Here’s a new crime/detective short story set in Christchurch, NZ; I hope you enjoy it.
The list
Steve’s twin was an arse; always was, always would be. Born first, and first in everything ever since. He was the most competitive and selfish man alive. Steve hated him.
“There’s sibling rivalry in every family,” his wife Donna once told him, “You need to get over yourself. Grow up and move on. Brothers are evil; you should know that. And, as for twins, well….”
That might be true, but it didn’t change the fact that Steve’s brother was an arse, working a job reserved especially for the biggest arses. No, he wasn’t a bus or train driver. He wasn’t a weather forecaster or cladding salesman: he was a detective. A friggin homicide detective to boot. Arsehole job for an arsehole man!
Steve hated his job, but it was all he’d ever known. He was a ketchup salesman. He had other lines, of course, but his bread and butter was ketchup. He worked for The Great Kiwi Ketchup Kompany, famous for “putting the joy on saveloys.” How he hated that expression! It was even emblazoned all over his sales rep Station Wagon. Painted white panels with a giant pink saveloy lazing on top, liberally drizzled with thick red ketchup. Whenever he drove anywhere, especially in small-town New Zealand, people would point and stare, kids would wave enthusiastically, and vegetarians would turn their heads in disgust.
Travelling the length and breadth of New Zealand was the only decent thing about his job. He would be away weeks at a time, which suited him well. Since Donna’s tragic death five years ago, he was a free agent, had no responsibilities. He could come and go as he pleased, where and whenever he wanted.
While Steve was peddling ketchup, his brother James built an impressive career and reputation in homicide. Arguably, he was the most famous detective in the country. What an arse, Steve thought.
Steve had just got back from three weeks on the road. As usual, the air in the house was stale and foul; he opened the windows to let some fresh air in. He put a load of washing on and made a coffee. Sales were good this month; he’d blitzed his target, so decided to take the afternoon off. After his coffee, he decided to ring his mate Inky.
“Hey Inky, it’s Steve-O; you got any free slots this arvy?”
“You want your usual?”
“Yeah, if you can fit me in, that’d be brilliant!”
“Come round at about six; bring some cold ones with you. I’ll be thirsty by then. You might have to wait while I finish a job, but I’ll fit you in, no worries.”
Steve smiled. It’d been a while since he’d seen Inky. It’d be good to catch up.
At 6 pm, Steve walked into Inky’s. A blonde with beautiful long hair was lying face down on the table, denim shorts, nice legs. She wore a black half-corset bra, and Steve hoped she’d roll over.
Inky was a professional. He didn’t look up when the door opened: one hand remained on the tattoo gun, the other gripped the woman’s right butt cheek. A rolly fag dangled perilously low, clenched between thin tobacco-stained lips.
“Grab a seat, mate,” he called through his pursed mouth. “Nearly done here.”
Inky’s tattoo gun hammered away at the woman’s silky skin. The noise was intoxicating, clack, clack, clack, a million times a minute; how he loved that sound. The woman’s fingers were blood free white, scrunched into tight fists. Steve could see muscles twitching in her forearms and biceps. She was in pain—he liked that too. Steve pondered, Tramp stamps; why do women do it?
These days most tattoo parlours are sterile clinics full of light and green plants. The walls covered in Rothko prints or Warhol-inspired soup tins. Steve couldn’t stand soup, and he hated modern art. He also hated the hell out of accent lighting. Thank God Inky was old school.
Inky’s Squid Pistol was not a clinic; it was not a parlour or studio. Fuck no! It was a dive, pure and simple. Calling it a grotto would insult grottos, so as Steve sat down in the waiting room on a wobbly and sticky school chair, he decided ‘den’ was the most appropriate word. It inferred danger, something sinister. After all, if there wasn’t the risk of sepsis or hepatitis, then you couldn’t call it a tattoo.
The black skulls, snakes and dragons adorning the walls were fierce, yet they were somehow softened by rich ruby roses and arrow-pierced hearts pumping thick spurts of red blood. Macabre tributes to mum never looked so right. It was good to be back. Inky’s rum-infused tobacco smoke choked the air and diluted the light. Steve smiled: not the slightest whiff of bleach or disinfectant. He cracked a beer, leant back and closed his eyes. The beer tasted good, and the gun sounded alluring; the only thing missing were squeals of pain. He wanted to tell Inky to dig a little deeper. That would make things perfect.
