by J Battle
Then I had something of an epiphany; not a Road to Damascus moment; more a road to reality hour. IT workers are 10 a penny, and they earn barely 20% above minimum wage, and there’d be a hefty 50K credit debt to carry around for the rest of my life, and there weren’t any jobs anyway.
So I quit school.
My mother was apoplectic with rage, but I think I saw a 'that’s my boy' nod from Dad.
‘What are you going to do to earn a living?’ she said, when she could actually get her words out.
‘I’ll just live off you.’ Was my parting remark as I left the room.
To be honest, I didn’t have a better answer. I’d thought about travelling; that’s what people always used to do, and Fools Squirt Technology made it so much easier. No more tramping around the world, begging for a lift, a bite to eat or a place to lay your head. You just dial up where you want to go, break your covenant of trust with your molecules, and squirt to your next destination, confident in the knowledge that you can be home for teatime.
Now, if you know about my hatred for squirting, you’ll understand why travelling was never a real option, so I spent more time than I should have down the pub.
That was until I got the call from Uncle Ray. He ran his own business; Chandler Investigations, and he wanted a quick chat.
As I’d done some work during the holidays with him, and he wasn’t all bad, I agreed. I even took a moment to ruin my mother’s evening when I told her I was going to work for him.
‘Well now, young Phil, how’s it going?’ He’s a big barn-door of a man, with a voice and a laugh to match.
‘OK, I suppose,’ I said, suddenly feeling like a teenager again.
‘Your Pa says you’re at something of a loose end.’
‘Just taking a little time to explore my options.’
We were in his office, with him sitting in the only comfy chair and me on a hard chair on the other side of the desk. The office was a scruffy-looking place, with two rooms and a small bathroom.
‘Well now lad, I think you enjoyed yourself, working here like you did, those few weeks.’
‘It was OK.’ My Uncle could be a little bombastic, which always brought out the little boy in me. In truth, it’s never been far from the surface.
‘Well, here’s an offer for you, and don’t just refuse without taking time to think it through.’
I was about to refuse anyway, just on principle, but he held up his hand. I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to stop me talking, or just to impress me with the size of it. I could easily have laid a table for two within its great expanse.
‘I’m going to leave this place, and I may never come back.’
‘You’re leaving Manchester?’ Why would anybody want to leave Manchester? Manchester’s great.
‘No, well, not just Manchester. I’m leaving Earth; going to one of the new planets they’ve just opened up.’
‘Leaving Earth? But you’ll have to squirt!’ I have a very close relationship with the obvious.
‘Yep, and I can’t wait. I’m leaving tomorrow; first thing.’
I think my mouth may have opened in surprise, but I don’t remember any words falling out.
‘So, the first question that springs to mind is, what about the business?’
The first question that sprang to my mind was why would he want to squirt so far away from everyone he knew?
‘What about the business?’ I said instead.
‘You want it?’
‘What?’
‘Do you want the business? You can have it, for nothing, well, no money anyway. You just have to agree to keep it going, for a least five years. After that time, if you don’t like it, you can sell it and do something else with the money.
I looked around the sparsely furnished office for a moment, trying it on for size.
‘Is there any money in it?’ I asked.
‘It’s kept me going all these years, so it can’t be too bad. What do you say?’
To be honest, it was growing on me. Philip Humphrey Chandler; super-sleuth. Yes, I thought, that sounds just about right. My own boss; my own hours; my own business.
I nodded quietly, and then I stood up and reached across his desk and allowed him to envelope my hand in his monstrous appendage.
‘I won’t let you down,’ I said, and I meant every word; really, if you discount ‘won’t’.
‘I’ll meet you here in the morning, about eight, and we’ll go through everything, and then you can see me off. What do you think?’
I was thinking that, although I knew full well that there was an 8am to match the 8pm, we weren’t well acquainted, and it had been some time since we met.
‘8 o’clock will be fine, Uncle,’ I said, full of the ‘I can do this’ spirit.
Which was why, at 9am the next day, I was standing far too close to a squirtbooth, and hoping that he wouldn’t ask me to come to the Squirtport to see him off properly.
Now, I guess you’ve squirted here and you’ve squirted there, and never given a second thought for your poor benighted and constantly deceived particles, as you trick them in to thinking they’re massless and can be squirted to almost any place in this part of the Universe.
Well, I’m not like that. Me and my particles, we’re like that(Phil is crossing his index and middle fingers, but you can’t see that, can you? N.F.) and I don’t want to lie to them; that’s just the way I am. And, have you seen The Fly?
‘Well, Phil, this is it.’ He gave me a big hug, and a hug from my Uncle Ray is something to behold. ‘Take care of yourself and don’t…’
‘Don’t what?’ was my perfectly reasonable response.
‘Oh…nothing. Just your old uncle getting all emotional on you. If you have any problems, your Dad knows how to get in contact with me, but, on no account whatsoever, can you tell your Mum.’
‘Oh, there’s not much danger of that. I think she’s already left for her secondment as Llama Quality of Life Enabler, somewhere in the Andes.’
