Web Site Story (6 page)

'This is a very nice pub,' said Kelly, looking all around it.

'And it's full of history. Pooley and Omally used to drink in here.'

'Oh yes?' said Kelly. 'This would be Pooley and Omally, the mythical heroes of Brentford, who thwarted the invasion of the borough by beings from the lost planet Ceres and numerous powers of darkness who chose to set foot in the borough?'

Derek grinned. 'Every borough has its folklore and its heroes,' he said. 'There are people in Brentford who claim that they actually knew Pooley and Omally.'

'And do you believe them?'

'No, of course I don't.'

'So, what are you going to do about what Mr Holmes might well refer to as "The Singular Case of the Vanishing Bus Men"?'

'Actually I've had second thoughts and I'm going to pass on it,' said Derek. 'Because I don't want to make a total prat of myself by writing it up and then have them come wandering home.'

'I see,' said Kelly. 'Then would you have any objections to me following it up?'

'It's neither here nor there, with me. You can do \vhat you like. But don't expect Mr Shields to print anything you come up -with.'

'I think this might prove to be rather important.'

'And I think you'll be wasting your time. Same again?'

Kelly looked into her empty glass. 'No thanks,' she said. 'I think I'll call it a night. I've got digs in Abbadon Street, I think I'll go back now. Pick up a chicken and mushroom pie and a bag of chips on the way back.'

'But I thought you were a vegetarian.'

'And I might well have been. But I'm not. And I made a mistake by accepting your invitation to dinner.'

'You invited me, I recall.'

Kelly smiled.

'Listen,' said Derek. 'You really have me all wrong. Let me buy you another drink. The chippy stays open late, you won't miss your chicken pie.'

'I'm missing it already.'

'Just one more drink. Then I'll walk you to your door.'

'Just the one then.'

Derek took himself off to the bar, leaving Kelly alone with her thoughts. Her thoughts were in some confusion at the present time. Something was happening here. Here in this little suburban backwater of Brentford. Something bizarre and something paranormal. And she was an outsider, an out-borough type. She was a stranger here. But she
was
here and if something
was
going on, she really truly meant to get right to the bottom of it.

At the bar counter, Derek bobbed up and down trying to get some attention. 'Over here, please,' he went. 'I say, over here.'

The professional barman went about his professional duties in a highly professional manner.

He served the regulars first.

'Oh come on,' called Derek. 'I was here before him.'

'Coming right up,' called the barman, serving somebody else.

'The service here is rubbish,' said Derek to an ancient gent a-seated on a bar stool.

'I never have any trouble,' said the ancient, whose name was Old Pete. 'Have you tried ordering your drinks in Runese, that would help.'

'Are you sure of that?'

'I'm sure.'

'Sadly I don't know Runese,' said Derek. 'In fact I think the entire concept of a universal tongue of forty words to be utter rubbish.'

'You'll be a long time getting served then.'

Derek sighed. 'Do you speak Runese?' he asked.

'Like a native,' said Old Pete.

'So how do you ask for a large red wine and a large vodka and tonic?'

Old Pete studied the glassy bottom of his empty glass.

'All right,' said Derek. Til get one for you too.'

'One for me first,' said Old Pete.

'All right, first. So what do I say?'

'Say "Large dark rum over here for Old Pete,'" said Old Pete.

'That isn't Runese.'

'But it will work, trust me.'

Derek sighed. 'Large dark rum over here for Old Pete,' he called to the busy and professional barman.

'Coming right up,' called the barman. And Old Pete's rum came right up.

'That will be one pound, two and sixpence,' said the barman.

'Pay the man,' said Old Pete.

'And a large red wine and a large vodka and tonic.'

'One pound, two and sixpence,' said the barman once more.

'Pay the man,' said Old Pete. 'Then I'll tell you how to do yours in Runese.'

Derek paid the man and once the barman had turned away to the cash register, Old Pete spoke certain words in Derek's ear.

'Ah,' said Derek. 'Thank you very much.'

The barman returned. 'Your change, sir,' he said.

'Ravata nostromo, digitalus, carberundam,'
said Derek.

'Pardon me?' said the barman.

'Ravata nostromo, digitalus, carberundam,'
shouted Derek.

'That's what I thought you said,' said the barman, and drawing back a mighty fist, he swung the thing forward and punched Derek right in the face with it.

Derek fell down to the bar-room floor in a bloody-nosed confusion.

