Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  He rose and stormed out of the kitchen, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Urban-Smith regarded me suspiciously. “Did you really urinate into your tea?”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  *

  On my way to work, I decided to pick up a broadsheet, so I stopped at a local tobacconists and purchased a copy of The Daily Walnut (‘give us this day our Daily Walnut,’ as the advert insists) to see if I they may have printed a less hysterical account of the LOL curse.

  I was not disappointed; indeed, no other newspaper seems to retain the ability to suck the excitement out of a story quite as dependably as The Walnut. In addition to pushing the story back to page twelve, they had managed to inject an air of sobriety and tedium into what I felt was a singularly intriguing sequence of events. I gave up after the first two paragraphs and, consigning the wretched edition to the recycle receptacle, I pushed on with my duties.

  Urban-Smith texted me at lunchtime. “Ive arranged a mtg W d Russian mltry attaché Maksim Smirnitsky 2moz @ 2pm.”

  I texted back, “I shll B spending d dy chppng up stiffs.”

  “Splndid,” he replied. “B sr 2 wsh yr hnds aftrwrds.”

  *

  Since moving to London, I had rather allowed my social life to atrophy, and so I decided to launch myself into the heady world of online dating. It may surprise you to learn that a mortuary is not the optimum environment for meeting members of the fairer sex and, although I am not a choosy man, I do prefer my potential romantic attachments to be endowed with a pulse.

  That evening, as Mrs Denford was clearing away the supper pots, I fired up the old laptop and registered with a site called, ‘Find True Love.’ With hope in my heart, I set about the unenviable task of trying to reduce myself to several lines of witty yet intriguing prose.

  Sat at the kitchen table with Urban-Smith gazing attentively over my shoulder, I tapped away at my computer keyboard hoping that, like the infinite number of monkeys at their typewriters, I might inadvertently concoct a Shakespearean masterpiece.

  “How long has it been since you enjoyed a romantic liaison?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “I have not enjoyed a meaningful relationship since the Palaeolithic,” I replied a little sadly. “My last girlfriend was a hylobate.”

  Eventually, after much hand wringing and gnashing of brain-cells, I produced the following;

  ‘Username: Medical_Miracle

  Gender: male

  Age: 30

  Location: Marylebone, London

  Height: 5 feet, 5 ½ inches

  Physique: ample

  Hair colour: dark brown

  Eye colour: dark brown

  Relationship status: Code Blue

  Children: need not apply; over-18s only please

  Diet: omnivorous

  Smoking: I like to think so

  Alcohol: social

  Occupation: doctor

  Ethnicity: Caucasian

  Religion: non-practising atheist

  Pet Hates: flesh-eating bacteria, road traffic accidents, poor grammar

  Likes: conversation (optional), fine dining (optional), romance (optional), physical intimacy

  Ideal Partner: not too tall, mostly symmetrical, no previous convictions

  Who is Medical_Miracle?

  I am an honest, cultured man-about-town, generous to my friends and kind to strangers and the downtrodden. I am warm, compassionate and sensitive, yet rugged and strong, often pausing mid-sentence to gaze distractedly into the distance or perhaps construct a haiku or chōka.’

  “Do you really write haiku, Rupert?”

  I cleared my throat dramatically.

  “Behind the chip shop,

  Passion seizes us fiercely.

  Her chips lay scattered.”

  I glanced up and observed Mrs Denford glowering at me. “Are you alright, Mrs Denford?”

  She continued to glower. “I don’t approve of online dating sites, Doctor, indeed I don’t. They’re a cesspit of promiscuity, perversion and debauchery!”

  “From your mouth to God’s ear, Mrs Denford.”

  “Tsch!” Mrs Denford was unimpressed. “Well, it’s no business of mine how you satisfy your libido, so long as you don’t go ramming it down my throat.”

  “In that regard, Mrs Denford, I give you my solemn promise.”

  *

  After supper, Urban-Smith and I retired to the living room to watch the news headlines.

