WRITINGS
OF 
CORNERLAND

‘What!?’ the angry shout echoed down the perpetually dark Pepperburn Road. ‘She didn’t even pay?!’
The darkened figure of a Duck paced the tight, dank room, flapping his wings every now and then to show just how upset he was. Brown feathers rained down like rather disgusting snow. Quigley couldn’t believe it! Reggie had just lost another case – and subsequent payment! Well actually he could believe it. Reggie was too nice to them. He’d even once given that nasty old fat Pig, Mr Biggel, his money back!
‘And you didn’t try to stop her!’ Quigley continued, looking more demented by the second. Typical Reggie! Couldn’t even leave him alone for one nap before he started handing back their money!
He flapped his wings again, his tie worked itself loose.
Feathers fluttered down.
Reggie who was a good deal smaller than Quigley – and not a Duck – sat in the corner staring blankly at the far wall, waiting for Quigley to calm down. They hadn’t actually been active on the case! He considered himself lucky though to have a secure job that came with free accommodation (on account of Quigley’s sloppily written contract) so he didn’t complain. Not many Hamsters made it to the big city. This was partly because not that many Hamsters wanted to leave the old family boot, and partly because of their problematic size. The size that one could be trod upon, wasn’t a good one for city life. It wasn’t very good for lavatory bowls either, or storm-water drains and it was definitely bad when it came to large non-law-abiding Owls.
‘She said your detective work, Sir, was sloppy and she was going to find a more – err how I shall put this – a more respectable establishment… Sir,’ said Reggie awkwardly, in the voice a bomb defuser might have used when trying to apologise to a crowd of Aurochs for cutting the wrong wire. Reggie waited for the bomb to explode.
Quigley stopped pacing and stared menacingly at Reggie. He may have looked small and meek, but sometimes Reggie seemed to have a bally nerve.
‘Well, you can tell her’, said Quigley, trying to calm himself a bit, so that he could achieve the mental capability to come up with some corker of a comeback. ‘We’re the most respectable establishment on this side of town. So there! You can cross her case off the list… we’ll move on to Case 3.’
‘You gave up on Case 3 last year Sir’, said Reggie, cautiously shuffling out of the corner, looking at his thick, worn notepad.
‘What about Case 4?’ said Quigley, giving Reggie a warning look.
‘Yes, still there, Sir, like a piece of stale bread…,’ said Reggie.
‘Stale?!’ burst Quigley, feathers going everywhere. ‘It isn’t stale!’
Next time they had a blocked chimney he wouldn’t bother getting a chimney sweep, he thought bitterly, Reggie on a stick would do the job just as well...
‘It’s just I had to finish that crossword first…’ Quigley explained coldly, tucking his tie into his waistcoat, ‘And by then all the leads had dried up, so I got bored and left it for a while…’
‘See this is exactly what she was saying, Sir’, said Reggie, ‘sloppy detective work.’
Quigley looked like a Duck that had lost four times at puddle racing in a row and had been crowned village idiot for losing its quack.
‘Yes, well anyway,’ he said regaining himself, trying to ignore the chorus inside his head about him losing the argument to Reggie. He must be having a really bad day. He knew this because the coffee had been cold.
‘This Case 4– what’s the pay, what’s in it for me?’
‘That’s all you really do it for isn’t it, Sir? Money!’ said Reggie sadly, ‘you don’t care about the people, do you Sir?!’
When he’d first signed up to Quigley’s No.1. Most Prestigious Best Detective Agency one of the biggest perks of the job had been the thought of helping people in Need. But Quigley would have none of it, though Reggie was sure that’s what detectives were supposed to do.
‘Nope,’ said Quigley leaning on the big desk that took up most of the room. ‘We’ve all got our own bally problems,’ he continued lazily sweeping back his crest, ‘and it’s their bally problem they’ve got a bally problem, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve certainly got mine, especially my bills – the Fireflies, the water, the drink, the ciggies and you – my worst investment…’
It wasn’t exactly true. Not the last bit. As far as he was concerned the telephone was a worse investment. He never used the beastly thing and certainly no one rang him so it just sat there as an expensive desk ornament.
‘“Ciggies”, “Drink”, Sir?’ said Reggie raising an eyebrow, ‘I didn’t know you could take either… I thought they gave you an allergic reaction…’
‘Well, I still need them lying around for my detective look, okay?’ said Quigley defensively, sitting down at his desk and putting his feet up. ‘Okay we’ll do whatever’s next on the list… tomorrow.’ He finished taking out a newspaper. Not looking at the front page, which he always considered to be sensationalist garbage, he flipped to the back and started busying himself with the crossword.
1. Four across. A species of the family Leporidae with a famous age-old feud with the rabbits.
That was a bit hard thought Quigley. He scratched his head and leant back on his chair. Maybe the next word would be easier.
2. Six across. Another word for breakout.
Just as bad, he thought frustratedly. He leant back further. Who wrote these stupid crossword puzzles anyway!
There was a crash as Quigley’s chair toppled like the Dweal government after raising the Tax on Smelly Soap. The newspaper flew into the air and landed on Reggie.
Reggie pulled the paper off his head and glanced at it. He let out a squeal of alarm.
‘A-ah- S-s-sir?’ stuttered Reggie staring at the front page.
‘Yes, what is it now?’ said Quigley darkly, as he got up stiffly. Reggie better not mention this ever! ‘And it better be important,’ he added ominously, as with some effort he righted his chair and sat back down.
‘Y-you k-know that case you solved Sir? The only case you solved, two years ago?’ Reggie was now trembling.
Quigley shifted in his seat uneasily.
‘That case. What about that bally case?’ said Quigley. That case.
‘T-the one y-you sent to gaol Sir,’ Reggie gulped and with a final push ended the sentence ‘–he just escaped…’
Quigley quacked and knocked over his chair.
‘What?! He escaped!?’ he exclaimed, all anger at Reggie rapidly dissipating, being replaced by icy dread. There were some people you should never get involved with. Rodrick Smiles was one of them. He was, like the drunk Hedgehog war god, Dud, when he had his worm pie stolen, the type for revenge.
Quigley stared at the lone framed newspaper clipping on the wall. “Incredible catch for Quigley’s Most Respectable Private Detective Agency. The pink teapot runner behind bars”, it read in its neat set type. He wondered whether Rodrick would be able to track him if he admitted himself to St. Mort’s Hospital. It was a maze in there, four storeys of winding corridors and basements and… No!
Rodrick’s gang would be able to trace him. He’d heard most of the gangs had plain clothes members on every street. They had ears in every pub and that meant they knew almost everything. Rodrick’s gang was more organised than the police force! No matter where he hid, they would end up finding him. He could only ever be safe when the maniac Hare was back behind bars!
‘Typical…’ he muttered to himself, ‘you lock up the toughest crook in town, in the meanest, roughest prison of Underwood. You walk away thinkin’ your job’s done, and then what do you know? He gets out right under their noses… all right, I’ll take the case.’
‘But which case, Sir?’ said Reggie perplexed.
‘This case.’ said Quigley trying not to show Reggie his fear. Once you revealed a flaw you never got your status back.
He pulled on his mud-stained rubberised overcoat.
‘Where are you going, Sir?’ said Reggie, looking at him with an odd expression.
‘We’re,’ said Quigley pronouncing the word so it could be understood by even the likes of Reggie, ‘going to catch a bunny.’
Reggie stared at him.
‘W-we are, Sir?’
‘Yes, I bally hope so,’ said Quigley, opening the door and stepping out into the hall.

 

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