Colchester WriteNight - The Anthology

Ever wondered what Colchester might have been like, had Boudicca not attacked? Could there be a secret underground room of treasures still concealed beneath Colchester Castle? Are you intrigued by the ghosts, which haunt the streets of this ancient town? Are you hungry for a slice of everyday life in Colchester?

Whether you want to know more about the Witchfinder General and his victims or explore time travel, 'WriteNight, the Anthology - Colchester' contains something for everyone.

Regular readers will already know that Colchester WriteNight is a group of local writers, who meet twice a month to discuss writing and to write together. I am a member of this amazing group and I love being a part of it.

The brainchild of Emma Kittle, this group began with Colchester people meeting for NaNoWriMo write-ins in November 2011 and we have been meeting regularly for eighteen months now, completing writing exercises; discussing writing; encouraging each other through NaNoWriMo, during the month of November and writing in general the rest of the time. All in all, it is a really supportive and fun group of people to spend time writing with.

Last year, we embarked upon the somewhat daunting task of putting together our first anthology of short stories, on the subject of the town we meet in – Colchester.

The end result is a really interesting and diverse anthology of work by sixteen writers, showcasing the broad range of styles, ideas and imaginations, which make up WriteNight.  To read and enjoy all the stories we had so much fun writing, plese click on the link below.

To purchase a copy of the anthology, 

click here or scan the barcode.

If you love writing and would be interested in coming along to WriteNight, we meet regularly at 15 Queen Street, Colchester.  For more information, click on the links below.  We welcome writers of all abilities ... you just need to enjoy writing!

www.facebook.com/groups/writenight  

Twitter: @ColWriteNight

Town to Port Festival, Hythe Colchester 25th May 2013

Like many Colcestrians, I have many preconceived ideas about the Hythe area of town.  Despite ongoing attempts, by the council, to regenerate the area, viewing it from my trips past and through the new developments, I always feel that it looks unfinished; an imperfect juxtaposition of rusty, crusty relics of industrial times gone by and generic 'little boxes on the hillside' appartment blocks.  I hadn't been down to the quayside since before the regeneration started. 

On Saturday, I popped along to the Town to Port Festival.  I had been asked by Tess Gardener of SKOPT (Some Kind of Poetry Thing) and Colchester Poetry, to perform a ten minute poetry set as part of her poetry coffee morning, in the spoken word area.  This gave me a reason to make my way back into the place where I grew up as a small child.

As I walked along the Quayside, I felt a mixed bag of emotions.  Amid the strange contrast of decaying old fragments of industrial heritage, torn down to make way for the new but not quite consigned to history yet, I observed the interesting scenery of my childhood in the very process of being replaced by that which is so insipidly generic about all new riverside developments.  Whilst the new builds and modern walkways around the area look pleasant enough, I can't help but mourn the final death knell of Colchester's industrial past.  The old buildings were eyesores, no argument there, but they represented something much more than the crumbling rubble that they were.  An example, which is personal to me would be the Coldock building, with its smashed windows, stained concrete and faded flaking paint was the "naughty boys' home", where, according to my mum and dad, who wanted to encourage us to behave, children who were disobedient were sent to have their toes nibbled by rats, while spiders with legs like your index finger would stare menacing at you.  I never believed the stories but I remember them fondly.  That building is no more.  I can't imagine its replacement will inspire such storytelling. 

While my nostalgia about this little loved part of town might sound negative, I must say that, despite the tinge of sadness I felt, the enthusiasm and sense of fun behind the festival itself was wonderful.  From the live music up by the bridge, along the row of stalls selling truly diverse examples of original work by local artists, to the house boats, with music playing and people just enjoying the sunshine and cultural fare on offer, it was a truly pleasant experience.  

The spoken word area showed off the worsmithing skills of a great number of talented local poets, musicians and storytellers.  

For my own part, I shared five of my poems - 'Grecian Liar', 'My Past Existence', 'Wilfred Owen', 'Kenneth George Bell' and 'A Soldier's Return'.  (Click on the links to see the poems in previous posts) I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  Tess Gardener did a great job of creating a relaxed and friendly environment, in which we were all able to share our ideas and scribblings.  I didn't get to see everyone perform but every performance I saw was interesting, entertaining and thought provoking.  I took my family along and I know they enjoyed it too.  I'm looking forward to the next meeting of SKOPT and Colchester Poetry, to listen to some more great poetry.  

I love how through organisations such as 15 Queen Street, First Site and Slack Space, the creative people of the Colchester area are finally being brought together and encouraged to collaborate, to add to the rich cultural tapestry of our town. 

As for the Hythe, I remain uncertain about the effect the regeneration of the area will have in the longer term.  What the festival provided was an opportunity to experience the potential the area has to offer.  The extent to which that potential will be fulfilled is in the hands of the Council.  Let's hope they manage to create something, which maintains something of the original spirit of the place.

