Ignoble Imitation

By Cyril A. Peters

Welcome to my world. I am endowed with beauty and wealth, select genetic inheritance and a thirst for warm human blood...it floods my soul.
...I feel I have seduced you into appropriate attention; persevere and you will be rewarded.
I promise your participation will result in immeasurably exciting adventures, macabre though they may seem to others. A quest, we engage in together, will surpass incredible imaginings and encompass the world of an individual, surreal and bizarre by the standards of the intellectually deprived.
Come indulge yourself in unrestricted freedom of thought, deeds of social cleansing and a clamour for personal righteousness...horrifying though such acts may seem to the uninitiated...J. Kueller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481769440

Cyril A. Peters

Cyril Peters holds qualifications in criminology, world history, and indigenous cultures. He is a jazz musician. His other books are: Metempsychosis (by CAP); Ignoble Imitation by Cyril A. Peters; The Swan, The Demon, and the Warrior by Cyril A. Peters

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© 2013 Cyril A. Peters. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 7/30/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6942-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6943-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-6944-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Personal entries: Restricted

An Obsessive Devotee

The Investigating team

What in heaven’s name…!

A Nationalist

Gideon

Following Shadows

In Clouds and Dreams

The Relevant Year

A Random Visit

An Unexpected Event

Macabre Rhapsody

Empathy

In Search of Answers

Changes

IMAGES

An Unscheduled Visit

Historical Glimpse

A Puzzle

Joy and Consternation

An Act of Murder

Beyond kicking the glass door

Devastation And Despair

A Devotee No More

Revelation and Revenge

Epilogue

(This is a book of fiction. Characters appearing are a matter of record or non-existent. There is no intention to harm or damage the reputation, expressly stated or implied, of others.)

Personal entries: Restricted

APR 10

… Dark, inner desires and impenetrable secrets are buried deep within ALL of us. However, they are merely dormant awaiting awakening in unexpected ways. Restrictions are placed upon us by law and society that keep primeval thoughts and covert desires hidden within the closets of our minds.

Welcome to my world. I, Journal, am endowed with beauty, select genetic inheritance and a thirst for warm human blood…of degenerates and undesirables. An inexplicable need floods my soul.

Come indulge yourself in unrestricted freedom of thought, deeds of social cleansing and a clamour for personal righteousness, horrifying though such acts may seem to the uninitiated.

It is Nature and nurture, personal perceptions and life experience that are the sum total of an individual. How else can I present myself to you if not with individual ideals, personal truths and blunt statements of private insights? I am an entity possessed of exceptional qualities and a character that is decidedly unique. I foresee no alternative manner in which I can acquaint myself with you other than who I really am. To do otherwise would be an exercise in deception and hypocrisy.

Most dare not contemplate reticent yearnings or allow sinister desires to surface. Social embarrassment prevents them from discussing such matters openly. Yet, shadowy passions lurk in menacing recesses of their gloomy souls and inhibited corners of their minds. It is fear of exposure, a dereliction of accepted norms and restrictions, of discovery by social members and legal punishment in ‘civilised’ society that dominates. Fear condemns them to conceal disturbing obsessions.

Such passions, though terrifying to others, are natural to some.

We, you and I, of a higher social and intellectual order, are unencumbered by conscience. We are undeterred by the concept of fear itself as we are intellectually unfettered from the pomposity of legal systems or social fraternities. Our purposes are beyond ‘common’ understanding as the common amongst us are incapable of comprehending the need to dominate and prevail.

Outsiders pry into our private world at peril.

Evolution has placed survival instincts primarily on our list of imperatives. The propagation of individual genes by fair or foul means, dominance over others is paramount to survival. Killing of those less worthy of survival is instinctive; selective breeding ensures a more cohesive human society as only the most intelligent must survive. The distinction is not between races but those within them who are noblest and most commendable for the race of humans to dominate and prosper.

Such dominance is common in Nature and particularly amongst primates. Those that hinder the progress of a species must perish, naturally or violently or else a given species will be vanquished by another selected species.

***

The above, a short introduction, is to be followed by passages that may sound rather vague, though I feel I have seduced you into appropriate attention; persevere and you will be rewarded.

I promise your participation will result in immeasurably exciting adventures, macabre though they may seem to others. A quest, we engage in together, will surpass incredible imaginings and encompass the world of an individual, surreal and bizarre by the standards of the intellectually deprived.

My secrets, I swear by one who is very dear to me, will enthral you. My writing, though descriptive revelations of my deeds, is in her honour. An exhilarating journey is about to commence. Inexplicable and unanticipated experiences lie in wait.

Regrettably, along this journey, there are sacrifices to be made by others. Allow me to elaborate, albeit somewhat bluntly: the world is choking! Society is surrounded by degraded humans and the stench is irrepressible; one can barely breathe. There are odorous ‘candidates’ everywhere, repugnant to me as to society generally. Some present in unacceptable human form. Current society has been contaminated by the existence of such individuals, some male though mostly degenerate females. As a representative of my gender I find such degraded humans repulsive and an affront, not merely to me but to society as a whole.

An Obsessive Devotee

The life of Audrey Bourne was not punctuated by significant events until the day she found a Journal in a dumpster. It was an auspicious occasion. Her life was precariously balanced on the threshold of momentous change. Unknown to her, the purpose of her existence was to unravel. For the very first time in her life positive and significant events were at hand, though, she could not have imagined them in her wildest dreams.

***

Audrey had justifiably viewed her life as sordid. She wondered why fate or creative decree had condemned her to obscurity and personal abuse. At school she was often teased for her name. On each and every occasion her name, Audrey Bourne was mentioned by a teacher or referred to in any vague manner, others collectively whispered ‘Ordinary Burns’. The students made characteristic hissing and crackling sounds as though a fire was in progress. Pupils would pass her by in groups as they whispered the unwanted label and giggle at her as they moved on.

On occasions she dared to raise her hand in class to question or participate in discussions. Sighs and humiliating gasps immediately filled the room as though a fire had just been extinguished. Instant and intense conversations would commence as soon as she opened her mouth to speak. This disruption would continue until she was either ignored by the teacher, or, she was silenced into submission.