An elderly gent seated next to Old Pete chuckled into his ale. 'Although I must have heard you do that at least a hundred times,' said he, 'it never fails to crack me up.'

'Cheers,' said Old Pete, raising his glass.

Kelly helped Derek up from the floor and helped him back into his chair.

'He hit me,' Derek mopped at his bloody nose. 'That barman hit me in the face.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Kelly. 'I'd have hit you too if you'd said that to me.'

‘I thought Runese was the Universal tongue of Peace.'

'That wasn't Runese. That was Brentford Auld Speke and you really don't want to know what you said.'

'You're laughing,' said Derek. 'You're laughing.'

'I think we'd better go,' said Kelly. ‘I’ll treat you to a chicken pie and chips and then I'll take you back to my digs and you can make sweet love to me.'

'Can I?' said Derek. 'Can I really, please?'

'No,' said Kelly, laughing some more. 'But I will treat you to the chicken pie.'

The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of Kelly Anna.

The suburban bedroom where she awoke wasn't white though, it was puce. Whether puce really qualifies at all as to being a colour, is a subject for scholars to debate upon. But hopefully in some hall of academe where the walls aren't painted puce. Puce and beige are closely related.

Pink and puce are not.

Kelly yawned and studied her watch. It was nearly nine fifteen.

Kelly rose, and had she been observed by a waking companion, he, or possibly she, would have seen that this golden girl slept naked. But then he, or possibly she, would have known that already. Sunlight, entering through the puce net curtains, fell upon the sweeping curves of Kelly's voluptuous body. Connoisseurs of the female form remain in disagreement regarding the way that a woman's body should be lit to its most pleasing effect. Many favour candlelight and many more the glow of the full moon. But few would argue that a warm and tousled female, lately risen from the bed and caught in the first rays of the sun, is not an article of such supreme beauty as to raise eulogies from poets and other things from hot-blooded males, which make them late for work.

Kelly showered in the puce-tiled en suite. Dried and dressed and attended to the minutiae of make-up and hair-combing.

Young and assured, golden and girl, she went downstairs and ordered the full English breakfast.

It was a little after ten of the joyous sun-kissed morning clock that Chief Constable Peter Westlake, son of the infamous Don and brother to the sinister Arkon Lucifer Abraxus Westlake (who spoke only in iambic pentameter and ate the food upon his dinner plate in alphabetical order), looked up from the duty desk of the Brentford nick to cast a connoisseur's eye in the direction of the beautiful creature that had lately entered the establishment.

In the opinion of the chief constable, a woman's naked body was lit to its most pleasing effect by a single naked light bulb in a small and naked cell.

But, as he was very good at his job, Chief Constable Westlake's superiors overlooked his little peccadilloes, only making sure that he was accompanied by at least two women officers when interviewing a female suspect.

'Ah,' said the chief constable, as Kelly Anna approached the duty desk. 'Come to give yourself up. Very wise.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' said Kelly.

Chief Constable Westlake shook his head slowly and surely. It was a very long head. It rose almost to a point. It was one of those rare heads that can actually fill a policeman's helmet. Which meant that he'd never had to wear the chinstrap when he'd been a constable. Which had been handy, as he didn't have a chin.

'You've come to make a full confession,' said the chief constable.

'I haven't,' said Kelly.

'No matter. We have many techniques at our disposal.'

'I've come to report a missing person,' said Kelly. 'And I'd like a printout of all persons reported missing in the London area during the last two months.'

'Indeed?' said the chief constable, resting his elbows upon the desk and cradling the chinless area of his face between his upturned palms. 'Well, you're certainly at liberty to report a missing person. But I cannot allow you access to police databanks.'

Kelly Anna Sirjan smiled upon Chief Constable Westlake.

Chief Constable Westlake smiled back upon her.

'Oh dear,' said Kelly. 'This puts me in a bit of a dilemma.'

'It does?' said the chief constable.

'Yes it does. I don't know whether to employ my womanly charms, flutter my eyelashes and brush my breasts lightly across your desk.'

The chief constable's pointy head began to nod up and down.

'Or quote the Freedom of Information Act, which clearly states that the general public are entitled to view any, or all information held within the police databanks that does not refer directly to named criminals or suspects.'

The chief constable's pointy head ceased nodding. Most men secretly fear intelligent women. Some men openly hate them. CC Westlake was one of the latter.

'This could take some time,' he said. 'You'd better sit yourself down for a couple of hours.'

