by J Battle
I don’t know what I expected to find when I opened the bedroom door, but I was more than a little relieved to find that it wasn't an old bloke, lying seductively in his y-fronts.
Still, the sight of a pot-bellied pig, resting in the middle of a king-sized bed, with a constipated look on his face, didn't fill me with joy.
‘It’s a pig,’ I said; nothing gets past me.
‘Benji. I’ve told him you were coming. He’s been waiting all day, haven’t you babe?’ The last bit was not addressed to me; I hope.
‘He’s a very nice pig and what, exactly, do you want me do with it; him?’
‘He’s suffering terribly from constipation; hasn’t gone for days.’
This wasn’t looking at all good for me.
‘Last time, the vet shoved his hand up his, you know what. He charged me too much, so I called for you.‘
I looked at her, thinking about just making a run for it, but she was standing in the doorway; I couldn’t get past her.
‘We should do this in the bathroom,’ I suggested, trying not to sound desperate.
‘There’s an en-suite through there.’ She pointed to a door in the corner of the room.
My eyes flicked from the pig to the bathroom door and from the pig to the old dear. I began to sweat and she began to frown.
‘OK.' Decision made. ‘This is going to get a bit messy; you had better stay in here. I’ll take him into the bathroom.’
The poor creature was too distressed to walk, so I had to carry him. My first thought was, if he already smells this bad, how awful is this going to get?
Needless to say, I soon found out.
I’m not going to say any more about this; I still wake up sweating about the experience. It’s sufficient for me to say that it was hot, smelly and noisy. There were tears and grunts, and some of them were mine. But, you know, when that happy little pig trotted out of the bathroom, relaxed and relieved and clean, I felt something. And it wasn’t just nausea. Since then, I’ve always carried a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves, a face mask, goggles, and a hammer.
There was a cup of tea waiting for me, and a biscuit named after a nineteenth century Italian revolutionary, and probably an autopsy of the whole affair. I didn’t stop.
When I knocked on Mrs. Johnson’s door, I was sure that I stank of pig-shit, which was not the way I usually like to present myself.
Chapter 11 – Then the wink
There was a long wait, during which I was probably studied by all sorts of security devices. I was quite relieved when I heard the bolts going on the other side of the door.
I knew she was late thirties, but you’d never guess that from looking at her. She was slender, with dark, wavy hair and a soft round face, devoid of any obvious make up; not that I’m an expert. Her dark brown eyes studied me openly, without expression, for a long moment.
‘Hello Mrs. Johnson.’ Always a good way to start, I thought. ‘My name is Philip Chandler.’
I held out my hand. She ignored it; I was getting that a lot.
‘I’m a Private Investigator.’ I don’t normally say it with capitals, but the situation seemed to require it.
Still there was no response, other than, perhaps, a slight pursing of the lips. I was beginning to feel that there was a clock running down and any moment I was going to run out of time and the door would be slammed in my face.
‘I understand your husband is missing. I think I know where he is.’
Now that should have got a response, don’t you think? Instead, she took a half step back.
‘I don’t talk to the press,’ she sighed, her voice so soft I could barely catch her words; her brogue as sweet and melodic as a lullaby.
Neither do I, I thought, but is that entirely relevant?
‘I did mention that I am a P.I?’ Sometimes the initials have more effect than the words; you can never tell.
‘ID?’ She held one tiny hand out. I thought about getting my own back by ignoring it, but that was being childish. I flipped the lid of my wrist-top open and showed her my license.
‘It expires today.’ She frowned.
‘Sorry, my secretary is supposed to be sorting out the renewal but, you know, you can’t get the staff.’
‘How do you know my husband? And where is he?’ Now that we were getting really chatty, I took a step forward; she matched it, backwards, and I was inside her apartment. Who says I can’t do this sort of thing?
When we entered the living space, I was quite surprised to see that the only furniture was one comfortable looking armchair, one hard wooden upright chair, and a more than impressive sound system. There was no carpet; just a worn mat that wasn’t really up to the job it had been given.
She took the comfy chair, so I was stuck with the hard one. Was this where Johnson had to sit before he ran away from home? It was difficult to blame him if that was the case.
‘Go on, then,’ she said, crossing one slim leg over the other. She was wearing loose jeans and a baggy but clingy T-shirt that emphasised her breasts; and you know what that does to me.
‘Whilst researching another case, I came across information on your husband’s whereabouts, quite by chance.’ I was really working quite hard not to look at anything but her cold, hard eyes.
‘Where is he then?’
‘He left Manchester Interplanetary Squirtport for JD.’
‘JD?’ I nodded, and she closed one eye. For a strangely exciting second, I thought she was winking at me. But she kept the eye closed. ‘He doesn’t bet, and he's hardly likely to be on his honeymoon.’
‘What? Is that what JD's famous for then? I had no idea. That doesn’t mean he didn’t go; it must have other things of interest.’
‘No, there’s not much else there at all, except for spas and pink sunsets; and they're not really his thing.’ She stared at me with her single brown eye. ‘What evidence do you have? And what case are you working on?’