Audrey was excluded from activities. If she tentatively and self consciously approached a group the students walked away, to form once again, away from her presence. Teachers were tolerant though hardly ever encouraging or promoting of her ideas and suggestions. She offered help to other students in some vain attempt to belong; though, no sooner her help was not necessary, her presence was ignored. It was an established pattern. With established reluctance she had come to accept it. Her school grades were excellent, her work above others in content and quality but rarely, if ever, mentioned publicly.

A birth mark, that resembled a burn, covered the left side of her face extending from over the left eye to the middle of the left cheek. The disfigurement was hideous and she had come to accept that it was only one of several personal features she would always be recognised for. The rest of her face was pale, her cheeks badly scarred with bacterial infections from early childhood to teenage years. Scraggy reddish brown hair covered a poorly shaped skull that seemed out of proportion to the rest of her body. She had malformed and discoloured teeth that had grown disproportionately to each other. A dental adjustment, with braces and restraints, had done little to enhance her appearance. Other minor, nevertheless noticeable physical characteristics described her; they had accumulated into a collapsing self confidence as a consequence of childhood teasing and verbal schoolyard bullying.

Audrey Bourne did not possess a personal computer though access to the Internet was available on school equipment. Pages of abusive and derogatory remarks about her appeared regularly and not just by classmates, but strangers within the school system. Some were highly offensive, suggesting she should kill herself; the world, they insisted, would be a better place without her presence. Audrey wondered if medication prescribed for her mother was a possible solution. Massive doses were an easy way out and no one would miss her. However, it did not require moral or social courage as she did not entertain an ongoing desire to kill herself. A compulsion that events would transpire in her life to keep her surviving dominated in the form of hope.

She was not a coward by any reckoning. Audrey was physically strong, having assaulted boys her own age and older. She received temporary suspensions form school for doing so.

As a consequence she suffered long lonely hours of self condemnation and a deep regret that she was born. At times she justified the bullying she endured. She acknowledged that she may have engaged in similar obnoxious behaviour if the boot was on the other foot. Under different circumstances she considered that bullying, perhaps by her, would have been normal for those who deserved to be treated in anti-social ways.

Audrey’s mother, battered into chronic illness by unrelenting marital abuse, had passed away. Her violent father, his liver consumed by illicit alcohol and backyard drugs, had deserted her. Becoming a ward of the state was a terrifying consideration and she had hoped it would never happen. However, the alternative was not much better; she was abandoned in the care of an unwelcoming relative. She regularly stood by the window of her aunt’s house and gazed longingly in the direction of her abusive home. Despite the cruelty which she had been subjected to, it was the only real place where she ever belonged. She had endlessly endured the cries and screams of her mother, knowing they would never stop unless her father left or died. With her mother having succumbed to ill health and finally to death, the sounds of maternal weeping were now a haunting and disturbing melody.

Rarely a night would go by before she felt compelled to enter her aunt’s room, in vague memory of her mother, to see if her relative was asleep. The old hag rarely slept and appeared as strong as an ox. However, Audrey was aware that her aunt would eventually, with advancing age, wither into physical dependence. In turn the old woman would have no one to care for her than the unwanted niece she was required to raise. The irony sometimes made her smile and she waited patiently.

***

Audrey’s teenage years had become lost in the vagueness of time. Insignificant and fragmented memories of that period in her life barely lingered. From puberty to womanhood Audrey had grown into an adult without ever having had a single friend.

***

Audrey was myopic and condemned to wearing spectacles that did little to flatter her battered adult image. To avoid being noticed she walked with her head lowered; it was an acquired habit to shun the world or hide away from it. She occasionally glanced up to determine the uncertain path of life ahead. Her shoulders drooped from being overly self-conscious about her height, as she happened to be noticeably tall. She shuffled with her footsteps, taking care not to bump into others and shied away immediately if others happened to impede her way.

Audrey carried a large old leather bag, inherited from some forgotten family member. She held it in front of her as an assumed form of defence against an uncompromising and cruel world. Her clothes were carefully selected to convey a misconstrued image of bygone modesty. Her shoes were dusty though never unclean. She often walked down side streets to commute by bus and from the furthest stop between her place of residence and work. Seeking anonymity was preferable to accepting abuse.

Audrey Bourne did not belong to associations or clubs nor did she make attempts to socialise with others, within or out of her age group. The elderly aunt who had reluctantly cared for her, cloistered within the walls of some charitable care centre, served as a weekend point of social attachments. There was little, if any, emotional need that accompanied Audrey on these visits; though, without them places of social interest to visit were hardly worth considering.

Her entertainment requirements were adequately catered for with books written by prominent female writers of earlier centuries. Curtained shelves discreetly concealed volumes of printed work. She accessed these in the privacy of her apartment into the late hours of night.

Audrey Bourne was a clandestine devotee of European classical music. She indulged in this form of luxury through the aid of earphones, fearful, that neighbours might discover her passion and sneer at her for it. Social and intellectual status existed as a phenomenon in every strata of society. Concert halls were beyond her financial reach. Mostly, she did not attend out of ingrained social fear, even if costs were within her budget. Her image would not appear in keeping with the company of more affluent and pretentious patrons who flaunted programme brochures in bright halls and venue corridors. She silently scoffed at financially successful people who accorded themselves association with higher pursuits, such as music or art, though lacking the intellectual capabilities to suit. She lamented that money, of which she had little except her regular salary, guaranteed some people more than mere financial recognition and undeserving status in many ways.

She made rare attempts to attend art galleries of note though they were expensive to visit. Audrey had amassed an enviable knowledge of classical, neo-classical painters, impressionists and modernist artists from mail order subscriptions and visits to public libraries. Sadly, she could not share this secretive passion with any other person without having the possibility of ridicule.

Hers was a closeted world of high intellect. Nothing could be more humiliating than to be frowned upon for her intellectual leanings. Her persona belittled her and her self esteem had never graduated beyond a deplorable level.

