The Monster Problem (IP from a few weeks ago)

I was woken at 6.30 in the morning by a hammering on my door.

Alun didn’t even wait for me to call “come in”, he barged through the door and shouted up the stairs. “The sea monster’s escaped Jed.”

I was somewhat confused by this revelation, dressed quickly and rushed downstairs to find out why Alun was so agitated about monsters.

“The Sea Monster’s escaped Jed,” he repeated, this time waving a piece of paper at me, “I’ve just seen the boatman and he says he’s been seen heading this way.”

“Calm down, calm down,” I said, “there’s no such thing as sea monsters, at least not on land. I’ve heard talk of giant squid and the like, but you never travel any further than Not Particularly Distant Island and you don’t get giant squid there.”

“Not that sort of sea monster Jed, this Sea Monster.” For a brief moment he ceased waving the paper and I could see that on it was the picture of a large man, about my age, with a crew cut and slight scar just above his eye. Above the picture was written the word ‘Wanted’ in bright red lettering, and below it said ‘The Sea Monster, Reward £15,000 or equivalent in Euros’. Alun always complained about the creeping advance of the Euro but this wasn’t his major concern right now.

“But who is he?” I asked, “Why’s he called the Sea Monster?”

“He, Jed, is a notorious killer who’s escaped from the mainland prison. He’s called the Sea Monster because he cooked all of his victims a seafood meal before slicing them in two with a squid cleaver.”

“A squid cleaver? Sounds quite an eccentric.”

“Of course he’s eccentric Jed, he killed seven men, that’s more than the entire populations of this island, Empty Island, Other Island and Five Man Island combined.” We rarely talked about the tragedy of Five Man Island, but enough to say that since ‘the incident’ the Island’s name is a horrific misnomer.

“£15,000,” I said, reading the reward notice again. “That’s an awful lot of money, even in Euros. Maybe we could lay a trap for him, claim the reward. Just think what we could do with it all.”

“Don’t be a fool Jed, best leave him be, you can never beat a monster. The graveyard’s full of would be St Georges. Why, I remember my pa telling me of the time these here islands were plagued by a giant hake. An enormous fish it was, swallowed boats whole. Well the fishing fleets on the mainland offered a reward for anyone who could kill or capture that giant hake and the young men of this island thought they would make their name and fortune.

“Set off they did in a boat, armed with spears, knives, pointy bits of wood, every weapon they could find. Well they came across the hake soon enough, out there in the Giant Hake Sound. It was a dreadful battle, spears, pointy wood and knives were thrown, the giant hake thrashed the waters and smashed again and again into the side of the boat until every last one of the crew was thrown overboard, where they became so much hake food.

“So much for the reward and the glory Jed, every single man on the island was killed that night. The message is clear, you can never win in a battle with a monster, it’s far easier to let the monster be.”

With these words of wisdom Alun left. It was a strange tale he’d told. Strange that I had never heard it before, when I thought I knew the whole history. Seventeen times Alun had told me about the time his great grandfather had cut himself opening a tin of sardines, thirty seven times he told me about the time his great, great grandfather had drunk so much turnip wine he got lost and ended up spending the night in the empty house. Or the time one of our ancestors found an unusual shaped potato, I’d heard that one a hundred times. Yet he’d never once bothered to mention before the time the entire population of the island was killed by a giant hake. Also, if everyone died, who were we descended from? The hake?

The next day I was woken early by the sound of fish being cut up with a cleaver. Funny I thought, Alun’s never called round, crept in and started cutting up fish at 6.00 a.m. before. It’s unheard of for him to call before the boatman has been and when he does he makes more noise than a herd of angry geep.

“Hello,” I shouted down, “is that you Alun?”

Still there was no response, just the sound of fish being cleavered. I dressed quickly and made my way down the stairs. In an island with the total population of myself and Alun, if it wasn’t Alun downstairs it must be a stranger. Who would venture out alone when the Sea Monster is on the loose I wondered?

Ah, of course, it was the Sea Monster. He had a huge squid cleaver in his hand which he was using to cleave squid. Ignoring me he picked up an even bigger knife, which he used to cut an enormous turbot.

I paused momentarily, trying to decide the best course of action. Eventually I decided that fleeing with the greatest possible speed was the best option, especially as I was just in time to catch a life with the boatman, so I started to creep towards the door. At this point, however, the Sea Monster turned round.

“I’m terribly sorry if I disturbed you,” he said, “I was trying to be as quiet as I could. Only I thought I’d cook us all a nice fish supper.”

“Very nice of you,” I said, not daring to query why he was cooking supper at six in the morning. “I’m Jed by the way.” I thought it wise to be friendly.

“Oh I know who you are,” he said with a hearty laugh, “you’re the reason I came here.”

“I am?”

As I spoke the Sea Monster reached into his bag. The bag clinked, the sound of two dozen knives clunking together. However, rather than pulling out a knife he presented me with a copy of my own book, the first of my New York murder mystery trilogy.

“Thank you,” I said in a confused terror, “actually I already own a copy.”

“No,” he said, thrusting a pen at me, “I want you to sign it, not keep it. I’m your biggest fan.”

