Having prioritised her workload, and once Mr Swan was confirmed dead, the paramedic moved her attention to Sam — who sat with his back against the wall with Abby gently holding is hand.
Sam’s wig had worked its way loose, though Abby had thoughtfully pressed it back in place. But the sweat from his forehead, mixed with the sweet sugary glue, congealed on his forehead. The female paramedic knelt on one knee beside him. Her attention was immediately drawn to the foreign substance.
“Code, em… shit!” she shouted to her colleague. “What’s the code for a chemical attack??” she enquired with great urgency.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Abby assured her. “It’s just glue. From his wig.”
The paramedic looked at her like Abby was speaking a foreign language.
Abby could understand the confusion as she wasn’t much more the wiser than the befuddled face looking back at her.
“He wears a wig. When he’s undercover. But he doesn’t have the right glue. Look,” she said, rubbing her finger in the sugary, sweating mess. “It’s treacle or syrup,” she said, licking her finger with a mild look of disgust.
“Stand down on the chemical attack,” said the paramedic to her colleagues. “But you may want to get in touch with the mental health team.” She looked Sam up and down, and, as he was conscious, she moved her head closer. “Where were you shot?” she asked.
Sam looked at Abby for strength. “I don’t know, Doctor, but I don’t think I can feel my right leg.” Sam raised his hands and showed a small trickle of blood running down the back of his hand, which caused Abby to place her own hand to her face in shock.
“I need you to stay calm,” said the paramedic as she skillfully and efficiently moved over every inch of Sam’s body. She moved her hand towards Sam’s right leg and as she pressed on his calf muscle, he couldn’t take the pain and screamed out.
“Will I lose the leg, Doctor?” asked Sam, his voice trembling.
“Be brave,” said Abby, stroking his sticky head.
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a paramedic,” said the paramedic. “But we’ll do the best we can.”
Sam closed his eyes, bracing himself against the terrible news he was certain to receive.
The paramedic leaned forward, resting on her knee. “Now, you did say you were shot?” she asked. “I’d just like to confirm?”
Sam nodded bravely. “Yes. Yes, I have,” he replied, giving Abby a piteous glance.
“No. No, you haven’t,” said the paramedic. She rolled up Sam’s right trouser leg and ripped a piece of Velcro clean off his skin. “This is what’s causing you the pain,” she said, holding up a gun holster that’d been attached to his leg. “You’ve had this fastened too tight on your leg. It’s cut the circulation off, which is why you’re in discomfort. She took a closer look at the gun, before removing it from its holster with an expression of consternation. “This gun…” she said, taking a second glance to make certain. “Is a plastic children’s toy gun. Of the cowboy variety, in fact. If I’m not mistaken?” She held it aloft for inspection.
“You got that right, pardner,” confirmed one of the officers at hand.
“What?” said Abby, removing her hand from the manufactured hairpiece. “He’s not been shot? What about the blood?”
“Let me see your hand,” said the paramedic, taking a careful glance. “There’s a small shard of glass,” she said, pinching it between her fingernails and plucking it free. “Likely from that broken glass. But he’s fine,” she said. “More or less,” she added, pushing herself to her feet and moving off quickly to tend to someone else who might actually need some tending to.
Sam pressed his hands all over his body to verify the diagnosis, and to his great relief there were no holes save those he’d not woken up with that same morning. “So I won’t be losing the leg?” he said to himself (since the medic had already buggered off).
Abby closed one eye, deep in thought, before looking at Sam. “Hang on. There’s something I’m trying to work out here.”
“I won’t be losing the leg,” Sam replied, sounding almost disappointed
“Sam,” she said. “There were only two bullets fired, yeah?” she said.
“Were there?” Sam answered. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“So how is it that you thought you’d been shot? If there were only two shots fired. Because Joey received one bullet, right? And Mr Swan the other. And, also, why the hell am I still here caressing that mess that’s stuck to your head?” she said, using Sam’s own shirt to wipe her hand clean of the goo.
