A Brief History of Mr Monkfish (1982)

"Are you familiar with the doomsday cult known as the Darkside?"

"No."

"Also known as the Nation of Set? Or calling themselves the New Earth Supreme Taskforce, styled as N.E.S.T.?"

"I said 'no'."

"In the east of China, they call themselves the Black Scorpion. In Mesoamerica, they go by the Days of the Jaguar. Among the Arabs in Yemen, they are the Cult of the Peacock Angel."

"Are you just trying to irritate the crap out of me?"

"The Cult of the Peacock Angel are satanists, worshiping their proud devil."

"Do you have anything for me? Or do I have to sit through the lecture?"

"Oh, I have something for you. And you are going to want to wait for it. So you sit…" she was, of course, not sitting "…through the lecture."

This was their fifth meeting. They were in a small, tiled room, just off the locker-room, in the basement of the Thames River Police Museum in Wapping. Most of the space was occupied by a metal cage containing exhibits currently not on display, but there was room for a small computer terminal and three monitor screens.

"To the Cult of the Peacock Angel," the man from the Ministry resumed, "evil is the white or albino peacock, whose coming must signify the end of their Lucifer's reign."

"So, Monkfish is Satan, now."

"But who is Satan?"

"Oh god!"

"The Yezidi cultists call him the demiurge, the first created being, who created the Universe. They say he rebelled against the Supreme Being to give us free will. Some call him the Serpent, who showed Eve the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. For which crime against god, he was cast in eternal punishment. And we humans were punished with banishment from Eden, to suffer the ills of the World.

"But what has that to do with the Greeks?"

"I really don't care."

"I'm glad you asked. Prometheus was the son of the Titan Iapetus. Iapetus was the god of mortality, of life and by extension death, a gift he passed on to his son. And so it was Prometheus who, at Zeus command, fashioned man and woman from the clay. And he so loved them that he stole the living flame from Olympus to bring free will to humankind. For which crime against Zeus he was cast in eternal punishment. And we humans were punished with the box or urn or vase of Pandora, to suffer the ills of the World."

"What the ever-living Christ has any of this to do with—"

"The Ministry recently identified a cell of N.E.S.T. agents operating in the Levenshulme area of Manchester. They vanished. The local spooks thought they'd fled overseas, though there was no evidence of an escape route. I believe I've uncovered their actual, and more unfortunate, fate."

"And?"

He offered her the file.

1982, United Kingdom: Manchester

Background:

Monkfish, acting under the alias Lewis Lophius, had returned to England, identified by spotters at Manchester's Ringway airport.

We asked Detective Inspector XXXXXXXX of the local CID – who we occasionally seconded for the Service – to observe his activities.

On 3^rd June, an anonymous tipoff was telephoned to the police about a multiple homicide in a private room at a restaurant on the "Curry Mile" leading to the city's university district.

Actions:

What follows includes DI XXXXXXXX's speculation and reconstruction of events.

At a quarter past ten in the morning, DI XXXXXXXX was one of two detectives investigating the carnage.

On the table were two large plates – one bearing the carcass of a whole goose, the other the cracked remains of a curried lobster; a further six side plates, all polished clean; a magnum of champagne, upended in its ice bucket, a carafe of wine and a decanter of port, all emptied; and a roll of banknotes in a dozen currencies, sufficient to more than cover the cost of the repast with the addition of a generous gratuity.

On the floor were seven dead bodies.

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

Slightly over six hours earlier, the dining room had been host to the man who called himself Mr Monkfish. Witnesses identified his enormously corpulent form: a broad barrel of pink flesh in a stained, baggy, cream three-piece suit, the waistcoat straining its ivory buttons; a crumpled shirt and a cravat that had clearly been used as a napkin, no socks, but a pair of sailors' canvass plimsolls on his feet. The cufflinks, the fob watch, and the pin through the cravat, though, were all real gold. He was reclined in his chair, a cigar chewed contemplatively, heedless of the obscenely late hour. He was considering a pudding.

Without fuss, the door opened, and half a dozen people entered. In front, two men and a woman, casually removing machetes from under their cheap black suit jackets; behind them a man and another woman carrying polished blackwood staves, sharpened metal spines affixed at the top; last another man with a heavy object weighing down the cut of his, rather better, suit, more interested in watching the restaurant guests as he closed the door.

