In Favour of Fools: A Science Fiction Comedy (These Foolish Things Book 1) (5 page)

James Joseph Johnson was thirty-seven years old, nearly two metres tall, and heavy. He was married to Mary, and he worked for an insurance company, taking three holidays abroad each year; mostly to Greece, but occasionally to the west coast of the US. With Fool’s Squirt technology making travel quick and cheap, this was not unusual. In fact there was nothing unusual about the guy; discounting his size, he was your mister average to a T.

Except; he was missing. He wife had reported his disappearance to the police two days before Masters had squirted to OK, and he had left for JD.

Now, I don’t usually tout for business; it’s not my style. Still, there might be answers and a payment in it for me, so I called her.

‘Hello Mrs. Johnson…’ Her phone’s voice recognition facility detected that I was a stranger and switched me to her answer machine, where I heard the announcement, ‘this is a recorded message; Mr. & Mrs. Johnson are not interested in receiving unsolicited telephonic communications, requests or offers. If you…’

I hung up. I was going to be referred to some sort of email inbox which would probably never be accessed.

I checked for her email accounts, but they were all routed through a Ham/Spam server that would block emails from unknown addresses.

Now came the big question; was it worth it? If I couldn’t ring her, or email her, I’d have to visit her in person; and that’s not the sort of thing I’m comfortable with. I knew her address, and where she worked, and I could work out what time she finished. Glancing at the time displays on my screens, digital on one, clock-face on the other, I could see that there was a good chance she’d be home. She only lived five miles from my office, so I could be there in half an hour or so. I don’t use squirtbooths, but I do have my bike; it gets me wherever I want to go without any kind of change to my molecular structure; a feature they don't make enough of a deal about, in my opinion.

I have to say that I never really addressed that big question. I just left my seat and reached for my coat. Did I really want to know what had happened to her husband, or was I just desperately trying to avoid taking a trip with Strange? I think we all know the answer to that one.

‘I’m just popping out,’ I called to Julie.

She looked up from her five hundred piece jigsaw puzzle; it depicted a white ship on a stormy sea and there were rather too many blue pieces for my liking.

‘What?’ She’s normally much more eloquent. I’m aware that I’m not painting an attractive picture of my sister; I’m sure that will all be fixed for me before the book goes to publication by my trusty narrative facilitator. (
No, it won’t. N.F
.)
‘I’m going out, to visit a client.’

‘What? But, you don’t visit... Who is it, anyway?’

‘You don’t know her. She’s going to be a new client.’

‘But…’

I left her but-butting away, like an un-serviced motor-boat and made my way down the narrow stairs to the tiny yard where I keep my bike.

The road was quiet, with just a few small vans ferrying stuff about and one or two taxis. These days, most people don’t use private transportation. It’s either the squirtbooths or, if it’s a short journey, but too far to walk, then you hail a taxi. They are all automatic, so you no longer run the risk of being trapped in a confined space with a chatty taxi-driver.

She lived in an apartment block in Salford Quays; built during the spasm of apartment building that was rampant around the turn of the century. The block, like most of its neighbours, was a little run down and had failed to match the expectations of its architects and the original wide-eyed and excited vendees.

I rang the bell next to the Johnson name-card. Immediately a speaker burst into life.

‘This is a recorded message; Mr. & Mrs. Johnson are not interested in receiving unsolicited visits, communications, requests or offers. If you…’

I stepped back off the step and looked up at the resolutely closed door. Now what?

For once, my luck was in because, just then, the outer door swung open and an old lady popped her head out.

‘You’re late,’ she said, looking me up and down. ‘Come on inside, you’re letting the cold in.’

I could have defended myself by saying that it was she who was holding the door open, and, strictly speaking, it was the heat that was being let out as hot air expands and..., but where would that have got me?

I followed her inside into the moldy-smelling reception area, and then down a long, poorly lit corridor. She stopped at number five; another bit of luck there, as Mrs. Johnson lived in number six. She pulled the door open and stepped back to allow me to enter, and prevent me from going where I wanted to go.

I shrugged; I could help her with whatever she wanted, and then go on to Mrs. Johnson. How hard could that be? She probably just wanted help opening a jar.

‘Where’s your bag?’ she asked, as I passed her.

I patted my coat. ’I’ve everything I need here.’

‘Really?’