She was painfully aware that her personal image was not compatible with her intellectual inclinations. Her select leanings, however, were beyond the appreciation of those to whom nature had been physically more generous. Audrey Bourne was not compatible with the assumed requirements of an image conscious society! Conversely, the hypocrisies’ of society, as she perceived them, were inadequate to compliment her personal intellectual tastes. Whereas they pointedly and impolitely ignored her for visible reasons, she quietly excelled in the privacy of her mind. Audrey discovered great personal comfort in the intellectual world in which she existed.

Despite her feminine limitations and introverted nature Audrey Bourne was physically strong. She was once charged with severely assaulting a construction site worker who whistled at her and made derogatory remarks about her appearance. The charges were withdrawn by the man. He was strong and muscular in appearance! Embarrassed at the prospect of facing a court appearance and admitting to a humiliating beating by a female was not flattering to his masculine ego.

***

Audrey worked efficiently and productively at the remotest desk of a commercial establishment. She was surrounded by females; they lacked enthusiasm for work and were always invigorated by the prospect of the next riotous weekend. Audrey was the butt of regularly whispered jokes. She was referred to as ‘Miss Burn’, for the prominent birth mark on her face. She rarely bothered to conceal her birth impairment with cosmetics as this would go noticed and whispered disparagingly about in tea room gossip.

However, her co-employees regularly referred to her for information and corrections in respect of commercial matters, as they carefully checked their personal appearance in pocket sized mirrors. Audrey, they grudgingly acknowledged, was highly capable in matters of commerce and current technology.

Having obtained the desired assistance, Audrey observed that they walked back to desks, swinging hips and suppressing giggles, as other office workers stifled laughter. Her silent contempt for them was as equal. She displayed her disrespect for them by explaining problems and solutions in an infantile manner which she considered suitable to their intellectual restrictions. As they laughed openly at her she sneered with her eyes at them for their limited mentality.

She was respected for her work capabilities by senior members of staff who, irrespective of that, preferred her to be located away from the sight of visiting clients. It suited her as she had little in common with fellow employees and lacked the confidence to deal with visitors.

Though licensed and very capable to do so, Audrey did not drive and had little need for her car. A ramshackle old vehicle sat patiently at street level, displaying a rusted condition. Its reluctant owner had considered the possibility of consigning it to the nearest scrap yard. However, she had never availed herself the opportunity to be rid of the vehicle. Perhaps, she thought, some extraordinary event might unfold one day when the need for a vehicle would arise.

Being seated in the company of ordinary people, within the confines of public transport, was to her liking. The drivers were familiar and some smiled. People of a lower socio-economic order were burdened with problems of everyday life and most barely noticed each other. They directed little attention to her as she shared nothing more than a passing smile with regulars. As usual, having travelled a short distance by the local bus, she negotiated her way on foot via back alleys to an insignificant block of apartments nearby.

***

It was early summer and late spring pollen choked the air. Her presence was not appreciated by fellow staff members as she sneezed endlessly from the time of her arrival at work. Audrey Bourne could not continue with duties and requested to leave early.

Sneezing uncontrollably, her eyes swollen with allergens and her nose dripping with watery mucous, she walked passed a large metallic dumpster in an alleyway. Her leather bag, inseparable from her person, was clogged with soggy tissues and she decided to empty it into the dumpster. As she lifted the lid she noticed an attractive hard cover Journal, buried amongst usual domestic rubbish, staring invitingly at her. The urge to rescue it was intense!

Her acquired sense of privacy prevented her from doing so; she could not extract the Journal out of the dumpster without compromising her personal sense of propriety. Audrey shut the dumpster by allowing the metallic lid to fall as noiselessly as possible as she walked away with reluctance. There was a tempting invitation radiating from within the dumpster. Her steps were measured and she had hardly gained a few feet away. Audrey could not resist! She checked in both directions and assured herself that she was the sole person in the alleyway. Nevertheless, she approached the dumpster exercising well rehearsed caution. She was aware that it might appear unseemly, pulling something out of a common refuse container and self conscious, she was about to do so.

Lifting the lid carefully she examined the Journal in the dim light of the interior. As she had initially surmised, it was an elegant book and as such, some person of intellectual note had owned it. Audrey checked the alleyway for people once again. Satisfied she was unobserved she reached in and extracted the book out from under the crush of rubbish. As before, she shut the dumpster carefully, ensuring it did not settle with metallic sounds. A thumping or banging sound would attract attention and she would be observed for her guilt in collecting discarded material.

She sighed with relief, certain her actions had been conducted unnoticed.

In retrieving the Journal time had passed by without her having sneezed once! She was amazed. Spring had amazingly gone into hiding and early summer was suddenly being generous to her on the day. It seemed that her allergy could be controlled by the sheer power of the Journal.

The discovery, having been subjected to the confines of the dumpster, exuded a slight pungent odour. It was to be expected; it had been surrounded by all manner of rubbish. However, there were other qualities to the item that excited Audrey’s imagination. She examined the top and bottom of the elegant book and one side; the Journal was gold leafed. The spine was solidly constructed. It had the appearance of untold secrets concealed within and the possibility of unimagined romantic delights. Audrey had never encountered romance in her life except in intellectual literary renditions. Despite the smell of the dumpster a soft and subtle perfume exuded from the book. It would linger in her memory.

Audrey did not have to examine the item she had discovered to further extent. She was convinced that the Journal belonged to some person of an attractive and charming personal character and high intellectual perceptions. As such, it complimented her intellectual disposition. She was assured the contents would reveal matters of significance and unfold fascinating secrets. She was entering a world of delectable fantasy, with beauty and intellect as a combination. Her allergen soaked eyes sparkled with delight. It was a fantastic find, even if the excitement was to last for a limited period.

She recalled the last time she had found something. It was a coin she misguidedly presented to her father for approval. It was snatched away from her childish hands and she was accused of theft. She had protested tearfully that it was not taken from his wallet. A beating followed and her mother was accused of having encouraged the theft. The police were called in. Her father alleged that the child had stolen the entire family budget.

