Fiction

GOING ROGUE

“Agent Bentley, can you hear me?” a crackly voice is transmitted through my earpiece.

“Yep,” I say, excited at the prospect of another mission. I have been working with Moonfire Intelligence for three years, and what can I say? I just adore the adrenaline rush that overcomes my bones every time I am assigned a new operation to complete. 

“So, what do I have to do today, Hunter?” I ask, and wait for a response.

“It’s Harlow,” says my partner, Hunter Green, through the speaker. “He recently found files from our database which could ruin all our plans if he opens them. You have to track him down… and I hate to say this, but it would be dangerous to keep him alive.”

My lips part in surprise.

“You mean… kill him?” I say, shocked.

“Well, he knows too much, Rosé. Allowing him to survive would be a danger to our organisation if he’s read those files.”

Elijah Harlow is the Director of R.O.G.U.E., Moonfire Intelligence’s rival organisation. His agents mainly deal in underhanded operations, selling secrets (usually lies) against the government. Now that he’s got his hands on those files, it makes him quite a formidable foe. 

No matter how formidable, however,  I have never been ordered to kill any of our enemies or contenders before, so it is surprising to receive a kill order for the very first time.

“How much does he know?”

“A lot. Enough to take down our entire organisation. Mostly intel about how we built Moonfire Intelligence up from the ground, and how we get our information.”

Oh, dear. If Elijah has that data, there’s no telling what he can do.

“We’ll send another agent into the field with you,” continues Hunter, “Jeremiah Frost. Just in case you chicken out.”

I snort, shaking my head. “I never chicken out.”

I can almost hear Hunter smiling through the microphone. “We’ll see, Agent Bentley. Anyway, the operation starts tomorrow. Agent Frost will meet you outside Headquarters. Remember – take out Harlow, get our data back. Make it quick and clandestine, in and out.”

I nod, before remembering that he can’t see me, and then I quickly say yes.

I can’t wait to get back in the field.

                                                                        –

I walk up to the Moonfire HeadQuarters, dressed in a plain black hoodie and jeans. In operations like this, it’s better to blend in than to stand out. If you look closely, you can probably see the faint outline of my gun underneath my hoodie, but people these days are so self-absorbed that they are unlikely to notice.

I see a scrawny boy with messy curls standing under a tree near the main entrance. I can tell that he is my new partner, Jeremiah Frost, by the emblem of a moon engulfed by flames emblazoned on his jacket. The emblem of our organisation. 

I stroll over to him, as inconspicuous as possible, and he looks up as I come closer to him. He flashes me a small smile, his bright green eyes crinkling at the corners.

We walk together a few kilometres, getting closer to the place that Moonfire told us we would find Elijah Harlow. Jeremiah constantly tries to make small talk on the way, but I remain curt and abrupt (borderline rude) since I have learned from an early age never to make friends with your business partners. After an hour or so of walking, we reach a deserted, eerily quiet building – more of a shack, really. The original colour of the walls has long since faded away, covered by layers upon layers of graffiti. It seems like just the sort of shady place where Elijah would meet his cohorts.

Sure enough, about five minutes later, I spot a tall man in a suit, looking somewhat out of place in the barren area. His hair is neatly styled back, and large glasses rest on his pointed nose. Elijah Harlow. 

Next to me, Jeremiah lets out a strange kind of feral growl and lunges forward at our target. He tackles Elijah to the ground, and after a few kicks to the stomach, Elijah is rendered weak, and unable to fight back. Jeremiah wraps his arms tightly around Elijah’s neck, holding him in place as I raise my gun.

Perspiration trickles down my forehead, and my nerves tingle with a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety. Taking a deep breath, I pull the trigger, and a loud BANG! fills my ears.

I watch, as he falls to the ground like a rag doll, crimson blood spurting from the wound. I’ve done it. For the first time, I have killed someone. I cannot deny the slight twinge of guilt I feel in my chest, but I know that I must always be loyal towards my organisation, and if this is what it entails… I am willing to do it.

Elijah Harlow steps over Jeremiah Frost’s lifeless body, and smiles at me.

“Well done, Agent Rosé Bentley. Welcome to R.O.G.U.E.” he says, holding out his hand.

I grab his hand, shake it, and smile. 

A GATSBY NEW YEAR

New Year’s Eve has always been quite an extravagant affair in the Gatsby family. Every single year, without fail, my Aunt Ruth prepares a lavish New Year’s feast and decorates her large home with such gusto that one sometimes feels as though they have entered a shop selling nothing but decorations. I have always looked forward to Aunt Ruth’s parties – catching up on the family gossip, getting lost in the neverending corridors, admiring her outrageously luxurious bathrooms. But what I look forward to the most every year is the feast. Aunt Ruth’s New Year’s Eve parties aren’t Aunt Ruth’s New Year’s Eve parties without the feast. 

The table would be draped in a red-and-white checked cloth, tall candles flickering above it, with little sprigs of mistletoe here and there. A deep dish of baked potatoes, an assortment of cheeses and meats, a whole roast chicken resting on mashed potatoes and gravy, and maple carrots and peas. Salads with little cherry tomatoes, a bowl of grilled vegetables, a large warm loaf of freshly baked bread, and, right in the middle of it all, a big fat roasted pig, with a poached apple stuffed in its mouth. 

So you can imagine my disappointment when Aunt Ruth called to say that she was down with the flu.

I was sitting in my library-cum-cupboard, flipping through a book but not actually reading the words, as I was too busy daydreaming about roast chicken, when I heard the telephone ringing from the other room. I knew almost immediately that it was Aunt Ruth calling, for the phone somehow always rings more aggressively when she’s on the other end. 

Sure enough, as soon as I picked up the phone I was met with the sound of Aunt Ruth’s scratchy voice – perhaps scratchier than usual.

“Frederick,” she said, “I’m sick.”

“Of what?”

“The flu.”

“You’ve got the flu?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” snapped Aunt Ruth meanly, “so I’m afraid there’ll be no New Year feast unless you’d like everyone at the party to catch the flu too.”

“NO NEW YEAR FEAST?” I yelled at a volume that wasn’t quite acceptable to use over the phone. “But there’s no New Year’s Eve without the feast!”

“Well, why don’t you make then, huh boy? Your aunt is lying in bed with a fever, and all you can think about is food?” said Aunt Ruth rather waspishly.

“Fevers happen all the time, Aunt Ruth!” I argued, “but the New Year’s Eve feast only happens once a year!”

“Selfish, ungrateful boy,” muttered my aunt under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “make yourself then, why don’t you? It’ll be a disaster either way.”

And with that, she hung up the phone. Honestly, I only put up with her so that she invites me to the party each year, so why should I be bothered if she has a slight sniffle? The next year would be terrible if we didn’t end this one with roast pork. 

As most you should probably know, a Gatsby never gives up, no matter what. And as a Gatsby myself, I shan’t either. I, Frederick Arthur Gatsby, shall be preparing this year’s New Year’s Eve feast.

 _

I suppose I forgot to mention earlier that I cannot cook to save my life. I usually resort to either basic ham and cheese sandwiches, or luncheons at restaurants I cannot afford to eat at. But I had to try, or countless lives could be ruined. Besides, how difficult can it really be, anyway?

The answer is very, very, very difficult, Extremely difficult. It was a struggle simply to boil the chicken before roasting it, so I decided to give Aunt Ruth a call.

“You aren’t supposed to boil the chicken before roasting it,” she said flatly, and promptly hung up.

Well, I thought to myself, I can’t do this by myself. There’s only one person left to call.

“I suppose you think I’ve forgotten what you did to me last month?” said William ‘Bill’ Ainsworth, “You robbed me of the money I needed to pursue a career in accounting.”

“I robbed you of nothing, I earned that money myself,” I said, quite proudly. You see, about a month or so ago, Bill asked me for help with… Oh never mind, that’s a whole other story.

“Why should I help you if you didn’t help me,” Bill demanded, his chin sticking up defiantly, but his trembling voice betraying his confidence.

“Because,” I said, walking towards him and taking hold of his broad shoulders, “if you don’t help me, there is to be no New Year’s Eve Feast.”

Bill’s eyes widened, and he let out an audible gasp.

“No – no New Year’s Feast?” he questioned anxiously.

“None,” I said.