The Town Hall Crier - a WriteNight story

Last night, I attended the latest meeting of Colchester WriteNight.

Emma Kittle had come up with an interesting writing task for us all to complete.  It involved comparing notes on our working environments.  Once we had a clear setting in mind, we had to create a story based on a disgruntled employee working in one of those locations.

As always, I was quite inspired by the theme and produced a story, which I will share below.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening and I am already looking forward to the next meeting.

Here is my story.  I must warn you that it is mildly sweary!

The Town Hall Crier

by Annie Bell

“I can't! I just can't!” I bellowed at my poor, long suffering wife.

“What is it now, love?” she asked.

“Bloody work. I'm not going in.”

Her face stared through me. Bloody stupid cow. She had no idea what I was going through. She could never, ever, not in a million years imagine my pain. All she cared about was money – cold, hard cash, strewn into our joint bank account for her own frivolous bloody use.

I gulped down the anaemic, vomit inducing cup of tea she had slopped down in front of me, scowled at her miserable, unsatisfied, indeed unsatisfiable face and marched – well – sloped off to the front door, briefcase in hand and left.

As the door clunked behind me, I blinked back rays of depressing monochrome sunlight, blinding my tired eyes – bastards. Where were the grey clouds when you needed them? As I wandered down the road towards the grotty bus stop, millions of daffodils danced happily in the breeze. Bastards. Bloody piercing cheery yellow breaking my black mood, rubbing it in my face that their happy-go-lucky world was so much richer than my own. Bloody bastards. I kicked one of them over, apologising immediately for my display of gratuitous violence and tried to straighten its bruised and broken stem – like my soul. Battered. Destroyed.

On I marched to catch the bus. A few moments later, I climbed onto the lowered step of false security. I flashed my bus pass at the driver, who growled a vague greeting. My usual seat was free but Mrs Parsley – bloody busybody moved from her seat and sat behind me, breathing down my neck from the moment I sat down. I could feel the warm dampness of her breath chilling my neck, as the draught from the window was cooled by the microscopic droplets of saliva beading in the hairs on the back of my neck. I shivered, pulling my collar up, hoping against unrealistic hope that she had not spotted me.

“My Smith,” her whiny voice scratched at my eardrums, a cloud of parma violet horror clawing at my stomach lining. “What's happening about those 'orrible teenagers who keep frightening Mitzy?” Bloody Mrs Parsley. She could bugger off as well. Seemed to think I was hers to pester 24/7. Can't even catch a sodding bus without them moaning at me about their petty complaints. She made me sick. As if I cared about her stupid chihuahua Mitzy and her ridiculous issues with the youth of her estate. I reckoned the dog wanted skinning and chucking in a lake, if I was honest but apparently, that sort of attitude just doesn't win votes.

Grimacing, I turned around and smiled into her leathery face.

“Mrs Parsley. How delightful of you to distract me from my ruminations. Now I have raised the issue with the council and it will be addressed at today's meeting. Beyond that, there is precious little I can do, beyond offering my sincerest and most profound apologies for any inconvenience caused.” As I heard the insipid, saccharin response fly from my tongue, I snarled at myself.

“Tell her to leave you alone!” my subconscious screamed. “Tell her she's ridiculous. Tell her to get a blinkin' life.”

I shut her profane wittering out, as the bus ground to a shuddering halt in the High Street. I dragged my carcass from the seat tugging my trousers from the chewing gum, which had held me an unwilling captive.

Escaping one Hell, I marched into another. The Town Hall loomed – a deathly mausoleum – scowling at me. I shrugged my coat closer and walked in through the front door.

To my left hung the roll of honour – all the victims of the World Wars. I could no longer look at it. The freedoms those men died for had vanished a long time ago. Only our facade of smoke and mirrors now convinced the people of their false freedoms.

I no longer knew why I was doing this job. My ideals had been lost in a sea of muddy political rubbish, which no longer resembled the original purpose of democracy, which had driven me into this charade.

I would walk, as I did every day, through the corridors, into the chamber. I would take my place, as I did every day, in the leather horseshoe and I would gaze sleepily at the semi clothed ladies painted into the ceiling. They would stare at me, as they did every day – judgement marring their superficial perfection and inside, I would die a little, as I did every day.

© Annie Bell 2013

The Trail of Neverending Galaxies

I recently found this whilst I was searching through some old paperwork.  It's an old story I wrote when I was 10.  Just for fun, I thought I'd post it here.  It is obviously the work of a child but it is fun and silly.  I had quite an imagination.

The Trail of Neverending Galaxies

by Annie Bell

One bright morning, Sonya and I were walking through the woods, when Sonya said, "Oh, how I wish I could go up into Space and over to the Lunar Way Galaxy."

I said "The Lunar Way Galaxy?  You'll never go there."  But I was very wrong.

Sonya looked at her watch.  "5.30, time to go home."  