Audrey was handcuffed and transported to a nearby station where she was lectured about her alleged misdemeanour before she was released. They had failed to treat her as a child. It had been a terrifying experience. Since then she had made it a point never to find anything that did not belong to her.

She quickly examined the public container by walking around it to ensure that no evidence of her presence was left behind. Audrey stretched her strides to maximum and was soon away from the site of the dumpster, taking sidelong glances to ensure no one had appeared unexpectedly in the alleyway. No one had! She opened the flap of her leather bag and put the Journal inside it.

Audrey Bourne rushed to her second floor apartment ensuring the nosy neighbour had not noticed her early arrival back from work. He was presumably retired, unemployed or lazy; she was uncertain. However, uncharacteristically he failed to notice her return and did not, as a matter of routine, peep out of his front door. She stifled stress induced sneezing, her allergy having subsided, as she approached the entrance to her apartment. The rest of her neighbours were mostly at work and all she could hear was some infant bawling in some unsighted apartment. The building manager was engaged in his regular pursuit of sport or endless cooking shows from the comfort of his dented sofa. Mostly he was oblivious of the appearance or disappearance of residents. He was commonly known as ‘no comment’ and ‘no action man’.

Once inside, she secured the door from within with multiple latches and bolts. Audrey extracted the Journal from within the leather bag and in great anticipation stared at it. It was decidedly an unexpected find. She decided to temporarily shed her acquired prejudices against members of social and financial fortunes.

Though she had not examined the interior of the Journal she nevertheless was excited. It promised enthralling reading into the life of some intelligent and noteworthy socialite, with artistic leanings to compliment her own. The very nature and appearance of the book suggested that! She was near delirious that it now belonged to her and no one would snatch it away, beat her mercilessly or drag her in handcuffs to the nearest police station for having discovered it.

It was not mere chance, she told herself, that events had led her to the dumpster. Destiny had deliberately journeyed in her direction and had travelled cloaked in a disguise of unexpected revelations. Destiny, as her entire life would vouch for, had little else in store for her! A worthwhile find had the potential to point the finger of providence in fulfilling ways.

Audrey charged into the tiny laundry and respectfully placed the Journal on an ironing board. She moistened a soft laundry rag and carefully wiped the book clean of unwanted dirt. The aroma of a distinctive and expensive perfume wafted to her nostrils. She marvelled at the subsidence of allergens that had been causing her discomfort for most of the day. Audrey sighed with intense relief and wonderment. There was no cure for the common cold, unless the remedy could be found in a glamorous personal book. It seemed the necessity to sneeze was for medical reasons and in discovering the Journal, she had accessed immediate cure. Surely, she debated; if not a medical recovery such a miraculous occurrence could only be attributed to some magical quality about the Journal. However, she did not believe in miracles either as none had occurred in her life. Perhaps, she sighed in anticipation, a change was at hand.

The Journal was very likely discarded by accident or carelessness on the part of some person other than the owner. Perhaps it had been stolen. Personal entries were of little interest to the thief who, not anticipating any value to be derived, had thrown it into the dumpster; it seemed to be the most logical conclusion.

She was a fastidious person even though visitors or guests never entered her private world. Audrey entered the small and immaculately clean living room. She settled herself into the comfortable single settee with the Journal on her lap. She wiped her spectacles clean, taking care not to leave any visible trace of fingerprints or dust that would interfere with reading. In some awe, she opened the first few pages and examined it with respect.

The handwriting was exquisite and the style very much to her liking. Audrey settled comfortably into the settee in great anticipation. She inhaled deeply. The very first page ensured that she held her breath.

Property of

J.Kueller

Private: Do not access, with the exception of Paris Leighton Kueller

Other information had not been filled in. Particularly, the date and year section had been left blank. Audrey was certain the omissions were deliberate.

Her life had taken a serious turn. Somehow, she knew that she had ceased to exist as the person she had known all her miserable life. An entity, with purpose, dignity and high intellect had emerged with an opening of the very first page of the Journal. She was adamant that she, Audrey Bourne, was a chosen subordinate to that entity, rejuvenated for select purposes in life. Destiny had placed a convincing hand on her shoulder.

The names of popular people did not figure prominently in her list of interests. However, the name Kueller appeared familiar in commercial ways. Presumably it held some financial and corporate significance.

The Investigating team

What in heaven’s name…!

(A year later)

Les Withers was an experienced and senior police detective. He had uncovered an internal plot between junior officers. They were determined to solve some undecipherable foreign communication behind his back though he had ordered them not to do so. For Les, there was no looking away. He was duty bound to pursue their unauthorised efforts. Lucinda Smyth, a local resident and an innocent girl, had been battered to death on some isolated foreign site.

Another reformed drug addict, Josie Fielder, had mysteriously vanished on home ground. Gideon Laver, a highly regarded uniformed police officer, was guilt driven. His obsession with the disappearance of Josie Fielder had become a fixation with Les Withers as well; as the senior officer, it was to him to stop further mysterious disappearances of more young female persons.

The disappearance of Josie Fielder and the offshore murder of Lucinda Smyth were the last investigations that Les Withers was required to carry out before being transferred from active policing to administrative duties.

***

I agree, Les Withers remonstrated with his deputy, so don’t go on about it.

He was seated uncomfortably in the comfort of his modern office. His physical incapacity, an ailing leg and a desire to access the leisurely activities of life had been uppermost in his mind for days. Recent events had shifted the possibility of an immediate transfer.

Les was not in a conciliatory state of mind. His discontent was in response to questions carefully and thoughtfully raised by his deputy. He rarely sought advice or comment from others.

Les brought his fist down with an emphatic bang on the desk at which he sat, expressing frustration and unnecessary force. The laptop computer, which he rarely bothered to look at, placed inoffensively on the desk jumped into the air and fell back with a clattering sound. Other desk instruments followed suit.

Outside, an erratic wind lashed city streets. It whistled mournfully through numerous concrete city tunnels. Streaks of lightning crossed the skies as deep thunder rattled glass panes. Rain was tumbling down in torrents. The darkening afternoon held few promises.

