April

April came and still I found myself in the capital. Things had not exactly gone according to plan. What had been intended to be a flying visit to get my gold-fish examined and any necessary medication prescribed, had become a lengthy and oftentimes frustrating stay. For it was in early March, of course, that the Whitechapel murders began anew and Scotland Yard’s finest called upon my services.

Jennifer was completely healthy, it seemed. His mood swings were put down to “personality” and the sneezing written off as a “childish cry for attention”. This diagnosis didn’t come at all cheap but, as an added bonus, I was given a free gift: a translator device which, clipped onto the side of Jennifer’s bowl, miraculously translated his speech into a form of English, rather like that machine the clever Stephen Hawking put together for his wheelchair one rainy afternoon in his teens.

News of the murders was all over the papers. Ladies of the night were being brutally killed in the same spot where the infamous Jack the Ripper had carried out his attacks more than a century ago. DCI Shockthorpe of the yard accompanied me to the scene of the most recent slaying, which was, of course, cordoned off by yellow and black tape and surrounded by constables informing reporters that there was “nothing to see here”. A blatant lie, of course. There was plenty to see in that Aldgate alleyway but none of it very pleasant.

Above the corpse (which was being photographed by a forensics team and a group of Scandinavian backpackers on their first visit to Britain) an eerily familiar legend had been scrawled on the wall in purple glitter pen – the kind used by little girls to colour their nails instead of learning how to spell. I noticed, too, that the “i” in the last word had a little circle above it instead of a dot and that the killer had taken the time to further elaborate upon this by drawing a series of “petals” around the circle, giving it the appearance of a little flower. I muttered a swear word and turned away. The workings of the criminally insane mind never fail to disgust and amaze me.

“The Jews are the people who won’t be blamed for nothing”, read the killer’s message; a word for word imitation of graffiti left by the Victorian murderer. I smiled briefly that the apostrophe had been used correctly and, as the poor unfortunate was being zipped into the confines of a bodybag, I discussed my thoughts with Shockthorpe.

This was either Ken Livingstone’s idea of a joke, an unconventional means of spending his four-week enforced vacation from the office of Mayor, or, more likely I thought, the notorious Jack the Ripper had managed to steal a time machine from H.G.Wells’s cellar and was now wreaking havoc on his old turf in the modern era. How to find a Nineteenth Century gentleman-whore-slasher, though, in the teeming metropolis of early 21^st Century London?

“This isn’t going to be easy,” I told Jennifer, whose bowl was cradled in the crook of my arm like a spaceman’s helmet.

“Oh no, it isn’t,” came the crackly reply from his new translator.

Credit where it’s due, the idea of my dressing as a prostitute was Shockthorpe’s (in fact, he’s been emailing me about it for months) and this was undoubtedly the key reason the Ripper was swiftly brought to justice. Unfortunately, he had one more deadly appointment to keep before this happened. If only I’d not insisted on stiletto heels I may have made it to the alleyway in time to save that poor girl’s life but, in my defence, going undercover requires a particular mindset and costume is all-important in adopting the role fully. Jennifer did not approve of the shoes – brushed pink suede with a pointed toe – and made it very clear with a series of boos and hisses from his translator as I strapped them on.

Now I found myself running awkwardly toward the sound of screams across the road from the Aldgate Masonic Lodge. The moon shone down on this clear evening in late winter and my breath was visible in the air as I ran. Jennifer, nestled under one arm as ever, let a few cries of anticipation – a few “Oooohs” and “aaahs” – filter from his translator and gave what seemed like a little cheer as I turned into the alleyway.

Hobbling on my heels, I was horrified to see another body lying among the bin bags and disguarded burger cartons and the bean bags and the bon bon wrappers. A look of horror contorted her features, the eyes still open in terror. This was a less elaborate murder than the previous slaying; the killer had heard my approach, perhaps, and been surprised. Nevertheless, the girl was dead; a knife wound in the centre of her chest slowly trickled blood from a heart that was no longer beating. She had the same shoes as me. Jennifer noticed this and, with a raised fish-eyebrow, silently begged me not to say “I told you so”.

Where can the killer have got to? I thought. The alleyway was a dead end and there was no place to hide. I kicked a dustbin in frustration, dislodging the lid and just had time to notice that it was full of signed, defaced photographs of Richard Madley and Judy Finnigan before the clattering echoes died away and Jennifer’s translator replaced it. “He’s behind you”, the fish screamed. It was at this point that I realised the translator’s limitations; it was only able to use phraseology popular with Pantomime audiences. No time now, though, to consider asking for a refund. I turned swiftly and faced the killer, silhouetted in the entrance to the alleyway.

“You’ve been poking your nose in where it don’t concern you,” the Ripper began to advance. I placed Jennifer’s bowl gently on the ground, ignoring the cries of “boo!” emanating from his translator. I stood my ground.