I said "OK.  See you tomorrow Sonya." but as we were nearing the Mersea Road, we realised that, not only had it got dark very quickly but we were walking on STARS!  Lots and lots of stars, surrounding us!  Above, below, in front, behind, to the left and to the right of us!

Then, all of a sudden, we were flying!  We flew for about half an hour, then we landed on the Lunar Way Galaxy.  We walked around for a while, then Sonya said, "Look at that.  It's much bigger than every other star in this place, let's walk on it."  So Sonya and I walked on the weird new star!

Suddenly I shouted "Look Sonya!  There's a market going on.  Ha, hee hee.  Look, there are little green men scuttling around!" 

Sonja said "Aren't they weird, look Joanna, they've got one more of each of the parts on their bodies, except their actual bodies and heads, than us!"  And Sonya was right, because, they had 3 ears, 3 eyes, 2 noses, 2 mouths, 3 arms and 3 legs!  They were selling 3 armed moon dresses, moon jewellery, in fact everything they sold was made of moon.  Sonya and I could not think why the men were selling moon gear., then I realised that we were on one of the Lunar Way Galaxy's moons.  I told Sonya why everything was made out of moon.

Then I saw an old Lunaranian and helped him to get home. 

The old Lunaranian said "Thank you for helping me to get home, my dears.  Are you from the Milky Way Galaxy?"

"Yes," we answered.  

He said "Well, come on inside and have a Milky Way chocolate bar and a cup of tea.  My name is Loony, what's yours?"

I said "Er, my name's Joanna, and this is my friend Sonya."

He said "Oh, hello Zonya, I mean, Sonya and Joanna.  How do you do?"

"Oh hee hee ha, you are very funny Loony," I said.

"Loony by name  and loony by nature, that's me!"  said Loony.  

"Hey, Sonya, Loony is doing a dance and a song," I said.  "Look!"

"Oh, he's doing a jig," said Sonya.  And sure enough, Loony was dancing and jigging around.

Then, all of a sudden, a massive gust of wind came in and blew us over.  

"What was that?" said Sonya.

"Oh, the Gust of Galaxies.  It comes once a year to warn us that the Galaxies are about to move one place south west," said Loony.  But Loony was wrong, for, just as we were walking out of the door to go to the door to go to the Milky Way Choco and Cream Moon Bun Restaurant, there came a growl and a scream, then all the Lunaranians were running towards the way off of Lunarcreamcake Moon of the Lunar Way Galaxy.

"Help!" they screamed.  "IT'S CENTURY LUNARCRUNCHER!  Quick!  To the Milky Way Galaxy and Planet Earth!"  

"Century Lunarcruncher, my great cream cakes, let's get out of here," said Loony.  "Follow me, children." So Loony, Sonya and I ran away from Lunarcruncher.

"Loony, why isn't Century Lunarcruncher just called Lunarcruncher?" said Sonya.

"Because he comes out and eats as many Lunaranians as he can lay his hands on, and he comes once a century!" said Loony.  "He confuses us by making a gust of wind come, and we think it is the Gust of Galaxies."

"You mean, he cheats and cons you!" I said.

"Yes, I'm afraid so Joanna."  We flew for 30 minutes, then landed on the Milky Way Galaxy.

"How many galaxies are there Loony?" said Sonya. 

"Er, about 6600, Sonya," he said.  "I, myself, don't know, because there is a whole trail of Neverending Galaxies."

"Oh my goodness, are you sure, really sure Loony?" I said.

"Yes Joanna, positive," said Loony.  

"Wooh," said Sonya, "Wait till Mum hears about this.

By this time, we were in the woods, so Sonya and I each took half of the Lunaranians home with us.  

My Mummy said, "Who the heck are these ugly creatures?"

I said, "They're not ugly, they are in great danger from the Century Lunarcruncher."

Mummy said, "Yes dear, now come in everyone and Joanna can explain exactly why she has brought you weird aliens home from the woods with her."

"Well, it all started at 5.30pm.  Well Sonya was wishing we could go to the Lunar Way and just as we were on our way home, we were ..." I told her the story.  "... and that's it Mummy."  

Mummy said "Oh, sorry I was so rude to you, all of you.  Now where would you all like to sleep?"

"Well," I said, "I think that around six will fit with me in my bed Mummy."  The same sort of thing happened to Sonya.

Next morning, Sonya all the Lunaranians and I met together in Cherry Tree Woods for a meeting.

"Right," said Sonya.  "This Century Lunarcruncher has to be stopped."

"Right," said all the Lunaranians.

"Well, we have an idea," I said.  "We can't save the Lunarcreamcake Moon," I said.

"BUT!" blurted out the two of us, "We know a man who can."  We all burst out laughing.

"This wonderful man," cried Loony, "Who exactly is he?"