“So, you want your usual?” Inky called out, disturbing Steve’s thoughts.
“Yeah.”
“Name?”
“Gina.”
Inky went silent as his gun roared into attack mode again. Clack, clack, clack.
Inky’s was hidden out the back of a dishevelled warehouse in the oldest part of the port. You could never stumble on the den; it was strictly invite-only or word of mouth. Advertising and social media were foreign languages to Inky. It was his reputation that brought the punters in.
His clientele were thugs, crims, sailors and bikers. To see a woman here was unusual. To see an attractive young one, a rarity. It was rumoured that Inky was a dealer, that he fenced electronics for the gangs. A man’s gotta make a living somehow. Perhaps the woman was tied in with that side of the business.
The gun suddenly stopped. Inky wiped away plasma, blood and excess dye with a giant swipe. He slapped the woman’s butt.
“All done, it’ll give your boyfriend an even nicer view now. Wanna have a look?” He pointed to the smudged and dusty mirror standing out the back.
As she stood, she saw Steve checking things out.
“Nah,” she said emphatically.
She quickly pulled on a black tee shirt and was out of the door in an instant.
“Nice,” Steve said to Inky.
He smiled. “The tattoo or the girl?”
Steve raised his eyes, smiled back.
“Gina, it is, then; take your shirt off, jump up on the table. Oh, and bring a can over for me.”
Inky liked inflicting pain; he believed that by inflicting pain on people, he could absolve their sins. He preferred the term ‘painting’ rather than tattooing, and he loved painting Steve, for he knew he needed more absolution than most.
“So, how was Gina, Steve?”
“A damp squib, mate, all bluster, no blow. Promised way more than she delivered.”
“Disappointing for you.”
“Yep, complete and utter disappointment.”
“So, where’ve you been lately, ketchup man?”
“Piss off, Inky. You know I hate that name!”
“Okay then, Steve-O, where’ve you been recently?”
“Everywhere, I was up north, mate, Waikato. Huntly, Cambridge, Hamilton. Sales were good, always are up there.”
“And how’s that arsehole brother of yours?”
Steve’s body stiffened. “What do you think?”
Inky just smiled, ploughing on with the job.
Ten minutes later, the den’s door burst open.
“Sorry,” a woman’s voice called. “I forgot my handbag.”
The door slammed closed a moment later. Inky didn’t look up; he just dug a little deeper with his gun.
Six months later
Detective Superintendent James O’Sullivan stared at the file. Another homicide. He flicked through its pages: no murder weapon, no witnesses, no forensic evidence. What the hell was he supposed to do with this?
The deceased, Miss Gina Brunning, was strangled—no sign of a struggle, no evidence of sexual assault. Found fully clothed in her flat, there was no forced entry, no evidence of a burglary gone wrong. James shook his head; the woman was a nobody—although he meant that in the nicest way. No one could possibly want to harm this model citizen—it was another murder mystery.
The file had been sent up from the Hamilton Bureau. Their investigation had gone cold. They’d worked it solidly for six months without developing a single lead. They sent it to him in the hope he might be able to crack it open. Fat chance, James thought, throwing the file on top of a growing list of cold cases.
Over the last five years, there’d been a statistical spike in the murder rate. This coincided with increased gang activities and the repatriation of 501s from Australia; but murders from these catchments were predictable and easy to solve. Paint by numbers detective work: gather forensics, interview witnesses, press associates, force a confession, and bim, bash, bom! Before you knew it, you had a conviction and a perp put away.
No, the growing list of cold cases and unsolved murders was alarming. The victims were all random, good folk—people who should not have been murdered. Now he was tasked to solve these crimes.
This afternoon James compiled a list. Since 2017, seventeen murders remained unsolved, and their files were now collecting dust on his desk. He gulped down his cold coffee and grimaced; there was nothing as unsatisfying and bitter as cold coffee and cold cases. Then, he stared at the list again.
