Crazy Emerald

By Mike O'Connor

On a stormy Monday morning in Transylvania, an ageing Dracula tour guide reflects on his future. Meanwhile, in the Irish town of Ballyhatchet, another form of storm is impending. Councillor Barty Goorlin is found murdered in his own pub. With an unprecedented election for his vacant seat leading to some dirty tricks on the campaign trail, the pressure is on the cynical Sergeant John Scutter and his imbecilic sidekick, Garda Gilbert Tade, to catch the killer. But this case throws up some unexpected questions. What was Councillor Goorlin’s connection to a lethally addictive new drug called Crazy Emerald? Could the creator of this mind-blowing marvel have a lab in Ballyhatchet? Who stripped the Garda station bare, when Garda Tade forgot to lock the door? And what does Dracula have to do with any of this? For Scutter, the answers may prove to be too close to home for comfort.

With a nod to Breaking Bad and a wink in the direction of Bram Stoker’s most famous creation, Crazy Emerald takes a comical trip through a world where local politics meets international crime, while the Sergeant at the centre of it all struggles to save his career, his marriage and his sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike O'Connor
• Release date: Mar 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370705603

Mike O'Connor

Mike O’Connor is a powerful and engaging storyteller who performs at many events across the country. An important researcher into Cornish music and folklore, he has been awarded the OBE and made a bard of the Gorsedh of Kernow.

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CRAZY EMERALD

by

Mike O'Connor

Copyright (c) 2017 by Mike O'Connor

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CHAPTER 1

It was a grim Monday morning in Transylvania. The rain was falling in sheets and the pounding of the thunder was deafening. A lightning flash illuminated the pale features of Count Dracula, as he stared out of his bedroom window. The ferocity of the storm shook the castle walls to their very foundations. The Count looked at his pocket watch. The time was 10.58.

He threw back his head and laughed, but the blitzkrieg of the storm drowned out the sound.

Hammer horror, said the deathly pale young woman, sitting on the edge of his bed. Actor who played Mike Hammer beaten to death with hammer in Hammersmith.

Put that away, Lucy, the cadaverous old man said, turning away from the window. You should be improving your mind with great literature, not reading newspapers from England.

What were you laughing at, before you turned around? Lucy demanded.

Nothing. I was just practising. I might as well have not bothered. There won't be any tourists in this weather. There are very few at the best of times. Our days are numbered, Lucy.

What about Jonathan? Surely he will take care of us.

You have been reading the wrong English publications, my love, the Count replied. Jonathan is in prison for fraud and murder. By the time he gets out, he will be older than I am.

What about Van Helsing then?

Van Helsing is a fictional creation. As are you and I. The only grim reality in this is our inevitable unemployment. You will survive as a prostitute, I expect. But, for me, there is only the Ceaucescu suit museum and death.

You are so negative, Lucy protested. When I got deported from Germany for posing as Eva Braun and performing a Nazi salute at Auschwitz, with orange coloured ashes raining down over me, did I cry? No is the answer. But that Israeli company still paid me for advertising their one-hundred-percent orange juice. Do you remember the slogan?

No.

It was, Just Jewz. Never forget.

That is so tasteless, said the Count. You trouble me, Lucy. What is it do you want to do with your life?

I want to go to Ireland. I have heard there are opportunities there.

The Count sighed.

I would so love to visit Ireland. It is Bram Stoker’s homeland.

Who is Bram Stoker?

He was the creator of Dracula, you silly girl. Two years you work here in this castle, but you never even read the book. What is wrong with the young people of today? Perhaps we were better off under a totalitarian dictatorship.

You should forget about Dracula, Lucy told him. This place will probably be turned into a hotel, whenever new owners over take. And the guests will not want a pale old man with unusually pronounced incisors hovering around them, flapping his cloak and stinking of garlic.

What a stupid thing to say, the old man snapped. Count Dracula is a part of our heritage. I am confident they still speak of him with reverence in Ireland.

Dracula, said Garda Gilbert Tade.

Dracula! Sergeant John Scutter repeated incredulously. What’s Dracula got to do with anything?

Garda Tade shrugged.

Nothing, I suppose. I was just thinking of what would be the scariest thing that could come in the window if you left it open at night. And that would have to be Dracula, turned into a bat. Once he was inside, he'd turn back into himself and bite you. Then you'd be turned into a vampire.

You'll be turned into someone signing on for social welfare, if you don't concentrate on the job in hand, barked Scutter. Have you recorded the time?

I have, said Garda Tade, checking his notebook. We arrived on the scene at precisely 8.59.

And what have we found?

We found one photo booth where people take photographs of themselves for passports and suchlike. Upon opening the curtain, we found that a person, as yet unknown, had left a very large deposit of human waste, in the form of a shit, on the seat.

