WIRS #08 'The Ashton Canal Monster'

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 01

I was so distracted by my weekend's electronics assignment, I took a left instead right off the busy platform, came out onto Manchester Piccadilly's Fairfield Street by mistake.

I sighed. Rather than fight my way back across the totally heaving concourse, I settled my week-end bag's wide strap onto my right shoulder and set off towards Great Ancoats Street. Just beyond the station complex, I veered left onto Travis Street, as that diagonal would save ten minutes.

After my two wild weekends then returning Ashlee's 'Official Secrets' form to WIRS' anonymous PO Box, November had passed without further incident. December, Christmas and New Year came and went likewise. I was glad of the down-time, did a lot of catch-up stuff. Now, part-way through January, a 'JJ' text had brought me to Manchester. 'Meet Jub Thai, M4 6DH, Friday 18:00 ?' Fair enough...

I was fifty yards along Travis Street when my nape hair prickled. In less than a minute, I'd gone from a well-lit, 'still busy' city street to a dim, near-deserted, 'light industrial' zone, now mostly closed for the weekend. I'd no expectation of meeting another 'Skinny-man' and, surely, 'JJ' would have warned me. Still, my 'Urban Jungle' reflexes clicked up a notch.

As that post-Standish shopping had re-stocked my wardrobe, I'd spent my Trustees' end-of-year gift-card on small stuff. As planned, I found a very nice Christmas card for young second-cousin Linda to distract from her new sib, barely begrudged the 'large letter' surcharge. I posted a few more nice cards, hand-delivered budget editions to my friends and acquaintances. I did some 'out-of-box' thinking, collected a few inexpensive whatsits I thought might prove useful.

So, I lowered my right hand, flexed that arm. My small, new tactical torch and cat-toy slid down on its lanyard loop to nestle, unseen, in my palm. My thumb edge checked its selector switch, found the side-button, one reason for its choice. Dire contingencies mitigated, I strode on. In a while, Travis Street would become Adair Street. When that met Ancoats, I'd turn left.

Just beyond the nearby Ashton Canal, the 'Jub Thai' restaurant was some-where on the right. Curiously, it did not post its menu on-line. The web-site said this was to allow more 'Chef Specials', their 'Dishes of the Day', but I found it annoying. Mum and Dad had eclectic palates, loved exotic, oft-spicy food. Too often, too spicy for me. After many, many years of bland hospital food, I'd simpler tastes, preferred budget 'vittles'. A mild curry or 'sweet & sour' was my usual limit. Hopefully, I could get a menu translation and safety briefing from 'JJ' and the team...

A generic, scruffy druggie stepped from a shadowed alley ahead. He brandished a strong, foot-long screw-driver, snarled, "Yer bag !"

"Yer phone !" His lanky side-kick held a small craft-knife competently.

"Yer cash !" Perp One had remembered the rest of his lines.

"Okay--" I lifted my right hand, thumbed the switch. Cree LEDs punched a yard-wide beam into their excited, dark-adapted eyes. They swore, raised arms by reflex. I stepped forwards, pivoted on my right foot, kicked. My left Doc's safety toe-cap met Perp One's right thigh like a baton round. Dead-legged, he toppled, howling. I transitioned via a short step, kicked Perp Two with my right. The geometry being favourable, I found his cojones. He jack-knifed, landed hard, curled mewling. I stepped on his discarded knife, shattering it.

Perp One had some-how kept hold of his long screw-driver, was incoherently jabbing it towards me. Trapping his fore-arm under-foot, I added pressure until he figured the message and let go. A robust, flat-tipped implement, it would make a nice priser. I tucked it into my bag.

"Thank you," I said. Stepping wide around him, I added, "Have a nice day !"

Their anguished, rather repetitive swearing gradually diminished behind me.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 02

A few minutes brought me to the main road. I turned left, crossed at a gap, followed the further footpath over the canal. The front corner of the first building held the Thai restaurant I sought. And, yes, WIRS' dark crew-cab van was parked on the wide foot-path, ready to rumble.

