by Tony Lewis
There were four scratches on the wooden floor about three inches long, and at the end of one of the middle ones was a fingernail. Jekyll took out a hanky from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand. He deftly lifted the nail and turned his hand over, so that it fell onto his cotton covered palm. It was most definitely a nail from a hand and its appearance made him ninety percent sure it was human. He held it up level with his eye line and squinted, because there was something else. Attached to the underside of the clipping were several thin fibres that seemed to be bright red when held in the light.
“Interesting,” he muttered to himself, as he folded the hanky around the body part and put it into his pocket.
Twenty minutes later he was back at the museum, sharing his find with Starch.
“I’m pretty certain that Flange never wore anything of that colour,” the curator said, studying the fibres closely; his pince-nez perched precariously on the tip of his aquiline nose, “at least definitely not at work. He has a uniform but that’s grey, and he’s not the sort of man to be seen wearing bright colours. To be frank he’s quite a dour individual. I’ve only seen him outside of work hours a couple of times and his everyday attire is every bit as drab as his work wear.”
“And there’s no one else that you can think of that would wear clothes of that colour?” Jekyll probed further.
“No, I’m afraid not. Sorry I can’t be of any more help to you, Doctor.”
“Oh, not to worry. Probably a long shot anyway. Thanks a lot for your time.”
Back outside, Jekyll ruminated over the discovery that he had made in Flange’s house. On the face of it, it could be nothing at all, just a random bit of damage and some accumulated bodily detritus but, on the other hand, if you were feeling suspicious and had been watching too many of those endless forensic programmes on the telly, it could indicate that a struggle had taken place in the property. The only thing for sure, was that there was no definite way of knowing until the caretaker turned up or was found. Whatever state he was in would certainly be a big giveaway. All he could do for now was conduct his own enquiries in the area and glean whatever information that he could.
First thing though, he needed to let Ollie know what he had unearthed in the caretaker’s house. He fished around in his pocket and retrieved his mobile phone. That being said, mobile probably wasn’t quite the best way to describe it. That would be like saying that Pavarotti had liked a pasta dish every now and again.
Skullenia had been very slow in getting on board with the mobile technology surge. At present there was only one company operating a mere handful of arrays dotted around the countryside, and trying to get a signal anywhere, any time was a bit of a lottery. You would probably have more luck trying to send a text to the moon, or using the phone itself to bash out a Morse code message on the nearest wall.
Jekyll scrolled through his list of contacts until he found Ollie’s. He typed out a text and pressed send. With any luck, he would receive it within the next couple of days, a week at the outside. He could belt and braces it and send a bat as well, but they were notoriously unreliable. Half the time your message would end up in someone’s loft covered in poo. Ah well, at least it’s on its way. He put his Shockia back into his pocket and set about rustling up what information he could.
* * *
“Football!” exclaimed Stitches, a thin dribble of water flowing down his chin and onto the table. “Are you totally and utterly out of your tiny vampire mind?”
They were sitting around a table in the restaurant area of the Throbbing End. It was about eight o’ clock in the evening and thus breakfast time, and Ollie had just recounted his conversation with Douggie in the early hours.
“Why?” Ollie protested. “It’s not like we’ll be at it very long, is it? We’ll be complete rubbish and finished in fifteen minutes, less if we get thrashed that badly and the game gets abandoned. The only chance we would have of winning would be if the other team didn’t show up. But notwithstanding that, we get good kudos all round. Word of mouth and all that. And any publicity is good publicity.”
“Tell that to Boris and the Bloodguzzlers, that death metal band from Russia. One story in the paper about all night parties and missing body parts, and they were never heard from again,” said Stitches.
“Fine.”
“Neither was the reporter.”
“Okay.”
“The paper shut down as well.”
“Alright, I get it,” Ollie said, raising his voice enough to indicate to his zombie friend that he should be quiet.