Have you trapped it yet? a well-built, red-haired woman in a bright pink trouser suit demanded. For the love of dear Jesus, you can't let it get out!

Scutter recognised the flustered figure as that of Mary Goorlin. Her husband, Barty, was a councillor of some note. Scutter’s wife thought he was tone-deaf, so he couldn’t really tell which note that might be.

Calm down, madam, he told her. Tell us exactly what happened.

The wife of Councillor Goorlin composed herself in C minor.

I need to get a new passport, because my old one is out of date. I was about to sit down to have my photo taken, when I saw it.

Go on, said Scutter.

I was going on, she snapped. Why did you interrupt me?

Sorry.

I said why did you interrupt me?

I said I meant.

Who said anything about sediment? she shouted.

What happened? he asked patiently.

When? Tectonic plates have shifted, entire species have become extinct and world wars have occurred. You'll have to be more specific, Sergeant.

Scutter gritted his teeth. There was something very odd about Mary Goorlin’s general demeanour. He wouldn’t be surprised if she herself had shat in the photo booth, before raising the alarm. Some women would do anything for a bit of attention.

What happened before we arrived? he asked.

What happened where? In Borneo? In China? In the coffee shop across the road? You'll have to be more specific, Sergeant. I'm traumatised.

What happened here, madam? What has caused you to be traumatised?

Mary Goorlin paled.

It was horrible. As I was saying, I was about to sit down to have my picture taken and then I saw it. It was dark brown and it was just too disgusting for words. Where could it have come from?

Try not to picture it in your head, Scutter told her. Can you remember anything else?

Mary thought carefully. I can remember when I was very young, Timmy Toodler tried to kiss me in the school playground. I called him a big sissy and Consumpta Sumption threw a dog poo at him. But it hit Miss Kennedy and she went mad. She’d had a very short temper, ever since her third cousin, who’d been president of the United States, had been shot. Miss Kennedy’s ex-boyfriend was right there on the grassy knoll, when it happened. He was shooting moles for the Dallas city council. That was his job. The city authorities didn't want a mole popping his head up out of a hole on the knoll, just as the presidential motorcade was passing. God knows why they employed Pat Murphy for the job. He was useless with guns. If a mole popped up in front of him while the president of the United States was passing by, he'd have been more likely to shoot the president in the back of the head.

Let's concentrate on the events of today, Mrs. Goorlin, Scutter said.

Did you see anything suspicious? Garda Tade added. If you're in shock, a slap across the face might help.

She slapped him across the face.

No, that doesn't help, she murmured.

She punched him in the mouth, sending him sprawling onto his back. With historical irrelevance still threatening to supersede anything that might form a cohesive narrative, she kicked the hapless Garda twice in the face, stomped on his chest and then kicked him in the balls.

Now I remember, Mary Goorlin said, with a smile. I was about to sit down when ...., blah, blah, blah.

Who said blah, blah, blah? demanded Scutter.

I did, Sergeant. I said it apropos of having to repeat myself yet again.

Garda Tade was gasping for breath as he staggered back to his feet.

That was a vicious and unprovoked assault, Sergeant, he groaned. Can I go and get first aid somewhere?

They'll have things in the supermarket, Scutter replied. Get a receipt. And get the manager. He should be here at a time like this.

Mary Goorlin shuddered.

I could have sat on it. Where do you think it could have come from?

There are some very sick people around, Mrs Goorlin.

The councillor's wife glanced across the road, where a pair of hungover teenagers were vomiting up against the window of the tourist office. An elderly monk scuttled into the sex shop next door.

Indeed there are, she agreed. But this must be African. Or Asian. The size of it! And the colours. It was definitely foreign.

They all look the same to me, Scutter mused. Then again, it's not something you study.

I found one in my hot press, a couple of years ago, Mary told him. I was taking out a towel and it fell at my feet. It was black, with orange stripes. I was lucky my husband was at home. He was downstairs, watching highlights of the All Ireland football final. Or it might have been a foreign film on one of those pay-per-view channels. Anyway, he heard me screaming, so he ran upstairs, grabbed the dirty thing off the floor and threw it out the bedroom window. He's very good with things like that. That's why he's a councillor.

Scutter felt like his head was about to explode.

How did it get into the hot press? he asked.

How should I know? It might have been on a towel that had been left out to dry, or squeezed in through the keyhole. Anyway, my husband got rid of it and then went back to whatever he was watching. The entire thing was soon forgotten?

It can’t have been much good then, the Sergeant suggested.

What can’t have been much good? demanded Mary Goorlin.

Whatever your husband was watching. If it was soon forgotten, it can’t have ….

He was interrupted by the return of his subordinate. Garda Tade was accompanied by a bald and agitated looking man in a brown suit, who looked like he might once have been compacted.

I'm the supermarket manager, he said.

What are you talking about, you fool? Scutter snapped.

