by Brian Hughes
“Waldorf, you blundering ignorant fool. You were put in charge of these prisoners, were you not?”
“Yes, your mightiness.”
“Then arrest them now! And after that start the disassembly process!”
Waldorf’s eyes, magnified by a pair of spectacles the thickness of opera glasses, fluttered expeditiously between Colonel Vosh and the couple in contention. Everybody seemed prepared to tear the Adams-apple from his throat as soon as he made a move. This was a cause for some concern. A conundrum that was obviously making his bulging head throb.
“But, Colonel Vosh…your honourableship.” He bowed, the several strands of hair on top of his head dusting the floor sycophantically. “I’m a doctor. Not a trained assassin.”
A powerful release of steam announced the opening of the hatch. It was accompanied by a sonorous creak. Colonel Vosh snarled, raising an arm towards the opening.
“Guards! Stop them! They must not escape at any cost!”
Cissy’s fragile body tumbled through the air resembling a pipe cleaner man, all arms and legs and teeth and eyes. And it landed in the mud with the delicacy of a Christmas sprout plummeting into a gravy boat. She sat upright confused, shook the slime from her forehead and looked up at the sneaker soles dangling about fifteen feet above her.
As it turned out they were attached to Commander Hogan’s legs, his top half still floundering beyond the hatch. Moments later Hogan’s face loomed down from the darkness, his whole body swinging from one tortured limb.
“Cissy! Run for it!”
The shout echoed around the crazy golf course before dispersing into the night. The exclamation marks stubbornly hung around that little longer in the form of misty ghosts billowing out of his mouth. “The bastard’s got its claws stuck in me arm!”
Judging by his contorted expression the guard’s claws had sunk in some considerable distance. Cissy sat there and watched, fingers of mud gently exploring her chest. There was a struggle, a rip and the scream of somebody who had just parachuted into the bowels of Hell without a parachute.
Hogan tumbled, sneakers over head in a spiral of dark blood. His agonised mouth was opened so wide that his jaw appeared to have become unhinged.
He landed besides Cissy with a deafening thwump and clutched at the feral meal of his arm. He was followed immediately by two further thumps as the over-anxious Empire Guards hit the unctuous earth, one on either side.
Without thinking Cissy grabbed Marshal by the arm. A howl ripped through the night as she heroically dragged him away.
The hawthorn bushes proved to be no more hospitable to his horrific wound, as the two of them scrambled through the branches and sped off into the darkness. Over the pink and white concrete windmill they stumbled. Under the netting that surrounded the tennis courts. Over the wall with its stupid shards of glass set indiscriminately into the plaster, the sounds of the guards shouting to one another becoming more indistinct with every new obstacle.
Benevolent Road, number twenty-nine...or rather the rear of that particular building. A yard populated by a plastic dustbin, several painted buckets with dead azaleas in them, and chunks of driftwood that the owner of the property had gathered for the winter months ahead.
Fortunately the proprietor was currently engrossed in Ricky Lake, otherwise he might have been alerted by the figures against his outhouse. Both were doubled-up, blowing the sweat off their noses onto the log pile. With hands on knees Marshal and Cissy allowed their hearts to slow down. Far away now, beyond the yard walls, the sounds of running feet and military orders were becoming muffled.
“Right...” Hogan clutched his cleaved forearm, not daring to lift his hand for fear of what might be lurking underneath. “You know the territory round here, Cissy. What now?”
“Well...” Cissy snatched one last breath. “Allison Moore’s house is quite near. She’s on our side. We can take refuge there for a bit.”
Hogan gingerly raised the palm of his hand.
His face instantly erupted in spasms of disgust.
“I think I’ve just discovered the missing jigsaw piece.”
Cissy strained her eyes against the darkness, craning her elongated neck so that she might better see the gaping wound.
