by Jonathan Day
realised that it was easier to move.
In fact, Herbert actually managed to stand up unaided for the first time in years.
Then his trousers fell down.
His waistline was rapidly receding. All the rolls of fat that had been the bane of his young life were deflating like a balloon. He looked down in amazement to see the pounds evaporating from him like melting snow.
Even more peculiar, the skin that had been stretched to contain his huge circumference retained its elasticity. Now Herbert was just a young man in ridiculously oversized clothes.
Once he had recovered from the astonishment, the next thing that occurred to him was bizarre. Would anybody recognize who he was? Some busybody was bound to complain to the council that he had a lodger.
But that hardly mattered now. Herbert could find a job, perhaps even a girlfriend, and make something of his life.
He glanced up at the blue Body Balloon and decided to leave it there to amuse the children and baffle adults.
Who could tell? Perhaps there was some previously undiscovered life form on earth that might like to nest in it.
Green Fairy and Small God
Nobody noticed him come in.
A small man in his early forties wearing a suit, high-collared shirt and pushed back trilby just appeared before the desk sergeant. He had to be the most unlikely copper to enter their station. No one had expected the detective inspector sent to deal with the murder of a local family member noted for raising dangerous mobs to be so slight a light breeze could have blown him away.
The huge PS Harris looked down at DI Dalton and marvelled that someone this diminutive had managed to survive an unarmed combat course even though his stiff, upright posture suggested military training. With those bright, alert eyes he should have been stargazing or restoring illuminated manuscripts. It didn't help that PC Wren looked up from the timesheets she was working on to see if the small man was wearing a wedding ring. Her powers of deduction were quite often hormonal.
DI Dalton was there because the influential family claiming that their eldest son had been murdered had insisted that the detective investigating the case be removed. At least one good thing would come out of this. PS Harris would no longer have to accompany DI Knowles to the Gauvins' massive mausoleum of a country seat.
DI Dalton's partner arrived an hour later straight from armed response duties. She was a totally different kettle of fish; a woman built like the Rock of Gibraltar that PS Harris could look straight in the unswerving gaze. PS Atkins, who was assigned to accompany DI Dalton everywhere, cut a splendidly intimidating figure in uniform and protective vest, conceivably a ploy to counteract her superior's puny appearance. Even the local drug pusher waiting his turn to be interviewed seemed impressed. Fortunately DI Dalton and PS Atkins weren't there to interfere with the local constabulary's handling of petty criminals and dispensers of strange substances. Wealth and influence counted in their small corner of the world and PS Harris, amongst many, was glad that the troublemaking, racist Gauvin heir had jumped off the roof. It was somehow fitting that his last meal should have been in Mr Kapoor's popular Curry Palace, though unfortunately it made the restaurateur a prime suspect for spiking the food. On the other hand, it meant that the local police would no longer need to contain the anti-immigration rallies Jonah Gauvin regularly raised about the county. PS Harris was known for his short fuse and limited tolerance (his furious frown could intimidate the most brazen teenager), but knew that herding hard-working, vegetable picking immigrants back across the Channel would make dinners for the larger man much more expensive.
PC Wren blamed the Internet for persuading gullible minds to follow the Gauvins' ideology, and few argued with her. The IT savvy constable had saved many officer hours by ferreting out snippets of online information more clumsy fingers failed to make the connections for. But at that moment she was interested in DI Dalton. He had been assigned from a large town with almost 200 thousand residents. Its police force had a dedicated cyber crime unit consulted by other regions because of its impressive record. (Perhaps she might apply for a transfer when PS Harris wasn't looking over her shoulder.)
PC Wren decided to take a look on Panoramia.
The photograph of a beautiful Hindu temple immediately appeared. It had been built in a leafy suburb of the town some 30 years previously. With it was a brief history and links to several articles. One posting caught her eye; “Police constable rescues family from fire.” She clicked on it.
'Come and look at this, Sarge. According to this blogger, 20 years ago a young constable from DI Dalton's force saved an entire family from a house fire. “After escorting the adults who had been overcome by smoke from their blazing home, he wrapped his hands and head in wet towels then went back in to rescue the children trapped upstairs. He smashed a window and dropped them onto mattresses neighbours had piled up.” He didn't make it out. Firefighters found him later.'
