Looks Just Like Me

“Describe the shape of his face for me.”

“Just like mine, mate.”

“So, round?”

“Is it? Well, I haven’t been working out a lot lately, so..”

“..Describe his hair, please.”

“Just like mine, mate.”

“Thinning brown with grey roots?”

“Oy! I’m younger than I look.”

“Length?”

“Like mine.”

“That’s thinning brown with grey roots just below the ears, and with fluffy greying neck hair.”

“I’m overdue a visit to me barber.”

“Any bald spots?”

“Nuh, Just like me. Hair still on me bonce.”

“Can you lean forward just a little, please, Mr. Williams? Thank you. Okay. Note: Small Friar Tuck at the crown.”

“There is?”

“Yes, sorry.”

“I never get to see it, you see.”

“Ask your barber, next time you visit.”

“Luigi – that’s his name.”

“You were assaulted by your barber?”

“Well, there have been occasions when he cut a little too close to my ears, but I wouldn’t categorise them as..”

“..Do you have an address for Luigi?”

“What!? You’re confused, mate. Luigi didn’t assault me tonight.”

“Would you like to file a complaint about the other times?”

“Move on, please, mate.”

“What colour were his eyes?”

“Who, Luigi’s?”

“Your assailant.”

“Oh… Blue, mate. Striking, pooling blue.”

“You describe that so intimately.”

“We got face-to-face with each other before it all kicked off, and I briefly noticed how just like me, his eyes were stunningly blue.”

“Right. Blue with signs of aging around the edges.”

“Hang on! Do my eyes look old to you?”

“I imagine they’ve probably seen a lot in your long lifetime, Mr. Williams.”

“Oy! I’m not that old, you cheeky bugger!”

“Would you like a second opinion? I can call Detective Rawson in. He’s just on the other side of that mirror.”

“You’re a charmer, ain’t ya. I can see why you haven’t been hired as a victim liaison officer.”

“Art was my major in college. I’m not what is called, a people person.”

“Wow! Could ‘ave fooled me.”

“So, blue eyes represent what… Caucasian skin?”

“That’s an argumentative assumption, innit?”

“How so?”

“Well, now it sounds like you’re profiling.”

“Well, I do work for the police.”

“Yeah, as a sketch artist. Do you do face painting as well on the side?”

“Facetiousness is not aiding your case, Mr. Williams.”

“It was an educated point, mate. Do you know that there are many African and dark-skinned people born with blue eyes? The geezer who jumped me, could have been non-Caucasian.”

“Was he?”

“What do you think?”

“Perhaps, he had Waardenburg Syndrome.”

“That was a random prognosis, Dr. Sketch Artist. Perhaps, you’ve got Waardenburg-ignorant syndrome.”

“For your information, Mr. Williams. Waardenburg Syndrome is a rare genetic condition that causes a number of symptoms in people of colour – including turning their eyes blue. Did your assailant have hearing loss? That’s another symptom.”

“I didn’t get the chance to ask about his medical history, mate. Although – come to think of it - he didn’t answer my question.”

“What question was that?”

“I asked him to get out of me face… Three times.”

“What about a white patch of hair? Waardenburg sufferers are also known to have a white patch of hair - centre-stage on their forehead.”

“I think you’re describing the character Matthias from the movie, Omega Man with Charlton Heston, aren’t you? I suppose your next question will be, did he have albino skin and was he wearing sunglasses?”

“Well, was he?”

“It was 10 O’clock at night, mate!”

“Well, he could have been blinded by the light.”

“What, and revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Manfred Mann, mate. Although that song was written by Bruce Springsteen.”

“Are you sure? If memory serves me, Manfred Mann had a number one hit with that song.”

“Yeah, but it was just a cover. Springsteen wrote it in ‘73.”

“I sit enlightened.”

“Now, would you like to finish your sketch or be reminded some more about your lost years in art school?”

“A little tetchy aren’t you, Mr. Williams?”

“Maybe, it’s my age, mate.”

“Oh, sarcasm. Yes, I recognise that. Is that what cost you the bruising around your left eye tonight? Note to description notes: Assailant more than likely, right-handed.”

“He jumped me in a narrow hallway.”

“But you still managed to get a good look at him.”

“Yeah, in the mirror.”

“Mirror?”

“On the wall in the hallway - outside the Khazi. I’d done me stuff, then washed me hands, but there was no towels or working hand dryer, so I had to wipe me hands on me shirt. I was looking down as I left the pisser, then suddenly, Bam! Bing! He’s in me face looking angry, so I reached for his nose.”

“Can you describe that?”

“I stretched out my arm and reached for his nose…”

“Right, then. I’ll rephrase my question. What shape was his nose?”

“Like mine.”

“Straight with a slight bump at the bridge.”

“A martial arts accident as a teenager - training with the Sensei.”

“Your assailant was a martial artist?”

“Are you really listening to me? His nose was like mine, before I bent it out of joint.”

“How did you do that?”

“I twisted it between my thumb and forefinger.”

“Is that a martial art move?”

“It’s a get the fuck out of my face move.”

“No need for profanity, Mr. Williams. It doesn’t help the situation.”

“Sorry, what’s your name? You didn’t mention it when we were introduced by Detective Rawson.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You do have one, yes?”

“It’s… Cuthbert.”

“Cuthbert?”

“Yes.”

“Who the fuck names their kid, Cuthbert?”

“A father with a sense of humour and a debilitating lisp.”

“…Oh, so you were meant to be called…?”

“Yes. Casper.”

“Your father needs therapy, mate.”

“Unfortunately, it didn’t help. A few years later, he named my new baby sister, MayWee. It became a running joke with kids she knew at Catholic school. They’d call up at the house and ask my mother, May we play wid MayWee and Jotheph? My mother often wondered why they all spoke like infants and also who in dickens was Jotheph.”

