Blood & Breakfast, West Midlands Noir

by William Stafford

  “Of course, it all went wrong. Dabbling in this kind of thing always does. You’d think we’d never seen a horror film. We didn’t go back in time - how could we? Silly to think we might. No, what happened was, we opened up a loophole or whatever you call it and he showed up, didn’t he? The bloody bastard.

  “Well, we felt responsible, didn’t we, for letting him loose on the world. We tried to keep a lid on him. It was like the worst April Fools’ Day ever. Horrible, cruel, practical jokes what actually killed people. Made him laugh and that’s why he did it. Said he’d been bored silly in his prison. He was clever but he reckoned without my Bertie and his headful of brains. Bertie had brought him into this world and he wouldn’t rest until he found a way to take him out of it again.

  “But of course, that left behind a right old mess, didn’t it? And it was Bertie what took the flak. They done him for all the murders and for nicking stuff from the museum. Nobody would believe the truth - in the end, he gave up trying. They all said he was out of his tree and banged him up in the special hospital. I lost twenty years of married life until he could convince them he was whatsit, rehabilitated and they let him out. We opened this place and haven’t looked back. Never thought he’d find his way back here though, the bloody bastard.”

  Anfred’s smirk increased. He was looking at Mrs Box with a mixture of affection and condescension. But he added nothing to her story, neither denial nor confirmation.

  “Much as I’m enjoying this trip down Memory Lane to Fairyland,” Brough interjected, “but what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Ah yes,” Anfred was actually looking fondly at Mr and Mrs Box, “those were the days, my friends. We thought they’d never end.”

  Cassidy caught Mrs Box’s attention. “You said something about getting rid of this creep?”

  “It is written,” Mrs Box began, back in storyteller mode. Everyone shifted their weight from one foot to the other. “It is written that the release of Loki will bring about the end of all things. He spends his time chained to three boulders. Above his head, there’s a snake dripping poison but the poison is caught in a bowl by a maiden. Only, of course, every now and then, she has to go and empty the bowl and when she does, the poison drips onto our mutual friend there and it’s so painful he wriggles about in his chains and that’s how we get earthquakes.”

  “Bullshit,” was Cassidy’s assessment.

  “I don’t understand,” said Miller, raising a hand and though she was back in school. “Why don’t they just use a bigger bowl?”

  “Miller...” Brough warned her but it was too late; she was off.

  “Or some kind of tubing,” Miller continued. “They could rig something up to conduct the poison away. Like an aqueduct.”

  “That’s not the point, love,” Mrs Box responded, patiently. “He’s there as punishment. The wench with the bowl is there out of the kindness of her whatsit.”

  “I’m only thinking about the earthquakes,” Miller said, defensively. “Lots of people get hurt, you know.”

  “That’s enough, Miller.”

  Anfred seemed to agree. It was time he took centre stage again. “Foolish mortals!” he spat on Mrs Box’s lovely clean floor. “Your puny minds struggle to comprehend who and what I am.”

  “Not at all, sunshine,” said Brough, pulling out a set of handcuffs. “You’re a fucking nutter and you’re fucking nicked. On suspicion of several murders.”

  Anfred greeted this with a laugh of delight like a girlish giggle. Brough was not to be deterred by ridicule. He held out the bracelets.

  “All these fairy stories might do you some good in court but all I know is it’s my job to take you in.” He glanced around at the assembled company as if he had to justify his actions. Too many cop shows again. “Oh, we’ve got him bang to rights, as the saying is. The bloke in the beer tent. That tramp in the library. He done it. Dressed as the librarian. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t have a hand in what happened to her when she got home. ”

  “Oh, come on,” Anfred appealed to the same audience, “that’s pretty funny! No?”

  “And, what’s more,” piped up Mrs Box, “he decaffeinated one of the guests and put it in the fridge. Gave my Bertie quite a start when he reached in for his biologically enhanced yogurt.”

  “Well, he did say he wanted to give me head!” Anfred quipped. No one laughed.

  “That guy?” Cassidy frowned. “I thought he checked out.”

