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Meta-Detective

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Copyright © Levin A. Diatschenko, 2009.All work herein licensed under the Creative Commons license, all

rights reserved. Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5.The full license is viewable @ www.creativecommons.org

Levin@undergrowth.orgLevin@gamonville.comwww.gamonville.comwww.undergrowth.org

Produced by Recycled Printing Pty. Ltd, Alice Springs, Australia. ISBN: 978-0-9752240-1-4

Some of the ideas explored in this book grew from the author’s study and practice of teachings from the following authors:--

Alice A. BaileyHelena P. Blavatsky

Ernest WoodsWilliam Q. JudgeDr Annie Besant

Eliphas Levi

The image of a spider pulling a carriage was first seen by the author on the cover of the Voivod CD “Angel Rat” (Universal Music & VI,

1991).

The architecture in the final illustration (Griffon City) was inspired by the designs of Jacque Fresco.

The Term “Breath That Blasts” is borrowed from Esoteric Psychology Vol. 1 by Alice A. Bailey (Lucis Publishing Company). Its context is not

the same.

Apart from obvious references to Greek and Christian mythology, as well as classic detective characters, any similarities between charac-ters or groups depicted in this work and actual people or groups are

purely coincidental.

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Thanks to the following people...

Dorothy Grimm (proof reading)Dorothy, Jack, Schaffer and Dwighty Grimm (The Black Cloud Inn and Wolfty & CLiff)Lukas Bendel ( Flugen Dorf, computer help, website, absinthe and much more)Zoe Naughten (editing)Georgia Glen (network help, computer, being there generally)Tim Parish and Rak Razam (Undergrowth.org, lots of computer help and education)

James Brook and Prickles Restaurant, Diane Harvey, Michael Bevan, Mohamed Pawero and Michael Voukolos, Amy Brand, Peter Bagly, Eamon Holligan, Sandra Thibodeaux, Paul Mulder, Kat Karvess and Nicci Coffey (Miss Fist), Mandy Azzi, Patrick and Kyra Bath, Michael Frazer, Ian Jones, Brandon ‘Baldy’ Borlace, Rachael Hough, Josh James, Channa Cheng and Marcus Bennett (Glitch Bar), Cousin Steve, Uncle Raymond and the Sandrussi familly, Anneliese Williams, Jack Tinapple, Sarah Hubel, The Arcane School Headquarters Group, Mi-chael Roseth and Kate Riedel, Coral Hull (Thylazine Foundation), N.T. Writers Centre and Australian Reader.com

I am very sorry if I’ve left out anyone.

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Meta-Detective

Meta-DetectiveA Novella

Levin A. Diatschenko

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ONE

EVERY now and then I jam up like old guns do. That’s what must have happened. I’d been stuck for a while, perhaps on some thought, because when I finally looked up there was a man in my office. I wondered just how long he’d been sitting there. To compensate for having been caught off guard, I jumped up and paced around the room. “Evening,” I said. “Have you been waiting long?” “Twenty-five years,” said the man. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. The colour of the man -- his clothes and skin – was black and white with shades of grey. He might have stepped out of an old movie. His expression was fixed as if he were being strangled. I hoped he was joking about the twenty-five years. “Sorry about that,” I said. “What can I do for you?” “I need you to investigate a murder.” “Whose?” “Mine. Twenty-five years ago today.” “Hold it,” I said. “You’ve been dead for twenty-five years and you wait till now to do something about it?” “A murder is still a murder.”

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His expression was fixed as if he were being strangled.

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He opened his jacket and revealed the gaping wound in his solar plexus. It looked like the work of a shotgun fired at point blank. “Good God!” I said. “Cover it up.” “Will you help?” he asked. “Give me some details.” “Judging by your reputation I’d say you might be acquainted with some of them. Here.” He pulled out a piece of paper from his coat, and handed it over. It was a list: Seth Minx, Changy Collins and the Doyley Collective. He was right; these were all people I’d either crossed in the past, or at least knew by reputation. “Which one of them is guilty?” I asked. “They were all involved in one way or another,” said the dead man. “If you know that, then what is there to investigate?” “See, I want to find out who Doyley was taking orders from -- who is the new fellah taking my place?” “As Doyley’s boss?” “As number one in this town.” “So you’re using me for revenge.” “It’s up to you,” he said, “I get my revenge, yes. But you get the glory of putting Doyley and his lot away. I’m a first-hand witness to murder. You may not get this chance again. The police have been trying to put Doyley away for years.” “How do you know that?” “He used to work for me. That’s the thing: I’ve returned from the grave for a short time only, just to point my finger.” “What do I care whether Doyley is caught?” I asked. “Why don’t you go to the police with this?” “It’s well known that you’re a lackey for the police. And I’d rather deal with them indirectly.” “Now that hurt my feelings,” I said. “You’ll have to give me more incentive than that.” “How about your citizenship papers?” he smiled. He was obviously a man of rank. One hears stories about how the Mob still give orders from prison … and now apparently from the grave as

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well. But I wasn’t one to fight their fight. “Hold it a second,” I said, considering. I turned and walked out of a door that was behind my desk and that opened out directly to the street. Reserved for a moment like this, it was in a foundation wall. You see, opening the door caused the whole room to collapse in on itself. The room shrunk and shrunk until it was but a small box with the dead mobster trapped inside. Now I was holding the cards. I heard the ‘undead’ man from inside. “You filthy animal!” “Now my opportunity isn’t going anywhere,” I explained. “And don’t try to break out, because that will cause the box to shrink even farther, until space-time bends inwards and a black hole is created. Get it?” “I won’t testify to anything,” was his muffled response. “Then you’ll never get out of that box either.” I heard lots of swearing. This is one of the perks of not having a permanent office. “What’s your name,” I demanded. “Speak up or I’ll kick another plank loose!” “You bastard!” he called. “The name’s Blacky. And nobody gets away with crossing me!” I’d heard of him. He had lived in the oldest and most central suburb, known as The Circle. It had very old buildings – the town’s first -- and was populated by wealthy families whose parents were the founders of the city. Blacky’s kind were like surrogate royalty. Much of the town’s money flowed back to its centre, glorifying The Circle and keeping it in good repair. The residents of The Circle were generally unintellectual and frivolous. A percentage of them – Blacky included – were vicious about self-preservation. They formed one of the two major political parties in the city – the Lyons Party. These were the Old Guard and they were determined to keep their ‘earth’ suburb, as it was called, as the town’s centre. Since Blacky’s death, someone else had stepped up and taken the position of underworld boss. But this new person’s identity was shrouded in mystery.

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I lugged the box up to ‘reception’. “Sinthia,” I said. My secretary was sitting on a stool, keeping watch at a broken window. The window had been like that since we found this disused warehouse and converted one of its rooms (which was now a box) into an office. “What happened?” she asked. “We’re homeless again,” I said. “Take this box over to The Pegasus – don’t let it out of your sight.” “Okay Sully. Where are you going?” I was putting on my coat and hat. “To gather up the usual suspects for a line-up. The Pegasus has rooms upstairs; get one and move all our stuff there.” She gave me a hard look. She always did, when I made her work late. “That’s going to cost money,” she said. “For the room.” I turned my back on her, pretending not to hear. I’m always reminding myself not to turn my back on her. She’s the violent type.

The streets were soft and gluggy and the night was warm. I had to walk quickly because I was sinking into the road up to my knees. As I continued, a bullet whizzed past my ear. This was not uncommon in this part of town; I lived in the Second Ring. Each suburb was circular and ever widening, with The Circle as the centre. The Second Ring was symbolised as the ‘water’ suburb. It was the second-oldest part of town and a ghetto. Street gangs were common. So were riots. Stray bullets were just a part of the weather. I ran out of wind in front of a little neon-lit pub. I entered and spotted an acquaintance. “Hello Split-ends.” “Hello Sully.” Split-ends was a dirty old man in a trench coat. The first image that comes to mind is fairly accurate. He believed that fingers were actually the split ends of arms, the same as the ends of hairs. So he chopped his hands off every once in a while and they grew back longer each time. He kept his arms rolled up in his trench coat. “What brings you here my brother?” he asked me. “I need your services for a moment. Will you come with me to

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Bonzo’s?” “Why not?” he said. “If you’re paying.” Bonzo’s is a highbrow restaurant on the main drag. If the goons from the list weren’t there, somebody who knew where they were would be. Split-ends and I got a table against the far wall under a painting of the Two Ronnie’s. I looked around for the highest rollers in the room. There was one fellow in particular I wanted to find, but I didn’t know what he looked like. Split-ends ordered a steak and some wine, the likes of which I couldn’t afford. “See that table over there, Split-ends?” “Them with the top hats?” “That’s right. Get me the fat one’s wallet.” Split-ends wriggled around in his seat for a moment and then his hand came up and dumped a wallet on the table. I opened it. The driver’s licence confirmed my suspicion that the man was a boyfriend of Seth Minx. ‘Block Head’ was his tag. I’d read in the paper only two days ago that him and Minx had been seen near the scene of a robbery. There was also about three hundred dollars, which I took for myself. “Split-ends, check if they’re armed.” Split-ends’s arms unravelled from his coat like two fire hoses. They then crept through the restaurant, under legs and tables, like cobras. Over the next few minutes Split-ends kept dumping revolvers and knives on the table in front of me. There were six guns already when I asked: “Is that it?” “That’s it,” he said. Then his hands turned to the job of filling his mouth full of food. I tossed Split-ends a fifty-dollar note from the three hundred. “Cover me,” I instructed. “I’ll give you the usual signal.” I approached the table of Seth Minx’s boyfriend. They looked up sneering. “Nice to know I’ve got a reputation,” I said. “Just what do you mean interrupting our supper?” said one. “I need information.” “Piss off!” spat Block Head, slamming his brick-like fist on the table.

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“I suggest you cooperate before I have to put my dukes up.” Smiling, they each reached for their weapons … only to find empty belts and pockets. I tipped my hat and Split-ends, from across the room, pushed a gun barrel into the back of Block Head. He looked over his shoulder. “Damnit!” he whined. “Split-ends is here, isn’t he?” I smiled. “Now, I have a question to ask. If it isn’t answered, Split-ends puts a hole in you.” They sat scowling. “Where’s Seth Minx?” “I don’t kn…” began her boyfriend. Split-ends gave him a poke with the gun. “She’ll be here in an hour.” “Thanks for your cooperation.” I turned my back on them and left the restaurant. Split-ends, according to our usual routine, would keep the gun on them until I left. The mobsters would then be left to guess which one of the customers was Split-ends. I’d been waiting outside for fifteen minutes when I saw Seth Minx hopping out of a car and striding towards the restaurant. “Hold it, Seth!” I called. The second she saw me she kicked off her high heels and bolted. We wound in and out of side streets and alleyways until it became like a ride at the show. I’d just lean one way or the other to turn and slide around the bends. She was just ahead and I heard her cursing about her dress getting ruffled. Suddenly there was a wall. “Ooff!” When I climbed to my feet, she had vanished. “Bollocks,” I said, looking around dizzily. In the distance I heard gunfire. The only accessible door I could see was to the lodge of some kind of clubhouse. On the door was an emblem of an equal -armed cross and a serpent spiraling from the centre to the periferal. I straightened myself up and knocked on the big double doors. A Frater in a ceremonial robe answered the door. “Lately I’ve been

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having strange dreams,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir,” I replied after hesitating. “I’m not a member.” “Oh.” The man was in his thirties. A long nose stuck out from under the hood he wore. “I’m a detective,” I explained. “Did a woman come through here only minutes ago?” “Absolutely no women are admitted here!” he said. “No? Sorry to have bothered you.” He snorted and closed the door. I paced around, trying to figure out where she could have gone. I looked up theorising that she might have shed her gravity and floated away. There was no trace in the sky. An idea popped into my head. I knocked on the doors again. A woman, dressed exactly the same as the previous man, answered. “Yes?” she snorted. “You again.” I hesitated. “Yes, what do you want?” she persisted. Her nose also stuck out under her hood. “Hello,” I said. “Sorry for the bother but did a man come in just minutes ago?” “Don’t be ridiculous, this is a women-only society. Didn’t I tell you that a moment ago?” “But just now you were a man.” “Don’t be absurd,” she said. “Look, did a woman come here just before me?” “A member might have.” “Can you show me to her?” “Certainly not. We protect our members here. That is, of course, if one did come.” She began closing the door. “Hold it!” I glowered. Another woman appeared, dressed similarly to the first one. The new woman was grey-haired and stern. “Is there any bother here, Sister?” she asked. “How do you do,” I said. “I’m a detective. A non-member may have penetrated your meeting.”

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Both Sisters started. “A non-member?” said the first. “But they all gave the password.” “Are you aware that only minutes ago you were a fraternity?” I asked. “Well, sir,” said the grey-haired woman. “Don’t you think we would remember such a thing?” “I would hope so,” I said, “nevertheless, this lady was a man the last time she answered the door.” Both women looked uncertain. But then the grey-haired one said: “No. No, I can’t believe that our whole lodge could have changed sex without me noticing. I’m sorry sir.” “Besides,” rejoined the younger woman. “The so-called impostor of yours gave the password.” “So a woman did arrive just before me,” I said. Begrudgingly, the young woman said, “Well, yes.” “How exactly did she give the pass?” the older woman asked her Sister. “Well, let’s see,” the young woman began. “I opened the door and said ‘Lately I’ve been having strange dreams.’ She said she must have knocked on the wrong door. I closed it and he knocked again…” “He?” said the older woman and I in unison. “Oh dear. I mean she.” “Please continue Sister,” said the older woman. “When I opened it, she said to me, ‘Lately I’ve been having strange dreams.’ Bound by the tradition, I had to reply: ‘What makes you so sure they were dreams?’ I explained to the fool that I was supposed to say the first line and she was to give the reply. She then said, ‘Go ahead then!’ We repeated the process properly, me giving the first line. I then gave him … I mean her … admittance.” “You fool!” said the older woman. “She’s tricked you into revealing the reply. Come in detective.” “Come to think of it, I do feel a bit out of sorts,” mused the younger woman. In the foyer, the older woman stopped me. “I’m afraid you can’t enter like that,” she said. “It’s like a muddy person coming into a room with white carpet. You’ll have to change sex.” She

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pointed to a changing room. After I had changed into a woman and donned a spare robe, I was led to a hall where other women in robes of various colours were engaged in a lecture. The older woman was the Mater of the group. She explained that this was a special meeting of twelve Sisters from different lodges. They had never met before now. Consequently, an impostor would not be discovered on looks alone. To Seth’s advantage (I found out later) only eleven of the twelve turned up, and so she’d slipped in as the twelfth member. The Mater called everyone to attention. “Sisters,” said my host. “There is an impostor among us.” The room inhaled sharply. “Does nobody remember that we were a brotherhood not one hour

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ago?” All the women looked at each other. “Are you sure?” one woman called out. “We’ve been diluted!” exclaimed the older woman. “Like a drop of milk in coffee, the whole sorority…ah…fraternity… has been affected!” “Affected how?” called another. “I mean apart from changing sex.” I stepped forward. “Well, ah, ladies…” I cleared my throat, so as to get more accustomed to my feminine vocal cords. “The so-called ‘drop of milk’ is a known criminal. As such, all of you here have become criminals to some degree from the moment she joined you.” The crowd roared. The old woman said, “Silence!” The roar softened into a murmur.

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“This is the whole reason we have passwords and so on!” said the old woman. “To avoid contamination I suggest we ‘cut off the hand that offends us’.” “How, Sister?” “Why, by staying true to the purpose of our organization, of course. We must take our robes off and wash them!” As one group entity, we all began the process of washing our robes. A person’s past is something he wears as clothing, in the form of memory. It comes with many stains, such as prejudice and biases. The custom of this organization was to ‘strip’ that mental clothing off upon entering the lodge. Then, once inside, its members donned their formal memory/robes. These were all similar, differing only slightly to denote levels of learning. Together they would share the organization’s past, and so form a group identity. Any self-centred thoughts or memories would be left outside. If an incongruous thought were to come inside, it would ‘smear’ itself over all the robes, changing the entire colour scheme. Now we were a diluted Group-Seth. Her criminal intentions had spread amongst us, albeit thinly. This, incidentally, changed everyone into women because Seth was female. That much was lucky; it is easier to spot someone changing sex than it is to spot his or her character. The members cleared the room and prepared for The Cleaning Ritual. The Mater insisted that I take part in it.

We re-entered the main room and stood in a circle, facing inwards. On the floor in front of each woman was a large, rough stone. Beside each stone was a bucket of water. “Sisters,” said the Mater, “let us shed our outer, worldly identities.” Copying the others, I pulled my robe off and held it in my arms. Naked now, we kneeled at our stones. “The bucket in front is your heart. You will notice how clear is the water within. This reflects the purity of our motives. It is the cleansing water of Aquarius and sparkles with enthusiasm and aspiration. Take your worldly robe and immerse it in the water.” We did so. The Mater continued. “The rough stone in front is the elusive

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philosophers’ stone. It is the ultimate reason underlying all that we do and live for. Note how immoveable and indestructable it is. This sturdy point is the fulcrum that gives strength to the rest of our lives. Dash your personalities on the rocks of Reason!” The women took their robes out of the water and wipped them over the rocks. “Only in service to humanity do we wash away the selfishness that stains our true spiritual selves. Let us labour.” We commenced rubbing the robes against the stones. Due to the roughness, the stones served well as washboards. I laboured vigorously, stopping only to rinse the cloth in the bucket again. “Here,” said the Mater tapping my shoulder. When I looked up she handed me a bar of soap. “This holy order,” she said, “encourages education. This soap is the product of intelligence. Labour intelligently.” The job was easier with the soap and soon the water was brown. I stopped and rung the robe out. Most of the women were finished, too. We held the robes up and inspected them. The sky blues and the buttercup yellows, the reds and whites -- all glowed as if the fabric were made of mythological silk. The Mater left hers on her stone and circled the group, inspecting each bucket. “Aha!” she called, pointing to one. It was the only bucket still with clean water. “Here’s the impostor!” said the Mater. “The owner of this bucket.” The woman next to the bucket leapt back. “Keep your distance!” she said, as the women surrounded her. “Stay back!” She retreated until her back banged against a wall. “I can explain,” she said. “You don’t need to,” said one of the women. “Your water is clear because you were unwilling to give up your selfish perceptions.” “No,” said Seth. “It is just that I am already pure and so there was nothing to clean.” One of the women held up Seth’s robe; it was filthy. Seth’s face went pale. “Well … alright then. I’m not a member of your

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ridiculous cult. What of it?” “Restrain her,” said the Mater. Seth struggled in vain. Four women dragged her out the door. “Wait,” I called. “Let me take custody of her!” The Mater tapped me. “Follow me,” she said. “The ritual is not complete.” The remaining sisters also followed, taking their robes with them. The Mater led us up to the roof. Along the way, the first woman that I’d met at the door grabbed my arm and said, “Mater told me to give this to you.” She handed me something similar to a foldout stand in its folded up form. “We only have twelve drying racks,” she explained, “As we weren’t expecting you. You’ll have to carry yours up.” On the roof were twelve clothe-drying racks, in the simple shape of the letter T. I set mine up with the others. We then put our robes on the rack for the sun to dry. “But it’s still night,” I argued. “Yes. Never mind, the sun will rise in three hours.” The order, of which I was now an honourable member, let me call the police to pick up Seth. I then changed back into my original clothes and sex and rode with her back to the police station. I told Hardy – my connection on the force -- to hold her for me until I returned. “What’s this all about, Katonksky?” he grumbled. “I need her for a line-up. I won’t be long.” Next on Blacky’s list was Changy Collins. He began his professional life as a card counter. Changy enjoyed the skill so much that he later went on to card memorising and other memory feats. Eventually he entered chess tournaments blindfolded. All this mental weightlifting led to strange abilities, such as mesmerism and the like. Banned from casinos, he was a professional thief now. His method of escape was to disrupt the unity of a situation. The assailant would then give up, completely baffled as to how Changy got away. To understand

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“Let us labour.”

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a situation is to perceive the ‘unity’ of it. For example, a ‘horse and cart’ make up a working unity. But if you change it, say, to a ‘spider and cart’ the unity of the relationship will be broken. To catch Changy Collins would require an understandable relationship, like a lawman slapping handcuffs on a criminal. I knew this would be difficult. For a start, I wasn’t a lawman. For the last month he’d been sitting in his car staking out a government building. I knew this because I passed him every so often on my way home from the pubs. When I accosted him he socked me in the nose and ran. “Ow!” My nose dripped blood and my eyes watered. I chased him into a park and hurled myself at him -- we rolled across the grass, finally stopping with me on top. Both of us grunted in pain. “Now hold on a second,” he said in his monotone voice. “Shut your mouth, Changy,” I huffed, dragging him to his feet. “You’re coming with me to the police station.” He thrust his steel gaze into my skull. “Why in reason’s name,” he said, “would you want to apprehend a tree?” “I said shut up! I have my own reasons.” “But I’m rooted to the ground, Katonksky. Even if I wanted to come with you, I couldn’t.” I looked down at his feet and saw that he was indeed rooted to the ground. What I’d earlier taken to be jeans was bark. “See my point?” he reasoned. I felt quite embarrassed. In the corner of my eye, I saw passers-by laughing at me. Some detective I was! Never one to let a lack of logic stand in my way, I persisted. Then I remembered something. It was vague, but I’d told myself earlier that in case of difficulty, I should use my magnifying glass. So I took it out of my pocket and peered at the tree through it... And saw a human, named Changy Collins! “Shit!” I snapped out of the trance. Unity was restored. Consequently, so was my strength. He was easy to drag along now. “Hold on,” he said. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

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I clutched my magnifying glass like a talisman.

“How many more?” Hardy asked when I got back to the police station. “Just one,” I said. Hardy patted his comb-over down with his stocky hand. “This isn’t your own private clubhouse, Sully,” he said. “You better have a good reason for this.”

