

‘Aye, well,’ he concedes, scratching under his armpit.

‘So it’s okay then that I repair the fence?’

‘I’ll do it later. I better be getting on. Jobs to do.’

He turns away and walks back into his yard, heading for a tractor that must have been manufactured before I was born. His pride was dented by the exchange, but not enough to actually apologise. As far as he’s concerned, I’ve gone native. After all, I talk with an English accent. English accent, English mentality - English. It’s going to take a lot more than an assertion that I’m Irish to shift his perception of me as anything but one of the old foe.

Which is fair enough, as I’m actually Scottish by birth; not that the old git needs to know this. Besides, as far as I’m concerned I am bloody Irish. Second generation Irish: my mother hailed from County Leitrim, my father from Dublin. They met in 1955 at a ceili in an Irish club in Bothwell in south east Glasgow and fell madly in love. Or more likely, madly in lust. They were married seven months later and I was born two months after that.

Two brothers and two sisters followed, though I’m not sure how as my parents barely seemed tolerate each other’s company when I was growing up. They’re both dead now, god rest their souls. My father died in a car crash when I was fifteen; he drove into a bridge pillar whilst blind drunk. My mother died of lung cancer five years ago, which was no great surprise given her life-long impression of a human chimney.

And I moved to Manchester when I was four, not ten, not that matters much when we moved. As far as the native Mancunians were concerned I was simply Irish, none of this second generation shite. All through the 1970s I had to put up with Irish racism when the IRA was waging its bombing campaign in British cities. I wasn’t bloody English or Scottish then. And now I’ve retired to Ireland to reconnect with my roots I’m fucking English. Out of place in both countries.

I set off back along the laneway towards my small, two bedroom cottage. Not for the first time in the past ten weeks I’m wondering what possessed me to take early retirement, sell up, and move to a small plot of land in the arse end of rural Ireland? I’m fifty five for Christ’s sake! I have feck all DIY or gardening skills and I now live in a run-down cottage on an acre and a half of boggy land with two black Labradors – Laurel and Hardy – who are dafter than I am. And I’m surrounded by folk who would be suspicious about blow-ins from neighbouring townlands, let someone who grew up in another country.

I should have never of left my job as a detective sergeant in the Lancashire police. I had another good five years service left in me. All I needed was a few weeks break away from the job to recharge my batteries and gain a bit of perspective. Instead, I jettisoned out with a modest pension and ambitions of becoming a writer – a crime novelist, no less. Thirty years of experience should count for something, right?

I mean, at least I know what I’m talking about, unlike ninety nine percent of crime novelists, most of whom, to be frank, haven’t got a fucking clue. The nearest they’ve got to the lives of criminals or a police investigation is what they’ve read in the newspapers or what they’ve read in other novelists’ books or seen on the TV. Its crime and law seen through middle class sensibilities and it has fuck all to do with the grim realities of life. Unless you’ve lived something – as a drug addict, an armed robber, a paedophile, the victim of domestic abuse, an investigating officer, whatever, or worked on the front line as a social worker or something similar, believe me, you have no fucking idea what that life is like, what is going on in peoples’ heads, and the domestic, social and institutional shit that surrounds them. It’s all just guess work.

I was going to correct that. I was going write an authentic police procedural; an accurate reflection of what really goes on during an investigation, revealing the complex, messiness of a massive team effort that’s constrained by resources and due process. I wanted to pen characters that were ordinary folk with families and lives outside of policing; that weren’t mavericks or geniuses, but who plodded along. I wanted to write about cases that ran into dead ends or ended ambiguously, where the criminals didn’t always get caught or wormed their way out of a sentence.

Well, that was the idea.

I’ve since discovered a fatal flaw in my plan. I have no inherent talent as a writer. Sure, pour a few whiskies into me and I can tell a few good anecdotes, but I can’t actually write to save my life. It’s not half as easy as I thought it would be. You have to think carefully about plot and structure, narrative flow, sentence construction, punctuation and grammar, character development, prose and so on. I barely know what that stuff is, let alone how to do it effectively. It’s certainly not a case of sitting at the keyboard and knocking out a couple of thousand words a day and lo and behold three months later a book is complete. I guess it would be like deciding, despite having no training as a musician and not practising at an instrument, that because you’ve listened to a lot of music you’d retire to make bestselling albums.

The result has been a set of weak, lifeless scraps of text that are best suited to starting the stove in the morning. It’s going to take dozens of creative writing lessons and hours of practice before I produce even a half decent short story, let alone a novel. And even then, I might still produce shite. My brother has played the guitar for forty years, but I still wouldn’t pay to see him play live; especially if he’s performing his own compositions.

In the meantime, I’ve been making enemies of the neighbours by simply having the temerity to move from England to their rain-soaked, bog-ridden townland. A townland my mother left nearly sixty years ago to head to Scotland. The old git is her first cousin, not that I’ve told him that as yet. I’ve not been given the chance. I even stayed in his house once when I was a kid. He was a git then as well; resenting the fact that my mother had managed to get away and he was stuck tending the family farm.

Céad míle fáilte, my arse.

