Jack Flynn frowned suspiciously at the unmarked mason jar where the coffee grounds lived. 

“Whose turn was it to buy- in the coffee?” he called over his shoulder.  

“Murphy? O’ Reilly? I don’t know. Why?” Dave Harper replied.  

“Because Murphy’s cheap and O’ Reilly has no taste,” Flynn muttered. 

   He poured the coffee into a polystyrene cup and added a dash of milk. It smelled good, but that was a trap. Coffee always smells good. He took a sip, and scowled. 

“This is crap.” 

“Blame Leslie, she spoiled us with that bloody Sumatran stuff last month,” Harper replied. “Opened my eyes, that did.” 

“Oh, I always knew our usual brew sucked,” Flynn replied, wincing as he took another mouthful.

   Five feet eleven inches tall, craggy about the face, forty two with a short beard just on the right side of bushy, mousy brown hair best described as ‘crumpled.’ In fact that is a good word for the man as a whole, come to think of it. Crumpled. 

“How’d Mrs. Roberts take the news?” Harper asked.

“Took it out on me, is how she took it,” Jack replied. “Whacked me over the head with the folder. It was a heavy one too. Bank statements, e-mails, text messages, the usual incriminating photographs… She didn’t just want proof of the cheating, she wanted evidence of everything; the embezzlement, the tax evasion, that girl he roughed up in Ibiza. He’ll be ruined.” 

“Don’t you just love how that works? You expose their other half’s darkest secrets, and they take it out on you?” 

“The men and women both, mate. I’ve been spat at, slapped, punched, had full cans of bear thrown at my head… on a good day it’s just a lot of screaming and name-calling.”

“This is why I get paid up front.” 

“Good thing about being on the force, no one tried to beat you up for delivering bad news. Unless the news was, ‘Your nicked,’ of course.” 

   Harper knew better than to enter into any further discussion of Jack’s past as a ‘real’ detective. It was rare for Jack to bring it up, rarer still in jest. Harper knew how his police career had ended, but in eight years of working together, it had never been discussed. It just wasn’t the kind of thing you made small talk about. Or any talk. 

“Hey Jack, did you beat that suspect half to death or what?” 

   Clients thankfully didn’t care about rumours. Not when their kids went missing, or their partner was cheating, not when their lives were falling apart. All they cared about was that Jack had been a proper detective once, a good one, and he didn’t charge the earth for his services. 

   A few years after his firing, he set up as a private investigator. He had a small team around him, albeit based in a crappy upstairs office- space crammed between a solicitor’s office and a marketing firm. A hive of scum and villainy indeed. The saving grace was the small bookstore below, which Jack liked very much.

   He finished his coffee, threw on a light jacket, and headed downstairs. The bookshop lay in darkness save for diffuse orange street- light. Jack always liked to pause among the books in the dark, taking in their smell, the weight of their presence. All those worlds hidden behind covers, silently waiting to be brought to life inside a reader’s head. Years as a police officer, then a detective, had made him a cynic. But as a reader he could still, just about, believe in anything. 

   He sighed, turned his key in the lock, then left. Mr. Barton allowed him to use the bookshop like a library, but he didn’t need a new book tonight. He still hadn’t gotten through The Stand, what with following that cheating, embezzling prick about for the last three months. 

   His phone rang, probably Anne checking in. She’d ask how his day had been and if he was heading home, he’d say it had been the same as always and that he’d be home at ten. He’d say ‘Get the kettle on woman,’ she’d pretend to be offended by his remark, then they’d both laugh. 

   “Hello, is this Jack Flynn, the private investigator?” 

A man’s voice, worn and gruff.  

“That’s me. Who’s this?” 

“Hello Mr. Flynn, I’m detective Moore. I’m working on a murder case in the Loughall area and your name has come up. That sounds worse than it is… fuck I’m tired. Listen; our witness won’t talk to us. She’s asking for you. Does the name Laura Murphy ring a bell?” 

“No, I can’t say it… wait, is she married? What was her maiden name?” 

 Moore sighed, “Hang on,” he said. 

   His voice grew distant, yet more irritable. 

‘This is a man at the limit of his patience,’ Jack thought, imagining the poor officer who was about to be sent scuttling for the relevant information. 

