The Same Kettle Of Fish - Horizonte P.D Investigates (Chapter 1)

' Straaange days, have found us,

Straaange days, have tracked us down

They're goin to .... destroy,

Our caaasual .... joys.... '

If my tale ever became the basis for a movie, I guess the haunting and echoey strains of The Doors emanating from the record player in my office would add to a pretty cool opening scene. Accompanied maybe with a black and white shot of a glass of whiskey and a still smoking cigarette butt to accompay it, followed by a slow pan of a dimly lit and dishevelled room. A mostly silhouetted figure standing at the window with his back turned. 
Yeah, that would be pretty cool. But they ain't really making many movies at the moment. 

As the song played on, I parted the blinds slightly and peered down at a predictably empty street . I was the silhouetted figure in question. Streatham sure wasn't the hive of human traffic it used to be. The street below didn't provide much of a West End show these days. These strange days as everyone else seemed to be labelling them.
Yep, I know Streatham ain't technically West End, but for the purposes of a weak analogy we'll gloss over that one.
For occupational people-watchers like me, not a soul entered the scene from either stage-left or stage-right. No encores or final curtain bows either, whatever the hell I mean by that.
Just me, in my second floor office, my incontinent sixteen year old Burmese cat Jean-Claude weeing in his sleep on the desk, and Jim Morrison on a tatty old turntable. Late 60s Psychadelic Blues-Rock wasn't the conventional choice of sounds in the Spring of 2026, just mine. But then, " Conventional " has kinda gone out the window anyway. Most of the radio frequencies for instance have reverted to 1930s Jazz and Big band, interrupted only occasionally by news bulletins with nothing new to tell us. 
It ain't easy to explain exactly why and how this came about, but I'll give it my best shot....

" Mister Horizontal? "
She stood in the doorway, dressed in a strawberry coloured trouser-suit, and shrouded in a cloud of strawberry-scented smoke. When the wisps from her vape had dispersed enough, they revealed to me the most beautiful woman I had seen since last Thursday. 
" It's Horizonte " I corrected her, " pronounced with an accent above the E. And you're early. "
" I don't recall making an appointment, " she replied.
" I mean you're too early in the story sugar. You're meant to appear about six pages in, or fifteen minutes in if they turn this into a film. You can't just gatecrash the first few paragraphs unannounced. "
She blew smoke through pursed lips that could shatter a man's heart at fifty paces. " I don't understand. "
" Listen doll, I've got a whole heap narrative cliches to get through first. Everyone knows how these stories are supposed to begin. I've gotta set the scene. You know, describe the gloomy, smoke filled office, the sea of paperwork, photographs and newspaper cuttings strewn across the desk and spilling onto the floor. I've gotta give a little background on myself, what my line of work is and how it's dried up in recent weeks, Etta Cetera. "
" You mean et cetera. "
" Nah, Etta Cetera, my secretary in the other office. She always has to appear in the story first, before any Femme Fatale barges in and fills the room with expensive perfume and unspoken promises of betrayal. She's less of a bombshell than you for sure, plainer but still kinda cute. Underpaid and under-appreciated, but has a grudging affection for me, hints of a mutual crush haings in the air between us that never quite goes any further and so on and so on. All this cliched stuff has to be briefly explored before you enter the stage. "
" So er, you want me to go out and come back in again? " She seemed unfazed by the temporary snub. 
" See you in fifteen sweetheart. Etta can fix you a coffee. "
" I'd prefer something stronger. " She eyed the bottle of Scotch on my desk.
" Well, we may have some cherry-ade left as well. Check with Etta. "

So where was I before that mistimed interruption? Oh yeah, 1930s Jazz and Big band on the radio. Well like I said, these are kind of strange times. It's May 2026, and some scruffy Mutt of a virus has been doing the rounds for over six years now, and one that sure doesn't fetch your morning Gazette and lick your face. No, this one bites your ankles and poops on your lawn. But enough of the weak Canine metaphors to go with the weak analogy of earlier. 

The upshot is that the World around us is closed for business. " Lockdown " they called it at the beginning. Bars and restaurants and shops all shut down, not to mention the seedier establishments at the wrong end of town, and none of us know when the Shutters of these decaying buildings will be allowed back up. In the meantime, you can't get yourself a decent Ice Cream or Call girl for love nor money.
The pace of life has slowed to an aimless meander. The spread of the virus, apart from its obvious swipe at the population levels, has brought with it some Social and behavioural side-effects. Some have referred to it as a glitch in human advancement, a gradual technological regression. True enough, the only problem I have with that description is that regression is such a subjective term. Kinda paints a negative picture, and sometimes not all of us see it as a negative.

