by Brian Hughes
“You’re not doing too badly with the xenophobia yourself, Inspector.” Brabbon reached for the door knob, gave it a twist and opened the door.
“At least I’m honest. If y’ can’t be honest with yourself, then what can y’ be?” Full of his own bluster, Nesbit steamrolled on. “Now take your average Londoner. They like t’ think of ’emselves as being cheerful and full of fun. I’ve never met one of ’em yet that’s actually cracked ’is bloody face. Biggest bunch of miserable bleedin’ bas…”
He realised his error too late. Brabbon scowled. Nesbit stumbled over his next few words as her beady eyes narrowed.
“I must admit, Inspector, I admire a man who puts his honesty before his career.”
Fortunately, at that moment, a booming voice rang down the hall. “Reg?”
Hodges appeared before them. Being overweight he tended to run in the same manner that most people would walk a wardrobe. He had amazingly short legs now that they were on view.
“We’ve got a problem.” He turned with a click of his heels and spread a sycophantic smile across his face. “Chief Inspector.”
“I’d say you’ve got more than ‘one’ problem, Superintendent.”
“There’s an ugly crowd at the front of the station, Reg. Some of the townsfolk ’ave taken it into their ’eads to form a vigilante group. We’ve got reporters and pensioners and all sorts out there.”
Hodges mopped his brow. He didn’t much care for reporters. Especially not since his little accident with the ‘Crime Fund’ in 1988.
“Someone must ’ave tipped ’em off about the chief inspector’s visit.” He flashed Brabbon another pointless crescent of teeth. “Some stupid superstition’s got ’em riled. Sergeant Foster’s doing his best to keep ’em at bay, but…”
“Off you go then, Reginald.” Brabbon was possibly the only woman Nesbit had ever met who could make his Christian name sound like a euphemism for ‘Bollock!’ “I’m sure you’ll be able to sort out these down-to-earth Lancashire folk without too much hassle.”
A crowd had gathered round the station. The wind was growing from the east now. It brought with it gobs of rain that stung the skin. The swollen storm was composed of knuckles. Coats were raised by gusts and scarves were knotted by squalls.
As Nesbit emerged from the lobby he was confronted by a crescent of angry townsfolk, all battling against the wind. Without warning the bowl of his oxford was punched upwards. It left a circular indentation on his nose.
“Nesbit? We demand t’ know what’s goin’ on!” Albert Brasswick squinted through the bluster. He shook his fist threateningly.
“Probably an area of low pressure as met with…”
“You know what we’re talkin’ about, Nesbit!” Brasswick forced his boater against his head. “What are you doin’ about this serial killer?”
Nesbit stepped forward. “We ’ave the matter under control.”
“Don’t believe you,” a voice piped up. “We’ve done our bit for King and country, Sespit. Two World wars and two depressions. And for what? Not to be killed by a nutter ’cos the police can’t be bothered doin’ anythin’. That’s shockin’ that is!”
Nesbit couldn’t be certain how old the speaker was, but it was highly unlikely he’d seen both wars. Nonetheless, there was a general consensus from the crowd. Various garden tools were raised above heads in enthusiasm.
“Especially when y’ consider the price of the poll tax, Mr Mullins,” a croaky female voice added.
“They don’t call it poll tax nowadays, of course.” Another female voice. It was difficult to work out where it was coming from, the sentence being whipped by the wind. “But it all amounts t’ the same bloody thing. Wasted money we can’t afford going towards bone idle coppers with flash bloody cars.” There was a pause. “Course, y’ can’t include our Malcolm in that. ’Ee’s a good boy is Malcolm.”
Nesbit nodded to himself whilst another pummel of wind twisted his pipe round.
“Right.” Rose Beaumont, the unofficial spokesperson, stepped forward. She was holding a page of notes that was struggling for freedom. “We the undersigned, have decided to form a neighbourhood watch group in order to combat this evil presence stalking our quiet streets. From now on we wish to be recognised as ‘The Ormond Street Serial Runners’.”
Another voice piped up, “I still reckon that the ‘Greyminster Initiative Takers’ sounds better.”
