The Case of the Red Cup: Part Two

godandandrew

by Andrew Learmonth

The next few days were incredible.

I was to be a detective for God.

He told me that he had a good eye for detective-ing talent and that I could be one of the best detectives he had ever come across.

It was true that since my boy hood I have been truly fascinated by crime fiction and detective stories.

I devoured the works of Enid Blyton before moving on to the harder liquor of  Agatha Christie and the heroin speedball of Ian Rankin.

So fascinated was I with the genre that I had even applied to become a member of the police force.  Unfortunately they said no and that maybe I should think really hard about what it is I want to do.

Not getting a job in to the police really frustrated me.  I mean I had all the key assets needed for a police officer:  I like crime and was filled with pent up homophobia, misogyny and racism.   What else could I do.  That’s when I discovered stand up comedy.

But it was never enough.  I always knew there was a hole that needed filled.  It was only God knocked on my door that this hole started to fill.

“You knew didn’t you?” God asked.

“Knew what?”

“You knew that there was something wrong back there.  That that wasn’t a straightforward death with no suspicious circumstances.”

“I had an inkiling” I said, even though I hadn’t.

“Yes.  Yes.  You’ll do well I think.  You are to be a detective for God.  I shall record your deeds.  I shall be your Watson.  You shall be my Shylock.”

“Sherlock.”

“Whatever.”

With that we left my flat and headed back to the house where I had first seen God earlier that day.

The ambulances, police vans and cordons and stander-bys of earlier had all disappeared.  While the rest of the street was lit up with people having their lights on and watching the telly the house was that special type of darkness that only happens in houses with nobody in them.

God walked up the garden path and knocked on the door.  He turned round to look at me and smiled.

“Ever been to a crime scene Andrew?” he asked.

“No”.

God laughed.

Nobody answered the door.  God put his head to the door and listened for any noise at all.  Then he tried the door and when it wouldn’t shove he kicked it down.

“We can’t just go into someone else’s house” I said.

“I’m God I can go wherever the fuck I like”.

What I was to see beyond that door changed me forever.

End of part two

___________

Once available, Andrew’s other stories will all be available here.

The Case of The Red Cup: Part One

godandandrew

by Andrew Learmonth

Pre-amble

If you’re the sort of person who reads a newspaper or follows Buzzfeed on Twitter then you’re probably already aware of the work of God and I over the last few years.

We’ve put quite a few criminals behind bars.

The two of us made quite the team.

This is the first adventure that God and I had together.  You’ll excuse me if the details are a little bit patchy.  It was many years ago and I am having to retrieve these memories from a very dark place.  I should like to have had a more detailed recording of this adventure.  Indeed, that is why God first came on my adventures.  The plan was for him to take notes of the cases I was asked to solve.  He would write them up into punchy, short detective stories.  In his own words he was to ‘be my Watson’.
Unfortunately, as very quickly realised, God was an unreliable witness.

Only two of his accounts of our time together exist.  Or at least I only saw two accounts.

Those that I did see were barely legible, crude for the sake of being crude and inconsistent in tone and style.

In one, The Attack On Mr Horgreaves, (I had originally suggested the title of, ‘Waiter, there’s a fly in my soup’ – a title God had claimed was fucking stupid) He even got the murderer wrong!

God had claimed that Mr Horgreaves had been attacked by specially trained Chinese circus dog!

While that had been an initial theory it was quickly dismissed when we discovered Mrs Horgreave’s stash of false teeth.  God couldn’t accept that the dogs were innocent.  So he used his writing to write what he wanted, hell mend the truth.

After that little episode I asked him to stop taking notes.  He was srill welcome to come on cases with me but I should be my own biographer.

God, although annoyed, acquiesced to this agreement.  We spent many months working happily together.

God was undoubtedly an arse and what He did during the case of Hamish Macpherson I can never forgive.  But He was also my best friend and my closest companion for many years.  I miss Him dearly.

__

The Case of The Red Cup

Several years ago I was a homosexual.

I wasn’t the best homosexual but I managed.

Then one day there was an advert in the Glasgow Evening Times offering cures for homosexuality.  I didn’t realize that a cure existed.  I phoned up and asked if I could take the cure.

I had to go to the house of an elderly Cardinal where I would have to touch his penis until I made myself sick of touching penises  After four days of constant penis touching I was sick and I was cured.

The Cardinal was surprisingly comfortable for a man whose penis had been touched for four days straight.  I said thank you and I asked what I should do with my life now that I wasn’t a homosexual.

‘My child’ he said, ‘you must be of practical use to the world, much like the church is of practical use to the world.’

I didn’t know what this meant but I nodded as if I did.

Walking away from the Cardinal’s house I soon realized what that practical help could be.

Just two houses down there was a commotion.  Police cars started arriving.  People were running down towards this house.  A policeman kicked open the door.

I stayed to watch.

More police arrived and went into the house.  An ambulance arrived and two paramedics ran into the house.

It took me another hour of standing there until it became evident that someone had been murdered.

I remember when I heard the news.  I was almost sick.  I looked up and across at the other side of the street where I saw a large, older man, with a huge flock of white hair and huge flock of a beard.  He looked back at me.  I blinked and he was gone.

Putting it down to an illusion caused by 96 hours of cock touching I promptly put it out of my head.

A policeman came up to me and asked if I knew the deceased.  I said no.

Then he turned to the person beside me and asked if he knew the deceased.  In a loud flock of a voice the person beside me said, ‘Yes’.  I turned round and realised that the hairy white-haired man was standing beside me.

“Come this way please” said the police officer lifting the cordon tape to let him through.

The bearded man looked at me, winked and smiled and followed the police officer.

I walked away.

It was some time later.  I was back at my house. getting rid of those things that I had accumulated as a homosexual.  There was a knock at the door and there was the big hairy white haired man.

“You” I said.

“Me” he said in return.

“What do you want?”

“Your help.”

End of part one

__

Once available, Andrew’s other stories will all be here.