The Special Detective

By Mark B Wignall

In the quiet city of Westgate Shores life hardly moves forward, without a
shove, even sunlight tries to not directly shine on the town too quickly.
Here however the land is peaceful; no technology or brand rules the social
hierarchy people are just decent, very dull and everywhere. But this recluse
for the overly excited now plays host to a criminal mob from the modern
high powered era terrorising its streets, recruiting its youth and being very
troublesome for the cities, illuminating, police force who just so happen to
recruit a local man of their own who has a mysterious past, a big sword
and a habit of kicking buttocks where ever his foot can reach it. This is the
introduction of Jack Ryan, who will take the fi ght to the street, the road,
the street again and a dozen other dotted places around town. Lets just
hope he can get it done right along side the humbling bumbling police unit
S.O.23 and the beautiful Penelope who is a transfer offi cer from France
who carries a really big gun and really modest opinions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465373533

Mark B Wignall

The author unlike many people knows he doesn’t have a clue but he doesn’t let it stop him from time to time. A Liverpool man and a father of 4 he likes to read, write, entertain his children and pester his wife for tea which never comes. Making writing a near full time occupation Mr Wignall has abandoned most of his other 11 hobbies in favour of writing in a similar fashion to his all time favourite author, the great Sir Terry Prachett. He tries not to compete with Sir Terry but wouldn’t mind a try, if not to be viewed on the same page then to at least get close enough to get his autograph or a picture of them shaking beards. THE SPECIAL DETECTIVE has been a trying piece of work but have spurred on several related titles which his children have used as a spelling tool and conversational item only but when using his faulty laptop his wife merely says “have you fi nished with the socket yet?”. Hoping to amuse you all with the fi rst piece of the tale Mark Wignall would like to thank you for taking the time to look at this page and hopes you will fi nd the rest of the book readable and worth the time.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Mark B Wignall.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011919668

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-7352-6

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-7351-9

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-7353-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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303018

The Special Detective

By Mark B Wignall

An ordinary weekend passes by and watches the sun rise up over the city of Westgate Shores. An ordinary weekend with ordinary sunshine dragging its feet along as it breaks through the grey clouds on its way to the world, chasing away the night and leaving history… set in stone.

The city of Westgate Shores is a quiet place and it is quite far away from any of the more popular and interesting cities in Great Britain like London for instance. Some people even say that it is right slap bang in the middle of nowhere and no one knows what particular directions to take in order to get there (although everybody knows roughly where about the middle of nowhere is and how to often end up there). It is an old style town with old style customs. But it was not as old were someone would be drowned in a lake for owning a black cat but old style as in double glazing was fairly unheard of and unusual also how cars now come with automatic windows which was much to the horror of the local public and also to add to that horror… indicators. The local public on the other hand were a degree of people who had never heard a curse word that began with an F, S or a C or whichever else. A child could be slapped around the ear hole for saying bugger or dang it out in public places which as we all know is about as offensive as a multi coloured packet of washing line pegs. Trade around town was also pretty basic as carpentry and joinery was thee major skill around and the most rewarding one too because most of the city was still made of wood with the exception of larger buildings which are still, mostly, wood. Fashion in relation to clothing seemed a bit behind as well dungarees and denim ruled supreme and black leather boots stomped the yard as far as foot wear was concerned.

As for the long and gruelling description this one would best describe the city… . Old… and grey. The city itself was situated in the lower south eastern quadrant of the national map which if viewed on a shop wall you would only just make it out (often found behind the part that says peel back here). Westgate Shores was neither known as a southern or eastern city it was more commonly accepted (and legally) as just there.

The night sky was being replaced by the mornings light leaving behind it the sounds and smells of dancing feet, expensive gatherings… and sinister deeds.

