When that once in a lifetime employment opportunity knocks on your door, is there sometimes wisdom in not answering?

This is the origin piece to the Dafydd Llewellyn-Evans series of supernatural detective stories which includes ‘A Coelacanth in the bathroom’ and ‘A barbecue of bats’.

At the dead, dark end of a rain damp alleyway, the naked Cyclops skidded to a halt and stared back at him from in front of a high grey concrete wall, gummy mouth wide open in horror as if he were the monster. Dave halted and blinked back, chest heaving with exertion, fascinated by the single large central eye which seemed far too big for the sparsely lank-haired head. “All right you. You’re under arrest.” Dave wheezed, wiping sweat from rounded Celtic features. Damn, but the bloody thing could run! As a Police officer he was supposed to be relatively fit, but this creature had led him a right merry dance through Cardiff’s early morning side streets and alleyways.

While he had it backed into a corner, the random thought sidled into his forebrain that this ginger haired homunculus was more what you’d expect from Pixar or Walt Disney. It was a caricature, a cartoonists idea of what a single eyed creature should look like. Then, just as he adjusted his handcuffs to snap them on the cowering creature, he felt a twist in the air, blinked and the Cyclops was gone. Thin air. Not so much as a puff of theatrical smoke.

Not again. That was the second time this week. Dave sagged, canvas windcheater sticking to his skin through a sweat soaked dark blue t-shirt. Within his lightweight hiking trousers, his thighs ached. Despite decent trainers, his feet did too.

Why had he taken this stupid job anyway? Ah. Yes. Right. Boredom with the usual routine trawling of lists, taking statements and weaselling pallid lies from the wicked and weak willed. That and the promotion that came with it. But if he’d really known what this job involved, he’d have walked out of the door and gone to get totally weasel-arse drunk for a week. Well he might just do that tonight anyway. If he managed to get home before midnight.

Chasing ‘anomalies’ had turned out to be nothing but a right bloody fools game that had him tear-arsing from town to town at some ungodly hour only to find nothing but unsubstantiated reports. This time was different, the Cyclops had been haunting the underpasses and parks around Cardiff for two whole months, making dogs howl and cats disappear. The local Police hadn’t a clue and couldn’t be bothered so the case file had ended up on his desk. What was it with Cyclops and cats? He’d never find out because now the mini monster was gone. Like a Tiger Bay fog. British X-Files my arse. More like Laurel and Hardy than Mulder and Scully.

Leaning against the brick lined alleyways wall to catch his breath he recalled how he’d ended up in this mugs game. He’d been summoned one Thursday evening to a meeting. The door to the Chief Superintendent’s office had been open and Chief Superintendent Mangan sat behind the desk, a dapper looking civilian seated in front of her. “This is Detective Constable Llewellyn-Evans.” The uniformed Chief Superintendent announced to the civilian, who carried the air of one used to the effortless wielding of authority. A sort of Sir Humphrey Appleby on steroids, thought Dave. “Dafydd.” The Chief Super said.

“Ma’am?” Oh no, she even pronounced his first name correctly. Dav-i-th with a hard th, not Daf-id in her usual offhand English manner. Dafydd’s mind raced. What had he done wrong?

“We have a request from the Ministry of Justice, via Mister Williams here. A job for which we think you are the ideal candidate.” Oh God, the Chief Super was referring to herself in the third person, this was bad, very bad. Dave struggled to keep his poker face firmly neutral.

“As you have already passed your Sergeants exam, the job automatically entails promotion to Detective Sergeant as a senior officer in a brand new task force.” She continued, her mouth smiling like a shark. Her steely grey eyes however, said ‘gotcha’. She was obviously happy to have ticked yet another box on her way to Assistant Chief Constable.

Oh my, what big teeth she has. Dave thought morosely. On the other hand, he reasoned, senior member of a new task force? The extra money would certainly come in useful. He brightened a little. Promotion with benefits would get him out of a few minor jams with the credit card companies and his landlord. “Thank you Ma’am.” He said with genuine sincerity.

“Mister Williams will fill in the broad operational details. I have another appointment to keep.” She got up from her chair and with a clump of heavy heeled shoes Chief Superintendent Hilary Mangan was gone. Which was odd. Surely this was an operational matter she’d have to sign off on?

