Detective Sergeant Jacob ‘Jack’ Finkel didn’t mind being on duty during Christmas. Coming from a Jewish family he didn’t celebrate the holiday, the shift was usually relatively quiet, and it oftentimes — not always, but enough — helped him get out of being on duty during the much more turbulent New Year’s Eve.

This year he almost made it.

Jack wasn’t rostered to work on New Year’s Eve, and had accordingly made plans to spend the day with his girlfriend before going together for a romantic viewing of the fireworks at midnight. He was in the midst of slapping on his aftershave before heading out, when his phone rang.

“Jack? Andrew. Got something that’s definitely one for your guys.” His commanding officer proceeded to give him some very sketchy details about a ‘developing situation,’ the name of a contact, an instruction to make it to the Opera House post-haste, and a not-so-subtle “this could be serious, but I trust it will not impact tonight’s festivities.”

Working for the Unusual Crimes Squad at NSW Police was Jack’s career choice for a variety of good reasons, but it had some drawbacks. One was that if a case looked ‘undesirable’ for any reason and had even a whiff of anything odd, other squads were all too happy to drop it in Jack’s lap. Whether actually metamundane or not they left for Jack to sort out, happy to dodge it for as long as possible. Jack felt this was one of those cases, everyone too busy with Sydney Police’s most stressful night of the year.

Traffic was slow going into the city, so he put on his siren and lights.

That made him feel slightly better. A small consolation for the phone call he just had with Jessica, apologising for missing their plans and only offering a vague hope he’d make it back in time for the main fireworks show.

Getting close to Sydney’s Opera House was impossible. The area has been cordoned off since the day before, in anticipation of the crowds that would swarm there. It was only mid-morning, and already many people were camped out to secure a good viewing position of the world-famous welcoming of the new year. Figuring it would be quicker on foot, he left his car at an illegal-but-safe spot next to the Conservatorium of Music, put on an official police sign on the dash so it wouldn’t get towed away, and let the river of people flowing down to the water carry him.

When he got to the forecourt of the Opera House he turned right, to the side away from the Harbour Bridge. Next to the steps of the small jetty, cordoned like most things, he spotted the man waiting for him. In his late fifties, grey handlebar moustache, and wearing a black t-shirt with his company logo and a chequered bandanna. “Call me Frankie,” the man said after Jack introduced himself and flashed his warrant card.

“So, what’s got in here that all the assembled police couldn’t handle?”

“You better come with me,” Frankie said, “I don’t think even I’ll believe it if I say it out loud.”

He led Jack down the jetty to a small boat, started the motor and headed out. Watercraft movement on the harbour was restricted as well. Police boats marked the areas closed off for safety reasons, and beyond them a vast collection of booze-cruise ships already floated lazily, jockeying for a good position for the night. This being before lunchtime, most of their passengers were already plastered and singing loudly.

Frankie turned the dinghy towards the big barge anchored at the centre of the exclusion zone. “You haven’t been properly inducted,” he said over the noise of the motor, “but being police, I trust you won’t do anything stupid like fire your gun. Just… watch your step and be extra careful. With everything.”

Two minutes later, and they reached the barge. Frankie secured the dinghy to the large vessel and held it steady as Jack climbed the short ladder. The top of the flat barge held several skip-bins. Each was filled with sand, in which large canisters nestled, covered with plastic to protect from the weather. Wires ran from each canister, braided together at the edge of the skip and secured to the barge’s deck with tape, coming together at a heavy metal box.

Over the sounds of the harbour wafting across the water, Jack heard a high-pitched chirping coming from somewhere on the barge. “This way,” Frankie said and led Jack towards the centre.

As they got closer, Jack could make out the words of a chant: “Hell no, we all go! Hell no, we all go!”

They rounded a skip, and Jack saw the source of the squeaky singing. Tied to a brown canister was a diminutive figure, not much larger than his hand. It had a shock of blond hair above a sharp-featured face with pointed nose and ears, and was dressed in red jeans and a bright blue shirt. Four dragonfly-like gossamer wings spread behind its back, flush against the metal fireworks launcher behind it. It was tied to the canister with a silver, fine-link chain, like those sold at jewellery stores with women’s pendants, looking like a miniature tree-hugger out on protest.

The pixie waved a small flask, and occasionally took a sip before continuing to chant.

“Smørblomst here,” said Frankie in a flat tone, “has some demands. I’d strongly urge you not to agitate him.”

The pixie suddenly started crying uncontrollably, before settling into a hiccough fit. Since it hadn’t shown signs of noticing them, Jack pulled Frankie back behind one of the skips. “Care to fill me in on what led to the situation here?”

“Smørblomst’s family has been working for ours since we started the business in the old world, over two hundred years ago. They ain’t easy to work with, somewhat mercurial in nature you might say, but before modern chemistry pixie dust made for the best fireworks. Even today, we mix it in for very special shows like this.” Frankie waved his hand, to encompass the Sydney Harbour Bridge, Opera House, and everything around them.