A Black Feather

This my first short story featuring Detective Superintendent Colm McEvoy, the lead character in The Rule Book and The White Gallows. I wrote the piece in response to Seana's comment to a post I put up a couple of days ago about my sense of being out of place in Roskilde, suggesting that my observations might make the basis for a short story. I think it might be the first piece I've written that contains no dialogue. I drafted the piece in Copenhagen on Saturday.


A Black Feather

The sky and water were sheet metal grey, the horizon a thin line where the two near identical panels met. The wide fjord was bounded left and right by dark, low lying headlands; a single, small sailing boat was tacking from right to left, its white sail billowing with the light, chilly breeze.

As the first fat drops of rain began to fall, Superintendent Colm McEvoy pushed himself off the railing and headed to the shelter of a wooden-clad workshop, part of the Vikingskibsmuseet, The Viking Boat Museum in Roskilde, Denmark. The glum faced, local detective acting as his chaperone had been convinced that the place would be of great interest to a visiting Irish man.

In the small boatyard the Danes had built a Viking longboat, using authentic tools and materials, that they had named The Sea Stallion of Glendalough in honour of the ancient monastic site in County Wicklow. In 2007 they had sailed it across the North Sea, around the top of Scotland, and down through the Irish Sea to Dublin, replicating the journey that countless Nordic invaders had undertaken a thousand years previously.

Normally, McEvoy would have been fascinated by the history, the archaeological finds, and the master craftsman recreating the ancient boats, but instead of curiosity and wonder, he felt listless and useless. He had arrived the previous morning and been met at the airport by two policemen dressed in dark grey suits. They had proceeded to Roskilde where the men had briefed him on the abduction of Annelise Snedker, a twenty year old philosophy student who lived with her parents and younger brother, who had seemingly been snatched ten days previously from her downstairs bedroom at the back of a suburban house in the town. They had no real leads except for a black feather and a lock of her hair that had been left on her pillow.

One of McEvoy’s colleagues, Detective Inspector Barney Plunkett, had a European-wide alert issued for immediate notification if any black feathers were discovered at crime scenes. Ever since the Raven, Ireland’s most notorious serial killer, had gone to ground, Plunkett had been trying to pick up his trail. So far, four such feathers had been found; two in Ireland and one in South West France. And now in Eastern Denmark. McEvoy had arrived in Plunkett’s stead because his junior officer was on annual leave and he didn’t want to disturb him from a much needed break. The man was edging towards obsession; he would have abandoned his wife and kids to ten days in Tenerife, and flown to Denmark at his own expense to follow the lead.

McEvoy had spent an hour that morning with Annelise’s parents. They looked haggard from exhaustion; consumed by the shock of the nightmare they were now living and their fears. They seemed resolute in their belief that their daughter was still alive, but his presence had undoubtedly undermined their faith. The mother had visibly wilted as the conversation unfolded. It had been a disheartening meeting that had led to much upset, but no new insights.

The parent’s gloom had transferred to him and his darkening mood was being fuelled further by a sense of alienation, of feeling out of place in the town. Roskilde was everything an Irish town was not – prim and proper; ordered, planned, managed and controlled. All the buildings were well maintained and the gardens perfect. The landscape had the feel of being a kind of unnatural nature – every tree, bush and blade of grass had been carefully positioned and pruned. And there was a notable absence of people. The bar he’d spent an hour in the previous evening had been all but empty and on the walk back to his hotel he was the only soul wandering the town’s streets. He literally had the place to himself. He’d only been there a day and he was already missing the messiness and busyness of Irish towns – the bustle and hustle and vaguely patterned chaos.

Even during the day the town seemed curiously quiet; only a few pedestrians and cyclists on the main thoroughfare. In the suburbs it was even more pronounced. On the five kilometre drive from his hotel to the unassuming university on the town’s edge to talk to Annelise’s course tutor, they had only passed half a dozen cars, two cyclists and one jogger. The place was like a model town or a film set once all the actors and crew had gone home. Beautiful, but empty.

The people had the same kind of quality. He’d only met a handful so far – a couple of cops, hotel and bar staff, the university professor and his administrator, the missing girl’s family – and they had all been well dressed and mannered, formal and reserved. He was too used to the gregariousness and unpredictability of the Irish. Though to be fair, with the exception of the distraught family, he had detected a hint of mischief hiding under the surface; a twinkle in the eye and the playful curve of an occasional smile. Once the guard came down, the Danes might well be quite fun. How often that was, McEvoy wasn’t sure. Given the cost of the beer, probably not often. Half a litre of Carlsberg had cost him nearly twice as much as a pint of the same brew in an Irish bar, and Ireland was not a cheap country when it came to its pub prices. It would be cheaper for the Danes to leave the country and then re-import their primary export, than to drink it at home. It defied logic for a country that seemed to run on calculated rationalism.

McEvoy watched the dour craftsman plane a length of wood, the floor at his feet littered with curled shavings. Beyond place and family names, whatever the Irish had inherited from the Danes it had seemingly been lost somewhere along the way, he reflected. That or the Danes had been civilised in the intervening years.

