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1- Time Crime
(by Christopher Jones)
The year was 2040, nine years after the bust. They had called it the new El Dorado during the boom, but what could they call it now? Greymouth: the open orifice of a corpse humming to the tune of its own death rattle. It was a city trying to hold onto, yet somehow forget, the glory of years gone by; to settle at last to humble death, while the last of its flesh was consumed by collectors, as debtors made a hasty exit, and all those who had come to ride the wave were gone, leaving an overweight economy and too many high-rise buildings to sustain its rotting core.
I arrived during the tumult of a spring storm. There was quite some turbulence but the air hostesses didn’t seem very worried, and that was good enough for me. The one on my aisle was very made up, with tight blonde hair, a sweet chubby face and her skirt came down to just below her knees. They say that when it rains here it really rains, but they also say you get used to it. The pilot had to circle three times waiting for a window of visibility before finally bringing the DC-20 down to land.
I met my rental car agents outside the terminal building. I had ordered a manual four-wheel drive, apparently the only one in town. The mainstream companies which crowded the interior dealt only in the new generation of foolproof automatics, and besides there was a limited supply of large vehicles without prior notice. I knew what I would need, so I looked around on the internet until I hooked up with these guys, Smack Car Rentals, and at the last minute arranged for them to meet me at the airport. Before going outside into the din of the weather I let my local contact, Police Inspector Jack Martin, know that I had arrived. He gave me the address of where to meet him.
The dark day was just coming onto dusk, and I waited there for a moment sheltered from the rain by the large overhead canopy until a small silver Suzuki Swift drove up. A tall, handsome man of about 30 got out, quite a flashy type with black hair and dark brown eyes. He introduced himself as Paul Bartley, “We spoke on the phone, Mr Jones. Sorry about the delay,” he said, putting my cases into the back and opening the passenger’s door for me to enter, “Your Range Rover is at the office. I need to check you in.” It was here that I felt the first inexplicable glitch, like a shudder through my reality that showed I wasn’t there by accident. This was no false alarm.
I got in and he said as the car drove towards the CBD, “I’d apologise for the weather, Mr Jones, but it’s beyond the powers of my control. This is the West Coast, after all.”
“Yes,” I nodded, “It’s a narrow strip of land between the coast and the Southern Alps. When the prevailing westerly comes off the ocean loaded with water, it hits the mountains and dumps its load, leaving the east in drought while the west has more rain than it can handle.” He laughed as though I had told some kind of joke, so I added, “Call me Chris.”
The office on Mackay Street was one of several on the second floor of an old two storey building standing between taller, shakier buildings built during the 2020s. It was accessed by a narrow flight of steps which took us up to a shabby lobby with several doors to various offices. The sign above the door we entered read, “PPS Bartley Real Estate, Smack Car Rentals and P. Bartley Detective Agency”. He indicated for me to stand at a counter which was obviously used for the car rental side of the business, “Would you like tea or coffee?” he offered, and I shook my head.
Looking at the real estate display board, I noticed one property stand out from the others. It had a note saying, “Serious Viewers Only. No Tourists!” which piqued my curiosity. I then recognised the red shed on the photo from my research files as being the location of one of the Blondino murders. The thought of that recognition gave me a second inexplicable glitch; a feeling like déjà vu. I asked, “How is the real estate business doing these days?”
“It’s a good time to buy,” he said, “People shy away from a market in a slump, but think about it. You wouldn’t buy your groceries like that, would you? You wouldn’t wait till prices rocketed before you rushed down to the supermarket. No, you’d grab what you could while everything’s on sale. So why treat real estate any different? There are plenty of good bargains to be had around here.”
“What about this one?” I asked.
“That’s the Thompson property; a real bargain. If you’re interested, come back tomorrow when the office is open and we’ll talk business. You honestly could not go wrong.”
He entered my details into the computer, such as driver’s licence and credit card numbers, and printed off some papers for me to sign just in time for a second, younger man to enter. “It’s all fuelled and ready to go. I’ve put your cases on the back seat,” he said, he looked so similar to Paul Bartley that he was obviously his younger brother. He wasn’t quite so flashy and he wore a wedding band. He handed me the key attached to a bright orange key-ring with the Smack logo on it and said, “Diesel only. It’s just outside.” So I looked nonchalantly at the window as the rain came crashing down even harder, and bade them farewell.
I set the navigator to Power Road and pulled out from the curb. The good thing about cars of the era before everything became self-driving was that you felt like you were actually driving, and not simply a passenger in the driver’s seat. Even by 2040 the majority of cars practically drove themselves, but they weren’t fully driverless so it kind of made you feel like you were there but not there. Of course they already had the technology for self-driving but public suspicion had pushed for legislation that prevented its general implementation. Only vehicles that used special lanes such as freight and taxi were permitted to be driverless.
I took a left on Tainui Street, up past the traffic lights at the railway crossing, and turned right at the roundabout. After a few kilometres Tainui Street became High Street, and the rain eased off to a trickle. It was already full night. I passed the Oasis Hotel on my left, which I was booked into but would check in later, and proceeded for another 3.2 kilometres before turning left onto Power Road as the navigator directed. I drove up a steep hill to the house at number 32, where there was a police cordon in place. A modified white Camry and a standard patrol car with flashing lights awaited there for my arrival.
Reaching into my case for the gaga meter I noticed an umbrella on the back seat, so I decided to make use of it. There were four men, two in uniform and two detectives, standing beside the Camry. They took notice of me as I got out, clutching the meter, fumbling about with the umbrella which didn’t seem to want to open. It came up all of a sudden and almost sent me tripping over my own feet. The detectives walked over to greet me, putting out their hands and the older, obviously more senior of the two said, “I’m Police Inspector Jack Martin, this is Police Inspector David Walton. You must be Special Agent Christopher Jones.” I gave him and his partner the firm handshakes they wanted, showed them my badge, and Jack indicated towards the house, “We didn’t expect you would arrive tonight.”
