by Brian Hughes
And generally the evil villain responds, “So be it. I had high hopes for you. Such a pity, we could have accomplished great things together.”
Perhaps it was because Nesbit had never considered himself a hero that he just grunted instead. Whatever the cause Barclay continued with his monologue.
“The second part of the virus was pure invention. A make-believe clipping from the Chronicle. A snippet concerning the murder of a student dressed as a clown.”
Barclay laughed, a dirty laugh that brought his legs up straight in front of him. “I used its story line to control the first of the odd-job men who came to see me.”
“And the third?” Nesbit’s voice had risen because of the pressure being applied to his private parts by Prudence.
“Ah yes, the third. Most intriguing of all. Our paper house and grotesque children.” Barclay cast one arm around him. “All of this, Inspector. Downloaded one day from God alone knows where.”
In all of the detective novels Nesbit had ever read there was a confrontation in the final chapter. A confrontation in which the villain told the truth for no other reason than to round the book off.
Right now Nesbit couldn’t believe his luck. He was getting the whole story without even prompting it. Any second he expected to hear the phrase, “And I’d have managed it too, if it wasn’t for you meddling kids.”
With a lunge he swung his forearm at Godswick’s nose.
It connected with a meaty thwak.
Godwick’s face responded with the pliability of rubber. His features rippled just once. Nesbit’s fingers were suddenly crazed with intricate fractures. They resembled a Bone China wrecking ball. For several moments he studied the cracks thoughtfully.
The gentle light of realisation began to dawn.
Whatever you think of in this place actually ’appens. Like in a dream! Now if I was t’ make meself some’ow bigger…
“There’s no point in even contemplating it, Inspector. It wouldn’t work!” Barclay leant forwards, baring his magnolia teeth. “You see, I know your thoughts. Your microscopic brain is attached to mine by rudimentary wiring. I can anticipate your every movement.”
Some sort of distraction then.
“Answer me this...isn’t DNA a blue print for an adult creature?”
“Absolutely.” The maniacal grin grew wider. “Even a bolus of canker like yourself, Inspector, knows that.”
“So ’ow come alterin’ somebody’s DNA alters their appearance as well?” Nesbit chewed his lower lip, choosing every word with gravity. “I mean, once the meal’s cooked, just ’cos you change the recipe you can’t actually affect the food, can y’…?”
It was a fascinating point. Judging by Barclay’s blank expression it was also a point he’d never considered before.
“For example,” Nesbit persevered. “Suppose you changed the DNA of an elephant into the DNA of a moth? What would ’appen to all the excess weight?”
Barclay thrust his jaw upwards. Seizing the opportunity Nesbit screwed his eyes up and concentrated.
There was a creak. It was followed by an embarrassed ripping noise.
Barclay stared as Nesbit transformed.
“Ahha!” Dazzling molars flashed beneath the darkened moustache. Nesbit thrust out his new pectorals in the fashion of a rooster about to crow. “You’re not quite so clever as you thought, are you Barclay? Looks like I’ve got the upper ’and now!”
For those readers who would like to share the full visual impact of this transmogrification, there follows a description in full.
Nesbit now stood a magnificent six foot five. His mackintosh had been replaced by a skin-tight suit with a large initial ‘N’ sewn into its chest. Miniature wings sprouted from his boots, a pair of leather Y fronts on the outside of his tights. Every sinew of his once pathetic body had expanded, one of Errol Flynn’s favourite varieties of Salami lodged in his slacks.
“I want information, Barclay! Tell me who wrote that bloody virus or I’ll ’ave t’ give you a bloody good throttlin’!” (Somehow the thick Lancashire accent didn’t fit well on this new persona.)
Barclay sneered.
“Do you honestly think that you can scare me by enlarging your willy?”
The sneer lengthened into a tear.
“You’re even more of an imbecile than I thought, Inspector. It’ll be a pleasure to relieve you from your miserly brain.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
Pointing one finger towards the roof Nesbit bent the elbow of his other arm back. He blew a kiss curl from the plaster across his nose.