"Mr Stimson," we shouted.  "He does photography.  Well, you told us, Loony, that the Century Lunarcruncher will die at an artificial light flash, well, if we get a camera from Mr Stimson, we will get Lunarcruncher into Loony's house and take a photograph of Lunarcruncher.  The flash is a flash of artificial light.  It will kill him, so he can't bother the Lunar Way again."

"That is a brilliant idea girls," said Loony.  "Let's go."  So we all went to Copford Green with Mummy and I got a camera from Mr Stimson, but Mr Stimson didn't quite trust us, so he came with us to the Lunar Way.

We walked through the stars for an hour and three minutes, then we flew for two hours.  We landed on the Lunar Way Galaxy and walked to Lunarcreamcake Moon.  (The reason that we took 3 hours and 9 minutes was because Lunarcruncher was around.)  We found Lunarcruncher but he ate 7 Lunaranians.  Somehow, 50 strong bodybuilders and Loony (all Lunaranians) held him still, while Sonya, 49 other Lunaranians and I tied him up with 6 inch thick pieces of rope and then after 6 hours we got him into Loony's house, but there was no film in the camera, so we went back to Earth, got a film into the camera and tried to take a picture, but there was something wrong with the camera.  So we had to go to Fancy Photos to buy a new camera.  We bought a tiny one of those Cherry Coca Cola ones.  We put a film into it and went to the Lunar Way's Lunarcreamcake Moon and took a snapshot of Lunarcruncher.

A few days later Loony came to my house with Sonya and said "Would you like to come to Lunarcruncher's funeral?"  

I said, "Why do you want to give him a funeral, Loony?"

"It's not exactly for Lunarcruncher, it's for ..." he paused for a moment, "It's for the seven Lunaranians which he gobbled up."  Loony was obviously very upset, so I went with him to Lunarcreamcake Moon and we buried Lunarcruncher, had a cup of cream tea, (a Lunar Way Favourite.) and went home.

By the way, I didn't go to the funeral just to please Loony, I went for the eaten ones too.

The End.

Journeys Through History

I love research.

I realise that might sound a bit odd.  Until about 6 months ago, I was not the biggest fan of research.  I was under the impression that it was a necessary evil which had to be overcome in order to achieve a goal.  I cannot even begin to explain how wrong I was!

First of all, as regular readers will know, in August, I spent a lot of time in the Local Studies Area of Colchester Library, researching a young lady called Charlotte White (nee Smyth), who lived in Berechurch Hall, Colchester in the early 19th Century.  The purpose of this was to write a story about her ghost, as part of the Colchester WriteNight anthology.  This research led me on a fascinating journey, which took me on interesting field trips, introduced me to some wonderful people and resolved a ghost story, which had scared me since my childhood.  I am still intrigued by this story and have many projects in mind which are linked with it.

For more information on my adventures in researching Charlotte White's story, have a look at the following links:  PART1 - PART2 - PART3 - PART4 - PART5

To purchase a copy of 'Charlotte -The Lady in White' a novel based on the Life of Charlotte White, nee Smyth, please click the link below

https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/704533011/charlotte-the-lady-in-white-by-annie?ref=shop_home_active_1&crt=1

Over the past few weeks, I have been conducting some research into World War II and more specifically, events which had a direct effect on Colchester during that period.  I have been researching this for my novel - Midnight.  I plan to add 50,000 words to 'Midnight' for NaNoWriMo this year. (For more information, click HERE.)

For a number of years, I have been interviewing my Grandad's siblings to find out what happened to them during World War II but I needed some more detailed information about events in Colchester during that period, in order to bring my protagonist's story to life.

First of all, I took myself back into Colchester Library's Local Studies Area.  There, I found a beautiful home made book - 'Colchester at War' by a man called Bernard Polley, which was full of useful facts, dates and events which took place.

Second of all, I discovered my new research interest E.J. Rudsdale.

Rudsdale was a curator at Colchester Castle Museum, worked for the W.A.C. during World War II and also worked for the Royal Observer Corps during the times when the V1 and V2 bombs were causing mayhem across Britain.  He was also an avid historian, who appreciated the merit of diaries in documenting events for future generations.  As such, he kept a detailed diary of the entire war period.  

As regular readers will know, I recently read Rudsdale's diary and found it a brilliant read.  (Click HERE to read more)  Despite the fact that I was simply using the book for research, I was so impressed with Rudsdale's writing and interested in him as a person, that I am now very keen to look into his history and read more of his writing.  I am eager to do this as soon as I can.

I cannot say strongly enough how useful the information available in Colchester Library is.  I have also been consistently impressed by the staff there.  They are so helpful and friendly.  I thoroughly recommend them.

For more information, have a look at the website for Essex Libraries.

So, as you can see, researching history for the purposes of writing a story can be completely absorbing and utterly compelling.  The more I research, with the purpose of writing, the more I want to do.  If you have a story in mind and research is putting you off, give it a go.  You might be surprised!

