Relationship.
“What’s got you so bubble-headed this early in the morning?” her mother grunted, having hobbled from her bed in the front room to the chair by the window. “Has some fella had his fingers in you?”
“Mother!” Melanie was appalled. “That’s inappropriate.”
But, though as yet untouched by darling David’s digits, the very idea of it tickled her pink. She left her mother to conduct her daily espionage on the neighbours and skipped back to the kitchen. She caught the toast as it launched itself from the toaster and smothered it with extra butter-substitute. Well, it was a special day, she reflected. The first day of her new life. With him.
She stirred her tea. Everything looked, felt, sounded, smelled and tasted so much better today. She would wear her new blouse. He was sure to like it.
***
D.I. Brough was in the shower. He allowed the hot water to pound against the back of his head as though it would beat its way to his brain and wash out his unwanted thoughts. There was slim chance of that with the unsatisfactory performance of the equipment. He reminded himself yet again to contact the lettings agent. Perhaps he didn’t think it worthwhile. Perhaps he was not expecting to stay in the flat much longer. Perhaps, it cheered him to think, he would be heading back down South before long.
He still had no idea how he was going to write his report. Apart from Dobley’s confession that he had chopped up the librarian and stacked her on her own bookshelves, there was no evidence. There was no perpetrator. There were only the dead bodies he’d left behind.
He could try and present the facts in such a way that the victims had killed themselves. The man had forced beer bottles into his own eyes. That was not impossible. The tramp had rammed the book down his own throat? The young man had chopped his own head off and put it in the fridge...? And what the hell did the Whisk Man of Wolverhampton have to do with it? If anything?
Damn it.
He thought again.
There was the truth.
Damn it.
That wouldn’t do.
There was...the doorbell.
He swore out loud then spat out the mouthful of water and shampoo he took in during the swearing. The gods are washing my mouth out, he thought. A shiver ran through him and he glanced upwards. They weren’t, were they?
The doorbell rang again, more insistently.
Brough reluctantly turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist. He would run a few extra circuits of the park to burn off last night’s pint. He padded through the flat to the front door and unbolted it.
“David.”
A stern-looking white haired man smartly dressed and with a no-nonsense set to his jaw stepped in and wiped his feet on the welcome mat.
“Dad,” Brough greeted the inevitability of the visit. He closed the door but did not lock it. Perhaps he would need an escape route.
Former Chief Constable Peter Brough found his way to the centre of the living room. He glanced around at the sparse furnishings and the bare walls as though there would be a memory test later.
“I thought I’d catch you before you went out. Rather than turning up at the station and turning heads. You know me, always an early bird. Seems pointless going to bed at all lately. Oh, get dressed, boy. I don’t want to see your - “ he gestured to his son’s towel. David reddened and scurried to the bedroom.
He put his running clothes on. When the old man was gone he would need to pound the pavements to dispel the tension that was already gripping his internal organs. When he returned to the living room, Dad was where he had left him. He indicated that he should sit down, that they should both sit down, but the old man sneered at the very idea, as if to do so would be to admit a weakness. David sat.
“I still hear things,” the old policeman began. David knew at once he wasn’t referring to auditory hallucinations. “I may be retired but I still hear what’s going on. I’m not the out-of-touch fuddy-duddy you think. And you get a lot of time to think about things when you’re lying awake most of the night. And of course, a father takes an interest - no, he takes pride - in his son’s achievements. I remember when you were born. I remember your little hand closing around my fat old finger. I remember you falling off your first bicycle.”
David listened in an attitude of patient attention although inside he was a seething knot of irritation. He waited for an opportune moment and interrupted.
“What do you want, Dad? I’ve got work -“
A paternal finger was raised. It shut David up at once. And made him sit up straight. His father still had that power.
“I want you to listen, my boy,” the old man said, calmly but firmly. “Even though you have disregarded practically everything I’ve ever told you your entire life.
“You see all sorts in our line of work. You get to know a lot about human nature. You think you could fill a shelf of books with the things you know about the dark side and what people will do to each other. But when it comes down to it, you don’t know a thing. Something happens that goes against everything you think you know and it throws you. You don’t know which way is up. But what can you do?”
He seemed to be waiting for an answer. David opened his mouth to say he didn’t know but the old man answered his own question.
“You don’t know. No one does, son. That’s what I’m here to tell you. No one knows what to do about - about something like this. Now, you’re a good copper, you always have been. Decent. Honest. But you’re a cold fish, son. You’ve become hardened. Cynical. It’s not surprising in this line of work and that business before with the internal inquiry - you did the Force proud, son. Never mind what some of the flatfoots might say to your face or behind your back. You did the right thing and you made me proud.
“But this one, well,” he puffed out his cheeks and expelled a whoosh of air as the most fitting adjective he could find. “You can’t speak out. You can’t stick to your guns. You can’t let it come out.”
David met his father’s gaze for the first time since the old man had lifted his finger.
“A cover-up?”
“More than that. An omission. A deletion. A removal. Call it what you will but get rid of it. Bury it. Then don’t think about it. Move on. Get on with being the best copper you can be.”
David found his throat was thick with something. He cleared it and found his eyes were watering but whether this was from the throat-clearing or because of the old man’s words, he couldn’t determine.
“You forget who was in charge the last time something like this flared up around here. That time there was a stooge, someone to take the blame. Silly bugger seemed up for it, came quietly and all the rest of it, and it was the best thing all round to contain the situation.