“’Appen it does, but the acronym is GIT. And I’m not having Peter Sissons call me something like that in public!”
“Sounds better than TOSSR!” The old dear submerged herself back into the crowd, muttering obscenities.
“What do y’ reckon t’ that then, Nesbit?” Albert Brasswick had taken the stand again. Funny how some people are naturally inclined towards authority. Mrs Beaumont frowned in frustration.
“Ladies and gentleman…” Nesbit threw his arms above his head. “And Mr Brasswick…I can inform you that the killer’s bin caught.”
“’Oo is he then, Nesbit?” Mr Mullins swung the flat iron around his head, disappointed. They’d been expecting an afternoon’s lynching.
“We’re not sure about the details yet.” A murmur rippled through the gathering. “However, I’m sure you’ll be glad t’ know he’s dead.”
Albert Preston felt his toupee lift at the corner.
“Are y’ sure he’s dead, Nesbit?” Brasswick continued, hoping Nesbit was wrong.
“Absolutely positive. We’ve got ’is body down at the mortuary.” Nesbit breathed in, the wind exploring each nostril. “Y’ can all go ’ome and sleep easy in your beds tonight.”
Several pregnant moments followed. Nesbit cleared his throat and continued. “Before I ’ave you all arrested for loiterin’ with intent.”
“’Old on a moment, Sir.” Constable Parkins ran through the station doors. He was holding a sheet of paper in one gloved hand. “We ’ave some more information.”
A promising grumble rang through the pensioners. With all eyes suddenly focused on him, Parkins started to read aloud.
“At 3.40 p.m. this afternoon, the 16th of February 1999, another body was discovered in Greyminster. On this occasion the corpse, as yet unidentified, was burnt to a cinder. Possibly this was some sort of arson attack or a case of spontaneous combustion.” Parkins raised his eyes, satisfied that he’d reached the end without any mistakes.
The crowd exploded like an atom bomb. “Told y’ so, Nesbit!” Brasswick’s finger prodded Nesbit’s nose. “Bloody bunch of useless buggers!”
“Now listen t’ me!” Removing his pipe, Nesbit prodded the front of Brasswick’s head in retaliation. Unfortunately the distance between Brasswicks eye and the mouthpiece had been poorly judged. With a noise that resembled a hedgehog coughing, Albert Brasswick doubled up in pain.
Seizing her opportunity Rose Beaumont held her sign up above the crowd. It was instantly broken in half by a blast of wind.
“COME ON COMRADES!” Her words blew themselves off down the cobbled road. “WE’LL SORT THIS KILLER OUT OURSELVES!”
With which inspirational words the motley procession filed off towards the centre of town. What presumably was a hymn echoed round the buildings in their wake. Soon, only Brasswick, Parkins and Nesbit were left on the steps.
Brabbon appeared. She watched the last geriatric round the corner. Then she placed one hand on Nesbit’s shoulder. “Good work, Inspector. Glad to see you handled that well.”
Towards the south end of Greyminster there stood a building. It resembled a mouldy wedding cake such as Miss Haversham might have enjoyed. It had a small copper dome that had collapsed beneath the weight of verdigris. Now only the letter ‘E’ remained visible on its once illuminated sign. This ramshackle building was known locally as the Fleapit. It was a dump. Headless Adonis’s struggled to prevent the roof from caving in. Spiders’ webs hung from the rafters. Twice a week 1940’s gangster movies were projected lovingly on the patched bed-sheet that passed for its screen.
Here she comes now, look, in her cleaner’s outfit. At four foot six on a good day her feather duster can sometimes reach as high as the banister. The Greyminster Fleapit didn’t have a daido but the difference in colour on the walls made it look as though it did.
At this point in the book an explanation is needed. No doubt some readers have already noticed a few words in capitals coming up. Some narrow-minded people would rather burn true art than have the public view it, believing that provocative images lead to depravity. It is not my place to cast aspersions on such people. (Comparing them to fascists seems appropriate, however.) In accordance with the ‘Obscene Publications Act’ therefore, the following section has been censored. Hopefully the interruptions will not spoil the reader’s pleasure.