Ella Bromley, aged 28, Auckland
Iris Marshall, aged 59, Whakatane
Josie Butcher, aged 17, Dunedin
Keni Sharp, aged 63, Bulls
Mona Cotton, aged 40, Greymouth
Neil Frisk, aged 71, Taupo
Rita Keene, aged 82, Waikanae
Tino Rodriguez, aged 22, Whanganui
Vicky Dukes, aged 36, Blenheim
Gretel Saville, aged 17, Tauranga
Howard Heke, aged 39, Twizel
Ana Packer, aged 46, Kaikoura
Lucas Ngwaka, aged 78, Hastings
Ruby Stent, aged 29, Manukau City
Cody McCain, aged 62, Invercargill
Eva Adams, aged 31, Palmerston North
Gina Brunning, aged 20, Hamilton
Was there a connection, or were they random? James was in two minds. One part of his mind wanted to believe they were random, a statistical aberration, but that would mean seventeen unknown murderers were now walking the streets of New Zealand’s towns and cities. If they were connected, or at least some were, it would mean a serial killer was running amuck, stalking the streets. What was worse? What was more likely?
He sat. He thought. After an hour, he deduced he should be looking for a serial killer. If the murders were a statistical aberration, why were they continuing? What was the chance of that? No, it was most likely that one person was responsible for some, if not all, of the murders. Even if a serial killer murdered only half of these people, James had to get the killer off the street as soon as possible before they killed again. So, what was the connection? Clearly, it was somebody free to travel around New Zealand—that’s all he had.
The phone rang, disturbing his concentration.
He picked it up in frustration.
“O’Sullivan.”
“Jim, it’s Mack from OCU.”
James smiled. He and Mack went way back; they’d worked together years ago, cracking the Morris Brothers’ gang in Christchurch. The Morris Brothers were a couple of nasty right-wing skinheads bent on building a drug and crime empire in the garden city. Now, Mack headed up the Organised Crime Unit.
“Hey, Mack, nice to hear from you. How’s Joyce and the kids?”
“Jeeze, Jim, for a clever guy, you don’t keep up with the news, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Joyce has moved on, mate, left me.”
“Oh shit, sorry, I had no idea… When did that happen?”
“Two years ago.”
“Fuck me, sorry Mack, that long, oh God… We have to catch up more often.”
“It’s okay, Jim; she had good reason to leave.”
“Oh, why’s that, then?”
“I was knocking off Jenny from Traffic.”
“Bloody hell, mate, I hope she was worth it; Joyce was a bloody good woman. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t ring for a social. What’s up?”
“It’s probably nothing, nothing at all, but have you started working the murder cold cases?”
“Yep, and ‘probably nothing’ is so much more than what I’ve got now. What is it?
“Well, The Black Daggers moved into Christchurch a year ago. The local gangs made them feel welcomed, as you can imagine, but despite this welcome, they’ve managed to carve out a decent-sized corner of the local drug market. There’s been a glut of meth hitting the streets. Prices are low, and sales are high. Not good. My team and I have been working hard to identify the key players, put them away, put a dent in the trade.”
“Okay,” James said, “Yep, I heard about the turf wars. It doesn’t surprise me about The Daggers, I’ve had the misfortune of crossing swords with them on a number of occasions.”
“Yep, nice people. Anyway, my team arrested a low-level street dealer. She wouldn’t talk, scared to death. She may have been working the streets, but she was a dead end when it came to signposting those above her. You know how it goes. We confiscated her phone as evidence, wanting to gain access to her contacts. And this is why I’m ringing you.”
“You got me interested, Mack; go on.”
“She’d taken a photo of a guy in a tattoo parlour. She didn’t know him but thought he was a bit of a douche. She took the photo when she saw the guy had a whole bunch of names tattooed on his back.”
“Sounds weird, but so what?”
“Yeah, yeah, nothing to see there, except….”
“Except what, Mack?”
“It’s the names themselves: Lucas, Ruby, Cody, Eva. That was just on the right side of the guy’s back. There are about another dozen names on the guy’s left side. The woman won’t talk, but it looks as though the tattoo on the guy’s back was like a chronicle, a book of sorts. The names were listed like chapters, like a tablet from the Old Testament. I had the forensics lab look at the photo to see if they could blow it up and make it clearer. The photo was taken on a cheap phone, it was dark, and the phone didn’t have a flash, but after jigging around, they could decipher two more names, Donna and Ella. It got me thinking, were the names some kind of trophy or remembrance?”
James sucked in air.
“I had no idea who belonged to these names, so I ran them through the police computer. That’s led me to you. What do you think?”