From Hogan’s arm a sizeable carving of flesh had been torn away. Beneath it, fizzling and popping in the damp atmosphere, was a jumble of pistons and pulleys. All steadily pumping, shunting and heaving. Their only goal, it would appear, to keep Hogan’s right arm working properly.
The Greyminster Scrapbook Part Five
Two apparently inconsequential items in Sergeant Partridge’s collection are the letters of Henry Higginbotham, removed from his apartment following his murder.
However, Jack recognised that not only were these letters important to what had taken place but their existence opened up a whole new bag of worms. Let’s take a closer look ourselves. It ought to be brought to the reader’s notice that Henry Higginbotham had a secret life. That of a budding author, or rather authoress. On numerous occasions he’d tried to sell short stories to women’s magazines under the pseudonym of Emma Greyson.
The first of the letters is a rebuttal from Mable Magazine to a yarn entitled ‘Troublesome times.’
MABLE MAGAZINE: The Discerning Housewife’s Choice.
140 Flotsam Gate,
Preston,
LANCS
June 14th
Dear Miss Greyson, (aka Henry Higginbotham)
We are returning your short story entitled ’TROBuBLESOME TMIES,’ submitted for our ‘Mini-Mystery Section,’ on the understanding that you will not bother MABLE MAGAZINE with your puerile endeavours again. We recommend this on the strongest possible terms, before we are forced to get the police involved.
Generally our stories are longer than 400 words and are not quite so explicit in their sexual content. ‘TROBuBLESOME TMIES’ could be considered as highly pornographic and is therefore totally unsuitable for our ‘homely’ publication.
Should you ever send us such material again, not only shall we contact the constabulary about the illegal nature of your writing, but we shall also issue warnings to all the local schools about your present address. We have photocopied ‘TROBuBLESOME TMIES’ on the off chance that the message has not sunk in!
Do the forests a favour Mr Higginbotham and stop writing!
Yours sinc.
LULU BLOGGS
Lulu Bloggs (Assistant Editor)
Henry’s response to this rejection was less than exemplary. Shattered were his dreams of luxury yachts, a private mansion in Suffolk and eloping with the girl from the newspaper stall on Greyminster market.
All exploded like the tragic teardrop that plummeted down his nose and onto the carpet.
And out came the cigarettes with fumbling fingers, the only course of action to smoke himself into a stupor of self-denial.
Before breakfast the following morning, enshrined in a cloud of cigarette smoke, Henry penned a letter back to Mable Magazine. Fortunately that epistle is now preserved forever in the Greyminster scrapbook.
Henry Higginbotham,
Apartment 2,
49 Sword Street,
Greyminster,
LANCS
Tel: 8769542
June 18th
Dear Mr Bloggs (aka MAMBLE MAGAZINE),
I am writing to express my disgust at the state of your glossy magazine. It is absolute rubbish.
Especially the ‘Mini-Mystery’ section. That’s really rubbish!!!
Yours disgusted,
Henry (crossed out) Penelope Worth
PENELOPE WORTH (Housewife)
Following this anarchic outburst Henry went about his business as usual. Within five minutes he was slumped in his armchair with a mug of coffee, chortling to himself at what the High and Mighty magazine would reckon to that!
As it happened they reckoned nothing.
Had Henry bothered to send it then no doubt the police would have been knocking on his door shortly a
fterwards. But the note was hastily forgotten in the turmoil of a four-hour special on the Shopping Channel dedicated to marital aids. Some weeks later it was booted accidentally down the stairs where Toby Patterson swept it up with a small, red hand brush. After which it was dumped in the outside dustbin.
On Saturday the bin men arrived, lugging the bin, epistle and all, on their muscular shoulders into the gnashing teeth of the dustbin cart.
On Saturday night it arrived at the council tip and was left to rot alongside a sodden cardboard box with crushed tomatoes in it.
The owners of the recycling plant had a long discussion as to what the red stain was, the rotund gent with the cigarette postulating on a dreadful murder connected with a Sainsbury’s box. His lank companion speculated with a filthy laugh on it being the container of several abused sanitary towels, gesticulating their services with a colossal movement of the right arm.
