THE CASE OF THE MISSING RED SOCK(Iain Cambridge) PART ONE - THE NAME PROBLEM:

Truth and lies are finite - Let’s get that clear from the start.
Separate as black and white, night and day, Donny and Marie.
There are no half truths, white lies or gray areas. Liars lie and people who say that they tell the truth all the time are probably lawyers.
So where do we get the phrase, ‘Bending the truth’ from?
Well, that comes from me I am sorry to say, or rather (if the truth be known - excuse the pun) from one of my lesser known, for reasons that will become clear, cases. By way of explanation, I will have to take you back to London on a cold and foggy summer’s day. I can’t really tell you the year as time is a human construct and has no hold on an existence that is devoid of anything tangible.The spirit world, for the want of a better word, had gone quiet for a short while, but this was perfectly normal for the time of year as most of the recently deceased who had parted ways with this particular version of the mortal coil, had done so whilst on holiday and therefore had to wait for the celestial plane to bring them home. Seats are limited and the tickets are hard to get hold of, especially if you had a set of new spirit hands to contend with that tended to let things slip through like a teenager who has just bribed a nightclub bouncer twenty bucks to ignore the fact that his ID says he is thirty-six, and that his name is Susan.

Lately, during this particular period of my extended existence, I had let myself go a bit. This means something altogether different for the dead. For all you meat, blood, gristle and tube members of this realm, this involves adding to your girth via lard or cake retention and then not washing for extended periods of time, the result being a gray blotchy mess that smells like a vegetarian’s fart. For us it simply means slowly drifting apart like two long term lovers that have discovered that farting in bed is not as funny as it used to be. As my mind and the energy field representing what I call a body wandered, I started to contemplate the great wonders of the universe and the meaning of existence until realizing that I didn’t know the first thing about any of it and so, instead tried to remember what jam used to taste like. It was during this great and worthwhile feat of imagination and intellectual contemplation that a sudden and sharp rap on the door to my office forced me to pull myself together, a little too sharply unfortunately as I did the human version of tripping up a flight of stairs and losing a shoe.

“Enter,” my voice whispered irritably from outside the door. This cheered me up a little bit as it made the silhouette of the person outside the door shoot up in the air like Pete Townsend. The door eventually opened nervously, or rather the person opening it did so in that manner as I can only assume the door had no feelings one way or another on how it should be opened - Or maybe it did.
We may never care.
“Ms. Malone?” said a small innocuous voice from an equally innocuous little man.
My voice echoed back into the room.
“Yes”
The little man entered the room carefully, looking around as if waiting for something horrible to leap out of the corner and yell; Boo!’ at him.
“M - My name is Alfonse Grumbletart - Apparently” he stammered. Which was understandable with a name like that. I mean, who calls their children Alfonse these days?
“Please come in Mister Gumbleweed” came the whisper of what my voice had now become.
“Tart,'' said the strange little man.
The room went a little colder and decidedly darker. The Grandfather clock, had I owned one, would have ominously stopped ticking at that point.
“I beg your pardon” came the cold, ice-tipped response full of menace and foreboding. Carrying with it the threat of otherworldly vengeance.
“Grumble - tart” Replied Alfonse.
“Of course. Mister Grindlefart - My mistake” said my voice as the room lightened once more causing the non-existence of the clock to make itself more apparent.
My soon to be new client edged further into the room.
“Pleased to meet you” he said whilst lifting his hat, until realizing that he was not wearing one. He sighed to himself and stared at his empty hand. “It was not always like this,” he said sadly. “I was not always like this”
“Like what exactly” came the whisper. “And please, take a seat”
I gestured towards the chair opposite my desk. Alfonse sidled towards it and lowered himself gingerly, his eyes flitting around the room as if still waiting for the thing that would eventually go bump in the night.
“You are quite safe here” said my voice, trying to put him at ease. “There is no boogieman, or indeed woman here”
“Oh good” he sighed in a voice that had less substance than mine.
“She is on her lunch break”
I smiled and he returned it with a wane, tight lipped one of his own.
‘Sorry” he said meekly “I have never met a real ghost before. Not that I have anything against you guys. Girls. Women” he tailed off sadly. “And I wouldn't have come here had I not felt that I needed someone more.. ”
“Human?” suggested the air around him.
“Metaphysical” corrected Alfonse.
“Of course”