I smiled winningly and carried on inside. It was a large, tidy room with big, pale, comfy furniture, a three-metre TV and a full-wall window. The other walls were virtually covered in pictures of a very tanned individual, with gym-enhanced abs and somewhat greasy hair.

I couldn’t help placing two fingers against my own stomach and tensing my stomach muscles. There was definitely some movement there, but how many sit-ups and crunches would you have to do to get abs like that? And who has the time? Those lost cats and dogs don’t find themselves.

I turned to the lady and asked her who the guy was.

‘That's Peter, of course. He was very big in my day, though I was far too young first time around. But I was there for his comeback. Such a shame that media-hungry person got her hands on him.’

'Who...'

'We don't mention her name, not after... well, you know.'

I smiled and nodded.

‘What seems to be the problem, Mrs…?’

‘Didn’t they tell you?’

‘They never tell me anything. They just tell me where to go and expect me to work it out for myself. You can’t get the staff these days.’

She stared at me for moment and I thought I’d gone too far.

‘In fact,’ I said, thinking fast, ’if you don’t mind, I’m going to go outside and give them a piece of my mind. You don’t want to hear the language I’m going to use.’

‘Now you’re here, you might as well take a look at it.’

‘I really think I should…’

‘You might as well take a look at it, now you’re here.’

She was tiny and frail, and I could have pushed her over with one finger and made my escape, but she had that no-nonsense look in her eyes that always throws me.

‘Where...?’

‘In there, of course.’

She pointed to the bedroom, and that got me really worried.

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘He’s in there.’

I really did not want to get involved with any silver swingers; it's a policy of mine.

‘Who?’

‘Why, Benji, of course.’ She smiled then and made me think of my gran, and her inedible cakes, and visible underwear.

‘After you,’ I tried, thinking I could still make a run for it.

‘No, you first. He‘s waiting for you.’

I don’t know what I expected to find when I opened the bedroom door, but I was more than a little relieved to find that it wasn't an old bloke, lying seductively in his y-fronts.

Still, the sight of a pot-bellied pig, resting in the middle of a king-sized bed, with a constipated look on his face, didn't fill me with joy.

‘It’s a pig,’ I said; nothing gets past me.

‘Benji. I’ve told him you were coming. He’s been waiting all day, haven’t you babe?’ The last bit was not addressed to me; I hope.

‘He’s a very nice pig and what, exactly, do you want me do with it; him?’

‘He’s suffering terribly from constipation; hasn’t gone for days.’

This wasn’t looking at all good for me.

‘Last time, the vet shoved his hand up his, you know what. He charged me too much, so I called for you.‘

I looked at her, thinking about just making a run for it, but she was standing in the doorway; I couldn’t get past her.

‘We should do this in the bathroom,’ I suggested, trying not to sound desperate.

‘There’s an en-suite through there.’ She pointed to a door in the corner of the room.

My eyes flicked from the pig to the bathroom door and from the pig to the old dear. I began to sweat and she began to frown.

‘OK.' Decision made. ‘This is going to get a bit messy; you had better stay in here. I’ll take him into the bathroom.’

The poor creature was too distressed to walk, so I had to carry him. My first thought was, if he already smells this bad, how awful is this going to get?

Needless to say, I soon found out.

I’m not going to say any more about this; I still wake up sweating about the experience. It’s sufficient for me to say that it was hot, smelly and noisy. There were tears and grunts, and some of them were mine. But, you know, when that happy little pig trotted out of the bathroom, relaxed and relieved and clean, I felt something. And it wasn’t just nausea. Since then, I’ve always carried a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves, a face mask, goggles, and a hammer.

There was a cup of tea waiting for me, and a biscuit named after a nineteenth century Italian revolutionary, and probably an autopsy of the whole affair. I didn’t stop.

When I knocked on Mrs. Johnson’s door, I was sure that I stank of pig-shit, which was not the way I usually like to present myself.

There was a long wait, during which I was probably studied by all sorts of security devices. I was quite relieved when I heard the bolts going on the other side of the door.

I knew she was late thirties, but you’d never guess that from looking at her. She was slender, with dark, wavy hair and a soft round face, devoid of any obvious make up; not that I’m an expert. Her dark brown eyes studied me openly, without expression, for a long moment.

‘Hello Mrs. Johnson.’ Always a good way to start, I thought. ‘My name is Philip Chandler.’