A mild dry hangover greets one particular local man as he awakes from his sleep, ‘oooow’ was all his brain could allow him to utter. The man gradually stood up from lying on a couch till he was nearly upright. He was standing in a room with a lovely sunny outdoor view showing off trees and woodland areas, and the waters of the North Sea hugging the edge of the land all through a fancy square wooden window. This view was equally as impressive as the room’s interior décor: the furniture was an antique wood with engravings carved into them and there was a brown couch in the middle of the room made up of three pieces forming a shape like a large n. In the middle of the couches was a square glass table with a book underneath it lying on the floor. Protruding from the book was a page marker from which the size caused it to stick out far enough to ensure that no matter what time you fall asleep or where you slept you would not lose the page you were last reading from. The man knelt down awkwardly and picked up the book the same way a man looks over the end of a very high cliff carrying a lot of heavy shopping. He picked up the book and suddenly felt a little upset about how he found it but suddenly became sober enough to put it away in its proper place. The book was placed on a shelf that was wide enough to almost be used as a single bunk bed. On this shelf there where around 50 or so of the same designed book all bearing the same authors signature and series title (later it would be found that these books where and probably still are a priceless collection of literature even though the humour contained within was so dry it probably wiped its own brow with sand). They were very fancy books with each one having an identical light reddish cover with gold lining and lettering. A brief explanation about the title was on the back of each book above a little picture of a giant turtle. Around the room there where some numerous large and bulky bookcases containing all manners and sorts of books about everyday things like: psychology, herbs, medicine, ancient workings and that sort, hunting large carnivores and being hunted by large carnivore’s, surviving in the deadliest of places including earth. And there were also books about vehicle maintenance, building work and engineering, wrought iron, carpentry, criminal behaviour, negotiation methods, evolution of technology and the human psyche. In fact there was at least one book for every subject that could be published or spoken about including a very rare book called wars and weapons of the world from 0-2015. This library had a high ceiling and was dark red coloured at the bottom up to halfway, the other half was a dark cream (well at least it was in the bits that could be seen between the massive bookcases that is). A narrow space between the book cases revealed a small round table on a stand with an empty whiskey bottle and one glass upon it half empty. The man stood patiently waiting for his head to speak the language of his feet again and then, as if by automatic, he walked slowly out of the room into a hallway that was also very well decorated and also far to bright for his eyes to handle at this delicate hour.

He made his way down a wide staircase with pictures and paintings of landscapes and portraits hanging on the wall. He arrived at a kitchen with huge volumes of light pouring in from a pair of double doors (and if he were a practitioner of any black arts he would definitely be smoking in his boots now). He stared at an ornate clock ticking on the wall, six o’clock it said, and the following bell chime sounded as if it was very angry at being woke up this early itself. The man managed to speak some English and cursed the clock, ‘blasted clock! One of these days!’ he said raising his fist and then silence as if the clock seemed to know just what he meant. The man waltzed round the kitchen some how lost and unsure what he was doing there in the first place. In the middle of the kitchen laid a large counter for preparing food with pots and pans and bits hanging above it, some dishes lay mounted on its surface camouflaging its design underneath. Opposite were large work surfaces big enough for the keenest chef’s and their apprentices to work and sleep on. Above the work surfaces were big wall units, the insides could not be seen but they were imagined to be full of food stuff’s.

Our man managed to find a mug and boiled some water to make some coffee, the end coffee product was so strong and thick that when he stopped stirring it to go get the milk the spoon stayed almost upright. ‘Time for another day’ said the man as he drank his mug of coffee (if it could still be named after a fluid).

This man was not the regular type of drinker that woke up fearing the light everyday. He was 6' straight up and had the body that ate iron weights along with breakfast. It should be made clear that his physique, though only dressed in boxer shorts right now and in the skin of a twenty something, was indeed something from a Greek myth or an old vase found in the dirt: he had pectoral muscles that made looking for his feet a task and arms so big that they could scare away the most average of men and demand service at many counters by merely leaning on them. In short the man was well looked after in terms of body and mind.

The coffee seemed to have removed the staling effects that the alcohol had left him with and he ran, jogged, cautiously back up the stairs and through a doorway into a bathroom. Once again he was stood inside a large room that was tiled white all the way around except the floor which was tiled with rough black tiles. In one corner of the room there was a walk in shower. In the opposite corner sat a deep bath that could obviously be used for more than one person at a time. Inside the bath where little jets for making bubbles, they may have been used to help relax oneself (maybe even two or three one’s selves). On another wall there was a wash basin that was also deep enough to wash a small man and his dog, and a large mirror that was great for shaving in (if your head was four feet across and three feet high and your upper body was covered in hair which had to be trimmed daily). The man began to wash the night away from his face; the scents of drink and the smell of tobacco, the perfume and the stinking breath of people who smoked very cheap cigarettes and believed that if they drench themselves in a scent that claims to make them smell like roses then they will indefinitely smell like a rose bush. Feeling somewhat fresher the man made his way back to the room past the stairs that was full of books. Once he had arrived he picked up a small remote control from a near shelf and aimed it at a corner in the room. Suddenly the days news could be heard from speakers hidden amongst the books cases (hidden is a modest term crushed between is more fitting). As the broadcaster began reading out the day’s news our man was searching for a book about the folding of steel in his maze of paper and titles.