“I hate to say it, but I think he’s got a point,” said Ronnie around a mouthful of bacon. “We’re not fit enough to play football. I’m out of breath just talking about it.”
“Come on guys, it won’t be that bad. You’re up for it, aren’t you Ethan?” Ollie pleaded expectantly.
The lycanthrope looked up from his rather rare steak. Saying that it was rare wasn’t really the best way to describe what he was eating though. It looked more like a cow had wandered into the dining room, sat on his plate and said ‘Get stuck in, then’.
“Well, I suppose so,” he said after swallowing a hefty chunk of blood soaked rarity. “But I tend to find that I’m faster on four legs than two.”
“Well, at the end of the day I’ve promised the Mayor that we’ll play, so that’s that. You’ll enjoy it, won’t you Flug?”
The hulking mass looked up from his bowl of Burnt Crispies, several of which had attached themselves to his chin. They were now precariously hanging on until they either fell back to the bowl or were licked off.
“Huh?” he said.
“Football,” said Ollie. “You’ll play, won’t you?”
“Uh, okay. Can I have some sweeties?”
“When we’re finished, alright,” agreed Ollie.
“Good to see that he’s firing on all thrusters this evening. So what are we supposed to be wearing for this sporting spectacular then?” Stitches asked.
Ollie reached under the table and picked up the bag which he plonked onto the table.
“All sorted,” he announced “Kit from Douggie.”
Stitches rummaged around in the bag and pulled out a lurid yellow shirt and a pair of bright red shorts.
“Stunning,” he continued, turning the items round to see if they looked any better from a different perspective. To be honest they wouldn’t have looked any better if seen from a different country. “We’re going to look like a chorus line out on that pitch.”
“Not one I’d pay to go and see,” added Ronnie.
After their respective meals, the guys got changed and made their way through the village to the green. All the way, locals would greet them and thank them in their various ways for agreeing to take part. One old wizard told Ollie what a pleasure it was to have him here. One old woman told Ethan what a pleasure it would be to have him here. One young lady told Ronnie that the pleasure was all hers and that she was having it right now, and a toothless crone told Stitches that if he didn’t stop dropping dust on the pavement, she would take great pleasure in burying him here. Flug got some attention as well. It was of the medical kind though, because as they passed through a stone archway near the pitch, he cracked his head and knocked himself senseless for a few minutes, a statement which we are not even going to begin to discuss!
“Ach, Ollie,” gushed Mayor Douggie when they arrived at the pitch. “Great to have ye here. Everybody is really excited. I can’t tell ye what this means te us all. The players on the other teams are stoked that yer here. And Punch is really pleased.” He indicated a small person off to their left who had on a pointy, jingly hat and the scariest smile he had ever seen.
Ollie once again attempted to release his hand from the Mayor’s grasp.
“That’s splendid, Mr. Mayor. Can I introduce my colleagues to you?”
“Och, I’d be delighted.”
“This is Stitches.”
“Hello,” said the zombie.
“
Aye,” came the greeting, accompanied by a vigorous handshake, followed by Douggie wiping some dust off his fingers.
“This is Ronnie.”
“Wotcha, mate,” he said.
“Aye,” came the greeting, accompanied by a vigorous handshake, followed by Douggie’s strange look as his fingers began to twinkle and start to fade.
“This is Ethan.”
“Good evening,” he said.
“Aye,” came the greeting, accompanied by a vigorous handshake, followed by Douggie’s intense scratching due to the lycan’s excessively hairy fingers.
“And this is Flug.”
“……………………..”
“Flug, say hello to the Mayor.”
“……………………..”
“My apologies,” said Ollie. “I think the blow to his head may have…”
“Hello, Mr Mayor,” rumbled Flug, late as usual.
“Aye,” no vigorous handshake, due to the fact that Douggie didn’t fancy the prospect of entrusting his delicate pinkies to Flug’s prehistoric grip.
