The Bone Idle Detective agency

It was three o clock, and the phone didn't ring.

Every day, at three, on the dot, it stayed silent. I sat back in my chair and steepled my fingers in front of me.

Somewhere, a crime was being committed, and fairly soon, it would be solved. And its solution relied on my staying still, in an attitude of deep thought.

In the square outside, it was late spring. It was late spring everywhere in the Northern Hemisphere, of course, but I could only believe what I could see with my own eyes.

And what I could see was a couple lolling on the grass, a man reading a newspaper on a bench, a woman with a military bearing walking what appeared to be a dachsund. I heard the wonky chiming of an ice cream van, but it was outside of my field of vision.

I saw magnolia blossom drifting to the grass, I saw the handsome frontage of houses built with tainted money.  I saw a woman in an upper window leaning out to water a window-box. I saw a jogger going round and round and round.

All the people, so many people.

I tried hard not to think about the crime, it didn't help to think about what horror, what atrocity, was taking place right now. I have a 100% success rate of solving crimes I don't think about. 

Early in my career, I tried to involve myself in the detail. I'd take cases, answer the phone when it rang. I'd case locations, interview witnesses, look for clues, construct elegant theories. My success rate then was closer to 30%, and if I'm being completely honest a couple of those were blind luck. In one instance a man who'd embezzled thousands of pounds fell in love with me, in another I extracted a confession through what the perpetrator described as psychological torture, but was, in fact me being unable to think of anything to say. For four days. 

It is my belief that if you give people enough rope, they'll generally tie themselves up in it. In this, though in little else, I have so far been proved 100% correct.

Sometimes I just know a crime is being committed, and I also know, with utterly certainty, that if I barely think about it at all, it will be confessed to. Crime is a powerful motive force, and if it meets complete indifference, all that energy has to go somewhere, at least that's my working theory. It's worked pretty well so far, too.

The phone didn't ring, and at five to five, just as I was about to leave, the door didn't open, and nobody needing my help walked in. It did this every day. I nodded to myself, the case was proceeding satisfactorily, and I was increasingly confident of a result.

I took my coat from its hook on the back of the door and shrugged it on. It was a warm day, but I looked good in it. A long grey coat from Comme des Garcons. A hat, too. 

Half this game is image.

Stepping out into the square, I walked up to the ice cream van and smiled brightly at woman within. She smiled back. I'm personable enough, I think. I paid for a 99 flake, and walked off into the spring evening licking my ice cream, letting my mind unspool, and not thinking about crime. I passed a quiet evening watching wildlife documentaries of the sort with the title world's somethingest something.

In the morning, at ten past nine, the phone rang. DI Maskelyne.

“Was this your doing?” She asked. I allowed myself to feel blank, it wouldn't do to compromise the investigation at this late stage. She explained: a man had walked into the station that morning, a bewildered expression on his face, as though he didn't know what he were doing, as if compelled by some distant motive force. Acting almost as though he were under duress "like something was wrenching it out of him, which made me think of you" as DI Maskelyne phrased it, he confessed to murder and handed the duty sergeant a map with three locations. Each of which turned out to be a grave.

“Three?” I said “My my. Sounds like it could be one of mine, but I couldn't say for sure. I imagine I'm responsible for one of them, unless they were all at the same time”

“Well, on the off chance, thanks”

“You're most welcome, I imagine. Lunch on Thursday?”

“Not a chance” she rang off. I made a cup of tea, and wondered when the phone wouldn't ring again.

The Alain Delon Coat

I was in my mid twenties, which is a bit of sweet spot for these things, as you've enough money and independence to make them happen, and not enough self awareness to make you not. You are more impressionable than is perhaps wise.

What it was, I bought a 3/4 length raincoat from Yves St. Laurent  Saved up for months from my job at the video rental place. Forwent a few pints. A few weeks of beans on toast  I really wanted that coat. I'd watched Alain Delon in Le Samourai. For my suns, I bought a Fedora, too.

What do clothes do to us? They take us out of.ourselves. We become different versions of ourselves. I had enough of a grip on myself not to try to become someone else altogether, but in my coat I was older, suaver, seen more, done more.

At least until a Ford Escort deliberately drive through a puddle, drenching me, and a lad leaned out and shouted "Oi. Inspector Gadget! WAAANKEEERRR". It was hard to maintain the self deception after that.

I've still got the coat, though.

Another self teflective navel gazing story by a middle-aged man

There were, George reflected, already far too many stories by middle-aged men about themselves. Lying in bed on a Saturday morning, his wife lying sleeping beside him, he felt his place in the world. The very weight of being a middle-aged man; in a world where middle-aged men wielded the most financial clout it was, of course, only natural that was reflected back culturally in too many stories about middle-aged men.

