(detective love story, circa 1991)
by: Davy King
http://www.davyking.com/
Part 1
What happened really?
Was there a crime? If so, who was the criminal? And who the victim in all this? The one whom I seek or I the seeker or both?
Brutal reader, you may well ask, as I have asked myself repeatedly over the past months of my current assignment. I have hired myself (free of charge on compassionate grounds) to get to the Heart of the Matter, the Root of the Mystery, the very Source of it all.
*
It all started way back, nearly a year ago, last Spring. How long ago that seems now...
Let me take you back to that time of innocence & promise, the dawn, as it were, of the whole adventure.
Yes, it was Spring & I was feeling the beginnings of an erection, the sap rising as they say. The object of my lustiness was non-specific. There was more a general sense of the erotic potential of the new season, the first stirrings of life after the frigid winter.
So, I was sauntering along with a slightly cocky air I suppose, as I crossed the cathedral precinct & gazed up with a barely-suppressed smirk at the phallic spire thrusting into the sky.
As I did so, the rational part of my mind was musing on the opening lines of the Canterbury Tales...
*
But I digress. Where was I? Get to the point.
Ah yes, starting to explain how I got to the point I am today, trying to solve a curious enigma.
What’s the Big Mystery then? Where am I?
I am in Wakefield & for a start it’s no small mystery to me why I should be in this town of all places. Those born & brought up here might say ‘why not’? But I’m an outsider, an incomer, a stranger in the midst.
What am I doing here? I mean, why did I come here? How did I get here? For what reason? That’s a long story, & one not entirely relevant to the current plot.
I could say I’m trying to answer the question of what I should be doing with my life, to pinpoint a crucial piece of the jigsaw, as there is a sense of something or someone missing.
So, I’m in Wakefield to investigate. The name & nature of the place invite wordplay. Wakefield, sleepy old town. What’s-’is-name, that Yorkshire artist, Grimshaw, grim up north, sure captured the mood when he painted Wakefield in the rain. Tho it is often wet, (more often than not), Venice this isn’t. See Wakefield & commit suicide more like. For masochists of a melancholy disposition, it is a delicious place to be. Perhaps I’m being unfair. Maybe it’s just my present mood. Gumshoe Blues. Nothing serious. Don’t worry. Strain of the job I suppose. Heavy responsibility. Need a sense of humour in this line of work. Gallows Humour. Should be a Singing-in-the-rain Detective.
So, here I am. In Dick Tracy mac & trilby. I stalk these streets for a clue. There is plenty of dogshit, plenty of litter, but no clue to be found. It would be accurate to say that I’ve never had a clue. The answer to the Overwhelming Question has always eluded me.