I took a long, slow breath to calm my nerves, walked to the diner's entrance.

"Good evening !" The smart Maitre d' wasn't as stealthy as Geoff, but certainly materialised closer than I'd prefer.

"I think I'm expected ?" I offered.

"Over here, Tim !" Ms. Jones called from the back. We followed her voice. That dim alcove sat three with brick behind, an angled view of the door, scant sight-line from the street. Coincidence or not, it made a fair tactical position. The Maitre d' walked me there.

"Ma'm, Geoff, Mike." I nodded politely.

"A drink to start ?" Ms. Jones gestured towards their glasses.

"Uh, small lemonade, please ?" As my three kidneys could clear fluid very rapidly, I used due care.

Ms. Jones nodded to the Maitre d', then said, "Sit."

I pulled out the vacant chair, which did have its back to the door. Dipping my bag's document pocket, I drew and presented three named envelopes, said, "Season's Greetings."

As they opened them, I set down the bag, hung my jacket on the seat back.

"Oh, Tim ! It's lovely !" My nice 'New Year' cards drew nods from the guys, too.

"I sent a team Christmas card to WIRS' PO Box. Perhaps you saw it ?"

"Magda mentioned something," Ms. Jones allowed. "Did you get any push-back over your neighbour's 'Secrets' form ?"

"No, Ma'm." I shook my head. "But Ashlee's not stupid. Given what she'd figured out, she guessed there's a lot I can't discuss. Mundane stuff, sub-judice investigations. Besides, who'd want to make an enemy of HMRC ?"

"True !" Ms. Jones dark eyes twinkled. "Good Christmas ?"

"Quiet, Ma'm." I shrugged. "Declined invites, read a few books, did some research at the City library, a lot of thinking, wrote your reports..."

"Ah, yes. 'Technical Section' were very impressed."

"Ma'm, there are things you need to know. Call them 'Personal Development'."

"Your neighbour ?"

"No, Ma'm." I shook my head. "Ashlee's not my kind of Belle, nor am I hers...

"It's my Tae Kwon Do, Ma'm: After years stuck at Blue, I've reached Brown."

"Oh ?"

"Yes, Ma'm." I nodded. "I could do the forms and katas. I could hold off our Dans, often thwart Jack, our Sensei, but I couldn't attack. Just couldn't...

"Now I can. The Dans said I've blown my 'Glass Ceiling' to crumbs. Jack said I've seriously up-levelled. They were very, very frustrated by my 'NDA' replies."

"I'm sure !" Her eyes twinkled again.

"It's not just gym work, Ma'm. I was jumped by a pair of druggies in Travis Street. No big deal, I could have used defensive parries and throws. Instead, I dazzled them with my little torch, stepped up and kicked them, once each. Broke the second's craft-knife, took the first's big screw-driver..." My hand fell to the weapon's strong handle. I laid it on the table. "It can live in the van, or I'll dump it."

All three peered at my loot. Mike, our driver, blinked, then quietly asked, "Travis Street, Widnes ? Or just over the bridge from here ?"

"I got turned around coming out of the station," I admitted.

"You--" Ms. Jones lowered her voice and tried again. "You've just taken this off a mugger ? And the other had a knife ?"

"Yes, Ma'm."

"Body bags ?"

"Unlikely, Ma'm," I judged. "One will limp for several days, other's out of the gene pool for a week or two. Injuries match a dealer dispute."

"Okay," she gauged, then watched as I dipped my bag again, produced another envelope.

"Standish receipts, Ma'm."

"Ah, thank you !" Her eyes twinkled. She made that envelope vanish into her jacket's poacher pocket, produced two of her own, offered me the thinner. "Your Halloween 'SkinnyMan' bounty should have been awarded by mid-December. But, what with everything else, WIRS' Prize Court was a bit distracted..."