He shook his head in disbelief. “All right,” he said, “all right then I’ll help you!”

I smiled victoriously.

“We’d better get to work then, eh?”

 _

It quickly became evident that Bill was no more of a culinary connoisseur than I was. But at least he knew how to shell peas, which was more than I could do.

“All right,” said Bill seriously, “the next step is to put the chicken in the oven.”

I lifted the tray that the headless raw chicken was perched on, and slid it gently into the oven. Everything was going rather splendidly, to my surprise.

I had used my aesthetic skills to arrange cheeses and meats beautifully on a platter, along with some grapes and olives.

“Nice work, old bean!” said Bill approvingly.

“Thanks, old chap. The mashed potatoes will be ready in a bit too.”

“I say, we seem to be doing rather well!” said Bill, puffing out his chest with pride.

I agreed with him before saying, “Let’s get on with the salad and the vegetables, shall we?”

“We shall,” said Bill.

We worked on grilling the broccoli and onions while the chicken roasted in one oven, and the bread baked in the other.

“The bread should be done by now, don’t you think?” I asked Bill as I wiped my hands on a towel.

“I’ll go check,” said Bill, putting on a pair of oven mitts that were at least three sizes too large.

“Oh,” said Bill, “oh dear.”

I hung the towel back on the rack and walked over to see what Bill was ‘oh’ing about.

“Oh,” I said, “oh dear.”

The bread was utterly deformed. It didn’t look like a respectable loaf of bread at all – it looks rather as though a six-year-old child had decided that it would be a good idea to take a perfectly good loaf of bread and play with it as if it were clay.

“Well,” said Bill ruefully, “hopefully it tastes good, even if it looks like a catastrophe.”

“It doesn’t do to dwell on the past,” I said wisely, “let’s take a look at the chicken.”

The chicken hadn’t cooked at all. It was as raw as the day it hatched out of an egg, and that was probably because we had forgotten to turn on the oven.

“Disaster upon disaster!” cried Bill, looking as if he would burst into tears any second.

“It’s all right, don’t fret. We don’t have time to roast the chicken now, but we can boil it.”

“But it won’t look half as good!” wailed Bill.

“That doesn’t matter, it’s the taste that matters! We’ll boil the chicken, and salt it nicely. Add a bit of pepper too. I’m sure it’ll taste just as great as Aunt Ruth’s!”

“Aunt Ruth’s chicken,” said Bill rather crossly, “is roasted.”

“And ours is boiled! Come on Bill, we must get a move on.” I turned around to walk towards the counter.

“FRED!” screamed Bill suddenly, “the potatoes that were boiling for the mash! They must be done by now.”

Oh, dear. They must be overdone by now. And we were right, for as Bill spoke those words, the potatoes exploded all over the counter – and us.

“Great,” said Bill, “we’re no closer to finishing dinner and on top of that we’re covered in potatoes.”

But that wasn’t the worst of it. In all this commotion, we had completely forgotten about the vegetables that were still on the grill. I ran towards the grilling vegetables, and sure enough, they were burnt. To the crisp.

“Oh Fred!” said Bill, “We can’t possibly serve all this! And we haven’t even started on the pig!”

“Forget the pig,” I said, “and you’re right, we can’t serve this to all the guests.”

“Then what will we do, Freddie, what will we do? We promised your Aunt Ruth!” cried Bill, wringing his hands anxiously.

I thought. I thought long and hard, ignoring the impatient look on Bill’s face.

“I’ve got an idea. Bill, the counter was clean before we started cooking, right?”

“Of course! You know I’m a stickler for cleanliness.”

I knew no such thing, but I decided to believe him this time. 

“Well then,” I said, handing Bill a spatula, “start scraping the potatoes off the counter.”

_

An hour or so later, Bill and I were ready with the New Year’s feast. Well, we could hardly call it feast, so let me make an amendment to my earlier statement. An hour or so later, Bill and I were ready with our New Year’s meal.

We had used the bread to line the insides of a large pie tin, and stuffed all our disastrous dishes into it to make a chicken-broccoli-carrot-cheese–potato-lettuce-tomato pie.

“Light the candles, Bill, while I go get ready for dinner,” I said, before waltzing up the stairs to put on the electric blue corduroy suit with a white scarf that I had kept ready for the night.

“Are you – are you going to wear that for dinner?” asked Bill somewhat nervously, “In front of your entire family?”

“Why, do you think I’m going to upstage you?” I chuckled. Poor Bill. Didn’t have the best fashion sense, poor lad.

He blinked furiously, and shook his head.

“Let’s call all the guests in to eat,” he said, changing the subject.

_

“This is absolutely atrocious,” said Aunt Ruth after one forkful of the pie.

Bill looked dejectedly at his plate, tears brimming in his eyes. He had always been a sensitive chap, old Bill. I, on the other hand, knew my worth. That old crone Aunt Ruth was only jealous of my culinary success, considering that hers didn’t even compare.

“Oh, Auntie,” I said humorously, “don’t be upset! I’m sure you’ll do better next year! Right, folks?” I turned to the rest of the guests, who were determinedly avoiding each other’s gazes.

Well, who cares about them? I bet they can’t look as great in an electric blue corduroy suit as I can. 

R.E.M.

I’m not superstitious. I don’t usually believe in the supernatural – ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and the like. But the dream – oh god, it was so terrifying, and so real. The dreams that I usually have are fleeting, scattered, and I can hardly remember them the next morning, but there’s no way that I’ll ever be able to forget this one.

The strange thing about it was that the entire dream was so vivid… except for the man’s face. It filled me with a sense of dread to know that my brain had not managed to retain the visage of the man who killed me. Who would kill me. All I remember of his appearance is the distinct scar on his right hand, a long, red scar stretching across his palm. As I mentioned before, I’m not one to believe that dreams can come true, but I know that this wasn’t just a dream – it was a premonition. 

“Relax,” said my sister over the phone, “it’s just a dream, it’s doesn’t mean anything. Don’t be so silly!”

The same thing was said to me by my mother. And my father. And everyone else I sought counsel with. 

I think I became slightly insane. I was wracked with fear and paranoia, triple-locking each door and window, tossing and turning in my bed, unable to close my eyes to sleep. And when I did sleep, I saw the man – somehow I never caught sight of his face, but the scar on his hand was clear as day.

How much longer could I go on like this? Nights haunted by that ghastly scarred hand tightening around my neck, days haunted with the memory of the scene? I was positive that it wasn’t a mere dream, and there was no way that I could spend the rest of my life living in sheer terror, awaiting the day that I meet the man with that awful, awful hand. 

I was young, too young to die, and far too young to have a dark cloud of fear hanging over my head, fear of imminent death. 

I dreamt the dream again that night, although it was in some way even scarier than before. I woke drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, and I could almost still feel the man’s hand choking me to death. At this point, I could feel nothing but blind terror, so I made a midnight trip to my sister’s house, knowing that I would feel much safer in her cozy home.

She was worried for me, I could tell. She noticed the way my hands shook as I removed my coat.

“I think you should see a psychiatrist,” she said, “or a therapist. I can send you the numbers of a few that my friends go to. You should give it a try.”

And so I did. Somewhere inside, I knew it would make me feel better to talk to a professional about the horrific dreams I had been having.

I walked into my new psychologist’s office, which smelled clean, like fresh laundry and a faint scent of lemon.

He was an average-looking man, looking rather small seated behind a desk that was way too high, but the various certificates of commendation that he had framed and hung on his wall put me at ease.

“Good afternoon,” he said, flashing me a charming grin, “I am Dr. Becker.”

I smiled back at him, taking his hand in mine and shaking it. 

He withdrew his hand quite quickly. But not quickly enough for me to miss the long, red scar stretching across his right palm.

ROOMMATE

James slammed the door upon entering the flat, angrily kicking his shoes off, and flinging his backpack to the ground. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” chuckled Sebastian, “Calm down!”

James did not reply, choosing instead to shove a frozen dinner into the microwave and setting the table for one. He sat at the table and wolfed down his food, not even looking up to watch as Sebastian sat down in front of him. 

“How was your day?” asked Sebastian, fiddling with his fingers as he spoke.

James did not reply.