Molly Pippin pushed against the stubborn broom handle, the large mound of CENSORED and CENSORED gathering into a rubbery pyramid.
She had heard the rabble as it thundered past the ticket office, being driven on by Rose Beaumont. But her tiny mind was lost in the realms of a Humphry CENSORED and Lauren CENSORED film that she’d been watching the night before. With a hand that resembled a bushel on her lower back she tried to straighten her spine. As she did so she creaked.
The drooping balcony, suspended as it was by a network of rotten beams, rose and fell with the rhythm of a heartbeat. Its handrails and torn seats undulated, suggesting that something invisible was moving between the rows. From seat 101 a pair of horns began to emerge. Moments later two eyes blinked through the gloom, watching the pensioner as she navigated the isles.
The broom handle rose above her shrivelled head resembling a periscope, or more accurately some sort of CENSORED. With a growl the demon forced itself against the chair back before lunging forwards.
CENSORED CENSORED sweaty neck CENSORED distended abdomen, CENSORED bulging eyeballs CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED chiselled features CENSORED senior citizen’s CENSORED giblets burst CENSORED. Oozing chunks of CENSORED CENSORED in putrid CENSORED CENSORED, bitten liver CENSORED, globules dripped salaciously onto the CENSORED. The stench CENSORED, CENSORED ruptured melon, CENSORED swollen mound CENSORED CENSORED Rubick’s cube. CENSORED burst tomato CENSORED. Fragments of CENSORED CENSORED pulsating smear CENSORED, uncoiled from the gaping CENSORED CENSORED extraneous pommel. CENSORED CENSORED small colon CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED purple love truncheon.
With its mouth almost hidden behind a curtain of drool the demon howled. The noise shook the sparrows from the rafters, dislodging decades of hardened guano.
A snarl tore its lips apart. It stalked towards the patchwork screen. Moments later the screen swallowed it whole. A ripple expanded towards the fire-exit. The demon had disappeared into the building’s infrastructure.
Across four rows the smeared body of Molly Pippin shimmered. The only activity in the Fleapit now was the dripping of blood. Four rows of seats, it should be noted, was one hell of an area for such a tiny woman to cover.
One clue as to what had happened had been left behind. A blood-spattered talon inserted into the old woman’s CENSORED.
There...with a bit of luck our expurgations should prevent the CENSORED from CENSORED moaning about the excessive violence. Hopefully the remaining chapters will be unhampered by any further infringements!
Chapter Eleven: Endless Night
During February daylight was a half-hearted affair. It was almost as though the day couldn’t be bothered getting out of bed. Night too didn’t so much fall as crawl lethargically from its lair. There were no stars tonight. The sky looked as though it was wearing a Sou’wester. There was some light however. Even on the normally pitch-black shore. Rods of illumination reached out from the swinging storm-lanterns that the vigilantes were carrying. Thomas Riley sat on his upturned crate and watched them approach. Every so often the torch beams would be obscured by the smoke from his pipe. From time to time the glowing embers in the bowl winked.
“Evenin’ Tom.” The old man jumped. A figure he hadn’t noticed before moved through the shadows around the hull. “What do y’ know then?”
“See these eyes…? These eyes ’as seen some weird things in their time, but none so odd as what they witnessed this afternoon.”
To be perfectly honest Constable Parkins couldn’t see them because it was too dark. He moved closer, his trench coat appearing to draw the shadows towards him.
“There’s gonna be some trouble tonight, Tom.” Thomas heard the sound of a truncheon slapping against a palm. “I’m on riot patrol. And if these buggers wanna fight then they’ve come t’ the right man!”
It would be fair to say in Parkins’ defence that his bark was considerably worse than his bite. Words didn’t cost much and, despite his many nights at Jujitsu, he would have been hard pushed to separate two hamsters.
“Men as turns into women. Men as turns into Divils!” The pipe bowl flashed with renewed excitement. “I saw a bloke burnt to a cinder, I did!”
Important information that. Such a pity that Parkins was too busy using his truncheon as a light sabre to notice.