I held out my hand. She ignored it; I was getting that a lot.

‘I’m a Private Investigator.’ I don’t normally say it with capitals, but the situation seemed to require it.

Still there was no response, other than, perhaps, a slight pursing of the lips. I was beginning to feel that there was a clock running down and any moment I was going to run out of time and the door would be slammed in my face.

‘I understand your husband is missing. I think I know where he is.’

Now that should have got a response, don’t you think? Instead, she took a half step back.

‘I don’t talk to the press,’ she sighed, her voice so soft I could barely catch her words; her brogue as sweet and melodic as a lullaby.

Neither do I, I thought, but is that entirely relevant?

‘I did mention that I am a P.I?’ Sometimes the initials have more effect than the words; you can never tell.

‘ID?’ She held one tiny hand out. I thought about getting my own back by ignoring it, but that was being childish. I flipped the lid of my wrist-top open and showed her my license.

‘It expires today.’ She frowned.

‘Sorry, my secretary is supposed to be sorting out the renewal but, you know, you can’t get the staff.’

‘How do you know my husband? And where is he?’ Now that we were getting really chatty, I took a step forward; she matched it, backwards, and I was inside her apartment. Who says I can’t do this sort of thing?

When we entered the living space, I was quite surprised to see that the only furniture was one comfortable looking armchair, one hard wooden upright chair, and a more than impressive sound system. There was no carpet; just a worn mat that wasn’t really up to the job it had been given.

She took the comfy chair, so I was stuck with the hard one. Was this where Johnson had to sit before he ran away from home? It was difficult to blame him if that was the case.

‘Go on, then,’ she said, crossing one slim leg over the other. She was wearing loose jeans and a baggy but clingy T-shirt that emphasised her breasts; and you know what that does to me.

‘Whilst researching another case, I came across information on your husband’s whereabouts, quite by chance.’ I was really working quite hard not to look at anything but her cold, hard eyes.

‘Where is he then?’

‘He left Manchester Interplanetary Squirtport for JD.’

‘JD?’ I nodded, and she closed one eye. For a strangely exciting second, I thought she was winking at me. But she kept the eye closed. ‘He doesn’t bet, and he's hardly likely to be on his honeymoon.’

‘What? Is that what JD's famous for then? I had no idea. That doesn’t mean he didn’t go; it must have other things of interest.’

‘No, there’s not much else there at all, except for spas and pink sunsets; and they're not really his thing.’ She stared at me with her single brown eye. ‘What evidence do you have? And what case are you working on?’

'Obviously the case I am working on is confidential and it would be improper for me to divulge any details to you or any other individual.’ I could have been a lawyer.

‘What can you give me? If there’s a fee, I can pay it.’ Now she was talking my language.

‘I have video of your husband entering a squirtbooth in Levenshulme, arriving at M.I.S, and squirting to JD.’

‘Send it to me.’

I hesitated; she wasn’t wearing a wrist-top, and there was no sign of a computer in the room.

‘I’m implanted, for heaven’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘Just zip it across.’

My wrist-top found her address and zipped the data across as I puzzled over this unusual development. Of course I knew about implants; I have my own. But what would a suburban housewife (
Salford Quays is urban so she should be called an
urban housewife. N.F
) want with state-of-the-art implants such as those apparently possessed by this Mrs. Johnson?

She sat there in her comfy chair for fully five minutes, whilst I squirmed on my un-comfy chair, then she opened both eyes and sat forward.

‘That’s not JJ,’ she said, force in her voice. ’Something is wrong here Mr. Chandler. Will you help me find out what’s going on? I can pay your fee, as long as it’s reasonable. By the way, my name is Mary, and I'm sorry if I was a little rude earlier.’ With the wonderful smile she tossed my way, how could I be offended?

‘Don't worry about that,' I said, disarmingly. 'Now, how do you know it’s not him?’

‘It’s obvious. JJ doesn’t walk like that. He had a sporting injury long before I met him and he sort of drags his left leg a little. It’s not obvious; most people don’t even notice, but I do. And that’s not my husband.’

‘What have the police said?’

‘They say there is nothing they can do. He left me a message saying he was leaving; he cleared half of our bank accounts out, and now you tell me he’s squirted off-planet. None of this is true. He wouldn’t just leave a message; he wouldn’t take half of our money; and he wouldn’t fly off to some resort planet to watch romantic sunsets and play slot machines.’