"Bounty ?" I took a breath. "A 'Prize Court' ?"

"Generic 'Civilian Termination of Proscribed Entity'," she stated. "Tax-free. Open it."

I split the seal with the back of my table knife, unfolded the letter, blinked at its enclosure. A cashier's cheque ? For £ 1000 ? A 'grand', free and clear, was very, very nice. "Thank you, Ma'm. I'll put this to good use..."

"There's more to come." Ms. Jones' eyes twinkled. "NCA are still assessing the 'Moaning Mill' and its Standish link, plus ties to several formerly elusive 'County Line' operations. Besides lots of drugs, guns, money and other valuables, DI Banks' raids also recovered several high-end smart-phones, equipped with a second, custom SIM to provide encrypted messaging. We'd heard of such via Europol, but not seen them here...

"WIRS' foreign equivalents are buying into the 'Daresbury Ghoul' and 'Heptonstall Flock' material. Our multi-angle Mount View Hall 'Tinks' footage is exceptional. Even severely redacted, the 'Croston Effect' report is valuable...

"Then there's Standish..." Ms. Jones' smile was a force of nature. "Which will take much, much longer to fully evaluate. There's been prior specimens, of course, but dried, pickled or otherwise degraded. And, generally, poor provenance...

"Yours was so fresh, Tim, it proved viable."

"Huh ?"

"Like sponges and some jellyfish, cultured cells grow into complete animals--"

"Containment--" I blurted.

"They're like slime mould or sea anemone polyps," Ms. Jones calmly continued. "Harmless when small, no volition beyond a feeding reflex. I'm told our atmosphere is toxic to them until much larger. Too much oxygen."

"I'm glad," I whispered, back-tracked, asked, "A 'Prize Court' ?"

"Yes, Tim, derived from the old Naval system that assessed seizures' value. For big stuff like this, it's run more like Lloyd's Underwriters. Groups take turns to buy a wary share of the deal. As more buy in, confidence grows. Goes around and around until..."

I gulped.

Ms. Jones nodded. "As Team Junior, you get a smaller basic share than us, plus bonuses for 'Personal Contributions'."

"Like, um, whaling ships ?" I murmured, with a shudder.

"Quite." Her eyes twinkled at my grim analogy. "They're still trying to decide if we qualify for the big 'Manchester Evening News' reward for rescuing those three students..."

"Ah..." I shivered, mentioned, "Who keep texting me invites. But it wouldn't be ethical."

"Hold that thought," Ms. Jones advised.

After a breath, I thought to ask, "Those cultists we locked in the Standish solvent store ? Did they survive ?"

"Yes," Ms. Jones stated. "However, all three have severe 'shell-shock', are 'Unfit To Plead'. Better this way. They faced 'Conspiracy to Murder' for the cleaner and students, plus terror offences for the incursion, but they're just minions. There's no evidence they were involved in the kidnapping, not even one of their fingerprints in that van. They'd have 'lawyered-up', chorused, 'No Comment'. The 'Crown Prosecution Service' didn't want to press charges, risk going to trial. Too much chance of the full truth leaking. Instead, they're in a 'secure ward', stoned on anti-psychotics for their PTSD...

"Jack Daniels is a different matter. His hands were not as clean as he implied. He helped manufacture and package the amphetamines, plus he was a heavy user. But, besides a remarkable amount of cash and an encrypted phone with its pass-code on a Post-It, Mackensie's office safe held a fat file on Jack's kin. Stalker stuff, 'We Know Where The Kids Go To School'. Times, routes, photos of them, their homes, cars, pets and friends, all sorts of personal details...

"Also, the warehouse was razed. Though our photos and your report give a fair idea of the portal configuration, the only plans and specifications are in Jack's head. So, while he 'plays nice' with the 'Technical Section', he gets a 'rain-check' on the legal side.

"Now, open your other letter."

This ran to several pages. The complex phrasing did not make much sense at first. And then it seemed too good to be true. "Ma'm, does this mean HMRC are paying for my course ?"