“I think I’ll jump on the first flight to Christchurch in the morning. Are you going to be around?”
The stewardess was far too young and pretty. Impossibly nice and impeccably dressed, she was precisely why most middle-aged businessmen preferred to fly. James O’Sullivan wasn’t one of them. He’d been up all night trying to memorise every detail of the cold cases he was working on.
“Good morning, sir: 14b, halfway down the cabin on the right. Mind your head.”
She smiled as she spoke. Brown eyes like Josie Butcher, James thought. She looked about 20 years old, the same age as Gina Brunning. Taking into account her half heels, she stood about 5.9, the same height as Vicky Dukes. He would play this game all the way down to Christchurch, picking out different passengers and mapping their characteristics against the files of the deceased. By the time he reached Christchurch in just over an hour, he would have cemented every detail he needed to know.
It was already blistering hot when Damien Macalester – Mack – picked James up from the airport. It was going to be a nor-west stinker—a day for ice-cold beer, swimming pools and air conditioning units.
Mack handed him a coffee as he arrived.
“It’s strong and cold.”
“Just the way I like it. Cheers, Mack. How’s Jenny?”
“Who?”
“Jenny from Traffic.”
“Oh, her… Ah, we’re not together. It was just a short-term thing – kinda.”
“You mean you trashed thirty years of marriage to a great woman for a fumble with a glorified parking maid?”
“Jeeze, give it a rest, Jim; who do you think you are, the police or something?”
Both men laughed.
“So, who’s the guy with the tattoo?”
“Don’t know, Jim?”
“Where was the photo taken?”
“The informant wouldn’t say, but it’s Inky’s. I’d recognise that shithole anywhere. Do you remember him?”
“Far out, is that bastard still going? I thought the council or Ministry of Health would have closed him down years ago. Is he still walking both sides of the law?”
“Hah! Walking? I’d call it skipping or dancing. He’s as crooked as a pug’s tail.”
“Wow, he’s lucky he’s still alive. You and I should have invested our Kiwi Saver into pharmaceuticals with all the drugs he’s indulged in over the years.”
They laughed again.
“Who’s he running with these days?”
“Just the same… no one in particular, anyone who’s gotta dollar. He’s not too fussy.”
“Is he still playing with the big dogs?”
“Nah! Since you put him away, Jim, he’s a bit of a has-been. Eight years in Rimutaka shortened his curly tail, made him a bit cynophobic.”
“Is that where we’re going now?”
“There’s nothing like the smell of grease and diesel first thing in the morning.”
Jim smiled then grimaced after taking a plug of coffee.
“So, will you catch up with your brother while you’re down here?”
“Not sure, Mack. Since Steve’s wife died, he’s been pretty cold to me. He doesn’t want to know me. Something inside him snapped when she died. He’s never been the same since.”
“It’s not easy losing your wife in any circumstance; hell knows, I know that better than anyone. She can’t have been too old, how did she die?”
“It was the weirdest thing. Donna was always a bit different. Not my type, but each to their own, I suppose. She was a weather spotter!”
“A what?”
“In America, they call them storm-chasers. She was one of them!”
“Didn’t even know they had them in New Zealand?”
“Oh yeah, they’re a special breed. Donna was constantly glued to National Geographic and the Discovery Channel. Anyway, she drowned in a sea surge after chasing a massive storm. They never found her body, and Steve’s never been the same. I feel sorry for him. Perhaps I will go and see him.”
It was 8.45 am when the unmarked car pulled into the lane leading to Inky’s. The lane was full of parked vehicles and skips chocka-block full of industrial waste. Driving down the narrow lane would be like playing dodgem cars, and finding a park almost impossible.
“Just park here, Mack; we can walk the rest of the way.”
Inky lived in a small flat above his tattoo business. James remembered it well: a bedsit with a dilapidated kitchen and bathroom. The floors were rotten, the pipes leaky. It smelt bad. It smelt really bad! James expected Inky to be still comatose this early, and it would be a bugger rousing him from his slumber. He was wrong.
“What do you want? I’m closed,” Inky yelled down the stairs when he heard the knock on the shop door.
James knocked again.
“Fuck off, ya wanker; I told you, I’m closed.”
James and Mack smiled at each other before James called up. “Inky, how are you? It’s your old mate James O’Sullivan; do you remember me?”