The rain had turned into a light drizzle and he left the craftsman to his solitary labour, wandering through the sheds, starting back to his hotel. On the skyline, up a slight slope the two, red brick square towers of Roskilde Cathedral, topped by slender copper green spikes, rose above the tree-line. If the Raven had committed the abduction he was almost certainly long gone. And he would have left very little of himself behind except for some vague traces of a shifting mirage. The man was a chameleon. McEvoy knew he was wasting his time here, even if it was a performance he needed to act out to satisfy both the Irish and Danish authorities. And it would be at least two days before he would be able to return Dublin and its familiar sense of place.

He sighed, knowing that he’d been enveloped in a sober funk. That self-realisation wouldn’t be enough to tip him back out of it either; rather it would lead to further existential musing on the state of his life and a slow slide into a familiar condition of depressed, self-loathing. He needed to get out of this town. It was too unsettling. It felt too perfect. No, not perfect. It was too much of a simulacrum for what a town should be; a slightly unreal imitation of an urban utopia. He would check out of the hotel and head into Copenhagen. Perhaps the large city would be more ... more alive.

Which was probably more than could be said of Annelise Snedker. Or indeed Colm McEvoy.

Short story: You raise me up

I've been meaning to write this short story for a while, but never quite got round to it. A 4am jet-lagged state in a Dallas hotel did the trick. It features Mary Carmichael, a main character in my novel Saving Siobhan, and her sidekick, Jacob.

Norm, this one is for you.


You raise me up

‘For god’s sake, Jacob, will you stop humming that tune,’ Mary said.

‘It’s Westlife,’ Jacob replied, as if it that was all the justification needed for humming the same tune for more than two hours. He drummed his fingers on his knees.

‘I know it’s bloody Westlife! Can we change the channel?’

‘Westlife are the greatest!’

‘Westlife are mental cruelty!’

It was approaching one o’clock in the morning. They were parked on a quiet residential road bathed in orange streetlight. The house that they were observing had been in darkness for the past two hours. On several occasions, over the preceding couple of months, Mrs Kovac and her three young children had been subjected to taunts and attacks by a small gang of local youths, who for reasons known only to themselves had taken a hostile dislike to the Bosnian family. The local guards seemed powerless to do anything without material evidence, and by the time they arrived the youths had scarpered. In desperation she had turned to Mary Carmichael for help.

‘Westlife are number one!’

‘Yes, because bonkers people like you and impressionable young girls buy their bloody songs.’ She turned in her seat to stare over at him.

‘I’m not bonkers. I’m special.’

‘We’re all special.’

‘I’m special and you’ve got no legs. Look!’ Jacob pointed at three youths approaching the house, dressed in jeans and hoodies, their hoods pulled up obscuring their faces.

The first egg hit an upstairs window, the second the front door. The youths were laughing and joking, shouting taunts as they off-loaded their supply of ammunition.

Mary already had the camera up to her eye, taking photos, zooming in, hoping for a shot that would identify the attackers.

‘Mrs C?’ Jacob prompted, reaching for the door handle.

‘No, no. We stay in the car and take pictures. Not that I have a choice,’ Mary replied. Her wheelchair was on the seat behind her. By the time Jacob had retrieved it, and she had transferred into it, the youths would be long gone.

‘I could stop them.’ He stared over at her.

‘I know you could,’ she said, raising the camera back to her eye. ‘But you’re not going to. We don’t want to stop them. We want to catch them.’

Their cache of eggs exhausted, one of the youths extracted a can of spray paint from his hoodie and scrawled something on the wall. The three of them stood back to admire their statement: ‘Go home pakis’.

‘Jesus,’ Mary muttered. ‘I guess by definition they’re stupid, but these guys really are morons. They’ve got the wrong country, wrong culture and wrong race.’

A neighbour shouted at the youths from an upstairs window.

One of the lads took flight and darted along the pavement, the other two shouted back threats.
Before Mary could react, Jacob pushed open the door just as the youth drew alongside. The boy crashed into the door with a thud and landed sitting on his backside. Jacob was already up and out of the car.

‘Jacob! Jacob, get back in the car,’ Mary instructed. ‘Jacob! Don’t do anything stupid. Jacob, are you listening to me?’

The kid had risen to his feet, angry and embarrassed at being floored. ‘What the fuck! A fucking mongol! A mongol wearing a fucking Westlife t-shirt. You’re fucking dead, Mong.’

He’d been joined by his two friends, their hoods still up.

‘Jacob, get back in the car,’ Mary instructed.

‘Listen to your mother, Mong,’ one of the other lads said.

‘It’s not nice to throw eggs at people’s houses,’ Jacob said, pushing the car door shut.

‘It’s not nice to knock people over, you fucking Mong.’ The youth went to push Jacob, but found only thin air.

Mary had her mobile phone to her ear. ‘Grant? Grant, you’d better get over here. Jacob’s out of the car. Some kids are about to get hurt ... I’ve asked him to get back in. He won’t listen ... Just get over here!’

‘You’re fuckin’ dead, Mong.’ The lad launched himself forward, trying to save face.

Jacob ducked a shoulder, placing it into the youth’s midriff, lifting him up and letting him drop with a thud to the pavement behind him. ‘You raise me up ...’ he sang, ‘so I can stand on mountains.’

The two other lads rushed him. He stamped on the shin of one, and landed a heavy blow to the stomach of the other, then grabbed their hoods and clattered their heads together. As they moaned, folded in two, he rounded them and swept their legs away so that they landed on their prone friend. Tugging one up onto the other, he sat on their backs.