“Just let ’em come, the blood thirsty bastards.” A movement of air suggested that the truncheon had just passed Thomas’ ear. “One merciless chop and...Hyah! Dunf!”
For some reason Parkins accompanied each movement with a sound effect. He was always getting reprimands from his instructor for this. Nonetheless he continued to add the irrelevant ‘thud’ with the same unstoppability that the rest of us have when it comes to blinking.
“Evening Constable Parkins.” A distant voice drifted up from the shoreline accompanied by the mournful echoes of a sandpiper. Several vigilantes were crossing the pebbles. Their ghostly chins were lit eerily from underneath by their swaying lanterns.
“Evenin’ Mr Mullins.” Parkins delivered another fatal blow to the darkness. Its was made more dramatic by the descending whistle.
“’Ow’s your mother-in-law?” rejoined the voice as an orb of light painted thick black lines around Mr Mullins’ jaw.
“Oh, she’s fine. She’s got the old problem under control now.” Parkins breathed deeply through his nostrils. “We’ve let down the rubber ring, so that’s a blessin’.”
“Give ’er me best.” The wraith moved on, what looked like fireflies skimming along in its wake.
“Thanks Mr Mullins…” As soon as he was out of earshot, Parkins added with feeble menace, “Mind ’ow you go or I’ll ’ave to cave your skull in!”
“Obidiah Taunton. That’s your man, Officer.” The oval of spitting red pulsed against the darkness. “Megamorpotozed into a divil with a big ’ead, he did! Killed a man! Burnt the bugger to clinker.”
There was a swish as Parkins’ arm wind-milled past his head. It hit the anchor chain with a thud.
“What are y’ gonna do about it?” Thomas asked. “’Ee’s a murderer! ’Ee’s got t’ be caught!”
“Right, see y’ round Tom.” Parkins hobbled from the trawler’s arch into the shadows of the desolate beach, clutching his elbow.
The Old Bull and Duck was one of those distinctly northern pubs. It stood at the intersection where two Victorian terraces had once met. It had somehow survived the slum clearances and was now all alone apart from a few choking weeds. It’s ceiling was held up by wooden lintels. Tonight the curtains were closed, creating a bastion from the revellers. On an ordinary night the Old Bull and Duck afforded a view all the way to Woolworth’s.
“It’s got t’ be in the blood, y’ see?” Nesbit said. “Now Malcolm ’ere, sometimes I wonder about ’im. If he’s of the right material for detective work.”
Brabbon watched him, drawing her own conclusions. “The sergeant seems like an intelligent young man to me.”
“Ah, well, he might appear intelligent.” Nesbit raised one eyebrow. “But has he got what it takes to make an investigator? Does he think carefully enough about matters?”
There was a certain inflection in Nesbit’s voice that suggested he for one didn’t think so. “A good detective always needs t’ be alert and askin’ questions.”
“What sort of questions, Reginald?” There was his Christian name again, being used like some sort of land-mine.
“Well…questions such as…as…” Nesbit rifled through the rubbish in his memory. “Such as, “Ow come only men’s minds can ’ave mapped into abstraction such a territory as Scotland?” Realising he’d lost Brabbon on that one, he tried another. “Or, ’Ow come wrong numbers are never engaged?’”
He’d heard that remark in the office. Presumably some comedian on television had come up with the idea.
“’Cos if they weren’t we wouldn’t know they were wrong numbers.”
A tankard of beer was placed on the table before him. Malcolm removed the other drinks from his knotted arms. “That’s four pound fifty, Sir.”
“Er…” Nesbit slapped his mackintosh pockets. “I’ll ’ave to owe it y’ Clewes.”
Perhaps he’d been right. Perhaps Malcolm didn’t have what it took. After all, Nesbit’s current debt was somewhere in the region of £490. Nesbit dunked his moustache into the beer, making sure that Malcolm couldn’t take it back.
CAMRA would have been proud of Nesbit’s enthusiasm to pickle his liver. Thackery’s Old Bastard was the sort of ale that had flotsam. Chunks swam about the surface. They were probably bits of liver, seeing as the beer looked as though it had already passed through somebody else’s bladder.