The Dick with the Stick       

Last Updated 12^th November 2005

 

1.

 

Some of you may recognise me.  I was quite a celebrity once upon a time.  A private eye, gumshoe, and dick … the lonely figure at the dark end of the street … hat tilted down over my face … the rain dripping from the brim …

 

And then after I’ve seen what I came to see, when I’ve taken my photographs and notes, I wander off into the night.  You just knew there was no one at home for me, didn’t you?

 

Yeah, nothing much escaped me back in those days.  I was sharp, really sharp.  Not so much a detective, more of a reflective.  You needed me to look into things for you and you needed me to look into.  You sent me to get the dirt and you don’t even have to be a gardener to do that.

 

No: all the private eye needs to get by is patience and a small appetite.

 

When I lost my sight I thought I’d lost everything.  I was wrong.  I mean, ask yourself how you’d enjoy winning the lottery if you were blind.

 

Oh I suppose there are loads of blind people who’d tell you they could enjoy themselves very well, thank you.  But I’d been so poor for so long, living in cold water flats, only enough money for a clapped out television and the very occasional pint.  I found out that losing my sight was actually something like winning the lottery.

 

When I was in hospital all those years ago I didn’t tell myself, hear I am in the hospital getting fixed up after my … accident … but I can’t see, I could be anywhere … and I will be … anywhere I like …

 

I knew the flat I lived in before I came to FWC was nothing but in my head it was a luxury penthouse.  And why shouldn’t it be?  The only difference between my flat and a penthouse is that they look different.

 

This is more than pretence.  Tell me, oh sighted person, how do you know what you think you’re seeing is really there at all?  Everything you ‘see’ depends on how your brain receives and deciphers the rays of light hitting your eyes.  That doesn’t make it the right interpretation.  Some alien could walk in to your comfy little life and see things completely differently.

 

That’s what I do: I interpret things differently.  In some ways I see more than you do.

 

I think that’s why Dymock has decided I’d be right for his new venture.  Tom-Tom’s given me the tour, explained the Cyber Plant, where the images are generated, where they do all that clever stuff in the Cut and Paste Lab, where the logos and links begin life.  All committed to memory.  There seem to be quite a number of people working here but I don’t know how many.

 

Needless to say, the Cyber Plant is the most dangerous part of the operation and that is situated well away from our offices.  Quite bloody right.  I hope Dymock’s paying those guys plenty.

 

I know he’s paying me plenty but for what I’m not sure.  He came got me.  Says he was a big fan of mine way back when.  Said he could use a man like me even if I could no longer see. 

 

“It’s a website,” I said.  “I know what a website is even though I’ve never seen one.  And even if I could see it what good would a washed up private eye be to a man like you.”

 

On that occasion I felt him coming close, I could feel his breath as he brought his mouth to my ear.

 

“I need your help,” he whispered.  “You see I’m not sure I exist.”

 

2.

 

I open my Braille edition of Alice in Wonderland and search for the quote.  At last I find it.

 

“Now, listen to this,” I say.  “One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. "Which road do I take?" she asked. "Where do you want to go?" was his response. "I don't know," Alice answered. "Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter."  I close the book and toss it on to the settee beside me.  “What do you think, my sweet?” 

 

She’s tall, slim, and blonde, or so I am told, Dickey’s little helper.

 

“Yes, Richard,” she says in her heavily accented English.  But something is wrong.

 

“What is it, my sweet?”

 

“This Alice, I know of her,” she says, “we have her in my home country too.  A story by a man with an unhealthy number of little girl friends.  Another female stereotype.”

 

I sigh.  I am trying to give her some insight into leadership qualities but she’s going off on her own hobby horse again.

 

“Feminism is not the issue here, Agneta,” I protest, but even this will not do.

 

“I do not know what this word feminism really is,” she says, getting up, going over to the drinks cabinet.  “People call us feminist whenever we express opinions that differentiate us from a doormat or a prostitute.”  She pours herself a stiff one, comes back to her seat opposite me.  “Bloody men.”

 

I now attempt to mollify her even though I truly believe there is no reciprocity in relationships, not really. Men love women, women love children and children love play stations.  Nevertheless, I persevere.

 

“Let me give you another example,” I continue.  “Hard work spotlights the character of people: some turn up their sleeves, some turn up their noses, and some don't turn up at all.  The problem with Mr Dymock is that even when he does turn up he’s not there.”

 

But Agneta is in a contrary mood today.

 

“I prefer always to believe the best about people,” she lies.  “It saves so much trouble.” 

 

She moves suddenly and Bruno, my guide dog, gives a yelp and scampers away.

 

“Did you just kick my dog?” I demand.

 

“Your dog, Richard … he is being rather too friendly …  I do not like your dog …”

 

“Forget the bloody dog, Agneta,” I say, unable to disguise my sense of irritation.  “Now where were we?  Ah, yes!  The people at the funfair say that if you act daft you’ll get a free ride.  I mean, where did he come from?  What are his curriculum vitae?”