“Hup Hup and Awaaaaaiiiii…”
Unfortunately the take-off didn’t go according to plan.
On the third step he tripped over his cape.
With the next step his knees buckled.
With the final few paces he discovered it was impossible to run up the inside of a cloak, toppled into a ball and rolled towards Barclay.
There was a crash.
The sort of crash that a cyclist in an French comedy would make as he rides through a window.
Nesbit watched the spinning shards explode. Jagged sections of the Doctor, laughing as they hurtled off into non-existence.
In reality the fall couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes. But here time had a habit of distorting.
Nesbit tumbled head over heels, his mackintosh flapping above his head. At times he thought he was travelling upwards. But he knew that sooner or later he’d hit rock bottom. And when he did, he’d know exactly which direction he was facing.
Here comes the ground now, look. A floodlit circle of cobblestones expanding below him. With a crunch Nesbit spread into the shape of a gingerbread man. He shook his head, blinked and stared into a pair of familiar boots.
“Hello, Inspector? Have a good trip?”
“Clewes?” Twisting his neck, he looked up at the mop of orange curls. “What the ’ell are you doin’ here?”
“Oh, it isn’t really me, Inspector. I’m just a memory.” Malcolm rearranged the newspaper clippings that reached to the top of the pit. “I’ve got access to the university’s mainframe, remember?”
“Don’t tell me it was you as wrote the virus?”
“Me?” Malcolm’s mouth fell open. “Now that would be cliché, don’t you think? The detective who turns out to be the murderer. No, I wouldn’t know where to start, Inspector. I’m just doing my homework.”
“You’re not Clewes!” Nesbit struggled onto his feet. “Clewes always called me Sir, not Inspector. What’s goin’ on Barclay?”
A filthy laugh ripped from Clewes’ mouth. A collection of cables whipped from his scalp. Moments later Barclay was stomping round. He resembled a string puppet, his grotesque cranium ensuring he kept his distance.
“I was buying time, Inspector. Keeping you occupied so that my virus could download itself into your brain.” Barclay leant backwards. “Now it’s too late. The virus has claimed another victim, my dear cretin. Soon your real body will be under my control.”
“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it!” (Better late than never.)
Nesbit fumbled, attempting to release the helmet straps around his ears. It took him several moments to realise that he was only moving his computer-generated arms. He’d have to operate his genuine body back in Henry’s room to remove the damned thing. Concentrating dementedly he imagined himself sitting in front of the monitor.
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you. You’re too late to save yourself now.” Another laugh cackled from Barclay’s abscess of gums. “Whatever creature you’re about to become is already written into your genes.”
“’Happen I can’t do ’owt to prevent it. But I can certainly do somethin’ about you.”
And with a yank, Nesbit vanished.
His dazzled eyes blinked, momentarily disorientated as he emerged back into reality. His arms were stretched above his head, his hands gripping the helmet. Directly in front of him a scribbled line expanded into B
enjamin Jarvis.
“What ’appened?” Nesbit squinted, trying to focus on the two dimensional lecturer. “’Ow did I get back ’ere so easily?”
“You managed to escape. Must be all that working class grit the sociology professor is always waffling about.” Jarvis sounded meloncholy. “Escaped, but not unharmed I fear. The virus’ll soon take hold and the metamorphosis will begin…”
“Just time to unplug Barclay once and for all, then!”
Nesbit took hold of the lead round the table leg. With gritted teeth he gave it a tug.
There was a noise that resembled a child’s potato gun being fired. The plug left the skirting board, thrashed noisily across the room and shattered a bulb. The chandelier rocked back and forth as though the room was at sea.
“That won’t achieve anything.” Jarvis sagged onto his walking stick. “The virus has already taken hold. Nothing short of throwing yourself into a furnace could curtail it now.”
“But at least Barclay’s gone!”