Kinaston had said so the other day, over an overly expensive coffee at the end of Southport Pier. His words disappearing into the blank, milky sky. The Arts like to pretend they don't follow the money, he said, but at the end of the day everyone's got bills to pay.

Kinaston worked in Life Insurance. He'd wanted to be a poet, once. Now he confined himself to sweeping statements.

His wife's breath was even, she was sleeping well and George was relieved. She'd been unwell of late. He could get back to his navel gazing free from concern or requests for Lemsip. Yes, he thought, there were too many stories about middle-aged men. There were two in this one already, and the only woman hadn't even been granted the distinction of a name, merely a title that, he was dimly aware, was disputed in some quarters as implying ownership. George was aware of the idea that Patriarchy was a bad idea, but he wasn't sure of the whys or how's.

It was hard to feel remarkable, when there were so many like you, a world of middle-aged men, a world of stories of their concerns, their frustrations, their desires, and yet he'd lived his life with the secret conviction that he was. He got up, quietly, not wishing to disturb her sleep. Looking at himself in the mirror there was nothing to suggest difference, hair greying, running to fat, penis still functioning, thank God.

That was another of Kinaston's lines: in all the stories men write about men, it never takes long to get round to cock. 

George dressed quietly, and went downstairs. He had the sense that something momentous was about to happen, but then, he always did. Ever since he'd been a child and secretly convinced that he was marked for greatness., there had always been the idea that, any minute now, something was about to happen. He made a cup of tea while he waited, but nothing did in the time it took to drink it.

Maybe, he thought, if I went for a walk.

It was worth a try.

Five very very short stories

i

Sometimes it's best if you just talk about it, she said, chasing the last chip round the bowl. I'm not sure it is, he replied, I think that people talk about things too much these days. The waitress brought the bill, on a small china dish. They looked at it for what felt like days.

ii

She never told the girl that the sunbeds had been re-tubed. The girl didn't know that she'd hated her since primary school, the girl didn't even recognise her, and every week she wondered why she came out burnt.

iii

He was well aware that the staff pitied him, night after night on his own, nursing a few pints alone before heading off home. He could imagine the words they would use, lonely, loser, sad. But each night he'd have three or four, fold his coat, pay his bill, smile and leave. They'd never know that he was profoundly untroubled by what they thought, this made him unaccountably happy.

iv

He had resisted moving for years, and she wondered why they still stayed in their first home when they could now afford much better. Eventually she despaired of pursuing it. Moving house is a dangerous past-time, he thought. Every first loft has a box full of letters that are best left unread, photos that are best left unseen. 

v

The day that Prince Philip died, he remembered the day, years before, when Princess Diana had. He'd had a hangover then, too. The sombre music was soothing.

Vegan sausage rolls

There it was again, its two small dead eyes regarding her through the bakery’s glass front. Head cocked onto a dirty grey sloped shoulder. Feet scratching at the gum on the block paving. The problem was that she knew, and the pigeon knew, that sooner or later the heat would become too much. It was backing up already on the shop floor, the ovens had been pumping it out for a solid three hours, and she could feel the sweat starting to bead, and trickle down beneath the company-issue tabard.

It wasn’t so bad in winter, it was a comfort and a friend, filling the bakery with warmth and a steamy fug. But this was June, half past eight in the morning and already the sun was pitiless. The front would have to be opened, it was only a matter of time. She knew this and she knew that the pigeon knew this. It was there every morning.

A few of them had tried it on for a bit; one which was white and brown, rather than the usual mix of greys, there was a one legged one, too, it got about surprisingly well. But gradually they’d stopped hanging around outside the bakery, she still saw the one legged one hopping round by the bins outside the chippy. Only this one remained. Every morning. Staring at her through the glass.

It was only two nights ago that Shirl had said something about reincarnation over Bacardi and cokes in the Queens’, and she was beginning to think that her sister might have been on to something. That man on the telly, she’d said, the one with the purple shirt. He said there’s only so much energy to go round in the Universe, so you have to come back. Makes sense. Makes sense. Stands to reason.

In a way, the pigeon reminded her of her Ron, two years dead and an inveterate thief of pies, pastries and anything she’d bake at home. She’d taken the job to get her out of the house and away from him, then he’d moved on and she’d stayed put because what else was there to do? Yes, there was something in what Shirl said. The pigeon stared at her, tap-tapped the sheet glass with its beak, scratch-scratched its feet and she was sure that its dead dead eyes were saying come on Carol love, you can spare a steak slice for me, can’t you? How about one of them vegan sausage rolls? I’ve heard they’re nice.

A series of poor decisions

 

The one leads to the other. It only takes one Poor Decision and a crack appears in the edifice you’ve built for yourself that day. You’ve got up, done your exercise, a Good Decision. The morning is so full of promise.