I smiled at him once again and attempted to make myself a little more solid, just to help him relax and stop him sweating so much. My eyes flicked towards the mop and bucket in the corner and the promise of an interesting afternoon cleaning up the puddle that Alfonse was in danger of leaving.
“My name” he suddenly said, snapping my mind back to the issue at hand “ was not always Alfonse Grumbletart, At least, I don’t think it was”
My voice took a little time to answer as the question it was about to ask was born out of total perplexion.
“You mean, you chose that name for yourself?”
“No” replied Alfonse, or not Alfonse as it now seemed. “I have always had this name, but it was not the one I originally had - Someone changed it without telling me.”
The now ‘maybe’ Alfonse lapsed into a sad silence.
“Why?” said my voice eventually. “How” it added.
There was an embarrassed silence.
“To stop you from finding me,” he said. “Apparently,” he added.
There was a pause as both of us pondered the implications of the last thing Alfonse had said.
“Who were you before the Grumbletart 'unpleasantness’?” said my voice.
“No idea. But I wasn’t this Alfonse person” he replied sadly. “All I know is that, two nights ago I went to the local laundromat to dry my clothes. I had washed them earlier and intended to dry them on the clothes line, but seeing as it was summer last Thursday, I lost the opportunity to do so and had to use one of the driers they have there. When I opened it however, something dragged me in and when I woke up this morning, I was this Alfonse Grumbletart person”
He took out his wallet and slid his driver’s license across the desk “See for yourself” he added.

I looked at it and then stood up to walk silently around the room. An action that used to help me think when I was more flesh and bone than overstaying energy.
“Why was I looking for you?” my voice asked. "It was meant as an inner thought. A rhetorical question that escaped my essence only to be vocalized by my own personal Metatron. When the echo of that question faded, Alfonse replied.
“I have no idea.” He shrugged, “I mean, I know who you are and what you do, who doesn’t, but I am not sure I have done anything to warrant your particular brand of attention.” He paused as a thought seemed to occur to him, “Unless it’s all that stolen stuff in my house” he said.
Another cold pause separated us for a moment.
“Stolen goods” repeated my voice.
“Yes,” said Alfonse. “Jewelry, paintings - you know, stuff that I wouldn’t normally have.” He looked at me suddenly in alarm. “I never stole it” he said in answer to some unseen, self implied accusation.
“And yet” came my voice’ own implication of a crime inferred by the now highly alarmed Mr. Grumbletart. “Tell me,” the voice added before he could answer, “When you became aware of the fact that you had to hide from me, where did you go?”
A puzzled look crossed Alfonse’s face.
“I dunno” he said after a while. “I mean, before, whatever it was dragged me into the dryer, I had this sudden urge to hide for some reason and that I had a very limited time in which to do so, and not a lot of places to choose from. The next minute I was waking up at home.” An idea seemed to come to him, lighting up his sullen features as if sparking a memory that Alfonse thought to be of importance. “There was this” he said, and reaching inside his jacket pocket, Alfonse Grumbletart pulled out a red sock. “It isn’t mine and I have no idea where it came from.”
“Now that ' whispered the celestial rendition of what the universe thought my voice should sound like, “is very interesting. Mr. Bumblebee” as my own memories sparked ideas of its own. “I think I may know who you are - or more importantly” it added “who you used to be. Tell me, what laundromat do you use?”


PART TWO: A POSSIBLE SOLUTION:

One of the great mysteries in life, and death now it seems, is the answer to the question of where all the socks go. The transition from taking them off, placing them into the wash basket and then having only six and a half pairs returned to you after their little adventure in the washing machine, and then the tumble dryer remains an annoyance that has perplexed mortal souls for as long as can be remembered, but one largely gone unsolved for many a year - Until now.

A large part of this previous ignorance was down to two major factors.
1. No-one, apart from one man, knew that there was a mystery to be solved involving this problem in the first place, and
2. No-one cared.

