Gargoyle Pixie Dog

Brighthelmstone Writers’ Group

Wanda’s First Project - Write What You Know

Gotta love a real man who does his own ironing

There’s a lot bubbling under the surface with Danny Lancaster. Once in a blue moon he drinks too much and you glimpse the tip of the iceberg.

I can’t begin to imagine what that poor boy has been through, what he’s seen and done. I just want to hug him but in those moments it’s not the time.

I’ve taken the plunge and joined this creative writing group. Rosie, she’s the organiser, says we should write every day. The first project is called ‘write what you know’. I certainly know Danny.

He’s a lovely guy, bit of a rogue, bit of a charmer, but he has a good heart and the looks to match. If I was a bit younger, and unattached... but that’s another story.

I met him when he moved to Brighton because his mum was ill. She’s gone now. Danny really has been through the wringer. He lost his wife to cancer and a leg fighting in Afghanistan with the Parachute Regiment. Danny doesn’t give a lot away but he’s seen things, done things.

He was a bit of a mess when he left the Army but Danny’s not one to give in. He tried loads of jobs but nothing gave him the buzz he was looking for. So he set himself up as a private investigator here in Brighton, no training, no experience. Crazy idea but that’s Danny.

He’s like a pit bull, a pretty pit bull. Once he’s got his teeth in he doesn’t let go. He’s full of surprises, hard as nails but he does his own ironing. Still a soldier at heart.

I couldn’t tell you how long Danny’s been missing. I try not to count the months. That seems like accepting he’s dead. I try not to think back to that day, the boat, the explosion, but sometimes I can’t help myself. We thought Danny was bullet-proof. I still feel sick when it comes to mind.

So, Rosie said write about what you know. And I thought if Sherlock Holmes could have his Dr Watson then someone should write the casebook of Danny Lancaster.

I know a fair bit about Danny’s cases although he tries to keep them quiet. Some have been a little on the dodgy side. I’ve wheedled quite a lot of info out of his Polish carpenter friend Karol.

And there’s nothing I can’t get out of my Bob after he’s had one of my special dinners or, if he’s holding out on the details, one of our themed evenings at home. Bob still goes that funny pink colour when he sees the Wonder Woman costume. And the Lasso Of Truth really works!

Some of Danny’s big investigations made the papers, a couple were even on Sky News, so I’ll dip my toe in the water with a few of his smaller jobs.

I might fill in any gaps with a bit of imagination. After all, it is a creative writing group. I just hope to see Danny again one day so he can correct any mistakes.

Here goes...

GARGOYLE PIXIE DOG

How do you find a missing street girl who lives off the grid?

He was horrible to look at, really horrible.

His behaviour, his face.

Horrible.

But the worst thing was the eyes.

It wasn’t the anger.

The violence.

Or the hate.

It was the coldness.

Like they were empty pits.

Scorched and burnt out.

Not human.

She could not stop staring.

Could not look away from the eyes.

Had to capture him quickly.

Her fingers scrabbled under the canvas flap into her bag.

CHAPTER 1

Funny things, blueberry muffins. They looked like a bun with a blotchy purple skin disease but tasted surprisingly good.

Danny Lancaster nibbled the last of it away from its crinkled paper wrapper, then dusted crumbs from his T-shirt. Filled a hole.

The street outside the cafe was busy with people dashing back and forth. Hard to believe everyone was in that much of a rush, no time to stand and stare.

Danny sipped his tea. A girl laughing into her iPhone bumped a short man in a worn suit. He glared. She didn’t notice. A guy with purple hair gelled into spikes ploughed through the crowd, panstick-white face completely blank. A Lycra cyclist leaned into a racing turn at the junction. Car horns bellowed.

Welcome to another day in Brighton.

Danny drained his tea and smiled at the waitress on his way out. Tall, high cheekbones, jet black hair, he thought her name was Vika.

He paused outside the door. While he’d been eating he had spotted the lurking shadow amid the churn of people. The guy had walked past three times. Lingered at the crossing. Hovered in a shop doorway opposite. Always peering at the cafe. Whoever he was, he had no skills in tailing people.

Danny set off towards the station, taking it gently, feeling the flow around him, people watching. He cut through the bus station, turned into Guildford Road and stopped, leaning against the wall, waiting.