"You're covered through to Summer, and the college will refund your Trust for this term's fees." She nodded as my eyes widened. "If you keep up your grades and play nice, it renews. Given your knack of finding trouble, I've fast-tracked you onto several WIRS 'Summer School' courses. So, don't go booking a 'Club 18-30' break."

"Ma'm..." Given my medical issues, foreign travel insurance was prohibitively expensive. In theory, it would settle down but, meanwhile, I holidayed in UK. Happens a week or two 'chilling' in my cousins' quiet Norfolk coast's time-share suited me just fine...

My drink materialised then, as did our menus. Ms. Jones, Mike and Geoff glanced down their options, then turned to study the 'Specials' board. I found little I recognised, had to ask, "I'm sorry, what would be 'Meek & Mild' ?"

"Go for the 'Chicken Sweet and Sour'," Mike recommended. "But beware the lower layer of their peanut dip."

"Spicy ?"

"Think 'Yellow Kryptonite', with a napalm dressing..."

Duly warned, that's what I ordered when my turn came, plus another small lemonade.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 03

My 'Sweet and Sour' was really, really nice, and that peanut dip as potent as predicted. Even a minimal sampling brought tears to my eyes, confirming Mike's implication that the stuff could be weaponised.

With our mains' plates and bowls cleared away, and the dessert menu declined, Ms. Jones said, "Tim, we're not just here for this excellent food. You may have seen some reports of local canal drownings ?"

"Yes, Ma'm." I nodded, "Standish weekend was third in a month ? I think there's been another since..."

"Two." Her face was cold. "Plus a near-miss when a 'Very Big Fish' tried to grab a man off the tow-path. He was less drunk than the others, got clear. His confused report was attributed to 'Meth Psychosis'. But, a local witness claimed something had surged from the canal, like an orca snatching seal pups off a beach."

"As seen on TV," Mike murmured.

"DNA analysis of our November water samples took a month." Ms. Jones shook her head. "Assorted roach and chub, of course, but also a singular catfish, probably a Wels."

"Ooh !" I'd seen Jeremy Wade's 'River Monsters' series on TV, asked, "Don't they run big ? Have a bad attitude ?"

"Very big," Ms. Jones agreed. "Very bad. And this one has been swimming in amphetamines..."

"Ouch..." I whispered.

"So, Tim, how would you deal with it ?"

I blinked. 'Hook and Line' would need patient Mr. Wade, 'Jaws'-grade tackle plus lots of luck. Netting and/or electro-fishing had issues with trash. Poisoning or 'bombing' this stretch of the canal was both drastic and public. Draining, a last resort...

I turned the problem about, considered the victims, suggested, "Lure with a squirt bottle of AdBlue vodka cocktail, Ma'm ? Harpoon or gaff ?"

She glanced towards Mike, who was studying his complex watch, then said, "That's also what 'Technical Section' suggested. We've the makings in the van."

They did, too.

After Ms. Jones extended our compliments and settled our account, Mike moved the van a few lengths to the limited parking beside the terrace and tow-path behind the Jub Thai. This overlooked a narrow-boat lock. The guys assembled two two-metre barbed gaffs with braided wire 'leaders' and a big hank of paracord. Ms. Jones and I mixed four squirt-bottles of smelly 'Come Hither' cocktail. Then she and Mike strolled West on the Ashton Canal's tow-path, under the Ancoats road bridge. Their destination was the small lift-bridge over access to the 'James Brindley Basin', almost invisible on Google Earth. Geoff and I went East along the tow-path to the canal's nearby junction with its 'Islington Branch'. Either side of a high-humped foot-bridge, the turning basin's curved banks had low-set mooring bollards. And, the bridge parapet mostly blocked sight-lines from inland developments.