                                                                                                                              

“Ah, now I see,” snorts Agneta.  “You are jealous.”

 

“What?”

 

“Mr Mungo, he is maybe not too smart but he is nice and you are not and you want people to like you more than they like him”

 

I am fighting a losing battle here, big time.

 

“No Agneta, that’s not it at all.”

 

“You are an unhappy man and it has nothing to do with you not being able to see.”  I do not rise to the bait but she continues anyway.  “To be happy is easy, Richard.  But you always want to be happier than other people and this is very difficult for you because you think everyone else is happier than you are.”

 

I sit back in my chair, uncertain if she has hit a raw nerve.   Agneta clearly believes she has managed to get one over on me.

 

“I do not know if he is wise or not wise,” she says, shifting her weight in her chair as she warms to her topic, “but he is nice.  I think – I think he became great by being nice.”

 

I laugh dismissively.  “Now tell me, whoever became nice by being nice?”

 

“Jesus?” she ventures.

 

“A semi-mythical figure,” I spit.  “Don’t bring his name into this.”

 

“Ghandi?”

 

“Yes,” I lean forward and say, “but Ghandi had a cause.  Mr Dymock,” I laugh, “has no cause but that of his ego.”

 

I hear her coming closer.  She is moving off the chair and coming to my left side.  Somehow I consider my left side my weaker.  She knows it.  Agneta has annoyed me, albeit mildly, and she has come to make amends. 

 

She kneels at my side.  Quietly, her breath trembling, she says, “Crawl out of the mouse’s ear.”

 

I push her over with a yell, Bruno yelps as she falls on top of him.  I flail wildly with my cane hoping to disable her long enough so I can jump upon her and throttle her.

 

“You are a spy!”  J’accuse!

 

“What – Why - ?”  She is obviously sprawled backwards on the floor, inching away from me with some energy.

 

 I grasp and grasp.

 

“You little whore, you’re one of his, aren’t you?”

 

“No Richard you have made a mistake!”

 

I launch myself off my chair and somehow land on her legs.  I am too heavy.  She cannot get away.  At last my hands arrive at her tender throat.

 

“Confess!”

 

“Awwk – Urrr – Nuu,” she rasps. 

 

“Only one of his would make a statement like ‘crawl out of the mouse’s ear’!  It’s a code, isn’t it?”

 

“Richard – Richard …”   I relent.  “Richard, I never meant … anything … The words, I saw them outside …”

 

“Tell me, tell me.”

 

I feel her looking up at me.  In my head I see the terror in her eyes.

 

“I saw these words written up on a wall.”

 

“Where?  Where?”

 

“It was on the side of the Cut and Paste Building.” 

 

Shouting for Bruno I get to my feet.  This is simply intolerable.  Now he is sloganeering, encouraging the workers to be as languid and as indolent as himself. 

 

“You saw it on the side of the Cut and Paste Factory, eh?”

 

“I thought you must have known about it,” she pleads, “you being on the  - being one of the top men …”

 

“Get my coat,” I command.  Coughing, she scrambles to her feet in obedience. 

 

When she returns from the hall she is eager to please. “It was on the side of the factory.  I remember it now, yes.  The writing at the top said something like People who say it cannot be done should not interrupt those who are doing it.  And then below that was a painting of a happy family group and below them it said Crawl out of the Mouse’s ear.  I am sorry to have annoyed you,” she says, coming to my side and putting her head on my shoulder.

 

I kiss her forehead.  It’s so much nicer when she behaves.

 

“Make something special for dinner, will you?  Bruno!”

 

Strange but true: When people are least sure, they are often most dogmatic.  On the one hand Mungo Dymock appears to be without a single idea in his head.  More often than not he seems unsure as to where he is or even why.  And yet this very inertia had produced something even if only a few words of agitprop on a factory wall.

 

Bruno and I leave the apartment.  The day is fresh and I can feel the sunshine on my face.  Something will happen soon.

 

I always believe the best of people, she had said.  How innocent she was.  So many great thinkers had come from her home country and yet she couldn’t see that to know what has to be done, then do it, is the only real philosophy of practical life.  Whether people are good or bad what difference does it make?  All that matters is the greater good, surely?  Aren’t we all animals?  We think, we create and destroy.  But we do not create and destroy because we think.  We create and destroy because we are animals.  Remove us from society’s cocoon, even for short time, and observe just how ‘civilised’ we are. 

 

Very few people realise that some of us must expend tremendous energy merely to be normal. 

 

And yet society does work: for instance, it stops us from killing each other over trivialities.  The greater good is to protect person and property, a mere agreement entered into by housebroken humans.  But humans are pack animals and a pack animal craves leadership. 

 

Mungo Dymock is no leader.  Something must be done about him.  I must consult my associates.

 

TO BE CONTINUED SOMEHOW.