Upon its discovery the news reader was speaking about how successful a charity function was and how thanks to a Mr Jack Ryan the sum total came to a staggering amount of £70,000 which went towards medical research, ‘unfortunately Mr Ryan could not stay all through the night due to having a good book that needed looking at… apparently’, ‘Humph’ said Jack Ryan, ‘I’ve never understood people who want to stay out all night long in the cold topping up on beer and wine’ he said shaking his head. Mr Jack Ryan was our mildly hung over man and he was a secret millionaire.

After spending a fortune on a dream home he came to realise some time afterwards what a waste it all was (even if most men would give both legs and maybe an arm just to look around it). Mr Ryan had been one of the lucky few people to win the lottery. He had won some £100,000 only a few years ago and because of clever and definitely lucky investments that the sum grew into millions over the space of a year and probably still grows today. After realising the error of his home choice he began a more beneficial and worth the money mission to gain knowledge and wisdom from books and histories across the world thus making himself wiser to home decoration in the future and also having some interesting souvenirs to hang about the place.

His search took him over seas and around three and a bit quarters of the known world. He could speak over a dozen European languages and few others and had brought back many artefacts and first hand tales about other cultures around the world. It would seem his mission was well spent, and well rewarded. So then he began donating to medical research charities in a bid to better use the money he had left. He became a model citizen or at least would have if people knew of him because Mr Ryan was a bit of a loner.

With his book in hand he made his way back down to the kitchen and out to rear of his home. He walked up a long garden path surrounded by colourful plant life on either side to a large locked wooden shed. This was an understatement really and that was because the shed was as high as a bungalow and at least the length of a bus. Jack opened a pair of large wooden doors to reveal a well furbished wood machine workshop. Spread out across the room were work benches and machines for cutting and shaping wood, up on the walls where devices for holding wood together like braces. Some saws and other large tools that do things only a carpenter (or mad torturer) would know how to use covered another wall. The work benches were littered with carpenters tools and materials like glue, sawn wood, hammers, chisels and nudey magazines. Jack walked past the machines and benches to the rear of the shed to another pair of locked doors. These doors were made of steel and had a padlock the size and shape of a bull’s head with no keyhole present which was holding the doors tight. Jack placed his hand around the back of the bulls head made a few grunting noises and the lock opened with a crack rather than the common click. Jack placed the king size lock on a nearby bench along with the book and turned to the steel doors and forced them open to reveal another workshop beyond, only this one was different. This room was dark at first until he entered it and a light came on flickering. It seemed the room was used to work with metals instead of wood and was laid out totally different, and it was warm. On one side of the room was a large furnace cooking away with a red light glowing out from around the door and a long dirty table next to it. Spread out on the table were items that were used to measure, sharpen, grade and identify steel and any flaws that come from heating to up to few 1000 degrees. On the opposite side of the furnace there was an equally long but clean table. On it was some electrical equipment: monitors, scanners and it had been kept very tidy. On the wall above it there were drawings and models of swords most common and some unusual ones, also there were pictures of clothing with metal inside the pockets and sleeves.