I positioned myself near the bridge, hopefully where a guy in need of relief would seek a little privacy. Geoff moored his gaff's line to the curve's outer-most bollard, coiled the line carefully, retreated into the shadows. When my eyes had adapted to the low light, when I'd mapped the basin's shapes and sounds, I dispensed a squirt of mix.

Nothing happened. We waited five minutes. I dispensed another squirt. Nothing happened. Five more minutes, another squirt. Nothing happened. Five more minutes, another squirt. Nothing happened. Five more minutes, another squirt. Nothing happened...

Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nary a ripple that wasn't obviously due to the chill breeze.

Geoff's time in 'The Regiment' had instilled near super-human patience. It was much harder for me, as I didn't do 'recreational fishing', coarse, bottom or whatever. I loathed jig-saw puzzles. I'd done far too many of them in hospital as a youngster...

I exhausted my first squirt bottle, started on the second.

I was half-way down that when the canal erupted at my feet. I dived aside, sprawled on a grassy patch I'd noted earlier. Geoff stepped across me. His gaff reached. It hooked. It set. It was snatched from his grasp. Pole, leader, paracord whipped out across the basin. Geoff grabbed the paracord with suitably gloved hands, slowed but didn't halt the departure. He had to let go as the last careful coil whizzed away. The paracord went taut with a twang. Spray rose from the tight line, which began to zig-zag around the basin as the great fish fought.

"Ma'm," he reported by phone, "we've made contact. It's a fighter."

The line was still zig-zagging when she and Mike jogged up. She glanced over to where I'd retreated, asked, "Tim ?"

"I'm okay, Ma'm, but it would have had me if drunk."

"It came half-way up the bank," Geoff confirmed.

We watched, we waited. We waited some more. After a while, I mentioned, "No sign of tiring."

"Agreed," Ms. Jones stated. "Guys ?"

Geoff shrugged. Mike admitted, "I've heard of stun grenades tossed into ponds."

Remembering some 'mechanics' math, recently revived by solving Dr. Andre's 'wrong questions', I pointed to the next-but-one bollard, asked, "Could we rig a 'Spanish Windlass' with your line and a carabiner ? Belay on that ?"

"Ah ? Guys ?"

"Worth a try," Mike admitted. He dug in his pockets and pouches, found a smooth carabiner. He connected that to the middle of his gaff-line, then onto the zig-zagging line by our bollard. He dropped his gaff-line's mooring loop over the further bollard. He flexed his gloved fingers then, with a 2:1 advantage, began to haul skew. At first, there was little change then, inch by inch, the working line developed an angle. As that opened, the 'mechanical advantage' grew. The 'Spanish Windlass' line tension rose. The great fish was drawn aside. Mike didn't force it. Warily, he waited for the fish's gyrations to ease the load before pulling some more.

"Mike ?" Offered Geoff, having studied his technique. They traded carefully. As the carabiner rode further and further towards the fish, it offered less freedom to build up speed. With the fight slowly changing from 'dynamic' to 'static', the fish was visibly tiring.

"Ma'm, we should repeat Tim's trick," Mike said. "Makings in the van."

"Make it so," she said. He went. As team junior, I should have been the 'go-for', but I did not know my way around the van's storage. Besides, I'd limited aerobic capacity. Though I could walk miles, I was no jogger, had scant sprint range. Mike was much, much fitter than me. In fact, he jogged back before I could have reached the Jub Thai.

Preparing a second carabiner and more paracord, Mike attached it to the working line by the first bollard, edged side-ways to slide it up to the 'Spanish Windlass'. He warily belayed onto Geoff's bollard, off-loading that line. Geoff transferred his anchor to a further bollard. He took up the slack, began to haul.

The acute angle drew the struggling fish closer and closer to the bank. Finally, it threshed bank-side.

"I'm drawing my weapon," Ms. Jones warned, and did so, before adding a bulky, cylindrical 'silencer'. "Looks a bit different to the anatomical diagrams. Especially by torch-light. Hmm. Brain equilateral from eyes and gills, wasn't it ?"

