3 of a Kind (2 page)

Tilly watched the proceedings from behind the glass, her eyes narrowing further. ‘Wait a second …’

Underwood gazed at his own reflection, his enlarged eyes following the pocket watch travelling back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

‘No – !’ Tilly shouted.

Suddenly, the mirror in the doctor’s office exploded as a chair hurtled through it from the other side. The police officer tried to restrain Tilly but the teen had already kicked out the remains of the safety glass and stepped through, spraying the room and its occupants with gem-like fragments. Underwood sat perfectly still,
with the pocket watch still swinging from his hand like a pendulum.

‘He’s hypnotising
himself
!’ cried Tilly, scrambling towards him.

Knightley and Bill surged forward, but it was too late. The pocket watch dropped to the carpet, the chain snaking around it.

Underwood’s arms fell limp and his eyes glazed over, freezing a smile on to his grim, skull-like face.

Tilly grabbed the man by his necktie and throttled him. ‘Don’t you go to sleep on me … Don’t you
dare
–’

Underwood’s eyes stared ahead blankly, but his mouth continued to function for a moment, mumbling something: ‘F-fifty-three, sixty-four, chance, a relay, thirteen-thirty-n-nine.’

Tilly raised her smartphone, tapping the numbers on to the screen. ‘It’s a code,’ she stammered excitedly. ‘Damn it, it’s a code.’

Underwood’s mouth fell ajar, and he lost consciousness altogether.

‘Aye, but meaning what?’ asked Bill.

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Knightley.

‘We need Darkus …’ Tilly stated plainly.

‘Aye,’ agreed Bill and set about cuffing Underwood’s limp hands together behind the back of the chair.

‘You know Doc and I are not currently on speaking terms,’ Knightley complained.

‘Then you’d better get back on speaking terms, sharpish,’ barked Tilly. ‘He didn’t come home last night, which is
very
unlike him. Term’s over, so he can’t be at school. You’re his father.
Find him!
’

Darkus burst through the bushes, losing his footing and tearing the elbow of his herringbone overcoat. Blood coursed from a laceration on his arm as he emerged from the undergrowth into the soft, wet grass of a lush meadow that was veiled in ominous shadow. He saw a pair of trees intertwined in a devil’s fork and ran towards them. Then the howl arrived again, even louder and more chilling than before. It was followed by a rapid snapping of twigs as the creature raced through the woods behind him, its paws barely touching the ground.

Under the devil’s fork was a large pond, shimmering in the moonlight. He turned back, seeing the low dark shape of the creature hovering across the meadow in his direction – a matter of seconds from catching him. Darkus stumbled towards the pond and began wading into the murky water, which quickly crept up over his
brogues, his overcoat, his tweed three-piece suit and up to his neck. Darkus tried to swim but the weight of his clothes was holding him back. He struggled through the water, getting some way from the shore. Then he turned back to look at the creature, but it had been replaced by an altogether different animal. But it wasn’t possible. This animal was deceased.

It was his beloved German shepherd, Wilbur, wagging his tail, watching from dry land, holding his lead in his mouth as he always did, shaking his snout to beckon him back.

‘No …’ said Darkus, feeling the currents dragging him under. ‘No, Wilbur’s gone. He’s
dead
.’

Tears started rolling down his face. Until they were met by the black pond water bubbling up around his neck, seeping into the corners of his mouth and finally consuming him completely.

Darkus’s head lurched forward, then he sat up, embarrassed, wiping the tears from his face. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt, blue jeans and trainers. He was surrounded by half a dozen teenagers, most wearing gothic clothing, some with mascara, guyliner and nose piercings. They all sat in a circle in a darkened room, lit by a single candle flickering in the centre.

‘That was very good, Doc,’ a girl’s voice whispered from beside him.

‘It’s not Doc … It’s
Darkus
,’ he answered firmly.

‘OK, Darkus,’ said the girl and turned her face to the candlelight to reveal Alexis Bateman, his fellow classmate and former editor of
The Cranston Star
. Since their near-fatal encounter with the monstrous Barabas King on Hampstead Heath, Alexis’s blonde hair had gone permanently grey. But she tied it up neatly and Darkus thought it suited her. Gone were her customary raincoat, reporter bag and black cigarette trousers, having been replaced more recently by a tailored tweed ensemble that was distinctly Knightley-esque, complete with a walking hat worn at a jaunty angle. ‘Do you want to tell us more?’ she enquired gently. ‘You’re among friends here.’

