by Jonathan Day
Short Stories
Crimes, Cults and
Curious Cats
by
Jonathan Day
Copyright Jonathan Day
& Dodo Books 2016
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Stories
Cock-a-Doodle-Do!
Willow Pattern World
Feeding the Monster
The Impossible Detective
Behold, the Face of God!
Our Lady of the Herbs
The Greening of Toby Jug
The Hammer of God
Cosmic Cats
The Cult of the Bast Cat
Cock-a-Doodle-Do!
It struts, it crows, it clanks like crashing saucepan lids, and really annoys the neighbours.
Clang, rattle, clang at four in the morning - nothing seems to stop it. This contraption flies in from nowhere with nothing more on its tin mind than to wake the neighbourhood. At least its closest relative, the Clangers' Soup Dragon, had soup to offer.
One enterprising young man attempted to track the clockwork cockerel back to where it had originated from with his drone, but that ceased transmitting and was never seen again apart from a few washers and one rotor blade. The last picture it sent back was of huge, luminous, glass eyes closing in fast. Then, with one metallic squawk, that was that.
It was a well-to-do neighbourhood - no houses under a million pounds - and where private security patrolled the exclusive gated estate at its centre, which the bird had sense enough not to visit.
Gabrielle resented the avenues lined with cherry trees and neatly manicured grass verges. It seemed pointless pounding the beat in an area with so many security cameras. Her partner, PC Gore, was more sanguine. Gabrielle sometimes wondered if it was possible for the older woman to ever be annoyed, especially when they had to waste most of their time fielding complaints about the wretched mechanical cockerel. While Sarah Gore could only see the funny side, Gabrielle wanted promotion from the beat and would have preferred to shoot the nuisance out of the sky. A local retired major had a rifle and could have shot it down from his balcony, but he could switch off his hearing aid at night and, like Sarah, found it amusing.
The latest complaint came from Mr Marston, owner of a spacious lawn dotted with exquisitely trimmed topiary. The metal cockerel had landed on the head of the ten foot giraffe, permanently bending its neck into a strangely contorted shape. Needless to say, when it went on to pluck the peacock centrepiece, he was incandescent. The bland expression Sarah assumed to stop herself laughing did not help.
When Gabrielle and the much put-upon Mrs Marston at last managed to placate him with the promise of a stakeout to catch the creature, the constables were able to return to their beat.
‘Are you crackers?’ said Sarah. ‘There's no way they would agree to a night stakeout for something like this.’
‘We could do it.’
‘You are bonkers, aren't you.’
‘Our overtime would be a fraction of a patrol car.’
‘I like my sleep.’
‘I know, Roy told me how loudly you snore.’
‘And what happens if we see the damn thing? It can fly.’
‘We follow it.’
‘On foot?’
‘We'll have my moped.’
Sarah recalled what had happened the last time she rode pillion on that and groaned.
At 3:30 in the morning, 36 hours later, two half-asleep constables listened for the aerial clatter that heralded the arrival of the cockerel from Hell.
And they waited, and waited.
5 o'clock and still no metal bird.
‘It knows we’re here. I should have never let you talk me into this Gabby. I’m beginning to crave cigarettes again.’
‘But they swore blind it always turned up at 4 o'clock sharp like clockwork.’
‘My youngest son’s Mickey Mouse watch keeps better time, and I’ve lost count of how many times that’s been to the bottom of the deep end. The only thing on it that now moves is its ears.’
‘I’m surprised a woman trained as a lifeguard lets a four-year-old get out of his depth.’
‘Harry’s got gills – it’s genetic.’
There was a distant patter of metal paws.
Both women thought they were hearing things through lack of sleep and ignored it.
‘Let's go home,’ insisted Sarah.
Gabrielle raised her hand.
The patter had turned into an audible clatter. Something sinister was loping up the road towards them, the rising sun's rays reflected from its polished casing.
‘Don't like the look of that, Gabby! Let's go!’
‘No chance.’ Gabrielle pulled out her baton and snapped it open.
‘You may want promotion, I prefer to keep my kneecaps.’