The man who shuffled round the corner was wearing a frayed and filthy overcoat, face dark and dirty, hair matted to his forehead.

When he saw Danny he jumped as if he’d been burned, swayed, squinted.

You’re Danny Lancaster.

Guilty.

We met before. You were pissed.

***

Dennis Hooper stopped worrying away at a patch of flaking red skin on his wrist and clutched the cardboard takeaway tea cup in both hands. He squinted as he read from the weathered gravestone.

In Memory of Phoebe Hessel... born in Stepney 1713... served for many years as a private soldier in the 5th Regiment of Foot... fought at the battle of Fontenoy... received a bayonet wound in the arm... died in Brighton 1821... aged 108 years.

Hooper shuffled round on the bench. Danny had spotted the state of his teeth, now as the man turned he caught a whiff of the breath and blinked.

Fifth of Foot, that became the Northumberland Fusiliers. Game girl, eh? said Hooper.

Some say it’s an old bar story.

Nah.

Hooper wouldn’t be rushed but it didn’t matter. Danny had nowhere to be in a hurry. Both men sat back on the bench, looking out over the graveyard and the ornate row of expensive Tudor-Gothic homes in Wykeham Terrace once used to rehabilitate Brighton’s Victorian prostitutes. Beyond they could see the rooftops of the city centre and the sea. A chilly breeze was seasoned with salt.

Beautiful spot, this, said Hooper. Danny listened to the whistling wheeze in the man’s breathing as he looked down at the cigarette ends and sandwich cartons strewn around. It always puzzled him why a city full of environmental activists were too bone idle to take their own rubbish home.

Oldest church in Brighton, said Danny. And the oldest building.

That right?

I read it in the library.

Do a lot of that, do you?

Yes.

Nice and warm in the library.

So what can I do for you, Dennis?

Hooper sipped his tea, seeming to relish the heat on his hands as much as the drink. The two men looked out over the old tombstones of St Nicholas’ Church, their wording weathered away, edges smooth and rounded like well-sucked lozenges.

We met before.

I remember, sort of, said Danny.

You were well pissed.

Everyone needs a hobby.

Those kids, yobs, they were chucking eggs at me. You bowled up and gave them what for.

They were out of order.

Wouldn’t have happened in the old days, said Hooper, stifling a wet cough. Sixteen years service, Northern Ireland, Falklands. No one messed with Lance Corporal Dennis Hooper. Different now.

We all get older, Dennis.

Don’t take the piss, son. I sleep rough, I drink, but I’m not stupid.

So what can I do for you?

Hooper used a cracked black fingernail to attack the red skin on his wrist.

I can’t find Cat.

***

Christ! Christ! Christ! Christ! Christ! This was mental. How could a good, ordered life unravel this quickly? It wasn’t like he’d done anything that bad, not really. It wasn’t as if he killed anybody.

True, he’d pushed the envelope, pushed boundaries. But that was nothing new. It was the way he worked, always had done. Everyone knew that was Mikey Cole’s talent. Nothing had changed. Maybe Max had burst a blood vessel or something. Getting crazy was one thing. Getting stupid was another.

Mikey’s chest hurt every time his heart beat. And it was beating fast. Too fast. He was sweating and for some reason the breath was struggling to get into his lungs.

The swirl of people was a big blur and he didn’t know why. The sheer number and the noise they made was frightening. But they couldn’t hurt him. Unless Max was in there somewhere. He felt sick but this wasn’t the time. Go! Just fucking go.

It was unthinking animal reaction that launched him forward. He ran hard and sloppy, limbs flailing. He bumped a girl who dropped her phone. It hit the ground, phone one way, battery cover the other. She swore in his wake. A cyclist was forced to a skidding halt, gave him the finger.

Then he was through the bus station and into Brighton train station.

A circle of waiting passengers clapped as someone played the piano. Mikey raced past them, scanning the departure board, praying the Bedford trains were running normally for once.

***

Churchill Square was an anthill of shoppers watched by smokers and fast food snackers who lined the stone benches opposite.

So how’re you doing? said Danny.

Ok, said Hooper.

You sound a bit rough.

I’ve got a chest. Hip aches like buggery, guts hurt something chronic. The feet are good, though. Always look after your feet.

You could get help, the Legion.