‘You raise me up ... to walk on stormy seas,’ he continued to sing.

Mary lowered the car window.

‘Jesus, Jacob. All we were trying to do was take some photos.’

‘You said you wanted to catch them. I’ve caught them.’

‘Are you lads, okay?’ Mary said loudly.

‘Fuck off.’

‘That’s what happens if you mess with Ireland’s judo champion. He won the bronze medal at the Special Olympics.’

‘He’s a fuckin’ spaz. You’re both fuckin’ dead.’

‘He isn’t a spaz and he whipped your racist asses. Perhaps you should try out for the trampoline team, Jacob?’

Jacob raised himself up and dropped down, repeating the action enthusiastically several times.

Mrs Kovac appeared in her gateway, gazing at the scene, her brow furrowed in concern.

‘That’ll do, Jacob,’ Mary warned. ‘We don’t want to bust the springs.’ Mary waved tentatively at the Bosnian woman. In the distance a siren sparked into life. She rolled her head back and let out a deep sigh, wondering how she was going to explain the situation. She doubted the police would buy the argument that she was just passing. She seemed to have been just passing an awful lot of incidents of late.

‘You raise me up ... so I can stand on mountains,’ Jacob sang happily, bumping up and down in time to the music only he could here.

‘Jacob, stop with the feckin’ Westlife.’

‘Westlife are the greatest!’

‘Westlife are mental torture. If the police ask, we were just passing, okay?’

‘Okay. You raise me up ... so I can walk on stormy seas,’ he crooned to her.

‘You’ll be walking home.’ She raised the window, but Jacob just increased the volume of his singing.

'Scarry Night' flash fiction challenge: Insurance

Here's my entry into Patti Abbott's flash fiction challenge. The challenge was to include the line: 'I really don't mind the scars.' My piece is called 'Insurance'.


‘I really don’t mind the scars,’ Julia said, running her middle finger along the caesarean wound, thumbing the stretch marks, ‘it’s the bastard who created them I hate.’ She was sitting on a recliner next to a clear blue pool, wearing a lime green bikini, a large floppy hat, and a pair of sunglasses that seemed to mask half her face.

‘You hate Danny?’ Lisa said from the pool side, her arms resting on the warm concrete, her chin placed on her hands.

‘Danny? I don’t hate Danny. He’s six months old, for god’s sake, Lisa. He eats, pukes, shits, sleeps and giggles. If it wasn’t for the giggles I’d probably hate him, but, well, y’know.’ She took a sip from a tall cocktail glass. ‘Richard. He’s the one I hate.’

‘Richard?’

‘He’s made my life hell.’

‘Richard? You have everything you want, Julia. A nice house, a pool, a BMW, home help. How is your life hell?’

‘You don’t live with him. He’s manipulative. He lies. He hides things from me. And he snores. And now I have him just where I want him. We’re married and I have Danny. The divorce will set me up for life. I can make a fresh start.’

‘You had Danny to trap him?’ Lisa pushed off the side and floated across the pool. She was wearing a plain black all-in-one bathing suit, her long legs tapping the surface, propelling her slowly.

‘You make me sound like a gold digger. Danny was insurance. These scars are the price.’

‘Insurance? Insurance against what?’

‘Him cashing me in short for a younger model.’

‘Jesus, Julia. This is Richard we’re talking about, right?’

‘You don’t know him like I do. He has a dark side. He might seem like he’s a family guy when he meets you, but believe me, he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s been having affairs.’

‘Affairs? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. A wife has a way of knowing these things. What I need is hard evidence. That’s why I want you to ... to test him.’

‘You want me to ... to have an affair with Richard?’ Lisa swam lazily back to the pool side.

‘No. I want you ... I want you to tempt him. Be photographed with him. Kissing him. Anything past first base.’

‘I don’t know, Julia. I’m ...’

‘You’re my sister, Lisa. You’re perfect for this. What man can’t be tempted by his wife’s younger, single sister?’

* * *

‘She thinks you’re having an affair,’ Lisa said, running a fingernail across Richard’s chest.

Richard chuckled and tangled his fingers in her long hair.

‘She wanted me to set you up. Get some sleazy PI to take photos of us kissing. She intends to take you to the cleaners. A divorce. The works.’

‘She wants what? The little ... bitch.’ He worked his fingers free.

‘Danny is her insurance.’

‘Insurance? He’s our son!’

‘There’s no need to shout. I’m trying to help you here. Let you know what she’s planning. She’s my sister, Richard, and you are having an affair. And I’m not the first. We need to careful is what I’m saying.’

‘Careful? She’s threatening to leave me and take my son!’ He pushed her head off his shoulder and slipped naked from the bed. ‘Insurance? Two can play that game!’

‘Richard? What are you planning? Richard?’

‘Our future,’ he said, pulling on his underpants.

‘Our future? What about Julia? Danny?’

‘Danny will be fine,’ Richard said, tugging on his shirt. ‘He’ll have has aunt. As for Julia, that bitch has it coming. I’ve given her everything. There’s no way she’s taking Danny. It’ll be over my dead body.’