‘How does she get a job like that?’
‘Because she invented the job, and persuaded someone with too much money, too many insecurities, and not enough will-power, to pay for it. Where are you going, anyway?’
A more caring individual might have asked that question earlier, but I work with what I have.
‘Oh, you know,’ he said, as he stepped inside the squirt booth.
With a smile, he pressed the big red button. That’s another thing; why does it have to be red? To me, red spells danger; it spells keep away because you’re not going to like what’s about to happen.
The squirt booth started to hum, and then he was gone, with his poor tricked particles squirting to who knows where.
I turned away, and I probably shook my head. I do that a lot when exposed to the mathematical impossibility that is Fools Squirt Technology. Yes, I know it can’t be impossible, because it happens a million times a day across the world, but you try explaining it. Without using formulae, diagrams, and 15 years in college.
As it was past nine, and I hadn’t had my full quota of sleep, and what else can a young man get up to at this time of the morning, I thought that it was a good idea to go back to bed, so that I would be really ready to take on my new super-sleuthing career in the morning.
The following day I was back at my office; really early; something like 10 AM. I unlocked the door and walked through my new domain. The smaller, outer office would be for my secretary, when I got one, and I’d have the back office with the en-suite for myself.
I sat in Uncle Ray’s chair, or I should say my chair, and took a look at his ancient computer system. It must have been, I don’t know, three years old, and it had no holographic facilities and barely 100 Terrabytes of storage. On any given day, my new wrist-top could outperform it.
‘We’ll get something a little bit more exciting when the business starts to roll in,’ I said, as I leant back in the chair. Naïve as I was at the time, I was sure that there’d be no end to the dem
and for the services of an enterprising new kid on the block.
When the first day passed without anyone even approaching my door, I took it as just a bad start. You can’t leave the blocks like a sprinter; you have to take your time and be sure to get there in the end, like a middle-distance runner. When my circumstances hadn’t changed in a week, I was a little less sanguine about it.
I spent the rest of the month counting how much money I had left and creating projections that pinpointed the exact day and time that I would run out. It wasn’t a very challenging problem, even for Ray’s pile of rubbish system, and it wasn’t very far away.
I had two days left, and I was trying to work out if a pint or a sandwich should be my meal for the day, when someone knocked on my door.
Chapter 3 Then, a little confusion
I stood at the door and took a deep breath, and then I put on a friendly but professional smile on my face, and I opened the door.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’s you,’ I said, ‘I was expecting…’
‘Hi big bro. How are things in the world of espionage?’ She breezed right passed me and dropped her two shopping bags onto a desk.
‘What…? It’s not espionage; I’m a private detective, not a spy.’
‘So, have you got a badge, or a license, or something?’
‘You don’t get a badge, and I just need to change the name on the license. I’m thinking of using my middle name, or what about Bogart? Bogart Investigations? It has a nice ring to it.’
‘It has a very black and white ring to it, and I don’t think you should change the name of an established business, not when it might cost you the goodwill that has been earned over many years.’
I said nothing; I just stared at her. Now, I know my sister is very clever, as my mother always reminds me, but it is so rare for her to come out with something that sounds at all clever.
‘Have you got any staff?’ she asked, as she walked through into the back room.
‘No, it’s just me, for now.’
‘You need staff; a secretary at least,‘ she said, as she ran one finger along the top of my desk, ‘and a cleaner.’
‘Well,’ I said, shaking my head in wise, big brotherly sort of way, ’I don’t know about that.’
‘Hey, I know,’ she said, with a full 1000 watt smile (I don’t like it when she smiles at me; I pretty well don’t like it if anyone smiles at me), ‘you can hire me. That’s a great idea! I can’t think why I didn’t think of it before. You and me, catching all the bad guys; righting wrongs; making the world a safer place for all the little old women.’
‘I don’t expect to be catching bad guys, or making the world safer for our mother. It’ll be mostly lost pets, I should think.’
‘No, it’s going to be much better than that. What do you think? You and me against the world. With my brains and your … brawn?’
Now, obviously there was no justification for taking her on as my secretary/cleaner, given that we had no clients and therefore no income, but I said yes. And not just to shut her up. It was just the vision of the look on my mother’s face when she’d heard about it. Petty; I know, but that’s just me.
‘I’ll have a nice cup of coffee, please,’ I said, as I walked into my office.
I closed the door on a laugh and some words that sounded very much like ’in your dreams, bro.’
For three days, I went to the office every morning and sat at my desk until as late as 4pm (once anyway) and didn’t receive a single call or email (apart from those offering to solve any issues I might have regarding my development in the genital region).
I’ll admit that, by the third day, it was barely morning when I got in, and not quite 3pm when I left. I would say that I beat Julie into the office every day, and I managed to outlast her as well.
On day number four, I got there at just after 12, and there was someone waiting for me, at the door.
He was of average height and weight, but he excelled in the ugliness department. With his misaligned eyes, low brow, receding chin and bulbous nose, he had a face that would make even his mother wince.
‘Hi,’ he said, in a gruff, unpleasant voice, ’you Chandler?’