Mister Williams on the other hand, if that was his real name, stank of influence, from the top of his well-groomed grey peppered haircut to the tips of his shiny and very expensive black shoes. Well-cut suit, Guards regiment tie, smug, subtle cat-that-got-the-canary smile. Right. Wouldn’t hurt to keep on the right side of him. Although if you opened him up, you’d likely find ‘Property of Whitehall’ tattooed on every major organ, especially his brain.

Williams stood up, moved easily to the other side of the Chief Super’s desk and leaned back in her executive leather chair. “Detective Constable. Or may I call you Dafydd” He said, pronouncing Dave’s name perfectly then gestured at the chair he had just vacated. “Or do you prefer Dave?”

“Dave will be fine sir.” Dave replied cautiously.

When he sat down on the slightly warm fabric Dave got the feeling his every move was being silently critiqued. Mister Williams looked over steepled fingertips from the Chief Super’s chair at Dave, who kept his face utterly expressionless.

“We at the Ministry of Justice have a job we’d like you to do.” Mister Williams launched into his sales pitch. “As Hilary said, it comes with automatic promotion to Detective Sergeant and full private health insurance cover. Including dental. With BUPA I believe.” There was something about Williams small smug smile that made Dave want to punch it, very, very badly. But if this Williams character was going to get him a Detective Sergeants pay or better with full benefits, he could restrain himself from almost anything.

“What is the job sir?” He’d asked.

“You are a careful and assiduous officer of the Police service, yet your superiors think and I tend to agree, that you have special talents which should prove invaluable for this role.” Said Williams in tones so oily you could have fried chips in it.

“Which talents are those?” Dave asked, trying to look like a tough seen-it-all Detective Constable and failing. He often had the mickey taken for not looking enough like a real copper, trying to cultivate a steely thousand mile stare, but only ending up looking like he had a bad squint.

“You have a unique instinct.” Williams said. “One which would greatly benefit the new anomaly task force.”

“Anomaly task force?”

“Yes. You have a demonstrated talent for observing the extraordinary and finding the mundane. Like that case forwarded to the CPA last month. The, ahem… werewolf?”

“But that was a man living in a dog kennel because his wife had kicked him out for snoring.” Said Dave.

“The initial complaint was about a werewolf.” Williams insisted. “Then there were the UFO reports, which you correctly identified as an inebriated children’s entertainer who kept accidentally releasing foil helium balloons.” He continued. “You, detective sergeant, have a talent for the truth. And the truth of these matters is very important. Because much Police service time is wasted chasing after these chimeras and hobgoblins. This situation must end and you are the man we feel who can end it. Three years in post will see you promoted to Inspector. Not to mention the other benefits of seniority in such a specialist discipline.”

Leaning against the wall, hands on knees and breathing hard, Dave wondered if the implied benefits were that great, if what Williams had said was true, why hadn’t there been a mile long queue outside the Chief Supers office? Why was this job only offered to him?

He’d found a partial answer three months later in the internal Police service newsletter. A niece of the Chief Superintendent had just passed her detectives exam and been put on the fast track. She was now following a trail of career stepping stones to high office. One of which was Dave’s previous lowly post in the regional crime squad.

So that was why he’d been given this once in a lifetime opportunity. He’d been shunted sideways into what Justice must have thought was a non-job. Only to find that it wasn’t, the monsters were real. There were such things as Vampires, Werewolves, Leprechauns and Cyclops. Not to mention those bloody pixies who had taken up residence in his chest of drawers. Yes, it was nice to have clean, neatly folded underwear, but he lived in horror of slipping into a pair of briefs to find one of the little so-and-so’s haunting his gussets. A bad tempered pixie, as he had found to his cost, was a formidable thing. The thought of one in close proximity to his important little places gave him the shudders.

Dave wiped sweat from his face, blinking heavily as he got his breath back. Right. Anyway, that bloody Cyclops was now gone, at least that meant Cardiff’s cat population could once more hunt other small furry creatures in peace. Job done. Home for tea and paperwork. Just another day at the office.

He shook his head in resigned dismay and walked back to his car, only to find a parking ticket tucked under his cars grubby windscreen wiper. Bloody hell fire.

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