Sam looked like he was deep in thought. Or maybe constipated. One or the other. “Ah,” he said, after a fashion. “Ah. Well.” He coughed.
“Yes?” she asked expectantly, taking on the tone of a schoolmarm once again.
“Maybe I thought it was shrapnel?” he offered unconvincingly. “In all the, em, excitement? And, erm… confusion?”
Abby shook her head as Sam rose to his feet. He did so uneasily, for effect.
“And what the hell is with you having a gun holster with a plastic gun? What exactly were you playing at? What did you think you were you going to do with it? It doesn’t do anything!”
Sam took it from her with a pained expression. “It does so do something,” he insisted. “It’s a cap gun,” he said, pulling the trigger, releasing a rather pathetic pop noise that would barely have scared a fly off a fresh turd.
Abby’s shoulders start to wobble, like jelly. Tears filled her eyes before spilling over onto her cheeks. Sam had seen this before. She was furious with him. Or, she was very distraught. One or the either. Either way, he felt certain she was about to explode in one way or another.
“I thought you’d been shot and you were going to die,” she said miserably.
This wasn’t what Sam had been expecting.
“And the only thing wrong was a splinter,” she continued.
“A huge hunk of glass, it was,” Sam interjected. “Very large indeed. Deadly large.”
“…And a gun holster you’d fastened too tightly.”
“I very nearly lost my leg,” he offered helpfully.
She walked forward a pace and threw her arms around him. “I thought I’d lost you!” she cried.
Sam cautiously placed a reciprocal arm around her.
“Sam,” said Abby through the tears. “If you’re going to wear the wig, promise me you’ll get proper glue. All I can taste and smell is syrup laced with your salt sweat.”
“Okay?” was all he was able to muster under the circumstances.
“Now come on,” she said, taking him by his good hand. “Let’s see if we can’t get out of here. I need a seriously large gin and tonic.”
Chapter Nineteen
Vauxhalla
One month later…
E arly evening in Peel on a warm summer’s eve was splendid. The sound of children screaming with joy on the beach couldn’t help but bring a smile to even the sternest of faces. Ice cream vendors were doing a roaring trade, closely followed by the bucket and spade vendors. Abby stood in front of Eyes Peeled, and she leaned comfortably against one of the windowsills outside work absorbing the panorama before her. There wasn’t anywhere on earth she’d rather live, but she still felt slightly out of place wearing her finest black dress when most around were in shorts and t-shirt.
Regardless of her attire, however, she was never entirely off-duty. She was a PI, after all — a private dick, if you will, though of course, in her case, minus the dick — and she couldn’t help but notice things. Like the clapped-out Vauxhall Astra on view, and it having driven up and down the promenade a number of times in a short span of time.
There were plenty of parking spaces available although the driver of the Vauxhall ignored all of them, and the occupants stole furtive glances in Abby’s general direction as they drove slowly by again and again first one way and then the other.
She was immaculate having just had her hair styled and her makeup profession
ally applied, and in a moment of paranoia she wondered if the male passengers had perhaps mistaken her for a hooker brazenly plying her trade. Or, if indeed, there were something rather more nefarious going on given the circle of underworld figures she and Sam had dealt with only recently? Was an associate of Mr Esposito come to exact revenge?
Then again, would criminals of Mr Esposito’s ilk arrive in a shabby Vauxhall Astra? It hardly seemed their style. Still, by now, Abby had learned to expect the unexpected and take nothing at all for granted.
The mysterious automobile came close once more, and this time it finally came to a stop — pulling over directly in front of the detective agency. The driver threw open his door, exiting the vehicle, and two more men spilt out from the rear.
Abby froze. She looked for an exit but there was none. She wore heels that were higher than a junkie on benefit day and would have made a rapid escape virtually impossible. The driver reached back into the car and pulled out a black case. Abby wanted to scream for help, but in doing so knew she may put innocent civilians in danger.
