Black Cat Weekly #73

Chapter 5-2

“Too late,” I observed sadly.

“Aye. Could you scare up another cuppa?”

I poured from the pot, all the while asking, “And what was your psychic ability?”

Dad ruminated. Then answered, “I had the power to perceive thoughts of love. That’s how I met your mother. That’s why I’m a florist.”

“That’s beautiful,” I said.

We both slurped our tea and tucked into the remaining scones, tears staining our respective flushed cheeks.

“And the other Tuttles?” I asked, once the gastric noise level had stopped shaking the walls.

Dad unhitched his belt a notch and responded, “Well, my father had the ability to hear thoughts of sadness—that’s why he was such a successful undertaker. Grandpa Tuttle had the ability to hear thoughts of happiness. Thus, he worked for a greeting card company. Grandpa Tuttle’s ‘pater’ could hear thoughts of anger. He was a great diplomat, as you know. Other Tuttle men could hear thoughts of pain (doctor), thoughts of greed (lawyer), thoughts of l**t (advisor to the Royal family), thoughts of boredom (accountant) and, perhaps strangest of all, thoughts of thoughts—that Tuttle was a poet, as well as a deaf-mute.”

“Does this mean that because I can perceive thoughts of murder that I’m going to become a famous detective?”

“Or a boxing referee, or Speaker of the House of Commons, it’s hard to say for sure. If it happens, it just happens naturally.”

At the conclusion of these words of wisdom, which, of course, I promptly proceeded to ignore, Dad scarfed down some cheese and crackers and headed home for lunch, his generational mission, and duty, fulfilled. He was proud of me, and the important thought-skill I now possessed. There was always the fear, he said, that the amazing male Tuttle gift wouldn’t be passed along to the next generation; that it would die out, like the British Empire, or the Two Ronnies.

Two RonniesAs I stated, I ignored Dad’s advice. As you might recollect, I was on every TV talk show and talk-radio show in this country, and on the Continent, for that matter. I even got to know Dame Edna before the make-up went on—that’s the kind of in-the-know celebrity I became.

I roamed the streets day and night, intercepting murderous thoughts, preventing deaths and dismemberings. The police gave me pepper spray and a cell phone, and they hired me on as a consultant. They assigned a pretty policewoman, Isabelle, to supervise my activities.

I liked that, and I liked the fact that I was famous and getting oodles of attention. There were movie-of-the-week deals in the hopper, book deals, advert deals, and psychic hotline deals. I corresponded regularly with Nancy Reagan, I dined with the slightly weird hoity-toity; I did everything the one-hit wonder is supposed to do (following in the slippersteps of Boy George basically, but without the “boys,” of course).

All much to the chagrin of my dear old dad. “Don’t a***e the power, son,” he continually warned, like Obi-Wan Kenobi with a Cockney accent.

But I did. And I paid for it. After only a couple of months of decadence, I lost the power. My mind went empty of murderous thoughts. I dropped from the jaded public eye.

“Do you think your power is gone forever?” Isabelle inquired sweetly one evening.

“I expect so. Dad said it would last a year or so, but I’ve been using it a lot—maybe I’ve run out sooner than most.”

“Yes, you may be right. But you’ve single-handedly foiled ten attempted murders.” She smiled at me. “We’ll always have those psychos.”

We embraced. “Eleven,” I corrected, “if you count that young lad with the incontinent hamster.”

“Oh, indeed, I was thinking strictly in human terms.”

“So am I,” I purred. I touched her soft, warm hand, gazed myopically into her strong, clear, blue eyes. “Mustn’t grumble, though. I would’ve never met you if it wasn’t for the power.”

“You should be very happy,” she breathed, the aroma of her athletic rub and leather tunic filling my over-excited nostrils. She bent down to kiss me (she’s about four inches taller than me in her police-issue steel-toes).

“I am,” I murmured happily, accepting her moist mouth as it arrested my trembling lips.

And I was. Until my last experience with the Tuttle magic.