“Why?” I asked. Was I playing for time or attempting at this desperate time to understand the mind of a psychopath? I can’t say. It did the job though, as the killer pocketed his dagger, removed his bowler hat and with a shrug, began to explain everything.

It was in the late 1800’s that he’d first had the idea of a musical version of Jack the Ripper. He saw it as a lavish stage production with potential for a film adaptation at one of the major studios that would begin to become established in California in a few decades from then. For over a century, he’d been trying to perfect a show stopping breakaway pop hit with which to end the first act but had driven his family and friends from him with his obsessive pursuit of the project.

Reduced now to paying ladies of the night to listen to his song, the Ripper had become jittery, nervous, easily angered. When a prostitute laughed at the chorus he couldn’t tell whether the laugh was in response to the clever wordplay or merely a derisory chuckle. It was then that the anger took over. It was then that the poor wretches, like this girl in the alleyway, met their fate.

“I’ll take it from here,” Shockthorpe’s voice rang out. I adjusted my padded bra as a team of armed officers followed him into the alleyway and cuffed the murderer. A half-hearted cry of “hooray!” sounded from Jennifer’s bowl.

“Come on Superintendent,” Shockthorpe addressed the captured killer, “Let’s have a cup of tea and talk about how we can sort this thing out. We could pin it on Livingstone, you know…”

I removed my bouffant ginger wig as the officers made their exit. Already, the coroner’s team was arriving. In the dark alleyway, I knelt down and closed the poor girl’s eyelids, tugging and cursing as they kept flicking up again like rollerblinds. As a final gesture, I put one of the Richard and Judy signed photographs in her top pocket. “Oh no he isn’t,” sang Jennifer, which didn’t seem to make any sense at all.

The case was closed.

February

It was early in February that I found myself on a train bound for London. As predicted, January’s kidnapping incident had taken its toll on poor Jennifer Garner, my gold-fish who was experiencing sneezing fits and some often rather violent mood swings. I had, nevertheless, decided to drop all charges against lady-human-the-actress-Jennifer-Garner (alias Alias out of Alias). What she did was morally indefensible, it’s true, but her apology – texted from a Los Angeles steam room – was so heartfelt and so sincere that I accepted her pleas for forgiveness and, in fact, posted her my Cactus Jack Panini sticker album as a gesture of goodwill. I hear she’s now living a happy and law-abiding life, though both Alias and Electra have failed to fill the perceived niche awaiting a female Hollywood action hero to make big at the box office.

In any case, I was speeding toward the capital to meet an appointment I had made with a fish specialist – a Scotsman who operates out of King’s Cross (the underground station not the district of London!) and who was recommended to me by an old school friend – an Irishman who operates out of habit – and his wife, a welsh doctor who wears a habit and operates out of a kind of hopeful, desperate guilt for her previous failings in the Emergency Room. Jennifer, on the plastic tabletop before me, was not helping the journey to go smoothly, it must be said.

With each of the fish’s powerful sneezes, a jet of murky water of considerable size was propelled in the direction of the gentleman and lady who had the misfortune to be sitting across the aisle. Thrice had the occupants of this seat been doused with Jennifer’s ejaculations and thrice had I shrugged a silent apology, each time offering a polo mint and a meek smile, both of which were refused with scowls.

Dripping wet and reeking to high heaven, the unfortunate couple decided to leave their drenched seats as we approached Tavistock – to alight, or simply to change carriages, I know not which. A glare and muttered chorus of obscenities was the last I saw of them but I noticed, as they forced themselves through the narrow doorway of the vestibule with a curious plopping sound, that they were Siamese twins, joined at the hip, shoulder, head, ankle, elbow and hat.

For the next few minutes I continued in silence, with the entire carriage to myself. Curiously, the gold-fish’s disruptive sneezing had abated as soon as our co-joined counterparts made their exit but I began to grow concerned now at the low level of water remaining in Jennifer’s bowl. The poor fish was forced to lie with his mouth pressed to the floor and was tapping on the glass rather feebly with a fin in an attempt to arouse my attention.

As I was about to carry the bowl, fish and all, to the buffet car and inquire as to the price of Perrier, a pale-faced gentleman took the seat opposite. Before I could ask him politely to keep an eye on my coat and overnight bag, he raised a finger to his lips and bid me silence (stay awhile) and produced, from his cloak, a ceramic pitcher of water, which he poured into Jennifer’s bowl with a wide-eyed and stretched-mouthed smile. As he finished the act with a flourish and hurled the empty pitcher forcibly into the next carriage, words failed me. I sat back and gleefully applauded, as did the ticket collector upon whose head the jug had somehow become wedged. Faint cries of “bravo” and “well done” could be heard echoing around within.

