Hands across the water
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Always happy to lend a hand with the Sunday roast.
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Bunty loves the beach, which is a good thing because that's where I do most of my foraging, 'minesweeping' as my old man calls it. I inherited the metal detector from him when his legs no longer had the strength to support him, and I suppose I also inherited his new pup, Bunty, at the same time.
I'm out of work, 'unemployable' according to the smug bastard at the job centre who witnesses my signature once a fortnight. He himself freely admits he wouldn't get out of bed for the pittance the few jobs on offer are paying, but hey, he has a decent salary with all the perks and this isn't about him at all, as he's also wont to point out. I could care less. My two pensions are more than enough to get by on and my days are my own.
The metal detector could be sold on 'as new' for the fact that my old man tried it out only once on his garden, adding significantly to the collection of nails he keeps in a drawer in the shed. I've had more luck with it since taking over responsibility for it, coming up with several old coins, some of them worth a bob or two, and the odd item of jewellery; mainly single earrings.
Bunty is a tireless Spaniel of sorts and is happy to romp in the surf all day, so I brought the detector along for my own amusement, the water being far too chilly for me to enjoy. She also helps out when it comes to the digging, her ears picking up the beep even before I do, and I wear the headphones.
She quickly picked up on the fact that the beep meant, 'dig'. I'm quite sure there's some terrier in her. There's a lack of finesse to her digging which often means I have to sift through whatever pile of sand or dirt she leaves in her wake, and that confuses her somewhat.
I keep an eye on the tides and we're often first out when the incoming waves have been rough in the hope that the swell has dredged up something of interest and swept it ashore, so, imagine the rush we both felt early one Sunday morning when a particularly loud beep alerted us.
The sand was wet, the tide having only recently vacated. Bunty made her usual frantic start to proceedings and straight away I caught sight of something dark flying behind her. What was once a leather pouch disintegrated as soon as I touched it but there was treasure within in the shape of a silver coin. I was examining it when I realised Bunty had stopped digging without my having given the command. Her tail was wagging furiously and she had her nose close to what looked like a dead fish, maybe even a stinger, a jellyfish. Fearful she might get stung I called her to me and that's when it struck me she had unearthed a hand. I was thinking doll's hand at first, a doll's hand, swollen by the sea water and encased in a flimsy lace glove but two steps forward and I suspected it to be human; knew it to be human.
I carry bags to clean up after Bunny, and, since the beach was deserted, decided my best course of action would be to bag the evidence like I'd seen them do on the telly, thinking if another dog came along it could well run off with it. The hand was spongy to the touch when I put the back of my own hand to it, so I used my little collapsible spade to help it into the bag. I then scored a deepish line in the wet sand to indicate exactly where Bunty had found the thing.
The policewoman looked half asleep but soon stirred herself to attention when I plonked the hand down on the counter. I think she took a couple of steps back but can't be sure as Bunty chose that moment to give herself a good shake, spraying the police station foyer with wet sand and sea water which had gathered in her thick coat.
I explained the circumstances of our find and the policewoman made notes, and phone calls. She gave Bunty some water and made me a cup of tea while we waited for a detective to come and take charge. While we waited I studied the coin and found it to be a Queen Anne silver half-crown which turned out to be exactly two hundred years old. I was thinking maybe a couple of hundred quids’ worth but couldn't be sure until I consulted the books.
The detective was a grumpy bastard. Bunty didn't like him and neither did I. He drove us down to the beach and I had to laugh to myself when he taped the area off like they do with a crime scene, knowing the incoming tide would erase all sign of it long before the forensics team he had notified would get anywhere near it. I thought of pointing that out to him but didn't bother on account of his attitude. He didn't like it when I ran the metal detector around the area, and said so. My own thinking was that where there's one Queen Anne half crown, there could easily be a few more.
I took Bunty back to the old man's house and told him the tale. My sister had arrived, we always eat Sunday dinner together, and she was decidedly grossed out by it all.
After dinner we watched an old Western, then I wheeled the old man down to the beach in his chair.
Sure enough, the police tape was almost submerged and there was a strong swell. A van full of white suits sat on the prom and the old man shook his head sadly, muttering that they'd likely be on triple time and it was a complete waste of public money. Bunty doesn't swim when he is with us and I don't know why that is. Another one of life's great mysteries.
Later, I rang the police station, and after identifying myself asked how long I would have to wait to claim my find. No, not the hand, that wouldn't be right at all, but the large diamond adorning the ring finger. I couldn't see how anyone would be calling in to lay claim to that.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Always happy to lend a hand with the Sunday roast.
