by Robert Wilde
She was soon at the shed, which remained in the darkness she’d left it, she had to scrabble slightly to find her lamp, but switching it on produced light and she was soon closing the wooden doors behind her. Inside stood a workshop, complete with oh so many interesting tools, and on the floor ahead of her was a small child tied up with duct tape.
She smiled, stood over the child, and put the lamp carefully down. She’d start with a knife, the knife she’d carried for several years now and never been able to truly use, she’d start with the knife and complete herself. It was pulled from a pocket, extended, and she bent slightly over. Could she smell fear? Was that it? Could her nostrils really detect that? And the child was quivering, excellent, all these details she hadn’t noticed before! It was better, it was better already and she hadn’t even made a single cut!
“Excuse me Bitchcakes.”
Madame Ovary jerked up at the voice and turned. A figure had unwound itself from under a table to her right, and a tall, thin redhead was also in the room. Ovary smiled, raised the knife, and said “I hope you’re good with a blade.”
Dee smiled, let Ovary get within arm’s length, then made her scream and drop to the floor. “No, but I’m wicked with a Taser.” Then Dee dived to the stunned figure, put the Taser to its neck and pressed the button for a long while.
When she’d finished, Dee made sure to handcuff the unconscious woman to a piece of immovable machinery, and she went to the child, who she swiftly cut free.
“Right, hush for a bit longer, we can get you out of here now.” Then she picked it up and went back out into the night.
An hour later, and Dee and Jeff were sat on the bonnet of a car, overlooking the wood.
“Are you going to tell me that was a stupid thing to do?”
“No, no. You got there before we could have done. You saved a life. I can’t tell you not to keep doing that.”
“Well that’s a change.”
“People get better, don’t they?”
“Do you, as a detective, believe that?”
“Well, no. But I can get better, can’t I?”
Dee smiled and nodded. “Yes, yes you can. Now, I think we all need a nap. After some food obviously. You must owe me a meal after this.”
Twelve: Press Ganged
Dee twisted the metallic head, and it clicked into place on a construct which now rose before her.
“Ooh, it feels good to have hands again,” Joe said, waggling his fingers and the other parts of his hands and feet.
“Good, just a shame you can’t eat any of the takeaway Jeff bought.”
His face didn’t move, or it would have frowned. “Oh yeah, no curry. Or jelly and ice cream.”
“Now you sound three years old.”
“I like jelly and ice cream!”
“Well come down anyway, we’re all here.”
Joe picked himself off the bed in the spare room, followed Dee down the stairs and froze like a mechanical statue, because while Dee had been putting him together upstairs Nazir, Pohl and the newly arrived Jeff had unpacked balloons and a banner declaring Happy Birthday.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t,” he began. “But really you should, this is amazing!”
“We decided that you were technically alive and birthdays still counted,” Dee explained.
“Well, we did weigh up the chance you’d be really upset and try to cry into your cake all evening.”
“You’re all heart Nazir, all heart.”
“He’s knows I’m joking, don’t you, you metal bastard.”
“Well if he didn’t he could tear your head off,” Jeff noted.
“So,” Dee said coming into the room. “We thought about what to get you as a present? What does a ghost need now he’s got a body?”
“A realistic face mask?” Joe tried.
“We saw the website and those real costumes look too freaky. So we thought something practical, a day trip out.”
“Now who sounds three years old?”
“We are going to finally give in and take you and your speaking box round the sites of the Jack the Ripper murders.”
“Mexican Wave!”
“I knew he’d be excited,” Pohl confirmed to the room.
“A little too excited,” Jeff smiled back.
Soon Dee had picked up a picnic and the group were in the car. Dee turned the radio on, but found out it was still two people talking about the new king.
“Will it ever end,” she moaned.
“Presumably after the coronation.”
“Did you see the newspapers the other day?” Jeff began, “one had a full two page spread about how the royal family is cursed.”
“Cursed? As in witches and Egyptians and stuff?”
“Yes Naz.”
“In a newspaper? Why doesn’t that surprise me.”
“Well, funny you should say that, do any of you, in your experience doing all this weird stuff, think curses are real?”
“Curses?”
“Yes…” Jeff said beginning to wonder if he was getting through.
“Bullshit on toast,” Joe said.
“I would agree with you,” Jeff explained, “but I am talking to a ghost in a metal body, and a woman who got possessed is driving, so am I open to these weird things happening now.”
“He has a point,” Pohl began, “we can’t rule these unusual events out anymore.”
“I expected better of you professor,” Joe said. “There’s no mechanism for curses, they just don’t happen.”
“But you do concede it's strange watching you say that.”
If Joe could have looked at Jeff with hurt then, he would have. But he couldn’t, so he just harrumphed.
“No curse then,” Dee said, “so the royals have just been very fucking unlucky.”
“We could go and speak to the gho…”
“No!”
