By Thomas Ramsay

“There’s been another murder, we have got to try again tonight. I’ll call round and make sure everyone’s available.” Nicholas Howat, the perceived founder and self-proclaimed leader of The Strathclyde University Parapsychology Club, was uncomfortably (for any looker-on) excited at the senseless and seemingly random slaughter of a young woman on campus the previous night. The paper Howat was waving under the nose of Sean O’Reagan, who, in Howat’s mind, was the Watson to his Holmes, proclaimed in a bold red banner, “Rottenrow Ripper Strikes Again”. Some hack would be preening themselves at the thought of this lurid conflation of the history of the campus site and the preternatural murders of London, 1888. What both killers did share was an uncanny ability to avoid the police and their attempts at capture, with the Rottenrow killer also seeming to have a sixth sense when it came to avoiding cameras and security patrols. O’Reagan made the calls, as Howat knew he would, to the other members of the club: Leah Jones, a most studious but not naturally gifted student, Jane Blink, a would-be femme fatale and lastly Sam, who was the group’s resident Goth figure. Who was lacking a surname, as no one had thought to ask her. Beginning the group was actually Sam’s idea but Nicholas would never admit to that.

Midnight saw the full complement of The Strathclyde Parapsychology Club in varying degrees of excitement and lethargy, sat around a small black coffee table in the Mature Students Association room, located on the ninth floor of the Livi Tower, with the exception of Leah who was fussing around making hot drinks for the group. Ginkgo Biloba for everyone at the behest of Nicholas, who swore by its cognitive benefits, with the exception of Jane, who refused to drink it, referring to it as heated-up cat’s piss and instead insisted on using her own jar of Kopi Luwak, lacing the poured coffee with the caramel syrup and double cream, rich and luxurious just like her. This irked Nicholas on several levels, firstly he wanted the entire group to drink his choice of hot beverage, secondly and more importantly, he suspected the coffee was not genuine but he did not have enough knowledge of it to prove this case.

O’Reagan stood up and exhorted the group to take their places in the circle, as they had done so many times before. Howat leaned over the back of his chair, flicked a switch and extinguished the main light, plunging the group into temporary darkness. He then sat down and depressed the switch on the brass Anglepoise lamp that sat in the middle of the table, it lit up the room with a watery blue hue. Howat had a theory that different light frequencies were more amenable to tuning the mind towards its desired goal. The group had tried various colours in recent weeks, including red, green, orange, and violet, to name a few, but with little avail. Howat had himself been cramming for his first year English literature exam using a sepia bulb, to even less avail. And so it was the five members of the Strathclyde Parapsychology Club sat in a circle holding hands all bathed in the iridescent blue light. The group as one began to hum, a sound emanating from somewhere deep in their stomach. Howat spoke, “Everyone focus your minds, your mind is a searchlight, seek out this evil man, focus, focus, focus” tailing off into a gentle whisper.

Nicholas slammed his hands down on the reception desk, hurting himself in the process, at Baird Street police station, “My man you are not listening to me”. The man in question towered over Nicholas who stood at a stocky six feet tall dead on the button in his poorly darned socks, but he still had to crook his neck to look up at his current adversary. The withering look the desk sergeant gave him did not register with Nicholas all the while making the rest of the club shrink back nearer to the door. “My man, I tell you, we saw the killer in Rottenrow Gardens last night, if you aren’t competent enough, please get someone who is”. The desk sergeant growled ominously and loomed over the desk. At this point, a smaller wiry man inserted himself between the larger man, the desk and Nicholas. “Good morning sir, I’m Detective Inspector Stephenson, this is my colleague Detective Sergeant Pullar.” With this he indicated a rather slovenly, laconic looking man of middle height, middle years, a rather expansive middle and what looked like egg yolk down the front of his shirt. “Boaby, get meeting room 2 set up and take orders for hot beverages for our young guests here.” Nicholas was impressed with Stephenson’s immediate ownership of the situation and also his, he assumed knowledge in Nicholas opinion that hot beverages would make the situation less formal and everyone involved more comfortable. He would have been awestruck if the hot beverages turned out to be Ginkgo Bilioba. Nicholas smiled in a way he thought made him appear both amiable and caring yet still authoritative. His friends, and indeed several of his lecturers, had, while he was blissfully unaware, described it as crocodilian. What Nicholas did not know was that Stephenson was himself an alumnus of the university, gaining both an honours degree and a master’s in his time there as a mature student. Stephenson’s main aim had been to remove Nicholas in particular and the group in general from the danger zone before Desk Sergeant Iain MacPhie, a huge Hebridean, had pulled him over the desk by his neck. He knew this was possible, as he had himself witnessed the Sergeant carry out this feat on more than one occasion. Stephenson had his misgivings about MacPhie, as he never truly trusted anyone who had unnecessary vowels in their name.

The group sat around a table that had frankly seen better days, a rather battered and burned Formica top which in Nicholas’s opinion did not speak well of the police or indeed their behaviour at meetings. He was certain that his hand had brushed against a piece of hardened chewing gum stuck to the underside, but he dared not check for fear of losing the almond croissant which he had for breakfast. He would certainly not have allowed such vandalism to occur under his stewardship. He was also crestfallen when he saw a uniformed officer enter with a tray holding a beaker of boiling water, a carton of milk and Nescafe instant coffee and Typhoo tea bags, which was positively anathemic to Howat. Stephenson had just dropped a rose from his chaplet in Howat’s estimation. Jane Blink had not by accident, found herself sitting next to Stephenson. Stephenson stood up awkwardly as in his opinion the strange girl with the rather maniacal look was sitting overly close to him. “Would one of you like to start explaining what you saw and where?” Howat motioned with his head for O’Reagan to begin recounting the tale, as once again, this was in his opinion, Watson’s role.