The papers soon forgot about it and returned to their customary drivel. They’ll do so again. You can’t directly lay the blame at this Dibley’s door -“
“Dobley,” David interjected automatically. His father resumed without missing a beat.
“Dobley’s door. But he’ll do a stretch for the library woman so, lean on it the right way, and everyone will infer he did the rest as well. Give the papers as little as possible and they’ll soon chase after something easier. They wouldn’t want the truth anyway. They wouldn’t know what to do with it without losing what little credibility they have left. And the public wouldn’t like it so they are better off not knowing.
“But it’s not because of the public interest that I ask you to do this, my boy. It is out of concern for you. You must put this business behind you as fast as you can. It’s quite all right; there are some things in life that one is better off not facing up to.”
David looked up to his father, physically in this instance. “I’m not going to lie,” he said.
The old man closed his eyes. “Make it go away, my boy. Then you can carry on en
joying the rest of your life. You might be saying goodbye to your last night of proper sleep but, well, that’s the price you pay.”
He gestured to the rest of the room but then decided the bare walls and rundown rented furniture didn’t form the best illustration for good living. “That’s another thing,” he changed tack. “You need to get yourself a life - isn’t that how they phrase it? Get yourself a life! It’s not all about the work, you know. If I’d thought that, well, you wouldn’t be here, would you? Get yourself out there. Meet someone. Fuck her brains out!”
David gaped. He’d never heard the old man speak like this.
“Or his brains; I don’t mind which - none of my business. Does my progressive attitude surprise you? Shows you don’t know me as well as you think. Just get on with the business of everyday living but make sure you live every day. All this other, unusual palaver is - well, it’s not for us, is it? Mere mortals. We have enough to do getting along with reality as it is.”
“Um,” said David. “I mean, Yes.”
“That’s the spirit!” the old man brightened. “Now,” he moved towards the front door, “your mother and I will expect you at the weekend. No excuses. You deserve a bit of time off. Remember what I said, my boy: Live every day! You’ll find that’s better than being immortal.”
He opened the front door but stopped short of leaving as though he’d bounced off a force field. “Oh, I just remembered. Tip-off from the Serious Crimes wallah. Evans, is it?”
“Stevens.”
“Horrible fellow. Anyway, he wants you to get in touch. Something about a man with a whisk? He was a taxi driver and it turns out he picked up a certain Norwegian sales rep -“
“Who happened to give him a free sample...” It was the beer! There was something about the beer...
Peter Brough smiled with pride. That’s my boy, he thought. He gave David a hearty pat on the upper arm and let himself out. David stood staring at the closed door, confronted by the unfamiliar sensation that his father was right. He checked his watch. There was still time to go for a run before he had to report to Serious Crimes and that wanker Stevens. He’d think of something in the park. He’d make all this go away.
There could be a sort of product recall. He could stir up a health scare about that Rangy Rock stuff.
That was the easy part.
His positive outlook wobbled a little when he remembered D.S. Miller and the way she had simpered over him, all doe-eyed and dimples in the pub. Shit. Her bud was going to have to be nipped right away. A couple of days of the cold shoulder ought to scupper any wrong ideas she might be harbouring.
He filled his shorts pockets with his keys, his mobile phone and his MP3 player and reached in the fridge for a bottle of water.
A fresh start was what was necessary. A new division and a new challenge. Possibly... Dear old Dad could surely pull one last string. Or, he might decide to stay put for a while and see how things panned out.
He pulled the front door shut behind him and, after the customary stretching and bending to warm up his muscles, jogged past the industrial estate to the park. Perhaps he might run into that Alastair, accidentally on purpose.
He glanced up at the pale blue sky, the wan sun and the wisps of clouds suspended over the funny Black Country town.
It looked like it was going to be a beautiful day.
***
The Ash Tree was coming alive as guests on all floors thumped their alarm clocks into silence. Beds were left. Curtains were opened. Toilets were flushed. Showers were taken. . Clothes were put on. Kettles were boiled.
As each plastic jug rumbled and steamed, complimentary teabags were torn from their individual envelopes and dropped into cups to await their scalding fate. Tiny tubs of ultra-high temperature processed milk were ripped open, spurting almost venomously at shirt fronts and ties. Paper worms of sugar were roughly beheaded. But there was nothing untoward going on here. All this early morning violence was merely the diurnal ritual of preparation of that most widespread beverage, the good old British cuppa.
And as each guest took their first grateful sip of the too hot, refreshing golden liquid, none of them heeded the mess they had made. Someone else would clean all that up. The spilled drops of milk. The wayward grains of sugar. The discarded wrappers. The teabag packaging that proudly bore the striking brand name:
Ragnarök.
***
And across the North Sea, deep in the Scandinavian region, morning had also come to a compound, secreted in dense forest. The compound was enclosed by a high wall, crowned with razor wire that had the look of also being electrified into the bargain. Behind the imposing iron gates, through the doubly-thick steel doors and along the dark and featureless corridors, a cell at the end of the wing housed a young-looking figure, curled up on his bunk. With seventeen murders behind him, Olaf Sigurdsson was a dangerous fellow indeed.
The blond head twitched. The young inmate sat up, listening.
Someone somewhere in the Correctional Facility for the Criminally Insane was boiling a kettle. A member of staff was about to have a lovely cup of tea, giving a new brand a try.
As the kettle boiled and began to scream, Olaf Sigurdsson’s features contorted and the face of Loki, the god of trouble, appeared.
And laughed and laughed and laughed.
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