Another week passed before Peter Gubbins, the Greyminster postmaster, unable to make ends meet on his meagre wages, found himself stumbling over the rubble in a blanket of rain. When he came across the letter he opened it excitedly.
Instantly recognising the address inside he posted it back through Henry’s front door.
Such are the ironies of life.
After several weeks of absence Henry re-read the contents and was so astounded by his own hilarity that he preserved it as a keepsake. After his murder Sergeant Partridge found it proudly on display in front of his satellite decoder.
Two ordinary letters, insignificant to the events of this book? Perhaps...but what made these communications so unusual was the fact that Jack Partridge could recall finding them at all. He remembered Henry’s body on the carpet with its bitten liver. And now he even had the evidence to prove it.
But there were no records to be found. Inspector Nesbit denied all knowledge and Constable Jaye just stared blankly at his enquiries wearing an expression of concern.
Was there a cover up? Had it all been some sick joke?
Have no doubt, dear reader, only time knows the answer to that particular question.
Chapter Eleven: The Asylum
The re-entry process from profound sleep into reality can often be a lengthy and confusing affair. Occasionally the body wakes up several moments before the mind, allowing worrying shapes to reform themselves into bedside cabinets or toes under the covers.
“Parkins? Speak to me! Are you all right?”
The transition for Constable Parkins was all the more difficult due to the fact that as he awoke he was standing in the street surrounded by mist.
Not only that but Sergeant Partridge was bearing down on him wearing a worried expression.
Halfway through his fourth shift in a row Parkins must have nodded off from exhaustion. That would have been somewhere between Sword Street and Applegate. Exactly how he’d managed to reach the corner of Piermont Grove was anybody’s guess.
“Sorry Sarge? I was miles away...”
“I doubt that son. I’ve never been that lucky before!”
Jack’s face relaxed into his usual world-weary countenance.
‘So the bugger can actually sleep standin’ upright! Christ, ’is mother-in-law must be a tough old bitch if ’ee ’ates ’er that much!’
For the first time since the young constable had appeared in the Greyminster police station and broken the handle off the teapot, Sergeant Partridge actually envied him. However, a crisis was a crisis. And right now Greyminster was facing the biggest bloody crisis that Jack could recollect.
“Right! I want you t’ put out an ARPB.”
“A what Sarge?”
“An ARPB!” To be honest that phrase didn’t register in Jack’s mind either. He knew what he was getting at but police jargon had never been his forte. The Greyminster crime rate made the average girl-guide session resemble Louis Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors. Now that he came to think again, he wasn’t sure whether an ‘ARPB’ was Captain Scarlet’s car or not.
“Y’ mean an ‘All Points Bulletin’ Sarge?”
Jack mulled over the acronym and reached the conclusion it was close enough.
“Y’ know what I mean Parkins. Just...put out an...” Bloody Hell!
“All Points Bulletin, Sarge.”
“Just put one of the bloody things out.” Jack rubbed his eyeballs. What wouldn’t he give right now for Parkins’ unique meditative abilities? “Get me Cecilia Doyle, or Commander Hogan. And find out where the Altarian Beasts are currently ’eaded!”
“The what, Sarge?”
Jack pointed at a silvery trail criss-crossing the slate flagstones, winding its glistening path up the grid and across Parkins’ boots.
“See that?”
“Yes Sarge...”
“Well follow the one that runs up your back, across your ’ead and up the wall behind y’, and let me know where it goes...”
Constable Parkins craned his neck backward in an attempt to define the route. Jack wearily shook his head and took a step into the gutter. A school of dead leaves swam up playfully to meet his boots.
“I’ll be back at the station ’ouse.” Stuffing his gloved hands into his overcoat pockets he plodded off in the direction of his welcoming mug of cocoa. “Let us know as soon as y’ find out anythin’.”
