by steve higgs
If I genuinely thought I was settling for Natasha, could I do so?
Finally alone, I let the dogs in the garden, made myself a rum and coke and went up to bed. Laying in the dark I thought back on the case. As a thought occurred to me I leaped out of bed again and went downstairs to my mostly wrecked office.
The capacitor blast that had killed Victoria had gouged a hole in my wall and singed my curtains. There was blood in the carpet and basically the whole room needed to be redecorated. It was a task for another day.
At my laptop I pulled up the video footage I had taken on Monday of the ladies leaving the pub in West Malling. The witch had evaded me but watching now I saw Victoria leaving ten minutes after the rest of them had gone. It was just enough time for her to have changed out of her disguise in the toilets. I hadn’t seen it because I had been looking for an old lady with black hair, not an attractive blonde half her age.
That Victoria and the witch were one also explained how she had gone out the window in the tearoom and how she had scaled the wall in my garden on Wednesday night. Impossible tasks for a stooped old lady and no trouble at all for a fit, athletic woman. It also explained how the witch had instantly known I was spying on them in the pub. She had met me the previous afternoon at Dorothy’s house. Furthermore, I now knew why James’s attempts with facial recognition software had yielded no results – the face of the witch didn’t exist.
I closed the laptop down, the light from it extinguished to leave me in darkness. Trudging back up to bed I forced away thoughts of Victoria and how close she had come to killing me. I didn’t want to dwell on her motivations or the lives she had taken.
It had been a taxing few days. Sleep did not evade me for long.
Postscript: The Phone Call No One Wants. Sunday, November 20th 2143hrs
A week later, on the Sunday evening I was watching a cop show on TV. I had the dogs asleep either side of me, their warm heads on each thigh a comfort. Natasha had called to ask me out for lunch. I had declined, like a fool, telling her I still didn’t feel right and needed a few more days.
It was an outright lie. Something I felt bad about, however, I doubted telling her I was besotted by another woman would do me any favours. I was still hoping I could clear my head from thoughts of Amanda and be able to move on before I ruined my chances with Natasha. I wondered if seeing Natasha naked would make me forget Amanda, but I knew it was unfair to invite Natasha to my bed just to see if I could find some interest in her.
I hadn't seen my parents today either which was relatively unusual, but I had spent the time repainting my dining room after having a chap in to resurface the walls earlier in the week. I still needed new carpet, but I was getting the room back to a liveable state. The carpet had already gone in the trash – it stank and there had been bits of Victoria’s burned flesh in it.
DIY was not something I relished, nor was it something I hated so I knuckled down and got it done, missing out on roast dinner with mum and dad in the process. When I called to say I wasn’t coming, mum revealed that I would have been disappointed anyway. Dad had taken an extra shift at the Royal Dockyard where he occasionally worked as a tour guide to show visitors around the warships they had there.
Anyway, my phone rang. The screen claiming that it was my mother calling. I answered, ‘Good evening, Mother.’
‘Oh, Tempest, come quickly.’ She wailed down the phone at me.
I was instantly alert, sitting upright to disturb the dogs. ‘What is it? Is Dad okay?’
‘No.’ she wailed again, her voice wobbling with emotion. ‘I’m at the hospital.’
Dammit had he had a heart attack? I hoped it wasn’t a stroke. Please don’t let it be a stroke.
‘They got him.’ she said.
What? ‘Who got who, Mother?'
She sniffed deeply, I imagined her usually stern face crinkled and snotty at the other end of the phone. ‘At the dockyard. He kept going on about strange goings-on. Noises being heard by the night security guys, echoes of voices during the day coming from the rope room but no one there when they went to investigate.'
She fell silent. ‘Go on.’ I prompted. I was already out of my chair and moving toward the stairs. I was wearing slobby grey flannel gym gear which I had put on after a bath an hour ago following a session at the gym before that.
‘He didn't come home on time this evening, which I thought was unusual but figured that maybe he had stayed to have a rum with one of the guys. Then I got a phone call from the police because he was found unconscious by a cleaner as they emptied the bins. They whacked him on the head and threw him in the trash!' She cried.
‘You are in the Medway?’
‘Yes.’ Medway hospital was a twenty-minute drive from my house.
I promised to be there as soon as I could, disconnected and made the journey in under fifteen minutes by not bothering to stop at red lights or slow down for corners. Not a practice I would endorse but I felt motivated to arrive at my destination.
I wrapped Mum into a big hug and held onto her for a few minutes, kissing the top of her head and reassuring her. We were by his bed in A&E where there were doctors and nurses bustling about but no one currently attending to him.
There wasn't much they could do other than monitor him. He was still unconscious, but his vitals were all normal. He would most likely be transferred to a special care ward and tended to until he came around. An event that could not occur soon enough.
Sat by the bed was a man I didn’t know. He looked to be slightly older than my father, his white hair little more than wisps on his nearly bald skull. As I let go of my mother, I moved to shake his hand.