The conversation continued as Dee drove, before they were parking up and walking through London. “I assume you can direct us Joe?”
“Yes, left here.”
“Yunno, I looked up Jack the Ripper tour guides on the web,” Nazir began, but soon had to face down criticism.
“You did what?”
“I was interested.”
“Were you trying new ways to meet men?”
“Anyway, a review criticised a guide for knowing too much about the ripper case.”
“What, he’s a walking encyclopaedia so that means he’s going to cut you up too?”
Joe interjected “Maybe he’s a reincarnation!”
“Stop getting over excited. I do like the idea you can freak people out just by being too good at Ripper tours. We may have to use that information. ” Dee looked around. “Right, are we here?”
“Yes!” Joe exclaimed.
“And are there any ghosts?”
“Yes!”
“And are they connected to Jack the Ripper!”
A pause. Then Joe explained, “sadly no. Guy who fell off his bike in the eighties.”
“So no ripper victim?” Dee checked.
“None.”
“Arse. Well, still four to go.”
“If we’re being canonical…” Joe cautioned.
“Do I even want to know what that means?”
Then they were off walking through the streets, doing as best they could to reach the very spots where people were killed. They were followed, completely accidentally, by a couple who had their maps and guides out and were doing the grand murder tour for purely tourism reason. Unfortunately, the living were the only people at each of the five sites, as none were being haunted by Ripper Victims.
As the group returned to their car they sat and pondered.
“Well I’m sorry Joe, I thought you’d have a great birthday but it turns out everyone is elsewhere. And we can’t even get you a cake to make up for it.”
“That’s alright, really.”
“Did you say there were other victims?”
“It’s dark now, we’re ti
red, I understand if we all go home and get ready for a new day. I do. But I’ve had loads of fun and I really enjoyed visiting all the sites. Thank you all. If I was allowed in the construct outside I’d have shaken all your hands.”
“Hugs!” Nazir protested.
“You’re brave. Right then, might as well pick up takeaway for tea too on the way home. Jeff, are you staying for the evening?”
“Yes, yes I will. It’s been an enlightening day off. Even if there aren’t curses.”
“We all know we’ll end up getting drunk tonight, searching for it on the web and then trying it out.”
“Dee, I suspect you have a point.”
“At least Joe will always be sober enough to put us in the recovery position.”
Dee bought the car to a halt, and they’d only reached the entrance to her street. Unfortunately the whole road was packed, with cars and vans everywhere.
“Did we miss the filming of a television show or something?” she sighed, and everyone was now looking outside the vehicle.
“It is strangely busy,” Pohl noted.
“Probably some awesome party we’ve not been invited to because we’re too weird,” Joe sighed, giving away he was thinking of numerous events from his past.
“Hey, we’re on our way to your awesome party Joe!”
“Oh, yes sorry, but you know what I mean.”
“Right, I’ll park up here and we’ll have to walk down. More exercise won’t kill us.”
They were soon moving down the path, complaining about parking. “You’d think these people were colour blind and didn’t see the grass they’re churning up.”
“Hey,” Nazir said, “there’s a big scrum of people ahead.”
They looked, and growing in size and clarity was a large group. As they neared they saw unusual objects. “That looks like a proper television camera,” Nazir noted.
“Something’s happened,” Dee concluded correctly, “that isn’t an awesome party, it’s a pack of journalists.”
“God,” and Pohl inhaled sharply, “I hope there hasn’t been some horrible crime.”
“You mean besides all the ones that give us work?”
“When did you become funny Jeff?”
“Thanks Dee, you’re all about the ego boost.”
“Can anyone tell what house it’s at?”
“Looks near us, maybe our neighbour has been burying people in his garden.”
“That would be the easiest case ever.”
“Certainly on the travel expenses.”
But as they came closer, they realised something. “Oh Jesus, they’re outside our house.”
A few seconds later one journalist turned, saw the group, and began to shout. Then the mass of journalists, collective noun ‘a shit’, turned and advanced, lights flashing, people braying.
“Dee Nettleship, Dee Nettleship!”
Dee and her group stopped, stunned, as this barrage of lights and voices. “What?” was all she could say.
“Do you think the allegations are true? Do you have any comment? What do you say to the press?”
“What, what?”
“The story in the Standard,” and a journo waved a paper at her. She snatched it to read, but Jeff nodded to Pohl, and they both took Dee’s hands and forced their way through the scrum and into Dee’s house before closing the door.
“Okay, what is this about,” Dee said, looking at the front page. There was a picture of King Charles, there was a headline: “Exclusive: DNA Evidence Reveals King’s Love Child.”
“They think King Charles has a lovechild?” Dee said confused and began reading, but the others were ahead. “Hang on. Hang on. One fucking minute. Dee Nettleship. That’s me. That’s fucking me. They think there’s DNA showing my father is King Charles? What utter fucking bullshit.”
“Did anyone ever mention anything like that?” Nazir asked.
