Home for Christmas

The car took the corner far too fast for the ice-spotted road and the brake-lights glowed cherry-red in the deepening twilight as the driver stamped on the brakes and hauled on the steering wheel.  The wheels skidded sideways across the slick tarmac and the car's nose spun round until it was pointing back the way it was facing.  At the edge of the road the tarmac became frozen earth and crispy, frosted grass and the tyres grabbed a little traction at last.  The driver felt the change and switched pedals from the brake to the accelerator.  There was a screech of rubber, the car fish-tailed back and forth a little as it regained the road, and then it was off once more.  It carried on still too fast for the wintery conditions and nearly missed the turning half-way along the road, the brake-lights flaring again and the car riding up on the pavement and bouncing back down on to the road.  The turning led onto a long, wide road with large houses, and cars parked on both sides of the road.  The car barrelled down the white line in the middle of the road and executed a bootlegger's turn to pass between a black Bentley and a silver BMW and hurtle onto the gravel driveway that led to one of the houses.  The car decelerated smoothly, so much so that its gentle collision with the sea-green Ford Fiesta parked on one side of the drive was suspicious.  The Fiesta's alarm went off and the new car backed up a few centimetres: enough that the cars weren't touching, but not far enough for anyone driving the Fiesta to be able to extricate their car.  The driver killed the engine, and for a moment there was the crisp winter air, the start of a snowfall, and the insistent, repetitive blare of the Fiesta's alarm.  Then curtains twitched, lights went on, and people came out of the house.  Inspector Playfair sighed and opened his car door.  He was home for Christmas.

*

"You hit my car!"  Denise was Playfair's sister, a broad-shouldered woman with a classical beauty.  Dark, softly curling hair framed her face and her eyes smouldered with a mediterranean passion normally, but right now the fires had been stoked and they were blazing.  "You always hit my bloody car!  Why don't you look where you're going?"
"I didn't hit your car," said Playfair looking over the small group that had come outside.  There were more people clustered at the doorway.  "You say I hit your car every year, Denise.  It's like a tradition."
"It's not a bloody tradition!"  She was quivering with rage, full lips curled back in snarl, and her hand was jerking as though she wanted to slap Playfair but was restraining herself.  "Every year there's a new ding after I come here.  Every year!"
"You should drive more carefully," said Playfair with a broad smile.  He ignored Denise as she balled her hand up and punched her other palm forcefully and looked at the man stood next to her.  He came up to shoulder-height on Denise and had the wiry build of a long-distance runner.  His face wasn't quite handsome: it was too thin for that, and the bones jutted a little too angularly.  "Who are you?"
The man stuck his hand out and Playfair looked at it until the man retracted it.  "Steve," he said.  "I married Denise in June.  You were invited to the wedding, I think?"
"And you never came," said Denise nastily.  She punched her palm again.  "I had a special place set for you, and a parking space nowhere near my car.  I did everything."
"I was busy," said Playfair.  "I sent flowers didn't I?"
"A flower.  One flower!  You sent one bloody flower to your own sister's wedding!"
"Was it a nice one?"  Playfair opened the back door of his car, and picked up a leather animal carry case from the back seat.
"Shouldn't you know?" asked Steve, stepping in before Denise could start swinging.  "You sent it, after all."
"I asked around the office for someone who knew about weddings and got them to send something," said Playfair closing the car-door.  "I think it was one of the SOCOs.  Been married six times, so I figured he'd know what was right."  He set the carry-case down on the ground and looked for the zips that allowed it to open.  "He said he'd written a card to go with it."
"Best of luck next time! That's what it said!" Denise's scream turned into a howl.  "Steve's parents spent the next three weeks asking about it.  We played scrabble one evening and all the words they played were accusations!"
"I think you were reading too much into that."  Steve laid a hand on Denise's arm and she shrugged him off viciously.  He took a step back.  On the ground Playfair opened the carry-case door and a small dog, a Chihuahua the colour of a Doberman Pinscher, stepped out and yawned.
"Oh, you have a dog!"
There were muffled screams from the doorway and the people there disappeared inside.  The door slammed, and the sounds of it locking were audible.
"That's not Calamity," said Denise, her voice suddenly calm.
"Calamity's on duty," said Playfair.  "This is Ray."
"You have a dog called Calamity?"  Steve bent down to pat Ray, who growled without looking at him.  Steve hesitated.
"Calamity Jane," said Playfair.  "She's named for my favourite Crimean nurse."
Steve looked puzzled.  "But she wasn–"
"What's Ray short for?" asked Denise.
"Razor," said Playfair.