‘No. Not right now,’ Darkus answered, self-consciously.

‘I don’t work for the school newspaper any more, remember?’

‘And I don’t conduct private investigations any more,’ he replied. ‘Especially when the subject of that investigation is me.’

‘Guided meditation isn’t supposed to be easy. You’re getting in touch with deeper forces beyond our understanding. Extrasensory perception, the spirit world, call
it what you will. You can even talk to the dead … Or so they say.’

Darkus knew all about the outlandish promises of the supernatural, having heard them from his equally outlandish father. He also knew their dangers. Having weighed the possibilities, Darkus remained a disciple of
reason
. But the fact that he’d even agreed to this exercise was evidence that all reasonable self-help methods had been exhausted.

‘Guided meditation, lucid dreaming, whatever it is,’ said Darkus, ‘I thought it would give me answers, but it’s only raised more questions … like who I am and what I’m meant to be doing with my life. I’m sorry, Lex, but this whole thing, it’s not for me. If you’ll excuse me …’

Darkus got to his feet, picked up his distinctly un-Knightley-esque anorak and left the circle, crossing the bare wooden floor of the deserted, boarded-up Gothic house and descending the creaky staircase, stepping over the gaps where bits were missing.

Darkus used his shoulder to shove open the front door, exiting into a derelict lot, painted orange by the fading evening light.

‘Darkus, wait –’ Alexis caught up with him. ‘I was just trying to help. I owe you my life, remember?’

She curled a grey lock of hair under her hat and flashed him the cockeyed smile that had managed to
stay intact through her trauma and the months of therapy that followed it. She had, without doubt, fared better than their other schoolmate, Brendan Doyle, whose mauling at the hands of King’s attack dogs had left the boy still recovering at an undisclosed clinic somewhere.

‘I don’t think we should hang out any more, Lex. I’m sorry.’ He looked for the right words. ‘It’s just too much of a reminder of the past.’

She fell silent for a beat. ‘OK,’ she answered, crestfallen. ‘If that’s what you want.’

Darkus nodded sadly and walked across a garden that had been left to ruin. He vanished under a row of sycamore trees and into the shadows.

Alexis removed her hat and watched him go.

The house party was in full swing. Electronic dance music reverberated through the modern, glass-fronted home as Darkus crossed the lawn, approaching the front door. He pressed the intercom and heard a bottle smash – which was presumably unconnected. A few moments later the door opened to reveal the host: teenage classmate Jason, an acquaintance more than a friend, decked out in an oversized baseball cap and baggy, drop-crotch pants.

Jason did a double take. ‘Oh … my … God. Are we talking a flat tyre, an alien abduction, or did hell just freeze over? It’s the legendary Darkus Knightley PI in the house. Check it out.’ A cluster of other youths crowded around the doorway.

‘Thought I’d take you up on your invitation,’ said Darkus. ‘To celebrate the summer holidays,’ he clarified.

‘Of course, by all means,’ replied the host and ushered him into the entrance hall, which was heaving with bodies. ‘As long as you’re off duty,’ he said with a wink.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ replied Darkus.

‘Well, this is what we here on Earth call a “party”. Can I get you a drink?’

‘Do you have Robinsons Barley Water?’

‘We have anything you require. Guys, you heard the man. On the rocks. And take him to the VIP area.’

Beyond the hallway, two reception rooms were packed with revellers. Darkus’s powers of observation (which could not so easily be switched off) instantly detected an average age of fifteen years old, a range of ethnicities and a preponderance of skin rather than clothing.

As he was led through the party, he felt his catastrophiser ticking and humming in time to the music. The catastrophiser was Darkus’s friend and his enemy. It allowed him to continually digest potential clues taken
from his immediate surroundings, and it always suggested the worst-case scenario. Of course, most of the time, the worst-case scenario was
not
the case, and there was a much more mundane and ordinary explanation. But, occasionally, for example on the first two Knightley & Son investigations, the catastrophiser served up the cold, unvarnished truth.

