“Stevens! Jason! Are you two all right?”
“Yes!” said Pattimore.
“I’ve got cramp in my wrists,” said Stevens.
“No change there then,” quipped Brough. “I’ll keep this bastard cornered; you two try to shuffle out of here. Get help if you can or just get out.”
“Davey, I -”
“Jason, I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. Just go!”
Pattimore opened his mouth to say more but Stevens was making a concerted effort to reach the exit and pulled Pattimore along behind him.
“Oh, fuck. Now what?” Stevens’s shuffling was brought to a halt.
Framed in the doorway was a large woman, wearing a headscarf like a turban. She lifted her arms and the dozens of bangles and bracelets on her arms jingled like Christmas bells. Muttering an incantation, she stepped into the room. Her wide, bulbous eyes signalled to Brough to back away.
“No! No!” Dickon screamed as the thing that had once been Ronnie Flavell got to its feet and lurched towards him, arms outstretched, its hands ready to strangle.
Dickon’s back slid down a wall he had built himself. He screamed repeatedly and mindlessly as the zombie approached.
The woman clapped her hands once. The former Ronnie Flavell stopped still, its fingers an inch from Dickon’s neck.
“Hello, guys,” said Harry Henry cheerfully. He came in, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Sorry, I’m late. You’ve met the mother-in-law.”
17.
The Oddfellows Arms was flooded with noise and light as the police moved in to secure the scene. Cops in armoured vests moved quickly and efficiently, pointing firearms in every direction. Out in the car park, sirens whooped, casting the pub in flashes of red and blue.
Detectives Stevens and Pattimore were liberated from their plastic bondage. Brough left them to straighten their aching limbs and patted Harry Henry on the back.
“Good to see you, Harry! But would you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”
Harry signalled it might be better if they went outside where they might at least be able to hear themselves think.
A team had cut the chain and discarded the shiny new padlock. Brough followed Harry Henry up the steep stairs to the car park, to be hit in the face by the cold December air and the harsh brightness of a rig of spotlights. Already quite a camp had been set up and the queen at the centre of this hive of activity appeared to be a pink-haired lesbian with a spider web tattooed across half of her face.
“Ah, Brough,” said the lesbian in Chief Inspector Wheeler’s voice. “None the worse for wear, I hope.”
“Um, no. Thanks... Chief?”
“What? Oh!” Wheeler peeled off her wig to reveal her customary salt-and-pepper crew cut. She nodded to the cellar doors and Brough turned in time to see Pattimore and Stevens being helped up the steps. Stevens was struggling to keep his pelmet of a skirt covering his modesty. They were led away to an ambulance.
Next to emerge were some stretcher-bearers. They brought up Keith Daley, wrapped in a blanket. They brought up, although his face was covered, the unfortunate Environmental Health inspector, Ronnie Flavell. Last came Dickon, handcuffed and with guns trained on him. A uniformed officer carried the giant tribal mask in a polythene bag.
“Where’s Jerry?”
It was Miller. Brough had to catch hold of her sleeve to prevent her from going down to the cellar. She searched Brough’s face for answers he was unable to provide.
“I thought I’d left you in the bath, madam.”
“Jerry!”
Miller hugged him. Over her shoulder, the gravedigger winked at the detective.
“Are you all right, old man?” said Brough. “No irresistible compulsion to stab anyone?”
“Not so much,” said Jerry. “Mom always told me not to play with knives.” He displayed the bright white dressing that had only moments ago patched up his self-inflicted wound.
Miller looked quite put out. “Trust you lot to have all the fun without me,” she complained. “Typical bloody men.”
Wheeler interrupted. “Right, people; half of Serious has already gone off to Dedley General, so I think the rest of you may as well join them. I want you all checked out and shipshape for a briefing first thing, i.e. in about three hours’ time, so chop chop!”
She shooed them towards waiting ambulances.
“It was like a dream,” said Jerry.
“What was?” Miller linked her arm in his and supported him.
“Like I was hypnotised. Or like I was watching myself from a long way away. I wouldn’t have hurt you, Dave. You know that, don’t you?”
“What’s this?” said Miller.
“I took a gamble,” said Brough. “You weren’t going to hurt me because - fuck alone knows why - you care about Miller.”
“What’s this? Who’s hurting who?”
“Quiet, Miller.”
“He’s right,” said Jerry. “I love you, Melanie Miller, and no matter what state I was in or whoever was pulling the strings, I would never hurt somebody that you care about.”
Miller was stunned. Not only had Jerry just declared his love for her, he’d embarrassed her in front of Brough.
“Get in that bloody ambulance before you really need it,” she growled. Jerry kissed her forehead and got in.
“I’ll get the next one,” said Brough. “I - there’s something I need to tell the Chief first.”
He waved their ambulance off and approached Chief Inspector Wheeler who was grimacing and wincing as she peeled strings of fake tattoo off her face.
She wasn’t going to like what Brough was about to tell her but perhaps she would understand.
18.
Brough sat impatiently on the edge of the bed while the doctor checked him over. Eventually, the doctor agreed with the detective.