Tade blushed. Sorry, Sergeant. I just always wanted to say that. If I wasn’t a guard, I might have been a supermarket manager. This is the real supermarket manager. His name is Peter O'Toole. I checked it out. It's his real name.

The manager extended his right arm. It was the same length as his left. His right hand was at the end of it.

Peter O'Toole, he said. I'm the manager. We never use the term Supermarket Manager. It's a classic rookie mistake. In the real world, that could have a negative effect on your progression through the world of retail management, with possibly fatal consequences for your career. But, to help is to help, as we say, so how can I help?

We need your CCTV footage, Scutter told him. There's a shit in that photo booth and I want to see who put it there.

And how can I help? O'Toole smiled.

By letting me look at the CCTV footage.

Of what?

Of whoever entered this shop since opening time this morning. I'm particularly interested in anybody who might have entered this photo booth.

That horrible thing is still in there, Mary screamed.

Garda Tade will deal with it, Scutter assured her.

I need this passport photo, she insisted. I'm going on a hen weekend in Transylvania, in a few weeks. They have a Dracula tour that I'm really looking forward to. I'm fascinated by the occult. We could do with some Vlad the Impaler style law enforcement in this country. That's just my personal opinion. My husband feels....

My balls!

A young boy in bright yellow Brazilian soccer colours charged after the pair of soccer balls he had just dropped.

My tits!

A deranged old lady in pink dungarees held up a cage containing a pair of small birds.

That the guards could be doing a much better job, Mary finished.

I'm here to help, repeated O'Toole.

Where's the CCTV footage? Scutter snapped.

There's none.

A nun stopped for a second, then shrugged her shoulders and made her way into the sex shop.

None?

Nothing further of a nun-related nature materialised.

The cameras are non-functional, O'Toole explained. That means they don't work. A bit like some members of our staff. The cameras we have on them work. As do the cameras that watch our customers inside the store. Shoplifters will be prosecuted; that's our motto. I think rapists and murderers should be prosecuted too, but we don't make the law. What's the point of having a camera watching a photo booth? There's nothing in it to steal. It would be ironic. We can't sell irony.

Scutter could see nothing remotely ironic in this situation.

I bought a tube of ointment, Garda Tade announced. I got a receipt for it, like you said. It was one-forty-nine. I handed the girl at the checkout a fifty-euro note and she asked me if I had anything smaller. I said if she wanted anything smaller, I didn't have it. She thought that was very funny.

That would be Beatrice, the manager said. She's only twenty and she has two children by four different fathers. They probably don't even know who their mother is.

I need to get my passport photo taken and I'm not going in there with that! shouted Mary Goorlin.

Garda Tade is about to photograph it and scoop it into a plastic bag, Mrs Goorlin, said Scutter.

I'll need gloves, sergeant, Tade protested.

We have pooper scoopers on special offer this week, the manager offered. Buy one, get a third off the second one. We call it our Third off a Number Two scooper. Would you be interested?

Squash it before it gets away! Mary howled.

It's hardly going anywhere, Scutter reassured her. It's not like it ....

It's up on the ceiling now, she yelled. Why don't you just squash it? What are you waiting for?

It's what I do, murmured a passing waiter.

Scutter peered into the photo booth. The faecal deposit remained in place. He glanced upwards. A large and hirsute spider was crawling across the ceiling. He grabbed it, dropped it to the floor and crushed it under his right boot.

Thank God! Mary exhaled. That was even bigger than the one my husband took out of the hot press. Well done, Sergeant. Now I can get my photo taken in peace, without the fear of arachnids crawling all over me.

Don't.... Scutter began.

Shit, said Garda Tade.

The councillor's wife sat. She didn't seem to notice.

Sergeant, she sat in a shit, Tade declared.

Keep walking, Scutter told him. We can do no more for Mrs Goorlin. It's nearing the end of the month and we have speeders to catch. The Chief Superintendent is very disappointed with last month’s figures. Speeding fine revenue is down by thirty percent since the council cut the bush that was hiding the 50km speed limit sign on that dead straight stretch of road that eventually leads into Ballyhatchet. But I know where there's a bush.

As he finished speaking, his path was blocked by a journalist.

Excuse me, Sergeant. I'm Jimmy Harris. I know it could be worse, but that's my real name.

How could it be worse? asked Scutter.

I could be Rolf Saville. Imagine that.

Scutter chose not to.

What do you want?

I want a story, sergeant.

I have one, the manager interjected. It’s about a boy that dreamed of being a rock star. He got seven honours in his Leaving, he had the Robert Plant locks and the voice. He could have been a star.

What happened to him?

He took a summer job in a supermarket. Just when he’d saved up enough money for the round-the-world trip of his dreams, they gave him a tiny wage increase and proceeded to tear to shreds every last vestige of his person, reducing him to a squashed and soulless farce of humanity, wearing a cheap suit and parroting empty corporate slogans.