The pessimistic expression drawing down on Jarvis’ face said it all. “Ah, but were it that easy. Don’t you think we tried to unplug him at the start? Even a moron would have come up with that idea…” His voice trailed off in despair. “Unfortunately, in case of power-cuts, Henry installed him with his own internal supply of electricity.”
“Right!” Nesbit wrapped his arms about the monitor and lifted the system to his chest. “I’ve got a better idea!”
With which words he marched through the door, lugging the heavy computer with him.
Chapter Twenty: The Resident Patient
A cloud of smoke drifted up towards the chimneystacks. It was followed by a bang. Pigeons scattered from the eaves. Over the brow of Wattling Street a dented fender surfaced.
“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Brabbon leaned forwards in the back seat. There was the rattle of comfort beads against Hodges’ spine.
“Chief Inspector…Ma’am, we’re already goin’ as fast as we can.” The rear axle let out a grind as though in discomfort. “Mornin’ Reverend.”
Father Wordsmith tugged his forelock in response. Brabbon watched the bicycle overtake them. It crested the hill and dropped down towards the centre of town.
“This is ridiculous! Can’t you let Angus drive?”
Angus shifted in anticipation, the chassis grating on the road.
“If you don’t put your foot down, Inspector Nesbit could end up dead!”
“I think Ma’am, you’re over-reacting slightly…” Hodges mopped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. The exhaust exploded sending the passengers on the back seat towards those in the front. “The ambulance is already on its wAYYYYYY!”
Agatha’s arms suddenly obscured Hodges’ view.
She reached for the wheel, her explosive devices clanking as she did so.
A screech rang out around the terraces. The car swerved across the narrow street. It crashed into the rabbit hutches at Mrs Montague’s Pet Emporium.
So severe was the impact that a pen of startled rabbits detonated. The tyres left rubber marks across the pavement. A few indecipherable words rose up from the curb as Father Wordsmith disappeared beneath the bumper.
“Let go of the f***in’ wheel, y’ f***in’ great f***w*t!” Agatha struggled, the segues in her boots sparking furiously against the roof. “Geddout of me ****** road y’ stupid great **** of s***!”
“What do you intend to do with this?”
Jarvis struggled beneath the weight of the monitor, his two-dimensional chin holding it in position against his two dimensional chest. With careful tread he probed for the bottom stair, unable to locate it due to the bulk he was carrying. “I strongly advise against attempting to dismantle it.”
“Good! ’Cos I’m goin’ to destroy it, once and for all!” With a grunt Nesbit hoisted his own end of the computer to shoulder height. He nodded towards the darkest corner of the lounge that had once been Professor Post.
“You can’t be serious, man?” Jarvis stopped, the keyboard slipping from the mound.
“Never more so!”
“But the force-field? There’s a tremendous pull surrounding that thing! You’ll end up dragged in.” Jarvis shook his head. “I’m sorry Inspector. But I can’t allow you to commit suicide in such a futile manner.”
Nesbit gave another tug and brought him down another step. He tried to peer round the computer but was confronted instead by the banister stump.
“Listen t’ me, Professor…I’m already dead! I’ve got a virus inside me. And if that doesn’t finish me, I’m dyin’ of cirrhosis.”
A bead of sweat ran down the ridge of his nose, the first symptom of the burgeoning virus. Curling his lip, he blew the droplet towards the rafters. “What the ’ell ’ave I got t’ lose? I might as well go out a hero! “
“The murderer, Inspector. That’s what you’ve got to lose. This foolhardy behaviour achieves nothing.”
“It gets rid of Barclay!”
There was a thoughtful moment of consideration. Jarvis eventually broke the silence.
“Let me take care of this.” Now it was his turn to haul backwards. “After all, I was the one who started this in the first place.”
A tug-of-war broke out. It grew in strength. After several moments Nesbit toppled backwards, clouting his skull against the bureau.
Jarvis reacted with the speed of a millipede catching its tail on a smouldering wick.
