Travellers: The Island Connection, #10

By Graham Hamer

While excavating for a new sewage treatment plant, Jimmy Quayle discovers a large, curved object buried in the rock. It looks like plastic, but it wasn't buried intentionally; it had lain there while the sediments had formed into rock around it, nearly 400 million years ago. Not only that, the object emits a strange 'dark light' during the day, and glows red at night.

'The Pod' as the object becomes known, draws crowds from around the world. To the media, it is anything from an atomic bomb planted by Russia to the gathering of armies for the end of times battle between good and evil. Detective Chief Inspector Angus Slooth is charged with crowd control at the dig. To him, the pod is a pain in the chest, and one that will prove his downfall.

Meanwhile, Sparky, the life-partner of DI Sarah Flemons, is tasked with protecting the most obnoxious young lady he has ever had the misfortune to meet. But there's more to Jo Kennaugh than meets the eye. A lot more – as Sparky soon discovers – and it will eventually threaten both their lives.

While naked Wiccans run amok in the ancient Viking castle, and while Elvis and Ozzie are picking fights with the wrong people, DI Sarah Flemons knows something that she's not prepared to share. Not even with her best friend, Penny Chakyar. It's too important for sharing. Except, maybe, with a chosen few who are already bearers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386709534

Book preview

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TRAVELLERS -

PROLOGUE

Zachary Small was not small. Zachary Small was large and spoke with a formidable Texan drawl. Not surprising since he was a formidable Texan. The man lying on his back on the floor also spoke with a Texan drawl, but it was usually more refined than Zachary Small’s. At the moment though, the red ball gag that was pulled tight in his mouth behind his teeth made it difficult for the man on the floor to do anything other than grunt. And grunt he did. After the beating he had just taken, he had no illusions about his ultimate fate. The glistening sweat and the anger and hatred etched into Zachary Small’s face were like an unwritten death warrant. The big man smelled of fury and resentment, so the evening light made his large, round head shimmer like a rain-soaked gargoyle. Zachary Small’s huge hand grabbed Pastor Noah Jefferson and rolled him onto his front.

Now we gonna get us some action, Small said, slicing through the preacher’s belt with a well honed carving knife. He tore the other man’s pants down to his knees until Pastor Jefferson’s pale backside was staring at the ceiling. Small took a washcloth from the bowl of warm water that lay ready on the bare wooden boards. He wiped the pastor’s rear, squeezed out the cloth, and then dabbed him dry.

Zachary Small picked up a sharpening steel and put an extra edge on the knife like an expert. As a butcher, it came second nature to him. When he cut a generous sliver from the other man’s left buttock, Noah Jefferson writhed and screamed into his gag. Small was powerful enough to hold him firm until he had detached the flesh. Then he stood up and lowered the freshly cut meat into a hot skillet with the respect he felt it deserved. He cocked his head to one side as it sizzled. Man, that is some mouth-watering aroma. But maybe a bit too much fat there, Pastor. You should take up joggin’. As the other man screamed into his gag, Small pushed the meat around with a fork then flicked it over and watched it brown. He liked to sear the outside of the meat to prevent the meat juices from leaking. It kept more of the exquisite flavours intact. Conversely, he loved the flesh rare. It was a fine balance between a hot skillet and the right thickness of meat.

Meanwhile, Pastor Noah kept moaning and wriggling and squirming. The zip ties that bit into the flesh of his wrists and his ankles guaranteed that wriggling and squirming was all he was capable of. At each end, the plastic ties were secured to the legs of heavy armchairs. Hot blood ran down between Noah Jefferson’s thighs onto the plastic sheet beneath him. He thought he was going to choke on his own vomit. He was having a sobbing, shaking, nose-running, chest-heaving, gasping-for-breath, flat-out-crying fit. And who could blame him.

A couple of minutes later, when he had cooked the flesh to his liking, Zachary Small flipped it onto a plate, spooned on some mashed potatoes, a few slices of carrot, and poured on a little gravy. He sat at the table and watched as Pastor Noah sobbed. So, let’s just be sure you know what’s happenin’ here, he said, resting his head on his hand as he chewed and guided a slice of rare pastor around a potato island and through a moat of gravy with his fork. He raised his eyes from his plate. You do know why I’m eatin’ you, don’t you?

Hmmmmmmm

Oh yes, of course, you can’t talk can you? But I’d rather keep it that way so as my neighbours don’t start thinkin’ bad of me. I’m eatin’ you, Pastor Noah, because you are a scumbag of the worst sort. You an’ that dumb piece of lies Hallelujah Television Ministry of yours done got my Momma to send you all her money an' now she’s plain broke.