“Smith,” Moore said eventually, “Laura Smith. Five foot six, brunette, thirty- eight years old.” 

“Yeah that sounds about right,” Jack replied, a jolt of adrenaline pumping through his heart, “What happened?” 

“Husband was murdered in their home three hours ago. Most fucked up crime scene I’ve attended in years. We think one of her children saw something, but they’re currently too traumatised to speak. Bottom line, the killer is at large and we need information, yesterday.” 

“Put her on, I’ll talk to her right now,” Jack said, throat suddenly bone dry. 

“Oh, it’s not gonna be that easy; she wants you here in person. I’m dead against it, no offence. Your presence will draw the media here even quicker than usual, once they get wind of it, and they will. I’d be surprised if some of the bastards aren’t out there right now, hiding in the bloody apple trees.” 

“I’ll leave right away.” 

                                                             *

   Bill Irvine, Roy McCullagh and Mike Donahue stood in a jittery, sweating circle in the heat of a large, tin- roofed hay barn. Each man held a loop of baler twine, the ends of which were tied around the wrists, ankles and waist of their prize. A prize they had somehow lugged unto a trailer attached to Billy’s Massey Ferguson tractor, then dragged from his yard into the barn. 

“Must weigh more than the three of us put together,” Roy Irvine panted, palms on his knees, red face slick with moisture.  

   Doc Greyson, who had arrived just as they made it to the barn, did not answer. He knelt on the straw covered stone floor, gloves on, vet’s bag open by his haunches. He hadn’t spoken for almost ten minutes, which is why Roy felt it needful to break the silence with a remark he’d made at least twice already. Mike shot him a murderous glance, to which he shrugged and continued to look scared and helpless, which only irritated Mike even more. 

   Greyson produced a syringe and a sample tube from his bag. There was a collective intake of breath as he reached out to touch the creature’s arm, a breath which was held as the needle punctured grey flesh and the plunger was pulled back, drawing out syrupy pale blue liquid.

   Finally Billy, who hadn’t spoken thus far for fear of sounding stupid, could stand it no longer. 

“It has to be a mutant, right doc? Something with a birth defect, I mean.” 

   Greyson, a thin man with precisely three strands of dark brown hair adorning his exceedingly round head, ran one hand over those strands now, then adjusted his mint green shirt, pulling the collar close as if he was cold. 

“And what would it be mutated from?” he asked, turning to look at all three. “Tell me, is there anything in the whole of Ireland, or even the world, that looks even remotely like that?” 

   He pointed back at the creature with one long, trembling finger. 

“And even if it was a mutant,” Greyson continued, “Everything bleeds red.”

“Well, I…” Roy began, “I’ve seen all sorts of weird stuff. Piglets with two heads, extra legs, hell, last spring Mike had a cow born partially inside out.” 

   Doc Greyson looked pityingly at Roy, then his expression softened. He got arrogant when he was scared or he didn’t have all the answers, and boy did he ever not have the answer to this. 

“When a cow is born deformed it’s random, right? An extra leg somewhere useless, some unsightly mass that serves no purpose. Our guest here isn’t like that. It looks as if everything’s exactly where it’s supposed to be, as terrible as that is to imagine.” 

All four men gazed soberly down at the body stretched out on the straw. Smooth slate- grey skin, occasional patches of course white hair at its joints (of which there were far, far too many- Roy oh so wanted to stop looking at them but couldn’t) and long limbs corded with lean muscle. What really drew the eye though (and repulsed it in equal measure) was the creature’s neck, head and mouth. They were indistinguishable one from another. 

   Greyson took out a spiral- bound notepad and pencil, then wrote: 

‘Hard to tell if biped or quadruped. 7 feet tall from head to toe, maybe more, front limbs are longer than the torso. Rear limbs are about as long, with two knee joints, one backward facing, leading to clawed feet. Skin is ash grey. Thick white hair covers the upper torso, ridge of the spine, joints and a portion of the neck.

   The neck is one and a half feet long, fleshy and muscular, leading to powerful jaws filled with long, overlapping teeth. Around this maw on foot long stalks are approximately twelve black orbs which I take to be, (God help us) eyes.’ 

“What are you doin’ there doc?” Roy asked. 

“Just trying to get my thoughts clear. Writing things down helps calm me when I’m stressed.” 