“You’re fine,” he said, “which is more than can be said for some of the poor buggers they’re pulling out of that place.”
Panic flashed across Brough’s face. It annoyed him how quickly he’d thought of Pattimore.
“My colleagues?” he asked. “Where are they?”
“Relax,” said the doctor. “They’re not far; they -”
But the rest of the sentence went unheard. Brough darted from the cubicle, donning and buttoning his shirt and raincoat in a less than fluid series of movements. He dashed from cubicle to cubicle, opening curtains to the alarm of the occupants, but of Pattimore or Stevens there was no sign.
He flagged down a nurse who was carrying metallic clipboards and flashed his i.d. “The men who were brought in. From the pub. Police. Detectives. Where are they?”
The nurse patiently waited out the torrent of words. “Um...” she said, consulting a chart.
“Come on!” Brough snapped. Then he apologised for his impatience.
“Er - there’s a Benjamin Stevens in Room 2B...”
“That’ll do for a start. Where?”
“Room 2B.” She pointed at the nearest door. Some detective, she thought!
“Oh,” said Brough, feeling like a twat. “And it’s all right to go in, is it?”
“You a relative?”
“It’s police business.” He showed her his i.d. again.
“Go on then. But try not to make too much noise. I know what you coppers am like when you’ve been down the pub.”
She bustled away. Brough pushed the door.
Stevens was in bed, propped up on pillows. He looked exhausted but at least he was clean. The smudges of Tasha’s make-up and the grime composed of sweat and dirt from the cellar were gone.
“Hello,” said Brough.
“Alright,” said Stevens. His moustache twitched with a smile. “Come in; park your arse. And don’t go getting ide
as about getting in bed with me. I’m warning you.”
Brough perched on a chair beside the bed. “Glad to see you’re back to normal.”
Stevens looked downcast. He cleared his throat. “Honestly, Dave - David! - I doubt I’ll ever be normal again. Not after the things I sid in that cellar.”
Brough nodded and waited for him to continue.
“I’ve been in this game for donkeys’ yonks and just when you think you’ve sid it all...”
“Yes,” said Brough quietly. “It’ll take time. To process - or whatever they call it.”
“Wankers,” Stevens agreed. “You’m wrong there, Dave. To my thinking, the best thing for me is to get right back on the log again. Get on with it. Close the investigation down proper, like, as soon as possible and put this shit behind me and get on with the job.”
“I suppose,” said Brough. “And Pattimore - have you ‘sid’ him?”
“Don’t take the piss,” Stevens grunted. “He’s next door.”
“Right.” Brough stood. “I’ll pop my head in.”
“Pervert!” Then Stevens seized Brough by the sleeve of his raincoat and looked into his eyes. “All that time we was tied together, me and Jason, we did a lot of talking. Told each other stuff. Well, you do, when you think your number’s time is up. I know, Dave.”
Brough looked aghast. Stevens tugged the sleeve.
“You need to talk to him. He really, like, loves you or something - I don’t know how it works and I can’t say I agree with it - but Jase is a good bloke, when all’s said and did - and I know it and you know it, if you’m honest - and he needs to hear it. From you.”
Brough pulled his sleeve free but did not move.
“You need to sort it out as quickly as possible and put it behind you - if I can use that phrase.”
Brough thought about it. He also thought about how surreal it was to be taking relationship advice from a renowned bigot and wanker.
“Thanks, um, Ben.” He headed to the door. “Oh, can I get you anything?”
“Nah, you’m all right. I’d get up and show you out but,” he indicated the standard issue hospital gown he’d been put in, “the sight of my manly arse might drive you mad with lust.”
“Probably,” said Brough. “See you at Serious, then.”
He went out.
“Cheers,” said Stevens.
He reached under the sheet and gave his bollocks a good scratch. It’s the simple pleasures of life you miss the most.
***
“Oh, you’re all right!” Miller all but ambushed Brough as soon as he emerged from Room 2B. She looked at the door behind him. “Is he?”
“Obnoxious as ever,” said Brough. “But for a minute he was almost human.”
“Eh?” said Miller. “I asked the nurse and she said you were in there talking to your boyfriend.”
Brough laughed. “No; Jason’s in the next room. I was just checking in on that wanker Stevens.”
“That’s not like you,” Miller’s eyes narrowed.
“It wasn’t like him either.”
“What went on in that cellar?”
“I’m not sure...” Brough gazed along the corridor at nothing in particular. “I mean, I got off lightly. I dare say it’ll all come out in the wash. You’ll be at the briefing?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Honestly, Miller. You’re a washout. You should have them give you a once-over while you’re here. Why are you here, Miller? You haven’t come to see me?”
“Piss off, sir. Jerry.”
“Oh, yes. How is he?”
“I don’t know.” Miller’s face crumbled. “They won’t let me see him. I’m not a relative.”
“Bollocks to that. Come on. Where is he?” He took her arm, holding his i.d. card ahead of him like a crucifix to ward off vampire nurses.