*

The family – the extended family, Playfair thought – were gathered in the drawing room.  Ray was lying in front of the fireplace, his paws extended and his belly exposed to the heat of the flames.  His eyes were half-closed; anyone coming near him or the fire started him growling, warning them that he wasn't going to tolerate being disturbed.  Playfair's mother's cat, a white-and-brown cushion-sized bundle of fluff was sitting on the window-ledge with ill-concealed hatred for the interloper.  She (her name was Suzie) licked her paws now and then but her eyes never left the chihuahua in front of the fire.
Further back in the room a tall Christmas tree, neatly decorated on one side (Playfair's mother never decorated the back of the tree, reasoning that no-one was going to see it), stood guard over brightly wrapped presents, and in front of it the adults sat at the dining table.  The children had been dispatched to the living room to watch Disney cartoons and eat tinned peaches from plastic dishes.  A scrabble board was laid out on the table, and the Dungeons and Dragons books were neatly stacked nearby, waiting for the evening adventure.
"Divorcee," said Playfair's mother, setting down all her tiles.
"Not you too!" yelled Denise.  Colour rose in her cheeks and she stood up.  Steve stood up immediately too, putting his arm around her shoulders.
"It's just a game," he said.  He leaned into her, nuzzling her shoulder as he couldn't reach her neck.  "Have... have a mince pie."
"Had to arrest a couple of bakers for poisoning mince pies this year," said Playfair.  He was sat in an armchair contemplating the crossword.  "They were putting mercury in them."
Denise looked at the plate of mince pies and paled.  She sat back down.
"Not those dear," said Playfair's mother.  "Cook makes them herself from an old recipe.  I think it was your great-grandmother's.  I'm not sure how long we'll be able to keep making them though, some of the ingredients aren't really produced any more."
"Toyboy," said Playfair's father, setting his tiles down.  "And I think that's all the Y's used up now."
"There's still a blank out there, dear," said his wife.  Denise stayed silent, though her knuckles whitened as she clenched her fists.  Steve put his arm around her shoulders and the plate of mince pies in front of her.  They were lightly dusted with icing sugar and were still warm.  The aroma of brandy, dried fruit, and shortcrust pastry tickled her nose and coerced a smile from her.
"Are you finished with the paper yet, Playfair?" said Aunt Brenda.  "I want to see how Spurs have done in the run up to Christmas."
"He hasn't touched the crossword!"  Aunt Tabitha leaned over and poked the paper with a bony finger: she was wearing her TA uniform and looked cross because she had training on the 26th.  "I thought you said you were going to solve it."
"I solved it –" Playfair checked the clock on the mantlepiece – "eight minutes ago, Tabby.  I'll write the answers in tomorrow in case any of you want to give it a go."
"Pass it over then, there's a love," said Brenda holding her hand out.  "Tabby's just jealous because learning to read is on next year's syllabus."
"Innocent," said Denise laying tiles on the scrabble board.
"Proper noun," said her father.  "Name of a Pope."
There was laughter around the table.  "Cuckold," said Steve, putting his tiles down.  "I'm so sorry, Denise, it's the letters I had."  There was the soft crumpled sound of a mince pie hitting a man squarely between the eyes and Denise stood up again and stalked out of the room.
"New record," said Playfair, checking the clock.  "Normally she only starts sulking after the first dragon eats her character."
"We've got a new dragon this year," said Brenda looking up from the paper.  "It'll be a shame if she misses it."
"You children are always squabbling," said Playfair's mother.  "I'll go and talk to her. Sit down Steve, there's a good chap.  This is a woman thing."
"Right."  Steve looked bemused.  "Do we carry on without her?"
"No," said Playfair's father.  "Game's over: Lindsey won, I came second and Denise beat you by 133 points.  You want to practice, son."
"Oh," said Steve.