‘I know you’ve been married nearly twenty years, but how can you be sure, if you don't mind me asking, Mary?’

‘JJ’s not a coward; if he was leaving me, he would have told me face to face. He’s not a thief; eighty percent of our savings were left to me by my aunt; he always said that was my own money; he never saw it as our money, so he wouldn’t have taken half of everything; he’s far too fair to do that. And he's far too careful with his money to risk it on gambling; he doesn’t even do the lottery. Believe me, he’d be lost out there.‘

She slumped back in her chair; there was some wobbling; I pretended not to notice.

I tried to run through everything in my head, but there wasn’t enough room. On automatic pilot, I zipped my charges and deposit request over to her.

If the guy using the name Johnson wasn’t Johnson, then who was he? And what did this have to do with Masters? You’re probably already there, but I can sometimes be a little slow in putting the final pieces together. I zipped another video file to Mrs. Johnson. It took her only three or four seconds before she jerked forward and focussed both deep brown eyes on me.

‘That’s him,’ she breathed.

I’ve studied the video several times, and I still couldn’t see any problem with his left leg, so I had to take her word for it.

It was clear that the first guy was not Masters; it was Johnson. And, if that was the case, the only conclusion to be drawn was that the second guy was Masters. There, I finally had the jigsaw complete.

Where that left us, and what it all meant, I really had no idea at all.

**********

Back at the office, I was trying to work out how much I knew, and how it compared with the mountain of stuff that was still a mystery to me, when my computer chimed and a dark cloud fell on my day. Only one person makes my computer chime like that, and I can’t find a way to block her. On the third chime a holo-display appeared, filling the air above my desk with an image of a sun blessed balcony against a backdrop of sharp, icy mountains beneath a clear blue sky. It would have been a beautiful scene, if it wasn’t for the slim figure in the black ninja outfit leaning casually against the rail.

‘Hello, Mother,’ I sighed. She insists on the formalities; when I accidently called her mum, she didn’t speak to me for six months, which I felt was something of a silver lining.

She made no response; she just looked around my room as if its very shabbiness was a representation of all of my poor life choices and failures. I should say that she pretended to look around; I may not be able to block her unwanted intrusions into my life, but I made damned sure that all she ever got was the head shot.

‘To what…etc.etc?’ I really didn’t want to know, but the way I looked at it was, the sooner this ordeal began, the sooner it was over.

‘Can’t a mother show concern for her beloved child?’ She speaks with a soft, eastern European accent, even though she was born and raised in Cheshire.

‘Julie’s not here yet.’ It could have been a joke, but it wasn’t.

When motherhood first visited her, she took up the mantle with gusto, as she does with all of her hobbies, and she was so sure that she would be a marvelous mother, with children to match. When I failed to live up to her high expectations of intelligence, beauty, sophistication and competence, it was a wonder that she didn’t give up there and then and move on to her next diversion. No, she tried again and I think it’s fair to say that she is happier with her second child, though not with most of her life choices.

‘You’re letting her waste her life, Philip. You know that.’

‘She makes her own choices. Do we have to go through this again?’

The smile that settled in the middle of her face chilled my bones.

‘Yes, we do. And we will continue to revisit this subject until you accept that agreement is your only real choice. I want you to dismiss her, Philip, so that she can go on and make something of her life.’

‘I can’t dismiss her; I need her.’ We both knew that was a lie, but we kept up the pretence.

‘You’ll have to make do without her; don’t be selfish. You were always a selfish boy.’

‘I’m nearly forty now, Mother; I’m no longer a boy.’

She laughed at the idea of my supposed maturity.

‘Sack her and get yourself a proper job whilst you’re at it.’

She disappeared; sure that she’d ruined my day.

Of course, as soon as she pinged off, all of the sharp retorts I needed came to me in a flash. The cutting insights, the witty put downs. Too late; as always.

I groaned my way to the coffee machine and set it to work just as Julie walked in. Was it really that late?

‘You missed the mutant ninja turtle.’

‘Thank goodness; I’m not in the mood for her today.’

‘But you’re her favourite.’

‘That’s not saying much when you’re the only other choice.’

‘You know, you are your mother’s daughter.’

‘I’m still waiting for the maternity test.’