In 1940, Professor David Dryer and his then colleague Dr. William Tumble missed a huge opportunity taken by the industrial designer Brooks Stevens when he designed a tumble dryer with a viewing window, with the first household appliance being launched in Europe in 1958. It was well known at the time, by the Stevens family, that this was primarily an attempt at interstellar and interdimensional travel that was terribly misunderstood by his then spouse, the lovely Mrs. Cynthia Stevens. Having discovered his prototype in the garage, she noted, when running, that it generated a huge amount of heat and saw it as an opportunity to dry her smalls. A passing neighbor saw what was happening and uttered the immortal words ’I simply must have one’.
The neighbors husband, being rather well to do and mind-numbingly rich, threw an obscene amount of cash at Mr. Stevens for the patent, and Mr. Stevens accepted on the very sensible grounds of being up to his ears in debt and unable to get the bloody thing working in the first place. The space race went ahead without the interjection of Mr. Stevens’ input and struggled to get men further than the moon let alone to another dimension. The irony of this is that the means to do so now sits in every main street laundromat, doing a job it was never designed to do - a bit like Jedward.

I would like to make it clear at this point that my investigations did not surround, or were the main focus of said (as titled) missing red sock - Or any socks for that matter. No, It was the manner of its failure to join its partner, after both being placed in the wash at the same time, that led me to discover the movements of one Arthur (anymore donuts) Pilkington, the notorious cat burglar. Arthur had evaded my capture for some time.
He wasn’t THAT good, it was just that the only tangible information that I had on him was that he was fifty three and his address was given as no fixed abode. This, as I found out later, was the name of a street in South London and that Arthur Pilkington resided at Fifty three No Fixed Abode SW17. Having found this out, I went straight round to his home, but, according to his wife, Mrs. Eileen ‘I ain't sayin nuffin’ Pilkington, he had ‘gone out and won’t be back till Christmas - Especially if some tarty spook is waiting for ‘im when ‘e does’

I had reached an impasse in my investigations.
And then, around two days ago I received a tip from a ghostwriter friend of mine (and I mean an actual ghost that writes). She does mainly historical pieces as she is one of the rarest of energy residue beings (ghosts) that has had her own pattern replicated over many times. Whereas most of us will become something else when we join the energy streams, part of a star maybe, a chair, or a part of the new expressway that was being built when you forgot to pay your local loan shark back the $10,000 you swore you would have by Wednesday, Marianne, for that is and will forever be her name, comes back as the same person. The Buddhists call it reincarnation. Marianne calls it annoying. This tip came from a source of Marianne informing her, and then me, that Arthur was going to be at the Mill House Laundromat at 7pm that evening. Of course, not knowing what he looked like I had to take the chance that this constant thorn in my side would hopefully be the only one there, but when I did arrive, the place was empty save a sad, if slightly damp bag of underwear and vests sitting alone on the floor, seemingly abandoned like a blind date whose partner for the evening had popped into the bar where they were meeting and then popped out again when seeing that the picture presented online outdated the person waiting for them by about thirty years. I passed through the glass doors and examined every conceivable place that Mr. Pilkinton could have hidden, but my search came up dry - dry being the key word here.

“Mr. Grapplehook” said my voice “or may I call you Albert?”
Alfonse looked confused, but the voice cut him off just as his mouth started to open.
“How many pairs of socks do you own?”
“Erm, five - I think”
“And what color are these alleged socks?”
My voice had clearly taken some strange route of its own and now, for some reason, thought it was part of some cheap seventies crime drama.
“Black” answered Alfonse.
“Only black?” came the voice of unreasonable overacting.
“Only black” came the reply.
There was a pause as my voice paused for dramatic effect
“So” it continued eventually, “can we then assume that the red sock is not yours”
“You don’t have to assume anything,” said Alfonse, “I am telling you that it isn’t mine. In fact” he added “I believe that I told you that when I previously presented it to you.”
I reigned my voice in and gave it a stern talking to before letting it continue. When it did, it had gained its composure and some of its echoey eeriness.
“Indeed you did” it said with a hint of embarrassment.
I raised my eyebrows at Alfonse as if to apologize for its sudden enthusiasm.


PART THREE: A SKETCHY THEORY AT BEST.