*

"Why does everyone call you Playfair?" asked Steve.  "That's your surname.  Surely you have a first name?"
Ray growled like a motorbike revving before doing a wheelie.

*

"Breakfast is served at 5:30," said Playfair's mother.  "Cook will have been up all night and probably drinking heavily, so make sure you're at the table on time.  We will open presents at 6:15 and then apologise to each other at 6:30."
Steve looked around at the others; the wreckage of the Dungeons and Dragons game spilled off the table and onto the carpet and there were far more empty winebottles than he could remember drinking from.  The clock on the mantlepiece said it was 2:30 already, and he was sure he was drunk.
"Ap..apo...apologise?" he managed.
"Oh god yes," said Denise.  She slipped off her chair and giggled into the carpet.  "Oh god yes."

Chihuahua preparing for snow

She was lying on her hot-water bottle, watching the net curtains.  They were moving very gently because the window they guarded was very slightly ajar.  Thankfully the breeze didn't reach her, but even if had, her hot-water bottle was freshly refilled and keeping her toasty-warm.
There had been talk of snow again, and she was wondering if she was going to have an opinion on that.  The last time she'd seen the snow it had been fleeting, clearly scared away when she barked at it.  She'd let it know that it was too cold and became wet when she tried to deal with it.  That had been very satisfying, though perhaps not as satisfying as lying here on her hot-water bottle.  She considered stretching, and decided that that ran the risk of not being so comfortable after her stretch.
There were noises in the background somewhere, and she listened to them, checking if they were too close, or too loud, or the wrong kind of noise.  She had a mental checklist of what was acceptable and what wasn't, and despite the warmth and comfort she would leap up and deal ruthlessly and quickly with anyone who didn't tick the right boxes.  The noises at the moment sounded like typical human noises, and so she waited for them to get interesting, or be joined by smells of cooking.
"Chihuahua," said a voice like the filigree spreading of frost on a window-pane.  "I have been looking for you."
Jack Frost, she thought, and lifted her head very slightly, turning it to see where he was.  He was perched on a chair across from her, his alabaster skin shimmering slightly in the light, and his breath clouding in the air.
"I need to you find the snow for me again," said Jack Frost.  "It is here somewhere, but it is hidden, and you did an excellent job last time."
She laid her head back down again, secure in the knowledge that on her hot-water bottle she was too warm for Jack to get any closer.  Hunting for snow had not, in her opinion, been either fun or worth the price he'd paid.
"I can pay more,"  he said, his words like icicles, hanging briefly in the air and then evaporating away to nothing.  It was hard to remember what he'd said after he finished speaking.  "I can pay... in flesh."
She lifted her head again and looked back at him.  That sounded rather more interesting.
"Two weeks," he said, holding up both his hands for emphasis.  She noted with only mild curiosity that he had six fingers and a thumb on each hand; clearly he meant two calendar weeks and not two working weeks.  That was a shame, as she worked only three days a week, and for about an hour and a half a day.  Sleeping and eating were the big entries in her diary.  "Two weeks to find me the snow."
She barked, a gentle little bark that meant "OK, now go away," and Jack Frost grinned like a gleeful manaic and disappeared in a tiny snowstorm that glittered in the air for an entire minute.