“You are?”

“You’re all I read in prison. I think you capture perfectly the claustrophobia and anonymity of living in a great city, the way that murder becomes inevitable when there are so many people squeezed into such a tight space, whole cultural subsets interweaving every minute of every day, like an ocean’s worth of fish crammed into a swimming pool. ‘I’d really love to meet this guy,’ I thought, and then I thought, ‘why don’t I?’ So I broke out of prison and came here.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a hammering on my door. “He’s been seen on the island,” Alun shouted up the stairs as he burst into the house, “the Sea Monster, he’s here.” He stopped abruptly when he saw us.

“Yes I know,” I said calmly, “Alun this is the Sea Monster. Sea Monster, this is Alun, the other resident of the island.”

“Oh I know all about Alun.”

“You do?” Jed and I both said in unison.

“Of course, his father wrote the definitive account of the island’s myths and legends. My father read it to me when I was a young boy?”

“My father’s book is an accurate historic account,” Alun began but I interrupted.

“Hold on,” I said, “Alun’s dad’s book was never published, it’s never been seen beyond the shores of this island, how have you come by it?”

“Why I am an islander myself,” the Sea Monster said. When I was very young I lived for a time in the house near the East Bay.”

“The empty house,” I ejaculated. “Then you must be the Family Who Were Living in the Empty House Who We Never Actually Got to Meet.”

“I was the child of that family,” he admitted. We weren’t very sociable I’m afraid to say. My father had a condition.”

Over the course of the day the Sea Monster told us tales of his time growing up on the island, how his intensely shy family survived so long without being seen and some of the secrets of the empty house.

We also talked about my New York murder stories. He was surprised to hear that I’d never actually been to New York, and proceeded to tell me some real life New York murder stories of his own. While he’d lived there he had become involved in a mafia style gang. In particular he told me the story of the death of Jake the Unsteady. The murder remained a gangland secret, to this day, ten years later, Jake’s wife was expecting him back from the shops any minute now. It was a fascinating tale, which was in no small way to form the basis of my subsequent best-selling novel The Murder of Jake the Unsteady.

“You’ve got rather a lot of knives,” I said at one point, what are they all for?”

“Well,” he said, holding up a big cleaver, “this is my bass cleaver, and this,” he said swapping knives, “is my hake cleaver (how handy that would have been to our ill fated ancestors), my lobster hacker,” he went through the knives with great enthusiasm, “my turbot cleaver, my squid knife.”

I gasped slightly as he raised the latter. “Your squid knife? The knife you killed all those people with?”

“What are you talking about?” he said, “I’ve never killed anyone with a squid knife.”

To be fair Alun was as confused as I was. “The seven people you murdered,” he reminded him, “sliced them in two with a squid cleaver.”

“Oh good gracious no,” the Sea Monster laughed, “I didn’t use a squid knife for that, don’t be ridiculous. I used my halibut cleaver. Perfect for chopping up halibut and humans.”

“Which one’s that?” I asked nervously.

The Sea Monster looked suddenly very sad. “I don’t have it,” he said, “they took it, said it was evidence. I shall never cook halibut again.”

“So you no longer have your murder weapon?” Alun said, in a cheery tone.

“It’s true, I shall never be able to kill again. Though to be honest those days are behind me anyway. I wouldn’t want to spend another day in prison: all my knives confiscated and neither squid nor eel in sight.”

All day we spent in the kitchen, but the preparation was worth it. It was an astonishing seven course meal, involving every fish you could think of and numerous ones you never knew existed.

“You know what,” Alun said, “you could stay here for a while, in the empty house. No-one ever comes here so you’ll be safe from the police. And you’ll be able to tell me more about the island’s missing history.”

“That’s a great idea,” I agreed, “and you can tell me more New York murder stories. I find them really interesting.”

“Thanks, both of you,” the Sea Monster said, “it’s so nice of you to risk imprisonment and damnation for hiding a wanted felon, but I have other plans. I’m going to Las Vegas to open a fish restaurant.”

“You’re going to America? But don’t they stop convicted killers from entering the country? Aren’t there immigration laws and things?” I had done extensive research for my novels and believed myself something of an expert.

“Usually they’re strict on any crime, I’ve known people turned down for a parking ticket. But I’m a celebrity; I was featured on CNN’s Ten Deadliest Chefs, The Fox Network’s Fish knife killers and a cable TV show about my pet axolotl. They waive the rules for celebrities.”

Before he left he presented Jed with a collection of historic papers and he left me with his New York diaries. The crimes described in these would form the basis of three of my novels and I’m hoping there are at least two short story collections left in it. After that it’s back to original work I’m afraid.

The Sea Monster left early the next morning, before the boatman appeared. He still writes occasionally, usually just a short line to say how much he enjoyed my latest book and how that if I ever come to New York I’m a dead man, as I’ve offended every gang in the city by revealing their deepest, darkest secrets.

I’m not concerned though. One day I may leave the island, but frankly New York is a long way away and I can’t think of any reason I might want to go there. Not after what happened to Jake the Unsteady.