Hmmm hmmm

Don’t you go givin’ me all that simple-minded shit again about refundin’ her money. It’s too late for that. I already told ya I called your office and that bitch woman wife of yours, who probably waddled her way through high school lonelier than a desert cactus, told me to tell my Momma that she should get down on her knees and pray to the good Lord for more money. She said if my Momma had enough faith, the Lord would provide. Well I tell you now, Pastor, I ain’t never seen no Jacksons floating down from the roof of your church no matter how hard the prayin’ an’ wailin’.

Hmmm mmm hmm

"An’ you ain’t doing yourself no good lyin’ there sweating like a grammar Nazi in a public shithouse trying to correct the punctuation in a wall full of dick jokes before his pen runs out. You an’ me gonna sort this out Pastor Prick. An’ it’s gonna take a little time yet, cos after another slice or two I ain’t gonna be hungry no more this evenin’. So you gonna have to lie there till mornin’, appreciatin’ that I’ll be slicing a nice piece of topside for my breakfast. A man’s got to have his protein.

I guess, knowin’ that won’t help you sleep none, but it won’t be for long. A few days, maybe. A week at the most. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind none, I’m gonna’ nail your hands and feet to the floor, so I can sleep sound. Don’t want my furniture damaged by no strugglin’ an’ wrigglin’. An’ I don’t want to be lyin’ in bed worrying about you tryin’ to get away, do I? So you can just make pretend like you’re that Jaysus you think so much of. He got hiself nailed up and everyone said what a great man he was for it.

In a few days, I guess I’ll get fed up eatin’ Pastor. Ha! Geddit, you dumb jerk? Fed up eatin’ pasta. No, I don’t suppose you are feelin’ too humorous right now. In fact, you look about as happy as a small dog goin’ round in a microwave. Anyway, when I get fed up eating pastor, I intend to cut you open like a fish and take out your organs one after another. It ain’t gonna be quick, boy. It’s gonna be real slow an’ real painful. Then I intend to stuff your balls down your throat before I leave you to bleed to death, if you’re not already dead. How does that sound?" He asked like he was a restaurant waiter listing the day’s specials.

I don’t eat human brain, Pastor. Too much chance of Kuru, a rare, incurable neurodegenerative disorder. So last thing I’m going to do once you’ve stopped breathin’ is, I’m going to cut your greedy little heart right out of you. Too bad you won’t be able to watch me taste that. Maybe I’ll do what that there Hannibal Lecter did in that film. Said he ate some guy’s liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Yeah, maybe I’ll do just that. See, death is life’s way of telling you you’re fired. An’ I’m here to fire your sorry ass, but not for a little while yet. Not till you’ve paid your dues. An’ you’ve got a hell of a debt to repay, preacher boy.

Hmh mmhhm

"I’ll burn in the fires of hell, you say? Been there an’ back, Pastor. Every month when my bank writes to tell me I’ve exceeded my limit. That’s real hell, and my bank manager could scare the livin’ shit outta the very devil hisself.

You know what I’m gonna do soon as you’re dead, Pastor? I’m gonna go get me a piece of pussy. Lot of good meat on that bitch wife of yours. Should be some fine eatin’ there. See, you’re living proof that a pig’s bladder on the end of a stick can become a man of religion. But praise the Lord, I know just how to put that right. An’ after I’ve fucked and filleted your little lady, I’m gonna track down the money-grabbin’ folk who supply all that junk that you been sendin’ out. An’ they gonna get theirselves dead too. Fuckin’ authentic Saint Benedict cross made of rare metal an’ olive wood and blessed by His Holiness the Pope, my fat ass. The metal’s turned green, the olive wood looks more like some offcut from the lumberyard, and I’m damn sure it has never been within a country mile of the fuckin’ Pope."

Hmhmhmm mmm

Hot diggity damn. Don’t you talk to me boy. You’re makin’ me angry again, and when I get angry I go off my food. An’ when I go off my food, I do things I regret later. But I tell you now, there ain’t no way you can justify $650 for that piece of shit cross. And then there were all the other things you talked my Momma into buyin’ on your TV show. Like the crucifix pin, an’ the key rings, an’ the pendants, an’ the prayer ring, an’ now there’s a five foot fuckin’ statue of some holy man standin’ in her goddam garden. An’ for God’s sake, $1,271.25 includin’ shippin’, for that gen-yoo-ine rare 16th century Italian wrought iron nail that mighta been used to nail your man to the cross. How in the name of Jaysus can somethin’ that’s 500 years old have been used for nailin’ up some hippy nobody 2,000 years ago?