Phut ! Her target didn't seem to notice.

Phut ! Nor that.

Phut ! The giant Wels spasmed, stilled.

"Well done, Guys ! Secure it, I'll call the clean-up team." Ms. Jones stepped away, made the call, returned. "They're a bit disappointed we've no boat-slip nearby, a ramp would simplify things. So, they're sending a 'car-recovery' flat-bed with a hefty Hiab. Would we tow this brute to beside the van ?"

"No problem, Ma'm," Geoff murmured.

Still, it took the four of us, all three lines and both gaffs. I had to walk ahead and open the lock's Eastern 'paddle' gates as the only mooring bollards available were beside the chamber. The traffic bollards between the Jub Thai's parking and the canal tow-path were the 'vanishing' type. Mike deployed a set of master keys, cleared access.

The clean-up team arrived sooner than expected, claiming 'light traffic'. They maneuvered their vehicle bank-side, deployed the stabilisers. Conveniently, they'd brought a cargo net. We un-moored the Wels, towed it over the submerged net.

"Hoisting !" The Wels came up slowly, was even bigger than we'd realised. I was very glad it was still within the telescopic hoist's reach-rating. Safely lowered to the flat-bed and now well lit, we retrieved our hardware. The clean-up team secured the Wels three ways, covered it carefully, added more tie-downs. As they drove off, I closed the lock gates while Mike replaced the parking bollards.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Chapter 04

"Ms. Jones ?" The Jub Thai's Maitre d' had materialised from the shadows. "May I offer our facilities and supper ?"

"Oh, that would be very welcome !" Ms. Jones replied. "Thank you !"

"Read-in ?" I whispered to Mike.

"Our 'Local Witness'," he murmured. "Has several commendations for pulling drunks and kids from the water-- Right place, right time, sharp wits..."

Took a while to scrub off the catfish slime and spatter but, when we emerged, we found our side-table set with a platter of exquisite pastries and a big jug of wondrously scented coffee.

"Thank you," Ms. Jones stated.

The Jub Thai's Chef and Manager joined their Maitre d' beside our table. The latter asked, "Is it over ?"

"I hope so," Ms. Jones replied. "Unless there are more incidents or confirmed sightings, we'll resample the different canal sections next month, then again in the Spring. This Wels' DNA should have faded by then."

"What if there is a second ?" The Manager seemed more worried than I'd expect.

"We now know how to lure them," Ms. Jones stated, blinked, asked, "You suspect a release ?"

"Yes..." The Manager shook his head. "Some years ago, there was a specialist fish restaurant. They had many exotics, even alive in tanks. The owner had a mansion near Ashton -under- Lyne with aquaria and ponds. Sadly, he'd over-reached his finances. When the novelty faded, his business collapsed leaving many creditors, including me. Liquidators sold most indoor exotics to aquarists, but a storm over-topped the bigger ponds. Their fish were lost into water-ways which connect with this canal..."

"Just fish ?" Ms. Jones queried. "No crocs or komodos ?"

"Just fish," the Manager assured her. "Just fish."

"I'm glad. I-- One of my first cases was a 'Giant Water Rat' in the Dee head-waters. In fact, a half-starved, South American Coypu. Fortunately, we live-trapped. Chester Zoo coaxed her back to health. Case still open, as origin unknown." Ms. Jones took a careful breath. "At least the North-West doesn't get Anacondas or 'Walgate Worms'."

Such wisdom drew a quiet murmur of approval, and the three left us to our supper...

Given we were just across the canal from the towering Ibis Hotel, I wondered if we were night-stopping there.

"No," Ms. Jones stated. "The 'Best Western', Upholland, just off the M_58. Near enough to Halsall's Carr Moss, which has had another spate of weirdness."

"Uh, how weird, Ma'm ?"

"Phantom hitch-hikers." She hesitated, added, "Our 'Local Informant' thinks there's something amiss with the field-drains..."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

Mr. Wade and a Wels...