  Mrs Box gestured up and down Anfred with her arm, “Shape shifter, dear. Do try to keep abreast.”

  “Shape shifter! Shirt lifter more like,” Brough interjected. No one laughed. Cassidy turned to Anfred.

  “Do you admit it?” she asked.

  “Well,” Anfred inspected his fingernails, “I don’t like to brag.”

  “And all this god of trouble bullshit?”

  “What can I say?”

  “How about the fucking truth?”

  “Well -“

  Cassidy delivered an elbow sharply to her captor’s ribs, catching him off guard. She darted away towards the lady cop. D.S. Miller put her arm in front of the American girl like a protective railing.

  “Well, that wasn’t very nice!” Anfred complained but his eyes were twinkling with amusement. D.I. Brough, keen to assert himself and get things moving, advanced towards Anfred with his hands out and his voice steady. There would be time enough for talking bollocks down at the station.

  “Now, put the knife down, son. And let’s put an end to all of this.”

  “If only it were that simple,” Anfred almost looked sorry. “And you will persist in wearing that coat.”

  Brough was scandalised. “There’s nothing wrong with my coat.” He glanced down at the garment in question. He was flustered. The perp had put him off his stroke.

  “It’s all right, Admiral,” Mrs Box gave him a patronising pat on the sleeve. “We’ll take it from here.” She called over her shoulder, “Bertie!”

  At last, the shadowy figure of Mr Box stepped into the light. He was indeed a giant of a man who could cause neck-ache in any professional basketball player trying to look him in the eye. More striking than his imposing height was his attire. He was dressed as a Viking. A gleaming helmet like half a pointed egg sat on top of that massive head. Bertie’s long, silvery grey hair hung in plaits although, Cassidy suspected, she wouldn’t be surprised if the plaits turned out to be attached to the helmet. A beard sprang from his face as though he was being throttled by vampiric candyfloss. A rough woollen cloak the colour of spilled claret was fastened around his neck with a brooch of gold. A kirtle like a tent hung to his knees. Baggy trousers were wound around with strips of leather like a ham-fisted attempt at gift-wrapping trees. From his belt a dagger dangled, old but well cared for. His furry shoes looked like he had violated a couple of alley cats with his feet. Bertie clearly looked the part.

  Anfred admired the effort Bertie had gone to. “Hello, old friend!” Then he added, in the modernised version of his old tongue, “Hvordan er ting?”

  Bertie in a low rumble like an underground train answered in the same language, pointing out that Anfred was no friend of his.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Anfred made a show of being hurt. Cassidy and the detectives got the gist. They hoped the rest of this exchange was not going to be conducted in Norwegian. They were out of luck.

  Bertie raised his arms, his fingertips grazing the high ceiling, forming a wall of human flesh and animal hide. “Være borte, mørk djevel!” he intoned a few times, but the ‘dark fiend’ he was trying to banish stayed put and seemed to be enjoying the show.

  “Oh come off it,” Anfred snorted dismissively. “That’s not going to work, but I must say your accent has improved. Well done, you. Although you might want to lay off the Google translator and get a phrase book.�
��

  “Være borte! Tilbake til steinblokker og slange!” Bertie persisted with his incantations but still Anfred remained unaffected and in the kitchen rather than returning to his stones and his snake as Bertie commanded.

  “You can’t honestly think -“ Anfred began but Bertie’s booming basso profundo drowned out the rest of his sentence. The giant urged the mischief god to go back to his torment.

  “What’s he saying?” Miller piped up, disappointed there weren’t any subtitles running through the kitchen.

  “Gå og aldri komme tilbake!”

  “Really -“ Anfred began again but this time he cut his own words off. He realised that all this had been misdirection, a distraction to keep him occupied while Mrs Box, unnoticed had slipped into the pantry and back again. Suddenly she was in front of him, brandishing a parti-coloured and vicious-looking snake at the unwelcome guest. Mrs Box, pleased with the look of alarm that sprang into Anfred’s eyes, treated him to a smirk of her own.

