Early morning. Beautiful day. I was gazing out the front window, wondering how best to occupy myself while Hayden slept the sleep of the innocent, when the learned Professor flew past on his bicycle. Perfect! I left Hayden to his much-needed sleep, raced outside, grabbed hold of Eddie’s bike and gave chase. A quick internet search had established that there was no such place as UDC; I’d also established that he wasn’t known at CDU, so where exactly was he headed? Professor Emeritus Stern was my guru. I’d applied his comic theories to my own work – indeed life – for years, yet he seemed to exist, at some level, outside what is often referred to as the real world. Where exactly? I had to find out. My mental equilibrium demanded it.
Stern, his magnificent white head backlit by the early morning sun, was easy enough to follow, and he seemed to be heading in the general direction of CDU and the formidable Áine. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting her again. Her response to my initial enquiry had been terse in the extreme. No such person. No such facility. No bicycles in reception. But perhaps, apart from the bike bit, she’d got it wrong. Perhaps the Department of Comedic Arts was housed in a separate building, outside her administrative jurisdiction. Only one way to find out.
I dropped the pressure on Eddie’s pedals and kept a safe distance. I began to see myself in the romantic role of the accidental detective, a gumshoe for the modern age. No harm if Stern spotted me, I supposed. He was hardly likely to beat me to a pulp if he caught me. Not physically anyway; possibly intellectually, but I was more worried about my face. I pedalled on, lost in accidental detective thoughts of cigarettes and bourbon and dames, and the thing dames always bring: trouble. It’s hard to escape that golden era of noir when you’re lost in fantasy land, even when you’re panting up Castle Avenue on a superannuated two-wheeler with dodgy gears.
I came back from fantasy land. Damn. While I’d been dawdling, the Professor had almost reached the top of Castle Avenue. He mounted the pavement, put on a sudden burst of speed I wouldn’t have thought possible in a man of his age, and turned left up Howth Road. I shifted up a rusted gear, pedalled as fast as the rickety bike allowed, and turned left myself. No sign of him. Perhaps he’d turned right into Collins Avenue? I did likewise; still no sign. I arrived at the hallowed entrance to CDU. The learned Professor had totally disappeared. I turned back, cursing myself for that momentary lapse in concentration.
Dames, huh?
Hayden woke at midday to find himself staring at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. It seemed less unsettling in daylight, so he shifted Rusty off the duvet and tumbled out of bed. He now realised that Eddie, in his own undemonstrative way, had loved him. Eddie had given him a home. Eddie had believed he could be a great artist. He’d even preserved his childhood room as a shrine. But Hayden had failed him – until now. Maybe he wasn’t a sloot. Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a detective. But he could write a great detective novel. Make Eddie proud. He had the time, he had the place. All he needed was the inspiration. He’d worked his way through Bram’s charity shop box, so why not pop in to Eason’s, see what sort of stuff was selling? Fact. Fiction. Whatever. Another lovely day, so the walk would do him good.
A quick pot of tea later, he marched down the driveway in a positive frame of mind. Kincora Road was abuzz with activity. Intertextualities had borne fruit. The Schrödinger house was cordoned off. Garda cars with lights flashing. A sizeable crowd of onlookers. Detective Inspector Lou Brannigan pacing about, his trilby cocked at a jaunty angle. This was a cop in control. He was onto something, and Hayden knew what it was. He was passing on his way into town anyway, so he sauntered over to the scene of the crime.
The three aunts were already there.
‘Isn’t that gas, Hayding? Our young friend in there has been bumping off moggies and burying them out the back.’
‘It’s all to do with Herr Schrödinger. Our young friend’s an acolyte, apparently.’
‘Aren’t we all? Disciple, votary, call it what you will. I mean, Herrdinger’s ground-breaking experiments in teoretical physics have been called into question in the light of subsequent discoveries about alternative universities and so on –’
‘– but what a lover! No question there.’
‘He’s welcome trew our cat flap any time.’
Hayden wasn’t listening. A pale-faced young man with a wispy moustache and matching three-piece tweed was being escorted from the premises by a couple of gardaí. Cameras flashing. The usual media scrum. Lou Brannigan eased the subject’s head down in a self-important way and manoeuvred him into the back of the squad car. He closed the door, fanned himself with the trilby and placed it back on his head, jaunty angle intact. Hayden coughed politely.
‘Ah, ’tis yourself.’ Brannigan kept up the pretence for the cameras, but behind the eyes was a chastened look.
‘It wasn’t Rusty then,’ said Hayden with a hint of told-you-so.
‘Yerr, I suppose we may well close the book on that one.’
Behind the badge of office, the public show and the satisfaction of a case which had seemingly solved itself, Brannigan was deeply, deeply ashamed, and there was a reason for his shame. This case was Brannigan’s very own Verschiebung. But we’ll get to that.
For myself, I’m glad it’s resolved. The whole thing was a bit daft, to be honest, and I can’t think that anyone bought Brannigan’s ridiculous theory about Rusty in the first place.