The Limbs in the Loch/The Bone Reader.
No one commits an evil act willingly….what is the nature of evil…..
Featuring the Eh-Aye manny:
“No, no laddie…there is nae way we wid dae that. We’re professionals. Nae Bull wanking- that’s jist an urban myth….cattle prod up it’s arsehole…the shock of it makes the beast shoot it’s load into a special sheath. I’ll tell ye though, now and again if we’re in a daft humour- and that’s maist of the time, kis we’re an ill trickit’ bunch we get dressed up. Jist to mess wee the Bulls head….we get dressed up as those creepy aliens- the grey ones. Makes the Bull jizz more fertile, more lively…”
The limbs in the Loch:
The Bone Reader: A box ticking, list making mother fucker. (this is a recent addition)
John Calvin’s first moments of doubt in a rational world.
the ah-aye man. The report that dazzles the man.
THE LIMBS IN THE LOCH
Big Stick and chief investigator John Calvin yawned. It had been a long tedious day. He examined the polaroid again, puzzled. Polaroids?, even he had stopped using film Camera’s. They were fiddly, and a pain to use. He was a late convert to digital. But it was the way of the modern world. The march of progress.
The march of fuck-wittery more like….he didn’t like the idea of any kind of marching at all.
The coffee was crap. Instant stuff, gritty and harsh. He pondered the three men behind the bars. Squinting at their images on the screen. All of them looked odd and out of place. The older man especially. He looked like a University lecturer, complete with brown Corduroy Jacket and slightly scuffed brown Brogues.
The elder detainees cell was buzzing with bluebottles, big bloated buggers. They came from out of nowhere, and they couldn’t get rid of them. Calvin had only been into the cell once- the old guy had a strange odour, earthy and damp. The buzzing of the flies was distracting so Calvin had opted to talk to him through the Microphone instead.
He examined the list of the old guys possessions, which was safely locked up downstairs: the overcoat, that old notebook and the heavy wooden box containing his equipment. The syringe itself he estimated was of roughly Victorian age, and the other equipment was of a similar antiquity, the old guy had replaced a few items lately- a selection of plastic droppers and rubber gloves looked recent.
He was obviously operating without a licence: a quick search of the database had at least revealed that. He had claimed to hold a license in the 1970’s but they could find no hard evidence of this- plus he wasn’t in the mood to go digging through old records downstairs. The fear of a paper cut was the crux of it. Old paper, old germs.
The other two chaps were of a more normal nature. Kev, was a standard issue Aberdonian- with fingers like sausages and a low beady brow. His eyes were dull and lifeless- no doubt still in shock. Kev had managed to give a statement, in between harsh hacking sobs…his stupid dog ‘rapist’ was dead…Calvin tried to assure him that the dog had died quickly and not suffered: but fuck it, he couldn’t lie. It wasn’t possible to die quietly if that kind of thing had happened to your arse. Calvin didn’t know much about biology, but he was pretty sure that a dogs arse worked in the same way as his own.
Kev was traumatised that was for sure, the Dr. had prescribed him some Slo-mo to take the edge of his nerves- which had just transformed him into a non-communicative mute. So Calvin had left him to it.
The Dr was not a big fan of Calvin, for a start they had something of a personality clash- Calvin was by nature sullen and sarcastic- prone to vicious verbal attacks, he saw it as something that was provoked in him by morons and those who were so stuck up themselves it was unreal. The Dr was pretty full of himself, a neat buttoned down man- respect meant everything to him, status- and the proper level of deference- which made Calvin’s continuous undermining of his profession hard to ignore.
Calvin had a few standard phrases which he new got under the doctor’s vacuum sealed persona- he would announce his presence with a muted cough and mumble – “ah, here he is the great stupendous Carfordio!” grinning evily, Dr. Crawford could, after many years weather this predictable opening salvo- but Calvin was relentless- he would fidget and distract…interupting the flow of the Dr’s narrative with irritating asides, whether they were alone or in a crowded Reading chamber- “smoke and mirrors..” he would mutter, or “I don’t know why the fuck I’m listening to this psuedo-mystic claptrap..it’s jist a pile of fucking bollocks”
Galling, that’s what Calvin was. The Dr. was a professional and no amount of goading and profanity would shatter his aloof reserve. He was the better man, and he intended to demonstrate this to all and sundry.
Calvin paced a bit to ease his mind, suspect number three was the real problem. He had made little sense- he refused to offer any concrete details- refusing to provide his name and address, instead he smugly told them that he was ‘the narrator’, and was surprised that anyone could see him.
At the end of his summary of his findings Calvin had fallen silent, his agitated crabby pacing had taken him to the furthest edge of the room- he hunched exasperated by a large metal storage unit- his sunken cheeks and gallows expression lit by funeral dirge.