However, that was past history now. He and his dad were not currently speaking, due to the catastrophic end to the Barabas King case (the Case of the Hampstead Heath Howler, as his father had named it; or K-9 as Darkus called it). Rightly or wrongly, Darkus held his father responsible for what had happened on that fateful full moon. Prior to forming Knightley & Son, his father had been absent for those four long years, confined to a coma by the hypnotic powers of Morton Underwood. But his dad had been absent long
before
that as well, when he’d confined himself to his office, working day and night and slowly losing his wife and family in the process. Darkus had essentially grown up without a father, until his dad had returned – virtually back from the dead – as a partner in crime-solving, bringing much-needed adventure into Darkus’s life, but not the level of intimacy or affection that a son might wish for from a parent. Plus, his dad never warned him about the profound loss that comes along with devoting one’s life
to detective work. And Darkus never really had any other choice in life, with the catastrophiser continually gnawing at his mind. He was always going to follow in his father’s footsteps, and his father had never been around to tell him not to.

Darkus returned his mind to the present as he was led up a glass staircase, underlit by discreet LED lights. Darkus knew Jason’s parents were wealthy and travelled a lot, leaving their son to throw regular parties that incensed the neighbours; but the gatherings were expertly cleaned up afterwards, with the precision of a criminal cleaning up a crime scene, erasing any trace of the party’s existence. It was even rumoured that the host made cash payments to the neighbours in return for their silence.

Darkus was led across a minstrels’ gallery that overlooked the main reception room where over a hundred kids were dancing with their hands raised in the air, waving plastic cups. On the far side, one brave parent had come along and was doing some embarrassing ‘Dad-dancing’ in front of the fireplace with great enthusiasm, his beard and glasses at odds with the fashionable dayglo and spandex on display.

The group of baseball caps escorted Darkus from the gallery to an outdoor balcony, overlooking a swimming pool that was glowing blue in the night. One of Jason’s minions poured Darkus a soft drink from an improvised
bar consisting of a white linen cloth and an assortment of bottles. Several of the cooler kids in his year were lined up, sucking indeterminate green liquid through straws. A group of girls flocked together at the opposite end of the deck, glancing at Darkus and whispering to each other. It was hard to tell if the comments were negative or positive. Having never mastered lip-reading, Darkus was unable to understand what was being said, and their body language was equally baffling.

Far easier to read were the two boys who were scaling the tiled parapet roof beside the VIP area, overlooking the pool, which lay a distance of some ten metres from the house.

‘Go on, do it,’ one dared the other, pointing towards the alluring body of blue water.

‘In your dreams.
You
do it.’

The water was shimmering and inviting.

‘OK,’ the first one replied.

Darkus put down his cup, left the throng and approached the parapet. His eyes narrowed as he estimated the distance from the roof to the pool, the uncertain purchase of their shoes on the slate tiles, Newton’s laws of motion and the relative velocity that would have to be achieved to land safely in the water. The outlook was not encouraging.

‘Erm, guys?’ Darkus ventured. ‘I think you’ll find the
laws of gravity make the odds of a successful landing approximately thirty to one … at best.’

‘
Shut it, Dorkus!
’

‘In that case, would you consider waiting long enough for us to create an improvised safety cushion to prevent serious injury or loss of life?’

Jason glanced up from the garden below and waved his hands around. ‘Get off of there. Dad’ll have a fit if those tiles come loose.’

Climber One looked at the other and grinned. ‘OK, who’s going first?’

Realising their judgement was quite seriously impaired, Darkus addressed the host. ‘I suggest calling the emergency services. Specify
two
ambulances.’

‘Seriously?!’ Jason yelled up again. ‘Get off of there or I’m never inviting you again. Ever!’

Climber Two nodded to his friend. ‘Maybe it’s not such a great idea.’

‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ Climber One replied, then involuntarily yelped, ‘Agh – !!’ He suddenly lost his footing and slid clattering down the ledge by the VIP area in a tangle of arms and legs. It would have looked like a comedy routine if there wasn’t a free fall of fifteen metres below him.

Revellers on the balcony and round the pool started screaming. The host stood frozen in horror.