PS Harris came across and glanced over her shoulder. 'Is that where they buried him?'
'No Sarge, it's a Hindu temple. But look, it says here that it has a shrine to his memory.' The prospect of facing a dilemma like that chilled PC Wren. 'Think you could have done something like that, Sarge?'
'Me? Not bloody likely.'
'Me neither. Strange this didn't come up when I checked our archives.' She tapped in a news search. 'Nothing in the papers of the day either.'
'It was over 20 years ago. The dead don't hang around to remind the rest of the world of how brave they've been. And look, that article goes on to say the newbie was a foundling brought up by Barnardos, so there wouldn't have been a family to remember him either, apart from the one who keep his picture in their temple.'
PC Wren read on. '“Because he arrived at the orphanage with no identity, the temple gave him a new one and revere him as Maderu Verma”. Nothing else about him.'
While the rest of the small station speculated over them, DI Dalton and PS Atkins were being briefed by about the death of the Gauvin's eldest son. It could have been accidental, but accusations by the father that the local Indian restaurant had spiked his food with a hallucinogenic drug could not be ignored. Fitzroy Gauvin insisted that this is what caused the heir to this pillar - albeit dangerously right leaning - of the landed gentry to step off the roof to touch the moon. But then, the head of this household was also convinced that his family had been cursed by Kali for the misdemeanours of an ancestor.
'The food served by the Curry Palace was thoroughly tested and other customers had experienced no symptoms, but Fitzroy Gauvin remained convinced that his son had been poisoned that very evening. If he had allowed an autopsy that would have proved it one way or the other and saved police time,' explained DI Knowles. 'The man is delusional and his politics dangerous to public order, but can't be ignored. Had me thrown off the case when I insisted on fingerprinting the family.'
DI Dalton smiled. 'You were aware he would do that of course?'
DI Knowles prickled in annoyance and limited his response to, 'This needs the application of a more ...'
But his counterpart knew why he was there. 'Devious?'
'Intellect. Just try to prove it was an accident, or even the curse of Kali punishing the family for purloining so much treasure during the Raj.' DI Knowles vengefully slapped down the thick case file on the desk before the other detective. 'Just make it go away. Idyllic backwaters such as ours have too many influential idiots to deal with when we should be concentrating on dogs worrying sheep and broken street lamps.'
DI Dalton flipped through the dossier. 'Do you have anything relating to the Gauvin estate's finances?'
DI Knowles didn't see the relevance. 'That family keep things close to their chest. No one really knows what they're worth. Asking something like that would have really been pushing it.'
'Oh dear. Hacking into accountants' databases can be so time-consuming.'
'I didn't hear you say that.'
'Ignore the boss's sense of humour, Sir. It can be a bit
odd at times.'
The way PS Atkins said it made DI Knowles even more suspicious. He could see why the chief inspector insisted that this small man had a partner with him at all times. If anyone took exception to what he said there needed to be someone to pick him up.
Once out of earshot, PS Atkins turned to her superior and scolded, 'You can really push your luck at times, you know.'
'I know. Where have you parked our car?'
'Outside the hotel. It's only a two minute walk.'
'Good. You can take the forensic kit up to my room and lock it in the wardrobe while I find a quiet corner in a teashop with Wi-Fi so I can talk to my elves.'
DI Knowles expected to hear no more from them. Then PS Atkins was unexpectedly called away on urgent armed response unit duty. He was obliged to replace her and the car. There was only one other officer familiar enough with the case, and PS Harris was not happy at the prospect of wet nursing the gnat of a man.
'Me? Take orders from someone who never loosens his tie?'
'Do as you're told,' ordered DI Knowles. 'And don't turn into the Incredible Hulk when he gets annoying. And, whatever you do, don't let him out of your sight.'
'Isn't he allowed out on his own then?'
'Must have a uniformed officer with him at all times. One of the conditions we got him.'
PS Harris was still grumbling under his breath when he left PC Wren in