The last person on the list was the Doyley Collective. Doyley was one man but he had nine bodies. To any stranger he looked like a gang of people, but those who knew him understood that it was one soul spread between them. Doyley was a kung fu expert, specialising in Hydra Style. He used his multi-body technique in the same way you or I would manoeuvre our chess pieces. People knew and feared him by the tattoo of a hydra on each of his forearms. He was the unofficial king of the Second Ring. Eight of him were hanging out at his usual hideout, on the first floor of a rundown building. The ninth Doyley was across the street watching for trouble. My plan was simple. I knocked out the ninth Doyley with a blackjack. Then I took him to the station. I knew that Doyley would try to rescue himself. Two more of Doyley arrived only minutes after. “I was standing there minding my own business,” the three Doyleys complained in a gravel voice that was almost a whisper, “and that damned fool detective assaulted me!” Hardy shot me a foul look. “Sully claims you attacked first.” “The prick!” snarled Doyley. “I didn’t get a chance to resist. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done!” “Is that true, Katonksky?” the cop asked me. “Of course not,” I said. “But while you’re here, Doyley, I need you in a line-up.” “Outrageous!” exclaimed the Doyleys. “Officer, I want to charge this bastard with assault!”

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“I have to listen to them ... er ... him, Sully,” said Hardy. “I told you that you need just-cause to go hauling people in.” “Alright, charge me,” I said. “But first let me do my line-up. I promise you this will be a big bust. The credit will be yours.” “We’ve got nothing if you assaulted him.” “It’s his word against mine.” “No it isn’t – this guy has high up connections.” “Are you a coward?” Hardy pulled me aside. “Look Sully. You know you don’t have any citizenship papers. If you’re arrested it won’t matter whether Doyley is in the wrong or not. You could even be killed.” “I’m willing to risk it,” I said. “I have a strategy.” It was simple enough. A familiar invader will be killed or exiled by a body’s immune system, but a completely new one hangs around and causes confusion. I didn’t consider myself a disease or anything, more like a new piece of information. If they couldn’t explain me away, I figured, they’d have to incorporate me as part of the town. This being the case, my citizenship papers would come. I didn’t tell Hardy all this, of course. Hardy conceded and ordered Doyley to bring all of his selves to the station for a line-up. After that, he’d charge me on Doyley’s behalf. “Why are you so indifferent?” asked Hardy. “What’s your motivation? I don’t understand.” “I don’t understand,” I explained. “That’s my motivation.” “You’re still on about all that!” he sighed. “A detective must never be personally involved in a case. The only case I ultimately seek to solve is the question of my true identity. That being so, I cannot be personally involved in my own life.” Hardy scowled. “So, what does Doyley have to do with your true identity?” “That is what I intend to find out.” I went over to The Pegasus. Sinthia was sitting in the tiny hotel room that she secured, staring angrily out the window. She’d thrown all our stuff around the room. “I’m here to get that wooden box,” I said. “I need some money,” she said. “I paid for the room out of my own

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pocket.” “Sure. Just give me a moment.” I dragged the box down the stairs and whistled a taxi.

“This is what’s going to happen,” I told the dead mob boss through a tiny crack in the lid, once we were in the taxi. “You’ll pick your killer out in the line-up, and I won’t let this box collapse in on itself. All right?” “Whatever you say!” came the muffled reply. Seth Minx, Changy Collins and the Doyley Collective were standing side-by-side in the line-up when I returned. “What’s that?” asked Hardy, pointing to my box. “It’s the witness. Have you got a drill?” “What for?” “So Blacky can see out.” “That name sounds familiar,” noted Hardy. “Come on, there’s a drill in the hardware cupboard.” Against my better judgement I went with Hardy. “You know you’re turning out to be nothing but trouble,” he grumbled. “Hurry up, will you! I want to knock off for the night.” “Don’t you want to charge me?” “I’ll do it in the morning. Don’t leave town, for goodness sake.” When we returned to the line-up, all the suspects were gone. In their place was a stranger, standing against the white background. He adjusted his tie. “Who the hell are you?” I asked. “And where the hell did they go?” The man looked around. “Where’d who go?” “Answer my question.” “I cannot remember for the life of me,” said the stranger, “how I came to be here. Guess you’ll have to release me.” “He’s right,” said Hardy. “I don’t know who this bloke is. Got nothing on him.” The stranger smiled and Hardy showed him the door. I cursed but Hardy told me to drop it and go home. “You’re lucky,” he said, “You almost got charged with assault.”

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I don’t need to tell you that I followed the stranger. He led me to a quiet street – just the kind of street I wanted to rough him up in. But then he turned around to face me. “What’s the idea?” I barked, suddenly aware of how unarmed I was. “Sully Katonksky, I’ve been hoping we could have a little talk. Oh yes: We knew Blacky would go to you.” “Smart bastards!” I said. “I should have guessed it was a set-up.” I stepped back and got ready for trouble. “Well, you succeeded in getting me here. What do you want?” “I have some information for you,” he said. “Oh yeah?” He reached into his pocket and tossed a little black book to me. “It comes with a warning,” he said. I glanced inside: it was my citizenship papers. “Say on.” “You’re a perfectly legal citizen. You were born not far from here in the desert, and you grew up in the Second Ring. You are the only son of a widow.” “What happened to my father?” “I believe he was from up north. The point is you can stop investigating who you are. You’ve been stirring up a lot of trouble. Seems a stupid thing to do, right here in your own home.” They weren’t new papers. A whole past identity was there and just reading the name made that citizen’s memory come flooding into me like a possessing spirit. It made me question all this detective business. I already had an identity, I thought, one that didn’t attract any trouble. It’s right here in the book. “Do yourself a favour,” said the man. “Give the detective game away. We don’t need any in this town.” “We? Who are you speaking for, exactly?” “You’ve made some powerful enemies. Doyley is not just a thug. He works for somebody in the New Centre. Understand?” “Smug son of a bitch.” I bent my knees, took a deep breath and charged at him. He split into two people; I flew between them and crashed into the road. Although I was dizzy, I regained my footing and put my guard up.

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Smiling, the two then divided into eleven different people: Seth Minx, Changy Collins and all nine of the Doyley Collective.

The sun had risen by the time I made it back, bleeding and raw, to The Pegasus. Sinthia’s dark mood dissolved when she saw how messed up I was. She was all smiles after that. “Go,” I told her. “Get some sleep.” “I can’t do that, Sully. Someone’s got to take you to the hospital.” “No. I’m fine here.” She would not take me to a hospital. I knew very well that if I passed out, she’d finish the job. I told her to bring the box in. I heard Blacky groaning inside. Sinthia covered it with a tablecloth. I put my feet up on it and straightened out my broken legs. “There we are,” I said. “This will be my new desk.” I took a swig from my hip flask. The morning sunlight streamed through the window and burned my tender flesh. Smoke rose from me like a cigarette. “Hey Sinthia,” I said after a while. “Yes?” “Did you ever have a dream that seemed so real that, say, if someone does you wrong in it, you wake up angry at them?” “Oh sure, Sully. Now and then.” “…Then you realise it was just a dream and your anger dissolves.” “Sure. What about it?” “I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’ll awake from life like that. And all this crap will just dissolve.” “Sure, Sully.” Why did I even bother talking to her? She was just waiting for me to pass out.

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TWO

LET’S backtrack a little. People often ask me how I became a detective. My standard answer is: “I just put up a sign.” While that is true to an extent, my readers deserve a more detailed explanation. If you are to follow in my footsteps, there is much you will need to understand. So let me first explain why I became a detective. If it rings true with your own situation, then you’ll know that it is the calling for you, too. On that pivotal morning, I was at my desk. My whole attention was absorbed in the object of my study – so much so, that it took a very loud noise to tear my attention away:-- THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Damn it!, I thought. A woman was knocking on my window. Behind her a crowd was marching past. I opened the window. “What?” I asked. “There’s going to be a riot! Come and see!” On the desk in front of me was a piece of paper with a griffon on it. Under it, in decorative lettering, were the initials: “P.D.A”.

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Around the paper were various open books. For the life of me, I could not remember what I had been doing. All I could recall was that I’d been taking it very seriously. “Are you coming?” asked the woman. “Just a second. Let me get my jacket.” It was just a run-of-the-mill riot for political change. Hundreds of workers and students were roaring in anger about the war in the north, and corruption in both the political parties. The rioters clashed with police. Cars and buildings burned. It made the news. It was good to know they still had them. Riots, that is. When I got back to my desk, I still could not recall what I had been doing. Then it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember who I was. Everything had vanished right at that moment when the woman had knocked on my window. It was like when you’re having an in-depth conversation during a party. It develops further and further away from the original topic and you eventually forget what you were talking about originally. It’s a common enough phenomenon. We do not direct our conversations; they direct us. Such is our lack of mental control. Similarly, I hadn’t been directing my life; it had been directing me. It grew further and further away from its original purpose. Now, here I was saying: “How did I end up here? Who am I again?” It was then I noticed that my citizenship papers had disappeared. I’d gone to the drawer I kept them in, so as to find out my name. They were not there. I lit my pipe and surveyed the room. Behold, I thought, there are so many mysteries before me. That, more or less, is how I became a private detective.

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THREE

IN the beginning I felt my own way around. I learned a lot of good skills that way. You’d be surprised how many people believe you’re a detective simply because you say so. Faith is a formula, you see -- when enough people believe you’re a detective, and they start paying you to do it, you begin to believe it too. Then it is true. Faith is belief in possibility. Prejudice, faith’s opposite, is exclusive belief in probability. Without my own identity getting in the way, I was able to become a master of disguises. One of the most important lessons was the nature of disguises, and how to see through them. The more I practised, the more I saw how disguises are far more widespread than people realise. So wide-spread, in fact, that even the people wearing masks are fooled. As I said, I believed I was a detective. But it goes further. Consider stereotypes. There is no such thing as a ‘hippy’; there are only normal people disguised as hippies. Likewise, there are no such people as punks, yuppies, bikies, homeboys, goths, rednecks and so forth. This includes the ‘mental costume,’ or how people see themselves in their thoughts. There are no police, priests, nor soldiers; just the uni-

32

forms. And so on. I was wandering around the streets in the hope that something would look familiar. Perhaps a landmark would cause my memory to come flooding back.

I only went out at night. With my lack of a defined identity, I much pre-ferred the inconspicuousness of the shadows. The moon kept me compa-ny as I strolled through back streets, or lay in bed with the curtains open. At that time the moon was furry, and as a result it wasn’t very bright. We were both unshaven. It felt like the universe did not know what it wanted to do with its life. The sun, on the other hand, was harsh. Standing in the sunlight made me feel I was on trial, its cold eyes disapproving of me. I was slightly translucent in sunlight. That was how I first met the Doyley Collective. To say I was a master of disguises is misleading. Because I’d forgotten my own identity, I’d simply come to resemble whomever I was near, like a chameleon. If I fell in step with a group of soldiers, I would resemble them in seconds, in both appearance and behaviour. Much like snapping out of a daydream -- I’d unexpectedly find myself, say, in a seedy pub on the opposite end of town than I’d intended to be. And once I fell in step with the Doyley Collective at a pool hall. For a whole crime-filled night, I became his tenth limb. I even had the tattoo. When I became injured in a gang fight, he left me behind, at the home of a doctor he knew. The doctor was well known in the Second Ring for his boozing. He was part of a social-working group who opened their doors to wounded gangsters, an attempt to reduce the death rate of the youth in the Second Ring. After the rest of the Doyleys left me behind, I morphed back into my nameless self. My wound had gone too, for it was Doyley’s. The doctor came home with the shakes and found me on his couch. After some awkward introductions, I told him about my amnesia. He searched me up and down but could find no cause.

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Imagine history as a stream. When a person is born, he is stepping into that stream and becoming a part of it. At first, he has no control over the direction; it has flowed this way and that according to an already existing set of factors. Now, imagine a personal history as a stream, kind of like a pre-estab-lished identity. For example, if you are born to wealthy parents you in-stantly have one layer or ‘hue’ of personality. There are lots of traits and values to associate with. These are the ingredients of a disguise. As you step into this established stream, people are already accusing you of being born with a silver spoon in your mouth, or being a gypsy thief, and so on, as if the stream were your fault. This is why your own disguise can fool you. But this stream of personal history did not begin as you stepped into it, either. You step into an already prepared memory. You inhabit this per-sonality, like an actor who accepts a role. But it is not the actor who controls the role; he enters the current and is swept along by it. The role or character has certain tendencies that the inhabitant will find difficult to resist, for it would be like fighting against the current. What the drunken doctor could not find in me was the abovementioned ‘prepared identity’ that everybody has from birth. “It is as if,” he said, “you weren’t born, sir. It’s like you just started existing as an adult. Or, perhaps you’ve accumulated so many traits that they became too heavy and you dropped them all at once. Do you have citizenship papers?” “I think I lost them,” I said. “You say you lost everything at once?” “Yes -- my memory and my papers. Someone diverted my attention away from my life for a moment.” He lifted my shirt and pressed his stethoscope on my heart. “Extraordinary!” he said. “What is it?” “Hmm. Not sure.” He opened my chest up by pressing on it and letting the ribcage unlatch. The ribs on each side opened like a door. The doctor then peered inside.

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“Remarkable!” he said, his voice echoing in my chest cavity. “What is it?” “Oh! Oh my!” “What is it?” “A tunnel!” he said. “Your chest is hollow, sir – a cave of echoes, as it were.” “Nonsense,” I laughed. But in the rusty mirror that hung on the wall I saw the doctor light a match with his shaky hand, and then reach in. His whole arm went in. The tunnel in my chest receded so far back that we couldn’t see an end to it. The match flame flick-ered, creating dancing shadows on the walls of my insides. A draft blew the doctor’s hair back. The match went out. “What does it mean?” I asked. “Astonishing!” he mut-tered. “I thought I heard something in there.” He slammed my ribcage closed and looked me in the eye. “You have no memory, sir, because you

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have no memory. That’s what it means. I think I need a drink.” “I’m not sure I fol-low…” “It’s like this,” he said, whilst reaching under a cushion in his couch. “A horse doesn’t have wings because horses don’t have wings.” He pulled out a bottle of rum. “Don’t be absurd,” I said. “I’m just like any-body else.” “To be honest, I’ve nev-er seen a case like yours before. I can only make educated guesses.” He frowned. “I think you are a portal.” He opened the bottle and took a swig. “A portal to what?” “I don’t know,” he said wiping his mouth. “Perhaps something means to gain access from or to this world through you. When I peered inside you I felt as if I was being watched by a crowd of stowaways.” “That would explain my lack of memory.” “How so?” “I wouldn’t recall anything about myself because I wouldn’t exist for myself. I’d be completely functional.” “Notwithstanding that, you are conscious. Therefore, surely you should be recording your experiences somewhere. Yes?” “I suppose.” “Like I said – it’s as if you just appeared! How does it make you feel?” I felt afraid. I felt like someone who had worms. “This is a corrupt city,” said the doctor. “That hole could lead all the way to the police. For all I know, you’re a bug, here to spy on me!”

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“No! I’m sure I must have a store of memory. It’s just the facility of recollection I lack. Help me. Please! I’ll not be anyone’s bug.” The doctor took another drink, then breathed a little. “Will you help?” I pleaded again. “You’ll need a name,” said the doctor, suddenly hushed. “And you’ll need a profession.” He rushed into another room and rummaged around. He returned with a pile of clothes in his arms and dumped them on the floor in front of me. “Here, you’ll need to keep your chest closed and covered at all times. The more coverings the better.” I frantically began pulling singlets and shirts and jumpers on. “When you give yourself a name,” instructed the doctor, “the name will give your whole person a new hue.” Names and titles have a certain magnetism to them. This magnetism attracts the traits and associations, which are ingredients of costumes or disguises. “Okay. I’ll think of something,” I said. “Coupled with your profession, you will attract a whole bunch of mate-rial with which to build an identity in memories.” “There is one particular profession I’ve been considering,” I mused. “Also, you might want to join a political group or church,” continued the doctor. He was right. If one joins a church or political movement, one shares in the organization’s history, good and bad. He takes on the karma/responsi-bility of that organization. I thought: Maybe I’ll join a choir instead. As I moved to the doorway, the doctor said: “One last word of ad-vice.” “Yes?” “Get yourself some enemies.” “What on earth for?” “Nothing will strengthen your separateness more than the people who hate you … a nemesis, you follow. The left wing is defined by the right wing; in this way they are helping each other. Before you know it, the portal will be clogged for good!” I hit the street. Not literally, of course.

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All these threads of association are used to weave a personality, which is then worn like a jacket. But for now I accepted the layers offered by the drunken doctor.

The next time I came across the Doyley Collective, I picked a fight with him. He was beating a man in an alleyway. Although I’d intended to help the victim, as soon as I came in close proximity with Doyley, I craved to once again become a part of him. Past identities, however fleeting, are like old addictions. Before I knew it, I was also throwing punches at the stranger. But, because some part of me was aware of it, I resisted and turned on ‘Doyley/myself’: “Leave the man alone, shit head!” It was too late; the man was dead. All nine of Doyley turned on me. “What did you call me?” they said in symphony. What did you call me, they’d said. By separating ‘I’, which denotes one being, into ‘you’ and ‘me’, he actually freed me from the Collective. The craving disappeared. The magnetic force became a repellent one. In the next moment, we were punching the hell out of each other. Sweat and tears blurred my vision, but I struck out at every moving object. This went on in a blur until four Doyleys captured and restrained me. My ears steamed heat as I resisted. My muscles were so tense it hurt. But I couldn’t move more than an inch. A fifth Doyley stood facing me with a malicious smile. Doyley then thought about how much he hated me. I suppose he thought about detectives in general, and the threat they represented to his kind. He must have thought about how I was once a part of him but betrayed him. Doyley stewed over the hate until he could feel it in his throat, could taste the malice and spite like a ball of phlegm. He coughed it up and chewed on it and rolled it around his tongue, packing it into a hard ball. I know this because he then spat it into his hand. It was now a bullet. Bullet-making 101. Doyley produced a pistol, opened the chamber and loaded the bullet into it. Then he aimed at me and fired. I swayed around, looking from face to face. Doyley’s hate was burning

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Doyley was one man but he had nine bodies.

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deep inside me. “Bloody … coward!” I mumbled in my dizziness. A bright light – like a spotlight – hit us from the dead end of the alley-way. It felt cold. The Doyley Collective covered their eyes and bolted. I stumbled back-wards, fell over and broke in two. I was barely conscious. It sounded as if a battalion of soldiers were stomping towards me. I felt queer but did not know if it was because of breaking in half, or the harsh light. Soon the light dimmed as if a blanket was thrown onto a lamp. It wasn’t a blanket though: it was a long jacket, and the “lamp” had the figure of a muscular woman. She approached. Just her. No battalion. “Fool,” she said. “Why’d you go and attack them?” My jaw (jaws?) dropped. “Are you kidding me!” She wore a long jacket made from the hide of a lion. It covered every-thing except her boots. It had a hood, which was made from the mane. I lay in shock. The two halves of me began to heal separately, one male and one female. The two me’s stood up and looked each other over. The female me stepped back, keeping her eyes fixed on the male me. Then she turned and bolted down the alleyway. The male’s first impulse was to give chase. But he noticed that my female half had slipped out and left my personality-clothes behind. The clothes the doctor had given me. So he let her go and kept them on. With-out the clothes, she could not even retain my identity. I finally looked to the lion-skinned woman. “I tried to help,” I mumbled, glancing at Doyley’s fallen victim. “Oh, it was very gallant of you,” she said, “but you handled it badly.” She fished inside her jacket then put a little porcelain pipe in her lips. She packed it with tobacco, and retrieved a magnifying glass from her pocket. Holding it over the pipe, she concentrated the moon’s light through the lens until the tobacco caught fire. “How else do you handle a violent gang?” I said. “That ‘gang’ as you call him practices Hydra-style kung fu; you can-not defeat a Hydra like that.” As she spoke, rings of smoke rose into the night. “Anyway, what the hell is a lady doing out here in the middle of the

40

night?” “Looking for you.” “You don’t even know me.” “I’m not the least bit interested in your local identity; it’s what is behind it that concerns me.” I pulled my jacket closed. “You’re a solver of mysteries, aren’t you?” she asked. “What is your name?” “I … hang on.” I kneeled at the dead body and went through his pock-ets. I found a wallet and I read the name on his licence. Standing up, I said, “My name is Sully Katonksky.” “But that’s his name,” the woman said. “Until I remember my own, that will be my substitute name. I had a hand in killing him. Now, I swear to do good works in his name.” She blew out a few smoke rings. “Alright, Mr. Katonksky. You are dif-ficult to find. What you need is an office.” “Well, you found me,” I said. “Though, now I’m only half the man I was.” “Are you familiar with Peryton’s Detective Agency?” “I … that sounds familiar.” Damned right it did. Because of my problem with that facility of mind we call memory, for a while I had no idea whatsoever of my surround-ings. When I first went snooping, I shoved my only clue -- the picture of the Griffon with P.D.A. written on it – under everybody’s noses. It met with general disapproval, sometimes aggression. I found out it was a variation on the logo of a famous detective agency situated in the north. Apparently, Peryton’s agents were used to spy on our city, which was in a state of civil war with the northern municipality called Griffon. Our army was scattered along the northern border (the edge of the Third Ring) in trenches, constantly waiting for attack1. What they called Griffon used to be the Fifth Ring, mountainous terri-tory. But the war drew out so long, the city split into two. Now they are two “states”.