“These days, they make some of the best designers of special effects. Unfortunately, Smørblomst wife, Tusenfryd, passed away a few days ago. Her dying wish was for a Viking funeral, and Smørblomst has hid her body in one of the mortars here. He then got completely pissed from grief, and decided he’d rather go together with his late wife than continue living. At the state he’s in, it’s anyone’s guess if he’ll flutter his wings, but either way this will be a show no survivor would forget.”

Jack blinked. “Come again?”

“Ever seen pixies fly?” Jack nodded, and Frankie continued. “The sparks trail which cascades from their wings is actual sparks. Pixies in general are highly flammable. If he flutters his wings, it might set off the fireworks. Even if not, his wife’s body will make the firework explode as soon as it’s ignited, rather than go up. Which will cause a chain reaction. He’ll get his Viking funeral, alright, and the Sydney Harbour will get a once-in-a-lifetime show.”

“How bad?” Jack asked, fearing the answer.

Frankie waved at the barge. “There’re two tonnes on this barge. The bridge will survive with probably only minimal damage, but the glass façade of the Opera house… not so much. People in the forecourt and the nearby boats will get massive injuries, and more than a few deaths from shock. And that’s not counting the panicking crowds.”

Jack blanched, and had a sudden respect for the man, whose hair hasn’t gone completely white and managed to keep calm while dealing with an emotional pixie sitting atop high explosives. “If I manage to talk him off the boat, would you be able to deal with Tu… with his wife’s body?”

“You’ll need to make him tell us exactly which mortar she’s in. It takes us weeks to prepare the show. All the skips are constructed separately offsite in advance, then just loaded on the barge a day before and wires connected at last minute. We don’t have time to carefully disassemble and reassemble each mortar. If I can’t be sure that we removed all foreign materials and interventions, I’ll have to cancel the show — or at least this barge, which, considering the placement, is that main one news cameras are pointed at.”

🎆

Jack had read the book about hostage negotiations and had talked down the occasional highly emotional suspect, but never had to defuse a suicidal metamundane creature while under a time pressure. His PhD involved those already dead, and he usually felt more comfortable speaking with those long gone rather than those about to be.

Still, he knew it was up to him and his expertise, that no one else on the force would be up for it or better equipped. He ran a hand through his hair, muttered the names under his breath, and walked towards the drunken pixie.

Jack put on his best midnight smooth-jazz radio-host drawl. “Heyyy, Smørblomst. My name’s Jack, from NSW Police. Frankie tells me you have some demands.”

“Damn straight!” Smørblomst belched. “Y’all get off outta here, and let me send my beloved Tusenfryd to Valhalla in peace.”

“To Valhalla?”

“Yeah! It’s what she deserves. What she would have wanted. The way of our ancestors. We used to talk about it, before she… before she…” Smørblomst burst in tears, then sniffled and gathered himself before yelling, “So that’s it! I’m sending her on her way, and there ain’t nothing you can do to stop me, cause I’m going with her! We’re all going, so you better bugger off the boat.”

“You’re going with her?” Jack calmly repeated Smørblomst words.

“I can’t live like this. She was the love of my life. We spent months together. Months!”

Jack knew that, regardless to their life span, pixies were easily distracted when it came to jobs and relationships. “It sounds like you were in a long-term, committed relationship,” he said.

“We were going to have babies. Little, shiny balls of fluffy sparks… Now I won’t ever have babies, and my beloved is lost forever. My life is over.” Smørblomst burst out crying again.

“Sounds like Tusenfryd loved you very much,” Jack kept using labelling and mirroring to steer the conversation back, still talking in his deepest, smoothest voice.

“She did, she did. And I loved her back. We had the most glorious spring, designing the new fireworks in the day, flitting around the open skies when the moon rose, blowing stuff up…”

“Blowing stuff up?”

“Fireworks, man, how do you think we test our designs? Sparks of inspirations is rather literal in this business, and she was the best. Hers shone the brightest.”

“It sounds like she loved her job,” Jack took a stab.

“Yeah,” Smørblomst sniffled. “No one appreciated her, though. No one appreciates any of us little people, y’know? Every year we come up with bigger, brighter ideas for the show, we put ourselves into our work — literally, considering some of these fireworks have pixie dust in ’em — and all everyone cares about is getting royally pissed and how much money did the city spend. Well, my Tusenfryd is getting a send-off no one would be able to ignore! She will be remembered for the sparkly, lovely genius of a pixie that she was.” He took another swig from his miniature flask.

“You loved each other dearly and you’d like her to be remembered, so that’s why you arranged for her to go up in a Viking funeral, tonight when everyone’s watching,” Jack summarised.

“That’s right.”

When the pixie said those two words, Jack knew he had him. Using mirroring and labelling he had managed to get the pixie to talk and build rapport, and the summary confirmed to the Pixie he was being heard. Now it was time to get to a ‘no.’