WriteNight Colchester

On Monday, we had our fortnightly WriteNight meeting at 15 Queen Street, Colchester.

As always, we had a great time.  Mary Pullen planned our activity, which was a really good eye opener for me.  Given two people, a lake and early evening in the summer, we were asked to write for fifteen minutes from the perspective of one of the two people.  After that, we wrote for fifteen minutes from a limited third person perspective and finally we wrote for a further fifteen minutes as an omniscient narrator.  It was a really interesting exercise for me.  It had never occurred to me before to examine one scene from multiple viewpoints.  I enjoyed the activity very much and I was pleased with what I wrote, which is below.

An Early Bath

by Annie Bell

 

“Come on Janie!” Simone called. I was struggling. A beery lunchtime at Colchester Free Festival had led into a cidery afternoon and now my head seemed to be trapped in its own personal waltzer. Trying to catch my wicked friend – the one who had encouraged this foray into an afternoon of ad hoc boozing on an empty stomach, I staggered from left to right, right to left – or was it? I could've been marching diagonally into the sky for all I knew. Bang! I hit a bin, careering off it like a pinball, giggling hysterically. The music was still banging in the background.

Simone appeared ahead of me; an impressionist blur of blonde hair, pink and green with legs, somewhere in the centre of my soft focus beer goggles, dancing wildly. “Yowzers!” my drunken mind slurred to itself. "She's even more drunkerer than I am might be.”

“Want to be Tom Daley!” Simone called out. What the pants was she going on about? My wibbly brain did not compute. Simone staggered further and I was dragged after her, both of us giggling completely hopelessly as our legs worked against us like those weird bikes at fetes which steer left when you want to go right.

Eventually, we came to an expanse of water.

“We're here!” Simone announced as though we had completed a marathon. I looked around. The boating lake. What were we doing?

“Aargh!” Splash!

“Simone," I yelled. "Are you ok?”

* * *

“What numpties.” Dave thought. In all his time as a Journalist for the Gazette, he had never seen such stupidity. He knew people at the Free Festival would be drunk but this was really funny.

Two obviously inebriated females: one was blonde and slightly crazy, the other, with her short dark hair, was much more wobbly than her friend as they staggered from the beer tent, knocking a few toddlers over as they went. They seemed utterly unaware of the carnage they were causing.

The dark haired one seemed to be struggling with her sense of direction. She took over five minutes to cross the lower Castle Park, staggering in a random zig zag from left to right, right to left in pursuit of her friend. Dave watched as she careered inexorably towards an overflowing bin, and was pinged off in yet another direction.

A bit further on, her blonde friend was dancing like a demented ballet dancer, her mint green dress billowing out as she pirouetted randomly across the park.

“Want to be Tom Daley!” she yelled at no-one in particular. She then ran over to her partner in crime, almost knocking her over as she overshot her target, grabbed her limp hand and dragged her down to the edge of the boating lake.

Dave ran forwards as the girls staggered onto the jetty, unwittingly shoving a couple of small children aside.

The dark haired one stood, blank faced, confused, oblivious – her face faintly green, as her friend adopted an overly elaborate supposedly professional diving pose, before plunging, belly first, into the lake. Dave pulled his camera out just in time to capture the moment. The readers would love this. The bloody Olympics had a lot to answer for.

* * *

Simone could not know the ramifications of her drunken moment of comedy genius. When she leapt off the end of the jetty, her cider befuzzled brain had no logic. It did not think of practical issues like the depth (or lack thereof) of the water. She was unaware of the horrible slimy mud, which lurked a foot beneath the surface of the water; an intoxicating mixture of rotting duck poo and leaf mould. As she landed with an almighty thud, the realisation may have dawned upon her but not in any concrete form. She hadn't seen Dave, capturing the image of her almighty collision with the water, with his quality DSLR. She also remained unaware of her sozzled friend Janie, who, too drunk to remain standing, slipped sideways off the jetty and into the same sludgy soup as her friend.

Neither one knew that the legacy she would leave for the great 2012 summer of sport would be a full front page spread in the Gazette and public humiliation.

At that moment, they just lay back, muddy, trying to float in the water as though they were in a swimming pool in the Costa del Sol and laughing hysterically into the evening breeze.

© Annie Bell 2012

If you are interested in writing, come along to WriteNight.  We meet on the second and fourth Mondays of the month at 15 Queen Street, Colchester.

The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye

I just thought I'd post the story I serialised last week in one post.  Hope you enjoy it.

The Mysterious Incident of the Glass Eye

by Annie Bell

“Aye Aye! What's going on 'ere then?” Inspector Bailey's voice boomed into the waiting room. Completely inappropriate, in the circumstances. As he took in the scene, he began to wish the ground would open up and swallow him.

When Jones had called him, at the station, to say there had been an 'unfortunate incident' in the local doctor's surgery, involving a glass eye, he couldn't prevent his inner comedian from dancing the foxtrot in the darkest recesses of his mind. Thus, he had wandered, unbidden, into the worst social faux pas of his career to date.

