The next day was remarkably uneventful. That is, until mid-afternoon. Alistair had just finished cleaning off a particularly nice coffee table dating from the 1870’s when he heard the jingle of the doorbell. “Can I help you?” Alistair asked, as he inspected his new arrivals. The two teens, a boy and a girl looked up when he spoke. The girl stepped forward. She introduced herself as Xiu Li Zheng. She told Alistair that her friend Jane Patterson, also known as Annalisa, decided one day to live in to live in tunnels under the city. Eventually, the police found out about her hiding spot and took her away. While there was no doubt that Xiu’s story contained something tragic, Alistair couldn’t help but let his amusement show in his expression. Xiu turned red, “What are you smiling at? I need help!” “Sorry, I was just thinking to myself,” replied Alistair calmly. The story was absurd and it sounded as if the police had taken away the orphan with just cause. However, he had not gotten a chance at a case like this in a long time. After a minute of consideration, Alistair turned to Xiu, “I’ll help you. The first thing I must do is question any people that may know where the police took this Annalisa.” Xiu Li jumped a foot in the air and hugged the other kid, whom Alistair assumed to be her boyfriend. “Thank you so much, I didn’t know what I would do if you wouldn’t help me!” Alistair picked up his bag of detective supplies, and walked to the door. He looked over his shoulder, gave Xiu a wink, and was of. The rest of the day was spent thinking about his next move. He would begin tomorrow.
The next morning he woke at 6:20 and began his case. His first stop, the orphanage where Annalisa had lived, and then underneath. As he walked across town, Alistair realized how still the sky was. It seemed quite obvious to Alistair that the eerie weather could mean only one thing, a huge storm was headed towards the little city. As the orphanage came into view, he realized that not one airplane had flown overhead during his whole walk. Strange, he thought, as the airport ten miles south of the city was generally quite busy. Although Alistair did not know why, he felt that the lack of any flight around him did not bode well for his rescue operation today. He shrugged and entered the orphanage.
Alistair walked through the halls of the orphanage, peering in offices, looking for the man known as “Christophe Moreau.” Xiu Li told him that Mr. Moreau may have an idea of where the police took Annalisa. Eventually, he came to an office with a plaque that read “C. Moreau.” Alistair knocked on the door. When no one came to the door, he let himself in. Inside the room, a light flickered from the fixture attached to the still ceiling fan. The air inside the office had a dead feeling about it. Alistair hit the switch to turn on the fan. No luck, it was broken. He scanned the rest of the dimly lit room. There were a number of papers scattered across the desk. Upon examination, Alistair found that many of them were pictures of what he assumed to be family of Mr. Moreau. One of the drawers of the desk was slightly open. when Alistair opened it, he found it empty, except for as note that read, “Gone to investigate sewers.” Moreau must have been in a hurry to run to the sewers seeing as he didn’t even bother to put the note on his desk or to use correct grammar.
Alistair quickly located the entrance to the sewers in the girl’s bathroom. Armed only with a flashlight, some trusty equipment, and his wits, he descended into the claustrophobic darkness, wondering all the time why he couldn’t be satisfied with another line of work.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Dream
The light filtered in through the shutters, were they blue? Brown? Green? One eye opened, his nose twitched, the other eye opened. It all seemed so familiar. Alistair looked at his hands expecting to see calloused hands that had spent years sanding and polishing antiques. He was surprised to see plain, soft, almost naive skin staring back at him. He took a deep breath, preparing to sigh, when the pleasant scent of British berries in the summer reached him. When he finally did exhale, it did not come out as a groan to express the pent up boredom that he had assumed he was feeling, but a calm “mmmm”. It was this unwilling sound that dictated to him that he was happy, and safe.
