Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  “And you conducted your experiments using low-frequency sound waves?” I clarified.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “And how did the rats respond?”

  “By collapsing and dying; very much like their human counterparts.” The Professor sighed, crestfallen. “I was devastated. Everything I had been working for, come to nought. What was I to do? My chances of nomination for a Nobel Prize died with those rats. I spoke to Ulyana of retirement, but she had other ideas; she could see the potential value of my discovery to certain organisations, and she still had contacts from her days in the KGB.”

  “Your wife was in the KGB?”

  “Of course. It was she that put my name forward for the original Project Tremble.”

  “How did she contact Schwarzkröte?” I asked.

  “Through a third party; I don’t know who. Ulyana was always very reluctant to give me too much information in case a situation such as this should arise.”

  “So your wife contacted Schwarzkröte via an intermediary?”

  “Yes. Via text or e-mail, I believe.”

  “But you don’t know the number or the e-mail address?”

  “No.”

  I signalled Urban-Smith with a slight incline of the head, and he sidled over and began running his hand through the Professor’s sparse hair.

  “Nostrum Gorshkov-kebab cotidianum da nobis hodie (give us this day our daily Gorshkov-kebab).”

  “It’s true, it’s true, it’s true. Please. I don’t know.”

  I tilted my chin at Urban-Smith, and he backed into the corner, hissing like an angry tomcat.

  “Alright,” I said. “What happened after your wife spoke to Schwarzkröte?”

  “We heard nothing for a few weeks and carried on as normal until the end of September, when Ulyana received his telephone call, outlining his plans. He offered us twelve million dollars for our assistance, with a further three if we could secure the services of Dr Dolfin.

  “Our first task was to establish whether the signal would have the same effect on humans as it had on rats. I asked a friend of mine, a Professor of mathematics, to devise an algorithm to convert the signal to one which would cause resonation in a structure several hundred times larger, but of similar shape and density.

  “At this time, my mother was in the final stages of cancer. She was heavily sedated and unable to communicate. I set the signal as a ringtone on a mobile telephone, placed it beside her ear, and then retreated to a safe distance and rang the number.” His lip trembled, and a tear ran down his cheek. “It seemed the kindest thing to end her suffering.”

  Professor Gorshkov took a few deep breaths through gritted teeth, trying to maintain his composure, but he was deeply moved, and it was some little time before he could speak once more. “Having established the effectiveness of the method, I staged a break-in at the centre, liberated all necessary equipment and files, and secreted everything safely away in the attic. The rest, I think you know.”

  Urban-Smith came to my side, removing his skullcap, cross and dental prosthetic as he did so.

  “You!” gasped the Professor. “You are not The Pope! You are Fairfax Urban-Smith; author, detective, paranormal investigator and scourge of the criminal underworld.”

  Urban-Smith threw back his head and issued a short bark of triumphant laughter. “The very same.”

  “You have bitten me on the shoulder.” Professor Gorshkov looked anxiously to me. “Do I need an inoculation?”

  I shook my head reassuringly.

  “What do you know of this free app that is to be unleashed upon the public?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “I know nothing of that. Ulyana and I were to take the money and run, but after your press conference, we knew that you were close to uncovering our deception and had to be disposed of.” He tilted his head quizzically. “How is it that you survived the telephone call?”

  “I used filtering software.”

  “Why target the Russian Ambassador?” I asked. “Surely Schwarzkröte realised that it would provoke the FSB?”

  The Professor cursed. “That was Ulyana’s idea. I warned her against it, but she thought that we could extort more money. I could not dissuade her.”

  “The Americans have a quaint expression,” said Urban-Smith. “Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.”

  “What will Schwarzkröte do now?” I asked. “Will he contact the Russian Embassy to negotiate your release?”

  Professor Gorshkov hung his head. “I have served my purpose; it is Ulyana he wants. He needs her for the next phase of the plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It seemed that we had gleaned as much as there was to glean from the interview, and I rose to leave.

