Whylight

Chad nodded absently and held out his umbrella proudly as we started walking.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Bellie?” he drawled with a strangely exotic accent I never realized he had, “it was a present from Willy White down at Le Pull. You remember him?”

I didn’t, but I nodded anyway, hoping that Chad would stop twirling the umbrella around and use it to shield us against the pellet hail that was beginning to form. He didn’t, and instead, produced a white, pharmaceutical looking tub from his pocket.

“Speaking of presents,” he announced, “I was saving this for when it stopped raining, but I figured I’d probably have to wait another twenty years, so here. Take it, kiddo. Nothing better for a budding Gumshoe.”

I eyeballed the small tub nervously before allowing him to hand it to me. To my intense surprise, the neat little label proclaimed it to be infallible ‘ALOPOWDER’ aluminium fingerprint dusting powder. Suddenly, all of my suspicious apprehensions about Chad and enchiladas and Mum and Dad and this whole darn town fizzled away as I emerged, soaring like an oversized albatross, whooping and punching the air.

“Ah! Ah! Aah!” I was far too thrilled to speak comprehensible English, but I figured our close-knit family bonds would allow Chad to decipher my orangutan whooping to mean, “Thanks, gramps! Wow, I love it! I love it so much I almost forgive you for that family brawl which made Mum angsty enough to leave the country and relocate to a land which would result in a near death experience every time I poked a toe outside the door for eleven long years, you cad!”

Chad cracked a toothless smile which quickly froze with horror as I started to unscrew the lid, eager to try out the Alopowder on whatever random object that happened to tickle my fancy.

“No, don’t open it, Bellie!” he shrieked, and flailed maniacally, “the water will turn the powder into a pasty symphony of glob!”

I fumbled and almost dropped the tub as I hastily shut the lid and slid it into my pocket. Chad’s face relaxed into a saggy grin as we walked on in the hail. Pretty chuffed myself, I didn’t raise an objection to his strange technique of hogging the umbrella and suddenly shifting position when I attempted to sneak under it too.

By the time we made it to Chad’s I was sore, soaked and shivering more than a plucked turkey in a blast freezer. I waited impatiently as he spent the next ten minutes searching for his house keys before finding them in his left sock. When he finally managed to open the door, I stepped in gratefully, dripping rainwater all over the tiled floor. Chad was still living in his funky one-bedroom house. I remembered it well; after all, it was the Gaudi inspired mushroom shaped oven that had sparked the huge fight between my mother (who deemed it unsafe and unhygienic) and Chad (who had hacked it to pieces himself and took deep offence at his own daughter’s lack of artistic taste) in the first place. As we passed by the kitchen I glanced at it nostalgically before following Chad down the hallway and up the stairs, my suitcase wheels bashing disagreeably along.

Chad’s house only had one bedroom, so years ago when I stayed over, I slept in his study where he kept all of his police documents. Chad opened the door for me.

The room looked exactly the same as always, only several inches thicker in dust. The hammock in the corner; the fluoro green desk; the hatstand draped in fluffy scarves. The only change was that Chad’s police badge (which he taped to the wall when he wasn’t wearing it) had been replaced with a painting of an angry dog waist deep in melted ice cream.

“Oh yeah,” said Chad casually, “I got demoted.”

I looked up so sharply I pulled a muscle in my neck and felt it crack in about six places. Clutching it and tilting my head to side, I choked loudly in protest.

“Demoted?” 

“Yes sir!” grinned Chad, looking happier than I’d seen him all day. “I’m a regular DJ now! Senior Desk Jockey, matey. I’m the master of all the peppin’ paper in the Spoons police department. I stack, seal and staple all the stuff, soul sister!” And then he wiggled an abysmal attempt at a solo Mexican wave.

“B-bu-bu-b-but – ” I spluttered, distraught. “What about the investigation?”

“Ah, yes,” said Chad, frowning, “the serious business. Listen up, kiddo. We’ve got some stormy seas to plough.” He coughed importantly, and sifted through a stack of paper on his desk until he found a thin file, the better half of which was stained bright red.

“That’s not – blood, is it?” I asked, uncertainly.

Chad looked enraged and waved the flimsy case file around in my face. “Blood? Honestly, Bellie, you think you could attack someone with this? This thing couldn’t slice through a stick of butter if its salary depended on it. The crimson shadow, kiddo, is the lingering stain...of enchilada sauce.” He inhaled dramatically, sniffing the file.