Bullets Over Broadstairs

This is the first chapter of a book I started writing, but never got further than chapter three. It's a humerous crime novel with aliens. All thoughts welcome and happy to respond in kind.

Chapter 1

At the top of the hill above Viking Bay, in the little seaside town of Broadstairs, a small boy sat on the steps of a local stop eating ice-cream. He ignored his parents’ calls to get a move, savouring each mouthful,  most of the ice cream ending up on his face. Around him other families drifted past down the steep hill towards the sea, holding buckets and spades and all the other necessary equipment for a day at the beach. They strolled and chatted and enjoyed the summer sun, Mums and Dads remembering coming here when they were young, their own children zig-zagging around them.

As the crowds got closer to the bottom where the beach was, peoples’ minds began to turn to the vital business getting a good spot and setting themselves up for the day. Families closed ranks, parents holding the hands of children and lifting up possessions to form a defensive shield. By the time they’d reached the bottom each family unit had become tight, impenetrable huddle, protected on all sides by numerous bags and small children (who nobody dared barge out of the way). On the narrow and congested Parade that ran above Viking Bay there was polite but determined jostling for position. And down the double flight of steps to the beach, it was every family for themselves.

Then as the crowd spilt onto the sand at the bottom, as they saw the jetty and the sea, the light shimmering over the waves, tiny fishing boats bobbing up and down, they remembered why they’d come. They remembered about wanting to relax and enjoy themselves. Something that unfortunately was only possible once they’d laid out beach towels, pitched windbreakers and sand tents, distributed snacks and toys, helped children change into swimming gear, applied generous coatings of sun cream, sorted out any arguments from the way down, got books and electronic devices out, established some kind of mobile phone signal, checked emailed and social media, bought at least one round of ice creams and assured their children that they could have a go on the trampolines later. Once they’d done all these things, once everyone was settled, then at last they could stretch out, open a drink or two and lay blissfully quiet and still. The cries of children playing games and having fun could be heard, along with the noise of water rolling over the sand. Everything was calm and serene. For a few precious, stolen hours, you could think you didn’t have a single care in the world.

The only exception to this calm were the a few brave souls out swimming beyond the jetty wall. A few gangly looking youngsters who forced themselves over the rising swell, the water still freezing even in August, their arms wheeling in determined arcs, their legs beating a steady rhythm through the depths. All of them wearing matching goggles and orange rubber swim caps, so that from the shore they appeared like strange visitors from another planet.

The only person paying them any attention at all was a man known locally as Peter Bode. All on his own at the end of the jetty, he stood behind his ice cream trailer and peered at the swimmers through a pair of battered binoculars. As he watched the swimmers he tutted, noticing that one of them had removed his orange swimming cap. Anyone without binoculars wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary in this, but Peter could see the unnatural ridges on either side of the swimmer’s head, each of them tinged a deep blue colour. He sighed. More than anything he was annoyed with himself rather than with the swimmer. On a weekday, or if it had been raining, it would have been fine. On a day like today however, when there were so many sets of eyes that might notice anything out of the ordinary. He looked around to see if anyone was looking in his direction, and once satisfied that he wasn’t being observed, held a dog whistle to his lips and blew. All at once every set of eyes belonging to the swimmers turned. As did every set of eyes belonging to nearby dogs, who stopped digging, or sniffing or peering mournfully at the sea, and instead looked with inexplicable excitement towards the end of the Jetty, where a small man dressed in black stood with a whistle in his mouth.

Not wanting to attract any more attention, Peter pointed quickly to his head and put the whistle away. He watched through the binoculars as the offending swimmer replaced his cap, gave an apologetic wave and carried his circuits up and down. Peter breathed a sigh of relief and rubbed his eyes with a hanky he always kept in his left trouser pocket. Though he never perspired, even on such a hot day, the heat made his head itchy and uncomfortable. When he took the hanky away from his face, he was slightly surprised to see a small boy covered in freckles stood at the foot of his ice-cream trailer, studying the menu.

“I’ll have a ginger and honey, please,” the boy said in a small but serious voice, his eyes never leaving the list of ice creams. “And a seaweed one too … please.”

“Ah,” said Peter, looking anxiously for the boy’s parents. “The seaweed is quite unusual. That’s one … for some of my more selective customers. Are you sure you do not want another flavour? The Eaton Mess is very popular this year. It has pieces of real strawberry and meringue in it. Why don’t you try a little?”

“No. Seaweed,” the boy said.

“But you might not like it.”

“I know.” The boy nodded. “It’ll probably taste disgusting.”

“Then why do you want it,” Peter said, scooping some of the offending flavour into a cone, trying to ignore it’s pungent, salty aroma and the fronds of fresh seaweed hanging over the edge.

“It’s not for me.” The boy grinned. “It’s for my sister.” And with that the boy took the ice creams, handed Peter some money, turned and wandered happily away.

Peter got out his hanky again and rubbed his brow. It was humour. He knew it. That was why the boy had done it – to be funny. One day, Peter thought to himself. One day I will understand. One day I will be able to cross that off my list, though possibly not today.