“Tusenfryd was such an artist of fireworks,” Jack said to a nodding Smørblomst, “you want to forever tie her name to the worst Sydney Harbour disaster in history. No one would forget the one responsible for all those deaths.”

Smørblomst head kept nodding and Jack held his breath, until a puzzled expression crept up the pixie’s feature. “Wait, what? No, that’s not it.”

“Isn’t that what you want for her? By placing her body in a mortar and making it explode prematurely, the whole barge will go up in a scene of such devastating destruction no one will ever forget who she was. Didn’t you want her name to be remembered and cursed down the ages?”

“No, of course not! I loved her, I want her to be remembered for the bright spark that she was, full of life.”

“Oh. Would it be an utterly absurd idea, then, if we gave her a full Viking funeral without blowing up the barge and hurting people?”

“No, no, not absurd.”

“Would it be against your religion, if Frankie set up a Viking funeral in a few days, somewhere safe? And we’d invite the press, so they can run a background piece on her contribution to this year’s successful celebrations? Would it be inappropriate to immortalise her like that?”

“Yeah, no, that would be good.”

Having won over Smørblomst to the side of reason, Jack unchained him — very carefully — from the fireworks mortar. He gently guided the diminutive, drunken pixie away, looked over his head at Frankie. He held Frankie’s eyes as he spoke to the pixie. “Now, if you’ll just point out the mortar where you hid Tusenfryd body, I’m sure Frankie won’t press charges, and we can just get on our day with minimum fuss. Isn’t that right?”

Frankie, used to dealing with temperamental fairies and high explosives, often in the same room, nodded reassuringly back.

🎆

Not pressing charges meant less paperwork for Jack, which was just fine by him. He did make sure to phone his commander and drop a message of “situation fully resolved, no hindrance to tonight’s festivities” while driving back to Jessica.

The romantic evening with Jessica — viewing fireworks from a friend’s apartment that had a kinda-sorta view of the top of the mid-river fireworks above other roofs — wasn’t nearly as romantic as Jack hoped. His friend’s ‘just a handful of close mates’ turned out to be a cramped party with loud music and raucous drinking. As everyone crammed on the balcony, Jack and Jessica opted to stay inside for the obligatory new-year’s kiss. From what they could see on the TV once they came up for air, the main show was indeed a roaring success, with the new ‘ghost-light’ display welcomed with enthusiastic approval.

A week later was something else, though. Some miles out to sea, Jack accompanied Frankie, Smørblomst, and a few others from their family fireworks business on a private yacht. Also present was a reporter from the ABC, collecting information for a Sunday piece on Sydney’s fireworks and the role of pixies and tradition in their manufacture. Jessica had declined to accompany Jack, and — having dated for nearly three months — Jack was getting a restless felling that their relationship has run its course. The irony that he was worse than pixies, who managed to have deep and meaningful relationships in those short time frames, did not escape him.

The sun had set, and a full moon hung low and large and spectral-white in the sky. Speeches were given and glasses raised. Smørblomst serenaded his beloved Tusenfryd, as a tiny coffin was lowered to a dinghy, which was then launched out to the open waters. The pixie rose to the air, his dragonfly wings fluttering too fast to see and giving off the occasional spark. He trailed after the small boat and, when it reached a safe distance, he flew around it in tighter, rising circles, giving off a cascade of iridescent sparks. He reached the top of his rising cone, emitted a puff of glitter, and flew rapidly back to the yacht as the sparks cascaded into the dinghy. When they landed in the boat, they lighted carefully laid flammable cords, which for moment traced the lines of the dinghy in orange and red, giving it a bright aura.

And then the fireworks began.

Ethereal shapes blossomed in the night sky, fireworks the likes of which Jack has never seen before or since. Not just exploding balls and trailing comets, but shapes of mythological animals that seem to hang about and move on their own. Jack could almost imagine them telling a story of sorts, of a magical life among the forests and oceans in the tethered realms. The finale was the image of a pixie, rising, rising, till her colours faded into the pearly glow of the moon.

“Now that is what happens when you pour enough pixie dust into the mould,” Frankie spoke in Jack’s ear. “There is no way we could do this commercially, and we can only dream of achieving a pale imitation for the masses.”

“What exactly is pixie dust?” Jack’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Ha! Pixie dandruff. That massive head of hair of theirs produces quite a bit, even for such tiny creatures. That’s why they sparkle when they fly — the dandruff floats back between their wings when they fly and gets ignited by the rapid wing movement. Everything about them just tends to go up in flames at the flimsiest excuse.”

As they raised glasses full of mead in memory of Tusenfryd, and not for the first time in his career of dealing with such creatures and ghosts, Jack wondered about life and love, and the myriad ways all creatures find to express them. Sailing back from what he knew was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, Jack suddenly felt that this year would harbour great events for him.

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Hope you enjoyed this short Unusual Crimes Squad mystery!
You can find more of DI Jack Finkel on the Short Stories page.