A computer was wired into the furnace and also to some large revolving stones and metal curving machines. Jack sat himself on a nearby chair, ‘Good morning dear!’ he said as if he had held someone in the shed over night. With a sudden beeping sound the work shop came to life: the computers came on with blinking lights and noise was beginning to fill the room; small machines and mechanical arms started moving around flexing there mechanical joints. ‘GOOD MORNING JACK’ said the computer in the most sexy electric voice money could buy (besides the price of the voice one hearing it would agree it’s like being groomed by young naked maidens). ‘Morning ROX, how is the new sample holding?’ asked Jack totally immune to the erotica lapping at his ears. He moved to a stool next to a monitor, ROX spoke with the voice of a London tour bus full of sizzling sirens, ‘THE SAMPLE PASSED ALL THE MAXIMUM RESITANCE BARRIER TESTS AND HAS BEEN EDGED AND DRESSED READY FOR INSPECTION’. Jack moved to an area of the bench where small bits of fabric lay strewn and chopped. Placed between two metal jaws covered in rubber on a metal arm was a sword of unusual design; it was about 4 foot in length and shinning brightly all over. It looked similar a Japanese katana the only difference was the blade was longer and wider at about four inches. The handle of the sword was wrapped in black fabric and underneath the hilt was a dull point sticking out under the handle wrap. The sword was curved but looked like it was trying its best to stay straight. Jack took a deep breath, ‘Excellent’ he said, ‘it is definitely a work of art’. He held it up struck with awe and moved into the space between the work stations swinging the sword in striking motions gently. The sword could be heard slicing through the air making high pitch tones and when held still the sword was making a constant humming noise as if the light landing on the sword was being held up and forced to sing a humming tune for fear of its life. Jack had a very happy look on his face. His cheeks were becoming sore, ‘Right then ROX, I want you to store these design specs and all the modifications to a new file and label it as new pass three please’ the computer responded with a subtle, ‘AS YOU WISH JACK’. ROX began making noise, the sound of a computer at work. ‘Right I’m off out ROX, log off when you have finished and lock down please’ asked Jack placing the book on folding steel on a shelf near the computer. Jack picked up his new sword and walked out of the shed locking up as he left. The smell of the dusty workshop was replaced with the sweet smell of exotic looking flowers and plants, small coloured bushes and low trees. It looked like someone had just cut a path between a jungle and lined a route from one end to the other with small paving stones.

Jack walked halfway down the path and stopped. He stood with his eyes shut and concentrated listening to the world turning around him. The breeze was cool and smelt like the sea, some birds could be heard chirping with joy that the worm was up, and the nearby city could be heard coming to life with traffic, and to add insult to injury the city… could also be smelt. Jack held out the sword in front of his face and made a few slow waves with the blade humming as it moved back and forth getting faster and faster and finishing with a spinning move. Satisfied Jack walked back inside the house and didn’t notice several leaves fall from branches then they fell in to two before they hit the floor. He walked through the kitchen and down a hallway into a room that was designed, at the time, to be the place where Jack would plan his next adventure in the world. The room was again large and evenly rectangular. In the middle was a snooker table with balls scattered across the fabric and two identical cues placed up against the cushions, apparently the game hadn’t been finished. Around the walls of the room where some books and music discs were placed on shelves. There were also pictures and maps going from end of the room to the other some were even framed treasure maps. The strangest one was in a frame filled with water and every so often if you really paid attention you could see little pictures on the map moving. Near a window was a small bar. Behind the bar where expensive bottles of wines, spirits and ale’s and on the end of the bar counter was a shinning gold box next to a deep ashtray. Jack walked over to this shinny box and lifted the lid were he put his hand inside and pulled out a cigar with a company logo on the side written in gold fancy lettering. Jack snipped off the end using a nearby cutter then put it in his mouth and lit it with a match, ‘haaaah’ he said drawing on the cigar, ‘now this… is money well spent’. Jack sat down at a chair in a corner of the room. It was big seat big and puffy and fluffy. It looked like a throne for the mole king (made for and with the previous mole kings). Jack sank into the chair holding the sword in one hand and the cigar in the other.

As Jack planned his day out in his head he could hear the radio upstairs. The news was back on and an urgernt news flash could be heard over taking the music. Jack stood up and turned on a speaker on the bar counter, ‘notorious gang members have stolen 17 unregistered vehicles from a lorry transport today and left the driver in a critical condition. It is believed to be the same thieves that have been committing mass robbery all over the city this past few months and police are investigating as we speak’ said the newscaster. ‘These are some people’ thought Jack, ‘why would they come here and cause so much trouble? It just doesn’t make sense if you ask me’.

The city of Westgate shores was only a small city, at first it was only a rural town which lived off fishing, grain mills and local farms. Then with tourists looking to get away from busy city life it gradually turned into a bustling town with a working lighting system and traffic signals that didn’t have to be plugged in. Then there was an economic boom and jobs were made and buildings were built from real bricks (to which some of the local public had never seen used that way before). And soon it was a city that thrived and then it made its own way on to the country map (despite the maps best efforts). Although it was a quiet place it was always full of busy people living life and working hard. There was no need for major crime to come here, people around here trusted one another and seldom left the door locked, if crime did come here it would practically be bored away (that is if it still had the heart to go on living after a week). ‘The clowns are probably looking for something’ said Jack to himself.