For the next hour or so, and much to my delight, my new travelling companion proceeded to entertain with similar tricks, all performed in silence and each culminating in some wonderful surprise: a bunch of flowers, a white dove, lightning striking a nearby church, a tiny plastic moustache for Jennifer. The fellow – he spoke not a word – was dressed in a tight-fitting, striped, Breton-style shirt and black pantaloons. His wide, expressive eyes were each surrounded by a ring of black mascara and, perched upon his gelled-back hair, rested a small bowler hat with a daisy in the band. My gold-fish and I looked on, open-mouthed, as he placed a toaster on the table and then slotted two slices of bread within this appliance.

Despite there being no plug on the toaster (it was a simple pink child’s toy replica), within a few moments the bread popped back up and was, incredibly, toasted a crisp golden brown. Steam rose from the device as if to dispel any doubts. The chap grinned once more, gestured elaborately for me to take and taste a slice but, as I made so to do, his face contorted into a furious glare. Whisking the toaster and its contents from the table, he looked at me in the eye as he broke his long silence.

He was, I was informed, the cChosen oOne, the last of his people. He named his race, I think, a longing in his voice and eyes as he said the word, but he spoke so quickly and feverishly – as if making up for his long silence – that it was all I could do to follow the gist of what he was saying.

People are undeserving of the Earth’s beauty, he said. Their lack of belief in magic will be their undoing. In terror, the human race clings pathetically to vicious lies, he told me. Clementines sometimes have have pips, he asserted, and it says so on the packaging if people would only look before making a purchase. The endtimes, he promised, were coming. More like him were destined to follow.

There are, I was told, certain areas of certain European cities wherein womenfolk strip naked for the arousal of paying customers. Seated in booths, hiding behind glass partitions, the customers are allowed – even encouraged – to perform self-abuse until their seed is scattered upon the tiled floor.

But this sordid business, I was assured, is simply the beginning.

As dawn breaks and these bestial theatres close their doors, the world’s most accomplished scientists are called in to extract DNA strands from the spilt semen. They are, my companion informed me, ever searching, ever seeking – from Amsterdam to the back streets of Barcelona – for the genetic code that will allow mankind to be reborn anew: the DNA sequence that, separated from its tangled, natural mesh, will allow the cloning of an army – a legion – of others such as he.

I confess, I drifted off at this point and, when I awoke, just outside Reading, the curious gentleman was gone. Across from the gently dozing Jennifer and a small puddle of drool I’d left on the tabletop was the only clue that he’d ever existed: a small pile of toast crumbs and a jumbo photo album full of dozens of snapshots of our encounter (taken, presumably, from a hidden camera in the luggage rack).

No matter! I awoke Jennifer Garner with a light tapping on his glass. Soon we would be in London.

January

 

Well into January now and “what have you done?”, to quote that Lennon fellow who wanted to stay in bed with his monstrous wife and lots of journalists. I have had a very productive weekend in some ways. Late Friday night I began pulling out all of my veins through my fingertips and it was well into Saturday before I’d arranged them on the coffee table, according to colour (blue, red, green etc.)

A nap was then in order. When I awoke the window had been forced open by person or persons unknown and the yardage of veins had been arranged on the floor in the outlline of the British Isles. There are miles and miles of veins in the human body, of course, and this had enabled the intruder to go into great detail with the coastline of Scotland, which can be rather craggy and resembles Wilfrid Brambell in profile, in a bonnet, facing west. Somewhat annoyed by the damaged window, I couldn’t help but admire the innitiative taken by the burglar (for burglary it was; my refrigerator and gold-fish had both been purloined) in using one of their own toenails to form Anglesey.

This, however, proved the villain’s undoing. It was the work of moments to extract a DNA profile from the toenail, which I emailed within the half-hour to my local constabulary. In line with the Citizen’s Charter, I was called soon thereafter and informed of the burglar’s identity – not a male, as I’d assumed for some reason, but a Lady burglar: none other than Jennifer Garner from TV’s Alias and Electra programmes. This was something of a disappointment. I’ve always admired her work and could only assume she’d sunk into criminal pursuits to fund some feverish cocaine addiction or simply committed the crime for her own hedonistic thrills. The officer on the phone (who kept pausing to inhale helium, due to a typo in the Citizen’s Charter (p.43, section 7)) informed me that there was a good chance that Garner would be brought to justice and, at such a time, my fridge and gold-fish would be returned.

I only hope this happens sooner rather than later. My gold-fish (ironically named Jennifer Garner by the staff of the refuge from which he was adopted) becomes quite temperamental when he’s out of his water for more than a few minutes. There’s some very sensitive cheese, as well, which will doubtless spoil if lady-human-Garner has neglected to plug the fridge in.

Yes, it looks like 2008 will be rife with challenges like 1997, 2002, the 1940’s and 1724! Roll on February!