INTRO THEME - "OLD BOY" by Brick+Mortar

It was a sunny day outside. Blue skies and bright sun rays beaming through my tinted windows. Truth is, it was probably about fifteen degrees (Celsius) outside, and I wasn't quite sure if my office windows were really tinted or just plain grimey. The office was on the top floor of some rented out flats, on top of a corner charity shop - the Isle of Man Hospice in Peel. Not a very busy place, and only one other person lived in those flats besides me. I barely saw the guy. He liked to keep to himself. I wondered what else he liked to keep, with that strange smell which always emanated from his door as I walked past on my way to somewhere else, or even through the floorboards themselves on a hot summer's day like this.

I was wearing some casual clothes. And by casual I mean scruffy and unkempt. Well even that's being generous. I woke up in my pajamas and I decided to keep them on until past noon. I was working on a case - a bike theft. It wasn't a big break or anything, but the client chose to let me handle his fourty pounds instead of relying on the much more reliable Police constabularies, so it was a Detective's honour to solve the case for him.

'Even babysitting is much more lucrative than this' I complained to myself in my thoughts as I munched on some cheese and onion flavoured crisps whilst lounging on my office chair.

But I had chosen to be a Private Detective, so I'd have to stick to it. This is my ride or die, and it was starting to look like I was heading for the second one. Yet, despite the recent disappearances around here, it seemed nobody was worried enough to hire a good detective. Such as myself.

I was wearing some red flannel pajama pants and shirt, alongside a Batman themed dressing gown, which had a gaping hole on the shoulder. Not useful in the winter months. My hair was full and luscious as a man can have at the wise old age of twenty five. And blond.

My face was a few days unshaved at this point. Let's just say the five o' clock shadow was starting to look more like a three AM disaster. It was okay, I have a couple new razors in the bathroom. And I was lucky to have a bathroom at all, even if it was just the charity shop staff one.

On my desk lay a mess of papers, notes, notebooks, notebooks with notes in them, newspapers, papier mache ornaments, a disheveled looking laptop and an even more disheveled looking landline handset phone - one of those Garfield themed ones. I liked twiddling the springy wire when stressed.

I threw the empty packet of crisps towards a metal rubbish can in the corner of my room. It bounced off the rim and rolled besides the other packet I had thrown before bed and the banana peel. I considered it target practice if ever I might need it.

After missing my shot pathetically, I decided to try my shot with something else; that is the case of the missing bicycle. A small time gig, just like every gig I took. I flipped open the lid of my laptop and scoured the desktop looking for some photos. I had been sent three screenshots of camera footage from the porch camera of the client. They were well endowed, with money. It wasn't hard to tell, their status apparent from the huge, wide open field they called a front garden that stretched away beyond the blurred confines of porchlight glow and into the sheer darkness of a June as well. There was an area near the edge of town filled with manor houses and country getaways, and my client was rich enough to afford what seemed like an entire vassal all to themselves. Yet I was only on a paycheck of fourty quid. What stooges. Only paying me a measly fourty pounds to get their brat's bike back? I was insulted, but not insulted enough to care. Anyway, fourty pounds means I'd be able to purchase a couple extra CO-OP meal deals to keep me well fed..

I looked over the photos taken from the porch cameras, flicking through each one wired to me through the grubby screen of my laptop. The culprit was captured on one of the pictures, and on the other two were empty, one with the bright sparkle of a flashlight from the bottom of the driveway. It was a classic slideshow of the crook getting away with the act. He was definitely a high-schooler, that much I could tell from his stupid haircut to the stoop all the way to the plain black fake leather lace-up shoes he wore. 

The flashlight was in the thief's hand in the screenshot of him handling the bike. It was a dainty thing, label sticker still on the side, one of those ones you can attach to your keychain and that takes two or three triple-A batteries.