Nah, they can save it for those that need it. Anyway, too late now. I’ll die in a doorway.

Must be tough. I kipped out a while, way back, but not for long.

You get used to it. You can get used to anything. And us old soldiers, we’re a class above, trained for roughing it.

Can I get you anything?

I could do with a drink.

Maybe later.

Hooper’s watery eyes raked back and forth across the crowds.

Cat’s usually around here if she’s not at her pitch in Western Road. She chalks stuff on the pavement, pictures. All that art stuff’s a mystery to me but people seem to like them. She gets MDF boards and the like from skips, does pictures on them to flog.

Why you so interested? asked Danny.

What do you mean by that?

Just asking.

I know what you’re getting at. You think I’m some dirty old git pestering a young girl. It isn’t like that.

So what is it like?

You wouldn’t understand.

Try me.

There’s a bunch of us, me, Cat, Smitty, couple of others. I’ll knock up a basha in a park somewhere quiet. Then we can stash our mats and sleeping bags during the day. You’ve got to stay dry, see. The cold, that’s more dangerous but when you’re cold you can warm up. When you’re wet you’re wet. We stick together, take care of each other, watch each other’s backs. We’re like an infantry section, us against the world.

So you don’t take any help at all then?

Sometimes, said Hooper. We go to the day centre up Montpelier for a hot meal and a wash. They do socks. Socks are important. Then there’s Cat. They give out, you know, stuff... for her monthlies.

You’ve got it all organised, Dennis. You nearly make it sound attractive.

Look, son, it’s like I said. We’re a team. We get by. When you’ve got nothing then you’re just people. There’s no cash, no flash cars, no big houses. Just people. No one wants to be alone and it can be bloody lonely on the streets. Just a chat, a smile, makes a difference.

Fair enough. Tell me about Cat.

I don’t know anything about her.

Dennis, she’s one of your team, your section. You must know something.

Hooper slowly shook his bearded head.

Nope, just turned up one day. If Cat’s got problems she didn’t say. Probably hiding from something, someone. A lot of people are. She didn’t tell, we didn’t ask. That’s the way it is.

Ok, so what does she look like?

Dunno.

She was your friend.

Well, yes, but she, you know, looks like a girl.

Tall? Short? Fat? Thin?

Small, with dark hair, cut short. Nothing of her, really. She looks like a pixie.

Great, I’m looking for Tinker Bell.

She was a fairy, said Hooper.

Doesn’t really narrow it down, does it?

***

Danny sat on the stone bench smoking a cigarette, watching ex-Lance Corporal Dennis Hooper as he shuffled off west towards Hove, peering into bins as he passed.

He saw that something had fixed Hooper’s attention. Wasn’t hard to guess it was the drinkers on the benches outside the Prince of Wales.

Danny watched him out of sight as he pondered what to do. He’d been asked by a man with no address and no income to find a girl living in similar circumstances. He liked a challenge but this was going to be like tracing the invisible man.

There wasn’t much you could be sure of in life but Danny was certain he’d die poor. He was a sucker for a sob story.

Hooper was obviously fond of the girl, genuinely concerned. But maybe she’d found herself a boyfriend, gone home to her parents or just got pissed and fallen asleep in a hedge somewhere.

Danny was surprised Hooper remembered their first meeting, an incident he could barely recall. It had lasted maybe five minutes. It was ages ago. Didn’t matter. Hooper might be on the outside looking in but Danny couldn’t just walk away.

With so many people in this trend-addicted city obsessed with the right mobile or the newest superfood, it was hard to imagine life without the basics like three hots and a cot. Easy to make comfortable judgments when you were warm, dry, fed and safe.

But how do you find someone with no address, no job, no bank account or mobile, no bins to sift through? A girl off the radar. Nothing to track. Someone who doesn’t exist.

His only solid clue was the supermarket pitch Hooper had mentioned. It was somewhere she went regularly and did whatever work it was she did.

Danny paused, corrected his tenses... the work she does.

He would help Hooper to the best of his ability. But it would take a sprinkling of pixie dust to crack this one.

CHAPTER 2

When Wanda had finally opened her front door she was wearing one of Bob’s old shirts and holding a plumbing spanner. The shirt was shapeless and baggy, much too big, one collar up, one down, yet somehow it looked sexy on the smiling redhead.