“I had a pretty slow day,” continued Sebastian, “I just sat on the couch and thought a bit. About life, you know? It’s so strange that-”

WIthout bothering to listen to what Sebastian was saying, James pushed his chair back, creating a high-pitched scraping noise, got up, and left. Sebastian would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit hurt by James’ behaviour, but he would also be lying if he said he wasn’t used to it by now.

Sebastian didn’t like to be treated this way – it felt like James couldn’t even see him, or hear him. It made him feel unwanted, unloved, alone. They were so close in metres, yet so far apart in the soul. Sebastian missed the times when his roommate and best friend would laugh with him, compliment his cooking, or just acknowledge the fact that he was there. But now when Sebastian tried to make him laugh, he wouldn’t even look his way. When Sebastian cooked, James would heat up another frozen meal in the microwave. But the worst of all was that James had been completely ignoring Sebastian since… well, for a long time. Sebastian would feel a sharp pain in his heart every time James neglected him – like a thousand daggers being stabbed into his chest, all at once. He was right there, right there – but at the same time, he wasn’t. 

Sebastian watched as James opened his phone to accept a call. He pressed the phone to his ear, and for the first time in what felt like decades, Sebastian could hear the sound of James’ voice, even if it wasn’t directed at him. 

“Yes, that is correct,” James was saying into the phone, “yes, I am looking for a roommate.”

Sebastian swore that he could feel his heart drop to his feet. A new roommate? Did James really hate him so much that he needed a new roommate?

“All right, sure, yes that’s perfect,” James said. “I’ll bring my stuff in a few days.” 

“James!” cried Sebastian, “Why are you doing this? Why are you replacing me?”

James did not reply.

He put down the phone and burst into tears. Sebastian was unhappy with James, but how could he see his best friend crying and just stand there doing nothing? He rushed over to where his roommate sat sobbing on the couch, and he rubbed his shoulders with his cold hands.

“It’s all right,” soothed Sebastian, “why are you crying?”

James did not reply.

“Why,” said Sebastian, “why won’t you just talk to me? Acknowledge my presence?”

James did not reply.

James was heartbroken. He felt as though his heart had been ripped out and repeatedly stepped on. In a few days, he would be moving out of the home he had shared with his roommate and best friend, Sebastian. He looked around the room, trying to soak in all the memories he had made with Sebastian in here, trying to imprint them in his mind so that he would never forget them. 

He would miss Sebastian, he always would, but he needed to leave this house. And he knew that as he packed all his things into suitcases and bags, he was taking all the memories with Sebastian too.

And so Sebastian watched his best friend leave the flat that they had shared for so long, trying so hard to find a way to make James see him, to hear him. 

James drove to his new flat, an occasional tear trickling down his face, but not before making a quick detour. James couldn’t control his tears as he placed a bouquet of roses on Sebastian’s grave. 

He had never been the same since Sebastian died three years ago – he cried more than he even smiled, and he couldn’t live in that apartment without the memory of his best friend filling his mind with every step he took. It was almost as if James could still feel his presence in the house, even years after his death. Which is why he needed to move on. But he new he would never move on from Sebastian, his best friend and roommate, no matter what.

PORTRAIT OF A CAT AND A FRUIT BOWL: PART II

I hope you enjoy reading Part II! You can find Part I here.

“Well, Elijah, I must say, this case is proving to be baffling!” said Gigi frustratedly.

She was lying on the sofa, pensively chewing on a cheese stick, her long dark hair tied back. I was going over my notes, again and again, trying to find even the tiniest clue that could help us solve the case.

“The police aren’t close to solving it either,” continued Geneviéve, “they’re as much in the dark as we are.”

Suddenly, Gigi slammed the cheese stick down and jumped to her feet. 

“What happened?” I asked, shocked at her sudden outburst. 

“If the lights went off at some point, the CCTV cameras wouldn’t have been able to catch whatever had been going on at the time!”

“Yes,” I sighed, “but that policewoman told us, remember? The power cut wasn’t long enough for the person to leave.”

“But long enough to take it down from the wall!”

“But Gigi,” I said exasperatedly, “even if they managed to take it down, the painting was huge! I’m sure someone would have noticed if a visitor was walking around holding a giant painting!”

Geneviéve shook her head, an evil glint in her eyes.

“Let’s do a bit more investigating in the museum.”

                                                                              _

“I have a feeling,” said Gigi once we were back inside the gallery from which the painting had been stolen, “Let’s search this room more thoroughly. I think we might just find something interesting.”

We tried to search the gallery as politely as possible – well at least I did… Gigi was upturning all the benches in quite a rowdy manner, while the security guard in the gallery looked at us disdainfully.

“Look!” she shouted, pushing open a small door in the corner of the room which was almost camouflaged with the wall.

It led into a tiny, stuffy utility room, filled with brooms, mops, cartons – and a broken picture frame.

Gigi was jumping up and down excitedly, saying “I knew it, oh I just knew it!”

“So the painting wasn’t too big at all,” I said, amazed, “the thief could have just folded it or rolled it up!”

“Of course, this only a tiny bit of the case solved,” said Gigi, “we know how they managed to take the painting out inconspicuously… they somehow initiated a power cut, causing the lights to go out, during which they removed the painting from its frame and hid the broken frame in the utility room. But that doesn’t explain how they managed to actually leave with it in the end – everyone was checked!”

“Well, at least we’ve solved this much,” I said encouragingly, “I’m sure we’ll manage the rest too!”

“I like that attitude, Elijah,” said Gigi approvingly, “let’s get to it then!”

“What are you kids doing?” the voice of the security guard boomed through the gallery for the first time. All throughout our search, he had been standing by the door, not saying a word.

“We’re helping with the investigation,” I said before Gigi could say anything rude, “we have permission from the police officers here.”

The guard looked at us suspiciously for a few seconds, before nodding curtly and resuming his position by the door.

“See!” said Gigi as we were making our way back home, “the thief managed to get the painting out of the frame, but how could they do it with Ryan right there?”

“Ryan?” I asked, confused.

“The security guard in that gallery!” said Gigi as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “it was written on his nameplate.”

“Ah,” I said, kicking a stone across the road, “hey, what if we sneak back in tonight? We can explore the museum undisturbed, and maybe find some more clues.”

“Oh yes, that’s a good idea! Perhaps we can stage a recreation there!” suggested Gigi enthusiastically.

And so we entered the Prestonheim Museum for the third time for investigation purposes. We were about to sneak into the gallery but stopped at the door, at the sound of Ryan the security guard talking to someone on the phone, his usually booming voice reduced to a timid murmur.

“Don’t worry, mum,” he said into the phone, “I’ve got it… yes, yes, I said not to worry… yes… all right, I’ll call you later. ”

I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding and felt disappointment wash over me. I had been really excited, thinking that this could be a clue, but he was only talking to his mother. I could tell that Gigi, who had been listening intently, shared my feelings too.

She looked at me dispiritedly and motioned to me to get up.

“We can’t go in while he’s there,” she whispered, holding out her hand to help me get up. 

“What now?” I asked quietly once we had left the museum again.

“Let’s discuss,” said Gigi.

“So we know that there were only about eight people in the museum that day,” I said as I went over my notes, “The tall man, the couple with the baby, the middle-aged woman, the boy, the old lady, and the other man.”

“I think it was either the couple with the baby or the old lady,” said Gigi confidently.

“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.

“Because they’re the least likely people to have done it,” she replied, “in all mysteries, the culprit is always the one who seemed least likely.”

I laughed, but then quickly returned to being serious and said, “It might have been the boy – he looked quite nervous to be there.”

Gigi hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it could have been him. But then it could have been any of them – or should I say it couldn’t have been any of them.”

We lapsed into silence, both of our brains buzzing with a thousand thoughts but not reaching any answers. Or so I thought, but it turned out that it was only I who had not reached any answers, for Gigi jumped up with a feverish look on her face.

“Elijah Fraser,” she said, “We must go back to the museum this instant.”

                                                                            _

We rushed into the gallery once again, and Gigi immediately pulled me into the small utility room. She rummaged through one of the cartons, let out a tiny shriek, and pulled out – the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fish Bowl’.

I goggled at it, completely and utterly gobsmacked. 

“Wha- er- who- why-,” I stuttered endlessly, “what on earth is it doing here?”