* * *

‘Does it hurt?’ the young man said, tracing his finger along the scar.

They were naked, lying on top of the sheets, the man leaning up over her, studying her form.

‘No, though sometimes I dream that it opens up. That it becomes a gaping wound.’

‘And you don’t mind it?’

‘Why should I? It’s part of who I am. Beauty is in your aura, not some perfect scar free body. Having children; that’s what women do. It’s a mark of life.’

‘I think it’s beautiful.’ He lent down and kissed the scar tissue.

There was a bright flash from the window, quickly followed by another two.

‘What the ...’

The young man was dashing to the balcony, but the photographer was already making good his escape.

* * *

‘Did you get the photos?’ Richard said, blocking out the sun.

‘Did you get mine?’ Julia asked, looking up from the recliner, her glasses slipping down her nose, her brown eyes gazing out over them.

‘You had our bedroom fitted with a secret camera.’

‘You had my sister in our bed, Richard. My sister, for god’s sake. She always was unreliable and impressionable.’

‘I’ll fight you all the way, Julia. It’s worse for the mother to have an affair.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Richard. We’ve both had affairs. They cancel out the other. Perhaps we should bury the hatchet, so to speak? Take another shot at it? For Danny? We both have our insurance now.’

‘You want to try again?’

‘Why not?’

‘What about Lisa?’

‘Lisa’s off limits. And there can be no others.’

‘And you?’

‘Of course. We’re both on notice.’ She turned over onto her stomach and held out a bottle of sun cream. ‘Can you do my back?’

King Canute

Dave is in a jam. Three local thugs have invited themselves into his house. They're after something, but first they want to watch a movie. King Canute, one of my flash fiction pieces, has been published over at Powder Burn Flash. Go check it out. My first short story of the year. Hopefully more to follow at some point.

Short story: Undergrowth

A couple of weeks ago I had a flash piece on A Twist of Noir. Yesterday I decided to extend the piece out into a longer story to make it the same length as the other Harry and Pete stories. It may be a little rough and ready, but the result is below. There are some pretty bad jokes all the way through, but hopefully they'll raise a smile. For once, I think the final punchline is a doozy (if you like your jokes in poor taste). No doubt there are typos. I'll try and pick them up at some point.


Undergrowth

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Pete muttered, ‘how come we always get the crappy jobs?’

The rain was drifting in on a cold, east wind; a fine mist that managed to work its way through outer layers. They’d already scoured the laneway for a knife or bloodied clothes, poking away at the foliage with stakes. Now they were wading through sodden ferns under the canopy of a small copse, their clothes snagging on tangles of brambles, hands stung by nettles.

‘You’d sooner be pushing paper, yeah?’ Harry replied.

‘We’ve got the fucker, so why can’t we wait until it stops fecking raining?’

‘Because Johnny Cronin knows this is the only way a skanky fucker like you gets a shower. We’re just here to make sure you wash the shampoo off properly.’

‘Says the man who only has three pairs of underpants and does a wash just once a week’, scoffed Pete. ‘I say we call it quits. All we’re going to catch is pneumonia. We’re just wasting our time.’

‘Will you two stop bloody moaning,’ Chloe Gaines snapped. She’d no idea what crime she’d committed to be punished by a morning with Harry and Pete, two dinosaurs from another era - unreconstructed, misogynist cops on the slow road to retirement. ‘Jesus, it’s only a bit of rain.’

‘I don’t see you stripping off yer’ wet gear,’ Harry replied, ‘dancing around to some rain god.’

‘Rubbing the shampoo in,’ Pete added.

Several years their junior, Chloe Gaines was the best looking cop in their station by a country mile and neither man would object if she felt the need to strip down to her birthday suit to dance in the rain.

‘For god’s sake - how old are you, five?’ Chloe asked, rolling her eyes.

‘What the ...’ Harry trailed off, picking at the ground with his staff, revealing a withered condom. ‘Ah, Jesus, you could have cleaned up after yourself, Pete.’

‘What?’

‘Well, it looks like your size.’

‘If that was mine you could tie five knots in it and it would still be bigger than that.’

Chloe snorted in derision. She pressed on ahead, wondering how either man had managed to find a wife.

Harry shared a look with Pete and nodded conspiratorially towards Gaines. ‘Here’s one for you. How’s a woman like a condom?’

Pete shrugged and ducked under a low branch.

‘Both spend more time in your wallet than on your prick.’

Chloe swivelled round, her face flushed red. ‘I’ve warned you before. Any more jokes like that and I’ll be reporting you for sexual harassment.’

‘Relax will you, Chloe. It’s just a joke. Jesus.’

‘It’s not just a joke.’

‘What do you do with 365 used condoms?’ Harry continued, as if to make a point. ‘Melt them down, make a tyre, and call it a Goodyear.’

As he uttered the punch line, his footing shot out from under him and he slid down a bank which had been hidden from view by the undergrowth, plunging into freezing black water.

Harry let out a roar. ‘Fuck! Jesus wept!’

Chloe and Pete hurried back and stared down the slope at him, neck deep in water.

‘Relax, you big girl,’ Pete said. ‘I’ll pass you the shampoo.’

‘Fuck you! I’ve found that fuckin’ knife.’ Harry’s hand emerged from the filthy water clutching the blade, blood seeping out between his fingers.