Sorry, I was just changing a washer on the bathroom tap, been dripping for ages and Bob never gets round to it. You’ve just missed him. He’s on a supply run to Majestic.

It’s you I came to see.

I’m flattered. Wanda swung the door wide. Come in.

She had been happy to lend Danny an old mobile phone but her price had been a probing cross-examination about the missing girl while she plied him with tea and bacon sandwiches.

He didn’t mind. Wanda was a good sounding board. And she had been a big help when he’d first tried to get his investigation business off the ground. They’d met after Danny became friends with her long-time partner Bob Lovejoy in the beery womb of the Bellerophon.

Businesswoman, life model, plumber, Wanda would turn her hand to pretty much anything. She was a force of nature. Danny often wondered what bonded her to the solid, plodding Bob but women’s minds were impenetrable to the best detectives.

Although Wanda was devoted to Bob she flirted outrageously with Danny. They had an odd relationship. She was part big sister, part mum, part Mrs Robinson. It was fun and harmless as they could both clearly see the invisible line. Although Danny did sometimes wonder.

Now a sticky drizzle was blowing in off the sea as he stood in Western Road studying the shops and the people. It looked much like any other part of the busy city but with so little to go on it made sense to check out the place Cat spent so much time.

A gust of wind punched up a side road. The supermarket was busy, people buying dinner on their way home from work, grabbing a bottle of wine or a four-pack for an evening of TV.

It took him a while to spot what he was looking for. Danny finally found it twenty feet from the supermarket entrance. A faded drawing on the gum-spotted pavement showed where Cat had plied her trade. If you weren’t looking you’d never see it.

Wind, weather and feet had blurred and faded the image. Danny could just make out a broad rectangle divided into three sections, the detail made clumsy by crumbling chalk.

As the only link to the missing girl he felt it could be important but Danny had a blind spot where technology was concerned and his own dumb phone was only capable of a tiny smudge of a photo.

Which was why he’d jogged round to Wanda’s and borrowed something a bit more hi-tech. The Samsung looked pretty straightforward and she had showed him how it worked.

Danny had to get down on his hands and knees to see the image clearly, lots of little scenes, crowds of faces and bodies. Looked like a football crowd but that was artists for you.

Are you all right?

He looked up. A brunette with soft brown eyes was leaning over him, a concerned look on her face.

Me, I’m fine. Just looking at this.

Yes, said the brunette. I’ve seen the girl here loads of times. She’s very talented.

Not seen her lately?

The brunette thought for a moment.

No, not that I remember. Anyway, you’re ok? I saw you down there and thought you might have fallen.

No, I’m fine, thanks.

The brunette held up her shopping bag.

Oh well, I’ve got my dinner and my wine. All set for an evening in front of the television.

Enjoy, said Danny.

When she was gone Danny took out the Samsung and tried to remember the sequence of buttons. As he thought about it, a flurry of rain swept under the shop canopy, punching into the drawing, dotting it with blank craters of bare pavement. He’d only just got back there in time.

The picture was bigger than he’d expected. He stood, held the phone high, and snapped a few shots of the whole thing. Then he knelt again and worked his way across the divided rectangle, taking pictures of each section, checking each shot, making sure they overlapped.

It felt like overkill but this faint and fuzzy image on the grey paving slabs was the only link he had to the mysterious missing Cat.

Some shoppers stopped to watch. Others cast sideways frowns at the sight of a man with his nose pressed to a mass of fading chalk squiggles. One woman dropped a two-pound coin beside him.

Danny ignored them, absorbed with the camera phone and the drawing. When he was certain he’d shot everything that might be useful he checked the images again, pocketed the phone, took a last look across the pavement.

Might be something, might be nothing, but in the top right hand corner of the rectangle there were images that looked different to the rest. Newer, maybe. Bolder, more urgent. He’d zoom the photos and take a closer look. What else could he do?

Still, time for a pint. He stood up and stretched, scooping the coin as he rose. When Danny walked away the skies opened, battering the drawing into wriggling lines of liquid colour.

***

It’s hard to realise what a terrible thing addiction can be until you’ve experienced it. And then it was too late.

Detective Sergeant Pauline Myers sat on the low wall at the bottom of the broad concrete steps, sucking hard on a Marlboro as if it were oxygen.