English Breakfast

"The artist, Geraldinium, has installed an electric kettle and a large teapot..." began the opening sentence of the codebook. Emma, head of the Secure Service, looked up at her codemaster and frowned.
"How is this supposed to work?" she said, raising pencilled-in eyebrows and pushing mousy-brown hair back with a freckled hand. "Do these words all mean something special, and the order they go in then conveys the message?"
"No." The codemaster, who referred to himself as Alpha, shook his head for emphasis. "This is a multi-stage polyalphabetic quasi-Playfair cypher, which we then embed steganographically in artwork, typically that created by Geraldinium Holmes, and export back to the Sisterland. It's not for emergency messages, we use standard quantum cryptographic algorithms and secure channels of communication for that, but for ordinary messages we seek ways of passing them back that aren't even suspected as being such."
"So is this part of the code, or just background information?"
"Both." Alpha smiled thinly, his teeth just visible behind stretched red lips. "Use the first four words to set...." His voice droned on, and at one point he started drawing a geometric diagram on a napkin he must have brought into the office with him. Emma let her eyes rest on him, but she wasn't listening anymore. Hanging above her desk, behind Alpha, was a painting by Geraldinium Holmes entitled "Chihuahua reaching for cake", and Emma dearly wanted to know if there was a hidden message in it now.
"...eighty-eight miles an hour," said Alpha, and stopped talking.
"Right, that's good then," said Emma. She pointed at her painting. "Is that a steganographical message then?"
"You weren't listening," said Alpha reproachfully. His eyes seemed to dull slightly. "I just quoted three minutes of Back to the Future, and you didn't notice."
"Right," said Emma. "But the painting behind you?"
Alpha turned to look at it. "Is just a painting," he said. "Geraldinium does produce some original artworks, you can usually tell them because they're execrable."
"I rather liked it," said Emma, who'd paid for it herself. "Not a coded message then?"
"No," said Alpha. "I could have it checked for you though, but you wouldn't get it back. In one piece."
"Right, that's a no, then, thankyou," said Emma. "Now, tell me again what I'm supposed to do when Geraldinium, in this little story here, discovers that there's no hot water in the kettle because the chihuahua had drunk it all?"

Chihuahua reaching for cake

The picture hangs in the Hanson Portrait Gallery, and is entitled Chihuahua reaching for cake. As many critics have pointed out, the chihuahua is actually reaching for a muffin -- a chocolate chip banana espresso muffin, in fact -- which the artist acknowledges.
The artist in question is Geraldinium Holmes, and all interviews with her to date have started off with questions about her name. She recounts,
"My mother was very much a product of her era, which was the end of the fifties and the start of the sixties. She'd thrown off repression in a big way, would have burned her bra if she hadn't felt that wearing one was also repressive, and was taking anything and everything she could get her hands on that was called a drug. When she came to have me christened, she thinks she was on horse tranquilisers, though from her description it could have easily been powdered bleach. The vicar rejected out of hand her first three choices of names: Bitchface, bitchslap, and Thingummyjig He insisted that any child born had a right to life, no matter the mother's opinion. So my mother cast about for another name, and thinks she started with Germaine, got side-tracked by Geranium, and ended up trying for Geraldine. So I got lumbered with Geraldinium."
The painting was produced during Geraldinium's Blue period, or as she puts it, "most of my life so far". It is simple enough: it shows a small chihuahua reaching for a muffin sitting on a plate. It is unknown if the chihuahua actually got any of the muffin.
"It's a figment of his imagination," says Geraldinium's landlady at the time (Geraldinium has since become homeless) who is insistent that Geraldinium is male, despite having met her many times. "There's no way I'd allow muffins in my boarding house and he knows that."
The identity of the chihuahua, if it really exists, remains a mystery. Attempts to find Geraldinium to ask further questions about the painting meet dead ends and blank walls. Geraldinium has disappeared into the seedy underbelly of the dispossessed of the city, and we the critics are left hoping that out of this will come a new work, of similar power and artistic integrity to Chihuahua reaching for cake

Random snapshot

Blondie


The kind of thing that, after you've eaten a piece, makes you feel like next month is when your next meal should be. So very, very rich!




Dolly chasing a ball


Just a short video.