People don’t just disappear into thin air, so don’t remind me! Les grumbled at Sarah Fennec as she regarded the floor in disappointment. Not, he muttered to himself, in my area of jurisdiction and not as long as I am here.

There was little else Les could do except tug at his ear lobe and run his fingers through receding hair in abject frustration. He stared pointlessly at nothing in particular.

His deputy, Sarah Fennec, moved respectfully away from his presence and leaned against an adjacent wall as she sighed helplessly. Having served in Les’ company and as his subordinate over a period, she had learnt to keep her distance when confronted with his rare display of powerlessness. Others wrongly believed she succumbed to Les’ domination due to her gender. Rumours circulated that Les was intolerant of foreigners and he did not like working with women, though such malicious gossip were of marginal truth.

Les kicked his chair away from the desk. The well-worn plastic castors squeaked in protest as he attempted to stand up. It was a futile act. One ailing leg almost gave way under the weight of his body. A work related accident he had suffered had weakened it. Sarah Fennec spontaneously reached forward to help him as he glared at her not to do so. His physical restriction was not in need of disrespectful charity.

Les happened to be reasonably fit for his middle years, except for a small bulbous middle. An early morning quiet walk and simple stretching exercises following the accident had paid dividends. However, X-rays revealed he had accumulated streaking of respiratory lesions on his lungs. At times he was short of breath. Coupled with a compromising leg he rarely attempted to climb a set of stairs. Les had reluctantly abandoned smoking to set an example to other members of the police under his command, though occasionally, in private, he indulged in a cigarette or two. A social drink, now and again, had assured him of an acceptable state of health.

Les was mentally exhausted.

In sheer annoyance he flung himself back into the chair, giving vent to his physical and mental state. He stamped on the heavily carpeted floor with his good leg. There was no response. It did not help relieve tension.

His crafted professional persona as well as a distinguished career was taking a noticeable battering. Others who worked with him were aware of his current shortcomings. It did not enhance his diminishing self confidence. Les Withers rarely, if ever, displayed any form of helplessness. His self assurance was on constant display and he imparted confidence to others, when, he was not humiliating them with abrupt words or derogatory remarks.

There was a caring aspect to his personality. Occasionally, his considerate behaviour and understanding of other people’s needs was unexpected and often surprising; he could be uncharacteristically generous! Nonetheless, this was often overlaid by an overactive professional conduct. He had limits and of late these had become easy to observe. His sense of generosity seemed to have evaporated along with rapidly diminishing self belief.

I thought… Sarah began hesitantly only to be interrupted by Les.

As I have done, he scolded her, along every avenue of thinking you might pursue! Turning his head around, he almost glared at her. He defied her to state it was his fault even though she had no intention of doing so.

It’s like a vanishing act at a human level; gone before our very eyes without a clue left behind! he grumbled. No one cares but us and we have nothing more than intense suspicion to back us up. Les stared at her in a confronting manner. My thoughts and your words, right? he challenged.

Sarah Fennec shrugged her shoulders as she had little to challenge him with.

Stop thinking! he commanded. I told you, didn’t I, he reminded her, it would grow on me, together with the number of sleepless nights?

Sarah waited patiently for Les to settle down. Her personal frustration was not reduced by his helplessness and irritation. They both shared a dilemma that could not be resolved. It would require calm thinking and serious dedication to solve a confounding problem.

I was about to say that we could do with assistance at this stage, she suggested hesitatingly, conscious she might further antagonise him. Only, if you agree, Sarah added quickly as Les enacted a familiar body movement. She had observed a peculiarity whenever he rejected the opinions of others, which was very often. He shuddered rapidly to express his disagreement.

Gideon Laver, Sarah continued, having waited long enough for his shuddering to subside is not some kindergarten story teller who invents facts and figures for our entertainment, she said guardedly. For the moment it seemed she was treading on thin ice with a pair of heavy iron boots strapped to her feet.

Perhaps, she suggested meekly, if we spoke to him once again and encouraged him to open up, we could uncover detail we may have missed. After all it was he who put us on this treadmill. Gideon’s persistence in regard to rehabilitated Josie Fielder has really got us all going. Really, she couldn’t have just vanished! She regarded him hopefully though she knew he was barely listening to her.

Les raised and rested his feet on the desk as she spoke, continuously stroking his chin in some contemplative manner. It was as though by remaining silent a flash of inspiration would dawn on some very dark corridors of investigation.

Sarah Fennec knew this was highly unlikely. She whistled softly in despair. Not discussing the matter was being unhelpful; it was hardly an appropriate manner to work as a coordinated unit. Involved was another member of the team who had judiciously made his presence scarce, leaving her to deal with Les.

One or two, she continued, hoping for some official agreement, we could investigate in routine manner. The possible number of missing persons is frightening, to say the least.

To her disappointment Les was unresponsive and she was required to persist.

Besides that, take Marionette Salle for example, she sighed despairingly. You said, Sarah hoped to draw him into conversation, there are unanswered questions in regard to the animal shelter. Gideon Laver has serious interests there and he is entitled to them. She was a close friend. Now she’s dead! Sarah exclaimed.

She commenced, quietly and inoffensively, to pace the length of the room, occasionally glancing at him for contribution. Les was downcast. Unexpected matters requiring serious and dedicated attention were arising prior to his transfer. He was duty bound to solve current problems. Sarah sympathised with him and knew she would miss him once he was gone. However neither sympathy nor personal loss was going to initiate action or bring about results in respect of current matters.

Are we to believe, Sarah questioned, a possible serial offender with international connections, dressed in the garb of a Christian nun is on the loose? It seems absurd, given the good work she has done for poor people; besides she is being praised for her efforts by others. We need to work methodically, as I have learnt by observing you, Sarah encouraged.

Yes, okay! You’ve made your point, Les exclaimed in frustration, wishing her to discontinue speaking. He gesticulated angrily, shuddering as he did. You just keep repeating where we are, in case I forget, he rebuked her. Who knows, he said sarcastically, the two, your computer nerd and you, could solve this mess without my help or intervention.