“Is he always like this?” Douggie asked, staring at Flug’s vacant, closed for the season and probably won’t open for a good few year’s expression.
“Yes, but don’t you go worrying about him. He does have trouble with words of more than one letter, but his heart’s in the right place. Well, it was the last time I looked,” said Ollie.
“Ah, right,” continued Douggie, “well we kick off in aboot ten minutes and you lot are up first. You’re playing against a team of golems. The Stone Poses.”
“Right you are,” said Ollie as the Mayor departed to do something Mayorly.
“Okay, lads,” Ollie said loudly, clapping his hands together, the mark of any good football coach, “quick run around for a few minutes, then we’ll get out there, yes?”
Twenty five minutes later the sporting sleuths were sitting on a bench at the side of the pitch, amidst the roar of the crowd whilst enjoying a post-match refreshment and watching a team of goblins take on a team of warlocks.
“How the hell did that happen?” asked Ollie incredulously, sipping from a bottle of ice cold water. “Seven one to us.”
Stitches looked at him with raised eyebrows and an ‘isn’t it obvious’ expression on his face.
“Well, what did you think was going to happen?” he stated. “As soon as we ran out onto the pitch I thought, hang on they’re not moving. They’re made of clay, for goodness sake and move about as much as a snail with a limp. The only reason they scored their goal was because the ball ricocheted of one of their player’s heads and went in.”
“And we had to start scoring some goals,” added Ronnie. “There was only so much time we could waste, and even we couldn’t justify losing to a team that didn’t actually move. At all.”
“Yeah, he’s right,” said Ethan. “The crowd were getting a bit restless for some action. I thought they were going to invade the pitch when Flug stood on the ball and popped it.”
“Yeah well, don’t forget that was after he tried eating the first one because he thought it was a melon,” said Stitches.
“So what or who are we up against next?” asked Ollie of no one in particular.
“A team of spectres. The Ghost Riders. I’ve heard some of the other players saying that they’re supposed to be pretty good,” said Stitches helpfully.
“I hope so.”
They beat the Ghost Riders three to two. In the last minute of the game, Ethan was tripped and was awarded a penalty, much to the consternation of the Riders’ goalie who was sent off for using some rather colourful language. Seeing as they didn’t want to upset the crowd, Ethan had to make a reasonable effort at scoring. He ran up and kicked the ball as hard as he could, straight at the substitute keeper in the hope that he would save it. Unfortunately for his side though, the replacement wasn’t as solid as his team mate and he burst on impact, scattering everywhere and allowing the slightly slimy ball to sail into the back of the net.
Another post-match rest saw them discussing the next game, which was the semi-final. They were up against the Sneering Fiends, a fierce looking team who’s mascot was a troll with an attitude problem.
“Right,” said Ollie, a determined edge in his voice, “we are definitely going to lose this game. I reckon…what’s that noise?”
The noise was the sound of the troll mascot’s cage being torn asunder as it escaped. After its rampage, which signified to everyone present as to the precise nature of his attitude problem, and which left several spectators needing rearranging, The Sneering Fiends had been forced to forfeit the game as they only had two players left and between them they didn’t have the required number of legs to continue.
“Absolutely un-freaking-believable!” exclaimed Stitches after the carnage had been cleared away, and the blood soaked up from the pitch. (This was thanks to a very helpful wizard and his magic sponge). “We would never have beaten them. Now we’re in the bloody final. I haven’t had this much fun since…since… no, can’t do it. Can’t even take the piss. This is rubbish.”
“Who are we up against?” asked Ethan tightening his laces.
“A team of demons from the Throbbing End. Regulars by all accounts. Call themselves the Djinn and Tonics.”
“Hey, guys,” said Ronnie, a certain look on his face that indicated that he was about to say a certain something that was certain to cause certain other people cause for concern. And that was certain. “We’ve come this far, right?”
“Right,” voiced the others with a due sense of caution.
“Why don’t we try and win the damn thing?”