_____________________________________________________________________
Bunty loves the beach, which is a good thing because that's where I do most of my foraging, 'minesweeping' as my old man calls it. I inherited the metal detector from him when his legs no longer had the strength to support him, and I suppose I also inherited his new pup, Bunty, at the same time.
I'm out of work, 'unemployable' according to the smug bastard at the job centre who witnesses my signature once a fortnight. He himself freely admits he wouldn't get out of bed for the pittance the few jobs on offer are paying, but hey, he has a decent salary with all the perks and this isn't about him at all, as he's also wont to point out. I could care less. My two pensions are more than enough to get by on and my days are my own.
The metal detector could be sold on 'as new' for the fact that my old man tried it out only once on his garden, adding significantly to the collection of nails he keeps in a drawer in the shed. I've had more luck with it since taking over responsibility for it, coming up with several old coins, some of them worth a bob or two, and the odd item of jewellery; mainly single earrings.
Bunty is a tireless Spaniel of sorts and is happy to romp in the surf all day, so I brought the detector along for my own amusement, the water being far too chilly for me to enjoy. She also helps out when it comes to the digging, her ears picking up the beep even before I do, and I wear the headphones.
She quickly picked up on the fact that the beep meant, 'dig'. I'm quite sure there's some terrier in her. There's a lack of finesse to her digging which often means I have to sift through whatever pile of sand or dirt she leaves in her wake, and that confuses her somewhat.
I keep an eye on the tides and we're often first out when the incoming waves have been rough in the hope that the swell has dredged up something of interest and swept it ashore, so, imagine the rush we both felt early one Sunday morning when a particularly loud beep alerted us.
The sand was wet, the tide having only recently vacated. Bunty made her usual frantic start to proceedings and straight away I caught sight of something dark flying behind her. What was once a leather pouch disintegrated as soon as I touched it but there was treasure within in the shape of a silver coin. I was examining it when I realised Bunty had stopped digging without my having given the command. Her tail was wagging furiously and she had her nose close to what looked like a dead fish, maybe even a stinger, a jellyfish. Fearful she might get stung I called her to me and that's when it struck me she had unearthed a hand. I was thinking doll's hand at first, a doll's hand, swollen by the sea water and encased in a flimsy lace glove but two steps forward and I suspected it to be human; knew it to be human.
I carry bags to clean up after Bunny, and, since the beach was deserted, decided my best course of action would be to bag the evidence like I'd seen them do on the telly, thinking if another dog came along it could well run off with it. The hand was spongy to the touch when I put the back of my own hand to it, so I used my little collapsible spade to help it into the bag. I then scored a deepish line in the wet sand to indicate exactly where Bunty had found the thing.
The policewoman looked half asleep but soon stirred herself to attention when I plonked the hand down on the counter. I think she took a couple of steps back but can't be sure as Bunty chose that moment to give herself a good shake, spraying the police station foyer with wet sand and sea water which had gathered in her thick coat.
I explained the circumstances of our find and the policewoman made notes, and phone calls. She gave Bunty some water and made me a cup of tea while we waited for a detective to come and take charge. While we waited I studied the coin and found it to be a Queen Anne silver half-crown which turned out to be exactly two hundred years old. I was thinking maybe a couple of hundred quids’ worth but couldn't be sure until I consulted the books.
The detective was a grumpy bastard. Bunty didn't like him and neither did I. He drove us down to the beach and I had to laugh to myself when he taped the area off like they do with a crime scene, knowing the incoming tide would erase all sign of it long before the forensics team he had notified would get anywhere near it. I thought of pointing that out to him but didn't bother on account of his attitude. He didn't like it when I ran the metal detector around the area, and said so. My own thinking was that where there's one Queen Anne half crown, there could easily be a few more.
I took Bunty back to the old man's house and told him the tale. My sister had arrived, we always eat Sunday dinner together, and she was decidedly grossed out by it all.
After dinner we watched an old Western, then I wheeled the old man down to the beach in his chair.
Sure enough, the police tape was almost submerged and there was a strong swell. A van full of white suits sat on the prom and the old man shook his head sadly, muttering that they'd likely be on triple time and it was a complete waste of public money. Bunty doesn't swim when he is with us and I don't know why that is. Another one of life's great mysteries.
Later, I rang the police station, and after identifying myself asked how long I would have to wait to claim my find. No, not the hand, that wouldn't be right at all, but the large diamond adorning the ring finger. I couldn't see how anyone would be calling in to lay claim to that.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing.
Angus is the author of twelve novels, two short story collections and five collections of McLimericks. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.
Angus is the author of twelve novels, two short story collections and five collections of McLimericks. All but four of his books are McStorytellers publications.
You can read his full profile on McVoices.