“This entire case, my friend,” said Gigi, a mischievous smile glinting on her face, “has been a ruse. A distraction, if you will – a red herring. It wasn’t the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ that was stolen that day – well it was, but that was just to cover up an even bigger theft.”

“I – how did you know?” I spluttered, still taken aback by the whole thing.

“I didn’t,” said Gigi, “but I do now. I still don’t know which painting was really stolen, nor who stole it, but I do think it was pretty clever to create this distraction. 

‘You see, the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ was famous… but not that famous, so it wasn’t too difficult to steal it. On the other hand, an even more famous painting would have proved to be more of a challenge. The thief’s plan that we know of so far was quite ingenious, really – after creating a commotion by stealing ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, no one would notice if they stole something else.”

“But… surely they would have noticed if an even more famous painting had disappeared!” I said.

“Hmm,” hummed Geneviéve, “would they have, though?”

I ignored her cryptic comment because I knew she wouldn’t explain it to me. I leaned back against the wall, trying to take it all in. So the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ never left the museum at all!

“I think,” said Gigi, “we need to know exactly how each person was checked as they left the museum.”

                                                                                _

After much convincing (mostly begging), we managed to assemble everyone who had visited the museum that day near the exit, along with the security guards, who had agreed to recreate the checking of the visitors.

We started with the couple with the child. They were carrying a handbag along with a diaper bag for the baby, both of which were put through a conveyor belt. The lady looked slightly disgruntled at having to do this again, and so did the man. The baby didn’t seem to mind too much, seeing as it was asleep, head resting on its father’s chest. The x-rays of the bags were looked at, after which the couple were both asked to upturn their pockets, and they were checked with a hand-held scanning machine.

Next was the tall, gaunt man, who was carrying a handbag. The bag passed through the conveyor belt just as the couple’s had, and his clothes were checked the same way as well. He was asked to remove his hat, a request at which he seemed to be quite flustered. He refused a few times (suspicious, so I made sure to note it down), but he gave in in the end. It turned out that he had a shiny bald patch at the top of his head, which is why he was hesitant to take off the bowler hat.

Next was the old lady, who was carrying a moth-eaten handbag so ancient that it looked as if it had been taken straight out of the Victorian era. As I looked at her, I realized that she looked strangely familiar… like someone, I had seen before. Then it occurred to me that I had seen her before, so that’s probably where I recognized her from. The bag was passed through the conveyor belt, as with everyone before her. It was slightly more difficult to check her body since she could barely stand up without her walking stick. One guard had to hold onto her walking stick, another had to hold on to her in order to support her, and yet another guard had to do the actual checking. Nevertheless, they managed to check her efficiently.

The middle-aged woman was carrying a backpack, which, once again, went through the belt, and she was then checked by the hand-held machine.

The teenage boy and the other man weren’t carrying any bags or luggage, and the boy didn’t take much time to check, since his pockets were virtually empty too. The man, on the other hand, had pockets full to the brim with random junk. Newspaper clippings, toffee wrappers, a small mirror, glasses, a hip flask, and a ukulele. I had no idea how anyone could fit an entire ukulele in their pockets, but if I ever wanted to do so, I made a mental note to ask that man.

“Does that old lady look familiar to you in any way?” whispered Gigi in my ear.

“She does, actually,” I said, “but it’s probably insignificant, right?”

Gigi shook her head, flashing a smile at me that scream ‘I know something you don’t’.

“I know who the thief was,” she said.

“Who?” I asked urgently, “who?”

She just smiled knowingly and did not reply, which made me feel a sudden, intense urge to punch her in the face.

“I know who it was,” she announced, looking rather pleased with herself.

Everyone in the museum looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to carry on.

“The ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ was never stolen,” she said loftily, “rather, something else was.”

Much to everyone’s amazement and shock, she lifted the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ for them all to see.

“Ryan,” she said, turning to Ryan the security guard, “the unemployment office closes at 5 pm. You could do with that information, since you won’t have a job here for much longer.”

Every single head turned to look at Ryan the security guard, including mine. Ryan immediately dropped his head, looking up at Geneviéve with an anxious expression on his face.

“Well, Ryan, I can’t say I entirely blame you,” said Gigi slightly condescendingly, “you were just listening to mummy, weren’t you?”

Ryan’s eyes instantly flitted to the elderly lady, who looked absolutely livid with rage. And then it dawned on me – that’s why she looked so familiar! She was Ryan’s mother, so she looked like him!

“Ryan, you helped your mother steal the painting, didn’t you?” Gigi said, circling Ryan like a vulture circling a carcass, “You initiated the power cut, took down the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, and stashed it away in the utility room. You were able to do all this unnoticed because you were the security guard; no one would suspect you.”

“And while the commotion was going on,” she continued, “your mum was able to steal another painting – a more valuable one.”

I had been taking notes furiously, but for a moment I looked up to see everyone’s reaction. They all looked surprised, confused, and slightly nervous at the same time. Ryan looked ashamed of himself, but if looks could kill, his mother would be in jail for murder.

Gigi turned to face the old lady. “Tell me, madam,” she said, “do you really need that walking stick?”

Gigi snatched the stick from Ryan’s mother, and I was shocked to see that she was able to stand quite straight even without it.

Much to everyone’s dismay, Gigi held the stick horizontally and brought it down on her knee, breaking it in two. My jaw dropped. The stick was hollow inside – and inside was a rolled-up piece of paper – when unrolled I imagine it must be quite large.

Gigi unrolled the paper – and the room erupted in gasps and cries of ‘oh my god’.

The old lady had hidden the ‘Mona Lisa’ in her walking stick. The original ‘Mona Lisa’.

Suddenly, it all made sense to me. The walking stick was never scanned or checked! That’s how she managed to leave the museum with the painting and not get caught.

An ingenious plan, I thought to myself.

“But… but the Mona Lisa was never stolen! It’s still there, I saw it this morning!” said the manager of the Prestonheim museum.

And then it dawned on me.

“I think you’ll find that that isn’t the original,” I said, proud of myself for figuring out at least one part of the mystery.

The manager fainted.

                                                                           _

“See, Gi,” I said, “I knew we’d get a case in the end.”

“Mhm,” said Gigi, “here’s to many more!”

Right after arresting Ryan and his mother, the museum staff immediately went to remove the fake ‘Mona Lisa’ from its frame.

It was the ‘Mona Lisa’ printed on plain cartridge paper. It looked quite similar to the original one, so I understand why they didn’t notice the difference. However, I’m a bit surprised that they didn’t notice the words, printed in big letters at the bottom of the fake painting, ‘SCANNED WITH SCANNER PRO’.

PORTRAIT OF A CAT AND A FRUIT BOWL

Hi everyone, I will be posting this story in two parts. I am posting Part I today, and Part II in a few days. I hope you enjoy reading it!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a detective in possession of a good brain must be in want of something to detect. Such was the plight of my best friend, Geneviéve Sinclair. She’s got the brains, the talent, the impressive name, but the only cases she has solved so far are the crosswords in the morning newspaper.

“Don’t worry, something will come up,” I said soothingly as I watched Geneviéve aggressively stab the innocent newspaper with her pencil.

“It’s utterly useless,” she grumbled, tucking the pencil behind her ear, “we’ve put about fifteen ads in the paper by now. Not a soul has called us.”

I did not reply. People were unlikely to hire an unknown, underage detective even to find a missing earring, no matter how many ads she had put in the newspaper. But I wasn’t about to tell her that, for it was sure to bruise her relatively large ego. 

“They are simply underestimating my brainpower, aren’t they, Elijah?”, Geneviéve demanded, flinging the worn-out newspaper on the desk.

I didn’t lift my eyes from my book but hummed supportively. 

“Turn on the television, Elijah,” she said, plopping down on the sofa next to me, “TV corrupts the soul and rots the brain, it is true, but sometimes even the most brilliant detectives need to watch some.”

I turned on the news and went back to my book.

“FAMOUS PAINTING STOLEN FROM THE PRESTONHEIM MUSEUM!” roared the reporter on the TV.

My head perked up at the news, and as I closed my book to pay more attention, I saw that Geneviéve, too, was looking at the television with an expression of mild interest on her face.

“A famous painting, ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, was stolen from the Prestonheim Museum sometime last night. The museum staff has absolutely no idea how it was stolen, or who might have stolen it. Investigators are looking into the matter as we speak.”