Before him, was a scene of absolute horror. Two elderly ladies sat on one side of the room, clutching their handbags with both hands – hands, which he noticed, were much shakier than you would expect – even from the elderly. As he made the observation, Bailey made a mental note to put his name down for that course he had seen advertised back at the station – 'Banishing your prejudice – open minded policing for a more peaceful community.”

Again, that evil, foxtrotting comedian reared his waxy moustached head. “Imagine a version of the London riots,” he leered, “where pensioners tore round the city, burning things because of some terrible police related injustice – probably involving tea and biscuits.” Bailey shut him out, focusing on the task at hand; two old ladies shaking, their eyes focused glassily on the centre of the room, where a pool of blood was slowly congealing, forming a sticky crust on the parquet flooring. In the pool, lay a man – or at least, he used to be – slim build; might have been six feet tall, had it not been for the unfortunate absence of his head. His sharp pinstripe suit was a write off; his glossy shoes – redeemable.

“Bailey!” He yelled at himself. “Never mind the suit or the shoes. Where the Hell is the man's head?”

Looking around him, the answer was obvious. It was sprayed all over the wall adjacent to the old ladies – and all over a poor teenager and a little boy seated in front of the wall. Their silhouettes formed white figures within the fine spatter marks. It looked like a graffiti artist had spray painted the man's brains onto the wall. Both youngsters stared vacantly at the headless corpse, their jaws hanging open in disbelief. This was going to cost psychiatric a lot.

At that moment, Jones walked in, pulling on a pair of latex gloves.

“Ah, Bailey,” he beamed. “What do you make of all this?”

Bailey paused a moment. “Different.”

“Just had a chat with the receptionist,” Jones revealed. “She's a hottie and the only witness who's not catatonic. Did you know she met one of the men from her little black book at the weekend? Apparently, she was on a spa weekend and he just walked in with his big ...”

“The case, Jones!” Bailey snapped.

“Right. Sorry. She reckons it was the weirdest thing. This guy – the headless horseman over there – walks in, demanding to see a doctor. He's not a patient here so she pesters him for his details and he just shouts at her – all aggressive like – and demands to see a doctor. She notices he has a glass eye which has a light blinking in it. He screams this bloodcurdling scream and his head explodes – just like them fembot things in Austin Powers, only ...” Jones indicated the carnage behind him, “bit messier.”

Bailey was incredulous. “You telling me his glass eye blew his head off?”

“Cool huh!” Jones loved a gruesome crime scene.

“Hmm...” Bailey grunted. He pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and tugged them onto his hands, satisfaction filling him as the flexible material snapped against his skin. He examined the reception desk and noticed a small, circular object. Pulling a pair of tweezers from his inside pocket, he picked it up and dropped it into a transparent evidence bag. He glanced at it. It glanced back. Bailey jumped. It was a hazel iris with a minute circuit board on the reverse side. “Jones!” Bailey yelled. “I've found the detonator!”

A few minutes later, uniform and forensics arrived on the scene, taking statements and details from all five witnesses, before allowing each to go home.

Suddenly, one of the forensics team handed Jones a wallet.

“Found it in his pocket,” the young man proclaimed as though he expected a medal or something. Bailey sniggered to himself. Bloody newbies and their damned enthusiasm. They'd learn.

Jones thanked the young officer and examined the wallet, which contained a driving license with an address in London and a receipt from a B & B down the road. The man's name, it seemed, was Victor Cyclops. Bailey's inner comedian sniggered and twirled his moustache. Bailey kicked him aside. It was a starting point, at least.

Leaving forensics to work their magic, Bailey and Jones left. It was a relief to be out in the fresh air, even if the ominous sky was pregnant with rain.

Once comfortably installed in Jones' BMW, they drove the short distance to Castle House - the B & B. Pulling up outside, both officers climbed out of the car. The street was eerily still. Nothing moved. Even the wind had ceased blowing. Bailey looked at the building – A Victorian house with serious delusions of grandeur. Did a house really need battlements where the fascias should be? Bailey realised he needed to get his grumpy side under control. He was in danger of giving Victor Meldrew a run for his money.

Opening the red gate, Bailey padded sharply down the concrete path, straightening his jacket before rapping smartly on the door. A bit of muffled chat went on, from within, before a slender lady opened it. She was only in her early forties, Bailey guessed, but her old fashioned attire and perfectly set pensioner's perm suggested she was much older.

“Good morning. Welcome to Castle House,” her parrot-like voice pealed into the street. “I'm Mrs Bray.”

“Good morning, Mrs Bray.” Bailey responded. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Yes.” she announced, indignantly.