  “Doctor Harker.”

  I paused. “Yes, Professor?”

  “You and I are but pawns in this game. I need not remind you what happens to pawns.”

  *

  With the interview concluded, Urban-Smith and I were escorted back to the deckhouse and into the compass bridge where Colonel Smirnitsky was waiting for us.

  “What is to become of him?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “He will come to Moscow,” said the Colonel. “My superiors think he may be of some value.” He lit a cigar and puffed contentedly on it. “You have done well. You will not find our generosity lacking.”

  “Thank you, Colonel, but what do you intend to do about the wife?”

  “The question is,” said Colonel Smirnitsky, “what does she intend to do about you?”

  ◆◆◆

  22. SOLILOQUIES

  Thursday 16th November

  I overslept on Thursday morning, and it was after eight when I finally staggered unshowered and unshaven into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing my eyes.

  “Good morning, Rupert. I trust that you slept well.”

  “Yes, thank you, Fairfax.” I spied a copy of The Scrump folded upon the table. “Anything of note in the paper?”

  “Absolutely. That footballer’s wife has had her breasts enlarged. There is a four-page spread and an editorial on the subject.” Urban-Smith held up the front page to show me the headline, ‘Perkham Up, Darlin!’

  “Oh,” he added, “there has also been an explosion in a Delhi shoe factory; hundreds dead apparently. I think there was a paragraph about it in here somewhere.” He rummaged through the paper. “Ah yes, page twenty. Just below the story about a man with a tattoo of Ant and Dec on his scrotum; one on each side.”

  “Nothing about the Gorshkovs yet?”

  “No, not yet,” he confirmed, passing me the newspaper. “And what of yourself, Rupert? What plans have you for this evening?”

  “I am taking Nell out for dinner. We’re going to try that Elizabethan-theatre themed restaurant in Mayfair.” I stopped to accept a cup of fresh tea and a plate of eggs and bacon from Mrs Denford. “I have to pop into town before work to find her a gift.”

  “Well, Rupert, I wish you the best of British.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Mrs Denford shot off at a tangent, returning moments later with a package for Urban-Smith. He fondled it briefly, then set it aside and turned his attention to the toast and marmalade while I immersed myself in The Scrump.

  I gave the package no further thought during the day, for the mortuary was extremely busy with the victims of a murder, a motorcycle accident and a suicide by hanging all arriving overnight. In view of my late start, I had to work through until six without a break and arrived back at my lodgings with barely half an hour to spare before my taxicab was due.

  I showered, put on my nattiest tweed suit, suede shoes and gingham tie, plastered down my hair, polished my glasses, and was at the kerbside just as my taxi arrived to whisk me away to Nell’s Ealing flat. Upon my arrival at Saville Towers, I instructed the driver to wait for me and scuttled up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me to hammer on Nell’s door.

  Nell looked wonderful in her blue dress, and we exchanged
compliments before I presented her gift, a gold necklace with a pendant in the shape of a cheddar cheese.

  “Oh, Rupert,” she cooed. “It’s beautiful. I have a pair of cracker-shaped earrings that would match it perfectly.”

  Once pleasantries and kisses had been shared, we were driven to Soliloquies restaurant in Mayfair. Nell had heard of it, but neither of us had dined there, and it was with great excitement that we exited our cab and bounded into the eatery where we were greeted by the maître d’, whose status was demonstrated by the voluminous nature of his clothes. His crimson doublet was swelled with padding, buttoned at the front and extended down below the hips like a skirt. From around his neck, a laced ruff projected almost half a yard, and hose bulged like car airbags from his thighs, yet were drawn in tightly at the knees, perhaps to prevent a ferret or other small mammal from gaining access from beneath. His pointed shoes were decorated with feathers and bows, and his beard was dyed bright red and trimmed to a point.

  “Tonight’s spécialité de la maison is bawdy comedy in loose iambic tetrameter,” he announced with a bow.