The driver stared directly at Abby and walked towards her, his focus unwavering.
“Heya. You are Abby Anderson?” he said in broken English.
Abby stared back without saying a word.
The man clicked his fingers and his two accomplices appeared with military precision. He reached into his case as Abby caught a glimpse of two more men appearing in her peripheral vision. She was now like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“I’ve got for you a great surprise,” said the driver, with a cock-eyed grin. “A little birdie told us where to find you!” he said, slamming the black case shut.
Abby threw her head back in fear, and before she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the worst, the last thing she saw was the sunlight glinting off the metal instrument in the man’s hand.
It’s been a good life, she thought. There’s things I wish I’d done…
“This is from someone special,” the assassin said, and he gave a horrible laugh. “From someone who wanted to make this day for you memorable.” With the man’s thick accent, he pronounced ‘memorable’ like memorial.
Goodbye, Sam…
“One-two-three!” the killer shouted. Abby put her hands to her face.
A sound like an agitated elephant filled the air, quickly accompanied by the rhythmic noise of guitar strings being plucked.
Abby assumed she’d been shot and this was the musical accompaniment to her final resting place. She opened one eye, expecting to be greeted by Angel Gabriel, not by five men wearing giant sombreros with stick-on moustaches.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight, and her ears a moment longer, to the sound of Spanish guitars, trumpets, and an array of instruments which were a not-unpleasant assault on her senses.
Once her resting heart rate had returned to a level considered safe, she allowed a smile to escape her lips. The arrival of a full mariachi band on Peel Promenade was not an everyday occurrence and drew not only quite a crowd, but also an impressive shade of red from Abby’s cheeks.
Abby tried to retreat into the office doorway, but the driver and lead musician were having none of it. They were relentless in their pursuit. Abby was taken by the hand and gently, but firmly, led into the middle of the road — stopping the traffic in both directions — as the rest of the band joined him, circling around her and strumming and tooting away merrily.
Ordinarily, drivers would be giving angry gestures and sounding their horns, but on this beautiful evening in Peel, the drivers climbed out of their cars and joined into the carnival atmosphere. Children abandoned their sandcastles and ran — with parents in tow — to see where the magical sound was coming from. The lead musician took Abby in his arms and danced with her to further enhance her discomfort, but, to be fair, she was now starting to embrace the craziness — even going so far as to remove her shoes so she could dance to the music.
“This is absolutely mad,” she said through laughter that now flowed freely.
The music came to an end, prompting the lead musician to spin her till she was dizzy. He placed his trumpet carefully down, raised his hands above his head, and clapped as he pranced toward her. Pulled from somewhere, like a magician, a vibrant red rose appeared — tucked between his clenched teeth. He knelt in front of Abby and presented the floral tribute to her as a flurry of camera phones flashed.
She shook her head in disbelief, gratefully retrieving the flower and placing a hand over her mouth to cover her shock. The rose-bearer leapt to his feet once more, and he instructed his procession to retreat and clear the way in order to allow the street traffic to move once again. Cars eased along, returning to speed, beeping their horns in appreciation as they did so, as Abby climbed back in her shoes.
“What on earth is going on?” she asked, but there was no direct response. Instead, now the road was clear, the leader of the group clapped his hands once more and pointed further up the promenade.
Abby squinted, as she didn’t quite trust her eyes. Her mouth dropped as a magnificent white horse pulling an equally magnificent white carriage made its way up the promenade at an elegant pace. She didn’t know quite what to do as it pulled alongside. The driver of the carriage gave her a courteous nod, as the mariachi band opened the door for her and then played a further melody to see the carriage off and along on its way.
Abby slumped into the sumptuous leather seat, and, with the momentum of the horse moving forward, the coachman was in danger of seeing more than he bargained for. He kept one eye on the road ahead and with his spare hand leaned back, handing Abby a white envelope. She opened it with a broad smile across her face, before pulling out a card with exceptionally neat handwriting.