  In perfect Norwegian she introduced the snake, “Si hei til min lille venn.”

  “No!” Anfred staggered backwards. Mrs Box and her ‘little friend’ stepped closer.

  “Yes!” she contradicted him, “We have a pet slange now. Thanks to a generous donation we made to the zoo’s breeding programme. Now, go on; sling your hook!”

  Anfred scooted behind a table with his hands up in surrender. “Mrs Box!” he wheedled, “Edna! Please! Remember the old times!”

  “I remember,” Mrs Box said grimly. “I lost my husband for twenty years because of you.”

  “I - well...” Anfred struggled to respond. “Well, what’s twenty years between friends?”

  Mrs Box stepped around the table, walking steadily. The agitated snake writhed in her gloved hands. “You robbed us of our best years together.”

  “Look,” Anfred retreated by a couple of steps, “I’m putting the knife down.” He dropped the blade onto the table. “I’m going to go with the nice policeman.” He cast an encouraging, pleading look towards the detective inspector in the objectionable overcoat. D.I. Brough surprised by this declaration, stepped towards the Norwegian weirdo.

  But Mrs Box kept coming. Anfred backed away, his eyes locked on the snake’s. Brough seized the young man’s arms and clipped on the handcuffs behind his back.

  “Oh no,” Mrs Box said firmly, but her eyes were shining wet, “you’re going for good.”

  Like a cobra herself, she suddenly lunged at Anfred. The snake sank its fangs into his neck. Mrs Box let go. The snake hung there like an unfashionable necktie. Anfred froze. His eyes widened in horror as he looked at the reptile suspended from his throat.

  His expression changed from surprise to shock to anger and finally amusement. There was a sound like a balloon popping as the Norse god of trouble and the snake disappeared from the face of the Earth.

  D.I. Brough’s handcuffs clattered to the floor tiles.

  Silence reigned - until the American broke it.

  “What, in holy fuck -“

  She dashed to the table and looked over and around it.

  “He’s gone now, dear,” Mrs Box said in a soothing voice. “It’s all over.”

  Brough stooped to retrieve the handcuffs. “For you, may be,” he examined the bracelets and the chain. “I’ve still got to write a report.”

  Mrs Box gave him an unfriendly poke in the chest. “You won’t try and blame my Bertie this time.” It was not a question.

  Now it was Brough’s turn to back away from the tiny landlady. “If I hadn’t seen with my own eyes...”

  “Excuse me, but what the fuck just happened?” Cassidy pointed at the spot where Anfred had been. The calming hand of Bertie fell on her shoulder like a warm bag of cement.

  “That’s it, love,” said Mrs Box. “He’s gone.”

  “You popped him?”

  Mrs Box glanced at the space where Anfred had been. “Hmm,” she mused. “It was all a bit low-key, wasn’t it?”

  She realised what she had said, repeated it and laughed to the point of hysteria. Bertie Box joined in; it was like someone trying to start a motorboat in a mineshaft.

  Brough clapped his hands together. “Right, come on then, Miller. Let’s go and tell the boys outside they can go home. And, I don’t know about you, but I could murder a drink.”

  D.S. Miller blushed and tittered like a schoolgirl meeting her favourite pop star. “Thank you, sir!”

  “We have a well-stocked bar here, Inspector,” Mrs Box pointed out. Brough picked up a half-empty bottle of Ragnarök and shook his head.

  “Perhaps not, eh?” he said. He handed Mrs Box the bottle and then ushered his detective sergeant towards the exit.

  Cassidy was left between the big man and the little woman. She glanced from one to the other. They smiled warmly back at her.

  “Un-be-fucking -“

  Departure

  The next morning was bright and sunny - which is more than could be said for Cassidy Whitlow’s disposition as she checked out at Reception. The debris of the night before had all been swept away but there were glaringly empty spaces on the shelves where crystal dolphins and china kittens had once stood proud. Guiltily, Cassidy kept her gaze averted. She wondered whether she should offer extra money as compensation but then she reconsidered. If Mrs Box didn’t mention the casualties from her collection, she wasn’t going to.