  “Shares in all four of the major mobile telephone networks have plummeted today in the wake of the LOL curse which has continued to mystify experts,” intoned the newsreader solemnly. As she spoke, the screen was blighted by footage of a throng of traders shouting into their headsets or handsets and waving their trading slips in the air.

  “Do you see what I see, Fairfax?”

  “If you see a bunch of overpaid morons flapping their arms and asking for a good punch up the bracket, then indeed I do,” he replied, “but I suspect you are referring to the potential economic catastrophe that would result if the LOL curse were unleashed upon the trading floor.” He stretched and placed his arms behind his head. “I must confess to a degree of ambivalence about the eventuality. On the one hand, the world would be plunged into chaos; on the other, we would be rid of these insufferable, pompous imbeciles.”

  The LOL curse was the lead story. Detective Inspector Gadget had given a press conference in which he huffed and puffed and promised to move Heaven and Earth in pursuit of justice. There were further reassurances from representatives of the mobile telephone networks, and the obligatory on-the-street interviews where the general consensus was that, ‘something has to be done!’

  Urban-Smith muted the television. “I think that our adversary will shortly be playing his hand,” he observed.

  “How so?”

  “You know of David Icke?”

  I indicated affirmation.

  “Well,” he continued, “he has termed the expression, problem-reaction-solution to describe a situation in which an unsavoury political agenda can be introduced by manipulating events to sway public opinion.

  “Let me explain via an example. Let us say, for instance, that you were the parent of a young child, and I were the Department of National Security and Intelligence. What if I were to ask for your consent to implant your child with a microchip that would allow me to track their movements? What would your answer be, and why?”

  “No, of course,” I replied without hesitation. “It would represent a flagrant invasion of privacy and subjugation of personal liberty.”

  “Indeed it would,” he agreed, “but what if during the last three months, over two dozen children had been abducted from different parts of London, only to turn up dismembered a few days later? And what if the latest victim lived in your street? What then if I were to offer that same microchip with the assurance that if your child disappeared, armed police officers could be at their location within the hour? Would you then consider it?”

  I pondered for a few moments. “Yes. I believe that in those circumstances, I would be willing to consider the idea.”

  “Of course you would, Rupert, as would any parent. Therefore, if I wish to introduce my microchip agenda, I can simply arrange the abduction and murder of perhaps fifteen to thirty young children to induce a state of hysteria and paranoia. My idea, which initially appeared so abhorrent, now seems quite reasonable; desirable even.”

  I shuddered. The idea was grotesque, but all too believable. “Where do you think this is leading?”

  “It is my belief that there will be a call for a public enquiry, and then the agenda shall be paraded before us. There may be no need for that further killing that I predicted. Despite your convictions, this goes rather further than Dr Grove or indeed any one man.”

  “I am beginning to recognise that.” I rose from the settee. “I must away to The Blue Belvoir to mull over all that we have discussed. Do you care to join me?”

  “No thank you, Rupert. I ha
ve to complete this painting.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “I have been asked to exhibit a collection of my abstracts for the Women’s Institute.”

  “Really?” said I, grimacing at his latest monstrosity. “I would think your artwork more suited to the National Institute for the Blind.”

  ◆◆◆

  12. PLAYING THE WAITING GAME

  Wednesday 8th November

  After a busy day of giving evidence in court and dictating reports, I arrived back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews a little after five and headed straight upstairs to shower away the day’s tribulations. I joined Urban-Smith for supper at around six, and whilst awaiting the delights of Mrs Denford’s culinary creations, I fired up my trusty laptop and logged into my Find True Love account.

  Much to my delight, Urban-Smith’s surprise and Mrs Denford’s disgust, my online dating profile had generated some welcome interest, and I had already received the profiles and photographs of eight candidates. Being, as I am, in possession of but one pair of loving arms, I had to eliminate some suspects and decided to thin the herd on the basis of evident psychopathology.