There were a few shops in town which sold these types of flashlight. Of course, I hit them hard. These shops were only a stone's throw away up the shadowed, cobbled little avenue called Michael Street. The day before today, I popped in to a few of these shops to ask around about this lad of around five foot eight in height and wearing a black hoodie with gloves come in and buy a flashlight on a keychain matching the pictures I had. I kept the description of the kid away from a ruffian light, but it was all the same to these old codgers.

'Kids who look like that are everywhere these days,' one shopkeeper's answer was, 'they ought to learn some respect. If we brought back the birch then-'

I had already left that store, the bell ringing on the door as I marched away. I don't care about your views on beating children, what I do care about, is genuine clues.

It was late June, just before the schools began to have exams and break up for summer. I understand tensions between students might be pretty high around times like this.

I began browsing Facebook on my laptop, trying to match the photo from the porch camera to someone I can pin the blame on, and possibly retrieve the bicycle from. That was when my Garfield shaped landline began to ring.

I picked up the handset and put it to my ear.

"Gibbs Jones, Private Detective, what can I do for you?" Was my catchphrase. Generic, but it worked.

"The bike was just returned." Came a snootish sounding lady's voice from the other end.

"I see.. Do you know who did it?"

"Yes, it was actually one of my son's rascal friends, with whom he had a falling out, but when he heard I hired a private investigator he returned it promptly."

"Ah. Okay," only one more question lingered in my mind, "can I keep the fourty quid?"

She hung up.

At least she paid me beforehand.

I returned the handset to where it belongs, as part of Garfield's spine, and eyed up my anorexic looking wallet.

I picked it up and thumbed through the leaves in the back, counting the cash I had left within.

Fifteen pounds and twenty four pence. Well, it'd do me fine until the next client called in. That could be in two days. Or it could be in two months. At least I'd have some time to relax now. I'll have even more time to relax in the afterlife after I die of starvation.

I snooped around the old cupboards, finding nothing more than some sachets of pasta and bags of rice which must have been left by the people who lived here previously.. at least thirty years ago though.

I ambled up to my fridge, deathly aware of the feeling of peckishness in my stomach and how a single bag of crisps would not have quelled it at all, before clutching the handle and pulling the door open.

In an instant, I was hit with a wave of stench so horrible that I wouldn't have batted an eyelid if it had formed a green cartoon stink cloud in my face. It was so putrid that it coated the back of my throat in a slimy feeling as soon as I took in a single breath. I didn't even look at the contents in the fridge before slamming shut the door. Cleaning it out would have to wait for tomorrow's Gibbs Jones.

[Hi, future Gibbs Jones here. Now I know I look like a total slob in this chapter, but I'm not like that anymore, I promise. I'm a changed man in the modern year of 2019, and I'm ashamed of the man I was all those years ago. Besides this is an origin story. So I'm told diatribes like this ruin the flow of the story and I might never get to have a hand in the writing of my own novel ever again but I think it's worth it. To save face. Carry on with your happy reading, reader!]

I shook my head, clearing it from all the pictures my imagination had served me up of the nasty little things living inside that refrigerator. Spoiled food, dead animals, mould growing on every surface like the inside of one of those cars from the 70's with the furry seats and stuff. I shuddered to even think of it. At least it had erased my appetite for now. I'd need to nip to the shops across the street and go grocery shopping.

I'd also decided to start saving up money for a new fridge.

That was when I started taking stock of the office. Behind the desk (a school table that someone had fly tipped), lay my stiff office chair, which no longer spun around, unfortunately.

The foam cushioning had seen better days, and certainly better nights. It was worn down and the bright orange spongy texture inside exposed. Stuffed under the desk were a rusty looking filing cabinet and my tatty duvet. Tatty was an adjective I could've used for at least fifty different items all around the room, however, using the same descriptor more than thrice in a row is seen as dull.

What was really dull was the colour of the carpet. It had once been a lovely floral pattern. A little bit like the backgrounds off of Spongebob Squarepants, but over the many years of being constantly trodden on and rolled over - not with the carpet cleaner - it was probably the breeding ground for all kinds of diseases. I may have been a private investigator but if anyone ever found out about the carpet my office would be investigated by the CDC. And not very privately at that.