1 See the map.

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“Sure, I’ve heard of Peryton’s,” I said. “Are you telling me you’re a spy?” “No, I’m a private eye like yourself. My name is Herakles.” We shook hands. I said: “That’s a funny name for a girl. What do you want with me?” “We are aware of your resistance to the diversions of the city.” “I’m just refusing to be distracted, that’s all.” “From what?” “From finding the solution to my problem, which I suspect is a shared problem.” “Yes, I see. But you are inexperienced. A master detective could teach you much.” “I like learning on my feet.” “Nevertheless,” said Herakles, “I have the strategies that work. I can teach you the science of sacrifice.” “I don’t know what that is. Are you offering me a deal?” “No. I’m offering to help. We have the means to make you grow.” “We?” “That’s right. If you’re starting an agency, you’ll need help from Pery-ton’s. I can hook you up with Mr. Peryton himself.” The name of the founder was legendary. “Who said I was starting an agency?” I said. “Well, Mr. Katonksky. If you are, we can help you establish yourself.” “You mean a headquarters?” “That’s right. A permanent office, with a sign. You should establish it on the outer edge of the Third Ring … Come out of the shadows.” “I don’t like the sound of that.” I hated sunlight, and I could imagine the bullets my office would attract. “Let’s say I cooperate with Peryton’s,” I said. “Then what?” “Then our allies will know how to find you. We’d get things to you. Communicate. Eventually, your office will become a sub-contractor to Peryton’s. Your citizenship will be an excellent asset. You see -- we’ve been planning this for some time.” “Why me?”

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“You’re just one germ of potential that got our attention, one of the few who have managed to shake off the hypnotism of the stream of history. I think you’re the best chance we have.” “Oh. I see it now,” I said. “You see that I’m setting myself up, so you want me to hand everything over to Peryton’s Detective Agency!” “That’s not it.” “You don’t want competition.” “That’s a ridiculous notion. Griffon is very wealthy.” “I have heard that.” “Then you would have also heard that Griffon is a free and just repub-lic.” “Sure, and that they deserve to win the war. But that’s if I believe the radicals. The more I looked into it, lady, the more contradictory informa-tion I find. Don’t expect me to sympathise with your cause.” In fact, half the people I’d questioned even said that Griffon was not to be taken literally; it is a metaphor for a utopian future. Herakles puffed on her pipe. “First of all,” she said patiently, “there is no war. Just a paranoid bunch of rich folk from The Circle afraid of los-ing what they have, and paying for troops to sit around in trenches at the border. The Lyons do not want the city to expand, because they do not want their status diminished. And the second point: All I am doing is of-fering you work. The suggested office would be in your name.” “I’m not interested.” “I’ll tell you what…” She reached into her jacket, pulled out a magnifying glass and tossed it to me. “This is one of the tools of the detective,” she said, “I’ll teach you how to use it. I’ll train you whether you help us or not.” “What’s the catch?” “The knowledge is the catch, for with it comes conscience.” I tossed the magnifying glass back to her. “I’ll think about it.” Of course, when I received my citizenship papers later (from the Doy-leys and company), and my memory with it, the mystery of my original memory was solved. But I could no longer identify with it, because now I had existed without it. I inhabited the character that I formerly knew as

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myself. That set personality was all in relation to the city and its people, a construct. I was a spirit inside him. I now needed a modified personality to express this spirit; hence the need for Sully Katonksky, private detec-tive. One might suggest that discarding my ‘government-assigned’ iden-tity is unpatriotic. But all feelings of patriotism were in the pocket of my first identity, which remained in the closet from then on, collecting dust.

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Four

WHILE awake, I could find no information about where this city was situated in the world. Nobody that I interviewed knew. Most people even appeared to have never considered the question. While I slept, however, I had vivid dreams all about the outside world. When I awoke I could remember detailed accounts of current events in many foreign cultures and places. That is more than I could say about my own culture. I did not even know the name of my city. On a few occasions, people spoke the name to me but I could not hear them over the noise of traffic. On other occasions I did hear the name as somebody spoke it, but then I forgot it a moment later. Even when I went back and made a man repeat himself, I just could not retain the name in my memory. I never dreamed about my own city. What I did find is that my detailed dreams were mutual. Every citizen seemed to have the same international dreams. Maps were even drawn up of the shared dream world (which was synonymous with the world outside this town) and sold in shops. The disturbing thing was that these were more detailed and consistent than the maps of our own city. And the

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world maps did not contain our municipality on them. My first paid case came when I was strolling down the main drag in The Second Ring one evening. I’d acquired a couple of city maps from older citizens and wanted to take the maps home and compare them. I shoved them into the pocket of my jacket. When my hand came out it was hold-ing a lit cigar. Welcome surprise, I thought. A taxi hovered by so I flagged it. When I lifted my hand, I found a glass of scotch in it. “Never mind,” I told the driver when he slowed down. Might as well flow with it, I thought, and I entered the nearest pub. At the bar, I found a newspaper. The headline read: New Evidence Claim: The Circle Not The Centre. Its accompanying article said that the Eegle Party were attempting to prove that the original Circle was nei-ther a circle in shape, nor the centre of the town. The second of the two major political parties alleged that old buildings had been found outside The Circle’s traditional borders, making a wide ring around the Third Ring, which, they say, is actually a circle2. A Lyons minister scoffed at the theory, saying, “It is no secret the Eegles are pushing for the Third Ring to become the New Centre of town. Their so-called evidence is likely to be very partial.” “We do not mind expansion,” an Eegles minister admitted in the next paragraph. “A Fourth Ring could be favourable, so long as the Third Ring is recognised as the centre. We did not believe, however, that a Fifth Ring was ever built, nor would it be feasible, because of the high altitude hills it would be situated in.” I tossed the paper aside and spread my maps out in front of me. Even maps of the city contradicted each other. Whichever faction won out in the end would decide the truth. “I hear you’re a private dick,” said someone over my shoulder. A stocky fellow with a receding hairline had sidled into the stool next to me. “How’d you hear that?” I asked, feigning disinterest. “Come on! You been rubbing your nose all over the main street, trying

2 See the map.

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to work out the answers.” “So what of it? You got some answers for me?” He laughed at that. “I got some work for you.” “I’m not looking for any,” I said. “Listen, I know how it is,” he grunted. “New fellah decides he wants more. Wants reason in his life. I’ve been there myself.” “You were a P.I.?” “That’s right. I donned the trench coat for a while. But eventually a bloke has to make a living. Understand?” “If I do, I fear I’ll end up a cop like you. Right?” He sniggered, but with annoyance. “Okay, I’m a cop,” he said. “So what.” “Look, officer,” I began, “I’ve got a mystery to solve. Any other occu-pation would be a distraction from it.” “Yeah, yeah, I told you I’ve been there. You want to find out who you truly are, right? How all this,” he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, “came about.” “That’s right,” I said. “And do you know why nobody around here can tell me why we’re here?” “Why?” asked the cop. “Because they’re all distracted. You’ve got yourself a city of perma-nently distracted people.” “It’s worse than that, smart ass. This city is the distraction. Might even be the definition of a city.” “There you are. If that’s not classed as mass hypnotism, I don’t know a bloody thing. I’m glad you understand.” The cop sighed. “Look. You’re just telling me my own outdated opin-ions from back when I had more hair. I’ll bet you haven’t got any citizen-ship papers, have you?” I froze. This could be an invitation to a room with a view through barred windows. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to take you in,” he smiled. “The papers will come with the job.” “I thought you understood I’m not looking for work.” “Solving the Big Problem is one thing. But even musicians have to play

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cover music from time to time. That’s where stability is. And the way you are now, stomping around asking awkward questions, you’re heading for trouble. It’s my job to prevent that. So here I am, like a perfectly reason-able man, offering you help to get yourself some paid work by solving smaller problems.” “I’m not allowed to ask awkward questions?” “Ask all you like. But do it after you get yourself a job and a citizenship.” “Keep me otherwise occupied, eh?” “You’ll still have plenty of time to solve the big one. And there’s money in it for you. Sound reasonable?” I seemed to have drained my scotch and gained another one. “I suppose it does.” “By the way, what’s your name?” “That’s the whole point. I don’t know.” “I mean what are you calling yourself? I’m going to need to introduce you to your first client.” “Oh. Sully Katonksky. I’ve been using that for a while. How much money are we talking about?” “I’ll give you six hundred a week, for now, plus expenses. When your reputation polishes up a bit, you can charge more. We both know you’re new at this.” I considered that he could nab me right now for not having any papers. “Fine.” “Drink up and come with me.” We stood up. I was light-headed from the drinking. “Just to be safe,” I said, “show me your badge.” He flipped his wallet and flashed his shield. “How’d you pick I was a cop, anyway?” “You had to be a cop or a crook to be ruffled about my investigating. You’re not well-dressed enough to be a crook.” The cop was Hardy; that was how we first met. Hardy wasn’t just a streetwalker; he was the chief. We walked just two streets behind the main drag to a small piano bar. It had one small sign, unlit: “Slink’s”. It must have regulars, I supposed. Otherwise how’s a punter to find it?

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“There are a few jobs that my lot don’t always get to,” Hardy said. “Not officially, anyway, you understand.” Inside, Hardy took me to the owner. He was a young fellow with slick back hair and large collars on his shirt; as well-dressed as I’d expect a crook to be. We shook hands. “This here’s a private investigator,” said Hardy to the owner. “I’m rec-ommending him for that problem of ours.” “Oh yeah?” said the man, looking me over. “Sully,” said Hardy, “This is Rollo.” “Looks like a nice place,” I said. Hardy backed off. “Well fellas, I’ve got to go. Come and see me at the station, Sully, when you need me.” I wanted to ask him about my papers, but not in front of Rollo. So I just nodded. When Hardy left, it occurred to me that they might have led me there in order to slap me around. But Rollo just poured some drinks and pulled up a stool. The bar was almost empty. No one was at the piano. A small woman sat in a corner drinking something green in a large glass. She was stunning but she looked depressed. “A few of my boys have been roughed up around here,” Rollo con-fided. “Protection racket?” “No. That I could understand, but whoever done it didn’t ask for any-thing or take anything.” “Okay. So now I’m interested. What exactly did they do?” “Well, some unknown person or persons have come into my place here, and torn apart my security boys. And they aren’t a bunch of nancies ei-ther.” “What do your fellas say about it?” “They won’t talk. One has amnesia, the other is too petrified to speak at all, and the third is dead.” “Dead! Killed?” “Died later from the injuries.”

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“What kind of injuries?” “It seems they were beaten, with fists and maybe clubs or something. No blades or anything.” “I’ll want to try and speak with the survivors. When did all this hap-pen?” “Well, it was three separate incidents. And all right here in the bar.” “Surely there are witnesses then.” “Nobody’s talking. See there?” He pointed to a notice on the wall. It said: ‘Reward $10, 000 for information about the three attacks on my bouncers. Signed Owner.’ “That reward will be yours, by the way,” he said. “On top of whatever Hardy’s arranged with you.” “Fine. Do you know how to find any of the witnesses?” “Yeah. About five people all up, but they were upstairs and only heard the crashing of furniture. That girl there, she was here during all three. She’s part of the furniture. I never had the heart to kick her out, she’s so bloody sad.” I skulled my drink and said, “I think I’ll go have a chat then.” “I’ll be in my office, behind the bar,” said Rollo. I stumbled over to the woman, quite drunk now. I kept my hands shoved into my pockets so as not to attract any more drinks. “Morning,” I said. She was beautiful, pale-skinned and small-framed. Her dark haired fringe almost covered her eyes. She hadn’t touched her drink yet, for she was engrossed in the ritual of preparing it. The glass was like a large wine glass, except it bulged in the bottom. The green liquid sat in the bulge. On top of the glass lay a wide, flat spoon, which was perforated. On the spoon sat a cube of sugar. The woman carefully held a carafe above the glass, dripping iced water onto the sugar cube so that it gradually melted and fell into the drink. I noticed the only jewellery she had were unadorned rings. She had on stiletto heels, a skirt that reached her knees and a red raincoat. “What’s the problem?” I asked. “It’s not morning, idiot,” she sighed, still looking at the drink. “That’s no problem.”

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She was chewing on something. It seemed like a physical reflec-tion of what her mind was doing -- stew-ing over some old grudge. “Listen, I’ve never seen anybody so depressed,” I said. “It’s the first sign of intel-ligence.” “That so?” After a mo-ment she said, “Whatever.” The water kept dripping slowly and rhythmically. Her hand was steady. “Maybe it is,” I said. “But it’s only the first sign. Show me some oth-ers.” “Look,” she finally stopped the dripping and looked up at me with piercing green eyes. “I’m not looking for a man, so bugger off. Try up-stairs.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Are you kidding?” “Flip!” I exclaimed. “This is a brothel! Forgive me, I’m not here for kicks. I’m here for information. Apparently you were witness to three beatings here?” “I’ve seen most of the officers who come here. You’re not the police.”

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“No, I’m a private detective.” “Oh yeah? Well, I didn’t see anything.” “This isn’t exactly the kind of room you could lose anything in. If you were here, you’d have seen it.” “I was looking at my drink.” I laughed. “I believe that. Same glass too.” The hint of a smile flickered on her face. “Listen,” I said. “I’m sure I could arrange the best of protection for you.” She returned to the dripping, one hand on the stem of her glass, and the other hand holding the carafe. “That’s absinthe, isn’t it?” I asked. “That’s right,” she said. “It gives me something to do with my hands.” “Interesting,” I said. That was something I could understand. “Well, so long.” I left her and knocked on Rollo’s door. He was seated with his legs on his desk, and a handgun at arm’s reach. He was obviously nervous. “She said nothing, right?” he asked. “Right. Have you offered her protection?” “Sure. Still nothing. What surprises me is she still comes here. But by that defeated look on her pretty face, I’d say she’s no stranger to bad situ-ations. I’m going to kick her out, though, useless bitch.” “No.” His eyes widened. “She’s not talking now, but she still might betray something,” I ex-plained. “Can you keep her around just while I’m on this case?” “Oh, I see. Sure thing.” “Now I’d like to see the victims – the living ones, of course.” Rollo wrote down their addresses and gave me the piece of paper. “Okay. See you tomorrow night.”

Back on the main drag, I strode through a crowd of pedestrians. Some-thing yanked me backwards, stopping me in my tracks. Something had latched onto my pocket. I reached down and grabbed an arm. The thing is, I could not find to whom it belonged. The arm was abnor-

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mally long. Passers-by were bumping into it. The more innovative were doing the limbo under it, or leaping over it. Once the way cleared, I could see across the road to where the arm orig-inated. Its owner was a beggar, sitting across the road on the concrete. He looked back at me in exasperation. He yanked but couldn’t get his hand out of my pocket. I let his hose-like arm reel me in. When we stood face to face, I smiled. “I suppose you want your arm back,” I said evenly. “Congratulations, brother,” he said, sweating. “You’re the first to ever catch me in the act.” “What went wrong?” “Nothing in your pocket to pick, I guess. I kept reaching deeper but found no bottom.” “Story of my life. What do I win, you old wretch?” He sighed. “I guess you get to kick my teeth in.” With a little difficulty, I freed his hand. It snapped back into his jacket like a tape measure. “I’ll see you around,” I said. That, of course, was how I first met Split-ends. The home of the first vic-tim, was a small two-storey place with a tiny square of grass for a yard. I went there squinting through the sun-light, the next morning. The building was old and the plaster on the walls was peeling. His wife was nice enough, distraught but thankful her man still lived. The man, Bill, sat up on a comfy sofa, pushed up near a window, so that he could get some sunlight and view

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the street below. His face was frozen in an expression of terror, the skin a pale grey colour, like petrified wood. I gave his forehead a knock with my knuckles and thought it sounded like wood too. He didn’t say a thing and he didn’t move an inch. The wife brought me a cup of tea. So I finished it in silence then left. The second victim, Michael, was built like a fortress. Only he fidgeted about bashfully when we were face to face, showing that he’d lost his nerve. We were in his backyard, where his three brothers (equally large and all with broken noses) cooked on a barbeque. The victim and I were off to the side, seated around a garden table. “You see, mister,” he stammered, “all’s I remember is rocking up to work, and then waking up in the hospital bed. The rest…” “Blackness?” “Not even blackness. More like edited out.” “And how’ve you been since?” “Okay, I guess. A little nervous about things.” “What things?”

“Nothing in particular. Talking to people, leaving the house. I can’t work anymore.” We sat in silence for a moment. When I stood up to leave, he said, “I seem to remember a hurricane.” “In the bar?” “Like a whirly wind. Or maybe that’s an unrelated memory.” “Thanks.”

The next stop was the police sta-tion. Hardy was sitting behind a cluttered desk looking respectable. “Hello Katonksky.” I nodded.

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“How the hell did you come up with that tongue-full of a name?” “When do my papers come in?” “It’s not as easy as that. You’re still a nobody, you understand.” “How long?” “Don’t worry, the heat’s off. I’m the police, remember.” “That’s what I’m worried about.” He smiled and took out an envelope from his drawer. “Here,” he said and passed it over. In it was the money he’d agreed to pay me, in fifty-dollar notes. He sure had trust in me, a practical stranger. Or was it ownership? “How’s our problem going?” he asked. “I have a hunch I’m looking into.” “Oh yeah? Have a seat.” I went to the door. “No … I’m heading back to Slink’s. I’ll fill you in later.”

By the time I made it back to Slink’s, it was dusk again. I pulled up a stool and sat there, scotch and cigar at the ends of my fingers. One of Michael’s brothers was on the door. No sign of the girl. “Get much trouble here, generally?” I asked him. His name was Sebas-tian. “Nothin’,” he replied looking bored. “Biggest clients are cops. This job’s more of a formality, see.” He floated from the door and sat at the bar. In a while I went to the jukebox and put a drone on. An hour later the woman arrived. Her eyes fell on me and she hesi-tated. “Come right in,” I said. “Don’t mind me.” Her hands were fiddling nervously with the cords on the hood of her raincoat. In fact, they were almost manic. Reluctantly, it seemed to me, she entered and found a stool. “Rollo?” she said. Her voice was raspy, as if she hadn’t used it in a while. Sebastian rang a little bell on the bar. Rollo stuck his head out of the office and looked disapprovingly at the

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girl. He came out to the bar. “You’ll be wanting that fucking drink o’ mine.” He reached for a green bottle on the shelf behind the bar. Then he poured some of it into another glass with a bulge and placed a perforated spoon on top of it. “Maybe that’s what keeps you coming back.” “This is the only bar in town that has the real stuff,” she said softly, fidgeting with some coins. Rollo slid the drink to her, which she grabbed at like it was a life jacket. “Yet,” said Rollo, “you don’t want to open your mouth and give us a little help.” Still no reply. She was chewing on something again. Rollo bent down to get a carafe of water from the refrigerator. “Gave any more thought to my offer? We’re always looking for girls upstairs,” he said. “Good money. Lots of free green drinks.” “Hey Rollo,” I said. “Have you got an absinthe fountain?” Rollo sighed. “Sure.” “Well get me a glass too, and I’ll join the girl.” She shot me a suspicious look. Rollo gave me a glass of absinthe and a spoon. Then instead of a carafe of water, he placed an absinthe fountain on the bar. This is roughly a large wineglass-shaped container, filled with iced water. It has two taps on it, each on opposite sides. The woman and I placed our glasses under the taps and turned them on just enough to drip gently on the sugar cubes. We listened in silence. The bouncer moseyed outside, eventually. The girl said, “I like the drone.” “Say,” I said. “What’s your name?” “Don’t have one.” I looked up. “Same here!” She looked at me for a second, then back at her glass. “I mean, I do now but that’s because I made one up.” We sat in silence for a bit, watching the sugar cubes deteriorate. “What’s with this ritual?” I said. “I’ve never seen it.” “It’s the traditional La Louche method,” she said. “It releases the Deva

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of the wormwood.” “The Green Fairy?” “Yes. I want to ask her something.” I waited for her to elaborate. But she didn’t. “So,” I said, “what is the other method called?” “You mean the modern method?” “Yes. You pour the absinthe over the sugar cube and set it on fire. It caramelises and melts into the glass. No water.” “That’s a false method. You see, it doesn’t dilute the absinthe; the fairy remains trapped.” “I see. But consider religion.” “What on earth for?” “In the old times, baptism was done with water. John baptised Christ with water. But Christ said that He would then baptise by fire. Maybe this new method is an evolution.” “Perhaps,” she said. “But even so, it’s still misguided. The baptism of water happens in the glass. The baptism of fire takes place in our minds. The fairy must be freed.” After a while, she said: “Look.” A lump of sugar fell through her spoon and into the drink. “The sugar cube is the establishment. See how it dete-riorates as our minds expand.” The green liquid was indeed expanding as our glasses filled with water, diluting the dark green colour into a more milky green. “Maybe,” I said, “the cubes are our restricted views of reality, the bor-ders of this town? And the expanding drink is the dream world.” “Either way,” she said, “hopefully we’ll find out some answers now.” Her cube was completely melted. She turned her tap off and picked up her glass. Before she drank, she spat out whatever it was she had been sucking on, into her hand. Then she raised her glass to me. “Here’s to absinthe friends.” She took a sip.

There was no incident that night. Cops came in and out, all very polite. About an hour before closing I went outside for a bit. Rollo wasn’t happy. “So you got any idea whatever?” he sneered when

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I went to his office on closing time. “I got a hunch I’m testing.” “Oh yeah?” “I’ll let you know very soon. I’ll be in at opening tomorrow, but not for long. After that, we’ll see.” He looked interested. That was enough to purchase some patience any-way.

I couldn’t sleep. I was trying to avoid the vivid dreams.

The next day, on my way to the brothel/bar, I went to visit the pick-pocket who’d got his hand snagged in my poverty. “How is it your arms are so long?” I asked. “It’s my specialty,” said Split-ends. “Self mutilation.” He explained to me how he made his arms grow. “What else can you do?” I asked. “What do you need?” I peeled off a fifty from the wad that Hardy gave me. “I need a working ear.” “Help me up, brother. Come back to my room and I’ll see what I can do for you.” We went back to his home, a one-man unit in a pensioners’ block not far away. It was dark and dirty. But spread out on his table were exquisitely sharp-looking knives. There were large blades and small blades; there were chefs’ knives, blades for gutting fish and even surgeons’ knives. All as clean as mirrors. The old man sat down on a chair near the table and spread a towel over his left shoulder. “Do you have a handkerchief?” he asked. I pulled one out from my pocket. “Good.” One of his arms snaked out from under his trench coat and took one of the knives from the table. The blade was shaped like a sickle and the right size for the job -- he held it too his ear. I watched while he sliced the blade easily through his skin. The ear came off cleanly and whole. Split-ends kept a straight face as blood streamed

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down the side of his head, onto his shoulder. He held the ear out for my handkerchief, which I closed around it. Then Split-ends lifted the towel on his shoulder and pressed it to his wound. “Will this work?” I asked, examining the ear. “Yeah, brother, it works. Put it wherever you need to and I’ll hear through it.” I wrapped the ear up and put it in my pocket, then stood up. “Well,” I said. “You stay here. I’ll be back in half an hour tops.” “Alright.” I headed back to the brothel.