“Are you nuts?” said Stitches worriedly. “Have you seen the size of those things? They make Ten Feet Teddy look like a four year old. We’ll get absolutely marmalised.”
“No we won’t,” Ronnie continued enthusiastically. “We’ve got Flug for muscle, and the rest of us will get by on guile, lightning speed and good fortune.”
“This isn’t a film, you know,” added Stitches. “We won’t get the brown stuff kicked out of us and then make a remarkable comeback and win. We’ll get the brown stuff kicked out of us and then it will be remarkable if we make a comeback from the comas that we’ll all be in.”
Ollie stood up and stretched his hamstrings, which were in danger of seizing up quicker than a second hand car. He turned to his assembled colleagues.
“Let’s go for it. Are you with me? Come on.”
Stitches looked at his Boss, a strained and some would say insincere look on his face.
“Well, after a rousing speech like that how can we possibly say no?” he said sarcastically. “That would be enough to make anyone charge at an eight foot demigod who looks like he could bench press a house. Henry V couldn’t have done it any better.”
A quarter of an hour later saw them standing on the pitch, facing their opponents. The smallest one was roughly the size of an ambulance, which was ironic because injuries and long, painful stays in hospital were utmost in their minds as they stood nervously on the field. If they pulled this off it would be the greatest victory since the Women’s Institute Invitation Fifteen beat Harlequins 37-10 at Twickenham. Mind you they did have a lot of decent players missing. The Harlequins had fielded a full strength team though.
The doughy form of Douggie jogged to the centre of the pitch. Seeing as this was the final he had elected to officiate, an activity that, judging by the tightness of his shorts, he hadn’t performed for many a long and overfed year.
“Good luck to ye, gentlemen,” he offered as he reached the centre circle. “May the best team win.”
“The biggest would probably be more realistic,” said Stitches.
Douggie put his whistle to his pasty lips and prepared to start the game.
“You want to be buried or cremated?” Stitches asked Ollie.
PHEEEP!
For the next ten minutes, absolute bedlam ensued. Ronnie received a blow to the head powerful enough to have floored a rhin
oceros wearing a crash helmet, which left him staggering around like a drunk for a few moments. Flug managed a couple of magnificent saves by a rather novel use of the bolt in his forehead (they were currently on ball number four) and Ethan and Ollie, who by some strange twist actually turned out to be quite good players, had managed to score a goal each. Do bear in mind that the statement ‘Ollie and Ethan were quite good players’ is relative. That would be like saying that a one armed man was quite good on the guitar simply because he could pick it up.
Stitches was doing okay, but he was struggling a bit with the pace of the game. At one point though he managed to get himself into the opponents’ box, where his foot connected with the ball in a spectacular volley, sending it flying into the back of the net. Unfortunately the ball went sailing into the crowd where it clumped a rather large ogre in the unmentionables. Douggie graciously allowed a time out for Stitches to relace his boot. And reattach his foot.
The second half played out much the same as the first. Violence, aggression, blood, lumps, bumps and bruises. And that was just the queue at the burger van.
With just a minute to go the score was three all.
“Just one more each, and they’ll be level,” the announcer announced helpfully.
With the clock ticking down, the game hanging in the balance and the detectives hanging out of their backsides, Flug made his decisive move. Or rather his left leg did. It was a replacement for the one that had been torn off by a deranged werewolf and had once belonged to a semi-professional footballer.
The Tonics’ hulking centre forward, who made the Statue of Liberty look like it had a growth hormone deficiency and in need of a good meal, collected the ball on the halfway line and charged towards Flug like an express train. Except this train was a seething mass of spectral ectoplasm that looked about as friendly as a Doberman at a cats only disco. It even had steam coming out of its ears.
The memories of hours spent playing football flooded through Flug’s system and possessed him completely, turning him into a competitive fiend, who’s only real contribution to the game up until this point had been getting in the way.