“How old were they?”

“Fourteen.”

“Bloody kids. Aren’t they just the epitome of how to use cruelty as a weapon.”

“Quite.”

“But your father would have written the correct spelling on your birth certificates, no?”

“Unfortunately, he was also dyslexic, and spelled things phonetically.”

“Blimey! I have no words on that.”

“No, he also was a man of few words. Too many people would tease him to the point of stammering, so he chose to say little in public.”

“Poor bloke. Is he still around?”

“No, he couldn’t take the widdiculing, so wented a station wagon and dwove into the thunthet, never to be heard from again.”

“Why did you say that in such a mocking tone?”

“I guess it’s a long-standing hurt that still fuels great anger toward his decision.”

“Okay. So, it’s obvious that the teasing didn’t end at his front door, then.”

“How did you so eloquently put it? Bloody Kids. I suppose, it was our way of nullifying the teasing from our peers, so we continued the ridicule at home - constantly.”

“How old were you when he scarpered?”

“Twenty-three.”

“You kept taking the piss out of him, up until twenty-three years of age?”

“We were damaged goods.”

“What a tosser!”

“Whatever… Height?”

“Just like mine.”

“So, average height.”

“I am above average height, mate!”

“Not from here, you’re not.”

“At least I’m not fat.”

“I have a thyroid condition brought on by anxiety.”

“More like a thy-fried condition, Cuthbert.”

“It’s Casper. Like the ghost.”

“You’re far from being thin on appearance, mate. You’re more like the Michelin Man poltergeist from Ghostbusters.”

“It’s stress eating. I can’t stop.”

“Try sewing your gob shut.”

“You don’t understand. My father’s disappearance started all of this. I miss him.”

“Then, you shouldn’t ‘ave tormented him, should ya.”

“I assure you, Mr. Williams. Regret has been mentally damaging to my daily existence.”

“Why don’t you get your buddies in here to track him down.”

“I did.”

“And…?”

“He told them to leave him ah-wone and that he was happy living out Whetht.”

“You’re doing it again, mate. You’re mocking him.”

“I’m just paraphrasing what the investigator wrote in the missing person’s report.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would the investigator write phonetically?”

“He’s my uncle.”

“Fuck me.”

“Apparently, it’s a genetic condition. But it skips a generation.”

“Do you have kids?”

“Two boys – Reggie and Simon. And yes, they talk like my father.”

“Oh, that’s just cruel, mate.”

“I didn’t know about the generation skip until I took them to the doctor to find out why they continued to speak like infants.”

“How old were they when you took them to the..? No, don’t answer that one.”

“No, I shan’t. So, let’s continue, shall we? Can you recall any marks on your assailant’s face that could be deemed distinguishing?”

“Does handsome looks count?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just like me?”

“I’ll put that in the case notes, as well, under vain appearance. If I may interject, Mr. Williams. For someone that just got mugged, it sounds like the perpertrator came off the worse, because apart from the bruising around your eye, I don’t see any serious injuries to your person or any kind of dishevelment in your manner of dress.”

“That’s coz the element of surprise didn’t last too long. I had just exited the pub’s toilet when I was accosted, but I quickly got the upper hand.”

“Yes, I was going to ask you about that. There is a strong aroma of alcohol emanating from your breath.”

“Friday drinks with my co-workers. It’s been a difficult week at work.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Williams?”

“Maintenance Engineer.”

“That’s an interesting office job.”

“I remotely monitor sensors and CCTV feeds at client industrial yards. We run state-of-the-art motion and sound detecting technology that keep insurance costs down.”

“And have you been doing that for very long?”

“Two years.”

“…Any scars?”

“One on my right knee…”

“I mean, your assailant. Did he have any scars?”

“He had long pants on. I couldn’t see his knees.”

“How long have you been drinking today, Mr. Williams?”

“Oh, since about five, this afternoon.”

“That’s over five hours!”

“Like I said. Tough week. Come to think about it, I still feel a bit drunk.”

“You’re either drunk or not. There’s no in-between.”

“What about tipsy?”

“Tipsy is when you lose your balance. Drunk is when you fall over. Have you fallen over, you tiresome man?”

“You mean, like this?”

“Mr. Williams, what are you doing?”

“Seeing how far your chair can lean back while balancing your oversized frame. Do you bounce, Cuthbet?”

“Uncle Rawson! Come quick! Uncle Rawson!”

“Cuthbert! What happened?”

“I’ve been accosted.”

“By who? Tell me. What ith he wearing? Damn it, I think my nephoo is in thock. Mr. Williamth, did you witneth the attack?”

“Yes, hands up! I confess, it was..”

“..What ith he wearwin?”

“Looks like a blue shirt and tie with a chocolate stain on it, to me.”

“No, The atthailant. What ith the atthailant wearing?”

“Erm, A red-chequered shirt, duh…”

“Juth like you!”

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to confess. I’m the..”

“..Wight! Mr. Williamth, it’s beth’d you get on home, while I lock down the staython and thearch for Cuthberth’ atthailant. Tell them at the dethk that Detective Warthon hath releathed you from witneth dooty...”

“Uncle Rawson, I’m awake! Where are you going? Wait! Damn it!”

“You know what, Cuthper? I’m withdrawing my complaint. The way things turned out, I’m surprised my attacker isn’t here filing a grievous complaint about me. So, before I leave, mind if I have a look at your sketch?”

“Just don’t hit me again.”

“It was just a push, you overgrown.. Wow! You have talent Casper. That is a remarkable resemblance, don’t you think?”

“Not my finest work, but yes, I agree. It looks..”

“..Just like me..!”