As the news reader was finishing Jack went up stairs to another large room, he closed the door behind him. This room was like a private museum. Antique weapons sat mounted on the walls, things like; knifes, throwing knifes, thin blades, old flintlock rifles and single shot pistols, all manners of ancient weapons of war. Also there were samurai swords, Spanish rapiers and Chinese fencing sabres and even an old English broad sword (think King Arthur and that kind of era. Crazy isn’t it? You could call him crazy but you had best be running when you do it). Here they all had a place in this room. Jack sat at a little table in the corner, there was a plaque engraving machine on it and some blank brass plates. A small clock ticked away to itself minding it own business. It said 6:45, ‘blimey’ said Jack. He took the sword over to a vacant space on the wall and tried it in an empty old looking sheath, it fitted perfectly, ‘scary’ said Jack seemingly at the end of a story we’ve all missed. Slowly he placed it back on the display and left the room.

Jack headed off towards the bathroom and into the shower tossing aside what little clothes he had on (which was not a lot really). After a good wash Jack walked to his bedroom dripping water as he went. He opened a large wardrobe that looked like it could have held anything inside it. Inside it was filled with clothes for all seasons and all types of terrain. He searched through the mass of fabric and produced a blue jogging suit in his hand, ‘eh nothing fancy today’ was what he said, ‘only going to pick up dinner’. The tracksuit was matching with blue pants and a blue hoodie jacket with lighter blue shoulders, even his trainers had a similar design. Jack made his way downstairs to the front door and picked up his wallet and keys off a small table and left the house without stopping and let the door close on its own. Walking down his driveway he surveyed his choice of transport. As a hobby only Jack bought and toyed with bikes and cars alike. He would tinker with engines and add things to framing sometimes forgetting what was underneath it all to begin with. On his driveway there where only standard things like a dark red and green super bike and a flashy blue car that looked like it had muscles on the frame with big bulky wheels sticking out the sides.

Jack decided on, ‘no bike or car this morning, its nice enough to walk’ and continued down the driveway to a pair of large black gates which opened as he approached them.

Jack looked towards town across from his hill top home; it was only a mile or so away and with rain clouds in the distance. Jack checked the route down: his home stood next to a road with only a few other homes spread out like a small cul-de-sac separated at birth. The road ran up the hill for some traffic and between the houses down to town in a straight run. There was a small park area that ran the length of the hill with trees and grass all the way down to town. Mothers and children could be seen walking along the grassy path laughing and enjoying the morning air before going to nursery with the little birds still chirping away. Other people were jogging or reading the days paper on a park bench having that on the way to work coffee. Jack smiled with a sense of peace of mind and he started stretching his legs, ‘why would any one want to come here and cause trouble?’ he said to himself. After a good stretch Jack moved on to a slow jog and set off down the hill towards to the path that ran through the park. As he was taking in the sights and the scent of nature he thought to himself, ‘hah this is lovely… . Right then lets spice this up’ and with that he turned and ran fast across the grass and into the trees beyond the footpath. Behind the greener younger looking trees were old bust and bent out of shape ones whose roots had lifted up out of the earth over time and other nearby trees had fallen over and formed an assault course of jumps and pitfalls. This was a good opportunity for Jack to really stretch his legs he thought. He jumped over an old fallen tree and landed on another continuing on and gaining speed, while jumping repeatedly this had allowed him enough power to jump a small trench of water and swing off a branch like a monkey. Jack was now at sprinting speeds and large gaps in the floor were not a problem now and the fallen trees were not sticking out high enough to slow Jack down.

Jack was nearing the end of the makeshift assault course and now would have been an excellent time for any ordinary person to slow down (in fact any person with enough sense would have stopped long before now and those with plenty of sense would have taken the bus). There was a drop of at least 15 meters straight down on to the rear extension of somebody’s house.