On top of a shoulder height dresser stood a few knick knacks and other random things. Awards from high school, a group photograph, my college diploma for the graphic design course I did.. I had a quick look at the group photograph. It was from a visit to the newly opened escape rooms in Douglas - Exit Strategy. When it opened back in '07 a few of my mates took me along to do the prison break one. I scanned the slightly aged picture, taken six years ago by now. We were dressed in smart clothes. Must've been after we had finished with high school as sixth formers. And there I was standing with my best friend at the time, Benjamin Willaby. His black hair was kept buzzed, and despite being on the chunkier side I do remember him being a monster in rugby and cross country.

"I wonder what he's up to these days.." I said, thinking out loud.. We went our separate ways just before college.

"What who's up to?" Asked someone behind me. I yelped a little bit, dropping the picture before spinning around to confront the intruder. It might have been an armed robber, which is what I was expecting, but instead I came face to face with a squint faced, short man with slicked back salt and pepper hair, an aggressive widow's peak and wearing a black suit and tie, a little too tight on him and at the most unflattering places, too. 

He was quite unlike any of my typical clients. I studied him closely after my heart rate settled. He didn't even look like he came from around here, either.. He looked at me quizzically whilst I took a little breath, and I could tell he was starting to examine the state of my office in turn, so out of embarrassment of his leering, I got straight to the point.

'Must be the busy season. Two clients within two weeks of each other!' A spark of hope lit inside my heart and I snapped up straight, adjusting the collar of my Batman themed nightgown as neatly as I could make it. I puffed out my chest.
"What can I do for you today?"

"You're that detective right? Gibbs Jones? A friend told me about you." He looked around my office uncertainly, "I could be in the wrong place.."
"Yes, that's right. That's me. The one and only." I raised my eyebrow a touch, weirded out by the long inflection he put on the word 'friend'.

"My name's Joshua." He didn't offer me a handshake at all. It was like he was disappointed in me for something. 
"Pleasure to meet you." I lied.

"Are you an American?" He asked suddenly, without base or reason. I pinched the bridge of my nose, sighing frustrated like a deflating balloon.

"Sir, are you going to hire me, or ask about my heritage?"

The man's face went sour for a second. But then he shuffled his feet on my floor and continued with his briefing to me.

"Here's my problem. I live on the ground floor of a flat.. Over the last few weeks I've been having to deal with major disturbances from the tenants in the upstairs floor. Major disturbances that must be seen to."

"Like parties? Loud music?" I interjected.

"No. Like loud scraping, horrible smells, crashing about and loud whispering or crying at night. People are in and out all the time. It's rather odd. And I don't like it, not one bit. Now my friend said you're probably the right man for the job." I noticed this client had the 

"So.. what do you want me to do about it? Camp outside for a few days, stare through the windows with binocula-"

"I know they're dealing drugs up there-" The man started, rudely slicing through my sentence. 

'Drugs. So asinine.' I thought to myself, tapping my foot in a foul temper ,'sounds more like an evil cult or something. Like in a cliché horror movie.'

"..but I have no evidence. So I want you to do your job - detecting - and then send the police in there to get rid of them."

"Have you or anyone else complained to the building managers or the Police?"

"Yes, the building manager told us he'd deal with it. But he hasn't done anything yet. And when I called the Police, the car showed up but they said they couldn't go in without a warrant. That's why I need you to secure evidence to get them a warrant." He looked a bit annoyed. Or maybe that's just how his face looked.

"Right. I see. Can I do anything else for you? A freshly cooked meal perhaps?"

"Don't be smart with me, young man. I'm willing to pay you thirty pounds up front plus ten pounds per day in expenses. Since I'm a busy man, you can also have my spare flat keys. I live in flats at the top of Ballawattleworth- on Magher drive. Number 19. I won't be back until later, since I've got.. Important business meeting to go to at The Office."

"I'm charmed," I replied, smiling charmingly, "I'll take the job."