Geneviéve jumped off the sofa excitedly and smiled widely at me.

“This is it, Elijah,” she said, “the moment we’ve been waiting for!”

“Yeah, it’s fate,” I agreed with her.

“Don’t be silly,” she said rolling her eyes, “there’s no such thing as fate! It’s our choices that determine everything, not fate.”

I sighed but decided not to say anything.

“We must head to the museum this instant,” Geneviéve said, grabbing her tweed cap, which she insisted on wearing all the time.

“They’re not going to let us in, Gigi,” I reminded her, “the museum is probably closed right now for the police to investigate.”

She scoffed.

“Everyone knows that we can do better investigating than them, can’t we?”

“Well, we know for sure,” I said, “but I doubt everyone does.”

“Well, then we shall simply have to let them know.” Geneviéve adjusted the cap on her head, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out of the door.

_

When we reached the Prestonheim Museum, we quickly realized that we weren’t the only ones interested in the case. A swarm of civilians had gathered around the museum, jostling each other to get a glimpse of whatever was going on inside.

Geneviéve pushed her way through to get to the entrance, while I trailed behind, apologizing on her behalf to all the offended people she had shoved past. 

A burly museum guard who was blocking the entrance stopped us as we reached him.

“What’re you doin’ here, kids?” he asked.

“We’re here to investigate the case of the missing painting”, said Geneviéve, “let us in please.”

“You kids be doin’ the investigatin’?” the security guard laughed, but not unkindly.

“Indeed,” said Geneviéve, rather frigidly. “Now if you don’t let us-”

“Please sir,” I intervened, “we’re only kids. We’re doing a school project on art theft, and when we heard about this case, we just couldn’t resist seeing what all the fuss was about.”

Geneviéve looked at me irritatedly.

“Well…” faltered the burly security guard.

“Ach, just let ‘em in,” said another guard who was standing a few feet away, and appeared to have been listening to the conversation, “they’re only children! What can they do?”

I could sense Geneviéve seething with fury beside me.

“I happen to be-” she began, but she never got to finish her sentence, because I quickly pulled her into the museum before she could anger the security guards.

“What do they think,” she muttered as we walked further inside, “think we’re babies?”

“Calm down, Gigi,” I said, “we’ll show them.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes we will.” And she seemed considerably less enraged after that.

There were several people and police officers assembled in the foyer, all seated on the benches. 

“Oh look!”, I said, “that’s my uncle! He’s one of the head police officers, but I didn’t know he’d be in charge of this case.”

“Well that’s wonderful,” said Gigi, “now we have a much better chance of getting in.”

“Good afternoon,” said Geneviéve in a dignified manner, evidently trying to appear older than she was, “I am Geneviéve Sinclair, and this is my friend, assistant, and your nephew, Elijah Fraser. We’re here to investigate the missing painting case.”

My uncle, the head police officer smiled indulgently as if he were looking at a toddler.

“How lovely to see young adults interested in the work of police officers!” he said, with a most patronizing tone, causing Gigi to grimace. 

“Uncle, we’re doing a school project on art theft,” I said, “We really want to learn more about this case.”

Gigi seemed to have caught on to the fact that lying made things easier, so she agreed with me, saying, “Yes! We’d love to look around and find some more information for our project.”

“You’re welcome to tag along,” he said dismissively, “if you want to, of course. You may look around, madam, but don’t touch anything.”

Gigi looked slightly mollified at having been called ‘madam’, but she lifted her chin and strutted out of the foyer. 

We walked to the gallery where the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ had been showcased before it was stolen. 

“No glass,” observed Gigi, scanning the gallery for any clues she could find, “highly irresponsible, of course. A glass barrier would have been better for security. Well, not everyone has common sense.”

“Yup,” I said, “dunno why it’s called common sense when it isn’t common at all.”

“I don’t see anything significant… do you?” questioned Gigi.

I looked around, but I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary either, except for the giant space between two paintings, where the ‘Portrait of a Cat and Fruit Bowl’ had been. 

“Why would the thief steal that painting, of all paintings? It was quite mediocre, in my opinion,” said Geneviéve, eyeing the other art in the room.

“It was quite famous, Gi,” I said, “anyone could make a lot of money by selling it. I doubt the quality matters much to them, it’s just the value.”

“Hmm, you’re right,” agreed Gigi.

“I wonder how the person managed to smuggle out such a large painting without being seen,” I said thoughtfully.

“I was thinking that too. Shall we go back to the foyer and get some more information?”

“Yes, let’s,” I said.

“What happened, exactly?” Gigi demanded of the police officers once we were back in the foyer, “I’d like to know.”

“That’s confidential information, Miss,” said a young policewoman, “I doubt we can tell ya.”

Geneviéve put on a miserable expression, one so convincing that I felt an urge to pat her on the back and comfort her. But I knew she was just acting, something she could do rather well. I could have sworn I saw some crocodile tears leaking from her big brown eyes.

“Oh dear, Elijah,” she said sadly, turning to me, “I was counting on finding out! Now we have nothing to write about for the school project!”

“I know,” I said, trying my best to act convincingly, “we’ll definitely fail now. We might even have to repeat this year.”

We must have pretended rather well, for the policewoman seemed to take pity on us, and sat us down to inform us of all the events that had occurred so far.

“Well listen,” she said, “it was yesterday. The museum was havin’ a pretty slow day, so there were only a bunch o’ people there. Honestly, the thief coulda been anyone, since they all had ample opportunity to be with the painting alone long enough to steal it.”

I whipped out my notebook from my pocket and started writing everything the lady was telling us. 

“So anyone could be the thief?” asked Gigi.

“Naw,” said the policewoman, “no one coulda done it. Each and every one of the visitors was checked before entering, as well as before leaving. Their bags were checked, bodies were checked. There’s no way anyone coulda done it.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, deep in thought. If everyone had been checked, how did the thief manage to get the painting out of the museum, especially such a large one?

“Could they have left through the windows or emergency exits?” I asked.

“Nope, there are security guards, and they wouldn’t let you leave from the windows or emergency exits.”

“Did anything unusual happen?” asked Geneviéve.

“Nothing really. There was just a small power cut, and that was about it. It definitely wasn’t long enough to steal the painting and leave the museum, though.”

“May we see the people who were in the museum that day?”

“They’re just over there,” said the policewoman, pointing at a group of people near the foyer entrance.

Gigi and I looked each person up and down, and I wrote down a short description of each person. There was a tall, gaunt man, who was wearing a black suit complete with a bowler hat to match. His bright blue eyes were a contrast to his dark skin tone, and they were so clear and cold that I felt strangely intimidated by him. There was a young couple with a little baby. Both of them were rather short-statured, and what I presumed to be the father was rocking their baby back and forth in his arms. Next to the couple was a middle-aged woman, squarely built with extremely broad shoulders, which made her resemble some sort of boulder. Next to the middle-aged woman was a boy, either a teenager or a young man in his early 20s. He looked frightened and nervous, which I suppose is natural when you are standing in a room filled with police officers, but I won’t deny that it made me a teensy bit suspicious. There was an elderly lady, the only one in the group who was sitting on a bench, a walking stick leaning on her legs. And the last person who had visited the museum that day was a man, whose age I can’t quite put my finger on, wearing a checked shirt with tweed pants. 

None of them looked like someone who would steal a painting, but appearances, I suppose, can be deceiving. At least one of these people had to have stolen the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’. The question is, how? As the policewoman said, it was impossible for any of them to have done it. For starters, there were security guards in each room in the museum, and each person was checked thoroughly upon entering, and before leaving. Secondly, the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ was one of the larger paintings in the gallery. Besides, there must have been CCTV cameras in the galleries as well. How could anyone have carried it out without being noticed?

_

Did you know that even Agatha Christie stories and the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were published in parts? The whole story was never released at once – even the short stories used to be published in chapters. That’s how I will be posting this story! I hope you like it!

WE SELFLESS GATSBYS

We Gatsbys have always had an altruistic desire to put others before ourselves. We are humble, modest, and kind-hearted sort of chaps, and the smile on someone’s face is always worth the hassle of trying to put it there in the first place.