"We think this one was the first victim," said DC XXXXXXXX, kneeling by the body of a man: stubble and pudding-bowl haircut, a cheap suit and silk shirt, ripped open at the front to reveal a huge purpling blister over the heart. "Poisoned. Some sort of nerve agent. Acted in seconds. Paralyzed his lungs. Stopped his heart. Doesn't look like it was quick enough not to hurt…"

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

Mr Monkfish could have started to his feet in a blink. That would have been surprising for any man; for a man of his size it should have been astounding. And a warning.

The action could have allowed him to shake and prime a bamboo pipe that hung loosely within the lining of the left arm of his suit. Remains of the bamboo were found at the scene. Raising his arms, seemingly in surrender or surprise, might have pulled taut a string or thread that tied a pin at the back of the tube to his collar stud. Pushing his arm forward just a little more could have pulled the pin and, probably with an all-but-inaudible pop, spat a needle out of his cuff and into the chest of the first assailant.

The injected maculotoxin, derived from the venom of the tiny blue-ringed octopus, would have stung like a thousand tiny jellyfish, but he would not have even been able to scream from his frozen lungs.

"But it wasn't the poisoning that killed him," DC XXXXXXXX rolled over the body to reveal a deep gash to the back of the head and neck.

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

Rolling forward on the balls of his feet, Mr Monkfish could have grasped his lead assailant by the lapels. This would have let him shift the man bodily under the attack of the woman just behind. As her blade fell upon and heavily penetrated the first victim, Monkfish could have lifted and pushed the man's body onto her so that they both went down.

He then kicked her while she was down. No one expects steel toecaps in a pair of sailor's plimsolls.

"Victim number two was found underneath victim number one. Her throat was crushed. Victim number three was over here, with a fairly major stab wound to the lower abdomen…"

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

The sugar tongs were also found damaged and discarded to one side of the table.

Monkfish could have continued his movement, using the momentum to hop back away from the dinner table, presumably catching up the tongs as he moved.

Clearly impractical as a weapon, but improvisation has always been key to Mr Monkfish's survival, we can assume he snatched them up with his free hand, even as he was dealing with the first two assailants.

He must then have permitted the next man to swing his machete and caught the blade in the "u" of the tongs. There would have been a striking of sparks as the metal hit metal, accounting for the damage. Monkfish would have had to roll with the blow to absorb the momentum.

But with the attacker's arm at full stretch, Mr Monkfish could have brought his own left arm up sharply. There would have been two distinct cracks as both the bamboo pipe in his sleeve and the assassin's wrist snapped.

Without releasing his grip on the sugar tongs, Mr Monkfish could have reversed the man's blade and impaled him with his own weapon.

"Now, numbers four and five are where things start to get weird."

"Start to?"

"See here, defensive injuries on the knuckles and back of the hands, consistent with being attacked with a big knife or a sword, but they’ve both been comprehensively punctured with something like a sharpened stick or stake. No sign of what it was, but… you don’t think… vampires, do ye?"

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

Presuming these two to be the pair armed with bladed staffs, they would have stood behind the first attackers, the ones with machetes, and thrust their spearpoints at Mr Monkfish, perhaps not even aware that their comrades were already dead or dying.

Here we must rely more on guesswork. We know from other witnesses that Monkfish had a cane when he entered. Let us suppose he left this cane within reach of the table, perhaps here leaning against tiles of the empty hearth.

Throwing the sugar tongs the other way to distract their eyes, Monkfish could have swayed out of the path of their stabbing spears, this simple misdirection seeming to let him defy his physical size and shape.

The undulation took him left towards the fireplace to catch up the walking stick and back to the right to where he had been stood.

Barely a heartbeat had passed. But suddenly he is armed.

Holding the stick up before him like a sword, perhaps he exchanged blows with the wooden polearms like a fencing master. Parrying the first man's staff, let’s guess that he let his cane slide down the length of wood and suddenly twisted the walking stick's silver wolfshead handle, clicking razor edged blades out from either side of the deceptive rattan, and slicing the man's fingers, creating the appearance of defensive injuries.

After that, we simply imagine the man dropped his weapon only to have it turned upon him and then his fellow in quick succession.