Inside this house lived an elderly couple who have lived happily together for many years. They sat in their living room chatting over the rubbish that passed for entertainment on television these days. They sat next to each other on an old mint green coloured couch: him with his pipe and her with a cigarette as long as a cane. They had a big fire place covered by a large marble mantle which was layered in family photos of grandchildren, pets, sons and daughters and old ornaments and above all… dust. ‘Fancy another tea dear?’ asked the elderly gent to his wife in a tired but glad to be still alive tone of voice, ‘oh go on love, one is just not enough to keep me lips wet these days’ she replied. As the old gent walked into his small kitchen he rinsed out two cups which he took from a cupboard and took out the tea bags from another. As he flung a tea bag in the nearest mug he missed and went it straight down to the floor. As it landed however it made the noise that would be normally made by a car being driven through a wall. The thud was loud and some items rattled in their place. The gent looked at the tea bag as if it were filled with concrete and picked it up again, ‘huff’ he wheezed then he dropped it again looking for proof that he was just imagining things. This time the tea bag made as much noise as a wet feather hitting the ground in a church and it left the old gent scratching his head and wondering if he had a broken hearing aid fitted in his sleep.

Across the other side of the house Jack was jogging to a stop, he looked back with a smile and started jogging on the spot, ‘hmmm’ he said, ‘I’d swear that fall was getting shorter’. Jack turned around and viewed his new direction. He now stood concealed around a little wall at the end of a busy market street. Jack checked his clothing and patting off bits of leaf and timber flakes before setting off down the busy street. On both sides of the street there where merchants of all shapes, sizes and ages flogging their merchandise; fisherman were selling the mornings catch, butchers were selling fresh beef and other meats from across the world (according to what the sign said anyway). Some chaps were even selling watches from a stall from which no two watches told the same time. Jack had now made his way halfway through the bazaar dodging speeding bargain hunters and pull-trolleys and listening in over people haggling over ornaments and jewellery. When he reached the end of the stalls he continued past some paper shops and made his way over to a family butchers shop called The Family butchers. He opened the door and a small bell alerted the staff to his presence, ‘good morning Mr Ryan’ said the butcher, ‘morning Mr Family’ replied Jack. The butcher stood from his chair behind the counter covered in what many people that particular and every other day would hope was animal blood. He placed his sparkling clean hands on the counter which showed off a mighty range of fresh meats that made Jack’s mouth water with anticipation as to what they tasted like cooked. The Butcher was an elderly but well built man. A true professional at what he did (this could be seen easily as he had all his fingers and not a drop of his own blood on his apron). ‘You after your usual again Mr Ryan?’ asked the butcher, Jack rolled his tongue back into his mouth, ‘oh yeah, just the normal please sir’ ‘haven’t you gotten bored of cooking for one yet Mr Ryan?’ asked the butcher, ‘back in my day I had to cook for three women and run the shop and raise the boy err… erm ALBEEERT!’ he shouted as if he suddenly remembered the name of his son (and won the cash prize that came with it). Albert entered the shop from a room behind the counter; he was a younger lad then Jack and shorter and was about one third of the width (some would say that by his size he used to be a sweeping brush that came alive with the business boom and spent its days here working in the shop . . . . Some would say that anyway). ‘Ah Albert there you are now listen up Mr Ryan would like his usual be a good lad and fetch it would you?’ Albert toddled off with a ‘yes par’ back into the room from whence he came. Mr Family turned back to Jack who was checking out the display of beef fillets, lamb shanks, pork chops, stewing meat, joints and legs. All these foods were so big Jack was curiously wondering that if he turned over these massive pieces of animal would he find spots and stripes still on the other side. ‘Ahem’ ahem’ed the butcher, ‘oh sorry lost in thought there’ apologised Jack. The butcher leaned over the counter, ‘excuse me for asking Mr Ryan but sumfins been having me wondering for some time now but I want you to know I really admire and respect your patronage here but err… Are you a… Err… you know… ? Jack leaned in for a closer listen (in case the butcher died of shame before he got his words out). Jack whispered a few possibilities, ‘a spy?’ ‘No’ ‘a health investigator?’ ‘No no’. At this point the butcher had lost the words he was hoping to use when Albert shouted from the back room what his father may have been thinking at the time, ‘a puff sir!’ Jack chuckled to himself and Albert turned the colour of boiled ham under his fathers fearsome gaze (if an old and tired man can pick up a pig and turn it in to a five star meal with no mess what do you wonder what he could do to a 18 year old lad who was as thin as hair and as strong as hot margarine?). ‘No I am nothing of the sort my good man. I simply have no intension of cooking for three women two or even one woman at the moment, I just don’t have the time to be washing all those dishes you see’ answered Jack. The butcher brought Albert over to him and took a white bag from his hands then turned him round and back in to the other room with his stare alone. Mr Family handed Jack a bag which was his usual. ‘Will payment be as