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Tell the Octopus, and other Short Stories

Jonathan Day


Tell the Octopus

  and other

  Short Stories

  by

  Jonathan Day

  This edition published by Dodo Books

  Copyright Jonathan Day

  & Dodo Books 2015

  Stories

  Tell the Octopus

  3,530 words

  Apple Pie

  1,330 words

  The Puzzle Box

  2,750 words

  Roy goes on a Trip

  860 words

  The Handbag Gang

  1,370 words

  Threep!

  1,800 words

  Door in the Wall

  2,670 words

  The Changeling

  2,650 words

  Twinkie

  1,840 words

  Tell the Octopus

  The tentacles of the brightly coloured octopus listening to an MP3 player wound around the walls of the underpass as it snatched at musical notes floating up to the ring road above.

  Crumble, who came up with most ideas, had suggested it, Anastasia, the creative one, had designed the octopus, and Tug was expert at wielding spray cans and brushes with both hands. The friends’ mission in life was to paint vivid murals in impermeable colours the despair of work experience teams sent out to clean up the neighbourhood. But the town didn’t need cleaning up - it needed brightening up. Crumble, Tug and Anastasia knew that their artwork would never match the wit of Banksy’s but, being so good, it was seldom removed.

  Anastasia’s empathic spirit had been inherited from her intuitive Russian mother. Crumble (so named because of his passion for rhubarb crumble) regarded reality as a mere intrusion into his thought world: barely 22, he had the world-weary manner of someone much older. Tug (short for the tugboat which he had worked on for a couple of years) was tall, totally original and a gentleman, careful not to give offence, even when it was warranted.

  They all had mundane jobs. Crumble was the proof-reader for an educational publisher, Tug a scaffolder, and Anastasia designed acrylic nails for the fingers of women who never needed to scrub a floor.

  As they added the finishing touches to their octopus on the wall of the remote underpass shunned by pedestrians, they noticed Detective Inspector Knight looking down at them with that stern, unreadable expression he always wore. The three of them froze as though it would make them invisible. There was no point. This man missed nothing.

  “Oh shit,” murmured Anastasia.

  Crumble and Tug remained like rabbits caught in the headlights even though Tug’s huge tam holding his dreadlocks stood out like a Belisha beacon.

  Anastasia realised that it was useless trying to pretend they were a figment of the policeman’s imagination and waved cheekily. “Hi Inspector!”

  “For pity’s sake, Annie!” hissed Tug. “You trying to get us arrested?”

  Then it occurred to Crumble that the DI had better things to do than bother with small fry like them. “He’s off on important business. Look, he’s wearing a hat and gloves.”

  And sure enough, after raising a disapproving eyebrow, DI Knight turned and strode across the ring road.

  “Though that is weird.”

  Tug and Anastasia agreed that the taciturn upholder of the law was strange so didn’t pay any attention to Crumble’s comment. The DI was barely forty, yet had the presence of a 10,000-year-old glacier and depths that would have intimidated anglerfish. The friends had frequently been ordered to the police station for defacing property after being reported by some busybody or other. They were always careful to paint designs on walls that already offended the eye so their owners never filed a complaint, much preferring to keep the artwork. The friends’ punishment - as such - was being hauled before DI Knight, who had more important things on his mind, to be admonished and dismissed like annoying insects with a perfunctory, “Get out and join an art class,” which was the most any of them had ever heard him utter at once. He didn’t need to say more; the icy glare was enough to intimidate a charging rhino.

  Crumble had a theory about why the detective personally bothered to do even that. Most criminals were stupid and dealt with by uniformed police. It seemed to be the prerogative of plain clothes officers to dress down the more intelligent offenders, however inconsequential. Tug and Anastasia thought that Crumble was just flattering his own superior intellect. All the same, they decided to select more remote locations during daylight. This was one of the reasons Crumble was so intrigued to see DI Knight in his Sunday suit on a weekend by that remote underpass.

  Another was that nobody accompanied him.

  It didn’t seem odd to Anastasia: the man must have been chilly company. “So?”