  The little landlady hummed to herself as the printer chugged out a sheet of paper.

  “Your bill, dear.” She presented the still-warm page to the American but before Cassidy could take it, she snatched it back and tore it in two. “Least we can do, dear,” she wrinkled her nose. “Considering.”

  “Gee,” said Cassidy, flatly, “Thanks.” She glanced around the Reception area. The photographs were back on the wall. A tell-tale crack here and there in the glass. “Did it all happen?” Cassidy sought the landlady’s eyes. “All that crazy shit?”

  Mrs Box returned her gaze. For a second, Cassidy was reminded of the snake and its steady, chilling stare. Mrs Box tore the bill again and dropped the pieces into a waste bin. “Oh, we get all sorts in this business,” she said, offhandedly. “I wouldn’t worry.”

  “And the cops?”

  “Oh, they’re still poking around,” Mrs Box didn’t sound concerned in the slightest. “Loose ends. It will all be hushed up, I reckon.”

  She installed herself in her chair and took out her puzzle magazine.

  “But I’m free to go right?”

  Cassidy waited. Mrs Box was absorbed in a word search. She gave the end of her red pen a pensive suck. As far as she was concerned, Cassidy had checked out.

  A car horn hooted outside.

  “My cab,” Cassidy guessed. “Well, it’s been a real...experience.”

  “Bye-bye, dear,” said Mrs Box without looking up. “Come again, won’t you?”

  “Yeah, right,” Cassidy muttered. She gathered up her bags and belongings and struggled to open the door. “So long!” she called out as the door swung shut behind her.

  Mrs Box circled “riddance” in her magazine. Her husband’s hand settled on her shoulder like a bunch of bananas on steroids. She reached up and patted it fondly.

  ***

  The taxi driver loaded Cassidy’s things into the boot. Cassidy was antsy, itching to be on her way. He was about to close the lid when she cried out.

  “Wait!”

  She reached into a bag and pulled out the sheaf of papers that bulked out the folder labelled “Thesis.” She smoothed it with the flat of her hand before, with a look of regret mingled with determination, depositing it unceremoniously in a nearby litter bin. While the driver started the engine, she took a long last look at the Ash Tree B & B. Her fingers clasped around the car door handle.

  She hesitate
d.

  Then she darted to the bin, grabbed her thesis and jumped into the backseat.

  “Just drive, please,” she urged, nursing the folder on her lap, held in place by her seat belt. “Get me out of here.”

  The taxi pulled away. Cassidy kept her eyes directly ahead, determined not to look back. But the Ash Tree was visible in the rear view mirror all the way to the corner. She closed her eyes.

  Professor Rosenberg could rot. She wasn’t giving up on her dream. An idea for a new thesis bubbled beneath the surface of her mind. Or a novel! A novel could lead to recognition. Global recognition not just some stuffy academic circle...

  It was going to be... unbelievable!

  ***

  Melanie Miller took her mother a cup of tea. There was a spring in her step and she had that aerated feeling that she could burst into song at any minute. It was more than the relief of a difficult case being all over bar the paperwork - although that was always a good feeling.

  She and D.I. Brough - she supposed she could allow herself to call him David by now - had caught last orders at the Pig In Clover. He, appropriately, had supped a pint of bitter and she had opted for white wine from a tap. She had sat back, watching him over the rim of her glass as he talked through the investigation, a monologue that veered increasingly towards the bizarre and sensational as he pieced matters together as best as he could. There was only one question he asked her - apart from whether she would like salted or dry-roasted peanuts with her wine - was, how in hell was he supposed to write this up in a way that anyone would believe?

  Melanie had shrugged. She had no answer and even if she had, he wasn’t allowing her the chance to get a word in edgewise. He was passionate, she liked that. About his work, sure enough, but perhaps one day she could ignite the same level of intense devotion within him and his heart would flutter as hers was prone to whenever she thought of him.

  Of course, it could be deemed unprofessional. They would keep their relationship secret. They would go deep cover.

  Melanie giggled and allowed herself to savour the word again.