“Stressed?” Billy said. “This thing worries you, then?” 

“Excites, worries, downright terrifies,” Greyson answered, wiping his brow with the back of one skinny wrist. 

“What should we do with it?” Billy asked. 

“I’m working on that. Look, we don’t know what we have here. I’m fairly certain it’s not some kind of hoax. This thing is flesh and bone, and doesn’t appear to be stitched together just to look convincing. Jim told you it was still breathing when he found it?” 

“He said it sounded like squeaky hinges,” Billy replied, eyes haunted as if he’d heard the sound himself. 

His son had been scared badly, the fear flowing from boy to man, as children’s emotional states often do. Truth be told, big Billy Johnson, who had walked away with minor bruising once from a fight with three younger men in a bar, and had beaten the shit out of some scumbag who’d been lurking around Jimmy’s primary school…well, truth was he was pretty shaken up. 

   He glanced around at his three compatriots. 

Mike, a retired soldier who’d seen action in Iraq and Afghanistan, was unreadable to most, but Billy had known him since childhood. Mike was surprised, but not shocked, not frightened. Possibly not even mystified. The old soldier was jaded all to hell. 

   As for Roy, Billy liked him. He was a hard worker and a kind soul, but frankly too ignorant to be as scared as he ought to be. 

   Billy now, there were more wheels turning behind that blunt exterior than even his own wife knew. His father and grandfather had been farmers. He loved the life; the wide open fields, working the land, caring for the animals. Up before the rest of the world, in bed long after they’d gone to sleep. It afforded him the ideal mix of solitude and family life, and make no mistake, Billy needed both. 

   He enjoyed having time to ruminate over things he’d read or seen on TV, conversations he’d had. In the last year his private musings had disquieted him, made him wonder if perhaps he wanted something different from life. The farm had begun to feel small, the routine he once found comforting more like a hamster’s wheel. 

“By the time I got out there it was dead,” he told Greyson. “But still warm.” 

“I take it all of you have touched it with your bare hands?” the vet asked, glancing up. 

   When they all replied in the affirmative, Greyson told them they should go home and shower. There was probably nothing to worry about, but best be safe. After all, they still didn’t know how it died or what it was. Who knew what kind of bugs it was carrying?

“What are you going to do?” Mike asked. 

“Put it in the back of my truck,” he replied, “I’m going to take it back to the surgery for a proper look. I’d appreciate it if you boys would keep this secret for now,” Greyson added, looking especially hard at Roy. 

“If this is something new, you’re all going to be famous, but if anyone finds out before I can check it over, they’ll send someone for the body, and I suspect we’ll never see it again.

   Roy’s sunburned cheeks drained of colour at that remark. 

“I knew it,” he said, “You think it’s an alien, don’t you? Or…or some sort of Frankenstein monster cooked up by the government!” 

“Roy,” Greyson said, looking over his thick- rimmed glasses, “First, Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster. Second, our government can barely agree on what language should be slapped up on our roadsigns, what makes you think they could create something like this? All I’m saying is, let’s not be hasty. Let me confirm what we’ve got here, then we can decide what to do from there, OK?” 

   Roy nodded, placated but not much happier looking. Mike turned and lit up a cigarette. The day had clouded over, light summer rain pattering against the tin roof. He walked over to the open door and leaned against its frame, exhaling smoke. Lean and hard even at 59, Mike was the oldest of the three. The tallest at six two, he had a laid- back stillness those who didn’t know him found unsettling. His late wife used to joke he was Northern Ireland’s answer to Clint Eastwood, except not so handsome. He had the kind of presence that doesn’t announce itself but is felt all the same. 

“Well guys?” Greyson said, “What do you think?” 

“We’ll help you move it,” Mike replied, staring into the rain, which was coming down harder now. “But you keep us in the loop, James, understand?” 

   It wasn’t really a question. Mike turned and looked into the vet’s eyes. Greyson swallowed and wet his lips. 

“Of course. We’re in this together,” he said, with a nervous flicker of his eyes from right to left.  

   Mike held his gaze for a second then turned and flicked his cigarette out into the rain. 

“Alright,” he said, as if they had been talking about which Chinese to order takeout from, “Back your truck up to the door and we’ll loaded it on.” 

Next Chapter: Chapter 2