Jade Monkey

Billmo is an old neighbourhood on the edge of town, named after the industrialist who had it built to house his factory workers. The houses form a sea of squat, light brown brick, stained black by years of smoke. The occasional abandoned factory looms over its neighbours with stark sharp edges where roofs have collapsed and rusting iron girders rise up past crumbling walls. They should have been knocked down years ago, but nobody really cares about Billmo. Its called the last place in Loughborough for two reasons, the first being central cemetery which in a quirk of fate has ended up on the far outskirts of town. The second is embodied in the litter that permanently skitters in streets and the atmosphere of almost violent despair and casual viciousness that tends to keep anyone not born there well away. Still, it could have been worse; I could’ve had to go to the Holt.

The diner was at one end of a short row of what might have been shops under their steel shutters, near the heart of the neighbourhood. The looming bulk of the Rutherford Arms pub skulked nearby. I glanced briefly at the patchy grey blackboard by the door of the diner before walking in, my appetite now very much in remission. The air was heavy with grease and the smell of burnt bacon. No-one looked up from their meals as I walked in. I wasn’t surprised, looking at people in Billmo tended to do unfortunate things to a person’s life expectancy. A quick survey of the cheap tables and cheaper chairs told me that the reporter wasn’t there. I stalked out the door, slightly uneasier than when I went in.

So I’m a reporter. On the run from criminals real or imagined and I hide out in an out of the way diner in Billmo while I wait for a detective. I don’t trust the police or I would have called them already. I’m nervous, possibly out of my mind with worry, as a potential criminal syndicate is after me otherwise I would never have chosen a meeting place where getting stabbed or shot counts as a pastime. What do I do? I turned to face the Rutherford Arms as a dark suspicion dawned. What I absolutely do not is go to the Pub to have a drink to settle my nerves.

Grainy music and smoke hung in the air and the shadowy figures of the pubs clientèle hunched further down over their drinks as I glared around the tables. The barman was heavy set, tall and bearded. Much like everyone else he hadn’t look up from the newspaper as I entered. Yet there was something naggingly familiar about him. The reporter was sat at a corner table, still wearing the same shabby blue suit that he’d worn when we first met. It would have been good vantage point, if he hadn’t had his head face down on the table amongst a small forest of glasses. I leaned over and checked his pulse. I was almost thankful that he was just dead drunk.

I turned from the table and marched over to the barman.

‘How much has he had?’ I snarled.

The barman looked up slowly from his newspaper. ‘Hello Jones.’

My memory finally put a name to the face. The last time I’d seen him he’d been clean shaven, wearing a white tux, sitting down at a piano at the Purple Onion Club. His Club.

‘Helmet? What are you doing here?’

‘Reading.’

I looked skyward, and stopped when I noticed how badly the paint was peeling on the ceiling. I’d never managed to find out why he was called Helmet. But he had run one of the more successful of the Towns nightclubs.

‘What happened to the Onion?’

Helmet scowled. ‘Mysterious fire.’

‘And you came here?’

‘No, I bought the Pineapple.’

‘And?’

‘Next fire wasn’t quite so mysterious as the first and the insurance company decided it that not so mysterious fires were bad for their continued health. I bought this place with what was left.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s probably too rotten to burn.’

‘What about the reporter?’

‘The amount he’s drunk, he’s probably quite flammable.’

I gritted my teeth. ‘Has he said anything?’

Helmet opened his mouth to answer and my intuition kicked in.

‘Besides ordering his drinks I mean.’

Helmet looked disappointed for a moment before he shook his head. ‘No, I think he’s probably said enough already.’ He leant away for a moment and put a drink next to my hand before turning the paper he was reading around. I stared at the page blankly for a moment until the headline registered: “Detective Cracks Monkey Mystery”. My heart sank as I continued to scan through the piece. “I know who murdered Mayor says very Private Detective”.

I knocked back my drink and nodded to Helmet ‘Later.’

He folded the newspaper and put it next to an old fashioned looking till. He paused for a moment ‘So who killed him?’

‘The Murderer, obviously. The more pressing question is going to be whether they kill him or I do.’

Helmet grinned at that ‘Later.

I walked over to the reporter and clicked my fingers a few times next to his ear. He looked up at me blearily. It took him a few seconds to focus.

‘Come on. We’ve got to go.’ This seemed to take a moment to sink in before he woozily nodded and tried to stand up. I managed to dodge underneath one arm and take his weight before he collapsed into the table. All around us, in the dimness of the bar whispered conversation seemed to follow in our wake.

Staggering out into the daylight we unsteadily made our way past the row of shops towards Central Cemetery. My brain crackled with adrenalin, and the Cemetery seemed a good place to sober the reporter up and find out why he’d thought the article was a good idea and who was after him because of it. It had the added benefit of being within staggering distance. Crossing the road I noticed two dark figures approaching in the distance.