I was escorting Isabelle home one night from the theatre, about three months after my last murderous thought, when my mind was suddenly, and unexpectedly, tweaked by the hatred of someone’s thoughts of death. My powers were obviously dull, and fading, because I couldn’t immediately pinpoint the exact location of the evil brainwaves. It had to be close, though, very close!

We were trotting along the cobbled sidewalk next to a row of row houses that resembled something right off Coronation Street, Isabelle’s favorite television show. I stopped dead in my tracks to better listen to my convoluted thoughts. It was hard to focus, however, as the thoughts were vague and indistinct, fading in and out like the far-off sound of traffic. I strained to hear.

“Where?” Isabelle whispered anxiously. She knew what I was thinking.

I stood there like a bloodhound sniffing the air, trying to pick up a scent, when suddenly my head was blasted with psychic noise: “I can’t take it anymore! I’m taking everyone with me!”

“Quick, ’Belle, we have to search these houses!”

We sprang into action. Isabelle roughly kicked open the door of 208, while I gently opened the door of 210. The houses were old, and the paint-chipped, red door squeaked on its rusty hinges as I slowly pushed it open. I clasped the canister of pepper spray in my clammy palms. The evil thoughts had cleared when I noisily gained entry. My mind was empty. I was in trouble!

Then, just barely, I heard the thought: “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” I raced through the house, to the source of the fast-fading mental emanation. It was like following a vapor trail; I was right in the middle of it, but I couldn’t see where it was coming from.

I stumbled into the living room of the modest abode, just in time to witness a toddler of not more than three years of age point a toy g*n at the back of his older sister’s head. What younger brother hasn’t done that to their older, know-it-all sister, and wished their g*n had been real? The girl was in a hypnotic trance brought about by Robbie Williams gyrating vivaciously on the tube, and, therefore, oblivious to the little tyke’s game. No wonder I had such a hard time focusing on the thoughts—a young mind isn’t a very powerful transceiver.

I stepped into the living room, greatly relieved. A loose floorboard caused the children to jump and swivel their heads in my direction.

“Sorry, kids,” I apologized for disturbing their evening. “I thought this was my house.” I was red-faced and damp, and tried to laugh it off—to reassure them it was all a mistake.

The result was quite the opposite, however. Their young faces wore expressions of grave terror.

“Easy now, kids, I’m not going to hurt anybody.”

The young girl screamed. She was staring, horrified, at something directly behind me.

“But I am,” a chilling voice came from over my shoulder.

My blood went cold. The girl screamed again.

I heard a solid thunk (my thick head meeting an equally thick weapon), and then the picture faded to black.

I woke up in Isabelle’s arms, just as I always hoped I would (minus the splitting headache). I blinked the film from my eyes and groggily peered about. We were in an ambulance, traveling at an extremely fast clip, the siren wailing.

“W-what happened?” I mumbled to my precious. Pain shot down my neck in an electrified current of woe.

“Oh, darling!” Isabelle had tears in her eyes. “That brute in the house crowned you with a cricket mallet. He was the estranged father of those children. He was going to kill them, and his ex-wife, and then kill himself, the cowardly blighter. Until you intervened! I subdued him just after he hit you. Thank goodness you’re all right!” She kissed me.

“Not to worry,” I humbly mumbled. I love a woman in uniform.

Well, there you have it. You’ve heard my song, so to speak. I’ve lost the power. I can’t hear thoughts of murder anymore (or the ringing in my ears from the blow to the skull). Isabelle and I are married, and we now both work for the police force full-time, although Isabelle will soon be taking a fortnight of well-earned maternity leave, what with a tiny Tuttle pupating in the cocoon.

I hope it’s a lad. If it is, he’ll have plenty to think about.

Long pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include: Blue Murder Magazine, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, and stories in the anthologies The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, Moon Shots, and New Canadian Noir.

Blue Murder Magazine, Albedo One, Baen’s Universe, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly,The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy, The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries, Moon Shots,New Canadian Noir