Whichever way you want to look at it, one change led to the next, and all within a short space of time. It began with the sudden absence of activity in the offices and the factory floors, the scientific institutes and the research laboratories. Or at least the ones that weren't searching for an antidote for this damn virus. Instead, we developed a stay at home/work from home culture. Every house, every apartment suddenly became a hub for video conferences and web seminars and skype calls. And if the folks weren't engaged in all things Cyber for work purposes, their social lives were reduced to the same remote interaction.

Inevitably, as the weeks went by, the cyber world surged into overload. The telecommunication networks imploded, unable to handle such an intensified level of usage. Websites crashed, Interfaces malfunctioned, you name it, the entire digital shithouse went up in flames.
Whilst this was happening, the Power Grid suffered its own meltdowns, flashing in and out of service like it was implementing its own automated rationing of supply. And so slowly, the public were being denied the habits of modern culture. Less television, less radio, less online entertainment. And the funny thing about it was, the less we had of it, the more we got used to it not being there in our lives. 
Old habits die easily, if all you have to tune in to are news bulletins about another vaccine test that left a man with six fingers on one hand. And who can stomach online videos anymore anyway, when all you're staring at on your screen are messages like " skip ad in 5 seconds " , followed by " skip the next ad after that in 12 seconds " and " Once you've skipped this ad in 15 seconds, another 46 ads will need to be skipped before you finally get to watch this video, possibly tomorrow if you're lucky, although some of them won't let you skip any more just to make your viewing experience even more infuriating.... "

What did we all do, I hear you ask? We started reading books, that's what. Imagine that. If it had been possible for the World to revert from colour to black and white at this juncture, it would have done. Still, at least my Fedora and Mac didn't look so out of place any more, but more on that and who I am later.

This was all just the beginning to our return to the ways of old. Before we knew what was happening, " There's No Harm in Wishin' " by Isham Jones and his Orchestra was crackling over the airwaves as we all sat down to bread and dripping for tea. Perhaps a slight exaggeration on the culinary front but you get the idea. I'm here to paint a picture for you, not deal in facts. 
Radio stations had hooked into the general atmosphere of a stripped-down daily life, where technology was no longer our God and instead more of a fuzzy-jumpered Deacon. They surmised that the friendly sounds of Isham Jones's Orchestra and their contemporaries, were more appropriate to these times than such 21st Century ditties as " Get Yer Wazzers Outta My Man's Face " by DJ Eardrumkilla featuring Jessie Junkhead. I mean, Social Distancing had put an end to the relevance of lyrics like that anyway.
Folks don't have deadlines in their lives any more. It's easy to lose track of time, and I can't remember exactly when it was those crazy cats in government went back on their word to end this state of affairs. I recall the date was March 29, but I couldn't tell you now if was three, four or five years ago. 

They promised us that 29th March would be our day of freedom. The day that our nation would throw off its shackles and make a break for normal life, regardless of what the rest of the world chose to do.
" The beginning of a new normal " some would say in anticipation with a chuckle, like there was anything remotely amusing about it. " Back to the same old shit " thought the rest of us.

But then something weird happened. Those promises didn't materialise, and the restrictions under which we'd been living were never lifted. If anything, they were enforced upon us with an even greater fervour by the zealous authorities. We never found out why, and no-one from bigwigs-ville told us why. Some theories suggested that our instincts and habits had been irrevocably changed for good. The human desire to work, socialise and roam had been worn away.