  “He’s up to something. By himself. On foot. Come on. Think about it.”

  So they did.

  Anastasia’s curiosity was triggered. “We’ve almost done here. Let’s follow him.”

  “You crazy?” protested Tug. “We’re already in enough trouble.”

  Anastasia quickly wiped the brushes and tossed them with their aerosols into the knapsack. She swung it onto her back, calling over her shoulder as she pursued the detective, “Come on, before we lose him.”

  The other two followed her through the maze of roundabout underpasses, emerging in time to see DI Knight disappear into the narrow lane leading up to the country park on its far side. Tug still doubted that it was a good idea to pursue a senior police officer on - quite possibly - a secret mission, but was outvoted by Crumble and Anastasia. He didn’t actually dislike the man (Tug liked everyone), just found him intimidating in a way his companions couldn’t comprehend. He didn’t understand why Anastasia’s mother, whenever she felt obliged to remonstrate with the police on the behalf of her artistic daughter and friends, was fascinated by the frosty DI Knight and grateful for any excuse to see him. The friends would have been amazed to learn that the detective welcomed the brief conversations they were able to have in Russian. Also, Crumble, Tug and Anastasia’s artwork had a joyful exuberance even someone from a cold climate could warm to and, unbeknown to them, impressed both adults. It was unlike the pretentious daubs of many youths who had nothing better to do than make a mark on something - anything!

  The police could have prosecuted the friends - they did other defacers of property - and perhaps the mural of nude cyclists in police helmets on the rear of the police station’s ancient bike shed had been going a bit too far. Even though it was executed at the dead of night, their style was too unmistakable for their own good. Yet, surprisingly, it remained there!

  As they darted up the lane after DI Knight, Crumble warned Tug to keep his head down. The young man was over six foot tall and conspicuous enough without the Jamaican colours standing out like a gigantic lollipop. Tug pulled off the tam and let his Rasta locks tumble out.

  DI Knight didn’t intend to cross the park. He continued on up towards the private, palatial properties overlooking the town. Then stopped.

  Crumble, Tug and Anastasia ducked into the cover of some bushes before he glanced about to check that the coast was clear. They saw the detective enter the gate at the rear of one of the mansions and descend the steps to the property’s boundary. His pursuers noiselessly dashed up the lane to peer down through the bushes. A large, affluent looking man in his sixties was waiting for DI Knight by a tool shed. Several hoes and spades were propped up against it after being cleaned. A garden fork’s long, gleaming prongs pointed skywards and caught the sun’s rays. This was obviously the gardener’s pride and joy.

  It didn’t take Crumble, Tug and Anastasia long to recognise the heavy man as Archie Rogetinham, ex-mayor and outspoken critic of the council funding causes he believed
charities should deal with. They knew him well. He was the one responsible for defeating the proposal to paint murals on the dreary walls of municipal buildings. They almost felt some empathy for the detective as there was obviously deep animosity between the two men.

  Anastasia suddenly remembered something and looked at her watch. “How long are we going to do this? I promised mum I’d collect the groceries.”

  Tug took out the fob watch from his embroidered waistcoat. “It’s only two o’clock. This was your idea. You got plenty of time.”

  “Quiet you two!” Crumble whispered urgently. “Something’s going on!”

  And sure enough the two men’s conversation was becoming heated.

  “You are tiresome and obsessive, Detective Inspector Knight. You do know why I wanted to see you, don’t you?”

  “You’re afraid I’ve now gathered enough evidence to get a conviction.”

  “Don’t threaten me, you contemptible little upstart!”

  “And you’d be right.”

  “A fat lot of good that will do you.”

  The friends were fascinated to see the taciturn detective at work, cool and fearless in facing down this huge man who believed he owned everything and everyone.

  “Why don’t you just let this drop as your superiors told you?” Rogetinham warned DI Knight.

  “They were wrong.”

  “Don’t be so bloody arrogant! When were you promoted to chief constable?”

  The detective’s cool tone turned to ice. “Now I have a dossier that will ensure the arrests of you and your network of child molesters.”

  Crumble, Tug and