The crown court was busy and traffic outside in Lansdowne Road heavy but her complete focus was on the pounding between her ears.

Two Paracetomol hadn’t dented it. A hair of the dog might do the trick but that would have to wait until the case was over.

And how long would that be? The defendant insisted his innocence despite the CCTV footage, fingerprints on the scaffolding pole and the medical report on his victim’s head injuries.

Stag nights were a big earner for the city but they were more trouble than they were worth when two stags, pumped up on cheap shots, tried rutting with the same girl.

The case was simple, the evidence compelling. How long could twelve of the defendant’s peers take to make a bloody decision?

It might not be so bad if it wasn’t for the headache, the lack of sleep, the addiction. Every time Tequila Tania left the city on business Myers swore she’d never do it again. Then a few weeks later the call came and they were partying till dawn, fucking up to the moment Myers had time for a quick shower before work.

She had to stop. Knew she wouldn’t.

Myers stepped on the butt of her Marlboro and consoled herself with the thought that things couldn’t get much worse. Then she looked up.

Oh shit!

Hello, Pauline.

Piss off, Danny. I’m not in the mood.

Just a quick word.

Go away or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.

I’m trying to find someone.

Aren’t we all? Anyway, I thought that was what people paid you for.

It’s a kid.

Myers looked up at Danny, lit another cigarette.

How old?

Teens.

You need to report it.

What happens then?

They’ll create a STORM misper. The duty inspector will do a risk assessment.

What risk?

Whether they’re missing or just absent from their usual locations, any vulnerability due to age or health factors. Who is this kid?

Rough sleeper.

If she doesn’t have an address how do you know she’s missing?

A friend thinks so.

Report it if you want to, Danny. The rule with mispers is, if in doubt think murder, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.

Ok, thanks for that. Sorry to have bothered you. I can see you’re stressed.

I’m touched by your concern.

Any other advice, Pauline?

Never drink tequila.

She watched Danny walk away, head down, thoughtful. As Myers turned to climb the steps she saw Trainee Detective Constable Mark Fielding burst through the swing doors.

Fresh off the training course, he was ridiculously keen and eager to please. It was like having an over-excited puppy in the office but with their workload and manpower shortages they needed all the help they could get.

The jury must be back. Fielding saw her, grinned, raised a thumb.

Myers’s day was improving.

***

Danny could hear her barely audible sigh as Wanda toyed with a long curling strand of red hair, weaving it between her fingers, then drawing it out. There was a faint popping sound as breath puttered through her puckered lips, as if the effort of concentration was bubbling out of her.

Beats me, she said, flopping back on the sofa.

Me too, said Danny.

The computer printouts were spread across the coffee table, each A4 sheet overlapped with its neighbours to create an untidy jigsaw.

Maybe it’s some sort of, I don’t know, drugs vision or something. You don’t know her state of mind.

True, said Danny. We know bugger all. But this is complicated, connected up somehow. It looks too organised to be some alkie’s nightmare.

They rocked forward again, heads low over the composite printout of the pavement chalk drawing.

Let’s break it down, said Danny. One picture in three sections. On the left there’s fishermen, guys with swords jumping out of an old sailing ship and some bigwig waving from a gold carriage. And that mushroom thing there is the chattri, it’s an Indian war memorial up on the Downs by Patcham. I’ve been there.

Not making any sense to me so far, said Wanda.

Then in the middle we’ve got people partying, drinking, couples shagging, a naked man on a bike and some old banger of a car.

Wanda leaned until her nose nearly touched the paper.

I think there are three people shagging in that bit.

And on the right it’s dark, thunder sky, bodies lying out in the open, people with green faces, demonstrators waving placards. But look up here, top right, there are three faces. They look different somehow, drawn heavier, harder. She spent a lot of time on the rest of it but those faces look rushed.

Wanda leaned closer.

Three of them, I see. The bottom one looks like a cartoon dog. And there’s a young girl.

That’s right, said Danny. And behind her at the top there’s a face, a man, twisted.

I wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.

No, said Danny. But maybe Cat did.

They both sat back again, taking in the whole sweep of the drawing.

It means something. It has to.

Not to me it doesn’t, Danny.

Me neither but there’s nothing else to go on.

So what will you do?

"Back to basics, I guess. Where do you find a rough