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