“what? That cannae be right…” he finally rasped- fixing the Dr. with his worst insomniac’s gaze-
“it is my finding, I have conducted three runs of the bones, I’ve read and I’ve written. I’ve told what I believe to be the righteous truth: the limbs are not from a dead man or women, the torso and head lives.”
Calvin un-hunched, scratched his head. He needed a wash, his scalp felt greasy and itchy. He made a mental note to do a through harvest of dandruff in the evening before he crashed. A good line of that festering mouldy blood flecked stuff was great in the morning, especially with a cup of piss and a manky roll up. Clean, straight edge living was his mantra. That, and a solid fucking work ethic.
“ aye right min. fitiver.”
He was probably a nut job. Christ knows what he had been doing in Kev’s loft. Kev was none the wiser, but the narrator had been living up there a while, and he had made himself at home. They had bagged and boxed all his stuff- PC, notebooks, a heap of Hard drives and CD’s and all his clothing. Most of the material seemed to be of the slightly unhinged conspiracy nut subject matter. There were two 6TB drives marked ‘ Denver Airport research’, which made Calvin nervous- since his one brush with the states security operatives had indeed taken place in that strange airport.
Ach well, he thought…best leave this for the night.
He still awoke in the early hours sometimes, that fucking evil horses’ eyes burning into his skull…Fucking Denver….
His side-kick J.J Bullock had fucked off to the IT department for an argument an hour before and had not come back- but he was technically off-shift now, as was Calvin. Time to go home.
He meandered out of the building, disposing of the plastic cup quickly in a bin. The place was deserted, only a few bobbies and the desk manny. He was asleep, a long smear of drool lazilly trailing his meaty face. Slugbait trails under halogen. The face of dillegent policing. He stank of laudinum….
He swiped his card for the exit, digging out his phone and poking at it aimlessly with his thumb. Technology…..for one thing it made the job a lot easier, most of the boring stuff could be done with the handheld, or the word planks. Everything stowed worrilessly to the big grey police cloud.
It was still nagging at him as he gave up trying to get hold of J.J on the phone, the results that came back from the bone-reader. They jist didnae scan. The made no sense. They had nailed down leads, they were pulling it together- sure as fuck it would take them a time and a half- but they would sort it out. Now along comes the high and mighty priest of bullshit and starts twisting everything up.
It made no sense. They were scouring the Loch as he spoke- three days of a full twelve man team, pulling 12 hour shifts looking for what they new must be there- the head and the torso.
Fuck it, he thought. He was driving up tonight.
There was something wrong with the fucking car.
It took hours, Calvin preferred to do the driving, and JJ was to knackered anyhow. All the way up the road they listened to the audio conversion of the mighty bone readers report- Calvin rewinding and tirelessly examining key sections, particularly the main summary. He not only examined the words the reader used but details of his voice, inflection and minor hesitations- all the while seeking out lies and hints of subterfuge, sworn enemies standing 40 metres apart on a grey snow flecked morning pistols behind backs. Dueling forevs.
“He’s fucking with you again Calvin, it’s not like that shite he spouts counts as evidence anyhow- only if we’re really unlucky, aye?”
JJ grinned, cheering up never happened to Calvin. His moods were on a geological time frame. Black sheets of rain poured in the older man’s head. Fixated.
With a wordless shrug Calvin flicked the audio back- shooting JJ a disgusted cuntish glare.
AND IN CONCLUSION, UUUUNGA, THE BONES NEVER LIE, BRAHHAAAH, AND AYE SAY’S THE LIMB HERE BE MINGIN’ AND LONG ROTTEN, SITTING DEEP IN THE WATER, IT’S HOORIN’ FUSTY, I WAS SURE I’D SPEW. BUT I’M FAIRLY SURE ACCORDING TO MY MYSTIC STREAK WHICH IS A MILE WIDE THE OWNER OF THIS LIMB IS STILL BREATHING AND WORKS AS A BIN LORD UP BY ELGIN. DAMN STRAIGHT GADGEE. CALVIN YE WON’T UNDERSTAND HALF OF THIS BUT I’M RIGHT AND AS USUAL MIN YOU’RE SO WRONG IT’S FUNNY.
THIS CONCLUDES MY REPORT. PRAISE ME THE MIGHTY BONE READER FAE ABERDEEN,-
AND NOW I WILL SI-
Calvin snapped the audio off before the Bone reader’s ritual closing song began, it was something he could live without hearing ever again….
This was the key section for Calvin, the most irrational section of the report.
davidjamesfarquhar (at) btinternet dot com.