Tonight the bar was just as quiet as the night before. I figured that my presence alone might be hindering the investigation. The attacker most probably wouldn’t strike again, and the cops would never get the oppor-tunity to catch him. I went in and sat at the bar. Sebastian was on the door again and he fol-lowed me in for a scotch. Rollo eventually came out. “Look, Katonksky,” he said, sliding a glass over. “I sure hope you’re doing something besides hanging around and waiting…” “Don’t worry about me, Rollo, I’m doing my job.” “Tell me about this hunch of yours? Is there anything to it?” “I’ll know for sure after tonight.” “Well,” he said, “alright. But… what are you--” “I won’t stay long, Rollo, I just came to check out a detail, and then I’m off.” “Oh. Alright. Well, I’ll hear from you tomorrow then.” He wandered back to his office. Sebastian looked slightly amused by Rollo’s dissatisfaction. “Hey, Sebastian,” I said. “What’s that, chief?” “Do me a favour, will you? Go outside and take a look across the road.” “What am I looking for?” “You’ll know it if you see it.”

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He looked incredulous. Nevertheless, he stood up and headed for the door. “Okay,” he mumbled. “You’re the dick.” I reached into my pocket and retrieved my handkerchief. Looking around, I unwrapped the ear and slapped the bleeding side of it against the bar, about crotch height so that nobody would be likely to see it. It stuck there like a suction cup. On my way out I passed Sebastian. “I dunno what you’re talking about, Sully,” he said accusingly. “That means it wasn’t there,” I explained. “Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I didn’t wait for a reply or even look back. In twenty minutes I was back at Split-ends’s place, staring at him from across a table full of knives. The knives were the only clean and well-kept things in the room, but in Split-ends’s defence, that included me. He poured me a coffee from a freshly made pot. We waited.

“Hey, Shit-for-brains,” said Split-ends. “What did you call me?” I snapped. “Shhhhh!” he held up a hand. He wasn’t looking at me, just staring into space. “I’m hearing it!” “Oh.” “Where’s Katonksky?” he said. But it wasn’t his voice; it was Rollo’s. Split-ends was quite the impressionist. As he continued, he imitated the voices he heard almost exactly:-- Sebastian’s voice – “He left, said he’d be back tomorrow.”Rollo’s voice – “He say anything?”Sebastian’s voice – “Just that he’d be back.”

Split-ends paused. “The first guy’s criticising you, Sully.” “That’d be Rollo,” I figured. “Says you’re fucking useless, and he wants a fella named Hardy to give you the flick.” “No surprise.”

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“Hang on…” And he went into his one actor play again…

Rollo’s voice— “…that stupid bitch too.”Sebastian’s voice – “Sully’s interested in her, I reckon.”Rollo’s voice – “I’m sure the bum is. I say we force her to talk. Save a whole bunch of money, you know, that we’re wasting on Katonksky. We keep her here and beat that eyewitness account out of her. Little tramp is basically an accessory to whoever fucked us over. But Hardy and this fucking detective are all soft about it. Well, fuck em.” Sebastian’s voice – “You sure about this?”Rollo’s voice – “Listen, the cops don’t give a wrinkly rat’s ring; they just don’t want to do it themselves.” Sebastian’s voice – “If you say so, I’ll do whatever you think’s best. That’s my job.”Rollo’s voice – “Damn straight it is.”Sebastian’s voice – “Tonight?”Rollo’s voice – “Shit, look who’s here!”

Split-ends paused for a moment. “What are you hearing?” I whispered illogically. “Shhh. Footsteps. Movement…” Rollo’s voice – “Hey there, sweetheart.”

Split-ends’s eyes stared at the ceiling. He held one hand against his head-wound as if he were listening to a headpiece.

Rollo’s voice – “I said ‘Hey there sweetheart’! You deaf or something?”

“… a girl is speaking,” said Split-ends in his own voice. “I think she ordered a drink, something about a spoon.” Must be the woman, I thought.

Rollo’s voice – “Here. Drink up. Have two tonight, for a change, whad-dya think?”

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The woman’s voice – “Where’s the spoon?”Rollo’s voice – “Look how you speak up when you want something! But she hides the teeth when it comes to helping us find a murderer! … Well? Want the spoon, do you? So you can fidget with it all fucking night.”The woman’s voice— “Don’t start. I said I didn’t see anything.” Rollo’s voice – “That a fucking joke? ‘Cause it’s been done.”The woman’s voice – “Why don’t you just give me the sugar and the spoon. Keeps my hands occupied.”Rollo’s voice – “Is that so. Tell me something. Why’s a good-looking young girl like you hanging round a whorehouse? Is it because you want to be a whore? … I told you before -- we’re always looking for new girls. … You’re here every night; you might as well make some money, right? … Of course I’d want to give you a road test first. Right, Sebastian?”Sebastian’s voice — “He he. Right Rollo! Sure thing.”Rollo’s voice – “Ain’t you going to say anything, sweetheart?” Sebastian’s voice – “Quit staring at the drink and look at Rollo when he’s speaking.”Rollo’s voice – “Tell you what, you tell us who did us over and I’ll forget all about how you just offered to give us a free poke. …Well? Aren’t you going to say anything? Look at me you little whore! … Sebastian…”Sebastian’s voice – “Yes, Rollo?”Rollo’s voice – “Take that fucking drink out of her hands.”

“I think she’s sighing,” said Split-ends in his own voice. He dropped his chin and stared at the floor. I was on the edge of my seat, listening for what would happen now. Split-ends stood up and screamed. He fell over the chair then staggered around like a blind man, moaning and whimpering incoherently. I leapt back as he knocked the table over and thrashed about. The knives slid over the floor. “What’s happening?!” I called. He slammed into a wall and slid down into a heap. I asked again. “Split-ends?” He’d finally stopped. Only his lungs were heaving now, getting his breath back. His arms were unrolled, running under the furniture.

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“Are you all right?” I asked. He finally said: “I think the bar might have … collapsed.” “What are you talking about?” “A cyclone or something. Just a lot of breaking things and bones snap-ping and cries of pain.” My stomach turned. “Brother! What did they do to her?” Split-ends muttered. I tossed him another fifty. “Only one way to find out,” I said. “Nice doing business with you.” Once outside Split-ends’s place, I headed for a phone box. “Where the fuck are you!?” yelled Hardy. “On my way to the bar. You should meet--” “So am I! It’s happened again!” “Yes, I know. You don’t miss anything. I’m impressed.” “You should have been there, you goddamned hobo!” “Perhaps you’ll forgive me when I tell you who did it.” “You know who did it? Don’t joke around now. I’ve been informed that Rollo’s been massacred.” “There’s no joke. I’ll see you there.”

Although nobody had been in the bar at the time of the incident, pros-titutes and policemen milled about it now. It was a wreck. A gang of twenty elephants could have stampeded the place. Everyone looked at me as I strolled over. I pushed through to find the girl. There she was: seated on a chair, with two of the women comforting her. Hardy had been trying to get information out of her. But as soon as I arrived he made a beeline to me. “Well?” he barked. “This better be good! You say you know who did it?” “What did the girl say?” She looked up at me, then down at her knees. She was shivering and red-faced, with goose bumps all over. What really interested me was the manic fidgeting of her hands.

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“She was unconscious,” said Hardy. “Now she doesn’t even remember her name!” “That’s a half-truth.” “Eh?” “She’s your murderer,” I said. “The girl did it.” The police slouched in disappointment. “That’s got to be the most far-fetched thing I’ve ever heard!” moaned Hardy. However, at the very same time, the girl stiffened. Her face went into a poker-player’s mask and her eyes sent daggers at me. “Who is this bloody amateur!” spat one cop. “You’re not actually paying him, are you Chief?” said another. Hardy happened to look over and notice the change in the girl too. “I guess,” she said with a sigh, “I will have to find another place to drink at after all.” One by one, the other officers followed Hardy’s lead, and, with serious-ness, turned to the girl. She stood up. “Now,” interrupted the nearest officer, a square-headed fellow with a double chin, “You just sit down, there, lady—” Her fist made a blur in the air and crash landed into his head. He dropped lifelessly to the floor. Another reached for his gun. Before he got it out of the holster, the girl spat the bullet she’d been sucking on in her mouth at him – as fast as any gun – and buried it in his chest. He went down too. Everyone froze. The police all had their hands on their holsters, in mid-reach for their weapons. “H-hold on…” said Hardy with a shaky voice. The girl looked so relaxed it was intimidating. I lifted a hand to scratch my head in thought. But there was a lit tobacco pipe in it, so I chuffed on that instead. “Hey lady,” I said. Her eyes moved on me again, regarding me as one would an insect. “Check this out.” I tossed her my pipe. She caught it without taking her eyes from mine. I took two steps towards her, casually as I could make them. She looked

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at the smoking pipe, turning it over in her hands. “A smoking pipe. So what?” “I just thought of another absinthe analogy. The sugar-cube was this collapsing bar. The drink was your expanding rage.” I king hit her on the chin. Her legs wobbled but she didn’t fall straight away. The pipe dropped and her fists clenched – but by that time, every-one present piled on her. In the scrum, Hardy kept saying, “How’d you know, Katonksky? How’d you know!”

A week later I went to visit Hardy at the station. I’d been paid gener-ously (including the reward) and I went and bought an old van. Hardy had said that he would have work for me from time to time. But he hadn’t “been able to” get me citizenship papers, and I figured by now that he wasn’t trying. He had me under his thumb now. Smart fellow. I’d been pondering the problem of the violent young woman. I’d heard that she’d bashed the hell out of any prisoners that were put in with her. Even the guards were on edge. “Sit down, Sully,” said Hardy, wiping his chin. He’d b eating a creamy donut. “You’re papers will come, don’t worry, but it’s taking longer than I thought.” “That’s not why I came,” I told him. “Oh?” He looked up at me. “Shit, Sully, no smoking in my office!” I looked at my hands and saw that I held a smoking-pipe in my fingers. “Sorry,” I said and tapped out the tobacco in Hardy’s dustbin. “I didn’t know I was.” By this time, the regular tenants of my hands had become a hip flask of scotch and a smoking pipe. I don’t know where they came from, but they moved in and stayed. After taking a gulp of his coffee, Hardy said, “Are you looking for work, perhaps?” “No. I want you to release the girl.” He nearly spilled the coffee. “You must be joking.” “Hear me out.” “That girl’s a cop killer, Sully. She’ll never get out.”

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“You’re giving her life?” “There’s not much else to do with her. Surely you understand that.” “You know it was self defence. She’s harmless until interfered with.” “Why do you care, Sully?” “Personal reasons.” “You in love or something? Look, she’s uncontrollable. Innocent or not, she can’t be let on the streets. You know as well as I.” “I can control her. See, the very condition that makes her violent also makes her very controllable. All you have to do is understand her condi-tion.” “Why do you understand it?” “I suffer from the same condition.” He looked doubtful. “How’s that?” I held up my hands. “You’ve noticed how my hands attract cigarettes and booze?” “Yes, certainly. It’s a little worrying, to be honest. Ordinary people just pick up pens.” “It’s the same with her. Only her hands close into a fist and repel, while mine open and attract. Both conditions are harmful.” “Ah, yes,” considered Hardy. “But you’re only harming yourself, as you say. Er, no offence.” “None taken,” I smiled. “But because I understand the cause, I can adapt and stop it. The condition of the girl in your cell is caused by the same fundamental problem as mine.” “Theoretically.” “No, I tested it; that’s how I caught her.” Now I had Hardy’s attention. “I … I was wondering why on Earth she stood there and let you hit her. That made no sense.” I nodded. “What would you do with her?” he asked. “I’d employ her,” I said. “I need a secretary if I’m to be a detective. What better than a nameless girl with no papers, just like myself.” He stood up and looked at me hard. “Are you so sure you can control her?” “Very sure, “ I said, lying.

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Hardy stood up and led the way out. “Listen,” he said. “Maybe it’s an experiment that needs to be done. There is a certain percentage of fringe dwellers… illegal aliens… like you, who have similar tendencies to this girl. Not as extreme, mind you. I’m going to consider it and get back to you.” He stopped in the doorway. “Remember, Katonksky,” he said. “It wouldn’t be my risk. It would be yours.” “Of course,” I said. “But I’ll control her.” “But you can’t control me; if there’s a problem on the loose, I’ll contain it…with all the firepower at my disposal. Collateral damage or not.”

The girl was in the main cell at the station. Her wrists and ankles were handcuffed together. The bars looked slightly bent outwards. Hardy sat nearby reading a paper, a gun on the table in front. Another cop sat nearby with a shotgun on his lap. I came in with a briefcase and a suitcase. Hardy stood and picked up the gun. In his other hand was the key to the cell. The other cop stood up at the ready, lowering his barrel on the girl. “Stand back, Katonksky,” said Hardy. “No,” I said pushing forward. “You stand back.” There was a pause and then Hardy unlocked the door. He retreated quickly with his gun trained on the danger. The girl shuffled over to the open door, eyes on me, with an expression of calm curiosity. “You again,” she muttered. She was chewing on something, as always. This made me nervous. I tried not to show it. Putting the briefcase and suitcase down between us, I said: “Do you know how to type?” She smirked. “Not yet.” “Fine,” I said. “You’ve got the job.” “Does it involve being in prison?” “No.” “I’ll take it.” I held out a hand to Hardy, who then gave me the keys to the hand-cuffs.

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The girl held her hands out and I unlocked them. Then I kneeled down on my left knee. My hand shook so much it took a while to unlock the cuffs on her ankles. All I could see was her feet; my death lurked just above and out of sight. When I stood up, I felt euphoric. She hadn’t killed me. I tried to hide that feeling too. “You carry these bags out to the car. The job is personal assistant and secretary. You’re in the detecting business now.” Without any sign of emotion, the girl picked up the cases, one in each hand. She then strode past me and out of the cell. The two policemen backed up against the opposite wall, guns shaking. “Hey Hardy,” said the girl. “You behave now, lady – I’m giving you a chance, see.” The girl spat out the bullet she had been sucking on. This time it was slow enough for Hardy to catch it – as a reflex action, of course. In doing so, he dropped his gun. “Shit!” he gasped. The girl winked at him and left the room. “Come on,” she said to me. “Let’s not linger.” Still looking at the bullet, Hardy muttered, “Just letting us know, eh?” I hurried after the girl, nodding to Hardy. “You drive,” I said, hoping to keep her hands occupied. I wasn’t stupid. Surely she resented me for having something over her, out of prison or not. “You can’t employ nobody,” she said. “One needs a name to have a job.” “How about ‘Sinthia’?” I said. “Why Cynthia?” “Sinthia, as in Ab-sinthe-ia. Besides, it sounds secretaryish.” She laughed. “Sinthia it is then.” She started the engine as I strapped myself in the passenger seat. “Ever noticed,” she said, “how the word secretary is built around the word secret?” She put her foot down and we went on our unofficial way. No lon-ger distracted, I returned to wondering what the hell this place was, and where I fit into it all.

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Five

THE flat I was living in at the time became our first makeshift office. I got Sinthia to do most of the work, moving furniture and cleaning up. She wasn’t happy about it, but she was harmless so long as her hands were kept occupied. More clients rolled in with petty mysteries to solve. Most of them came via Hardy’s recommendation, but my reputation was growing. In between these diversions, I continued to work on the ultimate mystery of who and why we are. Sinthia was obsessed with this question too, but she was certain the Green Fairy who haunted her favourite drink would tell her. I suspected she was an alcoholic. One evening, I was peering out of my shuttered windows at the rooftops, smoking my pipe. Sinthia was sitting at her desk trying on assorted types and colours of makeup. She’d bought the makeup kit on my suggestion, as something “ladylike” she could occupy her hands with. Before that, she’d bought such things as knuckledusters, a blackjack, a switchblade knife and nunchakus. As I gazed out my window, a ring of smoke rolled across the panorama. It made me think of the smoke rings that Herakles blew. Then another

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smoke ring rolled by, followed by a third. I peered in the direction whence they came and saw that there was a chain of smoke rings floating by. “Wait a second…” I said. “What’s was that?” called Sinthia vaguely. “That must be Herakles.” “What must be what?” She seemed absorbed in applying the makeup. When I looked around I saw that Sinthia had discarded most of the colours in favour of black, white and green. Black and green around her eyes and a ghostly white face. “You look like a corpse, for goodness sake,” I said, grabbing a jacket. “You going somewhere?” “I think someone is calling me.” I left the flat and followed the smoke signals back toward their origin. They led me to a tall project building. The smoke was coming from the roof. I entered and ascended. When I climbed out of the stairwell and onto the large but empty roof area, I saw Herakles waiting on the edge. She was smoking her pipe and looking out at the lights below. She turned to see me and I noticed in her silhouette a hooknose. “You got my smoke signals,” she smiled. “We both have aquiline noses.” I said. “How about that!” “Of course we do,” she said. “We’re both detectives.” “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “We’re not relatives.” “A hook nose implies the beak of an eagle.” “Like the griffon in your logo?” “That’s right,” she smiled. “The lion being the earthly king and the eagle the soaring spirit. The aquiline nose is common detective phrenol-ogy. Sherlock Holmes illustrates this.” “You’ve had that dream too?” She chuffed on her pipe and nodded. “Wait,” I stammered. “Is … this a dream?” She blew a smoke ring. “Perhaps it is. Dreams and memories; can you tell the difference?” “It doesn’t make sense! How can all of us be dreaming about the same

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things?” I cried. “And why about everywhere but here? After all, I know more about those places. We all do.” “Ever wanted to travel, or to get involved in world issues?” “Who doesn’t?” “And did you realise that dream?” “I can’t remember. I guess not.” “Well, it only stands to reason, then, why the outside world is synony-mous with the dream world.” “So you’ve dreamed of Sherlock Holmes.” “Yes,” said Herakles. “Sam Spade, John Marlow, The Shadow, Bull-dog Drummonds. They are archetypes within the collective unconscious. That’s why you dream them. And it is these archetypes that illustrate the craft of the detective.” “So they are dreams?” “It’s a funny thing,” she began. “The impressions we receive from our five senses travel inwards, setting off reactions – patterns of vibration -- in our brains, emotions and mind respectively. Then the impressions continue further until they reach the consciousness in the centre. The consciousness or Soul is changed as these impressions bounce off it and head back outwards. On the way outwards, the reacted patterns are re-peated again in the mind, then in the emotions, then out again instructing the nervous system’s response. Only, on the way out, the said vibrations are fainter, as the momentum is not as strong as the first time. These fainter vibrations on the way out are what we call memories.” She paused while I digested it all. “They seem less real because they are fainter,” she continued. “Dreams have a similar faintness of vibration, and thus they also seem less real. So do imaginings.” She looked at me. “But what if your concentration was so focussed that you caused mental vibrations that were just as strong as when they react to external influences? Would we perceive them as being real too?” “You mean, what if I could visualise an image so powerfully that it would appear as solid as if I’d seen the real thing?” “That’s right.” I had no answer. “Such a question is not a matter for opinion, but rather

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for experiment,” I said. “And I have no experience.” “Here,” she said, throwing me a magnifying glass. “This will bring that focus.” I fumbled and nearly dropped it. The hand I went to catch it with – unbeknownst to me – already held a smoking-pipe. Red-faced, I put the pipe in my mouth in order to hold the magnifying glass strongly. “You’ll find,” she said, “that tools like this are archetypes, we in this world will be combinations of both common types of romantic detective: the old London Town, Sherlock Holmes version and the Hard Boiled American version.” “We’re mongrels,” I remarked with a smile. “Just as mystics receive training via the traditional Master-disciple relationship, so too does the detective have the Holmes-Watson relation-ship. I turned the tool over. The glass gleamed. “So this tool is for focus-sing?” “It is with his hands that Man forged his tools. And it’s with those tools that he manifested his will. What does the detective have in his hands?” “Uh, I suppose this is a magnifying glass,” I answered. “That’s right.” I held the glass up. “Okay,” I began. “The detective’s will is to … uh, look closely at the world?” “Tools reflect purpose. They are the Self, turned outwards; the spark of life in us, exerting force on its surroundings, causing change. The farther the Self extends, the more specialised and diverse its incarnations (as tools) become. Note that the handle on your glass still contains the rod, the prototypical tool.” As she spoke, I used the magnifying glass to focus the moon’s rays and light the tobacco in my pipe. “Our tool is made from a circle and a vertical line, one being feminine and the other masculine. A circle is a boundary of focus, an indication that we’re searching and paying attention to detail. A magnifying glass concentrates, Katonksky. As it just concentrated the moon’s light to your pipe, it also concentrates the mind. Our scattered thoughts gather in the

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circle and project through the glass as a single beam (an idea or revela-tion). In the circle we see a recurring theme in common with the trench coat and the office -- a ring-pass-not or event horizon, so to speak. The cocoon of a caterpillar. As you peer through the glass, you are no longer aware of anything outside the circle.” “Ah, I don’t have a trench coat or an office. I’m using my flat.” “You will have one soon. But for now – keep the magnifying glass with you always. As long as you feel it in your hand, let it remind you of your purpose. This association will give you the needed focus and will provide a source of strength in times of uncertainty. “Now that you have your tool,” she said, “We can begin our work.” I blew a smoke ring.

