The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  He did a tour of the old factory’s perimeter before pushing aside a rusted sheet of corrugated iron from a doorway and going inside. He heard pigeons, disturbed from their roosts, flap and flutter their way out through holes in the roof. The air was musty and stale. Like a tomb. Weeds were sprouting from cracks in the shop floor, thrusting upwards towards beams of sunlight. Debris shifted and rustled under his feet as he explored the space. His eyes became accustomed to the gloom but he was paying more attention to an innate sense of where to go and what to do.

  Within minutes he had located the spot. This was the very place where the great slab of stone, the Devil’s Doorstep, had lain. He stood on it and immediately felt energised. It could have been his imagination but, he decided, it made no difference. What he felt was what mattered. He remained where he was, savouring the feeling, the prickle of electricity all over his body, before he shifted himself. There were things that had to be done and time was in limited supply.

  This time the people of Dedley would not stop him.

  ***

  Terence Flax was annoyed. It was the last day to set copy before the latest issue was sent to the printers and his number one reporter had failed to show up for work. He hadn’t even called in sick. Flax even went so far as to check his own email account in case Dunn had sent word of his absence via that newfangled medium, but there was nothing.

  He rang Theo’s number. At first he thought he’d got through to the young man who was babbling something and wouldn’t let him get a word in, but then he realised he was speaking to a recording. He harrumphed and left a terse message. Immediately afterwards he felt he had been a little harsh perhaps; he rang again and left a warmer message, hoping that everything was all right.

  Meanwhile, there was a paper to put to bed. Flax paced between stacks of old newspapers for a bit before deciding what to do.

  He installed himself at Theo’s work station and was immediately stymied by a request for Theo’s password.

  “Cack,” Flax permitted himself the curse. “Cack and double cack.”

  He drummed all his fingers on the desktop. There was no point trying to guess the lad’s password. There was no divining how that young man’s mind worked.

  Flax tapped his foot rapidly.

  There must be some way to override this. He was the boss, for pity’s sake. Privacy be damned; he had a paper to put out!

  He went back to his office and dug out a number for IT support. He noted with disdain the extortionate by-the-minute charges. The bill would have to come out of Theo’s wages and serve him right.

  But as he dialled, Flax had a softening of heart. He would make - no, he would ask Theo to contribute towards the cost of the call. If that was all right with him.

  The line was connected. Tinny music filled Terence’s ear. He winced, keeping his eye on the wall clock, watching every expensive second elapse, with a growing certainty that he was being fleeced.

  ***

  “Look at him,” Shelley jerked her orange face towards the corner table. Miller knew to whom she was referring but she looked anyway. There was Brough, doodling on the crossword. The same cup of coffee sat where it was. “Jobless by the look of him. Coming in here, nursing the same drink all day. Having it large on the taxes I’m paying.”

  Miller forced herself not to spring to Brough’s defence. She thought twice about the flaw in Shelley’s diatribe. Eking out one coffee was hardly having it large. Or grande or bloody venti, or whatever it was called.

  “Go and ask him if it’s dead,” she nudged Miller’s arm.

  “Sorry?” Miller was baffled.

  “Ask him if he’s finished with his mug. That might gee him up a bit. Spend a bit of money or piss off. Makes no difference to me. Go on.”

  Miller, both reluctant and keen, to perform the task, approached Brough’s table.

  “Are you dead?” she asked.

  “What?” Brough looked up from his puzzle.

  “Have you finished your coffee only...” She tried to indicate with her eyes the watchful Shelley over at the counter.

  “Um...” Brough inspected the mug. “It’s cold. You could fetch me another. On second thought, a lemonade.”

  “Pushing the boat out, are we?” Miller raised her voice so Shelley could hear her barmaid’s banter. She took the mug back to the bar. “He’s on the lemonade now,” she informed her colleague.

  “You should spit in it,” Shelley advised. “Bloody scrounger.”

  “Oh, I think he’s a professor or something,” Miller sprang to Brough’s defence. “From the university or something.”

  “Well, he looks like a tramp. If he comes near me I’ll give him what-for with the ice bucket.”

  Miller squirted lemonade from a dispenser on a flexible cable into a glass. She took it to Brough’s table.

  “Someone’s got himself an admirer,” she announced cryptically.

  Brough glanced across and caught Shelley’s scowling face like an angry Satsuma.

  “Perhaps our man will make his move soon, eh?” he tore his gaze away. “It’s quite tiring, just sitting here.”

  “My heart bleeds,” Miller snarled. She stormed back to the counter. Shelley was reapplying her nail polish, a lurid green shade that clashed with her face paint.

  “Fetch them glasses from the smokers’ garden, will you, love?”

  Miller answered with a curt smile. She was glad to get away from this obnoxious creature.

  ***

  Across the road in the Starving Beggar, Stevens was tucking into a basket of nachos. Strands of melted cheese clung to his moustache. Woodcock declined his generous invitation to help himself.