“No they didn’t. I know my dad, my dad was torn apart by aliens. Why the fuck have they picked on me?”
“It says the evidence is on pages two through eight.”
“That’s a lot of fucking pages. Someone get me a vodka while we look at what fuckity they’ve printed.
The paper was dropped on the kitchen table, and they studied. Ten minutes later, Dee had a vodka and coke in her stomach and a head full of confusion.
“They have a lot of detail in this,” Pohl said, scratching her cheek.
“You’re a historian, does this look right?”
“Well it doesn’t look wrong.”
“This can’t be right, my mother never met King Charles.”
“Apart from the times this shows she did.”
“And it could be anyone’s DNA.”
“Except the test matches yours.”
“Fuck, right, no fucker is going to believe this are they. I’m going to go and talk to them.”
“Who?”
“The press!”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea…”
But Dee had already got halfway down the corridor. The door was thrown open and Dee walked to the edge of the maelstrom.
“What’s it like to be a princess?” someone shouted.
“Do you all believe this?” she asked.
“What?”
“You, your papers, people. Do they actually believe that my father is… do they?”
“Palace haven’t issued a statement. Standard’s an evening paper. But polls saying yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
An aide stood outside a palace door, waiting, as another rushed up.
“Where is he?”
“He’s inside, he just wanted a moment.”
“Okay, okay, but the press are taking this seriously, the rest are running with it.”
“The bloody vultures. A man loses his sons, his grandchildren and his mother, and the press want to force a false daughter on him!”
“Have you read their evidence?”
“What?”
“Have you actually read it?”
“No…”
“Well, I suggest you go and do so. We’re not going to get him out of this by saying it’s all a lie. We are not talking about a photoshop here, or a rumour, we are talking about evidence which, as far as our team can discover as they check it all themselves, is looking genuine.”
“What? But he wouldn’t, he couldn’t…”
“We are not looking at containing a scandal here, we are looking at containing a new heir.”
“I see…”
“Well you don’t, evidently, you’re not sweating. Has he been inside there long?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Err…”
“Your Highness! Your Highness are you alright?” A pause. “Shit, we have to go in.”
“We don’t burst in on his Highness.”
“This isn’t Stalin,” and a door handle was turned and wood thrown open. The aides then rushed over to where a man was laying on the floor.
“Shit, shit, take his pulse…”
“He’s… he’s dead. Not him too. Not him too… now it’ll be Anne.”
“Will it? The press just found a closer claimant.”
Both aides looked at each other. That seemed far too much of a co-incidence.
“Did he open that window?”
“I don’t recall.”
“No one could have got in here and… could they?”
“No.”
A cushion flew over Jeff’s head. He then paused, stood slightly, checked to see he had really been missed, and then looked over at Dee. “Be careful,” he said, knowing he’d made no difference whatsoever.
Then he ducked, because she’d picked up another cushion and thrown it over her shoulder. When Jeff turned back he was able to see Dee pick up the now uncovered box, dump it on her bed, and start looking through the contents.
“What’s that?” Jeff asked, coming over, holding the drawer he was supposed to be looking through.
>
“Mum’s diaries.”
“Oh wow, you kept her diaries?”
“I could never bring myself to throw them out. That’s looking like a winning idea so far. You found anything in that drawer?”
“Erm, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.”
Dee sighed. “We are going to tear this house apart until we have been through everything I kept of my parents, because someone, just once, please god once, can there be some mention that makes sense of all this.”
“Ah, so your mum’s diaries…”
“Yes. I’ve read them…”
“You have?”
“What, that’s not weird.”
“It’s weird.”
“Maybe with your parents. Anyway, I have read them and she doesn’t mention boinking Prince Charles, but maybe there’s some sort of code or reference or something. You found anything in that drawer?”
“This is everything relating to house sales in your family for three generations.”
“Good, and?”
“Well there isn’t an invoice paid by the royal family if that’s what you’re after.”
“Fuckity fuck fuck. Go and see how they’re getting on downstairs.”
Jeff nodded, left Dee’s bedroom and was soon in the living room.
“How’s she taking it?” Pohl asked.
“I think she’s on the line between grudging acceptance and firebombing the journalists. She’s still looking for a sign.”
“Well, we got nowhere down here unless you want a Da Vinci Code level of symbolism bullshit,” Joe explained.
“That’s what I find bizarre,” Jeff said, leaning against the wall. “Normally that’s what these stories are, some far-fetched symbolism, a drug addicted eyewitness, a timetable that can be disproved. But this… this is just silly. And very possibly real.”
“She’s going to need us,” and Pohl saw the two men and one machine nod agreement with her. Jeff was happy to be included in the nodding, as he was obviously being welcomed back into the inner circle. Not that this was a great time to be the inner anything.
“Are they all still out there?” Jeff asked.
“Even more of them, and some sort of commotion, as if something else has happened.”