After finally getting out of bed, Alistair looked at his surroundings. He was not at Jacks Jems. In fact, he was not even in America. He was in the house he grew up in, just west of London. Slowly he began to piece the evidence together as he always did. He remembered this summer very well. How could he forget it? This was the last week that he saw his mother. As he walked toward the door leading to the rest of the house, he heard footsteps. For a moment he didn’t want to see the face of his mother again. He soon gave in. The first thing he saw when he opened the door was his mother making eggs for breakfast. She looked at him with a huge, loving smile, “Good morning!” she said. Ms. Oxley also spoke in a sing-song voice, which helped to create the constant illusion of happiness that she always carried with her. After breakfast, Alistair began to read a random book from his favorite detective novels. Today he sat down to read “‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band,” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He figured this was as good story as any starring his personal favorite and inspiration, Sherlock Holmes. A few hours after he finished the story, he began to tell his mother about it. At first she listened patiently, but than she started to point out random items on the wall, asking, “Alistair, dear, are you sure that mirror was there yesterday?” This freaked him out because it was radically different behaviour than he had come to expect from his mother, who usually wasn’t bothered by such trivial things. Over the next week, Alistair would witness the most horrifying spectacle of his life. His mother would slowly degrade until she could not look at anything without shrinking into a corner with intense fear. Alistair would not be able to do anything to help her. After she would go, had gone away, he would spend many days and nights trying to find a way to do for others what he could not do for her. Just because he could not fix his mother’s disorder did not mean he could not solve the problems of others. He would become a detective.
After finally getting out of bed, Alistair looked at his surroundings. He was not at Jacks Jems. In fact, he was not even in America. He was in the house he grew up in, just west of London. Slowly he began to piece the evidence together as he always did. He remembered this summer very well. How could he forget it? This was the last week that he saw his mother. As he walked toward the door leading to the rest of the house, he heard footsteps. For a moment he didn’t want to see the face of his mother again. He soon gave in. The first thing he saw when he opened the door was his mother making eggs for breakfast. She looked at him with a huge, loving smile, “Good morning!” she said. Ms. Oxley also spoke in a sing-song voice, which helped to create the constant illusion of happiness that she always carried with her. After breakfast, Alistair began to read a random book from his favorite detective novels. Today he sat down to read “‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band,” by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He figured this was as good story as any starring his personal favorite and inspiration, Sherlock Holmes. A few hours after he finished the story, he began to tell his mother about it. At first she listened patiently, but than she started to point out random items on the wall, asking, “Alistair, dear, are you sure that mirror was there yesterday?” This freaked him out because it was radically different behaviour than he had come to expect from his mother, who usually wasn’t bothered by such trivial things. Over the next week, Alistair would witness the most horrifying spectacle of his life. His mother would slowly degrade until she could not look at anything without shrinking into a corner with intense fear. Alistair would not be able to do anything to help her. After she would go, had gone away, he would spend many days and nights trying to find a way to do for others what he could not do for her. Just because he could not fix his mother’s disorder did not mean he could not solve the problems of others. He would become a detective.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The Mysterious Mugging
A cool breeze passed over Alistair as he sat atop the tallest tree in Sherwood Park, eyes glued to his favorite pair of antique binoculars. After that fateful run-in with the car, he decided that he would let cases come to him with ease. This allowed him to spend more time enjoying life, instead of continuously wondering if he would ever get another chance to do the investigation work that he longed for. Hence, on this day, he was doing just that. Alistair could not remember any occasion in recent times when he had been as relaxed as he was now, engaging in his favorite pastime, people watching. Earlier in the morning, there were not many people in the park and he had taken to watching a bright red cardinal build a nest in the next tree over. Later, the sun was out in full blast and many people milled about eating ice cream and generally chatting happily. He stayed up in the same tree until twilight. Just as he was considering settling for the night in the tree, he looked over toward Castle Apartments to the southeast, and some thing caught his eye. After moving the binoculars down and quickly refocusing them, he saw two people engaging in some kind of violent activity. After a short time, he saw hit the other in the chest, grab an item that they were holding, and run off into the night. Leaping with more energy than The Detective knew he had at this time, he ran towards where the victim was still standing. By the time he reached the the spot where the event occurred, the victim was gone. It was almost as if the mugging had never occurred. In his annoyance, Alistair began to argue with himself. “It doesn’t look like anyone is here, and nothing is disturbed, said one part of him. The other insisted that, “I saw it through my trusty binoculars!” He spent a while searching the scene of the crime for evidence. Finding none, he slowly walked back toward his treetop paradise. As he prepared for bed thirty feet in the air, he remembered thinking that he saw the crime at twilight, and wondered why he had taken his eyes so seriously.
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