He wore a thick coat and the water ran off his head but he acted as though it was nothing more than a slight inconvenience, which it probably was. He was a well built man of about 40 years, with a trimmed black moustache and a very friendly manner. David Walton was much thinner and younger, with brown hair and ginger moustache. Jack said, “Forensics were here this afternoon. So far, despite the blood being human, there’s no indication that the murder took place here. The bodies of the residents, Janine Hoffstad and her daughter Susan, were found in bush about 20 minutes out of town, and the blood isn’t theirs. They were strangled, and there’s every indication that they were murdered there. Personally, I wouldn’t have alerted you, even if it does look occult. It’s the computer that does it. It’s an algorithm. I hope you haven’t wasted your time. She’s the daughter of a crime boss.”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” I said, “And call me Chris,” but I could tell just by looking at the exterior of the yellow weatherboard house that I had already been there. It’s like the glitches. It’s what we call the ripple effect, and you develop a sense for it when you’ve been in the job for long enough. Think of it like a stone being dropped into a pool of water, and the ripples radiate out from the epicentre, repeating the trauma, which brings about the sensation of repetition. Some call it déjà vu, but for most people only the very strong pulses are felt, where they feel the ongoing effect of a great surge through the fabric of their lives.
Inside the house I switched on the meter and took a reading of the hallway with immediate indication of gaga. Jack Martin pointed to a door at the end of the hallway, “The interesting stuff is this way.” I nodded. “What does that thing do exactly?” he asked.
I said, “It measures gaga.” He nodded.
The lounge room at the end of the hallway came up with very strong readings. The light was dim, but at the turn of a dial Jack made it very bright. There was a pentagram painted from blood on the cream carpet of an otherwise fairly ordinary lounge. A black leather sofa and two matching lazy-boy armchairs were set facing a plasma television screen which took up most of the wall they faced. There was a strong scent of very sweet perfume like an overture to the senses with an undertone of musty dampness, and the rancid stench-like odour of rotting meat barely perceptible. At each point of the pentagram were two items, which mostly looked like they belonged to a woman, or a young girl, or both. “What exactly is gaga?” asked Jack as the meter hissed, almost off the scale.
At the closest point of the pentagram were a Barbie doll and a deck of cards with the golden pick logo of Inangahua Resort Casino at Reefton. The next point in a clockwise direction had a red badge with the picture of Daffy Duck on it, and a lady’s smart-watch with a blue strap. The third point had a postcard of a snowy mountain with three serrated peaks, that is, Mt Owen, and a brown felt hat with splotches of mud and a red flowery band. At the end of the fourth point was a CD album Sugar Sweet Candy Water by the Aloe Veras, and a small plastic daffodil of the type they sell to raise money for cancer research. At the final point was a Lenovo tablet with star and flower stickers on it, and a bottle of Le Frais perfume, with the lid not pressed on properly and so most of its contents had spilled onto the carpet.
I said, “To put it simply, gaga measures the difference between what is real and what is unreal. Think of it as the difference between matter and antimatter. The action of matter normally flows in nominal resistance to the reaction of antimatter, like a wave held in balance. When the wave becomes discordant, shadow waves appear, which is what we call a ripple effect, measured in units of gaga. You follow me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Okay, just think of it as telling me that something illegal has taken place here and the sooner that I deal with it the better it will be for everybody, so it’s good I got here when I did.”
“How bad is it? Should we be worried?”
“It’s bad, as bad as it gets. I need to bag these items.”
“What are they for? It is occult then?”
I nodded, and picked up the brown felt hat. There were strands of long blonde hair on the inside. Turning over the postcard there was, “Dear Mummy,” but nothing else written on it. I turned on the tablet and the screen saver was the same photo of Mt Owen as on the postcard. It asked for a pin and I tried a few basic combinations but they didn’t work.
I said, “Certain items become charged with gaga. We call them talismans. It’s occult in as much as ritualistic procedure was used to create the talismans, but occult is just a layman’s term for the process of manipulating the fabric of the space-time continuum, that is, the normal flow of matter and antimatter. Of course it’s highly illegal, but we have our methods. This crime took place here, but not the here as we see it, the here that exists somewhere else. All we see is the exhaust of an event and the only way to fix it is to find the source of the tear and stitch it up.”
“But should we be worried?”
I shrugged, “No, I think we’ve caught it in time. Good work.”
We came away and to my surprise the night had cleared. Everything looked washed, serene, and clean, with a starry sky and the near full moon glowing high above the ranges to the east. To the north the seven towers of Greymouth’s CBD were sparkling like they were something beautiful, to be proud of, but dread filled me because I knew they were more like the embers of a fire that had not quite been extinguished, and just the slightest wind would bring up the flame to consume it all like a dragon’s breath.
The city had been born of gold, and gold had destroyed the city, with a hundred and seventy years between to grow, to languish, and hope for better times. Their motto, “Our time will come again,” seemed like presentiment during the 2020s boom as many believed their time had finally arrived, but the problem with gold is that too much happens all at once, and when the gold is gone everything must collapse back into itself. Back in the 1860s it hadn’t mattered so much because there was only a limited amount that a town could grow with such means as steam ships and sailboats. But it was a different story during the 2020s, as the 2030s proved and the year 2040 was about to conclude; the devastation to be visited upon this city would be more than the sum of its components.
That was “Chapter One” of The Woman in the Brown Hat, a sci-fi fantasy detective novel by Marcus Pedersen.
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