"Number six, he's probably the strangest of 'em all. He's armed, nice big gun, still in its holster. Business card in his wallet. And a ton of dosh."

"Show me the card."

"It's here. Pretty typical. Nice quality though. Heavy. Embossed 'W; and the word 'Wade'. We're tracing it."

"And the money?"

"Fake."

"Fake?"

"See for yourself: here's his wallet, loaded with over two grand, easy. All small notes: fivers, tenners. Except they’re printed on this… plastic. SOCO calls it a polymer. Instead of conventional cotton paper. And the pictures on the back aren't right. And as for the portrait of Her Maj... that's just wrong.

"And then there's all this bruising to the face. Asphyxiated…"

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

To the lead gangster it must have seemed like magic, a macabre trick, or what Monkfish would describe as an obscene prestidigitation: he follows his thugs into the dining room where the fat man is waiting all alone; he glances out the door to see they’re not disturbed; and he looks back to see all his men dead.

He'd have gone for his gun. His hand starting for his holster. But he’s already too late. A sweaty, ample palm reaches out of nowhere and fastens itself over his mouth and nose. A second hand grasps the back of his head and the two squeezed like a vice.

"And the last one?"

A large black man was laid out by the dining room door, an impressive fishing knife, the only other weapon in the room aside from the untouched pistol, had not been removed from his neck.

"Bouncer from the restaurant, we think. In on the hit, obviously. Doesn't seem to have worked out for him…"

DI XXXXXXXX’s speculation:

Now I confess I am guessing.

Our bouncer friend is wating outside the room. Full view of the other diners.

The door must have opened a narrow crack. We don't think Monkfish had that flintlock of his, so let's assume something more discrete: a miniature pistol, two chambers in, since it's Monkfish, gleaming silver. It presses against the black man's neck.

"Dear Sir, my good fellow…"

You know how Monkfish speaks, though it can only have been in a whisper, as it can’t have carried.

"…it would be, if I may say, the most creditable honour if you would be good enough to remain exactly where you are standing. I would recommend that you indicate your understanding with the very slightest nod of your head."

There'd have been a pause. Then the black man's head would have twitched, very slightly. A nod.

"Good fellow. Capital, absolutely capital," Monkfish would have enthused in that lugubrious way of his.

"Now that we have an accord, let me come to my proposition. Much as it gives me the most painful regret to suspect any human person, yet I must apologise for the misgiving that you are here in confederation with certain others who came within."

I mean he'd have said something like that.

Then there'd have been another pause.

"Is that not so?" Monkfish would have prompted.

Another pause. And there'd have been another twitch. Another nod.

"I understand. Dear fellow, no one could be more understanding than I. Let us think nothing of it, let us not let it trouble us again. I shall suppose only that they asked of you to remain without that they were not disturbed about their business. What could be more harmless than that?"

And another twitch. Another nod.

"And so and so forth I would ask nothing more of you than that you continue in same manner, to keep the gentlemen who have retired within from discovery for, shall we agree to say, a period of not one second less than six hours. I'm sure that a gentleman of discretion, such as yourself, would understand that my trust is not to be abused."

Pause.

"You would understand, would you not?"

Twitch. Nod.

After which, the pressure of that double-muzzle would have been abruptly withdrawn and the door snapped shut with a firm click.

We know the bouncer gave it ten minutes before going to raise the alarm. Which was, unfortunately for him, not nearly long enough.

Five hours and fifty minutes later, a telephone had rung at the police station.

Conclusions:

Since the assassins sent to kill him were not ours, nor to the best of our knowledge agents of the Ministry, we infer that Monkfish has enemies beyond HMG.

The bodies, however, revealed no evidence to connect them to the Russians, nor the Americans, French, Chinese or any known criminal or international terrorist gangs.

Close examination of the money carried by the man in the suit, who we presume to be the team leader, revealed two crucial facts:

It was not a forgery. In fact, bore considerable anti-forgery aspects, beyond that of what we might produce today.
The dates of issue were noted to range from 20XX to 20XX. The serial numbers and embedded marks being consistent with these dates.

Further investigation revealed that two of the banknotes in the bundle left by Monkfish in lieu of payment were of similar provenance.

The evidence was immediately sealed under authority of unit GOLD designated 'foreign powers' connections or contagion.

1982, United Kingdom: Manchester

Richard Flowers