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Six

GRADUALLY the case of my amnesia was unravelling. Perhaps for-getting had been necessary to clear the way for this new purpose. An interesting thing to note is that as long as I held the magnifying glass, or even felt its bulk in my pocket, no longer did my palms behave as magnets. The pipe and flask, however, were already here. They didn’t up and leave, tool or no tool. Every spare night I stood at the window of my room, watching for smoke signals. When they did appear again, I took out my pipe and charged it with my magnifying glass (using moonlight). I blew out a reply. Then I threw on some shirts and jumpers and went in search of Herak-les.

“Evening,” she said when I found her. “It’s good to see you’ve re-deemed your pipe.” “Thanks,” I said. I had only an inkling of what she meant. We were strolling over rooftops. The houses were built close together and only a small leap was needed to get from roof to roof.

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“Now that you have your magnifying glass,” said Herakles, “you can learn how to see the world as a cluster of clues. Every phenomenal thing in the world is a clue leading to hidden truths.” I understood. The magnifying glass, for example, was a clue to my purpose. “The appearance of that pipe in your life was a clue to something,” Herakles hinted. “Yes,” I said. “But now it’s changed.” “Very good,” she said. “Go on.” I considered. What is a smoking pipe evidence of? First, it was evidence of my lack of purpose. This led to lack of will, as reflected by a tobacco addiction. But now… “Okay,” I began. “The mouth is the window to the mind, the tongue and speech being the clothes of the invisible man we call thought.” Herakles listened patiently. “The pipe reaches inside the head on one end and out to the world on the other end. It sucks in the poison (tobacco) from the outside world--” “Note the theme of sacrifice,” added Herakles. “—then the detective blows it out as usable material; a smoke ring is a form of communication. The kick we get out of blowing them reflects man’s natural preference for beauty and order in the form of a circle, to chaos and randomness in the form of a shapeless cloud.” We blew smoke rings together. Herakles broke into a run. When she reached the edge, she leapt onto a larger roof than the previous ones in our path. It was tiled and she went up and leaned on the chimney. I followed. She broke the silence by saying: “Now that we’ve worked up plenty of smoke, tonight we will weave you a detective’s uniform.” “The trench coat and a fedora hat?” “That’s right.” “How?” I saw no cloth or weaving wheel on her person. “Using your pipe, baptised by the fire that the focus of the magnifying glass created.” “I can’t wait to see this,” I said incredulously. “Smoke isn’t exactly the

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strongest material to weave with.” “Neither is thought, until you add intense concentration.” Herakles paced around the roof with her head down. She closed her eyes and put her pipe to her lips. Streamers of smoke snaked out from it. These seemingly conscious mist-serpents then weaved in and out, entwining themselves like threads in a quilt. In moments we were surrounded by a finely woven fog, with the rest of the city promising to get blocked out. “When there is focus,” said Herakles, waving her magnifying glass, “each thread of thought relates itself to each other, all ultimately relating to the one subject in the middle. You see now how we’ve almost built an office?” “Ah yes.” She meant the surrounding smoke, which was too large to resemble a piece of clothing. “The more complex the subject; the more intricate the weaving and the finer the threads. Touch it.” The surrounding cloud thickened and even sagged in places. Expecting the smoke to scatter at my touch, I reached out a hand. It felt like silk. It was smooth and shiny, and though it did not disperse, it did break in

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places, as does a spider web. “Remarkable!” I gasped. Herakles spoke to me about the use, substance and power of thought. She spoke of how the universe was created with thought. As she spoke, I realised that a pipe was a fusion of the flute and basket of a snake charm-er. Out from the basket came dancing the charmed snakes of the mind, weaving in and out. Even when she stopped speaking smoke streamed out because she was still engaged in the thinking process. Then she stopped, emptied her pipe and put it away.

Herakles reached up and pulled down a bunch of the thought-web loose. She spent some time shaping it. Then, with the pull of a single thread, the whole thing tightened into a stiff fedora hat. One of the thought-snakes formed a hatband, joined at the front by swallowing its own tail. She handed it to me and I tried it on. “It hides the detective,” she explained as I put it on my head. “It con-tains his thoughts, a symbol of meditation. It shields the detective from the sun and rain, like the serpent with hooded cobra-head who rose up from the ground and protected the Buddha while he meditated.” The hat felt good. In fact, it felt like a crown. “As long as it is on your head, it should remind you of those associa-tions. “Now,” said Herakles, “to build your own coat...” I charged my pipe (for it had gone out) and began to consider. “Proceed carefully,” instructed Herakles. “The trench coat is your uni-form, indicating your worldly personality. Consider carefully and in great detail who you want to be and what qualities and associations you want to weave into it. Make sure it covers the length of you. Leave none of the wearer uncovered. You will see later that an office is but a very loose item of clothing; the trench coat is microcosmically the same. Something to express your Self through.” The process was intense. The finer the threads of smoke, the more ex-hausting it was. I often needed to relight my pipe and maintain focus. My concentration was such that Herakles’s presence dropped from my attention, and all the smoking made me light-headed.

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I dropped the pipe and grunted. With a wave of my arms I heaved away all the smoke – as if to disassociate. I let go of the whole topic and stopped thinking. “I’m frazzled,” I mumbled. Bonk! I fell asleep the moment my head hit a roof tile.

When I awoke, Herakles was gone. I sat up. Neatly folded in front of me was a new trench coat. It was just on dawn and I was lucky I hadn’t fallen from the roof. I stripped off all the excess layers of random clothing I wore and tossed them off the building. I wrapped myself in the coat. There’s something to be said about mak-ing your own clothes.

I didn’t see Herakles again for a long time.

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Seven

THAT’S enough backtracking. You get the idea. Thirteen hours I’d been bunkered down in my office. Yesterday evening my secretary finally blew her fuse and tried to kill me. Seven thirty the next morning, the wooden box with the undead gang-ster inside had been tipped over, and I was crouching on the floor behind it with my shotgun. Sinthia had already knifed me in the left arm when I spat the poisoned coffee she gave me in her face. The door that separated my room from hers had been blown to pieces by gunfire and she was hid-ing somewhere to the side. I had to stop her but I didn’t want to kill her. Sinthia was the only sec-retary I would ever find for the crumbs I paid. The phone rang. I sat there for a moment listening to it. Sinthia seemed very quiet. Since the phone was within arm’s reach, I took the risk and picked it up. Still no move from Sinthia. “Yes?” “Hey, I think we have a client,” said Sinthia, down the line.

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I threw the phone down. That was close!, I thought. Sinthia could have shot me through the telephone. Right in the ear. I hadn’t heard her get up and move. But on the phone I could hear a piano in the background. Only then did I take in what she actually said. Trembling, I picked up the receiver and put it back to my ear. “Don’t expect me to fall for that!” I replied. “See for yourself,” she said. “It’s no trick. Someone’s pulled up outside your window.” With my shotgun pointed at the doorway, I inched away from behind the desk and glanced out the window. Sure enough, a carriage had pulled up. Instead of horses, a giant spider with a red heart marked on its back was pulling it. A man in a top hat jumped out of the carriage and entered The Pegasus. He could have just come for a drink, but he didn’t look like the type who hung around this kind of pub. Soon I heard him and Sinthia coming up to our rooms. Sinthia said: “Please, go right through.” I put the shotgun down and tipped the desk back up. The man walked in as I was spreading the tablecloth over it. I spat out the bullet that I’d been sucking on into my hand. “Good eve-ning,” I said. “Evening?” said the man, looking around at the mess. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning, sir!” His skin had a greenish tinge and he was also draped in bits of web, which he absent-mindedly pulled from his clothes. “Is it?” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Fine. I haven’t had any sleep.” “Oh. I imagine you must be up all the time, solving cases, yes?” He glanced at the gash on my arm. “Something like that.” I extended my hand. “Sully Katonksky, private eye.” He shook it and said: “Ericson Bleeder.” I took out my pipe, packed it and lit it up. “Now, you’ve travelled quite a long way to see me. It must be important.” “How do you know how far I’ve come?” “It’s quite obvious, Mr Bleeder. First, there aren’t any spiders that large around here. Second, nobody travels by carriage any more. Therefore, you must have come from the past. That’s quite a journey.”

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“I’m sorry, sir, but among other things I am an importer of exotic ani-mals. I live just in the outer edge of the New Centre, and not in the past at all.” “New Centre? I’ve heard the expression before. You mean the Third Ring?” “Yes. The Third Ring is the New Centre of town, despite what the Ly-ons might deny. My place is a half-hour journey away. One of my hob-bies is collecting old cars and, yes, carriages (though I only have the one). I hope your usual services are a little more astute?” “Forgive me. I haven’t had any sleep, you see.” “You already said that.” “Did I? Sorry. It’s just that I haven’t had any sleep. Now, Mr Bleeder, how can I be of service to you?” He took his hat off with some difficulty (it was webbed on) and scratched his bald, green head. The only chair was in pieces, so I gestured for him to sit on the desk. “It’s my new neighbour,” he sighed. “She’s been … well, it started with her singing that music.” “Which music?” “I don’t know, but it sounds unrehearsed. It makes all the neighbours behave peculiarly. She’s been spending all her time on the roof of her home, moaning and howling.” “No law against that…” “Well that part is incidental. It’s on the full moon when she starts to … well, it’s a rather sensitive issue… you see she leaves her clothes be-hind…and well, then she….” “Is this a domestic disturbance issue, then?” “Oh no, Mr Katonksky. It is more sinister than that! Let me ex-plain…” I remember snapping to attention at the words: “…and I want you to put a stop to it! Find out who she really is. Find a weakness so that I can have her deported or at least thrown out of my neighbourhood.” Shit! I realised that I must have dozed off while he’d been speaking. “Frankly, I think she’s a spy,” he said. “Peryton’s Detective Agency is

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probably responsible.” “Um … what makes you think there has to be somebody to blame? I mean, Mr Bleeder, sometimes things just happen.” “There is always somebody responsible for everything that happens. Everything! Look around you: somebody built this whole town! Some-body is responsible for the language we speak. I wouldn’t get up in the mornings if it wasn’t for somebody or other.” He had a point. Then who, I wondered, was responsible for my lack of enthusiasm and ambition? “Yes,” I said, “but the moon? The only person arguably responsible for the moon is …” “I must say, you’re treating this rather lightly after what I told you! My neighbourhood is being terrorised!” It sounded dramatic; he must’ve told me some serious stuff when I had dozed off. “Oh …it’s just that I see this kind of thing a lot in my business. But rest assured. I’m onto it.” The man then reached into his coat and produced a small box, tied with string. He put it on the table. “Here you are then, as I said. Remember, it feeds on itself, you needn’t stuff it with anything.” “Oh. Thanks.” “What’s your fee then?” he asked, taking out his wallet. “Three hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.” He dumped three thousand dollars, in one hundred dollar bills, on the desk. “Remember,” he added, “this should be cleared up as quickly as

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possible.” “I’ll do my best.” “I’ll be frank with you, sir, and tell you that I have little faith in your freelance detective work. But my own people cannot seem to get at her. And Hardy recommended you.”

I watched through the window as he entered his carriage. The driver lashed the giant spider and it scurried away, dragging the carriage be-hind. When I turned around, Sinthia was pointing a gun at me. “Now look here,” I said. “There’s three thousand dollars on the desk. Do you want to see more?” She glanced down. “If you kill me,” I continued, “I’ll never solve the case and you’ll be back behind bars.” Keeping the gun on me, she looked at the money then at my head. She sucked a little on the bullet she had in her mouth. With a sour expres-sion, and a loud gulp, Sinthia swallowed it. “One of these days, Sully,” she said, reaching for the money. “You’ll see. I’ll have you where I want you.” She aimed her gun at the window and fired off her last shot. “I’ve got to go," I said, grabbing my jacket. "Clean this shit up, will you.” She slumped against the doorway.

I decided to walk because Sinthia had tried to persuade me to use the van. I suspected that she might have tampered with the brakes or some-thing. But I regretted it in seconds. I was just too tired, so I went to a café and ordered a long black. I took out the box that Bleeder had given me and untied the string. I took a gulp of coffee and wondered what it could be. Damn Sinthia for keeping me up all night. Here I was on a case I knew little about, because I bloody well fell asleep while Bleeder explained it to me! Not only did I have to solve the case, but I also had to solve what the case was! I finished the coffee and opened the box. In it was an insect, the size of a

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rugby ball. It was silver and purple and had human eyes that made it look intelligent. It was long like a silver fish. It wagged its tail. “What the hell is this?” I wondered. “What on Earth did Bleeder give me this for?” Suddenly it curled up on itself and started eating its own tail. I remem-bered what Bleeder had said. Taking out my standard-issue detective's magnifying glass, I proceeded to study it. Something more needs to be said here about the function and effect of the magnifying glass. I’ve explained how its purpose is to focus both the vision and the concentration into a single point. But as he peers through the glass, the detective's eyes cross and fuse with each other until he be-comes a Cyclops. With his one eye (often called the ‘Private Eye’), the detective's vision becomes clearer and more penetrating. He is able to see through the form of any object, to its 'quality' or true nature. Likewise, if he witnesses an incident, he will see through it to its underlying cause. This applies to people with their disguises and stereotypes too. The more advanced detectives no longer carry magnifying glasses, since they are able to fuse their eyes into a single eye without any help. On rare occasions, they can be seen -- like visionaries -- standing on the rooftops and peering over their cities. Elsewhere under the name of Arimaspians, these detectives press northwards, exploring the edge of civilisation. Now with only a single eye in my forehead, I looked closely at the in-sect. It was glowing a lurid green. The green aura extended about a metre around it. "Whoah!" I quickly closed the box. The insect, I understood, served as a vessel to carry around that green radiation. I didn’t want to be affected by it. My first job, then, was to find out what kind of insect did this. Indeed, what was the nature of the force it radiated? By discovering what use such an animal is, I would know what to do with it. Secondly, I had to go meet this neighbour of Bleeder’s and find out more about her. A stray bullet, ricocheting off the side of my head, woke me at about midday.

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“Unnhhh.” I fell from my chair and rolled around in pain, cursing my-self for falling asleep again. After paying for the coffee, I took the box and went over to a bloke I knew who smuggled endangered creatures, among other things, into town from people’s dreams. I knocked on the door of his second-hand bookshop, which was a front for his smuggling business. One of his henchmen opened the door and said: “What do you want, Sully? Looking for a book? Didn’t think you could read.” It was Stiltsy. He had abnormally long legs – like stilts – and usually earned a living walking in parades. Rumour had it that he’d assassinate people from high up there with a silencer, or act as the 'eye in the sky' for his associates in crowded situations. But there weren’t enough parades around, so now he worked here. He had a kick on him like an angry cheerleader. “I want to speak to Uhler,” I said. “Wait here.”

I must have fallen asleep waiting because when I came to, I was in the back room and Uhler was playing poker with his shadow. “What the hell do you think my place is, Sully? Haven’t you got a bed at home?” “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t suppose I could use your shower?” “Hurry up.” After a cold shower I felt a little better. I put my crusty clothes back on and found clean bandages in the medi-cine cabinet with which to dress the wound that Sinthia

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had given me. I found Uhler inspecting the insect with a magnifying glass of his own. “What do you make of it?” I asked. “Something’s taken a bite out of its tail.” He looked up with a single eye in the middle of his forehead. He was no detective, but his profession gave him occasion to keep a magnifying glass. “No,” I explained, “it feeds on itself.” His eye ignited. “No way!” “That’s what the owner said. Do you know what it is? It keeps staring like it has something to tell me.” “You haven’t looked in its eyes too much have you, Sully?” Uhler said, his eye slowly dividing into two again. “No. I only looked at it a few hours ago.” “Haven’t handled it too much, have you?” “No, not at all. Not when I noticed the radiation. So, what is it?” “It’s an idea. The creature itself is just the packaging. Here.” Uhler turned the light off then switched a fluorescent globe on. The lurid green glow could now be seen more easily. “Well, what is this idea, exactly?” “Or an ideal, Sully. It is a type of invisible force. How is it you’re a private eye, but you know nothing whatsoever about the smuggling busi-ness?” I shrugged. “We have to clothe ideals in symbols so we can see them. When some-one converts to an ideal, like, say, Socialism, he’s been exposed to that force indirectly. The radiation of what we call Socialism has rubbed off on them and altered their makeup.” “So, what force is that bug a symbol of?” “That’s the problem. Usually the vessel will have a label or symbol. When someone uses an unmarked creature like this one, they’re usually hiding what it carries. That’s how illegal ideals are smuggled into town. Legally, they are usually distributed in flags, books, CDs and art. Come and see.” “Or absinthe,” I mused. I shoved the lid back on the box, covering the insect. Then I took the box

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and followed Uhler down to the cellar. There were shelves full of CDs and books and paintings – each emanating a different coloured aura. Uhler kept his merchandise colour-coded according to their auras. For example, I saw Christian memorabilia, such as sculpted Christs-on-crosses, scattered between more than one colour-section, despite their outer similarity. So, whereas one cross would glow rose pink and give a feeling of wellbeing, another would glow a pale grey and make you feel afraid. “As you can see,” said Uhler, “you cannot always tell what type of radiation is inside from the vessel. But at least you can tell that they are vessels; the crosses obviously carry ideologies in them. But if someone wants to change you without you knowing, they’ll put it in unusual pack-aging, like that bug. Where’d you get it?” “A client gave it to me. I don’t know what he wants me to do with it. I fell asleep while he was explaining.” Uhler looked at me like I was a moron. “I’d say he wants you to be affected by the ideal. That way he’ll know you’re on-side. Or else he’s given it to you to protect you from other forces. How does the insect make you feel?” “Restricted. Depressed. Those eyes are always watching me.” “I'm not surprised. That loathsome shade of green is not a good sign. Open the box.” I placed the box down and opened it again. Out came the green glow. Uhler took some books and CDs down and approached the insect. He held a book near it and the insect hissed loudly. Uhler jumped back. “Whoah!” “What was the book?” “Charles Bukowski.” He then extended a CD to the insect. It thrashed its tail and hissed again. “What was it?” “Captain Beefheart. This insect, I think, carries a strand of conservative ideals. I’d need time to find out anything more specific. But I’ll tell you one thing: it doesn’t feed off itself, it feeds off us.” “But I did see it biting its own tail.”

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“Probably a last resort. Most ideologies need new carriers in order to perpetuate themselves. Otherwise they eat away at themselves, but only to die off pretty quickly. The only idea that really exists on its own nour-ishment is the archetypal idea, the Philosophers’ Stone.” “I’ve heard the term.” “Pure reason, which becomes the fulcrum from which lesser, temporary ideas form the famous lever that moves the world.” Uhler laughed. “Any-way, if you want my advice, get rid of this insect. You can’t be objective with such a thing affecting you.” “Will you trade?” “Sure. What do you want for it?” “Something carrying the opposite force. Something that feels liberating.” After a quick browse, Uhler gave me a dog-sized lobster on a leash. It had an orange aura and did feel liberating to be around, al-though it looked a little comical. I thanked Uhler and left with my new pet. Stiltsy was sitting outside on a chair, his knees reaching higher than his shoulders. “Find a book?” he asked. “Bukowski.” As I walked out, I thought about what Uhler had shown me about symbols. A chair does not exist for its own sake: it is an indi-cation of Man’s ability to sit down wherever he wants. It represents the desire to sit.

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Stiltsy sure looked funny in that chair.

My next stop was Bleeder’s neighbourhood. It was in the Third Ring out from the old town centre, the place he’d tipped to become the new town centre. It included the business district, parliament, and upper middle-class suburbia. The symbol on all the street signs was a tongue of fire. As I strolled into the neighbourhood, it didn’t take long for me to under-stand what was going on there. Each house had two storeys, two cars and a garage. Many had pools, murky gardens and high fences. I passed a woman who was walking an insect on a leash that looked the same as the one I just swapped. It lashed out at my lobster. The woman just sneered. The farther I walked, the more insects I saw. They lay about on win-dowsills and in driveways. There were even a few strays dwelling on fences or in trees, their human eyes always watching. As I strolled with my lobster, it seemed as if the whole street were hissing at us. I popped my pipe into my mouth and said to the lobster: “Well then. Half the case is solved already.” The smoke from my pipe trailed all the way down the street in an un-

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broken line. The insects fled out of its way. Good to know. It didn’t take long to find Bleeder’s house. It had a carriage and a giant spider parked out the front. I stopped a moment and took interest in the fact that the spider had weaved a shiny web that extended outwards in all directions, becoming the town's powerlines. Bleeder's house was in the centre of the web. There was more to Bleeder than he had let on. The spider -- its fangs like knitting needles -- was wrapping something up with its front legs. When I drew nearer, I blew smoke at it. It shrieked and curled itself into a ball. “Help me!” said someone from inside the ball of web. Luckily, I had a steel prong that I used for cleaning my pipe. I went about cutting him free. It was Changy Collins. “Goddamn!” he whined. “I was just resting in the gutter, that’s all! Thank God you came by.” “You were staking out Bleeder’s place, weren’t you?” “Of course not! I’m loyal to him.” “What’s going on out there?” called Bleeder from behind his high fence. Collins bolted down the road.

The street went quiet again. Turning, I saw a large spotlight shining down on the suburb. It moved across the road illuminating all in its way. At the same time I heard a high, feminine hum. Whenever the spotlight moved over any of the insects, they shrieked and began to smoke as if singed. The light came from the rooftop of the house next door to Bleeder. Then the spotlight passed over me— And I saw her. The woman of whom Bleeder had spoken stood on the roof of her house – pitch-black hair and snow-white skin, under grey clouds. Between the clouds shone the sun’s rays. The sunlight reflected off her pale skin, making her a surrogate moon. Her light then shone down into the streets and momentarily blinded me. When I closed my eyes, her image was burnt into my retinas. It was Herakles.