The room fell silent for a few minutes except for the chink of cutlery on china. It wasn’t long before Zachary Small popped the last morsel of pastor rump in his mouth and ate it with more relish than most people would feel the food warranted. When he’d finished chewing, he lit the gas ring under the skillet again. Right nice meat that was Pastor. Soon as the skillet’s good an’ hot, I’m gonna come over there and get me another slice. You robbed that poor old lady blind, an’ now I’m gonna whip your sad ass. But not before I eat a good few slices of it first.

CHAPTER ONE

Jesus alive, Sarah, I don’t believe what those little shits have done now.

Detective Inspector Sarah Flemons looked up from her papers as Angus Slooth stomped into her office unannounced, arms spread out like a wasp’s wings. She couldn’t help feeling that Angus was ageing week by week. Six years earlier, at the age of 51 he had taken a bullet to the chest and, though he had lived through it, it seemed to have speeded up the ageing process.

What’s Up, Angus? What’s lit your fuse today?

Bastard little yobs with nothing better to do than destroy people’s attempts to improve their environment.

Go on then, tell me.

In the market place in Peel, where they put up those beautiful stainless steel laser cut screens to improve the town centre.

I remember. Dreamed up by Nicola Dixon. Clever lady, that one.

Yeah, well now some of the local yobs have tagged them and graffitied them. The little bastards are like dogs pissing up a lamppost to mark out their territory. Their combined brain power is less than your average mongrel, and most of them smell a lot worse.

Sarah burst out laughing. Nobody liked seeing tags and, in fairness, the Isle of Man was relatively free of them, but she knew how easy it was to wind the Detective Chief Inspector up where ill-bred adolescents were concerned. Bloody hell, Angus, you storm in here with a cob on - mad as a hippo with a hernia - all over some graffiti? Get over it. I’m sure Peel Commissioners will be out with their high pressure hoses before the day is out.

Yes, but it’s the thought of those brain-dead specimens who have nothing better to do than destroy other people’s efforts to make life better for everyone.

Is the grumpy old man at it again? DS Penny Chakyar asked as she barged through the doorway but failed to push past the senior officer. Penny was of Indian descent with short, black hair, compared to Sarah who was more robust with shoulder length strawberry blonde hair. Penny looked up at Angus, How is the Isle of Man’s loveliest chief inspector, this fine day?

Piss off.

I’ll take that as a ‘not too good’ then, shall I?

Sarah chuckled. Angus is having one of his moments again. He was just questioning the brain power of the yobs in Peel. He reckons their combined IQs wouldn’t match that of the average dog.

You’re right there, Penny said, leaning on the door jamb. I mean you only have to look into the eyes of Wally Carter to know that he’s not at home. I think he donated his brain to medical science before he was done using it. Anyway, what have they done now to wind you up, Angus?

Little pricks have spray-painted those new stainless steel screens in the market place.

Penny’s face fell. Oh. I rather liked those. Bastard little shits. Stuck up, half-witted, scruffy-looking, nerfherders! What the buggery crap gets into people. I don’t get it; I really don’t. I’d like to go and administer a bloody good arse kicking.

Sarah chuckled. Grasshopper, if the strength of your determination to kick the arse of a brain-dead yob makes you jump up and down and stamp your feet, your aim will be faulty and you will miss the target.

But those screens are gorgeous, Sarah. Have you seen them? I want to boot the jagweeds who did it the whole length of Peel promenade. Maybe smack them round the head a little while I’m at it.

Sarah laughed again. I don’t believe you two. You’re like the two old critics on the balcony on the Muppet show. What were they called? Statler and Waldorf wasn’t it? Get a grip, children, it’s only graffiti. It’ll come off.

But that’s not the point, Penny said. Why do yoof today want to spoil everything for other people?

Sarah shrugged. Because they can. Now, since the good Chief Inspector Slooth here expects me to have these reports to him before close of play today, can you tell me why you have come crashing into my office without knocking, Sergeant Chakyar?

Penny laughed. Because I can, Inspector.

Get on with it.

Okay, I need a bit of advice, and I thought you could help. Since Angus is here, that’s even better: I’ll get more value for my money. It’s something that Josh came up with this morning.

Josh was Detective Constable Josh Walker who was teamed with Penny. They were a close pair since Josh had saved Penny’s life a year earlier and Penny had spent a lot of her own time helping him through his detective exams. Josh was an instinctive copper, not an academic one.

Fire away, Angus said. What help does Josh need?

It’s me that needs the help, Penny said. I don’t know how to advise him. He was approached by some friend of his father’s —

I thought his father didn’t speak to Josh, ever since he came out.

He doesn’t. But it seems that it doesn’t stop him passing Josh’s name on to his business colleagues if it suits his purpose. Anyway, this guy has approached Josh and asked him to bodyguard his daughter for a few days. He seems to think she’s at risk.