“Um, 7D, I think.” Miller struggled to keep up with Brough’s determined strides. “Or D7 or something else. He will be all right, won’t he, sir?”
“It may have escaped your attention, Miller, but I am not a member of the medical profession. He was all right when we spoke to him - on the car park - wasn’t he?”
“Um, yes.”
They had to stop in their tracks as a team hurried past with an emergency cart laden with tubes and monitors and defibrillator pads. The nurses bashed their way through some double doors.
“It’s him! It’s Jerry! I know it is!” Miller cried. She hurried to the doors and, on tiptoe, peered through the window.
The team were huddled around a bed, working with speed and urgent effectiveness. Brough looked over Miller’s shoulder.
“Oh please, oh please, oh please,” Miller repeated in anguish. “He was all right. You saw he was all right.”
“Well...” Brough grimaced. “Who knows what that maniac injected him with?”
“They can find out!” said Miller. “They can do tests! Find an antidote!”
“I hope so, Miller.”
“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” Even from this distance, Miller could see the monitor over the bed and read its flat line. The medical team moved away, the urgency gone from their movements. A doctor in scrubs pushed his way through the doors.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said for almost bashing Miller in the nose.
“That man...” said Brough. “Is he...?”
“Did you know him?” said the doctor. “Are you relatives?”
“We’re police,” said Brough.
“His injuries were too severe. Not to mention bizarre. We’re all baffled as to how he kept going for as long as he did.”
“Injuries?” said Miller.
“We were able to remove the tap from his neck and -”
“Excuse me,” Miller held up a hand to stop him, “But is that man in there Jerry Fountain or not?”
“I thought you said you knew him,” the doctor turned suspicious. Miller grabbed him by the V-neck collar.
“Is it Jerry fucking Fountain or not?”
Brough tried to peel her fingers from the doctor.
“You’ll have to excuse my colleague, doctor. She’s been under a great deal of stress recently. We all have. Come on, Miller; let go of the nice doctor.”
Miller clung on doggedly.
“It’s not him; it’s not Jerry,” Brough adopted a soothing tone. “Jerry didn’t have a tap in his neck. That was - someone else. Ronnie somebody...”
Miller froze. She blinked.
“Ronnie? Ronnie... Flavell?”
“Oh, so you do know him!” The doctor was reassured. He was able to extricate himself from Miller’s grasp.
“He’s dead?”
“I’m sorry. We did everything we could. For a moment there, it was touch and go, and touch and go again, and again. Poor Ronnie didn’t want to give up the ghost. His suffering is over now -”
There was an almighty crash from inside the room. A nurse’s face appeared between the swing doors.
“Er - doctor? We have a, um, situation.”
The doctor went back in. Brough and Miller caught a glimpse of the team trying to subdue and control Ronnie Flavell who was thrashing about blindly on the floor.
“So, Ronnie’s not dead?” Miller was astounded. “That’s a relief; he wouldn’t have gone there if it wasn’t for me.”
Brough tried to steer her away. “Let’s go and find Jerry, shall we?”
He bit his lip. If Jerry had been injected with the same stuff as the seemingly indestructible Ronnie Flavell, Brough didn’t know how he’d break it to Miller.
***
“He’s very lucky to be alive,” was the opinion of the doctor who was checking the chart at the foot of Jerry’s bed when Brough and Miller came in. Miller rushed to her b
oyfriend’s side and took one of his hands in both of hers. Jerry’s neck was patched with a large white dressing.
“An injury like that,” the doctor continued, directing his words towards Brough, “would usually result in death, ninety nine times out of a hundred.”
“Mmm,” said Brough with a concerned look at Miller, who was planting kisses on the sleeping gravedigger’s forehead. “What saved him?”
“Dumb luck,” said the doctor. “Another millimetre and he would have severed rather than punctured his jugular. And he happens to be very lucky to have very low blood pressure - the lowest I’ve ever seen, in fact. Otherwise, he would have bled out almost instantly.”
“I see,” said Brough, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. The inability of Ronnie Flavell to die was disconcerting to say the least. What if Miller’s boyfriend was the same?
The gravedigger’s eyelids fluttered and he blinked himself awake. His face broke out in a broad grin.
“Mel!”
Miller let out a squeak of delight and threw herself at him.
“Steady on,” said the doctor. Miller withdrew a little. “The patient needs rest.”
Jerry reached for Miller’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be home before you know it. Give you chance to tidy up.”
“Slave driver,” said Miller. Her eyes were wet with happiness and relief.
Brough spoke to the doctor from the corner of his mouth. “Is that true?”
“Oh, yes,” the doctor shrugged. “He’ll be discharged in a day or two. We need the bed.”
Brough indicated the chart. “And there’s... nothing unusual? Did you run toxicology tests and all of that sort of thing?”
“Someone’s been watching television,” the doctor diagnosed. He flipped through the file again. “No... no... nothing untoward. Not of chemical origin... I mean, it all falls within natural parameters. Excuse me, Mrs - Miss?”
“Yes?” said Miller.
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