  To this end, I began by rejecting Bunny_Boiler69, Lady_Limpet, Gr8Mum2B and Anna-Rex1c, leaving me with four potential suitors who all seemed to be of sound counsel. Of these, one was of pensionable age, one would only date strictly orthodox atheists, and one was allergic to alcohol; thus did FunGrl_Nell ascend to dominance in the ranks.

  ‘Who is FunGrl_Nell?

  I am a fun-loving, flexible and athletic woman who has only recently come out of a long-term, serious relationship and is looking for fun, fun, fun and maybe a little sex.

  I enjoy good conversation, romance and kinky bondage. I hate children, and at the merest mention of commitment, there will be a Nell-shaped hole in the nearest wall as I disappear into the distance.’

  Now, like most single men, I yearn for a long-term, monogamous relationship and am appalled at the thought of casual sex with a beautiful young woman, but if we Harkers are anything, it is chivalrous, and I felt it only fair to try to accommodate her preferences.

  “She seems a good match for you, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith approvingly.

  “Absolutely,” I concurred. “Just the right blend of l’esprit sans souci, et santé mentale satisfaisant (the carefree spirit and satisfactory mental health). I shall message her forthwith and arrange a meeting of minds.”

  Having agreed upon the suitability of FunGrl_Nell, we consumed our supper enthusiastically before retiring to the living room for coffee.

  “What impression did you formulate of the Military Attaché?” I enquired of Urban-Smith.

  “Here,” he replied, handing me his notepad, “I have made a sketch for you.”

  I inspected the picture.

  “Was he actually wearing a frock and playing the cello during your meeting?” I asked hopefully.

  “Sadly not. I confess to applying a little artistic improvisation. The beard and spectacles however are an accurate facsimile.”

  “Why is a gorilla throwing darts at his head?”

  “Also, regrettably, a fanciful embellishment. As to the meeting itself, I am afraid that Wendell proved correct about the tight-lipped nature of our Russian comrades. I outlined for Colonel Smirnitsky my suspicion that Professor Gorshkov and Doctor Dolfin had worked for the KGB and that their research may prove pertinent to the situation, but he would not be drawn. Apparently that information is highly classified.”

  “So a wasted journey then?”

  “Perhaps not entirely,” said Urban-Smith. “The Colonel did agree to pass on my concerns to his superiors and offered to assist in our enquiries in any way that would not compromise the security of the Russian Federation. For now, we appear to have the Consulate’s blessing to proceed with our investigations.”

  “We don’t seem to be making much headway at present,” I grumbled.

  Urban-Smith concurred with my sentiments. “Despite my assertion that we should not allow things to continue, there seems no option other than to play the waiting game. We currently have no suspects and no useful leads, but hopefully the police will fare better.”

  “Any news of Officer Gribble?”

  “Wendell texted me earlier. No change, I’m afraid.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “It is almost seven o’clock; turn on the television and let us see if there have been further developments.”

  Inspector Gad-jay had given another press conference, reassuring the public that every endeavour was being taken to catch the culprit or culprits responsible for the LOL curse.

  There was much shouting and waving for attention from the assorted gentlemen of the press. Inspector Gad-jay indicated a young man in the first row and the cacophony died down to a gentle murmur.

  “Inspector Gadget,” began the intrepid journalist, but was stopped mid-sentence by a flying glass of water.

  “It’s GAD-JAY, you [bleep],” roared Inspector Gadget. Urban-Smith and I howled with laugher as the camera panned in on the DI’s crimson face and gnashing teeth.

  “Erm, Inspector Gad-jay?” Another brave reporter had stepped up to the breech. “Is there any truth to the rumour that the police are being assisted by author, detective and paranormal investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith?”

  “[Bleep],” screamed Inspector Gadget, waving his arms and searching for a missile to hurl. “[Bleep, bleep, bleeeeeeep]!”

  “My goodness,” I gasped between guffaws. “I hope there are no lip readers of a sensitive disposition watching tonight’s bulletin.”