‘It looks like a large cat.’
‘A large cat with steel teeth.’
As it got closer, the two PCs used the moped as a barrier.
The large, metal cat clanked to a stop before them and sat up on his haunches.
‘Good morning ladies,’ it announced.
‘You are recording this as well, aren't you?’ hectored Sarah.
‘Of course I am.’
The cat continued, ‘I expect you would like an explanation?’
‘Well... Yeah,’ Sarah managed to utter. ‘I suppose this is better than being pecked to death by a steel chicken.’
‘Please be assured that I have no intention of attacking you. I have no intention of attacking anyone.’
‘If you hit it in just the right spot, Gabby, you could knock out its batteries,’ Sarah whispered.
‘And then how would we find out where it comes from?’ Gabrielle replaced the baton in her belt.
‘I can tell you where it comes from - a mad engineer with a Meccano set!’
Without warning the cat's voice changed. It became male, and elderly. ‘Follow me and all will be explained.’
‘I've heard that before,’ moaned Sarah.
‘I can't understand why you became a copper,’ Gabrielle scolded.
‘Because I know how to handle hooligans - I raised four of them. This isn’t police work – it’s civil engineering.’
The voice of the elderly man went on regardless. ‘I need someone to witness the result of my life’s work. So few appreciate how I have turned my Čapek dream into reality.’
‘Čapek? Who’s Čapek? A Polish window cleaner?’ demanded Sarah.
‘Please follow my scout and all will be revealed.’
‘This fellow keeps repeating himself,’ Sarah groaned.
Gabrielle had the suspicion it was because the voice was pre-recorded and the cat would only understand a direct order. ‘Take us to your leader.’
‘Take us to your - Oh for goodness sake!’ At that point Sarah knew she should turn on her heels and leave, but would have felt guilty at deserting the younger woman with more enthusiasm than sense. There was the foreboding that this was all going to end up as overtime for forensics.
Wishing that she had taken that job of lifeguard at the local baths instead, Sarah perched on the pillion of Gabrielle's moped to follow the mechanical cat. Fortunately it was too early in the morning for anyone else to witness the bizarre sight.
Several miles of pot-holed lanes later, they came to a factory-sized barn.
A hive of industry reverberated from inside its wooden walls.
‘Must be an early morning shift,’ Gabrielle concluded.
The two PCs followed their escort into a busy interior filled with welding sparks and sound of buzz saw
s. A million metal components were being assembled on a production line of robot workers.
‘You think whoever runs this has got a licence, Gabby?’
‘We'll have to ask the owner of the cat's voice.’ Gabrielle turned to their mechanical companion waiting patiently for them to take in their surroundings. ‘Where is your boss?’
The cat gave a metallic mew. ‘Follow me.’
‘I think we should call for backup, Gabby,’ warned Sarah.
‘Why?’
‘This place is very, very wrong. Where are the humans running things?’
‘Probably automated.’
The cat led the constables up a flight of stairs to a balcony room overlooking the chaotic activity.
They took in the scene below. It was punctuated by sudden firecracker-like explosions which would have incinerated mortal flesh and, by the damaged casings of the factory floor operatives, they hadn’t escaped either. This was Dante’s Inferno for machines.
There was also something huge being constructed at the far end.
‘What the hell are they making down there?’ said Sarah.
‘Looks like the body of some monstrous machine.’
‘Those blades being attached to it seem pretty businesslike - and that’s got to be some sort of weapon in its stern. Damn thing probably flies as well. That tin cockerel must have been scouting out the area ready for invasion.’ Sarah tried to make it sound like a joke, but she made the mistake of listening to what she had just said. At least the properties of the pompous rich it had been annoying would be first to go. ‘Suppose we’ll have to ask the bloke who runs it all.’
But Gabrielle was too occupied, quietly calling for backup, to hear.
In a room overlooking the factory floor a high-backed chair was facing a window, the top of its occupant’s head just visible.
‘Hey there,’ Sarah called. ‘Spare a moment for the local fuzz?’
The occupier of the chair didn't move.