‘Don’t bleed on it!’ Chloe said. ‘You’re contaminating the evidence.’

‘Are you’re taking the piss? I’ve just managed to stab myself.’

‘Yeah, on a murder weapon! For Christ’s sake, Harry.’

‘I’ve just scared the shit out of myself sliding down here; I stab myself, and all you’re worried about is the poxy knife.’

‘It sounds like you better wash you underpants whilst you’re down there,’ Pete added.

‘And fuck you too!’ Harry spluttered, shivering in the freezing pool. Get down here and help me out.’

Chloe kicked the condom, it plopping into water next to him. ‘Here, grab hold of that life raft.’

* * *

Harry’s teeth were chattering like a child’s machine gun, his body shaking with shivers. They were huddled on the side of the lane in the lee of a large oak tree, seeking shelter from the rain, having decided to wait there for the ambulance rather than trudge the half mile back to their vehicle.

‘You need to get out of those wet clothes,’ Chloe said.

‘And ... get into ... what?’ Harry’s hand was throbbing with pain, blood leaking out from under the wad of paper handkerchiefs Gaines had given him to try and stench the flow.

‘Give him your coat, Pete.’

‘What?’

‘Give him your coat, you big pansy; he’s going to catch hypothermia. Come-on, let’s get this stuff off.’ She started to tug at the zip to Harry’s coat.

‘Jesus ... you’ve turned ... a bit keen. We gonna ... share a ... sleeping bag ... to keep ... keep warm?’

‘In your feckin’ dreams, Harry. All the whale fat on you, you’d think you could cope with a bit of bloody cold water.’

‘Where’s the feckin’ ambulance?’ Pete muttered, not wanting to give up the warm cocoon of his coat.

‘Whale fat? ... That’s ... that’s muscle.’

‘It’s beer and burgers.’ Chloe had got the coat unzipped. ‘Right, come-on, you big girl, slip out of it.’

Harry let go of the handkerchiefs with his good hand, closing his bloody fingers around them, and allowed his shaking body to be eased out of the jacket.

‘What’s ... black and white ... and red all over?’

‘Now the jumper,’ Chloe said, ignoring him. ‘Put your arms up and lean forward.’

Harry did as he was told, muttering the answer. ‘A killer ... whale ... eating the ... sarcastic bitch ... taunting him.’

Chloe grabbed the jumper at its base and tugged the material up his body and part way along his arms until the neck opening jammed on Harry’s head, stopping progress. She tried tugging it, but succeeded in only dragging him forward.

‘For fuck’s sake. Give me a hand, Pete.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘What do you think! Get the neck over his head. I’ll keep pulling.’

Pete struggled with the jumper, easing it over the jut of Harry’s chin, trying to push back against him as Chloe pulled.

‘Stop! Jesus, fuck. ... Are you ... are you ... trying to ... rip my fa... face off?’ His arms were locked in place above him, the neck of the jumper tight at the base of his ears and caught under his nose.

‘What’s wrong?’ Chloe asked. ‘How do you normally take it off?’

‘It’s ... it’s shrunk.’

‘Stop being such a cry baby.’ She tugged viciously without warning, pitching Harry forward and knocking Pete to the ground where he landed in a pothole full of water.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Pete snapped. ‘What did you do that for, you silly bitch!’

‘Stop whinging and help me ... at last, here’s the bloody cavalry,’ she said, as the blue swirling lights of an ambulance swung round the corner and raced towards them.

Pete had gotten to his feet by the time the ambulance had pulled to a halt, its back doors just a few feet away. He tugged his sodden trousers from his skin, shaking his legs. ‘For god’s sake,’ he muttered darkly.

The front doors of the ambulance opened and the driver and a paramedic tumbled out and jogged back towards them.

‘I should have known,’ the driver said, unable to stifle a laugh at the scene, Harry bent in half, his arms outstretched, the hem of the jumper still in Chloe’s grasp; Pete hopping from one foot to the other. ‘The deadly duo! You haven’t called us out just to help you get this jumper off, have you?’

‘Fuck you ... Mike,’ Harry said, recognising the voice. ‘I’ve been ... stabbed.’

‘Stabbed?’

‘By himself,’ Chloe said. ‘He picked up a knife by the sharp end.’

‘Contaminating the evidence,’ Pete added.

Mike tutted. ‘Did nobody teach you how to use a knife and fork, Harry?’

‘Stop fucking ... about and ... get me ... get me ... to a ... to a ... hospital,’ he stuttered with cold. ‘I’m ... losing ... blood.’

Mike tugged the jumper back down, freeing Harry’s arms and revealing his bright red face. ‘You’re sopping wet.’

‘No ... shit ... Einstein.’

‘He fell into a pond,’ Chloe explained. ‘We were trying to get him out of his wet clothes.’

‘Not content stabbing yourself, you wanted a go at drowning yourself, as well?’

‘He wanted to be a killer whale,’ Pete added.

‘I’ll bleeding ... stab ... stab you ... unless ... unless ... you shut the fuck up.’

‘Jesus, lighten up, Harry,’ Mike said, helping him up into the back of the ambulance. They were only jokes.