'Obviously the case I am working on is confidential and it would be improper for me to divulge any details to you or any other individual.’ I could have been a lawyer.
‘What can you give me? If there’s a fee, I can pay it.’ Now she was talking my language.
‘I have video of your husband entering a squirtbooth in Levenshulme, arriving at M.I.S, and squirting to JD.’
‘Send it to me.’
I hesitated; she wasn’t wearing a wrist-top, and there was no sign of a computer in the room.
‘I’m implanted, for heaven’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘Just zip it across.’
My wrist-top found her address and zipped the data across as I puzzled over this unusual development. Of course I knew about implants; I have my own. But what would a suburban housewife (Salford Quays is urban so she should be called an urban housewife. N.F) want with state-of-the-art implants such as those apparently possessed by this Mrs. Johnson?
She sat there in her comfy chair for fully five minutes, whilst I squirmed on my un-comfy chair, then she opened both eyes and sat forward.
‘That’s not JJ,’ she said, force in her voice. ’Something is wrong here Mr. Chandler. Will you help me find out what’s going on? I can pay your fee, as long as it’s reasonable. By the way, my name is Mary, and I'm sorry if I was a little rude earlier.’ With the wonderful smile she tossed my way, how could I be offended?
‘Don't worry about that,' I said, disarmingly. 'Now, how do you know it’s not him?’
‘It’s obvious. JJ doesn’t walk like that. He had a sporting injury long before I met him and he sort of drags his left leg a little. It’s not obvious; most people don’t even notice, but I do. And that’s not my husband.’
‘What have the police said?’
‘They say there is nothing they can do. He left me a message saying he was leaving; he cleared half of our bank accounts out, and now you tell me he’s squirted off-planet. None of this is true. He wouldn’t just leave a message; he wouldn’t take half of our money; and he wouldn’t fly off to some resort plane
t to watch romantic sunsets and play slot machines.’
‘I know you’ve been married nearly twenty years, but how can you be sure, if you don't mind me asking, Mary?’
‘JJ’s not a coward; if he was leaving me, he would have told me face to face. He’s not a thief; eighty percent of our savings were left to me by my aunt; he always said that was my own money; he never saw it as our money, so he wouldn’t have taken half of everything; he’s far too fair to do that. And he's far too careful with his money to risk it on gambling; he doesn’t even do the lottery. Believe me, he’d be lost out there.‘
She slumped back in her chair; there was some wobbling; I pretended not to notice.
I tried to run through everything in my head, but there wasn’t enough room. On automatic pilot, I zipped my charges and deposit request over to her.
If the guy using the name Johnson wasn’t Johnson, then who was he? And what did this have to do with Masters? You’re probably already there, but I can sometimes be a little slow in putting the final pieces together. I zipped another video file to Mrs. Johnson. It took her only three or four seconds before she jerked forward and focussed both deep brown eyes on me.
‘That’s him,’ she breathed.
I’ve studied the video several times, and I still couldn’t see any problem with his left leg, so I had to take her word for it.
It was clear that the first guy was not Masters; it was Johnson. And, if that was the case, the only conclusion to be drawn was that the second guy was Masters. There, I finally had the jigsaw complete.
Where that left us, and what it all meant, I really had no idea at all.
**********
Back at the office, I was trying to work out how much I knew, and how it compared with the mountain of stuff that was still a mystery to me, when my computer chimed and a dark cloud fell on my day. Only one person makes my computer chime like that, and I can’t find a way to block her. On the third chime a holo-display appeared, filling the air above my desk with an image of a sun blessed balcony against a backdrop of sharp, icy mountains beneath a clear blue sky. It would have been a beautiful scene, if it wasn’t for the slim figure in the black ninja outfit leaning casually against the rail.
‘Hello, Mother,’ I sighed. She insists on the formalities; when I accidently called her mum, she didn’t speak to me for six months, which I felt was something of a silver lining.
She made no response; she just looked around my room as if its very shabbiness was a representation of all of my poor life choices and failures. I should say that she pretended to look around; I may not be able to block her unwanted intrusions into my life, but I made damned sure that all she ever got was the head shot.
‘To what…etc.etc?’ I really didn’t want to know, but the way I looked at it was, the sooner this ordeal began, the sooner it was over.
‘Can’t a mother show concern for her beloved child?’ She speaks with a soft, eastern European accent, even though she was born and raised in Cheshire.
‘Julie’s not here yet.’ It could have been a joke, but it wasn’t.
When motherhood first visited her, she took up the mantle with gusto, as she does with all of her hobbies, and she was so sure that she would be a marvelous mother, with children to match. When I failed to live up to her high expectations of intelligence, beauty, sophistication and competence, it was a wonder that she didn’t give up there and then and move on to her next diversion. No, she tried again and I think it’s fair to say that she is happier with her second child, though not with most of her life choices.
‘You’re letting her waste her life, Philip. You know that.’
‘She makes her own choices. Do we have to go through this again?’
The smile that settled in the middle of her face chilled my bones.
‘Yes, we do. And we will continue to revisit this subject until you accept that agreement is your only real choice. I want you to dismiss her, Philip, so that she can go on and make something of her life.’