‘Oh Gord, he must be deaf.’ Sarah walked round the cluttered desk to face the inventor. ‘We just want to know what's going on-’ she stopped dead. ‘Gabby?’
‘What's wrong?’
‘Say you didn't have time for a full English breakfast before you came out?’ Sarah swung the chair round.
Sitting in it was a decomposing body.
‘Looks as though we'll have to take a statement from his cat instead.’
But the cat was no longer the purring, tin pussy that had been so cooperative. A blazing-eyed, metal monster was now glowering murderously at the two constables.
The women automatically pulled out their batons as the production line below fell silent and the robotic workers looked up. The buzz saws started to whirr again and there was the clatter of other lethal implements.
‘It's just as well we opted to take those classes in gymnastics,’ Gabrielle declared confidently.
Sarah wasn’t so sure. When she dived from the springboard, she preferred to land in water. ‘You mean… we go through the window?’
‘Come on, it’s not that high. There's a ledge outside, shouldn't be too difficult to drop down.’
Gabrielle pushed out the rotten window frame with her baton.
The cat was not happy about this.
Extended claws scratched the bare floorboards as it malevolently slunk towards them.
Gabrielle pushed Sarah onto the rickety ledge outside as the clatter of assorted robots reached the upper floor. Only fear of being sliced and diced persuaded her to drop into the nettles below. Despite the stings, bruises and barrage of sharp implements landing about them, the PCs managed to scramble away.
The reaction of the mechanical menagerie inside to their escape was fury.
Unable to calculate how to deal with this situation, the machines redirected their rage on their surroundings.
Gabrielle and Sarah watched from a safe distance as the factory was demolished from the inside out. A huge cloud of dust and sparks rose through its roof before the barn exploded and burst into flames.
The building was well alight by the time the sound of sirens was heard.
‘Think we'll be blamed for this, Gabby?’
‘Oh shut up!’
‘Look on the bright side. They can't demote you.’
If it hadn't been for the evidence of their body cameras, the women wouldn't have been believed, which was just as well because the barn was reduced to a smouldering heap of molten metal and charcoal. When the fire service could eventually approach they found a charred skeleton amongst the tangle of metal components.
The infernal device being constructed inside baffled the best minds but, as it was obviously a dangerous mechanism of some sort, Gabrielle got her promotion.
Sarah handed in her resignation and became a lifeguard.
Willow Pattern World
The world was white, blue, and every shade in between.
The young lovers ran for their lives, long gowns flapping in a breeze coming from all directions, tripped up by their embroidered hems and stumbling over decorative pebbles that conspired to make them easy prey for the maniac in pursuit.
He was getting closer.
Twice their years, the assassin moved effortlessly in this bizarre world. Armed with sword and whip, he sliced through the breeze that dared to turn to face him.
The young couple fled across an ornamental bridge to what appeared to be the sanctuary of a pagoda on its other side. The welcoming door almost within reach, the whip lassoed the petrified lovers with an ear-rending crack and, with a flick of their murderous pursuer’s wrist, they were hurled into the turbulent river below. Their heavy robes dragged them deeper and deeper, and towards the waterfall tumbling over the edge of this sinister world.
‘Oh good grief - not him again!’
The exasperated protests of the higher-ranking officers were inevitable at being once again overlooked in favour of a lowly detective constable.
‘He's ex army and can take care of himself. None of you lot should be allowed out without your mothers.’ It was unkind, but borderline true.
And that was that. The chief superintendent had spoken and, as always, his word went.
DC Blake had decided to join the police after half a lifetime in the army, which made him the oldest junior officer in the local force. Blakey, or “tattooed tree” as his reluctant colleagues called him, had that essential edge a detective needed to work things out. He was also good with firearms when required, the public respected him, and his mere presence could stop brawling drunks. Small wonder lesser mortals resented the man. Blakey was bound to be promoted over everyone else's head. Even the two DIs were apprehensive about him being designated to them, claiming that the man thought he was still driving a tank. The only person, apart from the chief superintendent, to appreciate the ex-soldier’s finer points seemed to be Murleen Persuad and for some reason her long-haired rug of a police dog tolerated him. But then, she had encountered far more intimidating individuals. In Guyana even the spiders had attitude and, despite being diminutive, she was seldom fazed by anything regardless of the number of legs it had.