I nodded and said ‘Good morning,’ as I reached past him to open my door.
‘Afternoon,' he replied, with a frown; it could have been a smile; it was hard to tell.
‘Please come this way,’ I said, leading him into my office, ’take a seat.’
When we were appropriately seated; him in the hard chair and me in the comfy one, I started the proceedings. Now, I wanted to appear knowledgeable and professional, though I’ll admit I was neither, so I went with, ‘tell me what I can do for you.’
He sat in the chair for a full minute, with no response. He just stared at me, with one eye at least.
When the minute was up, I coughed and decided to try again.
‘Can you…?’
‘You know.’
That was a big help, I thought.
‘I know what?’ I knew that things were not going the way I expected, but not much else.
‘Have you got ‘em? It’s been three weeks now.’
I smiled, in a professional ‘I know what’s happened here’ sort of way.
‘I think you must have been speaking to my uncle, Uncle Ray Chandler. I’m Philip Chandler; his nephew.’ I knew that I didn’t have to say the last bit, but, well sometimes you do.
‘His nephew?’ See, I told you.
‘Yes, he’s left, and I’m in charge now.’
‘When’s he back?’ His expression had turned a little darker and, if it was at all possible, uglier.
‘Oh, he’s not coming back. Something of a career change, I think. So, Mr…?’
He glanced at the half-open door and then at the closed bathroom door. Then he sat a little forward in his seat.
‘Grimm,’ he said, in such a quiet voice, ‘I’ll be on your computer, there.’
I shook my head. I’d had three days with nothing to do, and I’d spent maybe two or three minutes discovering that there wasn’t a single file on its hard drive.
‘Best if we start from the beginning, ' I said, feeling very professional.
‘What about the money I’ve paid you; him?’
‘What?’
‘I paid a retainer and a month’s daily charges plus expected expenses, upfront like.’ He was beginning to get agitated.
‘Whatever you’ve already paid will naturally be deducted from your final bill.’ That, you’ve got to admit, was a good catch.
‘So, you haven’t found ‘em?’
‘As I say, Mr. Grimm, we are starting from scratch here, so can you provide me with the full details of your requirement?’ I was born for this.
‘I…well, I’ve made a bit of money over the years, and I haven’t got a family.’
Not even a mother to wince at his face?
‘And, well I don’t want the government to get it when I’m gone, so I want to give it to some people I knew when I was much younger.’
‘But, surely you are still in your thirties? Seems a bit early to be worried about who you are leaving your money to.’ He could have been in his forties, or his fifties; with a face like that, but, when you don’t know, always go low.
‘I’m 42, and I have a…, well I have a terminal illness.’
Was it horrible of me to really, really want to ask him what he was dying from?
‘And you need to find these people soon?’
‘Yes; very soon.’
‘And, forgive me for asking, but what sort of timescale are we talking about here?’ I know; I’ve just asked a complete stranger, suffering from a mortal illness, when he was going to die. But at least I did it delicately.
‘I just need it done quickly; very quickly. I was hoping Mr. Chandler would have found the first by now. He said he was confident.’
Confident? That was my Uncle Ray.
‘OK,’ I said, with a pretty fair imitation of confidence, ’give me all th
e details you have.’
When he left, I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on my desk (without taking off my shoes!) and, you know, I felt like a proper Private Eye.
Chapter 4 Then, I’m born to this
Arnold Watt.
He was the first guy on the list, and I found him in about an hour.
I’d like to say that it took a great deal of skill on my part to find him; that it was a task that no-one else could have done without my matchless expertise.
But, he wasn't hiding, and it was just so easy. I put his name up into Buddyup, the new social media hub that links everyone from PrettyMe to I’maStar, and even old school sites like Epals and BlogMe. And there he was; large as life, with his selfies and his fascinatingly detailed posts on the minutiae of his daily life.
Of course, you won't find me on any of these sites; not because my life isn't as exciting as those you see plastered in exhaustive and exhausting detail wherever there is a chance that they might be seen. Not at all. It's simply photos; I don't like them. I never look the way I think I look. When I look in a mirror, I look OK. Not the sort to turn heads, maybe, but also not the sort to turn stomachs. In photos, I look wrong, as if I'm just about to pick my nose, or I've broken wind and I'm looking around for someone to take the blame.
So, that's why I don't post my every thought or action.
But, getting back on track, here comes the clever bit. Of course BuddyUp doesn’t give home addresses, for obvious reasons. No-one wants people they used to know, but never really liked, turning up on their doorsteps.
So, no addresses; but plenty of pictures of Arnie and his friends having just so much fun in local bars about Manchester. It was simple enough to identify those bars; I’d been in most of them myself. Now, the one that got him for me was the Hairy Hound. It’s not a terrible pub, but no-one would voluntarily travel to be subjected to its somewhat basic facilities, and Arnie was there nearly every week, according to his posts. Which meant that he lived in Didsbury; a part of Manchester that was once thriving and the place to be, but is now…not. So, I took a quick look at the electoral register for Didsbury and there he was; 46 Grove Grove.