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When I opened my eyes, I found myself in Bleeder’s lounge room. “Morning,” I said confused. “It’s almost evening, Katonksky,” said Bleeder from across the room. He was fanning the fire in his fireplace trying to get the dull purple flames to show a bit more enthusiasm. He had even more strips of web hanging from him. In fact, his leg was tangled in a strip of web that was stuck to the wall. Bleeder’s living room was more like an exhibition of the useless stuff he owned, lots of stuffed animals. Above me was perched a large bird with the head of a beautiful woman. Its large, sharp talons looked as dangerous as its face was alluring. Stretched out in front of the fireplace, was the hide of an animal that was half deer, half eagle. The head and legs were deer, and its great eagle wings were spread out on each side. All these things were partially covered in web. “I found you standing dazed in the middle of the street,” said Bleed-er. “It’s that bloody woman for sure. Now you see what we’re dealing with." “Where’s my lobster?” “Good God! That absurd thing! I left it outside. Where is the protection that I gave you?” “The case called for the lobster. Trust me – I know my business.” Bleeder sneered. “Very well." He tossed the bellows aside. The fire hadn't improved. Bleeder shook his leg free from the web then sat down opposite me. "How’s the case coming?” “First of all, it is perfectly clear why this neighbour of yours spends her time on the roof of her house.” “Aha! Excellent! Something clandestine, eh?” “She was forced up there.” “You what? Forced by whom?” “She’s climbing out of the suburb to avoid the insects. It’s quite obvi-ous.” “The insects do no harm! It’s her who is killing the insects with that beam of light!” As he spoke, an insect crawled up Bleeder’s leg and into his lap. He

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stroked it like a cat. It watched me. “The woman was probably suffocating in this neighbourhood,” I con-tinued. “Nonsense,” said Bleeder. “Once you get used to these insects, you’ll warm to them. This woman is the problem.” “Nevertheless, that is why she conducts her activities on the roof: she’s avoiding your pets.” I began to feel dizzy in the head and sick in the stomach. My lobster must have been acting as a buffer to the insects’ radiation. Bleeder grumbled a bit then said: “Very well, Katonksky. But telling me why she is there doesn’t solve the problem.” “That’s why I’m here. Her house is my next stop.” Back on the street, the air felt heavy. I couldn’t seem to suck enough of it into my lungs. “Where’s that lobster?” I moaned, undoing my coat and loosening my collar. And there it was: torn to pieces on the driveway. Some insects were still gnawing on the bits of shell. More insects had gathered since I’d been inside Bleeder’s house. It was like a small crowd of hateful eyes, staring me down. I stumbled past them down the driveway and into the next yard. I looked to the roof … and there she still was! The coming night had no effect on the brightness of her skin. She was standing on the edge with her arms out. In each hand she held a garbage can lid. Using them as cymbals, she clanged them together. A deep and clear note rang across the rooftops. Instantly, swarms of insects rose from every garden and fled the sound. The note sustained for some time, causing my body to vibrate. It felt as if I were crumbling. Then the sound died out.

“Ah, Katonksky!” Herakles smiled as I climbed up a drainpipe and peered on the roof. She was surrounded by a small group of desperate-looking locals. This included Changy Collins. They had gathered to her like moths to a flame. "He's a friendly," said Collins to the others, remembering my good

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deed. I stumbled over a few people as I climbed onto the roof. “Hello,” I huffed. “Sully Katonksky, private eye.” “How does one get into that line of work, anyway?” asked Collins. “Don’t know. I just put up a sign.” I looked down at the street. The insects kept their distance. “They won’t follow here," said Herakles. "What do you want, Ka-tonksky? Have you considered my offer?” She was referring to the offer she’d made when we first met, that I become a sub-contractor for Pery-ton’s Detective Agency. “Herakles,” I stammered. “This can’t be your house. You’re not even a citizen. Bleeder, your neighbour, he’s—” “I know who he is.” “He has employed me to come and find out what’s going on. They say you’re terrorizing the suburb.” “Do they look terrorized?” Some of the other residents were coming out of their houses and gather-ing under the spotlight. Groans of relief reached us as people basked in the light. Some danced in the beam; others just stood with arms thrown up. Herakles’s skin looked translucent, like pearly glass. A light shone from within her chest, giving her the appearance of a human light bulb. She was naked from the waist up and held her lion-skin jacket behind her like a cape, using it to direct the light forward into a beam. “No, of course not,” I admitted. “But what is that light? I’m surmising that it’s an ideal and you are the packaging?” “Ideals themselves are packaging.” She turned suddenly and swung the light beam across the rooftops. It burned away some of the web-work cum powerlines that Bleeder's spider had built. “Hmmm …” I tried to work out what she was saying. Ideals all carry the energy to progress: the Will. But they all have use-by dates. “Do you know what intuition is?” Herakles asked, assuming her men-tor’s tone. “Um… direct knowledge?”

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“Yes. An instant receiving of truth. It is beyond reasoning and learning through external means -- that's tuition.” “No packaging, in other words.” Shouts and scuffles sounded from the street. A crowd was forming and a distant siren sounded. They all annoyed me. “I want you,” I said. “Forget me: I’m just the packaging.” People started appearing over the ledge of the roof. They looked des-perate to be closer to the light. Everyone pushed and shoved. “No,” I said. “I mean – I’m ready to cooperate.” The residents, who sat nearest to her, huddled even closer. Two of them caught on fire and burned up – “Aaaaeeeiii!” They shrunk and shrivelled instantly, flakes of them flying away like burnt paper. Others stumbled over me, or pushed me aside to get to her. That’s when I realised that the latest arrivals were the Doyley Collective. “Rush her!” they called. They each caught on fire as they approached. But the hoods kept pushing forward until they finally reached Herakles and smothered her. Ladders were placed on the sides of the house. More of Bleeder’s henchmen (I assumed) kept coming, and piling onto the mound of Doy-leys, like a shovel-load of sand thrown onto burning coals. I struggled the best I could, and a group of us were hurled off the side of the house. I smashed against the ground.

And then I dreamed that I was the moon.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a thin bed in a white room. “What happened?” I groaned. I felt a bandage on my aching head. Sinthia sat next to me with a tea tray. “There was a riot or something. Hardy brought you here.” “Hospital?” “Yes.” Good old Hardy, I thought. “I’ve got to get back there,” I said.

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“No point. Bleeder has fired you. Also, I’ve moved us out of The Pe-gasus, in case any trouble gets traced back to us there.” “I suppose Doyley must be working for Bleeder. They’d at least suspect my association with Herakles.” “Here. Drink this.” I brought the tea to my lips, but then paused. There was an anxious twinkle in Sinthia’s eye that made me suspicious. It smelled like tea and looked like tea, but then most poison is not easily detected. I put the cup down and took out the rest of the money that Bleeder had paid me. “Here,” I said. “Hold on to it.” I hoped the sight of money would remind her that I was useful to her alive. Then I picked up the cup again. Sinthia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, don’t drink that, Sully!” she said. “It’s hor-rible. Hospital food, you know.” She snatched the tray back and left the room. That was close. I found my hip flask and took a swig. I was exhausted, only now realis-ing how much sleep I’d missed. Outside the window were the same old streets and the same old ideals. But, closing my eyes, I saw Herakles.

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A surrogate moon.

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Eight

The Breath That Blasts

IT was at a crucial point in a dream one afternoon when a loud noise awoke me. I drifted from the dream towards the outside world. On one hand I was reluctant to leave the dream (because of the above-mentioned crucial point) and on the other hand I needed to inspect the noise. Af-ter all, my newly established office was open for business and I’d been sleeping at my desk. That’s right – no longer were Sinthia and I working out of hotel rooms. We now rented an office solely for detective work. It had an anteroom where Sinthia sat, and where I put a T-shaped stand. On it I would ‘cru-cify’ my personality-coat and hat before entering the office inside. I opened my eyes, remaining only half-awake so as to hold the dream just as I’d left it in my mind’s eye. Standing in front of me was a plump, middle-aged woman. She had awoken me by clearing her throat – she did this again. “Good morning,” I yawned. “It’s closer to evening,” she said. Her face was wrinkled with worry-lines. In fact, her aspect was so serious that the wrinkles looked more like

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cracks in a wall. Her worried eyes were peering into mine to see if she had my attention. “Of course,” I said. “And to what do I owe your honourable company, Madam?” “Please sir,” she hissed. “This is a matter of utmost seriousness.” She glanced around quickly and shook some dust from her head; the cracks on her face were causing her head to gradually crumble. “Aren’t they all?” She frowned. “I take all my cases with equal gravity,” I said. “Please continue.” “Well, Mr Katonksky. What I ask of you is very unusual. You see, I’m forced to withhold the details for now.” “Say on.” She reached into her handbag and produced a business card. On it was written: ‘Ericson Bleeder. Ye Olde Construction.’ “Bleeder!” I said, looking up. “Who is he to you?” “That’s my husband’s card. I need you to go to his office at midnight tonight.” “What on earth for?” “As I said, I can tell you nothing for now – but tonight everything will be revealed.” “Wait a second…” “Here!” She then poured out a little hill of one hundred dollar bills onto my desk. There was so much there, I didn’t even bother counting it. My desk groaned. The woman paused. “Is it true that you have a dead gangster inside your desk?” “Rumours,” I said. It groaned again. “What’s that then?” she asked. “My stomach. I’m ready for breakfast.” “I’ve just told you it’s close to evening, Mr Katonksky.” “I know. I’m ready for dinner, as I said.” “You just said… never mind. Just be there at midnight. There will be much more money waiting if you do.”

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With that, she turned and hurried out, leaving a trail of dust. Interesting, I thought, turning the card around in my hand. Bleeder, it appeared, was married to a woman from The Circle. I could tell that from her crumbling body, which resembled The Circle’s decaying buildings. This was significant because he was from the Third Ring, the Circle’s biggest rivals. The Third Ring was home to the Eegles Party, the other major political party, who championed the ‘New Centre’ movement. With that out of the way, I closed my eyes and returned to the dream…

Everything was as I’d left it. I had been strolling through a city street in Melbourne, Australia, when all the people around me started panicking. Everybody stepped over each other to get into the trams, and the cars all honked their horns and sped away. This caused traffic jams. I’d pulled someone up and said: “What’s going on?” “Didn’t you hear? A flood is coming! We need to prepare!” Farther on, somebody else pulled me up and said: “An earthquake! Thousands dead! Go and check your home!” “You what?” I yawned. “Wasn’t it a flood?” Someone butted in: “Out of the way! Haven’t you people heard? There’s been a chain of terrorist attacks.” “Are you sure it wasn’t an earthquake?” I said, alert now, and a little worried. “What exactly is going on?” “Come on,” suggested one man, “Let’s find out for sure.” A group of us surged to a hi-fi shop with a stack of televisions displayed in the shop window. A special news bulletin just began as we arrived. It was at this point that the client had woken me up. So … arriving back to the dream, after meeting with Mrs Bleeder, I found myself waiting eagerly to hear what the newsman had to say on the television. The strange thing is he didn’t say anything. He just stared vacantly back out at us. “What’s he waiting for?” I asked the crowd. Nobody answered. After a moment, I noticed that the crowd was also quiet. “What’s going on?” I called.

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Everybody else shared the exact same vacant expressions. I shook one man; it was as if I’d manhandled a mannequin. Soon, I noticed that the whole city was the same: every last person stood staring indifferently at nothing in particular. “But of course!” I shouted. I wasn’t dreaming anymore: I was imagining. Whatever ‘life’ the people had had in them, was gone from the moment that my client had woken me up. I had held the memory of the dream in my mind’s eye, but that’s all it was -- a memory. Everything appeared the same but was empty. There was no threat of disaster, just props doing whatever I imagined them to be doing. The actual substance of the dream had flowed away, as if I’d stepped out of a river upon waking. I obviously wasn’t asleep anymore. So I opened my eyes.

“Well then,” I mused. “I guess I have a little time to kill until twelve-of-the-clock.” I drank a mouthful from my flask. Then I stuffed tobacco into my pipe and lit up. With my feet on my desk, I chuffed away and watched the ribbons of smoke as they rose and spiralled about the room, turning and curling thus and so… Eventually the smoke-ribbons slowed down and coagulated into what looked like spider web. Then they set, clinging to the walls and dangling from the ceiling. Before long, the room was covered with web. I finished my pipe, musing that my smoke-cum-web-work did not share the quality of design that is evident in new spider webs; mine looked saggy and chaotic, more like a long-deserted spider home. It was eleven-thirty, time to set off and meet my client. "Sinthia, we've got a big one tonight," I said, passing by reception. My secretary was seated at her desk, cleaning a gun. She didn't look up. I dumped the money on her desk and told her that more was on its way. The city was conspicuously quiet. Everything appeared to be normal. A few kids were hooning around in cars, to and from the nightspots; the grownups were driving home from the late shift, or to the all-night

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Before long, the room was covered with web.

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supermarkets. As usual, there were the distant sounds of political demon-strations or riots happening in the distance. The streets still stank like a swamp. But something seemed different. In an industrial city such as this one there were chimneys and smoke-stacks all along the horizon. They blew out thick smoke from the fac-tories, mills and fast-food restaurants. I watched the grey-brown haze while I strolled, and kept track as it slowed down, hardened into web and draped over the buildings. It gave the place a ghost-town look. That's when it hit me. When I dropped the money under Sinthia's nose, she hadn't responded at all. You know when you're reading something and although you've looked at a particular word, you just don't see the typo? (Like 'form' in-stead of 'from' -- you see the 'f' and 'm' as you pass over a whole sentence, and assume what you'd just read based on what it should have said.) It's a form of blindness, caused by lack of attention. Well, I figured out what was different about the city: everything. It had all appeared normal because I assumed it was and didn't bother paying attention to what was in front of me. Like the dream, I was looking at a mental picture created from memory. I assumed Sinthia was sitting in reception just like she always does. Now I really looked -- and saw the Typos. The city looked fragile. As the wind blew, the roads and the buildings creaked like old ships. I expected the place to crack up or collapse. The more I looked, the more I noticed that it wasn't a random wind, but a ten-sion -- under the roads and inside each brick as if something were trying to bust free from its old skin. Every now and then, a few buildings or vehicles exploded. The address on the card, which my client had given me, was a high-rise building with

BLEEDERYE OLDE CONSTRUCTION

written at its peak in words of mighty stone. Circling the building were what appeared to be hundreds of human-sized eagles. They must have

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been a kind of Typo3 because I hadn't noticed them before, yet there were so many. I took the lift to the top floor. Nobody answered the door. After a brief wait, I pushed it open and walked in. Standing in the middle of the modern, spacious office was my client. She was draped in web which stretched from her limbs to the beams on the ceiling, and to the walls. A veil of web hung over her face. She looked at me with a matter-of-fact expression, as if she knew I would walk through the door at that very moment. "Hello," I said. "I suppose you didn't hear me knock?" She didn't answer. "Well. Here I am. What's this urgent case you need me on?" Still no response. "I think I'm getting deja vu," I said. Then I grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a good shake. Her head fell into pieces on the floor, as if it were made of old bricks. I paced over to the window and gazed out onto the city. "Now then..." I said aloud to myself. "This is an interesting case indeed. I either awoke back into my life as a detective ... or this is a mere memory of that life." Through the window, I saw close up what I had earlier mistaken for eagles. They actually had the heads and legs of deer. The rest of their bodies were those of eagles, with deep blue feathers. I mused that on a sunny day they would be difficult to see. But tonight the sky gave a much darker backdrop. There was a closed door on the wall to the left. I went to it and put my ear against it – no movement on the other side. This might be an ambush, I considered. But then, if it were, why would they wait in that room for me? Surely they’d have nabbed me as I entered the office. I opened the door and strode in. “By Jove! Split-ends!” Split-Ends was gagged. His captors had tied him to a chair, using his own arms. They wrapped around Split-ends and the chair three times, 3 Typos are also an ethnic group whom the average citizen cannot see, sometimes called Invisibles.

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and ended in a large knot at his chest. A bruise or two adorned his wrinkly face. I froze in hesitation -- his captors were right there with him. Block Head stood near the door, his huge brick-like fist clinched and ready. His goons were scattered around the room. One stood at a window looking worried about the flying beasts. Another sat in a chair watching Split-ends, with a pistol in his lap. Yet another was pacing with a baseball bat. At least, he stood fro-zen in a pose that depict-ed pacing. They were all frozen still. I might as well have walked into a wax museum. But it was Block Head and his gang all right, not sculp-tures. A shiver flew up my spine. Expecting one of them to clobber me, I crept by them and pulled the gag from Split-ends’s mouth. He didn’t react. It was just like my dream and Sinthia and Bleeder’s wife too. So I slapped him hard. “Wake up, old man!” On about the third slap, he gasped. “Sully, my brother. Thank God.” “What’s with Block Head?” “Not sure, old mate. We just started slowing down. I thought it was fatigue. Eventually, though, we’d stopped moving for hours. I just day-dreamed, daft bastard I am! Untie my arms, will you?”

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I went up close to Block Head and looked him in the eyes. One of them was shattered, like the window of a deserted house. Behind the ‘glass’ was a miniature room, dark and dusty with hardwood furniture. Block Head was cracked and crumbling, like Bleeder’s wife. When I shoved him, pieces fell from his raised fist and smashed on the floor. “Ow!” cried Split-ends, as I untied his arms. “Go easy, brother, this isn’t rope.” “Doing my best, old man.” He rubbed his reddened arms at the point where the knot had been. “They finally caught you, eh?” I asked. “Thought I was a goner,” he said. “They were asking about you. I must admit, brother, I told them where your office is.” “So this was an ambush?” “Not so sure. They had it in for you, yes. But they had it in for Bleeder too. The wife isn’t happy about all that ‘New Centre’ talk. And Blacky was her cousin.” “So this is the usual Lyons vs. Eegles.” Split-ends stood up. “I’m starving. You don’t have a few quid I could borrow, do you?” I forked out the cost of a feed. He found his coat and put it on. “Come on,” he said. “This place is creepy. Let’s get out before someone starts moving again.” “You go on,” I said. “I got some working out to work out.” “I owe you one,” he said on his way out. I went back to the main room and peered out the window.

"That dream all over again," I thought out loud. “Where then, Sully, has the life gone? It's flowed on … but whither to, old boy?" A voice said: "There you have your case, Katonksky." I spun around to see Herakles. She was standing next to Bleeder’s crumbled wife. "I'm impressed," she said. "Your powers of observation have spi-ralled." I kicked myself for not having noticed her enter. She was somewhat of a Typo herself. More so, since I thought she had died in that rooftop

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encounter with the Doyley Collective. But as her student, I should have been paying more attention. "You’re alive!” I exclaimed. She smiled. “You finally have an office.” “Sure. It was just a matter of time. When do I get to meet the famous Peryton?” “He is in the city now." “What are you doing here?” “This, Katonksky, is your new business.” “What do you mean?” “Bleeder’s ownership just ended. He sold it. That’s why his wife was panicking.” “Her and The Circle mob didn’t want to let go of it?” I asked. “That’s right.” I looked at Bleeder’s wife; the ruins of a humanoid building. “Well, he didn’t sell it to me,” I said. “I can’t afford it, anyway.” “I told you – we’re paying, but it’s under your company name.” “Whatever would I do with a construction company?” “Ah – we shall discuss this with Mr Peryton. Come on.” My new office was on the third floor of a three storey building, just as Herakles had advised. It was also in the northernmost point of the Third Ring, on the edge of town. Just as I’d feared, the windows in the office seemed like magnets for stray bullets. But following the advice of Herakles: I held fast. Sinthia was still there when I returned, cleaning her gun. When Herak-les and I came in, Sinthia didn’t seem concerned. “Well?” I said to Herakles. “Are you going to make a call to Mr Pery-ton?” “No. He called already. He’s waiting on the roof. Come on.” “Don’t you think it would be safer for him to come down here?” She didn’t answer. We stepped out into the hall then took the stairs. They were thin and spiralled up to the roof. A tall, thin man in a bright orange trench coat and an indigo tie stood

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I noticed that its shadow was that of a man’s.

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in the moonlight. He looked surprisingly young, say twenty-one, and had a single eye in the centre of his forehead. In his hand was a magnifying glass, the handle being half a metre in length. He held it like a king’s scepter. His shadow was not that of a man's, but shaped like the deer-headed birds that circled above. The moment I stepped out, one of the winged beasts swooped down on me. I threw myself to the floor and Herakles leapt over me, shooing the beast away. The animal flapped its wings, circled a bit, and then flew back to its fellows. Being the practised detective I am, I noticed that its shadow was that of a man's. I climbed to my feet. "Alright, Herakles, what's this all about?" "I’m sorry, Sully. They won't bother you again." "What are they?" "Peryton agents. Relax." Dusting myself off, I said: "Alright, but they better leave off.” The young man walked over to us. “Sully Katonksky,” said Herakles. “This is Mr Peryton.” “Pleased to meet you,” said Peryton extending his hand. “Likewise,” I said. As we stood shaking hands, Herakles faded until she was transparent … and then disappeared completely. “What happened to her?” I exclaimed. “She’s fulfilled her purpose,” said Peryton. “That’s all. You and I will communicate directly from now on.” “I remember she said something about the science of sacrifice,” I said. We stood in silence. Without warning, tears blurred my vision. I looked at Peryton’s single eye. “How about this case?" He smiled. "You've discovered a gap in consciousness, yes?” “That’s right. Speaking for the city, we are generally not conscious of anything beyond the Third Ring. Sure, there are dreams and theories, but that’s all. This city is not enough; I need more.” “That brings me to the case,” said Peryton. “You say the trail of con-sciousness ends at the Third Ring. What I want you to do is to pick up the

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trail and continue it." "So the construction company is for building roads?" "Construction and demolition, now, Mr Katonksky. But yes, we want to bridge the gap between Griffon and here.” “How can we make peace with Griffon City? We’re still fighting amongst ourselves. The exploding buildings are testament to that." "Why, that is us. Or rather, the forces we represent." "Peryton’s Detective Agency?" "The terrorism and the natural disasters, the wars and the demonstra-tions; it's all caused by the same force, only channelled through different mediums. The construction company will be but one of these means. The most 'constructive', you might say." As he said this, the building next to ours leant to one side, as if tired, and fell down roaring. "What do you mean 'the most constructive'?" I asked, when the sound died down. He seemed a little too calm for my liking. "We handle the force consciously; the others I mentioned do not. There-fore they misuse it in harmful ways, expelling it in frantic bursts because they cannot contain such a huge force." “Isn’t that good from your perspective? You’re at war with The Circle and The New Centre aren’t you?” “Certainly not. We want peace. The Circle is destroying itself, and has been since they cut Griffon off. Are you aware that this municipality is not on the maps of the world?” “I am. Do you know why?” “It is because your home is incomplete. When Griffon and this town unite again into one state, the rest of the world will once again become aware of us.” “And that is your goal?” “That is my clients’ goal.” “Who are Peryton’s clients?” “The rest of the world of course. The United Nations.” I needed to know one more detail: “ What's this force you speak of?" "'The breath that blasts', Mr Katonksky; Love." "Love and demolition? I ... I don’t see the connection."