The two officers and dog made an odd trio as they occasionally took a coffee break together in the quadrangle used to muster riot squads.
When Murleen expressed surprise the pitch of her voice rose like an excited bird’s. ‘No... Really? You being sent to find a lost heiress? By yourself?’
Blakey didn’t see what was so extraordinary in that. ‘The uncle reckoned she eloped with this son of the local baker. The chief doesn’t think it’s any big deal.’
‘What does the baker say?’
‘He's disappeared as well. Some festival to celebrate everything gluten.’
‘Looks like you need Tycho.’
At the mention of its name the dog's ears pricked up.
‘Don't think Fungus could find these two. Hopefully there’s no raw meat involved and I can’t see him tracking down a baker’s son for the sake of a Danish pastry.�
�
The police dog growled at the disrespectful nickname. That and any attempt to touch his handler could turn him into one big, fluffy fury.
‘What this heiress heir to then?’
‘Cosmetic company of sorts. Supplies chemicals for the industry. The uncle became its chief executive when her mother died in a car crash.’
‘Him would be chief suspect if they murdered then?’
‘Oh god yes.’
‘Tycho would know if he's a bad one.’
‘Yeah, and he might try to eat him before I've got proof.’
‘You get proof, then text me.’
‘You two would really like this to be murder, wouldn’t you?’
‘You wasted on house calls.’
‘Don't you two to ever answer to anyone?’ There was an edge of disapproval in the tone of a man trained to follow the chain of command.
‘They more interested in using his nose than teeth. Can get really boring at times.’
‘Okay. But let's keep this between us.’ Blakey binned his plastic coffee cup and turned to go to his car, which had once more just managed to scrape through its MOT.
‘When you getting that pile of junk replaced?’
‘When it stops going.’
That was logical for a man who lived in a mobile home in the middle of a wood - to avoid paying alimony he claimed, though no one believed he had ever been married - and had a secret hobby other detectives had so far failed to discover.
The balmy summer morning was becoming oppressively hot, so Blakey left his jacket in the car after parking at the end of Joseph Allcock’s long drive.
He ascended the steep steps to the front porch. There was an insignificant doorbell, but the temptation to announce that this was official business and not an opportunist tradesman was irresistible and he hammered the lion-headed doorknocker. Before Blakey could thud the doorknocker a second time a bolt was drawn back. At least Joseph Allcock's security couldn't be faulted.
The man was middle-aged and hard-featured with - Blakey fancied - a touch of Scrooge about him. The junior detective struggled to keep an open mind. Shooting suspicious-looking characters was no longer an option and when Joseph Allcock spoke he sounded civil enough. Comrades from the ex-soldier’s previous background seldom bothered with niceties, so he was still at odds as how to react when encountering them in someone he instinctively distrusted. Police training had taught him to be polite, yet always on his guard. To someone who had once bellowed at a platoon of men on manoeuvres, that could be perplexing at times.
Joseph Allcock seemed genuinely concerned about the disappearance of his niece, Kimberly. She had always been wilful. Eloping with, Sam, the baker's boy was possibly to spite him because she could not inherit her mother's business until she was 20 and, after two years of her uncle administering the estate, the resentful Kimberly was capable of anything.
DC Blake dutifully noted down everything he was told before turning his attention to the decadent surroundings. The large house, with its inappropriate tower and turrets, could have only been constructed by a Victorian who had read too much Thomas Mallory, not that King Arthur would have installed his round table here.
‘Mind if I look around?’ the detective asked.
‘Of course not,’ said the owner. ‘You'll only find spiders to take statements from.’
‘There is no chance your niece could have been here without your knowledge?’
‘Not her. The London apartment is Kimberly's natural habitat. She has no interest in the family home. It belongs to me anyway, and I'm sure she
