by Martyn Ford
He sat back down on the ground and a tamed pigeon leapt on to his knee. With a slow breath, he disappeared in to it. As Cold Rain bowed his head and slept, the bird flapped past me, darting up and across the high smoky ceiling.
He was right. I had no other option now than to trust him. But in a weird way I knew he was being honest. Those tears were real – I believed every word he’d said. The email he sent would have answers. I felt optimistic.
The crowd parted as I walked back down the aisle – girls, boys, men and woman stepping aside and letting me through. Halfway along, they started to kneel. A hundred bald heads at waist height. I was about to tell them to grow up when I realised it was probably a good thing they respected me.
Fred, I thought, listen. I’ve got to go now. You’re in charge. Make sure everyone goes home. Call the police. Get the elders to tell the truth. Whatever it takes. Undo everything. The star swimmers are done.
And if anyone gives me hassle?
Call me. I’ve left my number in your memory.
Thank you, Chester. I hope you find your body.
Me too, Fred. Me too.
At the wooden cages, I helped myself to a pigeon. It perched on my index finger and I lifted it to my face. Staring into its small black eye, I blinked and heard the wind. And then I looked back at him and nodded.
‘Good luck,’ he whispered as I leapt off his hand and flew towards the empty fireplace.
Flapping up and up the cold brick chimney through the soot and shadow and then light – I was back outside and rising into the sky. Again I crossed the countryside quickly, surging from mind to mind, from animal to animal. Cow, bird, cow, sheep, dog, cat, duck, motorist, crow, kid bouncing on a trampoline in his garden, squirrel, robin, the pilot of a commercial airliner. I paused here, listening to that cool airplane hiss in the cockpit. Then I stood and looked through the windscreen. Bird, bird, postman, bird, back across the patchy green land below. Zip-whoosh, howl-whistle and gasps from a hundred different points of view. I crossed the miles between the Whispered Manor and home in no time, arriving back in Carlos on the windowsill and then straight back into Tito with a familiar grunt.
Phew.
Groaning in gorilla-pain, I sat up – like waking from a dream.
Detective Pepper was still at the end of the bed and his eyes were closed. As far as he and Amy knew, I had also been asleep. But now, now I was awake – wide awake and about to know the truth. I got to my feet and fists, and knuckle-walked over to Amy’s laptop.
With a few taps, I logged into my emails, typing my password, ‘Dandelion123’, with my big fingers (I’ll have to change that now).
The bold, unread message from Cold Rain was at the top. Blank, apart from a link to a video. I clicked.
It was a short clip from some old sitcom, set in a pub, called Locked Inn – a show I’d never even heard of. The video was about two minutes long.
‘What is this?’ Amy whispered.
I didn’t respond. I just pressed play.
We watched it together as Silent Cameraman filmed us from the corner of the room. The footage was just two people speaking at a bar. Two random actors I didn’t recognise. It only had eight hundred and thirty views.
By now I was doing a mega gorilla frown, breathing heavily through my nostrils. This was just some rubbish. Some random nonsense. There were no answers here. I slammed my fist on to the desk, growling.
Halfway through the clip a barman arrived and served them some drinks. And then it ended.
‘What the hell is this?’ Amy said. Exactly. That was exactly what I was thinking.
I stayed calm and clicked replay. We watched it again. Searching desperately for clues. Was this some kind of sick joke? Was Cold Rain mocking me? I should have chopped his head off. I should have kicked it over a garden fence like a football.
On the third viewing, however, something caught my attention. Something familiar. The man behind the bar in the video – I recognised that face. I clicked it back and pressed play again.
The studio audience laughing, laughing, laughing and, just as the man arrived, I hit pause.
Silence.
And there it was. Low resolution, sitting there in the centre of Amy’s laptop screen, all pixelated and small. Cold Rain truly had kept his side of the deal.
He was younger, slimmer and had more hair. But it was definitely him. I looked to my left, into Amy’s wide, shocked eyes.
And then we both turned around at exactly the same time and faced her bed.
‘Detective Pepper is an actor?’ Amy whispered.
‘Oi,’ Amy said, slamming one of her many cushions into Detective Pepper’s sleeping face.