A look of relief came over the man's face.

"Thank you ever so much, sir, thank you. However when you come to the address I do hope you don't show up wearing... that.." He coupled the last word with a look of slight disgust as he scanned my current outfit.

He shook his head and leafed through his wallet, handing me a twenty pound note and two crumpled fivers, which I promptly put into my own wallet. Then he jangled some keys on a keyring in front of me, as if entertaining a baby, placing two out of the four on top of the dresser.

"Toodle-loo! I called after him as he quickly left the flat. He nodded and smiled quickly, before slamming the door. I heard the click of a flip-phone opening, and the rapid muttering of some conversation as he trundled away down the stairs.

"I wish they wouldn't do that." I grumbled to myself. I checked my digital clock. It read 13:43. It was time to start working.

I rummaged through a drawer in my dresser, pulling out a pair of black trousers, a white tshirt, and a navy blue jacket. I retreated to the back of my room, for fear of anyone on the street below spying me changing, and I rapidly exchanged my raggedy pyjamas for the still ragged but clean new clothes. When I had fully changed, I felt a little bit fresher and more confident. I grabbed a can of spray on deodorant, creating a cloud of artificially scented fumes all around me which I hoped would make me smell a bit nicer.

'A shower in a can' as my old man used to say. I coughed and spluttered as I accidentally breathed some in.

And with that I stuffed the client's keys into my pocket, set foot out of my front door and on my way out I accidentally slammed it.

"Damn draughts." I muttered, before turning my key in the grubby lock, feeling the mechanism drive into place.

.

[XXX]

.

Ballawattleworth is a big residential area at the top of town, about a fifteen minute walk away from my office. If traffic was heavy that'd make it twenty minutes, but traffic never gets heavy in a town like this. Here in Peel, a line of any more than four cars was regarded as a pileup. Any more vehicles might be considered a motorist catastrophe. That being said, I've never experienced anything else. And I couldn't imagine just how busy it could get in the big land of England a little over the Irish sea. So with all that faff about traffic out of the way, it was a fair and easy little jaunt up a smooth slope to the top of town. All I had to do now, was get outside. The act of just leaving was always a chore.

On my way downstairs, I passed the heavy framed wooden door to my downstairs neighbor's flat. As it did every time I passed, curiosity possessed me to stand in front of it for a moment. I smelled a hint of some kind of rotting meat which wafted from the cracks between the door and frame. I put my nose up to the source and took a couple sniffs. It was highly unpleasant, like some kind of mould.. Such an earthy smell.. Weirdly, one I had never smelled before. It mixed with the slight scent of vomit. My mouth contorted in displeasure and I stepped back from the door. I'd expect the eviction officers to be here any day at this point. That or the biohazard team.
After making sure nobody had witnessed me take a deep whiff of a random stranger's front door, I continued down the stairs, bursting out into the comparatively lovely smelling charity shop. A prune faced lady wearing a tight bun staffed the till today, her very presence there made a pit in my stomach.

It's not like I'm scared of her. I'm not scared of very many people really. Even so, I felt myself physically deflate. Standing before me, behind the little cash register, was my truly delightful landlady, Laura Lillock. She glared at me from across the room with a look of annoyance and impatience. Something within me told me she wanted to speak with me. It was no lie, despite her career and average lifestyle for a woman of sixty-five, she carried the same energy as an ex drill sergeant. She had the rippling forearm muscles as well.

Sullenly, like a kid about to face the music, I began weaving between the racks of second hand clothes towards the till to talk to her, even though I didn't really want to. She was definitely not someone I'd like as a grandma.

"Decided to leave your little cave again today did you?" She spoke with a rasp, her voice itself seemed to have some kind of depression.

"I'm working on a case right now, Laura, so I'm going to have to get going."
"While you're out there playing detective, I'm here counting the days you've been overdue on your rent payments."

"I've been telling you this, I just need to get my lucky break and I'll have all the money you need."

She ignored this and continued.