'No problem,' said Kelly. 'I generally like to meditate at this time of the day. It involves entering a state of trance, please wake me gently.'

Chief Constable Westlake turned his pointy head and shouted, 'Meek! Come here at once!'

A constable with a black eye and a fat Up appeared from a doorway to the rear of the duty desk. He had been seventh man up to the site of yesterday's bus crash. A fireman called Norman had put him out for the count.

'Constable, deal with this woman,' said Westlake. 'And don't allow her to view any classified information.'

'Any
what?'
asked the constable. 'We don't have any of that kind of thing knocking around here, do we, guv?'

'Just do what you're told, Constable.'

'Yes, but guv…'

'Just do it lad, or know the wrath of my displeasure.'

'Yes, sir. Gotcha.' The constable saluted.

'And Constable.'

'Yes guv?'

'Why are you wearing that sombrero?'

'A fireman nicked my helmet, guv.'

'And the spotted cravat? Did he nick your tie too?'

'Oh no, guv. The lads and I were discussing the Hegelian dialectic up in the canteen. The cravat is merely symbolic.'

Chief Constable Westlake sighed wearily. 'Just get this woman a printout of all persons reported missing in the London area during the last two months. And take a statement from her about a missing person of her own.'

'Can I use the big new computer, guv?'

Westlake raised his eyebrows. 'What big new computer would that be, then?'

Constable Meek whispered into the ear of his superior officer. Kelly caught the words 'raid on the premises of… dodgy gear… open and shut case… friend of the DI… same lodge… two hundred pounds each hush money… new computer for the station… no more questions asked.'

'Ah,' said the chief constable.
'That
computer. Well lad, crank it up and give this woman the printout. And take off that bloody silly hat, you look like the Cisco Kid.'

'The Cisco Kid?' asked Constable Meek.

'Hero of the popular 1950s American TV series,' said Kelly. 'The Cisco Kid was played by Duncan Renaldo. His comedy relief sidekick, Pancho, by the now legendary Leo Carillo. Every episode ended with the lines "Oh Cisco", "Oh Pancho". There were three hundred and thirty-two episodes. And the series ran up until 1961 when Leo Carillo sadly passed away at the grand old age of eighty.'

Constable Meek and Chief Constable Westlake stared at Kelly Anna Sirjan.

'How on Earth did you know that?' asked Westlake.

'I read a lot,' said Kelly. 'Should I follow you, Constable Meek?'

The big new computer stood upon a desk in an otherwise empty office on the second floor of the Brentford nick. Although it was clean and new-looking, it was actually an out of date Mute Corp 3000 Series. The office was
not entirely
otherwise empty. There were cardboard boxes in evidence. And wires. And complicated keyboards and user's manuals and more wires and a number of dangerous-looking black boxes with warning stickers on them.

Kelly viewed all with an interested eye. 'Who has been wiring this up?' she asked.

Constable Meek reddened slightly in the cheeks. 'Well, most of us, really,' he confessed. 'We haven't made too much progress yet, but we remain confident that our endeavours will be rewarded with a satisfactory conclusion to the operation in the fullness of time. So to speak.'

'Would you like me to put it online for you?'

'Oh would you really? Oh yes please.'

Kelly applied her talents to the job in hand. Shortly thereafter her endeavours were rewarded with a satisfactory conclusion.

'There you go,' said Kelly. 'Now I'll need the password so that I can access the police databanks.'

'Yes,' said the constable, nodding his head.

'So, what is it?'

'What is what?'

'The password.'

'Password,' said the constable.

'Yes, password. What is the password?'

'Password,' said the constable once more.

'You're telling me that the password, is password?'

'Yes,' said the constable. 'Password is the official password for all government computers. Even MIS and Department S. Not to mention GHQ.' The constable paused.

Kelly typed in password.

'You're supposed to say "GHQ?"' said the constable. 'And then I say, "I told you not to mention that." It's a running gag.'

'How amusing,' said Kelly. 'Now I just type in a request for a list of missing persons and request a hard copy, do I?'

The constable shrugged in a petulant manner. 'A running gag isn't a running gag if people refuse to run it,' he said.

Kelly typed in her request. Pressed PRINT and waited.

'Actually I really love technology,' said the constable. 'And I love the way that computers have got all big again. This is a Mute Corp 3000, one of the biggest you can get. All those miniaturized jobbies that came in around 2010. The ones that you wore inside your contact lenses. I could never be having with them.'