‘He’s all laughed out,’ Chloe said. ‘It was rubbish jokes that got him into this mess in the first place. Isn’t that right, Harry? Perhaps we should just melt you down, make a tyre and call it a Goodyear?’

* * *

‘There you are,’ Inspector Johnny Cronin said brusquely, poking his head between the curtains. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

Harry and Chloe looked up at their boss.

Harry was sitting up on a bed wearing a borrowed t-shirt and a dressing gown, feeling slightly vulnerable in the absence of underpants. The hospital staff were letting him rest there until Pete returned with a fresh set of clothes on the understanding that he didn’t sneak in beneath the sheets, otherwise they’d have to change the whole set. He had just about warmed through in the overheated ward.

Chloe was sitting in a bedside chair reading a copy of celebrity gossip magazine. She rose to her feet, looking sheepish. ‘Can I be excused now, Sir?’ She really couldn’t take any more of Harry’s inane banter.

‘No. Where’s that other idiot?’

‘Garda Cahill?’ Gaines said.

‘Who else do you think I mean?’

‘He’s gone to get changed and get Harry a fresh set of clothes.’

Cronin shook his head. ‘All you had to do was find the knife, not audition for an episode of E.R. How’s your hand, Harry?’

Harry tugged back the sleeve of the dressing gown, pink digits sticking out from a wrap of bandages. ‘Ten stitches.’

‘The doctor said it’s a relatively superficial wound,’ Chloe said, ‘not deep, just long.’

‘Superficial? It took ten stitches to sew it back up.’

‘Don’t be such a baby. They’ve said you can go home, haven’t they? No reason why you can’t go to work; just keep the dressing dry.’

‘So where’s this knife then?’ Cronin asked.

‘Knife?’ Harry said.

‘You know, the thing you stabbed yourself with. The knife that Jimmy Burke used to stab that poor bastard.’

‘Chloe?’

‘Don’t look at me, I haven’t got it.’

‘What do you mean, you haven’t got it. I gave it to you.’

‘No, you didn’t. You must have given it to Pete.’

‘Given me what?’ Pete said, slipping between the curtains, wearing a dry, clean uniform and carrying a sports bag. ‘Sir,’ he said, noticing Cronin.

‘The knife,’ Cronin said.

‘The knife? Harry had it.’

‘I haven’t had it since you got me out of that bloody pool. I gave it to one of you two. You put it in an evidence bag.’

‘Well, you didn’t give it to me. Chloe?’

‘Don’t look at me. He gave it to you.’

‘Uh-uh, I don’t think so. You must have put it in your coat pocket,’ he said to Harry.

‘Don’t try and blame me, I found the bloody thing and I gave it to one of you two.’

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Cronin snapped. ‘I don’t care who’s got it! Just find it, okay. Without it, Jimmy Burke will probably walk.’

Burke was the local gang leader, a hard man with a fearsome reputation for having a short temper and quick fists. He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, eventually wrestling control from his former boss after a bloody coup. He’d been arrested the previous evening for a knife attack that had left a young drug pusher fighting for his life. Only Burke denied all knowledge of the attack, a witness had withdrawn his statement, and there was no material evidence in the form of bloody clothes or the knife.

‘Where’s your bag of wet clothes?’ Pete asked.

‘Under the chair,’ Harry replied.

Chloe reached in under the chair and pulled the bag out. ‘Even if we find it, it’s going to be covered in Harry’s fingerprints.’

‘That’s right, try and dump me in the shit. It wasn’t like I was trying to stab myself with the damn thing.’

‘You didn’t stab yourself, it’s a superficial wound.’

‘How can it be superficial?’ Harry said angrily, turning towards her. ‘It took ten stitches to close it up!’

‘For god’s sake, cover yourself up!’ She said, motioning towards where Harry’s dressing gown had fallen open. ‘You might have the blubber, but you don’t have one of a whale’s other attributes. It looks like a finger puppet that’s withered and died.’

Pete snorted a laugh as Harry flushed red, tugging at the dressing gown.

‘Enough!’ Cronin snapped. ‘I don’t care who’s to blame. All I care about is finding that knife and putting Jimmy Burke away for a very long time. If the knife’s not here, then you better get yourself back out to those woods and find it.’

‘I can’t go out again like this?’ Harry said, waving his hand.

‘Do I look like someone who gives a shit? Just find that knife. And get some underpants on. I agree with Garda Gaines; that thing looks like a shrivelled mole. I’ve seen more meat on a chicken leg.’

* * *

‘Your nuts would be shrivelled to raisins if you’d spent two hours shivering to death.’

‘It’s not me you need to convince, Harry. I couldn’t care less if squirrels had crawled up your leg and nibbled your nuts off. All I want to do is find this knife and go home to bed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re moaning about, it’s me who was stabbed and fell in the pool. Ten bloody stitches.’ He held up his hand.

‘You’ll just have to use the other hand and pretend it’s a stranger. Assuming you can get a grip.’

‘Ha, ha. Very funny, Pete.’

‘Am I laughing? If it wasn’t for you, we’d have been at home hours ago.’

‘If it wasn’t me, we’d have never have found that knife in the first place.’

‘Or lost it.’