‘Cor wot?’ he yelled, sitting up, throwing it away. ‘What was that for eh? You’re a right rotter, Amy, a right sloppy sausage.’ He checked his nose for blood. ‘Ah, Chester, you’re awake. How’s that shoulder?’
Amy and Carlos just stared at him. I breathed slowly, showing my teeth.
‘Tell ya what, I could go for some grub,’ he said, patting his stomach. ‘Who wants to earn five bob? Nip down the garage over on East Street. Think it’s twenty-four hours innit? Grab us a pasty and some sherbet. The dippy one, yeah. With the liquorice. That’s ma favourite. What you all staring at eh?’
‘You know a show I love,’ Amy said. ‘Locked Inn. It’s a play on words. Because it’s set in a pub, you get it? It was on TV in the 80s – hardly anyone watched it.’
‘Ain’t familiar with that one I’m afraid. Can I get a’ ETA on that pasty?’ He looked at me. ‘What I do is I bite the top off and pour the sherbet inside. Makes a meaty saa-weetie. I call it a Cornish hand grenade – might even patent it ya know. Reckon there’s a right big market for that.’
‘We saw a video of you acting,’ I said, typing on my voice machine. ‘Are you really a proceeds alligator?’
He frowned. ‘You wot?’
‘Guurgh,’ I grunted. Stupid predictive text. ‘A private investigator.’
He squinted at me from the bed, then glanced at my talking machine, then back up to me.
‘Very good question that, very nice.’ Detective Pepper spoke quickly. ‘I like the way you’ve framed it. Direct like. Some people would skate about the shop a bit, ya know, tease it outta me. But you, like a laser-guided laser – straight in for the kill. Bosh. Bang. Reminds me of a boxer I used to know. Jonny Flu-jab they called him. Not sure why. Punch like a shotgun. He died in ninety-four. Choked on Lego of all things. Tragic really. He had a bright future. Could have been the champ.’
‘You didn’t answer the question,’ Amy said. ‘Are. You. An. Actor?’
He sniffed. ‘Well … we all act different from time to time innit. Depends on the company, ya know. When ya with ya mates down the bowlin’ alley it’s all bants, but at dinner with the old dear, please and thank you very much, me darlin’, delicious as always.’
‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Just answer the question.’
Detective Pepper stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. ‘Fine,’ he eventually sighed. ‘Yes. I am an actor.’
‘Aw, you …’ Amy huffed, turning away in anger, grabbing her hair.
‘Ahll thiiss time,’ I whispered.
‘You got me,’ Detective Pepper said in his normal voice – which was completely different. He sounded like a classically trained actor now, like one of those posh people you meet at theatres. ‘Might I ask what gave me away? Was it too much? Was the accent too strong? Method acting is such a slippery slope – the competing for camera time, the exuberant rambling, it all came naturally to the Pepper persona. Frightfully good fun, I must say. It is an old character from my university days. I would love some notes if you have a moment.’
‘I mean, yeah,’ I typed. ‘It was a bit OTT, but I was still convinced. Backstory was believable.’
‘All improv.’
‘Wow.’
‘Why are you giving him compliments?’ Amy snapped.
‘I’m just saying, he is good. Just becau
se he’s a liar doesn’t mean he’s not talented. What’s your real name anyway?’ I asked.
‘Francis Edward Newton-Parker,’ he said, standing and bowing in the middle of Amy’s room. ‘At your service.’
‘Are we quite done?’ Amy was frowning. ‘Can we wrap this up? Let’s call the actual police and get him arrested.’
‘Arrested? Heavens above, why?’
‘Um, hell-o, because you’re part of a scheme to kidnap Chester’s body?’
‘I most certainly am not,’ Detective Pepper, or Francis, said, touching his chest in dramatic shock. ‘Red Rose Pictures hired me to act as the detective on the show. That is all. I still have no idea who stole your body. I feel somewhat besmirched that you would even suggest such a beastly thing.’
Grunting, I held up a finger to give me time to type this answer. ‘Seriously?’ I said. ‘Think it through. Why would they hire an actor and not a real detective, unless they planned the whole thing?’