‘I can’t dismiss her; I need her.’ We both knew that was a lie, but we kept up the pretence.
‘You’ll have to make do without her; don’t be selfish. You were always a selfish boy.’
‘I’m nearly forty now, Mother; I’m no longer a boy.’
She laughed at the idea of my supposed maturity.
‘Sack her and get yourself a proper job whilst you’re at it.’
She disappeared; sure that she’d ruined my day.
Of course, as soon as she pinged off, all of the sharp retorts I needed came to me in a flash. The cutting insights, the witty put downs. Too late; as always.
I groaned my way to the coffee machine and set it to work just as Julie walked in. Was it really that late?
‘You missed the mutant ninja turtle.’
‘Thank goodness; I’m not in the mood for her today.’
‘But you’re her favourite.’
‘That’s not saying much when you’re the only other choice.’
‘You know, you are your mother’s daughter.’
‘I’m still waiting for the maternity test.’
Chapter 12 – Then their eyes met across a crowded room
Mary Johnson was in a large chain coffee shop when she met him. She’d just completed the complicated process of ordering a straight black coffee, with nothing fancy done to it, and the disappointed barista had turned away. When she moved to the far end of the counter to wait for her beverage to be delivered, he was already there. Their eyes met, and the rest is history.
He was much taller than her, which was not unusual in itself, but he was quite striking with his neat hair and lightly tanned complexion, and his impeccable fingernails. As he already had a tray for his skinny latte and blueberry muffin, he offered to carry her coffee over to a table for her. This was where she should have politely declined, but she didn’t, so an entertaining hour ensued, during which additional coffees were ordered, though they hardly needed extra stimulation.
He was called Harry, after the old king he said, and he talked in a relaxed style about seemingly nothing in particular. As they talked, she tried to work out the last time she’d had a chat with a strange man. Was it really before she’d got married? That long ago?
Harry wasn’t particularly good looking, though he was self-confident, witty, and he seemed interested in what she had to say; all qualities that JJ seemed to have lost over the years.
She had no intention of carrying this any further; it was just a coffee in a public place with a charming man; nothing wrong with that. If someone she knew walked in, she could smile and invite them over; no problem at all.
When the last cold dregs of coffee had been drunk, and they really couldn’t order another round, he asked if she could meet him later for a drink. She was going to say no; of course she was; she was a happily married woman after all. Somehow, she got the words wrong and said yes instead.
That’s when things began to get a little more complicated.
Her husband didn’t notice the changes in her. That was hardly surprising, as he hardly noticed her at all. There would be a few grunted words at breakfast, then he’d leave for work and she’d leave for the first of her two part-time jobs. In the evenings, there would be a little more desultory conversation over a hastily prepared meal, then JJ would watch TV in their bedroom and she’d listen to music in the living room.
When the new sound system arrived, courtesy of Harry, he barely said a word. When she started having her hair done more often and there were new clothes in the wardrobe, he could have spotted the signs, but he kept any speculations to himself. When Harry bought her the implants for her birthday, she didn't think to mention them, even though she had to book an appointment to have them implanted.
With a head full of the latest technology, she could communicate with Harry whenever she wanted, even if JJ was in the room. He was never going to spot her sub-vocalising, but surely he could have noticed how much she smiled.
Three weeks into
their affair, they were sitting in a plush new drinking establishment, enjoying a premeal drink, when a large shadow occluded the entrance to the coffee shop as JJ walked in. She wasn’t surprised by his reaction, as he stood for a moment looking for a spare table and then smiled with pleased surprise when he spotted her. Harry's response to her husband's entrance, however, was unexpected. He almost leapt out of his chair and stood there for a long moment, wavering between the front door and the gents. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down to his seat.
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ’It’ll be OK.’
JJ walked over and sort of smiled at them.
‘Hi, JJ. I didn’t expect to see you here. This is Harry from work.’
‘Hi, Harry,’ said JJ as he lowered his bulk into the third chair at the table.
‘There’s supposed to be a group of us, but they haven’t turned up yet. Do you want a drink?’
‘I’ll get them,’ he answered, forcing himself back to his feet. ‘You OK, Harry? Can I get you another?’
‘Cheers, mate,’ said Harry, his composure regained.
As JJ squeezed his way through to the bar, Harry dropped his hand onto Mary’s thigh.
‘You were so cool,’ he said, ’and hot.’
‘How did you know it was him?’
‘I didn’t, but he’s the image of my boss. It was a bit of a shock I tell you, when I first saw him. He’s still in prison.’
At the time, it was just an odd coincidence that his boss and her husband were a matched pair. Harry Dart wasn’t to know that this strange fact would be of use to him within the year.
*********
'She wants me to sack Julie.'
'Who does?'
'My mother.'
'You saw your mother?'
'No. Yes. In a holo, from Peru, I think.'
'What's she doing in Peru?'
'Who knows? Who cares?'
Sam was silent for a moment. I knew what he was thinking, and I wasn't very happy about it; not at all, in fact. She has to be thirty years older than him, but I know he likes her; in a way a man of his age shouldn't, if you know what I mean.