O’Reagan stood up and addressing his colleagues as much as the two seated police officers, O’Reagan was not the most confident character and was treating this as much as he would a tutorial presentation. By staring straight ahead and rattling off his prepared speech. At times like this he could quite happily strangle Nicholas, an unfortunate sentiment considering the subject matter. O’Reagan took a deep breath and began, “So, we the Strathclyde Parapsychology Club the brainchild of our esteemed colleague Sam” as he indicated towards her with an outstretched palm, he couldn’t fail to see Howat bristle, “have been practicing remote viewing, sometimes called ESP, psychoenergetic perception, nonlocal consciousness as formalized by programs like the Stargate Project and MK Ultra. It is even rumoured to have been used to target selected people. We have tried this for weeks now, seeking to locate the murderer operating on campus, to no success. Last night, however – ” and here Howat could no longer contain himself, interrupting O’Reagan, “And last night we were successful, we saw the killer, the Ripper, stalking the victim last night, we saw him pounce on her.” Howat’s early years of dance and drama classes were never far from the surface. It was Stephenson’s turn to talk, “Okay, give me a description, and please, please do not refer to them as the Ripper. Also, were any of your group acquainted with Gayle Reed, the poor woman who was killed last night?” Howat visibly blanched; it had become very real now as the group did indeed all know Gayle, a fellow mature student who was a satellite member of their social group.

The club spent the next seven weeks holed up in the Livi tower night after night trying to reconnect with the killer but so far it had seemed in vain; the trail had appeared to run cold. There was talk on campus, mainly among the history students, that like the murders of 1888; the killer had ended their own life, having perhaps been killed in an accident or imprisoned for another crime. Gallons of Ginkgo Biloba and counterfeit Kopi Luwak had been consumed, dozens of coloured light bulbs had been burnt out, and even more essays and assignments submitted late, incurring penalties. Members of the club were close to open revolt, with Leah in particular unhappy at how it was affecting her grades. It was agreed that this would be their last attempt and that they would put the club on hold until this semester had finished and rejoin their efforts in the summer. The group found themselves once again sitting around the same small round table with the blue-lit lamp casting eerie shadows on the walls. The group was as before and started humming a low persistent, and almost invasive tone. This time it was Sam’s turn to urge her friends to “Focus, focus, focus.” The tension in the room was palpable. The darkness of the room seemed to swallow the five; the low thrum continued but now seemed to be somehow separate from the group. The blue light crackled. “Focus, focus, focus,” Sam chanted again. In the blue glow in the centre of the table, they saw two figures. All around the two figures was dark; there was a smaller figure walking faster and faster, but the larger figure behind was making up the distance with longer strides. The figures walked rapidly, almost running now, beneath a row of lights. In the reflection of the lights they could see the flash of what looked like a blade in the hand of the larger figure. “Focus, focus, focus”, Sam was almost screaming now. The bulb exploded, fragments of the bulb littering the tabletop. The five friends collapsed back into their seats, exhausted.

“Hello, hello, is there anyone there?” The remaining four members stood behind O’Reagan as he gently pressed the bell on the countertop at the police station. There seemed to be a bit of a hubbub with lots of figures running about behind the scenes. Howat who was directly behind O’Reagan, recognised one of those figures. “Detective Stephenson’, Mr Stephenson’, Sir, sir”. This was noticeably humble for Howat. Stephenson’ strode over to the desk, “Good morning Nicholas, Sean, Leah, Sam and of course, the lovely Jane”. Nicholas was suitably impressed that Thompson had remembered all their names, and Jane thought she might just have a chance there. She did not. “What can I do for you”? Sean ushered Sam forward, “Go on Sam, tell DI Stephenson what we saw last night”. Nicholas looked fit to burst, hopping from foot to foot, as Sam haltingly spoke up. “We saw the killer again last night, on campus, it looked as though he was about to kill another girl, we focused really hard on him, trying to stop him, but, but, we don’t know how it ended.” Nicholas burst in, “Has there been another killing, Inspector, Inspector? Has there? We need to know!” Stephenson’ looked at Sam but each member of the group felt he was addressing them directly. “I shouldn’t really be telling you this so keep it under your hats. I know I can rely on your discretion.” They all nodded their heads in affirmation. “Firstly, your friend Gayle Reed’s killing is not one of the so-called Ripper murders. We are looking at a lecturer from Glasgow University, who she had been seeing behind her husband’s back. Secondly, there was no murder on campus last night, there was sadly and unexpectedly a death. Our very own esteemed Sergeant MacPhie suffered a massive heart attack last night while walking through the campus and died later in hospital. I feel fairly safe in saying that I think the killings will have ended.” With this, he winked conspiratorially at the group, turned quickly on his heel, and exited the foyer. The group were left speechless, staring at one another, mouths opening and closing with no sound coming before Leah piped up, “I think I’m going to join the origami club next year.”