He got out his binoculars again and turned his attention back to the swimmers. He noticed that three of them had accelerated, one far beyond what would be considered normal human speed. Hadn’t he told them to go slowly? Hadn’t he explained that humans couldn’t swim anywhere near as fast as they could? And here was one of them breaking world records on every lap. It was the excitement of being back in the water he supposed. In some ways it was understandable considering the lengthy journey they had endured. He just wished that they would listen. It was important for them not to stand out and not to attract attention. In fact it was more than important, it was absolutely vital.

He had been about to pull out the whistle again when one of his phones rang. Normally, this would be of no particular concern. He was often called at any time of the day for all kinds of reasons. The phone in his right trouser pocket was the one whose number he gave to his human friends. The phone in his right breast pocket was the one whose number he gave to his other friends. But the one in his left breast pocket was his special phone, which could only mean one thing. One of his official contacts wanted to talk with him, and they very rarely called just to ask how he was.

He cleared his throat and, for reasons even he couldn’t be quite sure of, straightened his hat and made sure his collar was a neat circle around his pale neck. Then he pulled out the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Hello?” he said. “This is Peter Bode, Chief Liaison Officer. How may help?”

“Ah, Peter!” came the familiar voice of Mr Jones. “So good to hear your voice. It’s been a while. Which is good news in many ways, but still …”

“It has been three weeks, two days and three hours,” said Peter.

“Has it? Has it really? And are you are well? Still selling those ice creams? Business good?”

“Yes, it has been that long. I am continuing to perform my duties to the best of my abilities, and yes the ice creams are selling especially well at the moment. Thank you for taking an interest, Mr Jones.”

“Good, good,” Mr Jones said, and there followed a slightly uncomfortable pause.

“Was there something that you …” Peter hesitated. “Wanted?”

“Yes, actually, there was. We have a bit of a, you know, a bit of a situation.”

“A situation?” Peter said, wondering what minor trouble or misunderstanding one of his people had caused this time.

“Yes, a tricky one this time. And that’s putting it lightly. There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I won’t beat around the bush. I’ll come right out and say it. That’s the best thing to so. No point in dragging this out, even if it is a bit awkward. By the way, are you alone?”

“There is nobody in hearing range of my telephone device,” Peter confirmed, an ominous heaviness settling over his chest.

“Good, or not good, because they’ve found a body. On Botany Bay. This morning.”

“A body,” Peter said, feeling strange. “And the body, it’s not … not human.”

“No. I mean yes. Yes, it’s very human. But that’s the problem you see. They didn’t die of natural causes. They were very much helped along the way. Against their will, if you see what I mean.”

“They were murdered?”

 “I’m afraid so. But it’s worse than that. There’s evidence, I won’t go into it now, but evidence that he wasn’t killed, you know, by one of us. There’s evidence that he might have been finished off by one of your … lot. If you see what I mean.”

Peter took a deeper than usual breath and without realising it, gripped the end of his ice-cream trailer for support. “Are you sure?”

“No, not sure. We have to meet though. Maybe in ten minutes. Would you believe I’m in that little red phone box across the bay. I’ll wave, look.”

Peter peered up at the cliffs above him and located the little red box. Sure enough a pale hand appeared from out of the phone box and gave a little wave, before disappearing back inside. Peter had no idea why Mr Jones couldn’t have walked up to him like a normal person and spoken to him face to face. He consoled himself that of most of the locals found the actions of the government as illogical as he did. “But I’ll need to collect my new arrivals from the sea. It might take some time. They’re very new, and very young and inexperienced.”

“Of course. Excellent, ten minutes. Old Curiosity Shop?”

And the phone line went dead.

Peter slipped the phone back into his pocket and bought out the binoculars. First he checked the crowds on Viking bay below him to make sure that nobody had noticed the swimmers. He scanned the crowds, noticing a boy of about eight chasing his older sister along the water’s edge. He watched as two teenage boys kicked a football at the bottom of the cliff, a look of perfect concentration on their tanned faces. A short distance away an older couple lay fast asleep in their deckchairs, newspapers dropped over their chests, still holding one another’s hands. Satisfied, he turned his binoculars to the sea, seeing with alarm that there appeared to be two fast moving objects scudding through the water at some speed. At first he assumed they were both jet-skis, a frequent menace on the beach, but was shocked to discover that only one of the objects was a jet-ski. The other was a swimmer who appeared to be racing the jet-ski. Not only racing it, he realised, but matching it for pace and even drawing slightly ahead. The swimmer’s arms arched over his head so fast that they were a blur. Meanwhile the man on the jet-ski meanwhile held his mouth open in surprise, though he refused to give up the race. Together they were creating a bow wave so large that it was already reaching the furthest section of the beach. Peter knew that people were bound to start to notice any moment now. He put the whistle in his mouth, gave it a long blast, and urgently waved for the swimmers to return to the beach as quickly as possible.