'No-one could,' said Kelly. 'People felt cheated by microtechnology, computer systems that fitted on a pinhead. People like plastic boxes with gubbins inside them. Plastic boxes are comforting.'

'And black ones are really macho,' said Constable Meek. 'Oooh, what's it doing now?'

'It's printing out,' said Kelly.

And printing out it was.

Paper spilled from the printer. Paper from a big roll at the back. Jack Kerouac typed
On the Road
in the 1950s upon a specially converted typewriter that had a spool of paper on the back. It took him only three weeks to type out his best-seller and it was all on a single piece of paper. Not a lot of people know that interesting fact.

Kelly did.

'There's at least a page full,' said Constable Meek, preparing to rip it from the roll.

'There's more coming,' said Kelly.

And there was.

And more.

'That's fifteen pages' worth,' said Constable Meek, fourteen pages later.

'There's more coming.'

And there was.

And more.

'Jumping Jesus on a rope. Give me joy and give me hope,' went Constable Ronald Meek, son of the famous Nigel and brother to the pirate Black Jake Meek (who always wore a wooden leg but never owned a parrot). 'There's fifty pages, no sixty, no maybe seventy. Half of the population of London seem to have all gone missing.'

Kelly tore off the paper. 'It's hundreds,' she said. 'But not thousands. But it's far too many people. This isn't good. It isn't.'

'It's The Rapture,' said the suddenly enlightened Constable Meek. 'The good are being carried off to Glory. I must tell the chief constable.'

'Don't do that,' said Kelly.

'But I must. If I am to be lifted bodily into Heaven, he'll need to call in a replacement for me from the Met. There's a lot of paperwork involved. He'll want to get started at once.'

'It isn't The Rapture,' said Kelly, who, truth to tell, was almost beginning to wonder. 'And I wouldn't go bothering the chief constable with it. Well, not at least until I've left the building.'

'Oh must you go?' asked Constable Meek. 'I was hoping to ask you out to lunch. There's this restaurant I know, the Laughing Sprout. You are a vegetarian, aren't you?'

Kelly smiled and nodded. 'However did you guess?' she asked.

'Call it intuition,' said the unintuitive constable.

'Could you just give me half an hour alone with this computer first?' asked Kelly. 'Before you take me out to lunch.'

'Oh yes,' said Constable Meek. 'Half an hour. I'll change out of my cravat. I'll see you in half an hour.'

Half an hour later the constable returned, but Kelly Anna Sirjan had, like Elvis, left the building.

Kelly sat once more in the saloon bar of the Flying Swan. Before her on the table was the stack of computer printouts, torn into page-sized portions. Beside this lay something most intriguing. It was another printout, but this one came in the form of a map of Greater London. Kelly had programmed the computer to print out this map, dotting the last known addresses of the listed missing persons, along with the dates of their disappearances. The map made for interesting viewing.

Most of the disappearances appeared to have occurred during the last fourteen days. And there was a definite pattern. There were no dots in Brentford, which meant that Dr Druid had not as yet made a report to the police. But a trail of dots led directly to the borough. It was one of eight such trails. They spread over the map like the legs of some titanic spider, the body of which was splattered black with dots. And appeared to cover most of an urban conurbation known as Mute Corp Keynes.

'Mute Corp Keynes,' said Kelly to no-one but herself. 'The new town Utopia built in 2002 by Remington Mute the computer billionaire. "The town of tomorrow, today", if I recall the advertising slogan correctly, and I do. Turned out to be not so much a Utopia as a dystopia, a regular ghetto. He never invested in any more new towns after that. Significant? Perhaps.'

'Hello,' said the voice of Derek. 'Fancy seeing you here.'

'Thank God you've arrived,' said Kelly.

'Oh,' said Derek. 'Is it something important?'

‘I’ll say it is. Take a look at this.'

Derek looked. 'You're pointing to your stomach,' he said.

'I am,' said Kelly. 'It's empty and you're just in time to buy me lunch. They've got a special up on the blackboard. A surf and turf. I'll have that and I'll have a glass of red wine too.'

Derek smiled somewhat thinly and took himself off to the bar counter.

'Barman,' he was heard to call. 'Barman, excuse me
please.'

Somewhat later, Kelly pushed away her empty plate and dabbed at her Cupid's bow with an oversized red gingham napkin. 'That hit the spot,' she said, smiling. Derek had just watched her licking clean the plate. 'You certainly enjoy your food,' said he, in "what is known as a 'guarded fashion'.