That’s not something we’d look at in a favourable light, Sarah said. We solve crime and keep the peace, not bodyguard people. Unless, of course, there is a clear risk that we are made aware of. Do you know why this guy thinks his daughter is under threat?

He wouldn’t say. He was hoping Josh would take time off and do it as a private job.

We frown on moonlighting as well, Angus said. Can’t he actually hire a proper bodyguard?

We don’t have any bodyguards on the island, do we? Penny said.

Angus looked at Sarah and raised his eyes to the ceiling. You are aware, aren’t you, Inspector Flemons, that there’s a lot of weird goes on in this detective sergeant’s head?

Sarah mirrored Angus’ look. She can make herself appear quite dim-witted at times, Angus. And she seems to achieve it with no particular effort. I think she must practise in front of a mirror. Sarah turned to Penny and said, Tell me, Grasshopper, what does Sparky do for a living? You remember Sparky? The guy I live with? The only guy who has ever cooked you a big enough meal to stop you squawking for more.

Penny put her hand to her mouth and giggled. Oh that Sparky! Yeah. I forgot about him. He runs training courses for bodyguards, doesn’t he?

There you go. Took a moment, but you got there in the end, Sergeant. She tapped the side of her head. They may look a little alike, but these things in here are brains, not kidneys. So go and introduce Josh to Sparky and let him sort it out. I’m sure Sparky will be happy to have something to do. He’s just finished one course and the next one isn’t due to start for a few weeks. Now kindly go away and let me get these reports finished for the good Chief Inspector here.

Or I’ll be a pain in the arse to live with, Angus added.

You already are Sarah and Penny said in unison.

CHAPTER TWO

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A recent town centre regeneration scheme in Peel had successfully created a high quality public space using a palette of natural sandstone and granite to replace tar macadam and concrete road surfacing and paving. The consummate touch to the market place improvement had been to erect twelve tall stainless steel screens that Angus and Penny had been so uptight about. Even as they had discussed the graffiti in Sarah’s office, town workers in Peel were already removing it with high pressure hoses. The island saw very little graffiti and tags, and they lost no time removing them when they appeared. The vast majority of residents took pride in their environment. It was just an odd few who didn’t give a damn.

With their as yet un-kicked arses parked on a wooden bench a few metres away, two of the residents who didn’t give a damn watched the workmen clean the screens. Ozzy nudged Elvis. Must have been some shit spray paint you nicked, mate. It’s not supposed to come off as easy as that.

Aye, there’s nothing of quality nowadays, Ozzy. Standards are falling, my old fruit. Come on, let’s see if there’s anything interesting going on.

What? In Peel? Don’t make me laugh. Some days, it’s almost as bad as Colby, and that was shit.

Ozzy and Elvis savoured the strange warm glow of being much more ignorant than ordinary people, who were only ignorant of ordinary things. The pair stood up and sauntered away with their hands thrust deep in their pockets and their feet dragging along the ground.

Peel was a small, but growing town on the west coast of the island. The centre was almost untouched by time. That was deliberate. Quaint was always a good recipe for a tourist trap, and that meant there was money involved. There was one single traffic light in Peel, and that was only because the road narrowed at that point to a single track and it was on a bend. That didn’t mean that the locals didn’t have the latest laptops and iPads. They just didn’t flaunt them. Apart from the recent regeneration scheme, they didn’t make a big effort to keep the centre of town looking antiquated. It just was that way, and most residents were content for it to stay as it was.

Peel was exceptional, even for the Isle of Man. It had a sandy, curving bay, half a mile long, and a picturesque village centre with narrow, winding streets that were more cobblestone than asphalt. Over the years, the town had remained largely unaltered. Until recently, it had been by-passed by the finance sector's demands for accommodation on the island. Its fresh sea air and old fashioned appearance could well have been why so many people were attracted to the place, with its sandstone buildings crowding its narrow, winding streets.

Some of the old fisherman’s cottages had been turned into bed and breakfasts and many of the shops were converted into kitschy herbal remedy stores and peddlers of porcelain fairies. One premises on the promenade had gained a reputation as purveyors of smooth and rich locally-made ice cream. The quality of their merchandise guaranteed a queue of people no matter what the weather. Another premises, overlooking the marina, had become one of the best eating places on the island. It specialised in fish and seafood, caught, delivered, and cooked all on the same day. All in all, Peel was a great place to live.

At least, that described what the locals referred to as Old Peel - the part of Peel that lay within a half mile crescent of the sandy beach. Old Peel was a small seaside village where people moved to if they had too much money to live in the neighbouring part of the town. Peel was growing. Further out than Old Peel, unwary visitors found themselves in New Peel. That wasn’t its official title – it was just how the residents of Old Peel referred to it. New Peel was