Mr Shandy

Two metres of chain attached him inevitably to the radiator.  It gave him free reign within the room, which included a bed, toilet and a small kitchen, but obviously, but not the world beyond. 

“For his own good,” said the Jew when he gave him the address.  Mr Locke didn’t question it.  His purpose went beyond feeling sorry for a sick man.

Mr Shandy sat on the bed expectantly.  “About bloody time.  What’s it been, three years?”  He said when Locke entered the room.  It wasn’t tbe reaction Mr Locke had been expecting, and he faltered slightly before answering.

“My name is Mr Locke.”  He said before Mr Shandy interrupted.

“No it’s not.”  He said.  When he saw the face Mr Locke made, he followed on, “Well, prove it then.  If that’s your name you must have some identification.”

It was never good to defy the insane, thought Mr Locke.  No knowing how they’d react. He put his jacket down and pulled out the brown leather wallet John had given him for his last birthday. It was all there.  His business card proclaiming him to be a consulting detective, complete with email and cell number, the money and photo of John and him from their last trip overseas…but no identification.  Actually, thought Locke, I don’t ever rememember having a driver’s licence.  He tried to picture how he looked on it.  Deadpan face unsmiling, like every other licence ever issues, but he couldn’t.    Mr Shandy smiled as Locke went through the contents of his wallet. 

“You don’t have one, do you.”

“No.”  Said Locke.  “I guess I’ve never needed one.  I walk most places, or take a taxi.”

“So what is your name?”

“Locke, as I said. I’m a detective, helping the Yard out with a crime that has, through various means, led me to you.” Said locke.

“Ah yes, but what is your name?”  He asked again.

“I told you, Locke.”  But Locke’s confidence was gone from his voice.  He knew he didn’t know the answer to the next question Mr Shandy would ask, even before he asked it.

“But Mr Locke, what is your first name?”


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