This particular story begins in my library. Well, I suppose it isn’t a library really… it would be more fitting to call it a cupboard with a few books and a bean bag. Nevertheless, I was curled up in my library, sipping on a cup of piping hot tea and nibbling on a few biscuits, when the doorbell rang, shaking me out of the state of bliss that one generally feels when reading a good book. 

Muttering angrily to myself, I left the library-cum-cupboard, and opened the front door, only to be confronted by a childhood pal of mine, William Arthur Ainsworth. We had bonded, in our days of youth, over a shared middle name, but I hadn’t seen him since graduating from Cambridge. Until now, that is.

“Why, if it isn’t Bill Ainsworth!”, I exclaimed.

“Oh Freddie, it’s good to see you again.”, he said.

“What brings you here, old bean?” I asked.

William bit his lip nervously. 

“I think we should discuss it over brunch tomorrow, my friend. It might be too heavy a topic to discuss at your front door.”

Now I was getting suspicious. A fellow I hadn’t seen in over 10 years, suddenly wanting to discuss heavy topics over brunch? Fishy, very fishy. Regardless of my suspicions, I agreed to meet him at the Savoy the following afternoon.

                                                                          _

I found old Bill the next day, occupying a window seat at the Savoy, chewing on a bread stick rather pensively. I sat down opposite him and flashed him a radiant smile, displaying my lovely set of pearly-whites. I’m not sure why Bill grimaced when I smiled at him, but then again, he had always been slightly touched in the head, poor boy. 

“Freddie, old chap, I have to ask you a favour.” said William.

“Ask away, old chum, ask away!” I said encouragingly, and grinned, inciting another grimace from William.

“First, have a bread stick.”, said William.

I politely declined.

“Some kippers?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, an omelette!”

“No thanks.”

“Toast?”

“I’ll pass.”

William sighed, anxiety casting a shadow over his round face.

“Well Fred, I don’t know how to say this. I feel like I’m asking a lot from you, but I know you will do it for me. I remember how kind-hearted you were when we were in school, always helping people out.”

This affair was getting fishier by the moment. Even fishier than the kippers that lay uneaten on William’s plate.

“You see, Freddie, I’ve been trying to get a job for the past few months, but nothing appears to be working! So I have decided to start my own business; but unfortunately I don’t have enough money to do it! I-”

William Ainsworth was cut off mid-sentence by a waiter who had come to inquire as to whether we wanted some more tea. 

“Ah yes,” said William, seeming relieved at the interruption, “ we’ll have some. Mine should have five lumps of sugar, a teaspoon of milk, a spot of honey…”

He droned on and on about the specifics of the tea, while I wondered how a jobless man was eating at the Savoy. Finally the waiter stepped away, leaving me alone with Bill again.

“Well Freddie… I’m awfully afraid that you won’t like the request I have to make, but I know that-”

“Get on with it, Ainsworth.”, I snapped, causing William to blush in a flustered manner.

“See here, Fred, here’s the position I’m in. I want terribly to start an accounting firm of my own, but as I mentioned before, I have no money! The only way I can acquire the funds to start the firm is if my uncle endorses me. He’s a rather rich old thing you know, and a few thousand pounds is nothing to him, but could save my career.”

“Career? What career? You haven’t got one.” I said rather nastily. As I reflect on the situation, I realise now that I might have come off as rude.

William looked as though he were about to cry.

“Oh Freddie! Don’t say such things! I’m trying my best, you know!”

“All right, all right. So why don’t you just ask your uncle for the cash then?”

Bill dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief and sniffed. I tried my hardest not to roll my eyes at his behaviour, but they seemed to roll of their own accord.

“Ever since I was born, I have never quite managed to make a good impression on my uncle. He has always considered me somewhat of a good-for-nothing.”

Which you are.

“I always seem to say the wrong things,” he continued tearfully, “and even though I try my hardest, he never seems to like me! So here’s what I ask of you, my old friend, my best mate, my favourite pal, my chum, my brother. Please, please, please, could you go over to his lodgings… and pretend to be me?”

Have you ever choked on your tea so hard that the hot liquid goes up your nose and into your head until your brains are swimming in the stuff, and your thoughts are stained brown with tea? Well, that’s what happened to me. I stared at my old friend in shock. 

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Well Freddie, you have always had a way with people! All I’m asking of you is to go to Bentley Court, pretend to be me, and ask for the money!”

“But won’t your uncle realise that I’m not you?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Fred! Well? Will you do it?” asked William hopefully.

I had a long hard think, and ultimately decided to break the news to him in a polite, gentle manner.

“No”, I said.

“No?” faltered the Ainsworth.

“No”, I reiterated.

Bill sank back into his chair, and shook his head.

“That was a straightforward answer”, he said ruefully.

“I’m not in the habit of beating about bushes.”, I said, rather frigidly.

“Have some bread with butter, Freddie.”

“Absolutely not.” I was not going to let him butter me up with actual butter.

William’s eyes swam with tears, and he began sniffling uncontrollably. His demeanour was starting to remind me of a lost puppy, all miserable and helpless and…

“All right, old chap, I shall do it” I sighed defeatedly. You see, I will forever be a Gatsby at heart. The selfless, altruistic Gatsby blood shall always flow through my veins.

Bill’s face split into a wide smile, and he looked as if he was about to get down on one knee and ask me to marry him. He began thanking me profusely, which rather warmed my heart, but the moment he started kissing my feet, I decided I had had enough and left the restaurant hurriedly.

                                                                           _

A week or so later, I entered the residence of Sir Wilberforce Bentley; although you might know him better as William Ainsworth’s uncle. I had put on my best suit for the occasion, the same one that I had once worn when I had a job as a translator for an English duke. It was a marvellous suit, a sprightly yellow outfit, accentuated by lovely white frills.

Before entering ‘my uncle’s’ drawing room, I took a deep breath. I must forget that I was ever Frederick Arthur Gatsby. I am now William Arthur Ainsworth. 

“Uncle!” I exclaimed jovially, slouching slightly to further imitate the characteristics of the real William Ainsworth. “It’s me, your nephew, Bill!”

I looked around, trying to spot my so-called ‘Uncle’. I couldn’t find him. The only other living creature in the room was a rather large, wrinkly, Rhesus Macaque monkey. I wondered incredulously as to why a monkey was sitting in Sir Wilberforce Bentley’s armchair, but upon closer inspection I noticed that it was not a monkey, but Sir Wilberforce himself. It was just that he bore a striking resemblance to a Rhesus Macaque monkey.

The monkey-man squinted his eyes at me, looking me up and down. 

“Where’s William?” he asked. From this question, I quickly gathered that he knew I was an impostor.

“Uncle! What do you mean? It’s me, William!” I cried, trying my utmost to sound like his real nephew.

“No, it isn’t. Last time I saw William, he had brown hair and brown eyes; how do you explain your blonde hair and blue eyes?”

“Oh, I simply bleached my hair and wore blue lenses in my eyes. It’s the fashion nowadays, you know.”

“I see?”

“Yes, you do see.”

“Well, perhaps I’ve gotten old,”

“Not at all! You don’t look a day over 90, uncle!” I said sweetly.

This comment did not appear to sit well with the old man. I attributed this to a shared mental issue with his nephew. The wrinkled old chap scratched his ribcage, and the striking resemblance that he bore to the Rhesus Macaque struck me even harder than before. I unsuccessfully attempted to swallow the guffaw that was building in my throat, but successfully disguised it as a cough.

“Uncle, I’ve come to ask a favour.”

Have you ever seen a Rhesus Macaque monkey roll its eyes? Well, I can say I have.

“A favour, eh?”

“Quite.”

“Well what is it, boy? Spit it out.”

“Uncle, it has always been my life’s ambition to start an accounting firm, but the measly inheritance that my late parents have left me has unfortunately hindered my ability to do so.”

“Of course. Your parents were good-for-nothings, just like you.”

By now, I had gotten quite accustomed to being William Ainsworth, so this insult to his birth-givers felt like an insult to mine. I fought back an angry retort, and instead forced out a curt laugh.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” I left a pause after each ‘ha’ so that my fake uncle knew that I was offended, but was trying not to show it. 

“Well, my useless nephew, what do you want?”

“I would be ever so grateful if you could give me a few thousand pounds to start the firm.” I asked the question as sweetly and gently as one could possibly ask a question to an overgrown, talking, Rhesus Macaque.

