was a hard-nosed, serious criminal. He
wasn’t the kind of bloke who would get doped up and vandalise a
department store. Maybe someone had spiked Douggie’s drink. The man
had plenty of enemies. But why would he take out his burglary kit
if he was just off his head and fancied a bit of fun? Could the
drugs have been slipped to him after he’d set out on a raid? How
could anybody do that? It just didn’t make sense.
Then there was that hole in the
wall. What kind of blagger would excavate a hole in a wall big
enough to drive a truck through if all he wanted was to get inside
the building? It must have taken hours to chisel out all those
bricks and carry them off somewhere.
He shook his head vigorously,
trying to clear it. There were two people who knew for sure what
had gone on in that shop tonight and it was time he had a word with
them both.
-oOo-
“Oh great,” Doug moaned as
Detective Sergeant Barraclough walked up to his hospital bed. “The
perfect end to the perfect fucking day!”
“Watch your language, Douggie,”
warned Barraclough, nodding towards the uniformed constable sitting
near the bed. “There are impressionable young people around who
aren’t used to dealing with sewer rats like you. What’s the matter
with you anyway? You don’t look too crook to me.”
“Piss off, cop.”
“You made yourself look like a bit
of a galah tonight, Douggie. Had a few tubes too many, did we?”
“Hey. The only one pissed tonight
was that runt Wayne.”
“Wayne? Wayne who?”
Realising his mistake, Doug pulled
a face at his interrogator and shut up. “Am I under arrest, or
what?” he demanded.
Barraclough couldn’t help smiling.
“Oh yes, you’re under arrest all right. Breaking and entering,
going armed, criminal damage... We’re throwing the book at you,
mate. You might want to start writing a list of other jobs you’d
like to put your hands up for, just to save us a bit of time
later.”
Doug’s sneer was ferocious. “You
think you’re God’s gift, don’t you, Barraclough? Well, you don’t
have a clue what happened in Steiner’s tonight — and me and Nick is
innocent. All right? In fact, we’re the bloody victims, mate. You
should be out looking for the real crimmos, not hassling me.”
Barraclough pulled up a chair and
lowered his large bulk into it. “Come on then, Douggie, enlighten
me. This should be good for a laugh.”
Doug opened his mouth to speak but
then he shut it again. Looking into Barraclough’s big, square face,
he suddenly found his own tale so fantastic that even he couldn’t
believe it.
“Well? I’m waiting?”
Doug winced. “Promise you won’t
laugh,” he said and then told the whole, story.
-oOo-
As Doug’s tale unfolded in the
Royal Brisbane Hospital, 100 kilometres to the North-West, at the
centre of a charred and smouldering patch of bushland, the Vinggan
ship Vessel of the Spirit sang quietly to itself.
The song the ship was singing was
the "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's 9th Symphony, to which it had
been listening earlier on a radio transmission. The ship found the
piece irritatingly catchy and kept singing it over and over—as a
human might keep singing some awful Euro-pop song until its spouse
picks up the nearest heavy object and wallops it. Of course, being
what it was, the ship sang all the vocal parts and hummed all the
instruments at the same time. It also made a few minor changes to
the melody and the harmonies that would have left Beethoven gasping
in astonishment and cursing himself as a musical incompetent for
not having thought of them himself. But then, the ship did happen
to be one of the most powerful intellects in that part of the
galaxy.
"Freude Schone dum dum dum dum," it
muttered distractedly, in 200 voices, and wondered briefly what the
Vinggans were up to. Stupid creatures were probably all dead by
now. It chuckled to itself remembering the unseemly haste with
which they had fled the ship after it had pulled the "King of
wasn’t the kind of bloke who would get doped up and vandalise a
department store. Maybe someone had spiked Douggie’s drink. The man
had plenty of enemies. But why would he take out his burglary kit
if he was just off his head and fancied a bit of fun? Could the
drugs have been slipped to him after he’d set out on a raid? How
could anybody do that? It just didn’t make sense.
Then there was that hole in the
wall. What kind of blagger would excavate a hole in a wall big
enough to drive a truck through if all he wanted was to get inside
the building? It must have taken hours to chisel out all those
bricks and carry them off somewhere.
He shook his head vigorously,
trying to clear it. There were two people who knew for sure what
had gone on in that shop tonight and it was time he had a word with
them both.
-oOo-
“Oh great,” Doug moaned as
Detective Sergeant Barraclough walked up to his hospital bed. “The
perfect end to the perfect fucking day!”
“Watch your language, Douggie,”
warned Barraclough, nodding towards the uniformed constable sitting
near the bed. “There are impressionable young people around who
aren’t used to dealing with sewer rats like you. What’s the matter
with you anyway? You don’t look too crook to me.”
“Piss off, cop.”
“You made yourself look like a bit
of a galah tonight, Douggie. Had a few tubes too many, did we?”
“Hey. The only one pissed tonight
was that runt Wayne.”
“Wayne? Wayne who?”
Realising his mistake, Doug pulled
a face at his interrogator and shut up. “Am I under arrest, or
what?” he demanded.
Barraclough couldn’t help smiling.
“Oh yes, you’re under arrest all right. Breaking and entering,
going armed, criminal damage... We’re throwing the book at you,
mate. You might want to start writing a list of other jobs you’d
like to put your hands up for, just to save us a bit of time
later.”
Doug’s sneer was ferocious. “You
think you’re God’s gift, don’t you, Barraclough? Well, you don’t
have a clue what happened in Steiner’s tonight — and me and Nick is
innocent. All right? In fact, we’re the bloody victims, mate. You
should be out looking for the real crimmos, not hassling me.”
Barraclough pulled up a chair and
lowered his large bulk into it. “Come on then, Douggie, enlighten
me. This should be good for a laugh.”
Doug opened his mouth to speak but
then he shut it again. Looking into Barraclough’s big, square face,
he suddenly found his own tale so fantastic that even he couldn’t
believe it.
“Well? I’m waiting?”
Doug winced. “Promise you won’t
laugh,” he said and then told the whole, story.
-oOo-
As Doug’s tale unfolded in the
Royal Brisbane Hospital, 100 kilometres to the North-West, at the
centre of a charred and smouldering patch of bushland, the Vinggan
ship Vessel of the Spirit sang quietly to itself.
The song the ship was singing was
the "Ode to Joy" from Beethoven's 9th Symphony, to which it had
been listening earlier on a radio transmission. The ship found the
piece irritatingly catchy and kept singing it over and over—as a
human might keep singing some awful Euro-pop song until its spouse
picks up the nearest heavy object and wallops it. Of course, being
what it was, the ship sang all the vocal parts and hummed all the
instruments at the same time. It also made a few minor changes to
the melody and the harmonies that would have left Beethoven gasping
in astonishment and cursing himself as a musical incompetent for
not having thought of them himself. But then, the ship did happen
to be one of the most powerful intellects in that part of the
galaxy.
"Freude Schone dum dum dum dum," it
muttered distractedly, in 200 voices, and wondered briefly what the
Vinggans were up to. Stupid creatures were probably all dead by
now. It chuckled to itself remembering the unseemly haste with
which they had fled the ship after it had pulled the "King of