“It has been long thought, by better minds than mine” echoed my voice, the acoustics of which were enhanced by the corrugated contours of my office (a feature that was installed after the ‘Case of the Silent Witness’ that I am sure you have all read about), “that, for every five and a half black pairs of socks, plus one red one that comes out of the dryer, someone, somewhere has just taken five and a half red pairs of socks from theirs with the addition of one erroneous black one.”
“Has it? Asked Alfonse “When was that a thing?”
“This then points to a, much ignored, along with your question, view that tumble dryers are all interconnected in some way as to allow socks to travel between time, space and dimensions.”
Arthur raised a finger and opened his mouth as if to disclaim what he thought of as drivel, but before he could air his concerns, my voice plunged on with the narrative.
“There is also the theory that this, in turn, could allow humans to travel in the same way, thus doing away with all that tedious mucking about with hyperspatial theory and the building of very expensive rockets. No real funding, or practical applications have been made towards this exciting new way of travel. Largely because of two very important reasons: There is no way to navigate the streams that connect the apparatus in question. It is just as likely that you could enter one dryer and get out of the one next to it as it is to get out of one strategically placed on the moon, and Many believe it to be a load of rubbish.



EPILOGUE: THE ONLY CONCLUSION.

“You, my dear Mr. Grassyknoll, or should I say Albert, any more donuts, Pilkinton” conclude the voice, “ARE the red sock in this conundrum it seems”
Alfonse looked confused - And rightfully so.
“Let me explain” came the smug echo. “The cat burglar known as Albert Pilkington was in the laundromat on the very night that you were”
“I didn’t see him. In fact, I know that I was alone” replied Alfonse.
“Indeed you were, but not in this plain - Not in our universe”
Another blank look crossed over his face and the voice’ narrative continued before he could interrupt. “When Albert spotted me coming towards the laundromat, he obviously panicked and hid in the only place available to him - the tumble drier that he had just put money into. Now, as we know, the dryer will not start until the door is closed, but close it did, sending Albert to an alternate universe - the one you originally came from. On opening the dryer once more, the first face he saw was yours, or rather his own that you were wearing. An exchange of energies became imminent and it was that pulse that caused him to instinctively grab you, pulling you into his world and replacing you in yours. The perfect escape, for I have no jurisdiction in that universe and he cannot be held accountable for the crimes committed in his. You, Mr. Grindingwheel, appear to be the first person to test, and prove the existence of inter-universal highways''
Alfonse stared at me for an uncomfortable minute.
“Red sock, black sock” said my voice. More to break the silence than anything else that would be seen as constructive.
“So let me get this straight,” he said eventually. “One minute I am, whoever I was back - wherever I was, and the next minute I am this Albert Pilkington person”
“Precisely” echoed my voice triumphantly, with the pompas tone of some spiritual Henry Higgins on proclaiming that the poor, undereducated Eliza Doolittle had finally got it.
“Can I go back?” he asked.
The cold celestial wind blew through the room, but as no-one living was capable of hearing, or feeling it, it turned around and went to find someone else to be dramatic with.
“You could try and replicate the circumstances that led you here, but there is no real way to guarantee that you will end up where you came from. It would also rely on the fact that, the now Alice Counterweight would be there waiting for the exchange. If not, then there would be two of you trying to occupy the same space at the same time - The universe gets kind of sniffy about that sort of stuff.”
Another pause, only this time there was no wind.
“So, I am stuck here as this Albert person. A known criminal with a price on his head - that I have to pay”
I stood up and walked over to this poor, unfortunate dimensional traveler.
“No” echoed in the air around us. “This dimension will certainly recognise you as such, but I am the truth of it and as such, under the circumstances I am the only person that can bend that truth a little - You will have to return the stolen goods in your flat, but other than that, you are guilty of nothing here, and nothing you did there has any relevance or interest to us.” the voice added as to give this dimension's newest addition a little more comfort.”
Alfonse visibly lightened a little bit.
“That’s very good news,” he said with a smile.
The newly appointed Albert Pilkington, ne Alfonse Grumbletart, stood up and, nodding his appreciation, he made for the door. “Thank you Ms Malone” he added, and as he was about to leave he paused thoughtfully. An air of melancholy seemed to envelope him as he looked around my office. He focused on my image and after a brief moment of some inner contemplation he said,
“It’s good to know that someone else will have to pay for all those murders I did.”

THE END

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