I’m not interested in your life story, Harris snapped. Ring the Samaritans.

I did, sighed O’Toole. They referred me to the Ephisians. One of them killed himself, after half an hour of listening to me. But, to listen is to hear.

As he walked away, Scutter's phone rang.

Kate, he shouted.

Bush! exclaimed Tade.

A woman whose name happened to be Kate Bush walked past.

Don't shout, Kate shouted.

That wasn't Kate Bush cautioning Scutter not to shout. It was his wife. And Garda Tade had seen a furze bush planted on the footpath, for no particular reason.

I wasn't shouting, said Scutter. I'm very busy at work. What do you want?

I was wondering what we should have for dinner tonight, his wife said.

Food would be a good idea, he suggested.

But what kind? she persisted. Julie's boyfriend is coming over for the first time and I want to make a good impression. He could be the one.

The one what?

The one she ends up marrying. She'll be twenty-four before she's twenty-five. Do you think pork would be suitable? Or should I just roast a chicken? Maybe I could make an Irish stew. Do you think he'd like that?

He'd love that, said Scutter. Mix up a packet of oxtail soup for starters and serve prunes and custard for dessert.

You're a culinary genius, John, his wife enthused. If you weren't a guard, you'd be Ballyhatchet’s answer to Heston whatshisname.

But I am a guard, he sternly reminded her. And I'm on duty. A disgusting crime has taken place and I'm investigating it, so this line must be kept clear.

Scutter ended the call.

Is there a rope in the boot of the squad car? he asked.

Garda Tade replied that there might be.

There was.

The abandoned furze bush was roped to the hitch of the squad car. Scutter then dragged the bush through the centre of town and out to the point on the Ballyhatchet bypass where the 50km/h zone began. The speed limit sign was situated on the brow of a hill. With the help of the bush, Scutter would be completely concealed from oncoming traffic.

Right, time to nab a few of those Speedy Gonzaleses, he growled. A few hours behind this bush with the radar gun will bag enough turkeys to make the Chief Superintendent think Christmas has come early.

I don't know about that, Sergeant, Tade said, with a frown. The Chief Superintendent is a very clever man. He's probably cleverer than all the guards in the country put together. He'll know Christmas always comes in December.

I was using a metaphor, you clown, his superior snapped.

Is that a new thing for catching speeding motorists that get confused about dates? asked Tade.

Jesus Christ almighty! exclaimed Scutter. How did you ever become a guard?

I don't rightly know, Sergeant. The Chief Superintendent might know. Like I said, he's ....

Yes, he's a exceptionally clever man, who somehow still ended up becoming a guard. You, on the other hand, are an imbecile of monumental proportions. But I have better things to do than stand here talking all day, and so do you. Get back to the station and go on the Internet. I want you to do some research on people who shit in public places.

Like photo booths?

I have no strong opinion either way on them, Scutter said. But I'm determined to get to the bottom of that stomach churning atrocity that took place this morning.

That's very good, Tade sniggered.

What's so funny, Garda Tade? his superior demanded irately.

That might be a very dirty bottom to be getting to, Sergeant.

Scutter was not even remotely amused.

You think it's funny, do you? That's how the Nazis got started.

Really? I thought they were democratically elected and then used the burning of the Reichstag as a pretext to suspend democracy and establish a dictatorship. There's nothing on the History Channel about shitting in photo booths. Did they even have photo booths in the Weimar Republic?

Look it up on the Internet, said Scutter. But look up shitters first. I want to build a profile on our dirty bastard.

What about porn? Tade asked eagerly. Can I look that up? It might be relevant to the investigation.

Absolutely not. There's no looking up porn on the guards computer. I have it here in black and white, from the Chief Superintendent.

He pulled out a piece of black paper. The command was written in white ink.

NO LOOKING UP PORN ON GARDA COMPUTERS. SIGNED, Chief Superintendent (THE).

There you have it, said Scutter.

There I have it, Tade agreed. The Chief Superintendent knows best, of course, but I think porn might be useful to me if I was ever to meet a Ban Garda. Is it okay to look at porn on my own computer at home, when I'm off duty? My mother goes to bed after she's watched the nine o'clock news and checked the social media sites to see if anybody is still alive. She lets me have the laptop after that..

What you do off-duty is your own business, said Scutter. Now fuck off and do some work.

What about the squad car?

What about it?

It needs a service. The brake pads are down to the metal and there's a funny noise from the engine. I reckon Neddy Grubdiggins should have a look at it.

Drop it off at the garage and tell him it's a priority, Scutter instructed. While you're waiting for it to be fixed, do your work at the station. I want to nail the Shitter today. You can collect me here at lunchtime.

Very good, Sergeant, Tade replied. "I have a feeling nothing is