“Don’t come any closer, Inspector!” With the computer clamped firmly against his chest he scurried towards Professor Post’s singularity. His walking stick stuck out behind him like some sort of jib. “Just make sure you catch the killer for me! TALLY HoooooourgH!”
Nesbit watched in horror.
The monitor hit the blackness, appeared to warp, then turned into streaks.
Jarvis’ arms did the same. He resembled Stretch Armstrong fastened between two juggernauts.
He howled, more from fear than pain. Then his face stretched in the way that one drawn on Cyril Smith’s underpants would have done.
And Benjamin Jarvis shot off into non-existence, only the plug-cable whipping across the mantelpiece behind him. It thrashed about the room, cracking the tiles round the hearth.
It reached the bureau and wrapped itself about Nesbit’s ankle. He dug his fingers into the carpet, the virus now running rampant through his system.
Desperately he tried to untie the knot. The coffee table lurched, dislodging a stack of magazines into the widening hole. The rug was suddenly dragged along for the ride.
With rising panic Nesbit scrambled to his feet.
He set off running towards the door.
The faster he ran the less distance he actually travelled. The room and its contents were moving past him, sucked towards the ravenous jaws of death.
Slamming one hand on either side of the jamb, he forced himself through the door and stumbled onto the lawn.
From behind he could hear the ancient building buckle.
His chin hit the damp grass with a squelch. Gripping onto the soil he gritted his teeth and felt the toxins running wild through every vein. Each knuckle cracked.
With the noise that would have been produced had a skip load of haddock been dropped into an iron foundry, Dovecote Hall tore apart at the seams.
The building lifted from its foundations, tumbling in on itself and into the black hole. Which was when Nesbit realised that the lawn was rolling backwards as well.
He managed to stick his rump in the air and push forwards with his nose.
All around debris toppled into the hole. The event horizon desperately searched for more. Discovering nothing in the immediate environment, its lower lip suddenly became attracted to its own upper half.
With a slobbering noise the insatiable hole began to devour itself.
It folded over until only the tiniest square of blackness remained.
Exhausted Nesbit glanced across his shoulder. He noticed how close he was to the blackness
, then collapsed face down in the mud.
There’s an old saying. ‘Never count your chickens before they’re hatched.’
A distant rumble grew in the heart of the fells.
It gathered strength, the ground beneath him shuddering violently.
Across the quadrangle anxious students appeared at windows, watching the trees uproot themselves.
And with a gurgling belch the half-digested innards of Dovecote Hall were spewed back out into the air. The explosion was one of the most powerful Greyminster had ever witnessed. So powerful that Nesbit was thrown forty-odd feet towards the firmament.
All around him table lamps and chewed up bedsteads fluttered like gruesome bats.
Gasworks View was suddenly awash with flashing lights as the ambulance rounded the corner. With a screech of brakes Gordon Dribblesthwaite pressed his face against the windscreen and watched the billowing cloud.
Nesbit tumbled through the air with the grace of a sycamore seed, saw the ambulance approaching, caught the expression of disbelief across the paramedic’s face and hit the glass with the same sort of stopping power that a starfish would achieve against a breakwater.
Cracks emanated from his spread-eagled body as it buckled beneath him.
In many respects, unconsciousness is similar to being in a black hole. It’s very dark and very empty. Time ceases to operate in the way that one would normally expect.
The first signs that Nesbit was emerging from insensibility were the footfalls echoing around some huge mausoleum. Sounds accompanied by the squeal of trolley wheels, the occasional cough and a booming voice.
Next came the vaguely reminiscent aroma. A sickly smell of boiled cabbage and antiseptic. The bouquet of your typical hospital, in fact.
“So…how are we feeling? Hmmm?”
Nesbit blinked, the curtains of Ward 14 swimming in and of focus.
Sliding his glasses to the end of his chiselled nose, Dr. Downey prodded Nesbit’s own bulbous proboscis with his pen.
“Any giddiness, vomiting or runny stools?”
Nesbit shook his head. Not that Downey was paying attention. He replaced his spectacles and held an X-ray to the overhead light.