You’ll crack it today, and if you can crack it today, then there’s a good chance you’ll crack it tomorrow, and if you do that, well, the rest of your life just sorts itself out doesn’t it? Because Good Decisions lead to Good Outcomes.

Golden Futures.

You’ve done your exercise, and you’ve done your improving tasks for the day. You’ve done a little bit of learning a new language, let’s say German, for argument’s sake.  Der Mann, Die Frau, Das Brot. You’ve made time for yourself, like the app says you should, you are clear headed and ready to begin your day.

You can never tell at which point you’ll make a Poor Decision. The one which will ruin everything.  So you guard against it at all times. Think things through. Ask yourself. Is this lunch I’m making a Good Decision? Yes, it is, going out for lunch would be a Bad decision, because if you go out for lunch, then, well, you’re out, aren’t you? And if you’re out you might as well have a glass of wine, and if you do that, well, you’ve had one, the day’s already gone, you’ve done it now, so you might as well have another.

So you have a healthy lunch, and you’re doing pretty well. The middle aged spread’s been piling on in recent years and yes, you might be two stone heavier than you were at thirty, but you’re two pounds lighter than you were last week, and that’s a step in the right direction, right? Maybe that exercise this morning wasn’t as long as it needed to be, but you’re a busy person. You’ve got lots of Good Decisions to make.

The afternoon and evening are busy, but they always are. You can coast through them, there aren’t any opportunities to screw up. This is why you love to work. There are no decisions to make. You simply plough through, happy and secure in the knowledge that a good day’s work is an essential paving slab on the path to the bright future and wonderful life that you know in your heart are just within reach.

If you keep trying your hardest.

All of your efforts have built a day. You can look back on a day full of Good Decisions, where you've done the right thing by yourself, given yourself the best chance to be the best person that you can be because that's what you have to be because that's what everybody else is. Everybody's the best version of themselves and you can be too if you keep making Good Decisions.

And if at the end of that hard day’s work you are tired, and it’s just the one, why, you’ve earned it, and just like that, you’re gone. But once you’ve had one, you might as well have another. And once you’ve had a couple, you’re hungry.

Because it always has to be good decisions. Because after just one poor one, that’s it.

Kiosk wisdom

Sometimes, you just have to start, and see where it leads you.

I was vouchsafed this piece of advice many years ago while working in a kiosk near Southport Pier. We sold vast clouds of candyfloss, beach balls, ice cream in virulent colours and novelty sticks of rock in the shape of male genitalia. 

It's a noble profession, and I will not hear a word against it, but it wasn't quite how I'd imagined things panning out. I was just past thirty at this point, and my long term girlfriend, understandably exasperated, had just left me for a vacuum cleaner salesman from Hereford.

My problem was that I'd always imagined that something would, at some point, turn up. For most of my existence it had, and I saw no reason that this state of affairs should not continue. At times of crisis, something had always turned up, be it a mystery inheritance, a savings account I'd forgotten about from back when my family had money or, on one memorable occasion, a piece of poorly laid municipal ornamental paving which afforded me ten grand in compo.

However, I was on something of a barren run, strokes of fortune wise, and was just about keeping my head above water flogging novelty cocks to hen parties. Not really what you want to stick on Instagram.

It was at this ebb, if not low, then certainly headed that way, that Dafydd came briefly into my life. I recognised him, of course, he was something of a legendary figure on the seafront; in amongst a welter of tat he ran possibly the only high quality kiosk on the front. No sugary bellends for Dafydd, his ice cream was the finest, from a single herd in Clayton le Dale, his postcards were allusive and abstract, and murmured tastefully of delights which were implied only. He even had classy sticks of rock in the shape of the Atkinson Gallery.

I don't know why he had cause to stop by my kiosk that blustery April afternoon, as clouds scudded in, and the wind whipped up with the implicit promise of a little late snow, possibly there was something tortured in my expression, maybe he wished to examine the improbable dimensions of some of our confectionery dildoes, it's impossible to say, for the man was inscrutable.

He had an ageless face which could have been anywhere between forty and seventy, a strong, aquiline nose and a mane of salt and pepper hair which made him resemble no one so much as underachieving Tottenham Hotspur midfielder of the late nineties, David Ginola. And as he perused our knick-knacks, whatnots and odds and sods he asked me a number of searching questions in a soft Welsh lilt, about the sort of person I thought I was, the sort of person I actually was, and the sort of person I wanted to be.

Eventually he left, and I felt as if my soul had been ablated. Torn down to the quick by rocks tumbling in a torrent. He purchased a bubblegum flavour cone, declaring it it "whimsical" and, just as he was out of the door he turned and said the words I've just said to you.

And you know what, it was something of a turning point for me. I still work at the kiosk, three years on, but a while ago I asked for, and received, an extra 50p an hour. So I'm something of a go-getter these days. I expect something will turn up any day now.