Allison Moore struggled along the narrow entrance hall. She manoeuvred the teatray on an intricate circuit between the cupboards resembling a stout forklift truck.
The heavy pounding on the front door vibrated the plates on the daido rail. Allison slid the flimsy latch along its groove whilst her other hand held the tray out of harm’s reach.
A crack appeared between the door and its jamb, a rectangular portion of Cissy’s features visible beyond it.
“Allison?”
“Look at the state of me bloody arm!” This particular sentence drifted bitterly through the crack from out of sight.
“You’re late!” Allison shuffled backwards, an undignified procedure as divers points of her wide anatomy brushed unavoidably against miscellaneous sharp corners. “Hello Cissy...hello Commander.”
The unexpected familiarity of this greeting took Cecilia by surprise. She couldn’t recall having introduced Hogan to Allison before. However, her old friend did have an unnerving habit of knowing everyone around Greyminster, so with reserve Cissy dragged Hogan inside by the arm. Moments later she slammed the door closed behind them. Following several thoughtful moments she carefully repositioned the metal hasp into its groove.
“I don’t bloody remember ever having one of my limbs surgically replaced!” Hogan was now in a personal realm of despair.
“I’ve prepared a nice pot of tea and some chocolate Hob Nobs.” Allison’s abundant rear forced its inexorable retreat towards the lounge. Cissy felt compelled to follow. “Come and make yourselves warm by the fire.”
“Allison? How did you know that we were coming?”
“Crap! I wonder how many more bits of me are like this!”
Allison stopped at the living room door. It was an interesting sight as various fleshy parts of her posterior appeared to keep on travelling.
“And how do you know the commander?” Cissy came to rest a few feet behind her.
“Ah...” Allison’s freckled features began to contort as though somebody was straining the last few dregs of liquid from the swollen tea-bag of her head. “Well, I’m not supposed to say. Sorry...you see, it’s important for me not to...”
Her voice trailed off into a hopeless whisper. At length, having achieved some sort of mental adjustment, she leant forwards, the tea service rattling as she did so. “It’s all very confusing. Just come through to the lounge. I am on your side Cissy. I assure you of that...”
The television flickered warmly around the walls. The comfortable armchair seemed to fold itself instinctively about Hogan’s body. He prodded the machinery spewing out of his ruptured limb with one finger as though exploring a rock face for a reassuring handhold.
He didn’t find one.
Cissy tucked her feet beneath her buttocks on the chair arm. She’d spent many hours in her youth dealing with an impossible mother and it showed in the tone of her voice.
“Leave it alone y’ big baby. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”
“No, but...what the Hell does it mean?”
“It means you’ve got a dodgy arm full of wires!” She slapped the back of his fidgeting fingers. “No doubt we’ll find out who put it there, eventually!”
“Custard cream?” Allison’s doughy hands invaded their personal airspace, clutching a plate topped by a pyramid of assorted biscuits. A smug expression had control of her features. The expression of somebody who knew something that nobody else did. “They’re very tasty.”
She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“They’ve got pictures of cows on them.”
“Allison!” Despite herself, Cissy’s voice rang of aggravation. “Allison...Commander Hogan has a problem.”
The problem fizzled and popped lethargically.
“He’s....” Cissy searched for the best words.
“He’s a robot.” A wide gash broke out across Allison’s face. It forced her freckles into a concentrated smudge across her nose. “Yes, I know!”
“What?”
“Oh…er...” She dropped the biscuits and brought her fingers up to the budded ‘O’ of her mouth. She hadn’t intended to say that. Now look what she’d done. And the biscuits had broken over her recently vacuumed carpet to boot. “No, er...what I mean is...”
“What d’ you mean, a robot?” Hogan stood up, stared without comprehension into Allison’s eyes and then forcibly sat down once more under the auspicious drag of Cissy’s grip.
Allison searched helplessly about the room, attempting to find an alternative subject for conversation.
At length... “Would you like me to turn the telly over?”