I trust the music and carriage have set the mood
To a castle for my princess where we shall have some food
You’ll be radiant and elegant, but you really can’t be late
For every minute is precious on our very first, long-awaited, date
Sam x
Abby pinched her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. She was desperate to keep the tears at bay for fear of wearing her mascara like Alice Cooper.
“Stupid bugger,” she said softly. “Stupid, silly, daft bugger.”
The castle was in spitting distance, but, fortunately for Abby, who was enjoying the journey immensely, they had to go a long way for a shortcut as direct access was a bridge across the harbour. The bridge designers had, with little foresight, apparently, not factored in enough width to accommodate a horse and cart. So the carriage had a gentle trot around Peel Harbour, giving those enjoying the sunshine from their moored boats an unexpected spectacle.
By the time the carriage pulled up at the entrance to Peel Castle, Abby’s teeth had dried out from smiling so much. Peel Castle afforded a magnificent backdrop to the seaside town of Peel.
“M’lady,” said the coachman, graciously offering a hand to help her down, whilst averting his gaze to spare any breach of modesty.
“Thank you,” said Abby, unsure what to and where she should be going from there.
“This way, if you please,” said the coachman, and he offered his arm to Abby and escorted her up the steps to the entrance of the castle. Built by Vikings in the eleventh century, it had played a pivotal role in the evolution of the Island. And, today, it would play host to Sam and Abby.
The coachman made his excuses, and he left Abby stood in the middle of an inner grass courtyard. The perimeter wall protected a number of ancient structures and Abby spun on the spot, unsure where to head. One thing she was sure about was that high heels didn’t like grass. She staggered for a moment before removing her shoes, holding them in her hands. She admired the red sandstone walls and was instantly transported back to being a girl, surrounded by friends on a school outing.
Her moment of nostalgia gave way to the sound of music. She moved her head to triangulate where the sound emanated. She walked forwards and caught
a glimpse of shimmering flames coming from the remnants of the castle cathedral.
Inside, two rows of candles flickered on the gentle breeze, forming a flaming path to a large wooden table — a table which Sam, wearing an immaculate black tuxedo, stood behind. Abby was making a habit of this today, but once again gripped her bottom lip to hold back the tears. She shook her head in awe as she walked through the exquisite surroundings.
“Welcome,” said Sam. He adjusted his jacket and moved out from the cover of the table towards his beautiful date for the evening.
As soon as the entirety of him was in view, Abby burst into a fit of hysterics.
“Oh my god,” said Abby, snorting with laughter. “You are an absolute tool.”
Sam held his hands out like a scarecrow. “What?” he said, protesting his innocence. “Don’t you like the suit?”
“I like the suit,” said Abby. “But I really don’t think those shorts go with it. I thought you threw them away?”
“I did,” said Sam. “But they must have been in a two-pack, because I found these blue ones. And, as you can see, they’re as neat at the others.”
“Neat?” laughed Abby. “I think you mean painted-on. They’re almost indecent.”
From the waist up Sam was immaculate, like a young James Bond. But, waist down, it was not so good. He’d tucked his shirt into his shorts, and he had his socks pulled up to just below his kneecaps.
“You’re mad,” said Abby. “Please tell me you have alcohol.”
Sam nodded. “You’d be amazed at how many women have said that to me over the years.”
“I wouldn’t,” replied Abby, taking a glass of something fizzy from Sam. “I really wouldn’t. I’m amazed you haven’t worn the wig to complete the ensemble!”
“I genuinely thought about it,” he said, moving closer to her. “You look absolutely stunning, by the way,” he said. “Just wow!”
Abby blushed with modesty. “What’s wrong with your hand? What have you done to yourself now?” she asked, in reference to the beige bandage covering the index finger of his left hand.
The Seaside Detective Agency Page 19