It was a very boring, ordinary day. We sat in the scrapheap of what we called an office. We only had £2.37 and three tablespoons of instant coffee to last us the weekend. Tim once had to find a rich lady’s Siamese cat but he had managed to run over it on the way.
The second case had been a case between two very close friends who were actually pretty happy until he came along.
There hadn’t been a third case.
Tim had been training at the Hendon police force until they had got rid of him.
I wasn’t supposed to be here, I was supposed to be in Australia with my mum and dad. The furthest I got to was Heathrow, where I got off the back exit of the plane at the last minute. I was told my mum had hysterics but there was nothing she could do at 35,000 feet above me. Then I ran back to Fulham where Tim was and we argued until he caved in. That was one thing we had in common. We didn’t get on with our parents. Oh yeah and we didn’t get on with each other. We’d got a bit of loose change. We went to Cineworld to watch X-Men Apocalypse. When we got back we had to make our beds. And I’m not just talking duvet and sheets. In the morning we found a letter and a postcard from mum. The letter was a big piece of paper but a small message.
The Fat Man
“Who the hell is the Fat Man?” I asked.
“The Fat Man,” Tim repeated.
His face had gone pale and his mouth was hanging as wide as a pencil. The Fat Man was just the beginning, there were many more problems to face …