‘Tempest Michaels.’ I introduced myself.
‘Alan Page.' He replied, shaking my hand with a firm grip. ‘I worked with your father at the dockyard. I need to speak with you. In private, like.' He had an odd accent to complement an usual pattern of speech. He had to be ex-Navy like my father, so chances were his original accent, from whatever region of England he had been born in, was long forgotten, washed away by leaving the area and the constant bombardment of other accents one gets in the forces.
I indicated with my head and we moved to one side as my mother went to the head of the bed and held my father’s hand.
Out of earshot, Alan still felt the need to check all around for anyone that might eavesdrop. When satisfied that we could talk, he turned his attention to me. ‘There's rum goings-on at the yard, son. Your father and I were looking into it, but this has gotten a bit much for me now I don't mind saying.'
‘What kind of goings-on?’ I asked, using the same unusual word.
‘Whispers in the rigging room,’ he said the words with an ominous tone.
The End
Crop Circles
Crop Circles, Cows,
and Crazy Aliens
Blue Moon Investigations
Book 8
Steve Higgs
Text Copyright © 2018 Steven J Higgs
Publisher: Steve Higgs
The right of Steve Higgs to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved.
The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copywrite law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘Crop Circles, Cows and Crazy Aliens’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Tab
le of Contents
A Visitation. Tuesday, November 8th 2203hrs
Red Letter Day. Wednesday, 9th November 0745hrs
Call to the Client. Wednesday, November 9th 0942hrs
Aliens in Kent. Wednesday, November 9th 1030hrs
Freeze Gun. Wednesday, November 9th 1115hrs
Brompton Farm. Wednesday, November 9th 1312hrs
The Farmer. Wednesday, November 9th 1412hrs
Alien Quest. Wednesday, November 9th 1637hrs
Phone Call to Mum. Wednesday, November 9th 1905hrs
Not the Evening I had Planned. Wednesday, November 9th 1937hrs
The Morning After. Thursday, November 10th 0614hrs
Uncle Knobhead. Thursday, November 10th 1011hrs
What’s in the Woods? Thursday, November 10th 1225hrs
Every Idiot They Could Find. Thursday, November 10th 1451hrs
Stroppy Wife. Thursday, November 10th 1612hrs
Foreplay. Thursday, November 10th 1709hrs
Crime Scene Guys. Thursday, November 10th 1802hrs
Supermarket Carpark. Thursday, November 10th 1957hrs
Lights in the Sky. Thursday, November 10th 2103hrs
New Evidence. Friday, November 11th 0745hrs
Research. Friday, November 11th 1000hrs
College Geeks. Friday, November 11th 1058hrs
Lunch. Friday, November 11th 1201hrs
On the Farm. Friday, November 11th 1327hrs
Rochester High Street. Friday, November 11th 1600hrs
The Little Bookshop of Horrors. Friday, November 11th 1622hrs
Donuts. Friday, November 11th 1647hrs
Key Evidence. Friday, November 11th 1717hrs
Brett Visits. Friday, November 11th 1900hrs
Alien Quest’s Big Moment. Friday, November 11th 2100hrs
The Awful Truth. Saturday, November 12th 0945hrs
Rochester High Street. Saturday, November 12th 1115hrs
Gordon McIntosh. Saturday, November 12th 1201hrs
Getting Ready to go Out. Saturday, November 12th 1830hrs
Bar Nineteen. Saturday, November 12th 2000hrs
In da Club. Saturday, November 12th 2225hrs
A Discovery. Sunday, November 13th 0915hrs
Not a lot of Grey Area. Sunday, November 13th 1117hrs
Solving the Case. Sunday, November 13th 1200hrs
Farm Fight. Sunday, November 13th 1254hrs
Aftermath and Aliens. Sunday, November 13th 1400hrs
Lockup. Sunday, November 13th 2125hrs
Number 18 Matthew’s Close, Cliffe Woods. Monday, November 14th 1912hrs
A Visitation. Tuesday, November 8th 2203hrs
In the darkness of the countryside, the creature crept forward. Through its visor, it could see the lights of the building ahead.
A light rain was falling. Drops hit the creature’s protective suit but could not penetrate it. Underfoot the muddy soil squelched, the weight of the creature displacing the dirt as it walked.
It crept forward, the sound of its breathing loud in its ears inside the protective helmet. Nervously, it scanned about, hoping to make contact with the lifeforms that inhabited this place. It was not so bold as to dare to approach the dwelling it could see between the larger buildings. No, timidly it hoped it would be seen.
It had kept to the shadows as it approached, now though, to get any closer it would have to step into the light. It wanted to see inside the house. Light came from within, and noise too. Faint sounds of voices.
Crossing the expanse of moonlit yard, it could feel the unnatural surface of the concrete beneath its feet. It was nearing a window, planning to take a look inside when suddenly the door opened, pinning the creature in a shaft of light.