  Rather than this indulgence, Woodcock was using the time to go over his notes. He was sure there was something he hadn’t thought of, some detail that was still unconsidered. Stevens told him to put all that shit away. Woodcock presumed the D I’s inability to take the case seriously was due to the lack of grisly murders. Stevens was determined to make the most of his day at the pub. Woodcock just wanted things over with so he could spend some time with Mel. He kept an eye on the Grey Dog opposite. She was only yards away but she may as well have been on bloody Mars for all the good that did him.

  Suddenly there she was!

  Miller emerged from the pub and wove in and out of the tables with benches and umbrellas that were provided for those who insisted on sucking on cancer sticks. Woodcock watched her collect abandoned glasses and empty ash trays into a bucket. The scene was hardly the Birth of Venus but to Gary Woodcock it was like witnessing a living, breathing masterpiece.

  This spectacular vision was suddenly denied him as a large white van interposed itself between him and the woman of his dreams. Woodcock cursed in annoyance. The van bore cheerful lettering announcing a company name.

  Wally’s Windows - Your panes are our pleasure.

  Woodcock watched as a man in woolly hat and overalls got out of the van and unfastened an extendable ladder from the roof rack. The window cleaner placed the ladder against the wall of the pub then returned to the van to fetch his bucket.

  Woodcock groaned. Mel would be back indoors by now.

  “What’s up with your face?” Stevens grunted, licking salsa from his fingertips. “Something happened?”

  “Window cleaner,” Woodcock pointed at the van.

  “Oh,” Stevens was unimpressed. He snatched up the menu again to make another selection.

  Something stirred in Woodcock’s mind.

  Window cleaner...

  He searched through his notes again and pulled out the list of contact numbers for all the pubs affected so far.

  “What are you doing?” Stevens seemed irritated by this flurry of activity. “I fancy a lasagne.”

  Woodcock waved him to be quiet while his first call w
as connected.

  “Hello, is that Mr Adams? Detective Sergeant Woodcock. We met. Yes, that’s right. Could you tell me if you’ve had your windows cleaned recently... You have? And which firm do you use? Right, thank you.”

  “What the fuck’s all that about?” Stevens growled.

  “Hang on a minute,” Woodcock was already dialling the second pub on the list. “I’ve had a brainwave.”

  ***

  Miller took the empty glasses and the ash bucket inside, glad of the respite from Shelley’s company. She remembered what the manager had told her about filling the window cleaner’s bucket. She called up the ladder to the boiler-suited backside.

  “I’ll fill your bucket, shall I?”

  The window cleaner didn’t glance down or acknowledge Miller in any way. Rude, she thought. But then he was wearing one of those hats with ear flaps and she wouldn’t be surprised if he was bombarding his cranium with music from an MP3 player... Melanie Miller was not a detective for nothing.

  She picked up the large plastic bucket. It was black so she didn’t see it already had water in it. The weight of it surprised her. But still, the window cleaner would appreciate a fresh bucketful. Nice and warm to plunge his shammy in. Or his squeegee or whatever it was. Miller was not au fait with the latest in window-cleaning technology.

  She lugged the bucket indoors, taking care not to splash herself. She poured the contents down the sink and filled the bucket from the hot tap. She hummed to herself as she waited for it to fill. Shelley emitted a snort of disdain. She didn’t like to see anyone happy in their work.

  Miller struggled to carry the bucket back outside. She put it in the spot she’d found it in and looked up the ladder. The window cleaner was not there.

  “Here’s your bucket,” she said, to thin air.

  She looked in the front of the van. He wasn’t there either. Miller frowned; his lovely hot water would go cold. Buggered if she was going to struggle with it again!

  She went back inside.

  Across the road, Woodcock was staring so intently at the van obstructing his view, it was as though he was attempting to render it transparent through force of his will.

  “Oh, sit down and let me kick your arse at dominos.” Stevens griped.

  “I think I’m onto something,” Woodcock replied without turning around. “Each pub and the Indian too was visited by the window cleaner on the day the footprints appeared. You can see what I’m saying. Window cleaner - ladder. Ladder - roof...”

  Stevens gaped. His cogs were turning. He sprang to his feet, spilling lager top and dry roasted peanuts. He joined Woodcock at the window.

  “And the window cleaner’s over the road at the Grey Dog?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Shit. That bloody queer is going to get all the glory again.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about? Bloody Brough?”

  “Well...”

  “I think we should inform our colleagues of our suspicions. I think we should be having a word with the window cleaner. I think we should be evacuating that pub.”

  “You do a lot of thinking for a detective sergeant,” Stevens conceded. “Come on then!”

  “What? Now?”

  “No; I thought we’d watch the football match on Euro-fucking-sports first. Of course now!”

  Woodcock dithered.

  “I was going to send Mel a text. Give her a tip-off on the down-low, like.”

  Stevens looked disgusted.

  “What you two get up to in the privacy of your own dungeon is your business. Come on. Let’s nick his ladder. The bugger’s at it now; he’s up on the roof!”

  ***

  Seconds later, Stevens was across the road. Woodcock followed; the detective inspector already had both hands clamped around the ladder when he caught up.

  “He’ll be stuck! He’ll have nowhere to go.” Stevens’s moustache was stretched by his broad grin.

  “Hold up,” Woodcock shook his head. “Perhaps one of us should go up there after him.”