  The remainder of the news brought us no new developments, so I decided to turn my attention to more pressing matters. FunGrl_Nell had replied to my invitation, and we had arranged to meet on Saturday evening. We were to dine together before moving on to the Criterion to see, ‘The 39 Steps,’ last-minute tickets for which were only available at an exorbitant price, but would hopefully be worth their weight in physical intimacy.

  Urban-Smith was fiddling at his laptop and distracting me from my e-mails.

  “What are you up to?” I muttered irritably.

  “I am examining that sound-file from Wendell.”

  “Good God, man,” I spluttered, “be careful. Don’t kill me two days before a date.”

  “If all goes as expected, you may wish I had.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence.” I leaned over to look at the screen, but I could make neither head nor tail of it.

  “Does it speak volumes to you?” I asked.

  “Not really. All I can say is that it is a repeating sequence. I have forwarded it to my brother, Ulysses, for his analysis. He is a genius at mathematics and has an elementary understanding of acoustics. He promises to look at it, but not listen to it, this weekend.”

  “What is his field of academia?”

  “Particle physics.”

  “Muons and gluons and the like?”

  “Yes, that’s the sort of thing. All gibberish to me, I’m afraid.”

  I turned my attention again to the screen of Urban-Smith’s laptop. “Is that voice-recognition software?”

  “No, just a normal sound-file editing program, but I do have some voice-recognition software on here. I did some research a few years ago into sneeze-recognition as a potential method for identifying burglars.” He laughed at the recollection. “I designed a security system by which an intruder would be exposed to an inhaled irritant which would cause them to sneeze. The recorded sneeze could then be used later to identify the culprit. Stupid idea really, but it is interesting that every person’s sneeze is as unique as a fingerprint and very difficult to disguise.”

  I nodded. “You are entirely correct; it is a stupid idea.” I eyed him closely, as he appeared to have entered into a stupor, gazing blankly straight ahead. “Are you alright, Fairfax?” I leaned in a little further. “Are you auditioning for Madame Tussauds?”

  “Iris-recognition scanner,” he murmured. “As individual as a fingerprint.” He turned to me, suddenly alert. “Sinc
e the introduction of the upgraded security measures at the Metrosexual, if one wished to infiltrate Dr Dolfin’s laboratory, one would require more than simply his ID card.”

  “Good gracious!” I cried. “You think somebody may have stolen his eye?”

  “It is not beyond the realms,” replied Urban-Smith. “If the eye had been replaced post-mortem, would that be apparent during the autopsy?”

  “Only if the attending pathologist removed the glass eye and inspected the socket, and I must confess that I did not.”

  “Is Doctor Dolfin still resident at your mortuary?”

  “No. He has been moved to one of the local undertakers.” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly fatigued. “I cannot re-examine the body without permission. I shall have to contact Scotland Yard first thing and liaise with DS McKendal.”

  “This is thick, Rupert.” Urban-Smith muttered darkly. “It would be best if I were to accompany you.”

  ◆◆◆

  13. HE THAT WOULD MEET THE COLONEL MUST CRACK THE NUT

  Thursday 9th November

  I rose at seven, shaved and showered, and was at the breakfast table by half past. Urban-Smith was already knee deep in his bacon, eggs, soldiers et al. He mumbled a greeting at me through his crammed maw, and I took a moment to enjoy this rare occasion of his being unable to speak.

  “Anything interesting in the paper?” I enquired, liberating his morning edition which he had set aside to facilitate the stoking of his boiler with both paws.

  “Mmph, mmmbgh!” He spluttered and waved his arms, clearly objecting to my presumptuousness.

  “Keep it, you say?” I replied, moving my chair out of arm’s reach. “How very generous, Fairfax.” I unfolded the paper to peruse the front page.

  The Scrump’s headline was ‘HOOOAAALLL!’ beneath which was an aerial photograph of a large hole in the ground. There were a few police cars in attendance and a temporary barricade erected, with a small crowd gathered to observe the proceedings.