But there were other wacky explanations that the real conspiracists were playing head tennis with. 
One theory was that a group of elite scientific boffins operating on behalf of the World governments, had managed to create a fracture in reality where we were now existing in parallel universes. Whilst some of the population had been selected to be released from the restrictions and were returning to some kind of " normality ", the rest of us were left to forever twiddle our thumbs or do Jigsaw puzzles for eternity in a recurring lockdown. Kind of like a Heaven or Hell decision imposed upon us, and the only question being, which was Heaven and which was Hell?
Another theory was being peddled by Streatham's very own local screwball, Ruben Dolly. According to Dolly, the government had had an eleventh hour panic about ending the lockdown, and secretly decreed that at midnight on the 28th, March 29 would be officially removed from the calender and removed from existence without any prior notice to the public. Everyone would wake the next morning and it would be 30th March. 
Dolly stated quite categorically, though based on nothing at all, that March 29 as a date simply didn't happen. And if it didn't happen, neither did the easing of any restrictions promised for that date.
However, Ruben Dolly's credibility had already been compromised by a previous conspiracy theory of his that he'd been dead for the past seven years, and that anything he's said or done since were just a figment of everyone else's imagination. Therefore, it was rightly pointed out to him that if that was the case, then his crackpot theory that March 29 didn't happen.... didn't happen, so to speak.
It probably didn't help that his reputation for ever being right about anything, was further tarnished when he once ate his mother-in-law's pet Terrier. This was a result of his conspiracy theory that her dog was infact a toasted bagel filled with cream cheese.
I like Dolly. People say he's nuts, and for sure he's only a half-loaded Smith & Wesson, but hey, this cabin fever has brought out the quirkiness in the best of us.

So here we were, just Jean-Claude and me. He yawned and stretched, swiped a paw half-heartedly at a passing fly whilst I took another peek through the blinds at my window. 
" Streatham " I muttered, " Shit... I'm still only in Streatham. Every time I think I'm gonna wake up back in the jungle. "
Why I joked out loud like this, I have no idea. Few would have got the Apocalypse Now reference anyway even if my audience had been more than an incontinent cat. Still, it momentarily entertained me. I mean, this was an Apocalypse of sorts, right?
" Just another day in dystopian South London eh JC " I turned to him and took a sip of whiskey. Jean-Claude stared back at me as I slouched into my Wing chair, his green eyes shining through the office gloom. 
The office itself wasn't much to speak of. Hardly fit for a guy at the top of his profession, which is why I was renting it out instead. It was cheap, that's all that mattered to me.

There was a familiar tap at the door, followed by a familiar masked face peering round it. 
" Mr Horizonte? There's some post here for you, it's been freshly sprayed. Though not sure why I bothered. Probably Bills, so I know they're gonna be a flaming heap in your waste bin as usual. "
" Come in Etta. " I waved my secretary in, giving her an approving look as she placed the disinfected envelopes on my Georgian Style mahogany. I gave them a cursory glance before striking a match.
" I like what you've done with your hair, " I said. 
" I haven't done anything with my hair, " she replied, twirling a pen seductively in her fingers. I never could work out how she managed to make something so mundane appear so erotic. I'd often tried to mimic it but whenever I did, it just looked like a balding slightly overweight forty-something man twirling a pen in his fingers.
" Oh. Well, I like what you haven't done with your hair then. It's er, blonde and er, short...ish. "
" It's always been blonde and short. "
" But swept to the opposite side I note. "
" Well, that much is true. Very observant with your charm today aren't you Crawford. " I knew I was making progress whenever we reverted to first names.
Yup, Crawford Horizonte's the full name. So what if it's made up, I ain't apologising.
" Any messages for me? "
" Just the one. Mrs Coogan still wants her money back. "
" Ah, the hopeless persistence of those who get their cases solved. "
" She said she's never encountered such gross competence and ability to do one's job before. "
" I keep telling her, it was an accident. I can't be held responsible for accidents. "
Etta consulted her notes. " Said the last thing she expected when she came to you to find her missing sister, was for you to find her missing sister. "
" Wasn't for the lack of not trying. " I stamped out the last of the flames in the waste paper bin, before struggling to release my wedged foot.
I could make out a grin from behind her mask as Etta perched herself on the edge of my desk and scratched Jean-Claude's chin. I swear that damn cat preferred my secretary to me, and I'm the one who fed the two-timing swine.
" Oh, and there's a lady outside to see you. A Miss Abigail Castro. "
" Ah yes. I think we've already met. "
" Of course we've already met, I've been working for you for the past two years. "
" No, I meant Miss Castro and myself. "
" In which case, I'm guessing you've just fallen in love for the eleventh time this month, cos she's a jaw-dropper. A real nine and a half out of ten. "
" Can't say I noticed, " I lied with a shrug. " Where does she lose the other half point then? "
" Feisty with it too, if you ask me " Etta replied, completely ignoring my question.
" How can you tell? "
" Because apparently, if you ever call her sweetheart, doll or sugar again, she's gonna kick your ass so hard you're gonna land two minutes later in Wandsworth Common. "
" Well, " I said with a wince, " let's not keep the lady waiting any longer then. But before you show her in, how about pulling that little mask to one side and giving me a quick kiss. "
" In these virus-riddled times? you must be joking. " Worth a try. 
" Not even a quick peck for a poor old boy who's past his prime and no longer quite the catch, but is still irresistably adorable in his own way? "
" Hmmm, " Etta considered this for a few seconds. " Well when you put it like that...."
I should have guessed what was coming. She leaned over, pursed her lips and planted a tender smacker on Jean-Claude's sleepy head. 
" Get the hell outta here, " I muttered, as her mocking laugh faded away to the other office.