I remembered what Cold Rain said to me. Who would gain the most from such a crime? Red Rose Pictures would. A review of the first series of Amy and Chester said it was basically the same trick over and over again – me mind jumping into animals and dancing about. They said that once you’d seen one episode, you’d seen them all. I agreed – it was stupid.
The studio said they wanted the second series to be bigger and better. More exciting.
It made so much sense now I thought about it. This series would be brilliant. Think of all the cool footage they’d recorded. The drama, the tension, the urgency – finally it wasn’t just me taking control of animals for cheap giggles. There was a real reason to watch. There was an actual story now. Me, trapped in this gorilla, desperately searching for my body.
It was all a set-up.
Cold Rain must have seen and recognised Detective Pepper after we broke into the Whispered Manor. He was, after all, a self-confessed TV buff.
‘Well, I …’ Francis stared at the wall for a moment. ‘I suppose maybe you have a point there. Gosh. How positively horrid of them.’
‘I know you’re stupid,’ Amy said. ‘But are you honestly expecting us to believe you’re this stupid? How could you not have figured it out?’
Carlos, standing on the windowsill with the morning sun on his fur, squeaked in agreement.
‘I was method acting, dear,’ Francis said, gesturing proudly with his index finger. ‘Detective Pepper would have no idea, would he? When you play a part, you really have to commit. Mr Pepper did not know anything about the arrangement with Red Rose Pictures, he does not know that he is an actor. Rather, he is an eccentric, hard-hitting detective from East London. To truly act, one must quite literally become the character. These nuances make all the difference.’
‘And there I was thinking reality TV was supposed to be real,’ Amy said. ‘This is a zero out of ten. Absolute stitch-up. But, wow, what a total bombshell. This … OK. Hey guys.’ Loser Amy turned to the camera.
Wait. Silent Cameraman.
I turned too. The camera was on its side, on Amy’s desk, and her bedroom door was wide open.
He was gone – he must have legged it when we realised.
‘You really do forget he’s even there,’ Detective Pe— FRANCIS said.
This settled it. Red Rose Pictures were to blame. Oh, those sneaky, corporate, money-grabbing (insert swear words here – the worst ones you know). No wonder Brian was so stressed. His bosses were literally evil. They would do anything to make good TV. Even kidnapping. Tito’s body was giving me another dose of anger. Big anger. I made a fist. I could feel his huge, strong heart pounding in my chest.
Maybe when we arrived at the studio they’d have spotlights and party poppers and an audience and everyone will clap and it’ll be like, hurray, you solved the case. Maybe they would have cake? I felt my face smile. No. Back to frown. I don’t want cake from them.
‘You think Brian knew about this?’ Amy whispered, closing the door.
I shook my head. No way – he had been so worried about me. He even offered to stop the show. Brian was a victim too, just like us.
The camera still had the little red recording dot on the front of it. Amy stepped over to her desk, turned it upright and looked into the lens. ‘Hey guys,’ she said. ‘So just to bring you up to speed.’
‘Amy,’ I typed. ‘We’re not making the show any more. It’s over.’
She lifted the camera on to her shoulder and pointed it at me. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Now we have to make the show. Let’s expose the star swimmers, Red Rose Pictures, everyone.’ She aimed the camera at Francis. ‘What are we going to do with him? I’m still not buying his story.’
There was only one way to be sure. So I jumped straight into Francis’s mind and did a quick search. Remembering his memories, I relived his career. He was a failed actor. He did odd adverts when he could, small parts in small films. Worked as an extra. He was poor, earning barely enough money to eat. Also, I noticed, he didn’t even have a driving licence – which explained why Amy was always behind the wheel. He was forgettable enough for Red Rose Pictures and, more importantly, he was talented enough to carry the second series of the show. And to my amazement, he was being totally honest. He had committed to the part of Detective Pepper so fully that he actually didn’t think it through. I had never seen this level of dedication to a character. Amy was right, he was stupid – but man was he an incredible actor.
I returned to Tito’s mind and turned to Amy. ‘He’s telling the truth,’ I typed. ‘And Francis, dude, you are wasted doing weird jobs like this. You’re brilliant.’