“Accounting, eh?”, said the monkey-man hybrid, “interested in accounting, are you?”

“Yes, uncle, I am absolutely infatuated with it! In fact, I do accounting in my free time!”

“Accounting in your free time?”

“Quite.”

“I see,” said my pseudo-uncle, “well, can you answer me this question, William? What is a balance sheet? You must know that if you want to pursue a career in accounting.”

Oh dear. I was not expecting this. However, I have always prided myself on my quick and brilliant mind.

“One thing only I know; and that is that I know nothing. This makes me very wise, uncle.”

“Who said that quote?”

“A friend of my late father’s, uncle.”

“No, I’m quite sure it was Socrates.”

“Yes, uncle. Socrates was a good friend of my father’s.”

“That’s impossible, boy.”

I was beginning to grow rather exasperated. I explained gently to Sir Wilberforce Bentley that it was indeed possible for Socrates to be friends with my father. It wasn’t as if my father couldn’t have any friends!

“But – Socrates lived thousands of years ago!”

“Not at all, my dear uncle. He is, in fact, the same age as my father would be if he were alive. So that’s where you’re wrong.”

“Oh dear. I must be getting old.”

“Indeed.” I agreed.

The old Bentley then proceeded to tell me about how he, too, was interested in great philosophers like Socrates, and how his impression of me had improved a good deal.

“But I have one objection, boy,” said my irritating ‘uncle’, “so far, you haven’t done particularly well in your other jobs. What do you have to say about that, boy?”

“One cannot step twice in the same river.” I said, wisely.

“Heraclitus said that.”

“Yes, he was a great friend of my mother’s.”

“Ah. I never knew that you were this interested in the great philosophers of the world! We must talk about philosophy more often, my boy!”

“Indeed, uncle, indeed. We certainly must.”, I concurred.

“You know what, my dear nephew? Here is a cheque for 5,000 pounds. Start your firm! I have faith in you, my boy!”

Have you ever seen a Rhesus Macaque monkey smile proudly, with tears of pride prickling in its eyes? Well, my dear reader, I can say that I have.

I gladly and gratefully took the cheque from my ape-esque uncle’s wrinkled hands. I thanked him profusely, and a few minutes later, exeunt Frederick Arthur Gatsby and his gorgeous frilly yellow suit.

                                                                               _

I walked into my house to find the real William Ainsworth seated comfortably on my couch.

“Did you do it?” he asked eagerly.

“Indeed, I did.” said I.

“Well then! Hand me the check now, old bean!” exclaimed my childhood friend enthusiastically.

I smiled at him.

“No. No, I don’t think I will. I think I shall keep my hard-earned money, thank you very much.” I said. You see, I had grown quite attached to the elderly Sir Bentley, but I had grown even more attached to the 5,000-pound cheque that I clutched tightly in my hand.

Poor Bill’s face fell, and his eyes no longer held the crazed, euphoric gleam that they had a few minutes ago. But this time, no matter how much selfless blood ran in my veins, I would not let myself be used as a device for William Ainsworth to open an accounting firm.

“But Freddie! Don’t you remember when I saved you from drowning in the school swimming pool?”

“ I remember no such thing.”

“Oh, perhaps it never happened.”

“Rather.”

“Sorry, old chap. I’ll go now. I hope you have a great life.” he said, woefully.

“I shall.”

William walked to the front door, but just as he was about to leave, I called for him to wait a moment.

“Oh, William, wait!”

He turned around, his big brown eyes filled with hope.

“Your uncle looks rather like a Rhesus Macaque monkey.”

And with that, I shut the door.

A GATSBY NEVER GIVES UP

If there is one thing of which I can be certain, it is that a Gatsby never gives up. Never. Even if it seems like there is no hope left.

I was fired from my fifth job since I graduated college. I was told by my boss that I was a ‘lazy, malingering good-for-nothing, who didn’t deserve the prestige of his job’. I find it rather difficult to come up with anything remotely prestigious about a job as a waiter in an unknown café, but I shall let it slide. 

You might think that after five jobs one would lose confidence and hope, but not me. After all, we Gatsbys never give up.

So, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I quickly found a new occupation, one that I was sure I would excel in.

It all started one morning, as I perused the morning newspaper over a rather splendid breakfast of eggs, toast, and tomatoes (more than I could afford, if I might add). There was an advertisement in the paper, about a job as a translator for a French duke, who was coming here, to England. Here was a perfect opportunity for me to get back to work again!

I put on my best suit (a vibrant yellow thing, with white lace at the cuffs and collar), and set out for the interview.

The interview was a short, brief affair. They asked me for my name, which I truthfully told them was Frederick Arthur Gatsby. They then asked me why I wanted a job as a translator, and once again, I told them the honest truth, which was that I was in desperate need of cash. The interviewer was a strange chap. He kept looking at my lovely frilly suit with an air of disdain, and I’m quite positive that he flinched when I told him that I had no prior experience of being a translator. After some more disdainful looks, the man told me I would get the job, ‘but only because there were no other takers’. Of course he was only joking. I’m quite sure that he was delighted to have me. Anyone else for the job would have disappointed him. After all, I doubt anyone else had shown up in such a fabulous suit.

My first day of translating was to be in two days time. I was very excited to have a job as a translator from French to English, and vice versa. I was quite aware, of course, that the only French words I knew were ‘Oui’, ‘Merci’ and ‘Au Revoir’, but I didn’t let such a tiny little drawback bother me.

The day finally arrived. I was dressed in my charming yellow suit again, seated next to the Duke of France, opposite an English Duke, whose name I can’t quite recall.

We Gatsbys are honest chaps, and are never afraid to admit when something goes off to a bad start. Well, I suppose that’s an understatement. The entire interaction went off to a bad start, a bad middle, and an even worse end.

I might have overestimated my ability to intuit what the Frenchman was saying without ever learning the language. There was the additional annoyance of both Dukes glancing at my suit with the same disdainful expression that the interviewer had worn, which was making me rather flustered.

The French Duke jabbered away in French, while my forehead was increasingly becoming wetter and wetter with perspiration. The English Duke looked at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to translate what the Frenchman had just said.

“Erm,” I stuttered, “well, it’s open to interpretation really, what he said… He didn’t really say anything, you know what I mean?”

The English Duke raised his eyebrows at me, and that was when I noticed that his piercing blue eyes were frightfully intimidating.

“No, no that’s not what I meant,” I whimpered, “he just told you how much he likes… um.. Croissants! Yes, that’s it. He loves croissants and wants them served to him everyday.”

The French Duke was looking at me in a strange fashion. I suppose he didn’t remember saying the word ‘croissant’ in the monologue he had just given. Even the English Duke looked a little sceptical about it all.

By then I was positively drenched in sweat. I asked myself again and again how I had landed myself in such a ridiculous situation, but then I remembered that my yellow suit had been so attractive that the interviewer had absolutely refused to deprive me of the job. Now when I think back, I realise I never should have worn that suit.

I was so caught up in regretting my clothing choices that I barely heard the Englishman speaking. 

“Well go on,” he said, “tell him that he can have all the croissants he wants, and more.”

Now I was in really hot water. It had been easy to make something up in English, but how was I supposed to talk to the other Duke in French?

I turned to the French Duke and gulped, in an effort to dampen my throat which was now dry as bone, rendering me incapable of speech.

“O-oui,” I said rather shakily, “Merci. Au revoir.”

The French Duke gave me one long look. After what seemed like eternity, he turned his head to face the other duke, smiled graciously, and nodded. And then he got up and walked away to his chambers.

Now it was the English Duke’s turn to smile. 

“Thank you for your service,” he said to me, “ I will send you your payment in a day’s time.”

Finally, my turn to smile arrived. Somehow, I had managed to bluff my way through this situation, and the outcome was spectacular.

“Thank you, sir” I said, bending low into a sweeping bow.

And with that, I sauntered out of the Duke’s residence, looking extremely dapper in my frilly yellow suit.

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BACK TO THE FUTURE

By Nayantara Maitra Chakravarty

I walked into the portal. My best friend had been working on the time machine for many years. And now that she had finally completed the prototype, I, James Sturrock, as her best friend, was about to test it.