  Stevens blinked.

  “Go on then.”

  “What? Me?”

  “Well, I’m holding the ladder.”

  Woodcock couldn’t see the logic in that response but with a sigh he resigned himself to a climb up to the roof. Stevens shifted aside so Woodcock could get on.

  “You dare fart in my face,” Stevens warned as Woodcock began his ascent.

  “What’s the matter?” Woodcock glanced over his shoulder. “Never heard of looking up old friends?”

  Up he went.

  ***

  At that moment, Miller was serving Brough yet another lemonade. He insisted on ice but when Miller checked the bucket on the counter, it contained nothing more than a cold puddle of water.

  “Shelley?” She held the ice bucket out as a visual aid.

  “Well, get some more then,” Shelley was astonished at her workmate’s lack of initiative. She nodded her Belisha beacon face towards the backroom. “Fridge-freezer.”

  Brough and Miller shared an amused grimace. Brough went back to his table in the corner; Miller went to the backroom.

  “You forgot the bucket!” Shelley called after her. “Silly cow,” she muttered. She snatched the ice bucket from the counter. Its cold contents splashed up her sleeve. Shelley swore and emptied it into the sink. The water ran down the open plughole.

  And then the pub exploded.

  16.

  The White Swan was shaken rather than damaged. Several windows blew out in the rush of air that accompanied the flash of light and flame and the boom like a giant bursting a gargantuan paper bag. A row of inverted bottles in optics ruptured in unison. Wine glasses, pint glasses, shot glasses and flutes all splintered, tinkling their way into oblivion. Smoke escaped through the newly-smashed windows and fire licked lazily at the counter but its heart wasn’t really in it. Only those outside the pub noticed the bang. It was as if the town of Dedley had shrugged its shoulders and got on with its life.

  Closest to the sink, Shelley took the brunt of the flash. It singed her face, making the orange one red. She was knocked backwards into a stack of boxes of crisps that cushioned her from the force of the blast. In the backroom, Miller had been thrown forwards into the freezer. Her legs waved in the air as she struggled to right herself. Brough had been thrust forwards across his table. The edge caught him in the sternum, winding him. He could feel heat at his back. He realised his tweed jacket was on fire. He forced himself over onto his back and then dropped to the carpet, rolling around to extinguish the flames.

  Other customers began to peer out from their refuges behind tables and fruit machines. Some were a little scorched. Some were blackened and smoking. Some had little cuts from the flying glass of their exploded beverages. But no one was seriously hurt.

  Still clinging to the ladder, Woodcock had been pushed away from the building. The ladder had gone over backwards, depositing him on the roof of the window cleaner’s van. Stevens had landed on his backside in a pile of dog shit.

  “Fuck me,” he was the first to his feet. “What the cocking hell was that?”

  He dusted himself down and got a handful of flattened dog shit.

  “Oh Christ.” He wiped his palm on the side of the van.

  “Some help?” Woodcock peered down at Stevens from the roof rack. He dropped his legs towards the detective inspector who assisted him with his beshitted hand.

  “Mel” Woodcock gasped when his feet were back on pavement firma. He shoved Stevens aside and dashed into the pub. “Mel! Mel!” he cried.

  He had to force his way through the customers who were helping each other towards the exits. He searched their dirty faces for hers. He tripped over Brough who was still rolling around on the carpet.

  “
Dave!” Woodcock sat up and pulled Brough’s arm. “Where’s Mel? Have you seen her?”

  They were both suddenly transfixed by a smoking spectre staggering blindly towards them. It was a woman with her arms outstretched, groping the air. Her face was red and scalded.

  Brough and Woodcock jumped up and helped her to a chair.

  “This is Shelley,” Brough explained. “The barmaid.”

  The news seemed to incite panic and relief in Woodcock in equal measure. The woman with the scalded face wasn’t his Mel - her beauty was untouched, as far as he knew - but where the fuck was she?

  There was a hiss and a click and a downpour of water began to fall. The pub’s sprinkler system, a little late to the party, was evidently set to ‘monsoon’.

  “Stay with her,” Woodcock called out, already on his way to look for Miller.

  Shelley was shaking with sobs. Brough almost put his arm around her but didn’t; he told himself she might have unseen injuries and he wouldn’t want to cause her any pain.

  “My face!” she cried. “My face hurts! Is it still there? Do I still have a face?”

  “Oh yes, yes,” Brough tried to reassure her. “It’s just - well, it’s just red, that’s all. “

  “How do you mean red?”

  “Red, like um...” Brough searched for a simile, “Like someone’s smacked a baboon’s arse.”

  Shelley wailed.

  “I can’t go around with a red face. I’d look ridiculous.”

  “Quite,” said Brough.

  He helped her to her feet and steered her towards the exit. Sirens heralded the arrival of the fire crew and a couple of ambulances. Brough delivered the barmaid into the hands of some paramedics but waved their attentions away and went back in. He too wanted to find out that Miller was all right.

  He scrambled over the fallen boxes of crisps and crunched his way through the doorway to the back room. He found Woodcock at a freezer, holding onto a woman’s leg.