It’s not what I implied, she said quietly, disappointed by his inference. Sarah retreated into silence waiting patiently for him to join in some constructive discussion. She had never seen him as irritated before even though she was familiar with his erratic bursts of temper. However, as a policeman and senior officer, she held him in high regard.

Les stood up favouring his damaged leg and walked to the glass panelled wall on the opposite side. He stared blankly into the progressing gloominess of the rain drenched late afternoon. A helicopter flew low above the building and a powerful downdraft lashed at the window pane. He backed hurriedly away as it seemed someone had attempted to punch him in the face. He shook a fist at the departing craft and cursed silently.

***

Les Withers had served the department of homicide for nearly all his working life. With a much desired shift to administrative duties his active detective life was soon to come to an end. He had been shot in one leg by a violent offender. A Compensation Offer was made to him with full benefits to retire. Les had angrily refused the generous act stating that the mishap had occurred during the course of duty for which he was adequately paid. His refusal to take advantage of the situation was appreciated and respect for him had multiplied exponentially. In truth Les Withers had little else in life to compensate him for his love of the job.

He was a man of middle size and walked with his head in the air to compensate for his lack of official height. Les had a ruddy complexion and his face was scarred with visible lines of life experience. His greying hair was long and well cared for, his moustache always in good trim.

He refused to wear spectacles. Les often pretended he could read unaided and stare into infinity as others observed in a tolerant manner. To the silent amusement of those who worked with him he dismissively passed documents to be read aloud as though he could not be bothered. As the top senior detective he was usually well dressed in civilian clothes and presented as a person conscious of his social status and his official position.

Les could not wait to leave for easier physical work in administration; however, he was departing for physical reasons and not out of choice. It would take an interesting case to draw him back to active policing. It seemed he was confronted with one that was beyond such ordinary description.

The affected leg had shortened in comparison to the other one, creating lower back problems that restricted movement. He was occasionally seen struggling to tie his shoe laces. Lack of mobility and dependence had altered his character and he was characteristically short tempered or irritable. He avoided driving a car as this played havoc with his aching back, preferring others to transport him around. Sarah Fennec, of late, had become his regular driver.

For the first time in his long and illustrious career as an investigating officer he was confounded beyond personal acceptance. Some mysterious person, possibly a serial killer, was outwitting him and he did not have a clue. He was reluctant to depart from his official position without having successfully completed his last round of duties. It was a confronting experience for him and he was finding it difficult to deal with it. Few, if any cases under his jurisdiction, of persons murdered or having mysteriously disappeared ever remained unsolved. He took enormous pride in his abilities. The department he served had relied on him to achieve results. His ego had recently been dented and his reputation was at ebb.

The continuous rain was washing away more than dust on the street below. Hope, the only commodity available to vulnerable people, was being washed away into storm water drains; presumably, to disappear into the murky vastness of the polluted river. The river itself was deep as was the mystery Les was confronted with. The rain was cleansing a person or persons, who indulged in some macabre and deadly game of abduction and possible murder.

Clues were either being eroded away or perhaps did not exist. Collecting evidence was impossible. All Les could rely on was several academic theories of crime and he was conversant with most of them. However, there were no strict patterns to conveniently fit the current mysterious events to any theory.

Explanations did not exist to justify the disappearance of very ordinary people who, as victimless offenders, had committed no harm to others, except, to themselves. Drug addicts and young prostitutes were not always on the desired list of policing priorities. However, one dedicated uniformed policeman, Gideon Laver, was persistent. He had raised questions that required serious official investigation, no matter the social status of the alleged victims. Their memories and bodies that eluded discovery were being sluiced away into mysterious conduits before vanishing into oblivion. Most who disappeared were young, disillusioned and victims of social neglect or personal tragic circumstance; or else, they were ordinary citizens, with barely a noticeable criminal record between them. They were young petty thieves, alcoholics and drug addicts, tolerated by the executive system. Significantly amongst them were young females, having committed paternalistic crimes such as prostitution. They were required to survive! As such, they caused greater harm to self dignity and health rather than offending the community. Prosecuting them cost the State more than allowing them to walk free with repeated cautioning.

***

Shaking his head in bewilderment Les turned around, pacing in every possible direction, staring pointedly at his desk as he went passed it. He came to a standstill and then kicked his legs about as though to invigorate them into extra action. His characteristic limp was pronounced and he flexed his shoulders and stuck his chest out. It was as though he was trying to reassert himself of self professed invincibility.

Don’t, Sarah advised cautiously, though reproachfully.

Les frowned at her. Don’t, what? he asked frowning at her, irritated by her apparent calm detachment.

Sarah Fennec hunched her shoulders and raised her brows. You are staring at that plaque with your name on it as if it means nothing, she said accusingly. She sighed with minor exasperation. You shouldn’t do that.

What if I am? He challenged her in a disgruntled manner and flexed his shoulders once again. It is my plaque, isn’t it?

It certainly is, She agreed respectfully. You’ve earned it and it says a great deal about you, she said insistently.

He walked to her and then back again to the glass panelled wall, a wry smile on his face.

Thanks for the flattery and the confidence, he retorted dismissively. Next you’ll be complimenting me on my incredible intelligence and possibly my good looks.

Sarah suppressed a giggle to avoid annoying him further. Maybe, she attempted carefully, only on your incredible intelligence.

Les ignored her. The truth is, he grumbled, I’m not going anywhere, plaque or no plaque! Something tells me if I don’t sort things out I’ll be stuck permanently in active policing. This situation is going to get worse and we’ll be none the wiser.

Perhaps, she corrected in support, "we are not going anywhere for now. It’s no one’s fault if the potential offender or alleged offenders are meticulous and extremely clever about what they are engaged in. They are bound to make a mistake."

Les frowned at her optimism.

As you acknowledged before, Sarah reminded, we have nothing but suspicions to support us. We have personal hunches and we should expand these, she said. The disappearances are supported by anecdotal evidence. These will eventually unravel. We will have answers, she assumed positively.

In the meantime, he glowered at her insistently, more young women vanish and we aren’t even sure who, where or why.