“Be careful James,” said Olivia. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I nodded firmly. “I am ready.”

With a sigh Olivia pressed a red button on the wall. I closed my eyes. The time machine jerked forward, and my heart lurched. My stomach seemed to do back flips in my belly and I could feel vomit in my throat. Suddenly the time machine came to a stop.

Hesitantly, I ventured out of the machine. Right outside was a bakery, its windows filled with freshly baked bread. Some of the pastries were covered by a bright yellow star painted on the glass, along with the word Jude. On the door was written the word Bäckerei. My third language in school was German, so I knew it meant Bakery. So, I was in Germany, but which time period?

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. It was a tall man wearing jackboots. His jacket glinted with badges and medallions, the swastika shining proudly on the pocket. Oh no! The yellow star and the ‘Jude’ graffiti had already given me an inkling. Now, the soldier’s uniform had confirmed my worst fears. A chill ran down my spine as I realised I had landed up in Nazi Germany!

“Jude?” asked the Nazi. Using the common sense I still had, I shook my head vigorously. I saluted and shouted “Heil Hitler!” I didn’t want to be killed.

The Nazi smiled and nodded. “Are you in the Hitler Youth, boy?” he asked in German.

I shook my head. The soldier’s smile turned into a frown. He grabbed my arm and dragged me along the road. People were staring at me strangely, probably because of my strange 21^st century clothes.

You could tell which ones were Jews, because of their white arm bands and yellow badges with the Star of David on them. I had read a lot about Nazi Germany in books, so I had some idea about what was going to happen to me.

The Nazi pushed me into a line of boys, and whispered into my ear, “Hitler Youth.”

“Name?” The Nazi in charge of the boys asked me.

I couldn’t let them know I was British, or they would shoot me down where I stood. Thankfully, with my blond hair and blue eyes, I was the perfect ‘Aryan’ example in their eyes.

“Umm…  Fritz. Fritz Müller.” I made up my name on the spot. The officer wrote it down in his notebook.

Staying in Nazi Germany would be very dangerous. So, I had to get back to the time-machine, somehow.

“A British pilot has crashed here in Berlin,” said the head Nazi. “He is hiding somewhere. Jungvolk, find him! Heil Hitler!”

The entire group shouted, “Heil Hitler!” enthusiastically, and ran off in different directions to look for the pilot.

This was bad. If the Hitler Youth found the pilot, they would shoot him, or worse put him in a gas chamber. My great-grandfather had been a young pilot during the second World War and had crashed in Berlin. He never returned and no one knew what happened to him.

I wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to this pilot. I had to find him first and get him to safety. I followed a group of boys who were running towards the hills, which is where they were sure the pilot would be hiding.

The boys tore apart the bushes and searched behind the trees. A short boy came up to me.

“Hey, what about the deserted church at the edge of the city?  He might be hiding there,” the boy said.

“You stay here. Don’t bring the rest of the boys,” I told him. “It’ll be easier to find the pilot if there’s only one person. Otherwise he might hear us coming”

The boy nodded.

I ran towards to the church asking for directions on the way. The Hitler Youth uniform, that the Nazis had given me, was so intimidating that people gladly helped. Once inside the church, I searched it to look for the pilot. After I had covered quite a bit of the building I found a trail of blooding leading to the back of the church.

There he was! A tall broad-shouldered man was leaning against the pillar. His head was bandaged and so was his arm. His face was covered in bruises and one eye was red.

He saw me and groaned.

“So, they finally got me. Eh?” he said in English. “I thought they wouldn’t look for me here.”

“No, I am not German. My name is James Sturrock, and I am British,” I said. “Come with me and I will get you to safety.”

“Well! What have I to lose?” said the pilot.

He got up with great difficulty and leaned against me. He was so heavy that I groaned under his weight, but I managed to get him out of the church as fast as I could.

It was already dark as we were about to leave the church gate. My plan was to try and take him, in the cover of darkness, to the bakery where the time-machine had brought me. And, if anyone stopped us, I would have shown my Hitler Youth badge and told them that I had captured the British pilot and was taking him to the Gestapo.

Finally, after walking for almost a mile, we reached the Jewish Bakery. Thankfully, the time-machine was still there, right next to the garbage dump.

We got into it as quickly as we could and shut the door. It was pretty cramped with two of us inside. I pushed the lever that Olivia had showed me, that would take us back to the future.

The pilot and I groaned as the time-machined lurched and jostled and came to a stop with a loud thud.

When I opened the door and stepped out, I saw my entire family had turned up in Olivia’s laboratory. They were looking worried and cross. Olivia looked crestfallen. Clearly, they had blamed her for my sudden disappearance.

“Don’t worry guys!” I shouted as I emerged out of the time-machine. “I am absolutely fine. I had a great adventure, and I think you will agree I did something good too.”

I waved at the time machine with a flourish as the injured British pilot came out of the door. He looked around at everyone and all of Olivia’s high-tech machines with bewilderment.

But, the real surprise was yet to come.

My grandmother stood up from the chair she was sitting on and exclaimed “Papa?!”

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WRITER’S BLOCK

By Nayantara Maitra Chakravarty

It’s my publisher again. I have ignored four calls and 12 WhatsApp messages from her in the past 24 hours. I was supposed to hand in the final draft of my latest novel two days ago. And, I still haven’t. The funny thing is that it has been sitting, almost ready, on my desk for over a week. I just have to decide, what to do with Muggins.

You see, Muggins is the key character in my murder mystery. He is a non-descript gardener in a quiet English village. He is gentle, polite and never speaks out of turn. He keeps his sparse hair in a combover across his balding pate, wears thick glasses and walks with an almost apologetic shuffling gait. People wouldn’t even notice he was there till he coughed. It was a habitual rasping cough, which made the young boys of the village call him Mr Coughins!

But, Muggins is a killer. A ruthless, cold-hearted beast who murders old ladies for no apparent reason. Now, I won’t give away the entire plot, since I want you to buy my book. All you need to know is that Muggins is a villain and I have to take a decision on whether to have him killed by the police, or let him escape to reappear in some sequel, like a latter-day Moriarty. I am sure, old Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t have to much sleep over it.

But, then, the criminals Sherlock Holmes caught didn’t come alive. The villains of my novels do. I know, you will find it impossible to believe. I didn’t believe it the first time it happened. It was right after my first novel, The Case of the Dead Dancers.

If you have read it, you would know that the story, set in the colonial period, revolves around the multiple murders of Bharat Natyam dancers in Chennai. My detective, Miss Molly Wright, manages to unravel the mystery from the traces of talcum powder found on the victims. The murder turns out to be Chandrababu, a tabla-player who was often seen accompanying classical dancers on stage. Chandrababu’s sister was a talented dancer who had killed herself because she couldn’t make it as a performer. In a bout of spite, the brother went about killing famous dancers. His talcum powder, that he used to lubricate his tabla, gave him away.

That was my first story. So, you can imagine my surprise when I read in the papers that two Bharat Natyam dancers had been killed and talcum powder had been found on their bodies. The police arrested their tabla-player for the murders. And, his name was Chandrababu! The 70-year old man had committed similar murders in the 1940s and had spent 25 years in prison. What is even more spine-chilling is that the Chandrababu confessed that he had killed to avenge his sister’s suicide. My character had come alive.

The exact same thing happened, after my second murder mystery was released. Similar real-life murders took place within a week. The modus-operandi was the same, and the murderers name and motive was identical to my story. Villain No.2 had also come alive.

You can, now, understand why I am so scared of finishing my latest novel. If I let Muggins escape, or even be sent to prison, he will definitely turn into a real-life person and commit the murders that have taken place in my imaginary English village. On the other hand, I don’t want to kill a living human being, even if he is just a person made of ink and paper.

As I sat in my dimly lit study, thinking about how to resolve my dilemma, the doorbell rang. My publisher had clearly decided that enough was enough and turned up in person. She must be really annoyed that she made the trip to my home so late at night.

As I turned the lock and opened the door, I began preparing a speech on why I had been avoiding her all these days. But, it wasn’t she who stood at my doorstep. It was an oldish man, who I didn’t recognise. Yet, he looked oddly familiar.

“Hello,” he said in a soft meek fashion as he blinked at me through his thick lenses.

And then he coughed. A loud rasping cough….