  “Ooh, that sounds good,” crooned Nell.

  We were shown to our table, which was adorned with gaily coloured tablecloth and flowers, a stark contrast to the neighbouring tables which were drab and scattered with blood-stained daggers and animal bones.

  “They must have ordered the Shakespearean tragedy,” I observed. “I hear it is quite something.”

  Nell took my hand and smiled. “I’m in the mood for comedy.”

  A slender young woman dressed as a court jester skipped over to our table, spinning her staff, her cap ‘n’ bells jingling on her head. She produced two menus from heaven-knows-where and, handing us one apiece, proceeded to clear her throat in a prolonged and exaggerated fashion before launching into her verse.

  “Welcome to our humble venue.

  Cast your eye upon our menu.

  Our starters will amaze the pallet,

  And beat your taste buds with a mallet.

  Our veg are crisp and oh-so-tender,

  Our salads healthy to keep you slender.

  Our wine list bursts with vintage booze.

  So much, dear friends, for you to choose.

  Our steak is perfect for the chewing.

  The cow has only just stopped mooing.

  Our chicken has just ceased to cluck.

  Barely has the quack left our duck.

  Our fish is fine as fine can be,

  Not long since hoisted from the sea,

  So be assured our meat is fresh.

  Fear not to order your pound of flesh.”

  We applauded her roundly, and off she pranced with a, “hey, nonny-no.” We perused the menu while all around us diners were regaled with sonnets, songs, soliloquies and jokes.

  The air was filled with alas, poor Yorick’s and who ever that loved’s, and presently there appeared at my elbow a moustachioed youth, clad in green tights and tunic, and an impressive red codpiece which Nell eyed with curiosity.

  “How very dapper,” she said approvingly. “You should invest in one, Rupert.”

  Our waiter shook his head vigorously and, retrieving a lute from a passing minstrel, stated his case.

  ♫ “A codpiece I would not suggest.

  Although the girls may be impressed,

  I really do not recommend it.

  To fit mine in, I have to bend it.

  The tights are quite another matter,

  I fear they make my bum seem fatter.

  They flatter not my chunky thighs.

  I should have worn a larger size.” ♪

  While Nell continued to admire our serenader’s bulging outerwear, I enquired after some restorative libation and was answered with a wine menu and further verse.

  ♫ “The wine list here is quite extensive.

  Many can prove most expensive,

  But sure to lower inhibitions,

  And draw from her some new positions,

  And spur him on in his love making,

  Through until the dawn light’s breaking,

  But sheath your sword for copulation,

  Lest you expand the population.”♪

  Our meals were delicious. Nell opted for the calf’s head with porret and skirret, and I selected the boiled partridge in a damson sauce, after which we indulged in large bowls of posset and ambergreece for dessert. By the meal’s conclusion, Nell and I had consumed two flagons of mead apiece and shared a bottle of mulberry wine, rendering us even more amorous than before. I was itching to spend some time alone with Nell, so I caught the maître d’s eye and requested the bill, which was brought to our table by our codpieced waiter.

  “Careful,” I slurred, indicating his crotch. “That could easily become lodged in someone’s throat.”

  He gazed wistfully at Nell.

  “♫ If only wishing were to make it so,

  With a hey nonny-nonny and a hey nonny-no. ♪”

  *

  From the restaurant, we travelled by taxicab to number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews so that I could pack a few things to take to Nell’s for the night. It had gone eleven as we arrived, and Mrs Denford was tucked up in bed, but Urban-Smith was still active in the living room, prodding at his canvas hither and thither, his brushes and paints on almost every surface.

  “What-ho, weary travellers,” he shouted cheerfully as Nell and I staggered onto the premises. Introductions were made, and I left Nell trying to guess what Urban-Smith was painting while I crawled to my bedchambers, grabbed my overnight bag, and crammed clothing, toothbrush, prophylactics and various lotions, appliances and attachments into it until it became impossible to discern whether I had packed for an orgy, or the Spanish Inquisition.