“Excellent. Detective Inspector Bailey,” he flashed his badge, “and this is DI Jones.” At the mention of his name, Jones ceased picking moss off the garden wall, inexpertly brushed the dirt from his hands and flashed his badge at Mrs Bray. She raised a cursory eyebrow at him, before turning her attention back on Bailey, who continued speaking. “Did you have a customer recently by the name of Cyclops?” She thought for a moment.

“Cyclops … Cy...clops ... yes. Left this morning in a hurry. Had three more days booked in but paid and rushed off. Weird coincidence, that … man with a glass eye called Cyclops. He was a weird one, wasn't he Gavin? Gavin!” she yelled. “Come in, Officers.” They both stepped into the hallway feeling as if a world of chintz was swallowing them. A shrew-like man poked his head out of one of the rooms. He looked nervous and, Bailey assumed, a bit henpecked.

“Yes dear?”

“Gavin – that man – Mr Cyclops,” she looked, pointedly at Gavin. “Odd, wasn't he?” she nudged Gavin, a tinge of frustration leaking from beneath her cool exterior. “Tell them, Gavin – about his eye. So strange.” Gavin opened his mouth to speak. “Glass eye!” she went on. Gavin closed his mouth, his shoulders slumping. “Right odd it was. Looked … wrong – all still and unnatural. Never seen one before, never want to again.” Gavin trudged back into the room he had just come from. Jones followed him, giving Bailey a nod.

“What do you know about him?” Bailey asked, pulling his notebook and pen from his pocket.

“Well,” she thought out loud. “He comes from London, drives a beaten up car and he likes four spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee in the morning!” she shuddered with disgust.

“Have you cleaned his room yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Can I have a look?” Bailey interrupted her, eager to get on.

“Course. Room 3, just on the left as you go up the stairs. Make sure you've wiped your feet.” She reached up to a rack of keys and handed him one. “Officer?”

“Mmm?” Bailey's patience was growing thin.

“What's he done?”

“Can't tell you, Madam.” Bailey headed up the stairs, trying not to look too closely at the giant floral pattern on the wallpaper, which clashed horribly with the magenta woodwork. The entire upstairs smelled like a tart's boudoir.

Reaching room 3, Bailey turned the key in the lock and the lurid door swung open. A musty aroma of sweat and feet assaulted his nose afresh. He flicked on the light and looked around. None of Cyclops' possessions were there. The bed linen was rumpled and the curtains were still closed.

Checking the avocado en suite, Bailey resigned himself to the fact that some people would never develop good taste. The Brays were stuck somewhere between 1975 and old age, they would never change. The bathroom was empty of Cyclops' belongings as well. Before leaving, Bailey looked in the bin, where he found an empty Vaseline jar. Unbidden, all manner of unpleasant thoughts entered his mind. Pushing them, and his inner comedian to one side, he popped the jar in an evidence bag and headed downstairs. Jones was chatting with Mrs Bray. He saw Bailey and nodded. They were both ready to go. Bailey handed Mrs Bray his card before heading for the car. As they climbed in, Bailey grinned at Jones.

“What did old Battered Husband have to say for himself then?”

“Not much,” Jones replied. “Reckons Cyclops worked for some advanced prosthetics company, developing tools to help the disabled or some sort of lark. Very noble, I'm sure.”

“Interesting,” Bailey smirked. “I found a massive empty Vaseline jar in his en suite.”

“Bloody Vaseline,” Jones snorted. “Wife makes me buy vats of that stuff for her chapped hands. Loves it. Bloody chemist sniggers every time I go in. I 'ate the stuff. 'ate it!”

Chatting away, the two headed for the police station. As they walked through the blue doors, Bailey nodded to Sadie, who was manning reception. She winked back. He liked her. Since Shona had left him, his daily exchanges with Sadie had been the only thing keeping him sane.

Snapping out of his daydream, Bailey realised Jones had been talking to him.

“Huh?” he muttered.

“Knew you weren't listening,” Jones proclaimed, mock offence colouring his tone. “I said we need to chat with Ruddles about this one.”

“S'pose we do,” Bailey agreed, reluctantly. They turned left and knocked on Ruddles' office door.

“Come in!” a strained voice called out. Jones glanced at Bailey, who pushed the door open. Chief Superintendent Ruddles sat behind his large desk, glaring at the two DIs, who had just disturbed his peace. He raised a heavy set arm to indicate that they should take a seat.

“Bailey, Jones,” he shook their hands as they sat, his gravelly voice echoing in their ears. “I heard from uniform about the headless man. Nasty business, I'm sure. What do you know so far?”

“Well ...” Jones began, twiddling his fingers nervously. “Um...”

“We know he's not from round here,” Bailey jumped in. “We have an address for him in London but there are no other leads.”

“So strange,” Ruddles glanced up as if imagining something, his furrowed brow accentuated by the harsh strip lighting. “Blowing a man's head off with his own glass eye. Not what you'd call subtle. Our murderer must be an evil genius. Check his place out. I'll call the Met to smooth things over with them.” Jones and Bailey took this as their cue to leave. They nodded to Ruddles and walked towards the door.