They expected silence or a volley of abuse, but the two detectives heard Inky frantically moving about upstairs.
“Making the place nice for us, doing some last-minute housework, putting things away,” Mack said.
James replied, “Do you think he’s getting the best china and biscuits for us?”
After a minute, Inky called down: “If you want a tattoo, come back after lunch. If you want anything else, you can fuck off.”
“Charming,” James yelled back. “Look, I know we have history, but I’ve got no interest in you. Not in the slightest. And I know you’re not a narc, but I want to have a friendly chat about one of your clients. That’s all. I can be gone in five minutes. Promise.”
“Fuck off, cop.”
“Oh, come on now, Inky, we both know how this works. We can have a quick, quiet chat now, or I can come back later with search and arrest warrants, then drag your sorry arse down to the station. I’m sure there are a thousand and one charges we could bring. But no one wants that. You might have drugs up there now – I’m not interested! You might have some stolen gear up there; not interested. Just let me in, have a chat, give me what I need, and you’ll never see me again.”
Three minutes later, the door opened.
“What do you want, arsehole?”
“A name.”
“I’m not a narc.”
“There was a man who came in here about six months ago. He had names tattooed on his back. Who is he?”
“You’re the detective, you tell me; why don’t you go and ask your mother?”
“Please help me out here, Inky; you don’t have to give me a name, I understand. Just let me look at your appointment book.”
“Don’t have one; people walk in.”
“Who is he, Inky? I’m asking nicely.”
“Don’t know anyone with names on their back.”
“We’ve got a photo; you wanna have a look? It might jog your memory.”
“Not particularly.”
“Humour me… Mack, show him the photo.”
Mack pulled the photo out of his internal breast pocket.
Inky looked, squinted.
“You see, that’s you, that’s your shop, and a guy is lying on your bench with names tattooed all over his back. Who the fuck is he, Inky?”
Inky scratched his head, then smiled. Staring Jim in the eyes, he spat, “No idea, you fucking arse.”
Back in the car, Mack chuckled. “That went well.”
“Didn’t it! You got anything on him? Could you get some warrants?”
“Oh yeah. Low-level stuff, but enough to drag him in, piss him off.”
“Great, could you do that today and then tomorrow ring the council? He’s sure to have broken some bylaws. Get him inspected and shut down. Also, ring the Ministry of Health; once again, get him inspected and shut down. Let’s put some pressure on the prick. Can we meet back at Inky’s at 4 pm, so we can tell him what we’ve planned for him tomorrow? Hopefully, he’ll change his mind and attitude.”
“Got it, Jim. Where to now?”
“Can you please drop me off at Bromley? I think I might go see my brother.”
Steve’s house was the nicest dwelling on the worst street. Located in an old state housing area, the neighbourhood accommodated the unfortunates, the unemployed and the unlucky. Steve was unlucky but equally had always been unmotivated and ungrateful. Steve’s house was brick; those around him were wood, and all except Steve’s were in various states of disrepair. James smiled as the nursery rhyme Three Little Pigs came to mind. The front garden was concreted and painted green. Practical, if not imaginative.
James smiled again as he walked up the driveway: Steve’s saveloy car was parked by the front door. It always amused him, although he would rather be dead than be seen driving it. Steve was in; he was pleased. The front door was open, so James didn’t knock; he called out instead.
“Steve, it’s James. Are you in?”
“What… who is it?”
“It’s James, your brother.”
“Oh, hang on, be with you in a minute, just having a wash.”
Steve stood shirtless at the door a moment later.
An awkward silence filled the space between the two brothers.
“You should work out more, Steve,” James said, noticing Steve’s paunch. “Join a gym, get fit like me.”
Steve scowled but stood in silence.
“I’m in town for the day, so thought I’d call in and say gidday. It’s been a while. Too long.”
“Aw yeah. It’s lucky you caught me; usually, I’m away, but I got home last night. Been up north.”
“Okay, well, it’s good to see you, brother. How’s business?”
“Sales are good; I’ve already met target for the month. That’s why I’m taking a day off today.”
James nodded in silence, looking for the right words to bridge the yawning gap between them.
“So how are you, Steve, really? I feel we’ve drifted apart since Donna died. I‘ve probably not been in contact with you as often as I should have.”
