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.
hey, so this is kind of a big interact, so you can choose not to do this if you want. my blog is kinda long and complicated, so it's up to you. if you want a case though, you've got one now.
ReplyDeleteAnother dead end. It was getting well into the afternoon by now. We sat on the curb and talked about random things. Birds. Sleepovers. Gossip. Bitchy swim girls.
Suddenly, Arjun leaped to his feet. "Babs. Let's go."
"Why? What? Where?"
"There's an antique shop near the pet store. I think the guy also claims to be a detective."
I was incredibly suspicious. Usually I'm not in the habit of hiring or talking to random detectives. Do they even have those? I mean, outside the FBI. But I thought a minute. I really had nothing to lose. Except possibly money.
So we walked over to Jack's Jems (hilariously sketchy name...) and into the store. There was a guy standing in there, presumably the salesperson/detective.
"Can I help you?" He seemed to be pretty nice. I was still a bit dubious about modern-day antique shop detectives. But I swallowed that.
"You're the detective?"
He was.
"I need you to help me. I've lost my best friend."
"Go on."
I started talking, and he pulled out a sheet of paper and started taking notes.
"Her real name is Jane Patterson. She was supposedly adopted at age 12, but really just went to live in secret tunnels under the city and changed her name to Annalisa. Tall, white, with chocolatey long hair."
That was the second time I'd used that today.
"My name is Xiu Li Zheng. I was living with her up until a few days ago, when she sacrificed herself to the police for me." I ignored Arjun's facial expressions and whatever he was mouthing at me.
He examined his notes.
"Please," I said, a little too desperately. "This is my last way, and I've told you everything I can. Please. I need you to find Annalisa."