Les, Sarah regretted, had become irritable as a consequence of his unexpected disability. At times she was inclined to be quietly intolerant of his altered character though never drawing attention to his restrictions.

There was resolve and application in Sarah Fennec that had seen her rise rapidly through ranks and out of uniform. She was intelligent and untiring without being presumptuous; never drawing attention to physical discomforts. It was also respect for authority that had helped her progress in her career against insurmountable odds. It was not affirmative action on the part of senior officers that had propelled her through ranks; sheer hard work and dedication had brought recognition in appropriate places. Sarah Fennec enjoyed her work and the fulfilment it brought on achieving outcomes. She was not tall nor was she pretty and none could claim her physical appeal had propelled her into seniority. However, there was pleasantness and leadership about her character that attracted other members of the establishment to her. She was neat, tidy, efficient and highly committed to her profession. Sarah exuded determination that inspired others and aroused envy in some.

Unlike Les, she was not required to justify success or failure to anyone. In her subordinate position she was merely expected to perform her duty. However, exciting career prospects were looming ahead with the expected departure of Les Withers. She regretted losing his company and his dubious charms though her personal career prospects would be substantially enhanced.

Sarah decided to exercise some assertive behaviour. She came forward and stared at Les Withers with hands on hips. Her subdued annoyance was not lessened by his frustrated performance. She had to think and act objectively. She could not allow lack of progress to dampen dedication with emotion; being committed was the only way to solve a potentially devastating problem.

Save it, Les almost shouted at her on observing her approach. I’m in no mood for lectures. His volatile character was universally regarded as a matter of personal drive. Les had been covertly described by fellow personnel to Sarah as someone who was difficult to work with. However, she was courageous enough to privately extol his virtues as a detective and senior officer.

I wasn’t going to give you a lecture, Sarah responded, trying to retain control of her reaction. It’s easy to vent your anger on someone who’s subordinate to you, she said accusingly. I’m an easy target; however, that’s not going to solve anything, except subject me to unnecessary abuse. I’m as frustrated as you are.

Les threw his hands in the air as a gesture of despair. Let’s not personalise this, shall we? he instructed.

Sarah was accustomed to praise as well as unofficial mistreatment that Les occasionally subjected her to. She had come to accept that as part of his character. Mostly, she was happy to work with him. He was a dedicated person even though he suffered from prejudices more in keeping with earlier centuries.

Why don’t we talk to Gideon Laver? Sarah suggested hesitatingly, once again. He knows Princeton and the people who live there better than any other police person, she stated convincingly. If anyone can lead us into some promising direction it will be Gideon. After all, it was his obsession about the disappearance of Josie Fielder that added to this sordid matter! Without him we may not have linked everything else that’s been happening. He is, in a manner of speaking, personally involved.

It was professional pride that was holding him back. Nonetheless, not being able to access a single worthwhile piece of evidence was disconcerting. Lack of rapid progress could mean disappearance for more people who survived on the fringes of society. The greater fear, as his experience had taught him, was that which often followed next. Blood and gore was part of his duties. However, not even he had the stomach for bodies surfacing unexpectedly in ever increasing numbers.

Les Withers considered her suggestion reluctantly and nodded. Right, he agreed almost compliantly. Let’s go find Gideon Laver. He can’t hurt us, even if he is unable to help. Hope he’s in the mood for us, he spoke with consideration. I’d hate to be in his shoes! Marionette Salle and he had years to count between them. She was no one’s puppet. They had been long time close friends.

It was an encouraging sign and Sarah was prepared to follow.

We ignored his ideas to start with, remember? No one likes being treated as a one-track minded fool, Les acknowledged.

She cast a hasty glance in his direction. Let’s not be that harsh on ourselves, she said tentatively. "We have been concerned with the matter of the pink diamond and the Danish necklace. If our attention was not focussed on the Hungarian case we would have paid greater attention to him.

His dedication to duty is undeniable, Les acknowledged. Being in uniform does not deprive him of detecting skills.

No one is to blame for what’s been happening except the perpetrators, Sarah commented; neither Gideon nor us.

No need to elaborate, he said acidly; "it’s because I have refused to listen to Gideon Laver. Isn’t that what you really mean? We are investigators, not crystal ball gazers, anticipating disappearances that are likely to lead to murder, or, perhaps the other way about. We need facts, not predictions or uniformed police suggestions, no matter how well intentioned," he remarked.

Let’s hope, Sarah stated cautiously, predictions or suggestions don’t lead to facts concerning murder; even if they come our way via uniform.

Les shoved his hands in his pocket and took a few steps forward indicating he had conceded to her suggestion.

The fact of missing persons and homicide is what they pay us for, he countered grumpily. So let’s go about earning our money, shall we? He prepared to leave the general office interior.

Sarah though pleased that he had finally consented to follow her suggestion was nonetheless annoyed at his ongoing irritable behaviour. I’ve been trying to contribute, Les, and hoping for some cooperation, she complained. I’m not trying to upset you, she apologised turning to follow him.

Really! he responded. You couldn’t! I’m only upset when I want to be. His exasperation was evident. What is going on? He whispered. It sounded more a statement rather than a question he had directed helplessly at himself.

Terrible, isn’t it, Sarah agreed, momentarily forgetting his chameleon character. He could be agreeable one moment and insulting the next. We know something dreadful is going on but can’t put a finger on it, she said helplessly. It’s almost a year on, in bits and pieces right under our noses, and we have little to carry us through.

He led the way in a military march, his leg having steadied and his mannerisms having gained some composure, until they had almost reached the end of a long corridor. His march was his way of displaying he continued to be in control despite the impending transfer.

It’s like a medieval phantom has risen from some dark age to commit invisible crimes, she sighed ominously, pacing a few feet behind him.

He stopped abruptly and turned to face Sarah.

What? he asked in utter disbelief; a medieval phantom? Les widened his eyes and heaved an infuriating sigh in turn. He had returned handsomely from his brief encounter with politeness.