“So, what’s new, James? You always put yourself first.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Steve rolled his eyes, scoffed.
“Oh, come on, you’ve never given a shit about me; you were always the favourite. I had to go to work while you got to go to university. Have you ever thought about that? When the old man got crook, when mum got old, I was left here looking after them. Taking care of them, running around, all the while listening to them tell me how the sun shone out of your arse. You used to swan into town, treat them to a Sunday roast at the club, and then swan out again. Then, for the next six months, all I’d hear was how well you were doing and how proud they were of you.”
“Shit, Steve, I never knew you felt that way. I just didn’t think.”
“It’s always been that way—you only think of yourself and your precious career. You didn’t give a rat’s about mum and dad. You certainly didn’t give a rat’s about me. When Donna disappeared, the best support you could manage was to leave a voice mail message, telling me she was sure to turn up; most missing persons did! Thanks, mate!”
“I know I’ve made some mistakes, Steve, and I’m sorry. But my career….”
“Your career. It’s always about your career, or your future, or your… whatever. You just don’t give a shit, do you? You can shove your career right up your arse.”
“That’s a bit harsh. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Not for much longer, James. You’ve said gidday, so now you can fuck off back to your glorious career.”
With that, Steve turned and walked back up the hallway.
That was when James saw something that made him feel sick, sicker than he had ever felt before in his entire life.
He walked outside; he needed air. The stifling wind tried to steal his remaining breath. He stumbled to the low brick fence between the property and the footpath. He sat down, trying to hijack shade from a lonely bay tree.
Did he really see what he just saw?
He shook his head, trying to think. He knew he had to arrest his brother. He knew he should ring for backup and remove himself from the case. This was a conflict, if there ever was. He pulled out his phone and rang Mack.
Mack picked up on the first ring.
“Don’t tell me: you want a ride? I’m not a flipping taxi service, Jim.”
Usually, James would have laughed, but the best he could say was, “Cancel those instructions I gave before about Inky. And yes, you can come and pick me up, bring a couple of beat boys with you too. There’s no rush, be here in about 30 minutes, yeah?”
“Okay, whatever you say,” Mack said, scepticism in his tone.
James took a minute, then slowly walked back to the front door.
“We’re not finished, Steve,” he called.
“Go away and leave me alone, you arse.”
“No, I’m not going to do that. I’m coming in: we need to talk.”
“Like hell, you’re coming in. Piss off!”
“What are you going to do, Steve? Call the cops?”
James heard Steve thunder down the hall toward the front door.
“Bugger off, James,” he yelled in James’ face. “Fuck off. Go back to your precious career.”
“No, that’s not going to happen.”
Steve lunged at James, trying to push him off the front step. After a short struggle, Steve lay face down on the concrete driveway, his hands cuffed behind his back. James’ knee pressed onto the small of Steve’s back, his palm compressing his head into the green concrete.
“Eat that grass, dickhead; I told you, you should go to the gym,” James crowed.
“Let me go, you arse, let me go.”
James pulled Steve up and dragged him inside.
“Tell me about the tattoos on your back, Steve. What the fuck are they about?”
“What?”
“You heard me: what are the tattoos about? Who are the people behind those names?”
“They’re not people, you fucking arse: they’re cyclones!”
“What?”
“They’re the names of cyclones that have hit the south pacific over the last five years; just fucking google them if you don’t believe me!”
“Why would you carve the names of storms into your back?”
“To remember Donna. You wouldn’t understand, but I thought it was a fitting tribute to her. Did you know she died during cyclone Donna? It was special to her. I just sort of continued the tradition.”
His head hurt. James needed to get out of the house. He turned and walked away.
“Take these cuffs off me, you arse,” Steve called behind him.
James paid no heed; he just kept on walking.
Six months later
The flight to Auckland arrived on time. The forecasted storm hadn’t hit yet—it was due tomorrow, but the first hints of it were now revealing themselves. The trees started waving their warning as the taxi raced into the city. Not wanting to be outdone, clouds began changing colour, grey being the new white. The passenger in the back smiled; cyclone James was about to land.
The driver looked back. “What brings you to Auckland, sir?”
“Oh, please call me Inky, and I’ve come to visit an old friend.”
Clack, clack, clack, he thought to himself, clack, clack, clack.
Roly Andrews - Storyteller 