"And you've been telling me this for..? A few months at least. By now."

"Well I've just gotten a job today, I got paid thirty pounds and I'll be getting ten pounds a day in expenses. That should help."

"Ten pounds a day? You do know you owe me about five hundred? And that's being lenient."
"Look, just-"

"I can't give you a break anymore, Mr. Jones! You're twenty four, not fourteen. It's about time to stop playing silly games."

"Excuse me." A small voice asked from behind me. I turned around, seeing a little twig of a lady with chin length grey hair, a lazy eye and wearing a lavender purple dress. She was carrying some clothes which were slung over her elbow. I murmured a quick apology and sidestepped her.

"Are you listening to me, young man?"

I froze halfway to the exit, my hopes of slinking out were extinguished. I turned back to Laura, who stared daggers at me from across the room. If she had real ones, I'm sure she'd have been throwing them at me as well. I instinctively smirked.
"That's the same thing you say to me every day, old lady, and I'm not about to give up on my dream to be a detective." She rolled her eyes at me, but I rolled mine right back.

"Well either way," Laura's face was as sour as the lemon it looked like, "if you can't produce five hundred pounds by next Thursday, then you can give up on your cosy flat I let you stink up."

I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned in frustration. It's a Friday.

"How many times must I tell you this, woman, the stench is from the guy who lives on the floor below me!"
"Well at least he pays his rent on time!" She yelled back, as I tried slamming the door. Too bad that it's one of those pneumatic doors that close really slowly. Instead of slamming and looking cool, it ended up just returning all the force I put into it back to me. I almost tripped over on the doorstep.

"What are you all looking at?" I yelled at the two other people walking nearby before storming away up Michael Street, the high street of Peel.

For a main street, nothing was main about it. At its widest points it could accommodate one car to drive on the road and another car parked half on the pavement.

Most of its length was just enough for a single car to drive down.

Even the sun struggled to shine through the narrow gap.

The buildings seemed to curve inwards above my head, rising at least three stories up. Each floor overhanging the next by a slight margin, like something straight out of a medieval town.

In many ways, Peel was basically just a medieval town. Well, besides the motor vehicles and everything else.

I shook my head as I continued forward, as if centrifugal force would somehow sieve the frustration out of my skull.
It was a mildly warm day. The July sun didn't much increase the temperature, but its warmth was still pretty comforting and its light was a welcome change compared to the comparative dullness of my office. I walked at a steady pace up the main road, past the town hall and bus station. I watched a double decker bus pull into the parking spot, some people ambling to form a queue to the door. The digital sign at the front of the bus read "RAMSEY - VIA KIRK MICHAEL, BALLAUGH, WILDLIFE PARK AND SULBY"

I dodged between a gap in the queue and continued up the street, kicking a rock across the crossing by the quiet, quaint police station. My destination was still about ten or fifteen minutes away, and the journey was unremarkable. I wandered past the grocery store in town, 'Shoprite', which was a chain of grocery stores here on the Isle of Man.

Eventually, after passing a busy pub named 'The Highwayman' and turning left at the roundabout just outside of that place, I finally had reached the flats. This part of town was new and developing. I stood in front of the large sheep field by the roadside.

I'm sure I heard a little rumour that they'll build some more houses here. Not a surprise..

I shrugged, and crossed the road, heading straight for the flats on Magher drive. I surveyed the doors looking for a certain number… number 19. Number 20 would be the suspect's number, I assumed. Outside the small porch area, were a bed of flowers running alongside the outer wall of the first floor. I mean, most of them were really just weeds but its best to try and see a bright side to these things.

I rummaged in my pocket, producing the two keys. The first one I tried refused to slide in all the way. I swore, and the next one slid in perfectly.

It's a very satisfying feeling, unlocking a door. Feeling the inner machinations moving and thunking gently within the lock as the bolt moves into place. Maybe it's symbolic.. Or maybe I'm just weird.