  Urban-Smith and Nell were getting along like the proverbial house on fire, and while she wandered off to the loo, Urban-Smith sang her praises.

  “Rupert,” he cried, “you did not tell me that Nell has such a passionate interest in modern art.”

  “She has hidden depths that I have yet to plummet; speaking of which, I must call for a cab to return us to Saville Towers before she goes off the boil.”

  Urban-Smith returned to his painting, I summoned a taxi, and within half an hour, Nell and I were staggering across the threshold of her flat, giggling and pawing drunkenly at each other. We sloped off to the bedroom and disrobed, and as I emptied my bag onto the floor, Nell lay on top of the sheets and called softly to me.

  I sat at the end of the bed and leaned over to kiss her tattooed ankle.

  “Heaven’s above,” I murmured.

  And indeed it was.

  ◆◆◆

  23. THE FOURTH ATMAN

  Friday 17th November

  I would not venture far enough to say that I skipped through Friday morning and afternoon with a smile and a song, but to my great relief, I did manage until teatime without being arrested, menaced, molested or abducted. As a matter of fact, with Danny taking a day off to enjoy a refreshing colonoscopy, I did not have to endure any conversation whatsoever between leaving my lodgings in the a.m. and re-entering in the p.m. A finer day at work I cannot recall.

  Obviously, it was not to last.

  As I lurched through the ingress of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, Urban-Smith accosted me and steered me into the living room. Scarcely had my trouser seat found purchase when the afternoon edition of The Evening Mulch was thrust at me.

  “Steady on, Fairfax,” I protested, but he was unmoved.

  “Read on, Macduff.”

  On the cover was an aerial photograph of an enormous sinkhole and the headline, ‘That Sinking Feeling.’

  “Not another one,” I gasped.

  This time, the stricken locale was Waspinghuff Country Park in Wiltshire.

  ‘Residents of a Wiltshire town were reeling today after the overnight appearance of a giant sinkhole. The sinkhole, which measured over fifty metres in diameter, opened at Waspinghuff Country Park at the site of the old football stadium, which ha
s long since fallen into disrepair and been condemned (much like A.F.C Waspinghuff’s league performance over the last two decades). During the night, police received several reports of shadowy figures in and around residents’ homes. The appearance of a similar sinkhole in Wafflebridge last week was also accompanied by multiple sightings of ghostly apparitions and phantoms, leading many to ask; is this the beginning of the end?

  Full story on page 8.’

  “Waspinghuff Country Park and Wafflebridge Town football ground.” I cogitated for a short while. “What do you think is the connection between the two?”

  “Surely the answer is obvious?” replied Urban-Smith.

  I ruminated further but drew a blank. “Can’t say that it is.”

  Urban-Smith tutted. “Come now, Rupert. You know my methods.”

  “I thought your method was to jump in feet-first and hope for the best.”

  “I am sure if you apply your mind to the problem, the solution will present itself.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “You haven’t the foggiest, have you?”

  “Not really,” he confessed. “I was hoping you might have had a flash of inspiration.”

  I threw the paper at him. “Muppet!”

  He sniffed derisively. “The correct pronunciation is, Moo-pay. It’s French, you know.”

  “Do you believe The Fervent Fist to be behind these sinkholes?” I asked.

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” said he without hesitation. “By the way, I have something else to show you. That package that arrived by courier; it is the decrypted version of the telephone app that Phash-1st has released to filter out the LOL curse. It will not surprise you to learn that this is not its only function. Have you heard of Echelon software?”

  Remarkably, I had. “Security services use Echelon software to monitor telephone calls and internet traffic for specific words and phrases, do they not?”

  “Spot on, Rupert. This app contains a basic version, using voice and text recognition to detect keywords and forward the caller’s identification and GPS location to a proxy server in the Cayman Islands. Here is the list of keywords.”