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He held it like a king’s scepter.

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His single eye suddenly widened and became enflamed, and his mouth broke into a wide grin. "Look around you! This town does not have the capacity to handle the dynamic, drenching force that is Love. Its plan and architecture are inadequate; the boundaries are too small and the beams are straining to burst! You need new buildings; you are living in the tombs of your grandfathers, every stone containing their old ideals!" He grabbed me by the shoulders -- I hoped my head wouldn't crumble. Then he said: "The stream of consciousness, Mr Katonksky..." "Call me Sully." "…the stream of consciousness, Sully, is halted by this town. Your hometown is obstructing the stream and we must replace it with some-thing that can more adequately conduct the continuity of life. Your job is to pick up the thread; mine is to remove the obstruction. Then we shall build the road in your footsteps. What say you, Sully? Are you in?" I scratched my head. Peryton’s proposition confirmed to me that there was only ever one case to solve. "I'm in,” I said. “Let's talk about pay."

Back in my office, Peryton cleared a table to make space. “Do you have a large bowl?” he asked. “Preferably crystal.” The best I could do was a glass bowl, which we used for fruit. Peryton put it on the table and dragged the table near a window. He opened the curtain onto the first rays of morning. Sunlight illuminated the bowl. Then he took up his magnifying glass. “What’s the idea?” I asked. “Hold this,” he said. The weight of his glass surprised me; it was heavier than mine. The lens was stronger too. While I held it, Peryton took his coat off and loos-ened his tie. Then he took his glass back and held it between the sun and the bowl. The sunbeam focussed and intensified, pointing at the middle of the bowl. A show of choreographed beams leapt from the bowl and danced around the room in geometrical beauty. Peryton held still like that for a moment. The beam slowly intensi-fied. I became aware of a slight but constant musical note rising from the bowl. Peryton unbuttoned his shirt and bared his left breast. His skin was

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translucent, like that of a ghost. Inside his chest, through his skin, I could see his heart. It radiated like a miniature sun. He looked at me and gestured to it. Understanding, I took out my own magnifying glass then held it be-tween his heart and the bowl. He closed his eye and concentrated. After a few seconds a beam of light shot out from his heart, through my magnifying glass and into the bowl. The beams met at a point. We held like that, in a calm tension. I lost awareness of time. Little by little, beads of moisture formed in the bowl, as if dripping from the sunbeams. The drops became a pool. Soon enough, the bowl had a waterline. When a quarter of the bowl was filled with liquid, Pery-ton stopped. He staggered away from the window and slumped into a chair. We panted for a while.

“We need something to carry the liquid in,” Peryton finally said. I took out my hip flask and poured the scotch out the window (not with-out annoyance, I might add). Peryton poured the new liquid into my flask and handed it back to me. "What is it?" I asked. “This is the Solution,” he said. “I can see it’s a solution of some sort, but what is it?” “No Sully – it isn’t a solution; it is The Solution.” “You mean uh…” “To the Problem.” “Hang on. Do you mean The Solution, which all detectives seek?” “Yes. In order to solve his case, the detective needs to find it. The secret, however, is that the solution to the ultimate mystery is literally a solution in the chemical use of the word -- the result of mixing two substances until they dissolve into one. The detective is the problem solver; the solu-tion is the problem solvent. The two substances he mixes are the dualities of existence, dissolving into a harmony; Spirit and matter combining to make consciousness.” “No kidding,” I said. Opening the lid, I tipped a drop on my finger and

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Little by little, beads of moisture formed in the bowl, as if dripping from the sunbeams.

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tasted it. A flood of warmth swept through me, taking away my bodily control. I lost my bearings and careened into the floor. The warmth gave way to a feeling of release (or relief?). The intensity made me writhe on my back and gag with joy. This climaxed in an explosion of blinding white light. Then I opened my eyes and everything was back to normal. I sat up and looked around. The room looked more lucid than usual. "It’s also your pay," said Peryton, his voice sounding distant. “That’s fine indeed!” I stammered. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been on the floor. But Peryton wasn’t put out. “Good,” he said. “One last thing: when you get to Griffon, you’ll need to prove you’re working for me.” “How do I do that?” He leaned toward me, putting his mouth to my ear, and spoke a word. “That is the codeword,” he said, “that identifies a Peryton detective. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He headed back towards the roof. "I'll keep you informed," I said.

I went into the next room and looked at Sinthia. Mould was beginning to form on her skin. I slapped her hard in the face. No response. "Come on, Sinthia!" I yelled. "Wake up or it's all over!" She just kept wiping her gun-barrel with a cloth. As much as we differed, I didn't want her to go like that -- the quiet death of a building -- where they're dead long before they get knocked down. "Sinthia, please! It’s all over now. We're going on a trip.” Another hard slap. Usually, she'd have pulled a blade by now, or skulled me with some knuckledusters. But no ... she stared like a hollowed-out imitation of my long-time secretary and rival. "Please," I stammered. "I have some money for you..." That's it! I thought, The Solution! I opened the flask and, with my fin-gers, painted her lips with the liquid. Colour returned to them and they parted. Then I poured a dash in. Her eyes glowed and smoke streamed

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from her ears. She gave off a warm aura. Then she put her gun-parts down, stood up, and fired a right cross into my jaw. I stammered and fell onto my back. Before I could get up, she was on me -- both hands on my neck, squeez-ing the air out. I felt light-headed. First I saw double, then everything went blurry. As the slow fade to black began, I could hear Sinthia's voice: "You know what, Sully? I've hated you from the moment you employed me. Not just any run-of-the-mill hate, mind you, but a fiery hate from every brick of my being! In fact, I've never felt so strongly about anything else before. That's why I've stuck around. For the first time in my life, I've had something to dedicate myself to … and you know what, Sully?" She released her hands. I gagged and coughed, then I dropped my jaw and sucked some air back into me. She continued: "…You’re lucky I hate you; if I'd have felt indifferent, you'd already be dead." Then she pressed her lips on mine and kissed me for a good ten min-utes.

What can I say? Flip the coin of indifference and you get indifference again; flip the coin of hate and you get love. Sinthia and I gathered only what we needed for the trip. "Where are we going?" she asked as we hopped into my white van. "To solve the case!" "Which case?" "For me there only ever was one." "Whatever you say. But where are we going?" “We need to leave town." The streets in the Third Ring were logically set out. They were named in a functional way, and each road led to the street you'd expect it to. The problem is that it was perhaps too logical. For example, if you are driv-ing along one particular street, the road would assume that you must be trying to get to a certain other street which is the logical route -- it would then usher you straight there4. The driver can take his hands off the wheel

4 Similar to Predictive Text on mobile telephones.

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and sit back, while the current of the roads do everything for him. I say ‘problem’ because Sinthia and I were trying to invent a new route altogether. The street currents carried us around so fast it was like we'd stepped onto a ride at a carnival. I was surprised that the only exit the roads whisked us to was the one that led down to the Circle. I told Sinthia not to take it, so we ended up driving around the Third Ring for an hour. All the roads led back to each other like a wandering mind. "Why don't you want to go south?" asked Sinthia. "Because it's not really an exit, is it?" “According to some maps it is.” The stream of consciousness of which Peryton spoke is aided by a well-known road -- the main road, in fact, called the Rainbow Highway -- built by our city's founders. It is really the only road we have. It spirals from the centre out to the borders of the city, and then back in where it crosses itself again and again, forming our different streets. Then ... well ... it doesn't really have an end, except this city. Sinthia turned a corner and we arrived back at The Circle. The countryside had physically changed and it did not appear to be a circle anymore. Instead, it was the southern edge of the town. There was a caravan of cars parked alongside the road, each facing away from the city. The drivers were outside their vehicles, having some kind of conference. We drove up alongside them and I wound my window down. The owner of the leading car -- a four-wheel drive -- was preaching. "Go back to town and bring back as many people as you can!" he said. He was an old man, skinny and with a long beard that reached his knees. His skin was weathered and scaly, like a snake's. "I know the road well! I've followed it past this town to where there are oceans and deserts. That's where we'll go! Back to nature -- there are many animals back there with much to teach us. There aren't any here in this polluted place! You there -- in the van -- won't you join us?" "Isn’t the ocean stormy this time of year?" said Sinthia, reclining in the driver's seat. "I can navigate the winds!" answered the old traveller. "Fear not. I

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can steer us through with an old and effective driving method from our ancestors, and we can once again fulfil our role with the wildlife in the desert." "It is peaceful there," I mused. "Or so I hear." "No," said Sinthia. "We don't belong back there. There's a reason we built the road. Call it women's intuition, but let's get out of here, Sully." So we went in circles again.

Finally I came up with something. "We need to find the tallest building in the city and go to the top for a better view." Driving there didn't take long at all, but reaching the top was a little more difficult. The elevator shaft was clogged up with web and so we had to get out halfway and climb the stairs. By the time we did reach the top, we were covered in web. Sinthia stumbled around, frantically tearing web from her as I approached the edge. Peryton's employees were circling. They looked threatening but they kept their distance. Looking out over the city made me realise how many of them there were. Wherever there were damaged structures, Peryton employees gathered in the air like harbingers of the end. Few pieces of sky remained unpopulated. In the most damaged areas, they were swoop-ing down in packs. Other one-eyed Typos, like Peryton in appearance, leaned over the edges of the tallest buildings and watched over the city. They all wore orange suits, the colour of burning.

The sun reached its meridian, the chaos of the city swirled below. I pulled out all the contradictory maps of the city I had. Arranging them out on the ledge, I compared it with what I saw below. Some of the maps were outdated – such as the one that held The Circle as the centre. But all were incomplete because of their biases. I took out my magnifying glass and focussed the sunlight through it, directing the beam of light on the maps. They flared up with flames. Instead of burning up and scattering in ashes, the maps (to my relief) actually melted and fused together. Within seconds, they’d fused into a single map. Any outdated or false information burned away and floated into the atmosphere.

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I stamped the flames out with my hat. Straightening the one map out, I then changed the focus of the magnifying glass so I could look through it. I put my finger on the vague area beyond the Third Ring, generally referred to as no-man’s-land5 (The Fourth Ring). This constituted the ter-rain separating this city from the mysterious Griffon City. We needed to head that way, which meant going off-road because none (besides dirt roads) had been built there. We had to head in an illogical direction, but for a perfectly logical reason. The established roads of the city -- logical as they were – related to the city and only applied within its borders.

Only soldiers crossed the border into no-man’s-land. Moreover, only a special guerilla force called the Arimaspians stayed there and engaged with the Griffons. Arimaspians were unanimously disliked, which is why the government sends them to do the dirty work. Arimaspians, allegedly, are violent and uncouth, each with but a single eye in the middle of their forehead. If you mistakenly call any of them ‘Cyclops’, they will lose their temper. A large percentage of Arimaspians go missing in action, and most people believe it is not because they’ve been killed, but because they have joined Griffon’s army. Notwithstanding their reputation, the Arimaspians are our chief source of wealth; the portion of them that don’t go A.W.O.L. bring back the gold which they loot from the Griffons. Our van was built for city driving; it would never make the trip. "We need a wagon," I said. "You what?" said Sinthia. I noticed that she’d cleaned most of the web off but left whatever was stuck to her legs, looking like fishnet stock-ings. "Come on. I have an idea." In my most recent case, I made the acquaintance of a dealer in ex-otic animals. Now that I recall, Ericson Bleeder was using the pelt of a Peryton employee as a rug. He was obviously not a sympathiser of their cause. But he had something I needed: a giant spider, reined up to an

5 Refer to the map.

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old-fashioned carriage. A horse wouldn't do; I needed the spider for its web-weaving abilities. Something detectives have in common with criminals is weaving thought-webs. Both weave and build networks of contacts throughout the city so that we can 'keep an ear to the street'. Then we connect the threads up to a telephone. Whenever you see a house with lots of threads coming from it and then becoming powerlines, you can bet it’s a centre of suspicious activity. Bleeder's spider with the symbol of the red heart on its back was the most impressive web spinner I'd ever seen. Sinthia and I drove back into Bleeder's neighbourhood in the Third Ring, or New Centre (depending on your map). It was much smaller than it used to be, and more heavily guarded with high fences and radioactive insects. However, his shiny webbed network of powerlines was no longer so large, nor so shiny. What was left of it was grey instead of silver, and it sagged nearly as low as the road. As we neared Bleeder's house, I noticed a policeman standing under a lamppost as if keeping watch. Turning a corner, I saw him again under another post. That’s strange, I thought. Must have been two different officers. I wasn’t so stupid as to head straight for Bleeder and ask for the spider. I just wanted to pass through and scope the joint out. As we did, we passed two more police officers standing watch on street corners. “Those policemen all look identical,” said Sinthia. “Yes, I noticed. They look familiar too.” I headed to Uhler’s place. Uhler’s place was closed, which didn’t look good. One of the front win-dows was smashed. I looked in and saw that some of the bookcases had been tipped over. Sinthia took a run at the door. She cried out as her foot slammed into it, snapping the lock. After landing awkwardly, Sinthia shoved the door open to let me in. Lights off and nobody around. I went downstairs to where all the mer-chandise was. The door was open. Soon as I strode through the door, however, I tripped on something and smacked my chin on the ground.

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“Unnhhh!” It happened so quickly. I shook the dizziness from my head. Something moved. I struggled to get up but before I did, a light went on. It was Stiltsy. “Damn it Sully!” he grunted. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, his legs stretched out across the room. Sitting next to him was Uhler, with bruises on his face and a torn col-lar. I stood up and held my chin. “Argh! Stiltsy, what’s the idea?” The room was knocked up a bit too. “Fancy you askin’ me that,” Stiltsy said, lifting a bottle of scotch to his lips. “You bein’ the cause of it all.” “What do you mean me?” “You trouble-making private dick,” said Uhler, but in a quiet, resigned voice. Stiltsy passed the scotch to Uhler, who took a swig. “That lobster you got from us,” explained Stiltsy, “led Bleeder straight here. Now we’re closed up.” “By Jove!” I said. “You okay, Uhler?” “A bit roughed up, that’s all. I knew the score, though, when I gave you the lobster. So forget about it.” Turning my head, I saw none other than the insect that Bleeder had first given me, in a large bottle on the floor, staring at me. Sinthia came in. “God damn!” was her response. “Single men live here?” It hissed loudly at Sinthia. Stiltsy chuckled. “Been doin’ that all night, the daft critter!” Sinthia found a neat pile of flags. Taking the top one, which was the United Nations flag, she covered the bottle. “That’s better.” “What are you doing here, anyway, Sully?” said Uhler. He offered me the scotch but I waved it away. So did Sinthia, so Stiltsy got it. “Have you seen that spider that Bleeder has?” I asked. “Yes, I certainly have. That there is a smuggler’s dream.” “You mean they’re hard to come by?”

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“Don’t tell me that’s what you came here for?” A long sigh escaped from my lips. “Bleeder’s spider is the only one I’ve seen with my own eyes,” said Uhler. "You can't get them anywhere. They are made up north -- carriage and all -- by Arimaspians. Worth a lot of money. What do you want one of them for?” “Going on a trip. Guess I’ll have to deal with Bleeder.” “Nice knowing you.”

I still had the money that Bleeder's wife had given me. That would surely be enough to pay for the spider-and-cart. I regretted coming as soon as I saw another officer in the street. The closer the van came to Bleeder’s house, the more the engine strug-gled. Sinthia revved it more and more and even had to change down gears, as if we were driving up a steep hill. The landscape, however, was flat. When I got out and walked up Bleeder’s driveway, an invisible force pushed me away. I had to use long, lunging steps to move forward. The damn house was repelling me. I grunted with exhaustion when I got to the door. A Doyley answered the door, wearing a police uniform. "What a lovely sight," he sneered at seeing me, spinning his police trun-cheon jovially. "Come right in, my friend. Bleeder is expecting you." Sinthia shoved Doyley aside. "Listen, Sully," she whispered to me as we entered the house. "I might have to take Doyley on. Don't try anything unless I say.”

Bleeder was by his fireplace in a bathrobe, completely tangled in web. His fire had gone out for good. Only the darkest glow of purple came from the coals. Soot covered the walls, trapping him in a dark and gloomy mood. The door resisted being closed, but Sinthia was able to force it shut from the outside. I thrust myself inside, leaving Doyley and Sinthia alone together. The moment the door clicked shut, the air became dense, like water, locking Bleeder and I in like sardines in a can. Adding my mass to the

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room, without letting anything else out to compensate, made it almost unbearably concentrated. Standing in the opposite corner, looking ashamed was Hardy. “Now hold on, Sully,” he said. The windows shattered as Hardy spoke. The glass blew outside and a little of the thick air streamed out, alleviating the tension. “This isn’t what it looks like,” Hardy continued. “No?” I grunted. “Well don’t hold back – why are you consorting with Bleeder, and why in hell is Doyley wearing a police uniform?” I gasped in relief when I finished talking. It was difficult to stay fo-cussed with the three of us concentrated in this tiny room. “Don’t be so surprised, Katonksky,” gloated Bleeder. “Do you two feel this?” I asked, changing the subject. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just me who experienced the tension. “Yes,” said Hardy. “It’s like the world outside is a strong magnet.” “And we are resisting its pull just to stay in the room,” added Bleeder. He wiped his glistening forehead. “Or is it just that we are repelling each other?” I suggested. “Well, it wasn’t this strong until you arrived.” “I’ll bet,” I said. “It was nice and cosy when it was just the two of you, right?” “I had no choice, Sully,” said Hardy. “Bleeder is this town, these days. He’s leader of the Eegles now and they are a shoe-in for the coming elec-tion.” “So you’re just siding with the winners, eh?” I said. “Now hold on, Sully. He’s already solved much of the crime problem, just by getting Doyley on the force.” “Surely you two could talk this over at the police station,” sneered Bleeder. “Doyley could escort you in.” “No need for that,” I said. I tossed a stack of hundred-dollar notes onto the coffee table, making the whole room shake. That bought silence enough to make my offer. “I want to buy your spider,” I said. "You have a nerve coming here to do business with me," said Bleeder. "You must know of the warrant out for your arrest?"

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I shot a look at Hardy. “It’s just for questioning,” he said. "I dare you to try and take me in," I said. “With Sinthia just out there.” "You wouldn't get far in this neighbourhood," said Bleeder. “Notwith-standing your secretary’s reputation.” "Try us." “Let’s not,” said Hardy. "Heart spiders are difficult to get and worth a lot of money," said Bleed-er, ignoring my last remark. “So I hear.” "Even if I still had mine, you certainly wouldn't be my first choice of customer. God knows what you want with it." "You don't have it anymore?" I asked. "It died. They are frightfully sensitive, you know." "Of course it died in this rotten place. Where’d you get it?” He grinned a spiteful grin. "It was sheer luck that I acquired one. A traveller bought it into town from up north. My people robbed him for the gold he was importing, and I kept the spider." "To think you first introduced yourself as just a dealer in animals.” "You don't suspect the half of it! With that spider I was able to build the largest network of web across the whole city. Nothing went on without me feeling it,” he said tapping his solar plexus. “For example, I’m well aware of my wife’s efforts to contact you behind my back. And of her continuing associations with the Lyons.” “Do you know what happened to her?” I said. I glanced at Hardy. He didn’t want to meet eyes with me, but I knew he was watching for the need to draw his rod. “Yes,” said Bleeder. “She was constantly giving herself and the city touch-ups, with plaster and whatnot, delaying the inevitable." He was quiet for a moment, then he piped up: “Now you see. You're out of your league. Not even old Blacky could survive a scrap with me!" But as he spoke, I noticed his robe was parted just enough to reveal a similar wound to the one Blacky had received. Bleeder’s solar plexus looked burned out; he hadn’t been strong enough to withstand the power that surged through him from all the powerlines. Maybe he didn’t kill

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Blacky. Maybe Bleeder just took Blacky’s place, just as The Third Ring became The New Centre. “It looks to me like you've fallen on hard times," I said. "Perhaps. That web -- it's not what I expected. I got more sensitive and more fragile the wider my network became. Not only did I receive information from all the ends of the city, but I also felt the pain of all my enemies when I attacked them. The vibrations of hatred and fear and jeal-ousy shook me. The power that previously flowed to me at the centre of my web... and lit my fireplace ... brightest in the city at one time ... ” He trailed off, looking into space. Hardy and I glanced questioningly at each other. "Well,” said Bleeder, “suffice it to say that the web that I used to get to others was also the way others could get to me. Yes, Mr Katonksky, I have fallen on hard times. That’s why I’ve moved my operation into the sunlight. I’m running for mayor now.” He grinned wide. “I adapted and survived. This is still my turf!" I scoffed. “You haven’t adapted. When The Circle clung to power and resisted progress, it died.” “Yes, I led the push for progress and established The New Centre.” “That’s true. But now, like The Circle had, you and the Third Ring are clinging to power and refusing to accept any future expansion. Look at you, all tied up. Why, right now I could..." "You could what?” dared Bleeder. “Doyley is just outside the door. And the chief here…" “Sinthia’s got Doyley covered. And I’d call your bluff on Hardy.” Hardy gulped loudly. “Now, uh, fellahs. There are laws in this town. Let’s not get out of control.” “Hardy is right,” I said. “I didn’t come here to fight. I came to do you a favour." “What kind of hogwash is this?” said Bleeder. I reached into my jacket and took out the solvent. “What could you possibly do for me, Katonksky? And why would you?” “My intention is to unite us and, with your help, mark out a road that will bridge the two cities.”