‘Oh Chester, you are too kind. You’ll make an old fool blush.’
Even though I felt like I should, I just couldn’t be angry at him. The guy’s a legend. He was, and still is, one of the best actors I have ever met.
‘Well, Francis,’ Amy said, ‘Chester is a pretty reliable lie detector so … would you like to film the remainder of the show for us?’
‘What an honour. I would be delighted to. However, I fear they may well be reluctant to broadcast it should you go accusing them of kidnap and conspiracy and other such wicked deeds.’
‘We’ll put it online.’ Amy shrugged. ‘The old model is dead anyway, the gatekeepers have fallen. TV is over. We’re the children of the revolution.’
‘You may twist and shout, let it all hang out,’ Francis said.
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ Amy handed him the camera. ‘Spiffing. Jolly good.’ He fiddled with it for a few seconds, then pointed it at her.
‘Hey guys,’ Loser Amy said, with a wave. ‘So we’ve had some bombshells. It’s like, hell-o, someone call the cops because we’re speeding down weird street. Detective Pepper’s an actor – I know, right? Total shocker. Silent Cameraman has bolted. Red Rose Pictures are behind everything. Deception much?’
‘NOOOORRRUGH!’ I yelled, so loud the window rattled.
Birds erupted from a tree in the garden. Carlos cowered and Francis swung the camera round to me.
‘Is everything all right in there?’ Mum asked from behind the door.
‘Fine,’ Amy and I replied at the same time.
‘Oh my, I forgot about your mother,’ Francis said. ‘Should we tell her what’s going on?’
‘Like, OMG.’ Amy ignored the question. ‘Chester, chill your socks.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘See, guys, see what I’ve got to put up with? My brother is cray-cray.’
‘No. No. No.’ I typed carefully – it was important. ‘If we’re doing this then you have to be yourself.’
‘Uh, like, lol, what does that even mean?’ Loser Amy said.
‘You know exactly what I mean. You act totally different on camera. You pretend to be someone else.’
‘It is true, dear,’ Francis said. ‘You do.’
‘You … you notice that?’ Just Amy whispered.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s obvious. It’s embarrassing. And it’s contagious – sometimes I start a sentence with “lik
e”. I caught that from you. Like, it’s totes annoying and like, I should try and stop but like, I can’t? I even call you Loser Amy in my head every time you do it.’
‘But … but …’ Just Amy sat on the edge of the bed, blinking. ‘I just … I just want everyone to like me. Especially now that you’re the star of the show. I just … I just want people to think … to think I’m cool.’
‘Amy,’ I said. ‘There is literally nothing less cool than trying to be cool.’
She sat in silence for a few seconds, as though her whole world was falling apart. As though she had just been diagnosed with some terrible, definitely-gonna-kill-you disease. ‘So … what shall I do?’ she asked. ‘How … how should I act?’
‘Just. Be. Your. Self.’
She sighed, getting back to her feet. ‘I’ll … I’ll try.’
We all stood there in Amy’s bedroom and nodded at each other. Carlos scurried across her bed, through the fairy lights and up on to my shoulder.
I gently patted my gorilla chest. Not much longer, Tito, I thought, not much longer.
*
And so off we went, downstairs and into the animal-control van. It was time to face Red Rose Pictures. It was time to end this madness.
‘Hang on,’ Amy said as we pulled away. ‘Where even is Red Rose Pictures’ HQ?’
Good point. I hadn’t thought to ask where the studio might be based – why would I care? But, thanks to Google and some sat-navery, we were soon on our way. (I know sat-navery isn’t a word, but all words are made up. They’re just mouth sounds that mean something – say them enough and they’ll end up in the dictionary. That’s how language works.)
Right. Bam. So we went revving off down our street, took a left and then hit the main road. Amy – JUST Amy – was driving the animal-control van, I was sitting in the middle, Carlos was on the dashboard and Francis was filming from the passenger seat. Now out of character, he was wearing his leather jacket, jeans, a white vest and, weirdly, one of Amy’s pink scarves. The bright Hawaiian shirt was, he said, part of his ‘costume’. I noticed that even his body language had changed – the way he moved, the way he sat. What a pro.