Wuffuluffagus 2

First page


Dolly peered cautiously out of the window, her paws up on the windowsill and her nose just poking beyond them. Although the sky outside was grey and threatening, it wasn't raining and the pavement wasn't wet. Dolly didn't much like being out in the rain; she felt that it was rude when the sky leaked on you without being asked to. If she wanted to get wet, she'd... no, she didn't want to get wet. End of story.
It looked as though it might be cold out, so she thought of putting her coat or her jumper on, but then decided not to. She was only going to take a quick look at the Scary Orchard and see if there were any clues to get her started. She definitely wasn't going to be out long.
The Scary Orchard wasn't far away, but there was a busy road to be crossed before she got there. She waited on the edge of the pavement as huge lorries and buses roared past. She pretended she wasn't scared, but really she was. She only quivered a little, and then only when the really big lorries went by. Then suddenly they were all stopped; the little green man on the side of the traffic lights lit up, and Dolly raced across the road to the other side. Then she stopped, and sniffed at the base of a lamp-post. In front of her, up a couple of shallow steps, was the gateway to the Scary Orchard. And it stood open.

The Wuffuluffagus

It was cold outside, and Dolly had made herself a small Chihuahua-cave out of fleecy blankets under her desk. Inside the cave it was warm and she could curl up and sleep, or stretch out and pretend to be asleep while she watched the world go by. It was ideal for a doggy detective.



She was about to stretch out again when a pup walked into her office and sat down on the floor in front of her desk. Dolly sat up, a little reluctant to leave her cave behind, and barked a greeting.
The pup cringed, one paw lifting up and covering his left eye. He stayed like that until he was sure that Dolly wouldn't bark at him again, and then slowly put his paw back down.
'How curious,' thought Dolly, but she was a professional and so said,
"What can I do for you?"
"I hear you solve crimes," said the pup, his eyes huge and moist. "My mummy's been taken away and I want her back."
Dolly was taken aback a little. Who would steal a puppy's mother?
"Do you know where your mummy went?" she said gently.
"The Wuffuluffagus took her!"
Dolly was more than a little taken aback this time. Everydog knew about the Wuffuluffagus, a terrible monster that lurked in shadows, growled in the night, and smelled so terrible that no-dog would go near it. Could the Wuffuluffagus really be somewhere nearby?"
"When did... did the Wuffuluffagus take her?"
"She was out for a walk, near the Scary Orchard. I don't go there alone, I only go with my mummy."
The puppy looked like he was ready to cry, and Dolly could understand why. The Scary Orchard was not a nice place to go alone.

"I'll take your case," said Dolly quietly. "It'll cost you two bones, and any expenses I might have."
The pup started thanking her, attempting to lick her with gratitude, but Dolly wasn't paying attention, already worrying about having to go the Scary Orchard and find the pup's mother.


Part 2

That's enough snow!

The snow was falling far too heavily now, and the Chihuahua was displeased. Snow was supposed to be fun, not cold and wet and aggressive. This was definitely the last time she accepted a case from Jack Frost. She sat by the door, waiting patiently for it to open. Sometimes the idiot humans forgot how it worked....

Even after she'd gone in though, the snow continued to fall.

Not that she cared, now that she was back indoors again. Now, where did she leave the newspaper with reports of other unsolved crimes?

Chihuahua finding snow

Aha! thought the chihuahua looking around. The snow has been found!
She was slightly worried that it had all appeared to fall from the sky when she was sleeping, but the key thing was that it was back, and she could report the case closed.
She shivered a little, glad of her little woolen jumper, and sniffed the snow a little more. Clean and crisp, easy to track other dogs, birds and foxes on. She could quite get to enjoy this snow.

Chihuahua in lilac

No snow had been found, but the Chihuahua could still lie back and dream about it, swaddled in lilac and warm as toast. The missing snow was an issue though; how could she go back to Jack Frost and tell him that she'd not found anything. Well, any snow at least; she'd found a bone that would last for days, but she wasn't going to share that!

Chihuahua looking for snow

The problem, thought the chihuahua as she sniffed the plants, is that the snow is always hiding.