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“Why would I voluntarily subordinate my power to the Hierarchy of Griffon?” "Here," I said. I took the lid off and splashed some liquid into his fire-place. The coals flared up in blinding flame. With a great woooosh! the thick tension in the air burnt up like gas. We each fell towards each other. Bleeder cried out as the web dissolved around him. He collapsed to his knees in front of the itchy warmth. Green beads of sweat -- thick like syrup – sprouted all over his face. So wide-eyed was he, that he did not notice his pet insect hissing as it shrivelled into ashes under the yellow rays. “Stay near the fire,” I finally said. “Let it burn away the toxins.” “What was that stuff?” gasped Hardy. “A gesture of fraternity.” I left them trembling in awe.

Outside, Sinthia and Doyley both stood without movement, with eyes locked on each other. When I appeared, Doyley broke his gaze with Sin-thia to look me over. Then he turned and walked out the gate. The whole nine of the Doyley Collective was waiting in the street. They held their police truncheons menacingly, all sharing the same malicious grin. “Give me The Solution,” said Sinthia in a low voice. “What for?” I said, handing it over. “Katonksky!” called Doyley. I stepped forward. If there is one thing I'd learned, it was to start carry-ing a weapon. I produced a pistol and I smiled back at Doyley. Returning the compli-ment he once gave me, I concentrated on every hateful detail that I knew about him: his wispy voice, which was the result of him coughing up so many bullets that his vocal chords were burnt out; his elitism; his loyalty to the status quo; his mannerisms, methods, and clothes. I could feel the bitterness in my throat and coughed the little ball of anger up. I spat it into my hand and loaded it into my pistol. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?” sneered Doyley.

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I fired on him. One of him went straight down. "This time I was prepared, old boy!" I gloated. We all stood motionless, as the body spread out like a puddle on the road. It then divided into two puddles and reformed into two Doyleys. "Oh dear," I mumbled. Still smiling, they started closing in. It wasn’t difficult at all to cough up some more bullets. I fired on three more of them -- they each went sprawling backwards. Again, the Doyleys that I hit multiplied. Within ten seconds there were thirteen. "Now what?" I appealed to Sinthia. She stepped forward and said: "Stand back, Sully. You can't kill a hydra like Doyley with guns." I backed away. “Don’t jump in, Sully, no matter what happens,” said Sinthia. The Doyleys surrounded her. They were no longer smiling, however. "Doyley," she said, "I have no wish to fight -- instead I want to ask you to join us on our mission." The Doyleys laughed. One of them charged her from behind and swung a truncheon at her head. Sinthia sidestepped -- the attacking Doyley tripped and went crashing into the road. His weapon went sliding. As Doyley climbed clumsily back up, Sinthia picked up the truncheon. She then tossed it back to him. "Here," she said. He caught it and dropped his jaw in surprise. "You moron!" said one of the other Doyleys to the attacking one. "You're making a fool of me!" "Shut your hole." came the reply. "At least I did something! What are you doing, coward!" "Stop bickering with yourself, comrade," called Sinthia. They turned back to her. "Fool! Why didn't you retaliate when you had the chance?" asked Doyley in chorus. "Why would I want to hurt a comrade?" The Doyley Collective shook with laughter.

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Sinthia rolled her sleeves up. Then she threw her arms open -- revealing a tattoo of a hydra on her forearm. The laughter ceased. "You see, Doyley?" said Sinthia. "I grew up in the Second Ring, just like you did. I practised Hydra-style too." "No way! You're a student of Herakles Style." "The superior style includes the lesser styles within it. I never lost my skill in Hydra fist, nor my identity as a Hydra student. Admit it: we’re comrades." The Doyley Collective shuffled their feet in confusion. "If that's the case," one finally said, "get out of our way so we can kill Sully." "Don't be ridiculous," persisted Sinthia. "He used to be one of you. Help us in our mission to change the city." I could see what she was doing. The strength of Hydra-style kung fu was anchored in the perception of Separation. As long as his opponents perceived Doyley as separate people, Doyley remained at an advantage. Not only that, but if Doyley's opponents perceived themselves as sepa-rate from Doyley, Doyley was likewise advantaged. Sinthia was creating a unity. "Hold on!" said the Doyley Collective. "I wasn't born yesterday lady." Doyley sensed his draining strength, and so acted fast – the collective swarmed on her. Sinthia covered herself as best she could, as a hailstorm of strikes pounded her on every side. I saw glimpses of her pained eyes. Even so, she refused to strike back. She ducked her head behind her arms like a boxer against the ropes. I hesitated, wanting to jump in but remembering her words. In time, Doyley's hits were slowing down. In order to preserve power, four of him fused back into two Doyleys, making him nine again. But Sinthia was taking a lot and her legs finally buckled just as the Doyleys ran out of steam. Each stood huffing and puffing for a moment. Then, unable to throw any more punches, one Doyley cried: "Pile up!" The whole collective piled up on Sinthia, hiding her from view. In a fit of panic, I aimed my gun into the mound of people... But I

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checked myself in the next breath. The mound began to vibrate and shake ... I heard bones crunching and fists pounding. A great fear washed over me. Then they were still. One by one, the Doyleys peeled themselves off the mound. They each stood bent over with hands on knees, breathing deeply. The last Doyley stood up revealing the dusty, bloodstained road beneath. The bloodstains and little pieces of torn-up cloth were all that was left of Sinthia. I trembled. “My God…” At that moment a mocking wind blew by, scattering the dust. Only then did I notice that people were emerging from their houses to watch. “Right then!” I stammered. “There’s nothing else for it!” My idea was to charge in – but I saw something slither around the huddled group of Doyleys. No, I thought, it couldn’t be… Split-ends’s arms stretched around the group like a belt. Just as the Doyleys turned their attention on me, and began to fan out, Split-ends’s hands met and clasped together. “Now Split-ends!” called a voice. The arms tightened. “Oof!” cried all the nine mouths of the Doyley Collective. Split-ends squeezed the Doyley’s together in a bear hug. They struggled to break his grip. His hands went pink struggling to stay clasped. I turned and looked to the rooftops, where I swore I heard the voice of Sinthia. After some grunting and shuffling, the whole group stopped still. Ev-eryone looked to the rooftops. A woman stood with chest out and chin up, looking down at us. She was translucent, and a light glowed within her chest. At first I thought it was Herakles -- she was standing on the roof of Bleeder's neighbour, where Herakles once stood. And like Herakles had been, she was naked. But I felt a deep kinship to this woman, which reminded me of why I saved Sinthia from prison in the first place. I figured out that this woman was the soul that once wore the identification/clothes called ‘Sinthia’.

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She’d thrown her outer shell into the Doyleys and they had torn it apart. Like a charging bull they’d missed the person, chasing the decoy. Only now did I recognise my former secretary as that second half of me which ran away and disappeared so long ago. She’d gone and built a whole new identity so that we did not recognise each other when we met again. Sinthia held one webbed stocking. She took the lid off The Solution, stuffed the end of the stocking into the flask and made a Molotov cock-tail. The Doyley Collective stirred again, tugging at Split-ends’s arms and elbowing him in the face. Sinthia lit the Molotov cocktail and hurled it into the group. I ran for cover as the bottle crashed into the crowd and the flames went woooooshh! The deep blue fire spread under the feet of the Doyleys. Split-ends broke his grip and fell backwards onto the bitumen. “Aarrghh!” In the hot flames, the victims melted and fused into each other. I bolted over to Split-ends, grabbed his coat and started dragging him away. He had a dazed smile on his face. His trench coat was in smoking tatters. When I looked back, the fire had reduced the nine Doyleys into one single man. He frantically patted out what flames he could. Finally, he dragged himself to his feet and looked to the roof. “You rotten, dirty bitch!” he moaned. Doyley took a deep breath and sprinted to the house. Without pause, he leapt onto the drainage pipe then scampered up to the roof. Letting out a great war cry, he bounded heavily to where Sinthia waited. Just short of reaching her, the roof gave way under Doyley’s heavy foot. “Woah!” Doyley plunged downwards and crashed inside the house. Smoke streamed out from where he had fallen. Sinthia returned to me on the road. Just as we embraced, the rest of the roof collapsed into Bleeder’s house.

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Sinthia lit the Molotov cocktail and hurled it into the group.

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Half the neighbourhood was in the street by now, watching the spec-tacle. We heard a fizzle from under the rubble. The surrounding powerlines that all lead to Bleeder’s house were buried, but still live. They protruded out in all the eight directions. A tongue of fire sprouted anew from the heap, the flame finding lots of new materials to feed off. But it was a quiet fire; tall and swaying like a giant candle flame. Bleeder appeared from the smoke, dragging Hardy. They were covered in soot. Sinthia (who had covered herself with my coat) and I ran to help. “Is he alright?” I asked. To my relief, Hardy was breathing. “Get Doyley,” gasped Bleeder. I approached the burning house. But after searching with held breath, I found Doyley crushed under a pile of stone. I backed away for more air. “Well?” inquired Bleeder. He looked flushed now, no longer with the green skin he used to have. “He’s crushed,” I said. “Can’t get him out. I’m sorry, Bleeder.” “Don’t under estimate him.” Sinthia was trying to bring Hardy around. He opened his eyes and sat up. “Look,” he said. The rubble shrivelled and vanished, consumed by the fire. Then the tongue of fire shrunk in its turn … and disappeared, having run out of material to consume. All that was left was the stone pile, which Doyley’s legs poked out of. And the powerlines. They were fused together into one red-hot line. It appeared that the tongue of flame did not just die out – it was sucked up into the power-lines. The result was that a glow passed through all the surrounding lines and into the distance. Each line tightened and healed. The single end spewed rainbow-coloured sparks and jumped up and down like a hose turned on full. It eventually ceased at my feet. So I picked it up and tied it onto the towbar of my van. “What are you doing?” asked Bleeder.

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“Everything leads to this point,” I said, pointing to the end of the line. “Of course, that’s what almost killed me.” Bleeder opened his robe and displayed his wound again. “Are you willing to risk that?” “Where does it lead from here?” “Nowhere. That’s the point.” He paused as if having a revelation. “Ah!” “Yes Bleeder. The New Centre is not so new anymore. I’m going to find a newer centre to direct this power.” He stood back. “All right, Katonksky. I suppose I should wish you good luck.” Hardy came up too. “Good luck Sinthia. Goodbye Sully.” The crowd parted as we made our way north. I was a little shaken. Sinthia drove the van all the way to the northern edge of town, then turned off the road and parked. "Okay Sully," she said. It was the first thing either of us had said since leaving Bleeder and Hardy. "Okay what?” I was exhausted. Suddenly the futility of it all hit me like an anvil. “This van will never make it off-road." "Why did you want the spider?" Sinthia asked. "For the powerlines." "What?" "With the spider we could have traced the path as we travelled." "So, stop sulking and let's do it." "Listen, secretary -- leave the detective work to me. How the hell do we do it without a heart-spider, eh?" "Make one, like the Arimaspians did." "Oh right. You know about Arimaspian building techniques all of a sudden?" "Nope. But I'll tell you what: I'll give you exactly fifteen minutes to build your own heart-spider and carriage. When the time is up, if it's not built, I'm going to knife you in the stomach." She flicked out a blade. "Hold on Sinthia..." She pressed a button on her wristwatch and said: "Time starts now." "Sinthia, wait a minute!"

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She got out of the car and started tossing her knife up and catching it. Now and then she glanced at her wrist. "Be reasonable!" I yelled. She gave me a cold look and tapped her wrist. First, I looked around the van for a weapon. But there was nothing. The bitch! I got out of the van and walked a few metres up, trying to think of a way to escape. Sinthia followed. Okay, I thought. Time for some serious case solving. I sat down and crossed my legs. Then I took out my magnifying glass and lit my pipe. I’ve explained that a detective smokes his pipe while stewing over the details of a case and meditating upon the solution. The smoke clouds from the pipe are analogous to thought clouds. As the detective brings one factor of the case to mind, he'll chuff out an indicative smoke cloud. The factor will then be seen clearly, thanks to the smoke it is ‘clothed’ in. Next, the detective will bring the other factors to mind, one by one, chuff-ing out smoke all along. Ever so carefully, the smoke hardens into web-like threads of thought and the detective weaves them tightly together so as to interrelate them each to every other, and study them completely. He ends up inside a glowing cocoon of thought-thread, completely oblivious to the outside world. The heat that this cocoon produces inside it causes the 'fire' in the detective’s heart (his will or intent to solve the case) to escalate. When enough heat is produced, the cocoon catches on fire and burns up. Bursting out of the cocoon, the detective emerges with fiery wings that carry him directly to the solution. As for me -- when I found myself inside the cocoon, I discovered that it appeared to make a perfect carriage. In order to vent the heat and keep it from burning up, I tore open a hole in one side and fashioned it into a window. With the sudden vacuum of air, a tongue of flame leapt from my heart and an orange silhouette of a butterfly escaped the cocoon. I gathered some thought-thread and lassoed the butterfly. But its burn-ing intent was strong and it dragged the carriage along with it. I threw another thread and fashioned some reins. "Hey, Sinthia! Hop in before I run you down!"

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She came into view, running alongside the carriage. Picking her chance, Sinthia leapt into the open part. I caught her hand and pulled her inside. She had a slight smile of satisfaction, as if this was all her doing. We were zooming into the Unknown, but my heart-flame was hindered by the pull of the carriage. You might say it was the pull of another intent -- not just to escape the city myself but also to map the path so my fel-low citizens could follow after me. So the flaming butterfly, in sensing these twin forces, slowed down and attracted some more thought-smoke around it. The smoke streamed to the flame until it covered it up, and, layer by layer, began to resemble a giant spider. Sinthia leaned over and kissed me, taking the reins. "You old Arimas-pian!" she said. I looked at my reflection in her eyes. Indeed, I had become so single-visioned in my concentration that my eyes had fused into one. Sinthia flicked the reins and yelled, "Hup!" The heart-spider set off at a trot. As it did, it released a steady thread of web behind us, which draped itself over trees and connected up to the town’s powerlines.

There are different levels to web-weaving. As we've seen, the pipe-smoke served as clothing for thoughts. Later, with thought having be-come tangible, it too becomes clothing for qualities of consciousness. Because the thought-web itself is only 'clothing' (like powerlines) for consciousness to travel through (like electricity), the weaver does not think about web when making it. Instead of thinking, he experiences the type of consciousness he needs to, and then the thought-web moulds it-self to fit automatically. The three constituent states of consciousness -- through web weaving -- link the detective to the different worlds or levels of detection. The first state is awareness of things. That is -- the world perceived through the five senses. When this happens, the weaver can shoot out streamers of web towards the things he desires and end up anchored to them. On a deeper and level, this includes awareness of thoughts-as-things (as seen with pipe smoke). In this case, the weaver will shoot web out to the thoughts that mill about during a daydream. These daydream-

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ers create vague and foggy webs around them which cause their sight to be poor. The next level is awareness of consciousness. With his single eye, the detective realises that he, the thinker, is distinct from his thoughts. This includes awareness of other people as points of consciousness within the world of things and thought-things. When this happens, the weaver spins threads of web out to the other points of consciousness (the other people), establishing relationships. This can lead to strong attachments to others. In its positive aspect it is a giving and linking thread, the establisher of community. This led to the powerlines being built. The highest level of consciousness is awareness of life, or, of life as Self. Life is distinct from consciousness; one needs life to be conscious but one does not need to be conscious to be alive. The detective here rea-lises that his essential self is that Life, and he becomes aware that life is all around him. So, he is a part of Life -- no longer the isolated point, and no longer biased towards that point as the centre. This level of conscious-ness is the most difficult to reach, let alone maintain. When it is held, however, the detective shoots web to... If life is one thing and not plural like many consciousnesses or things, then where is there to shoot to? And where is there to shoot from? Suffice it to say that everything that constitutes the Whole, the synthesis of all its aspects, is here linked up in network. Consciousness (through the detective), then, fulfils its task of linking the physical world of things to the intangible world of life or spirit. That is where I was heading, and so, in response, the heart-spider spun a thread reflecting this. We soon saw a river which flowed down towards the city from the direction of Griffin City. We followed it.

From hill to valley and to hill again, the colours of the plant life were brighter and purer than any colours I'd ever seen. (There were many flow-ers, especially lotuses, roses and lilies.) They all radiated auras of colour, in the way that Bleeder’s insects had – only the radiation was everywhere and impossible to avoid. The saturation we underwent was overwhelm-ing and I felt without doubt that each different colour altered us. To add to it all, the carriage was not getting any cooler. Sinthia and I

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were sweating streams. We’d both taken off a layer of our personality-clothes, and after a while we'd discovered that we had melted a bit and fused into each other. We now had only two arms between us, one on each rein. A third influence was messing with me too: the farther we travelled from town, all the feelings that surged around those powerlines now surged up through the one and only exit path. The one thread that I'd established became a channel for our town that blended all the separate identities of its citizens (as strands of force) into one group-conscious-ness. This found exit through Sinthia and I; it also pushed us forward. With all those factors bombarding us at once, Sinthia and I became dis-oriented! The environment was changing us; Sinthia and I were continu-ing to fuse; the combined identity of the city was surging through us and upwards – we panicked as we lost our sense of self. Eventually all I was aware of was an intense spinning. The carriage, in its heat, turned into a whirlwind of semi-tangible smoke with Sinthia and I steaming in its centre. But whichever part of me was conscious enough to do so, held onto one thought for salvation, like reaching for a lifeline thrown to you in a whirl-pool. It wasn't even a thought, but a direction -- the direction I was travel-ling in. I remained determined to continue and forced myself forward. That ‘push’ of direction shoved the power through and away from me, a channel for all the force to pass through me rather than tear me apart. Everything snapped taut. There was complete silence. After a time, I moved and looked around myself. The first thing I noticed was that Sully and Sinthia were not here -- they had completely fused into one being (me). The next thing I noticed was that my heart-spider no longer existed separately either. The carriage wrapped around Sinthia and Sully, forming into a new single body; the spider retreated back into my heart cavity and now the only visible rem-nant was a tattoo of a heart-spider on my chest. The third thing I noticed was that I was holding two powerlines now, one in each hand. I stood alone on a dirt road. In one hand I had the thread that I had cre-ated along the way. In the other I had a line that lead from Griffon City

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down toward me. It seemed to be an established powerline, already built by previous travellers. I put my ear to it and heard a voice in the silence:-- "Well done, Mr Grype!" Grype? It was, I remembered, an old word for griffon. Was this the name of my new identity? Putting the new line in my mouth, I spoke into it. "Who is that?" "This is Griffon City here," came the reply. "Good to hear from you." "Thanks. And it's good to hear from you.” “Speak the password.” “Faith.” “Very well. You know what to do..." “Yes. But then I won’t be needed anymore.” “No.” “...Okay.” I tied my line to the other line. A surge of energy streamed down through the established line back in the direction of the town. I dropped the line and stumbled backwards. After a moment, my bal-ance returned and I stood up straight. For lack of a better idea, I continued my journey, following the line.

There were no more trees, and the powerline just ran along the ground. It soon widened and became a less-defined stream of liquid, joining up with the above-mentioned river. I waded into the knee-deep water and strode against the current. In the distance, I heard explosions and yelling. Farther up I spotted thousands of gold coins twinkling in the water. Sightings of gold – coins and nuggets, increased the farther I went. Fi-nally, I came over a hill and saw that the river led under a huge wall made out of gold bricks, with gates ten stories high. Griffon! Above, flags were raised high. One of them had the emblem of a griffon wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat with a pipe in its beak. At the foot of the walls were scores of Arimaspian soldiers. They wore camouflage uniforms with Akubra hats, and each man had a single eye in his forehead. They fired at the walls with artillery.

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"Come out, you hounds of Zeus!" I heard one yell. "Give up your gold!" KABOOM! When the smoke cleared, the walls stood unaffected. I was soon in amongst the first group of Arimaspians. To the nearest, I said: "Take a look, fella -- there's plenty of gold here." He didn't acknowledge me. None of them did, and I soon understood that to them, I was a Typo. When I caught a glance at my reflection in the water, I saw I was translucent. Strange, I thought. I feel as if I am dissolving. The walls were still almost an hour's walk away -- and after ten steps I could no longer see my reflection at all. I felt light-headed too. "Ah, but of course," I smiled, walking right through a stumbling Arimaspian. “The river is Solution.” At that moment I solved the first case I'd ever had: the mystery of who I was. The answer was that I wasn't -- I didn't actually exist, not for myself anyway. The temporary existence of Sully Katonksky, Private Eye, was created for a specific task, that of continuing the stream of consciousness. He had (as had all citizens of our burning city) been the hindrance to its flow. We were 'things' made to house one type of awareness. But when a deeper awareness came about, we were inadequate and needed to change form. Sinthia and I did this by fusing her feminine nature with my mas-culine one. Once transformed, we fulfilled the task. Now the meta-detective had served his purpose. With that complete, it was time to die -- the great renunciation. Criminals, as we have seen, are those individuals or organi-zations (like Blacky) who refuse to die when their time comes. I felt myself dissolving away; I wouldn't even make the gates. At first I suffered a great loss. Then that feeling gave way to a feeling of 'weight transference'; I was as large as a city, absorbing a little detective. The city I’d travelled from, and the city I’d arrived at would become one greater metropolis.

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A New Case

"BUT how, then, did you write this account?" asks the reader, a bud-ding young detective. I will give you your first clue: this story is coming through to you via a certain thought-thread. It is unseen save for this book, which is its outer form. Follow the thread -- nay! -- continue it, if you will, and it will lead you to The Solution.

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Books by the same author

Novels:

The Man Who Never SleepsThe Rooftops (coming soon)

Articles on www.Undergrowth.org:

The Anatomy Of PeaceMagic Wands -- Labour, Capital and MagicExcorcisms, Conjurations and Social Change

Other writings can be read on www.australianreader.co, www.thylazine.org and various other sites.