It is almost a year on, agreed Les. However, there’s nothing poetic about what is taking place. Try and remember that, he almost warned her. Nuns and medieval phantoms! he exclaimed in disbelief. If you don’t, you’ll start to romanticise about the very person or persons we may be trying to hunt down, he said dryly, as he commenced walking, his hands in his trouser pockets, his chin lowered to his chest. They were almost at the front entrance.

Start what? she asked, genuinely annoyed at him.

As if you didn’t know the direction you’re heading towards; medieval phantom, indeed! He shook his head in dismay. Next you’ll be suggesting we forget Gideon Laver and consult a psychic or convene dialogue with a tarot card reader, he commented condescendingly.

Sarah stuck her chin out in a small gesture of defiance from behind. You forgot to mention an exorcist, she said sarcastically. Who knows? Gideon might know a local who can help us with a couple of chopsticks crossed at ninety degree angles and well rehearsed religious chants. After all, he’s obsessed with the nun character! Gideon and God are the only two who know we could do with some help as we continue in pointless denial.

Having endured his temper for the best part of the afternoon her tolerance was at an end. Walking past him she kicked the front glass door open in sheer frustration. You’d imagine they would have installed electronically sliding doors with sensors by now, she said angrily. I’m glad we’ve got cars and not the old horse and buggy!

Rainy days caused him muscular concern in his leg. It would unexpectedly loose strength and buckle under him. Stooping, he rubbed both legs and stared at her from his lowered position. It’s not part of the training manual, he advised calmly.

Sarah stopped and frowned at him questioningly. What isn’t? she asked mustering as much defiance as she could.

Destroying public property in the presence of your superior; kicking glass doors open and complaining about funding, he pointed accusingly. Besides, I refuse to be witness to some compensation claim for self inflicted injuries, allegedly sustained on the job, he warned.

She allowed him to exit. Turning her face away from him as he left she kicked the door shut.

I thought you might suggest a faith healer if I injured myself, she retorted back softly in frustration, and not the Compensation Board.

If Les was explosive when he wanted to be, he, as well, had the capacity to appreciate the limitations of others. However, it did not deter from his normal character. He ignored Sarah with a toss of his head as they proceeded to the car park. He appeared to be further disgruntled than he had been indoors, rubbing his problem leg on the way. There were no punching bags around and Sarah was an uncooperative one.

The rain was pelting down unabated, with little indication it was going to stop soon. It was horribly cold, the temperature near freezing. They ran the short distance to the car as he tried to cover his head by drawing his coat over it. Sarah delayed opening the passenger door with her electronic key as he frowned at her in disbelief. She shrugged her shoulders, pretending not to notice him as he commenced getting soaked. Eventually, she let him in and disregarded his wordless protest.

Les sat inside the car, visibly annoyed she had deliberately made him stand out in the rain. He soon overcame his temporary fury as she deliberately ignored him. In moments he was lost in deep concentration. The engine was ice cold. Sarah allowed time for it to warm up.

Someone else is going to vanish tonight, he said gloomily, looking through the windscreen as he occasionally followed the movements of the wipers. Light hail had commenced to fall.

Why do you say that? Sarah asked dryly, though she was genuinely concerned.

Les shrugged his shoulders. Oh! I don’t know! Gideon said something along those lines. He sighed in perplexity. Sometimes, Gideon said, it appears there is a pattern to these disappearances; at others, it is random. Somehow, the weather, such as rainy and turbulent nights, encourages these vanishing acts. It seems if you recall, full moon nights, as well, are very favourable to these young people disappearing. Do you remember Gideon saying that about the loud mouth girl, Glum, who vanished on a moonlit night? Let’s hope you are not correct about your medieval phantom, he said provokingly.

Sarah rolled her eyes to the ceiling of the car and shook her head in annoyance. She empathised with him, acknowledging there was very little she could contribute to alleviate the situation. There has to be a motive no matter who the perpetrators are. There simply has to be a motive, she insisted. Assuming, of course, that the disappearances lead to other acts, Sarah said.

He rubbed his eyes to clear the mental fog out of them.

He had an unpleasant habit of sneering at others if they voiced his unspoken opinion. We may not have a clue but my gut and long experience tells me things that I would rather not listen to.

What would you rather not listen to? Sarah asked, curiously.

I would rather not hear about serial murder! It is never the same as investigating an individual case, he replied. What if Gideon is right and there is a clever predator around? That is a slim possibility and it is disturbing. He acknowledged grudgingly. This one, he stressed, "promises more than one female! The worst part is, unlike other cases, something weird is in progress.

Gideon, too, is determined there is something sinister happening or he would not have insisted; Josie Fielder, the ex-druggie, his pet concern or not. Les sighed. He’s been close to these missing people and understands their lifestyle and patterns of behaviour. It is eluding our capabilities because we are hunting in the dark for someone who, unlike us, can see in the dark.

I promise, Sarah said sarcastically, stung by his previous remarks, not to mention the dark and mysterious medieval phantom again.

Les did not respond as lightning lashed the skies in spectacular display. The afternoon was getting darker.

So where could the people disappear to? Surely young girls are not being transported to work in religious missions within the country, Sarah said conversationally, unless that is a cover up being circulated for our benefit. The real truth could be an overseas female slave market under cover of religious appointments.

No, Les stated emphatically. I don’t contribute to the female slave market idea. This is definitely different. Maybe it’s MPI, Les said in forlorn hope; nothing else makes sense at this stage.

What’s MPI? Sarah frowned, ignorant about the suggestion.

Haven’t you heard of it? he asked, surprised. "MPI is Mass Psychogenic Illness; someone allegedly experiences an event, true or not, that catches on. Soon, every Tom, Dick and Harry, is personally affected or is subject to a variation of the event.

Others, such as Glum or perhaps even Josie Fielder, add to it. They embellish and even replicate the events pretending to be part of them, simply to draw attention to their meaningless existence. Some kind of mass hysteria, he said deprecatingly. Someone disappears; others talk about it and soon, some more decide it’s time for them to disappear, even though they haven’t!

Some illness, Sarah commented dubiously; "except, no one is acting hysterically; just anecdotal evidence that people are