‘Oh, no. No you don’t. I didn’t lose that knife. One of you two did.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Chloe said, opening the back of the car and climbing in. ‘You were the last one anyone remembers having the knife, trying to fight off a marauding condom that was several sizes too big.’

‘Fuck you, Chloe.’

‘In your dreams, Harry. And you can go fuck yourself back. Because of you, Johnny Cronin thinks I’m a fuck-up like you two.’

‘Somehow I doubt it. Johnny Cronin thinks the sun shines out of your pretty little arse.’

‘Well?’ Pete interrupted.

‘Well, what?’ Gaines said.

‘Did you find the knife?’

‘No. It’s not reception or the treatment room or in the ambulance. If it got this far, it’s disappeared.’

‘Fuck.’

‘We’ll have to go back to the woods; to that pool.’

‘I can’t get this bandage wet,’ Harry said, holding up his hand.

‘You can wear a glove, or put a bag over it, but you’re coming,’ Chloe said. ‘You’re the one who stabbed himself with the bloody thing.’

‘You make it sound like I did it on purpose.’

‘A fat shirker like you, I wouldn’t put it past you,’ she said testily.

Harry twisted in the seat. ‘You may have the looks, Chloe, but you can be a right royal pain in the arse.’

‘At least I’ve got a pretty little arse, unlike your ...’

‘Knock it off, the pair of you,’ Pete interrupted, starting the car. ‘It’s like listening to a broken record. Let’s get back to the woods and find this bloody knife. And any more bickering and you’ll both be in detention.’

* * *

They were trudging through the undergrowth, tracing the route they’d taken to the laneway, scanning the ground for the knife. The soft drizzle was still falling, but the cold east wind had died to a light breeze.

‘Bloody Jimmy Burke,’ Harry muttered. ‘This is all his fault, stabbing that poor bastard. He’d kill his own grandmother if he had to.’

‘He’d kill her for fun,’ Chloe said. ‘The man is psychotic. He should be locked up in a mental institution.’

‘He’s bad not mad,’ Pete said. ‘He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s a sociopath.’

‘Psychopath, sociopath, what difference does it make?’ Chloe replied. ‘He’s got a screw loose somewhere. His has scary eyes; they have no life in them.’

‘How do you make a blonde’s eyes light up?’ Harry asked.

‘I’m warning you, Harry,’ Chloe said, her dyed blonde hair tucked up under her hat.

‘Shine a light in her ears.’

Neither Chloe nor Pete laughed.

‘Okay, okay. How about this one instead. What’s the difference between God and a surgeon?’ Harry asked.

‘God doesn’t think he’s a surgeon,’ Pete replied, tugging a bramble free that had snagged on his coat.

‘The guy who sewed up my hand thought he was bloody Zeus or Thor or one of them. A real cocky bastard.’

‘You’d think you were giving birth,’ Chloe said, ‘given the carry-on you were making. He treated you like a child, because you acted like a child.’

‘And he treated you like a teenage girl. Draw your own conclusions.’

They continued in silence for a minute or so.

‘Concerned with her shortness of breath, a man takes his wife to the hospital,’ Harry said, ‘The doctor gives her a thorough examination and then gives his prognosis: ‘Your wife has acute angina.’ To which the husband replied: ‘I know, it’s just a shame about her face.’

‘Give it a rest, Harry,’ Pete said.

‘Do you get it? Acute angina.’

‘For god’s sake, Harry.’

‘I’m just trying to lighten the mood. Jesus. God knows it’s been a crappy day.’

‘Well, those kind of jokes aren’t helping, okay? That’s how you ended up in that pool in the first place.’

‘Jesus, they’re just jokes. Why did the skeleton go to the hospital? To have his ghoul stones removed. Ghoul stones. How’s that? Better? Jesus, it was me that was stabbed.’

‘Harry, we’re not in the mood.’

They had reached the pool. The three of them stared down at the dark water, the withered condom still floating on the surface.

‘Now what?’ Harry said.

‘One of you goes down and checks for the knife,’ Chloe said.

‘One of us?’

‘I trudged round the hospital looking for the bloody thing.’

‘I’ll go,’ Pete said, setting off down the short slope.

Harry and Chloe watched him hunt around in the undergrowth.

‘It’s not here,’ he declared after a few minutes.

‘It must be in the pond,’ Chloe said.

‘Well, I’m not going in to look for it. They’ll have to get the divers in.’

‘For that? It’s only about ten feet square.’

‘I don’t see you in any hurry to dive in. It can wait for tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere, is it?’

He headed back up the steep slope. As he reached the lip one of his feet slipped on the damp leaves, shooting out from under him. Instinctively, he grabbed at Harry’s leg for support. Then both of them were tumbling. Pete hit the freezing water first, Harry landing on top of him, forcing his head under the surface.

‘Fuck!’ Harry roared.

Pete shot up, his arms thrashing.

Chloe had her hands on her knees, unable to hold back the laughter.

‘What’s so fucking funny?’ Harry asked.

‘You. The pair of you.’

‘Get down here and help us get out.’

‘I don’t think so, Harry. Us blondes aren’t very good swimmers. Besides, you’ve still got the life raft from earlier. You better check for that knife now you’re in.’

‘Fuck the knife.’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you. I doubt acute angina will suit you, Harry.’