“What's wrong with you, Jones?” Bailey hissed, once safely back in the corridor.

“I'm a coward, and Ruddles scares me,” he muttered, putting on a squeaky, girlish voice. Bailey chuckled.

“You're an idiot,” he replied, affectionately.

* * *

Two hours later, both men stood outside an impressive four storey town house. They climbed the steps and knocked on the glossy blue front door. A moment later, it swung open and a slender, elegant lady peered out, tucking a smooth blonde curl behind her ear.

“Can I help you?” she asked, confusion lining her pretty face.

“Detective Inspectors Jones and Bailey,” Jones beamed. Bailey elbowed him viciously. He hated it when Jones got all excited over pretty girls. It distracted him from his work.

“May we come in, Madam?” Bailey asked, flashing his badge.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“We have reason to believe that a Victor Cyclops resides at this address.”

“Yes,” she replied. “He's my brother,” she looked worried. “Is he OK?”

“I think we need to come in,” Bailey said softly. He hated this part of his job.

A few minutes later, the news had been broken, tears had been shed and now, questions were being asked.

“How did he die, Inspector? Can I see him?” This made Bailey's knees itch. He had never before dealt with a situation quite like this. How do you tell a mourning woman that her brother has, quite literally, lost his head? He decided to avoid the issue for the moment.

“Could we have a look around, please, Miss Cyclops?” he replied.

“Kerry,” she corrected him.

“'Scuse me?”

“Miss Kerry,” she clarified. “After he lost his eye, Victor changed his name by deed poll, for a laugh. I never did get it,” tears welled up in her eyes. Taken aback, Bailey glanced at Miss Kerry. Jones, winking, handed her a tissue.

“Look wherever you want,” she murmured miserably. “Find out what happened to poor Victor.”

Jones and Bailey wandered around the house. Everything was in its place. The trail was drying up. As they were about to leave, Miss Kerry approached them.

“Have you checked the attic?” she asked. “Victor spent a lot of time up there.”

“Thanks,” Bailey muttered. He and Jones climbed up through all three upper floors before reaching the loft hatch. He pushed it open, pulling the fixed ladder down. Jones went up first.

“Wow!” he announced. “Cool!” Bailey followed. As he clambered into the attic space, he was astounded. Cyclops had a complete laboratory in his roof! Casting his eye around the room, Bailey was mesmerised by sections of pipe interlinking with beakers and test tubes. Post-it notes were stuck everywhere.

“Look!” yelled Jones. Bailey went over and saw what Jones had found – a leather bound volume. Together, they flicked through it. Neat handwriting was interspersed with well drawn diagrams of various experiments. About halfway through the volume, Bailey noticed an exploded diagram of what looked like an eyeball, only it had various micro circuits within it. He pushed the book into an evidence bag and nodded to Jones. They had what they needed. Now they had to get it back to the lab for analysis. They said their goodbyes to Miss Kelly and left.

* * *

The next day, Ruddles called Bailey and Jones into his office.

“Forensics got back to us, lads.” he announced. “Had a look through that book you discovered.”

“And?” Bailey asked.

“Apparently old Cyclops was an experimental scientist,” Ruddles explained. “He'd found a way to restore vision to people who had lost their eyes. His glass eye was a prototype. Although it worked perfectly, he couldn't get the medical companies to take it on on Health and Safety grounds.”

“How so?” Jones was intrigued.

“Well …” Ruddles went on. “Turns out that in order to work, the glass eye had to be filled with nitro-glycerine. It was sealed within the eye and seemed stable. The flaw in the design was that there needed to be some conductivity between the prosthesis and the optic nerve. Lining the back of the prosthesis with magnesium worked best. You know about magnesium, right?” Bailey vaguely remembered science lessons when he was fourteen; his teacher pulling strips of magnesium from a jar of oil and then holding them in the air, only to watch them burst into blinding white flames.

“Vaseline!” Jones called out. “That's what the Vaseline was for.”

“I don't follow,” Ruddles answered, irritated.

Bailey nodded. “Magnesium bursts into flames upon contact with the air, right?” Jones went on. “Vaseline would be the perfect material to exclude the air from the magnesium, whilst allowing the electrical signals to be conducted to the optic nerve. It's perfect.”

“Ah.” Bailey added, the penny finally dropping. “The jar of Vaseline I found in the B and B was empty. He must've woken up that morning but couldn't scrape quite enough out of the pot. He was probably on his way to the chemist's when the magnesium started to burn.”

“And he ran into the doctor's in the hopes that they could help him,” Jones added. “I don't s'pose he was thinking logically by that point.”

“No,” Bailey went on. “The magnesium heated the nitroglycerine to the point where an explosion was inevitable. He literally lost his head.”

The End.

 

©  Annie Bell 2012