Frozen, it watched the new hole in the building. A human emerged. It was calling something, the voice high pitched, ‘Here, Kitty. Puss, puss, puss.’ A female of the species and clearly pregnant.
The woman was looking about but had not yet looked up. When finally, she did, her mouth was opening to call again. Like the creature, she froze, but it was momentary. As her eyes widened, she started to scream. The noise pierced the silence of the night, jolting the creature into motion. The protective suit it wore limited its range of motion, but it hurried away as fast as it could.
A second voice called after it, deeper than the first, but did not pursue. As it left the buildings behind, the creature inside the suit allowed itself a smile of elation. Seeing the inhabitants of the farm had been terrifying but exhilarating. It had been a necessary part of the plan – it needed to be seen, to be recognised for what it was.
It had no way of knowing what the inhabitants might now do, but it was confident it had set in motion a series of events that would enable it to achieve a glorious goal.
Red Letter Day. Wednesday, 9th November 0745hrs
Waking up this morning, it felt like a big day. The 8th of November had been the last official day of my career in the Kent police service. That I had handed my uniform and ID card in more than a week ago, didn't change that this was the first day that I would not be paid for my service since I was twenty-one years old.
In the years that I had amassed in uniform, I had earned a pension. Not a big one, and it would be not until my fifty-fifth birthday that I saw any sign of it, but it was there tucked away, nevertheless.
I was scratching to find positives from the experience. It was a lot like attending ballet classes when I was four. I did it because I had seen it on TV and convinced myself that it would be glamorous and fun and then had tried really hard because I believed that success relied upon me giving it my all. In the end, I had given it up because I found it neither glamorous nor fun and the only reward I got was blisters. Being in the Police had been exactly the same.
It was behind me now though. My life had moved on. In some ways at least. I was still the same me; determined to be self-sufficient and capable while quivering inside half the time.
I caught myself in the act of self-doubt and berated myself out loud. ‘Snap out of it, Amanda.’ I sat up in bed and stared at the mirror.
My new job, working for Tempest Michaels at the Blue Moon Investigation Agency, was different every day. I was telling myself that this was a positive thing, even though I was not entirely certain it was. There was a part of me that wondered if maybe I should learn accountancy because it would be mundane and safe. Safe sounded good because in the few cases I had already pursued in my new job, I had been threatened, tasered, stripped naked and almost killed. Some of those on more than one occasion.
My adrenalinee was getting employed more often than I had anticipated. My boss kept assuring me that this was not normal and that most of the cases he had investigated since opening the business had involved hours of research and careful deduction, rather than chases, fights and stitching wounds closed.
That was not my experience thus far.
I swung my legs out of bed, then propelled myself up and into the cool air. My first task was to shut the window as my skin was already goose-pimpling from the November temperature coming through it. I found I had to have the window open at night – it was too warm otherwise, even with the heating off. Once up though and without the sanctuary of my duvet to maintain my warmth, it needed to close.
In the living room, I turned on the TV, powered up a news channel and flicked on the kettle for coffee. I had elected sleep over gym but forced myself to perform some basic stretches and exercises. Yoga poses, and some calisthenics would do for today.
At twenty past eight, with coffee, a pint of water and a blueberry bagel in my belly, I set off for work. I needed a new case so this morning would involve reviewing enquiries, calling a few clients and determining which case or cases held the most merit. Case selection was more complex than solving the case itself according to Tempest. As a firm that investigated the paranormal, most of the enquiries we got were from complete whackos.
Just yesterday, James, the office assistant, had read me an enquiry from a man tha
t claimed to be in possession of a demonic banana. Tempest had taken the time to email the man back with instruction to throw it away.
There was all too much opportunity to rip people off. Tempest could have sold the man a story about the dangers of demonic fruit, taken some tap water labelled as holy water and charged the idiot five hundred pounds for an exorcism. Of course, if that had been something Tempest might have entertained, I would never have taken the job with him. He was all about integrity, charging an honest fee and making sure we felt decent about the service we provided.
The service itself was often about picking up where police investigations could not continue. Some crimes did defy explanation, but more regularly there was no crime occurring, there was just a mysterious event that the client wanted unravelled. We had one such case on the books now – crop circles.
The client had first emailed us a few weeks ago. It was a something or nothing enquiry where they had something mysterious happening but didn't really know what they wanted us to do about it. Now it seemed to have escalated with additional odd occurrences. Yesterday, in the filtered emails that James sent Tempest and me, was a further email from the same client in which he claimed the cows' milk at the dairy farm he owned had turned luminous. This now was more serious for him than the loss of some wheat because his income stream had been shut off.
Thinking about my next case options in the car as I drove to the office, this one came out as a forerunner. Thankfully, the journey from my apartment to the office each day only takes a few minutes because I know the backroads to get there and avoid almost all of the early morning traffic. The main arteries leading into and out of Maidstone, where I live, and the surrounding Medway towns, all clog terribly at peak times. If I had an office-based job, I would most likely buy myself a pedal bike and cycle to work rather than fight the endless traffic.