I entered the flat and looked around. The door immediately in front of me bore the number 19. I peeked up the stairs. A strange feeling came over me as I did so.. It was like the top of those stairs were somehow.. Darker? I felt an ominous feeling, as if dread leaked down the steps towards me like some kind of poisonous mist.

"There's no harm in a quick gander." I reasoned to myself, before ignoring the warnings my gut screamed at me and climbing up the staircase.

The air was cold. Stale too, somehow. The earthy scent of some kind of mould wafted into my nostrils as I reached the landing. I was sure I'd never smelt this kind of stink before.. Never except for each time I'd pass by my downstairs neighbor's door back in Michael Street. My brows furrowed heavily.

Even the number on the front door of this flat seemed evil. Flat number 20.. The 2 was slightly rusted, and part of the door handle had been bent upwards. The nought was hanging upside down.

I took my iPhone 5 from my pocket and snapped a few pictures of the front door. Great for evidence. It's nice to do actual detective work like this.

'I feel super cool.!' Or at least I did, discounting the constant gagging I tried to restrict myself from.

I began to wonder if maybe this would actually lead to something bigger, something a little more important than a rat infestation or marijuana use. An exciting case. Adventure, daring, mystery! Then I'd definitely be famous.. I shook the stars from my eyes and pocketed the phone, satisfied with the shots I'd taken. I stepped back and glanced up the final flight of worn looking wooden stairs. The fact they were worn told me that it's very well used, and well, that the third flat was also well lived in. Likely by someone with no sense of smell. I was already beginning to feel quite sickly from the overwhelming stench despite not even being standing there for four minutes.

Against my better judgement, I stepped forward and used my right knuckle to rap on the door, just below the number plate of Flat number 20.

I waited for an answer, but only heard the sound of wind blowing, whistling eerily from behind the door. There was a sudden movement, somewhere right behind the door, followed by shallow, rapid breath. I smelt the mouldy stink of rot even stronger now and my face scrunched up. I gagged on that smell, it infected the back of my throat like some kind of toxic phlegm. It was horrible to the extent that even my fridge back at the office seemed enticing and appetising in comparison.

"Okay, okay, I'll go away.." I said out loud. I wanted to believe I was talking to myself but I knew something behind the door heard, because its presence (and smell) left.

I sighed shakily before quickly retiring from this floor, briskly walking up the next flight of stairs - creaky and wobbly as they were. I took them two at a time until I reached the top. The smell had become all but a lingering hint, clinging to the air like an odorous spirit.

The door leading to flat number 21 had been left ajar, and bright white light flooded out from the gap in the doorframe.

Some might call my next actions "breaking and entering", but as long as there's no breaking, it's fine by me. And besides, that open door was basically begging me to enter. So enter I did.

The hinges let out an agonising creak as the door yawned open, I cringed as the noise and bright light assaulted me. Within the flat, sunlight shone out forcing me to blink furiously to adapt. I stepped inside and my eyes became accustomed to the brightness, revealing that the room was.. Completely empty. Every wall, every floor - empty. There weren't even any curtains installed, the floor uncarpeted and the walls spotless white.

"What the.." I breathed, sweeping the room for any signs of any clues, but it was barren.

The flat's layout consisted of four nondescript rooms, each of which I burst into expecting to find something, anything to help me. At the back of the flat was a smaller broom closet with a faded red patch on the floor. I took a quick photo.

Furrowing my brow, I retreated into the main room, which I assumed would have been the living room or the lounge or something.

I noticed some small thing lay upon the windowsill - and I drew close to take a look.

It was a burnt out - by the looks of it, recently extinguished - cigarette. However it had only been half smoked before hurriedly crushed by the window where it currently lay. Somebody had been here very lately. A smoker. 

Once again, I took a photo. Whatever was happening here had begun to get weird. Seriously weird. I sniffed, and promptly left the premises, not before stubbing my toe on some loose nail in the floorboards.

"Stupid empty flat.." I muttered, slamming the door. This time on purpose.

OUTRO THEME : "CRAZY MY BEAT" by CODA