First impressions count for a lot in any field of business, and Private Investigation is no exception. From the moment she reappeared in the doorway, Abigail Castro had " trouble " written all over her. Strange choice for a tattoo you'd be forgiven for thinking, and you'd be wrong, as I'm talking metaphorically.

She reminded me of a previous client, who in turn had reminded me of the nineteen-sixties movie star Britt Ekland, who had in turn reminded me of a client from a couple of years back who had hired my services before I'd known who Britt Ekland was. Oddly, Miss Castro was a short-haired beauty of Carribbean descent, so quite how that tedious chain of connections worked on any level is beyond me anyway.

" Am I still too early Mr Horizontal? "
" It's Horizonte " I said, " pronounced with an accent above the E. " I'd grown used to repeating this line again and again. No-one ever got my name right apart from Etta. " And you're bang on cue this time. Please come in Miss Castro. "
" Mind if I vape? "
" If you must. I prefer a good old fashioned rollie myself. "
" So do I, thanks for offering. "
Sharp work lady. I tossed the one I'd just made for myself in her direction. She plucked it from the air between her fingers and drew it to her lips in one fluid motion. If you've ever seen those wildlife shots of a lizard catching a flying insect with its darting tongue, well this dame made the lizard look comparatively clumsy. 
" So what can I do for you sweet- er I mean sugar- I mean Miss? "
I lit her cigarette at the second attempt. My first attempt was designed to be the most casual of strikes of a match as I tried to replicate her own nonchalance. This only resulted in me fumbling and dropping the lighted match onto a scattering of paperwork on the floor. She watched without a trace of amusement or emotion as I frantically stamped it out before the two of us were engulfed in flames. 
After my successful and more deliberate second attempt, she took a long pull and blew smoke into the air. 
" I need a Private Dick, and I hear you're the worst in town. "
I tried not to blush. " Well er, modesty precludes me from making such a claim myself but it does seem to be the word on the street. "
" Which is why I still had to do my own research on you. We can count on the word on the street these days about as much as a conversation in a Carthusian Monastery. "
" Well quite. " I hadn't the faintest idea what she was going on about. " So what else do you know about me Miss Castro? "
" A fair bit. For example, your middle name is Bella, because your parents were hoping for a girl. You're a Private Detective whose USP is an almost guaranteed failure to solve any case you take on. You have a 1.14 per cent success rate, an almost flawless record. Eighty seven cases to your name, only one solved, you seem to be just the guy I'm looking for. "
" You can rely on me, " I slouched into my chair and propped my chukka-booted feet on the desk. " Or perhaps I should say you can't rely on me. "
She took a ponderous drag of her cigarette, " Of course, I wouldn't be doing my research properly if I wasn't to ask about the other 1.14 per cent. How did you manage to solve that particular case, and how can you reassure me it won't happen again? "
" I fell down a flight of stairs. "
" Pardon me? "
" It's a long story. Trust me, it was a one-off success and a pure accident. Whatever it is you've come to me for, failure is my professional guarantee or your money back."
" A certain Mrs Coogan hasn't had her money. " 
" Mrs Coogan didn't read the small print about cases solved by accidentally falling down a flight of stairs. Suffice to say, I have plenty of other dames who can testify to me being a total dud. "
She looked me over for a moment with one eyebrow raised, before saying " You know what? I believe you. "
I wasn't sure how to take that remark.
The story of my " one-off success " is indeed a long one, and sure as hell not one we're going to dip our tootsies into right now. What does require some form of explanation, is why my incompetence has ipso-facto, become the selling point of my services to the Abigail Castro's of this world. 
Why would anybody come to me for help, if they knew sure as hell I wasn't going to be of help?
In order to explain this, the picture of my shabby office and the not so shabby Miss Castro must blur and fade out with the introduction of a flashback to the Summer of 22.