by Brian Hughes
“Quite remarkable! In all my years in the medical profession I’ve never encountered anything like this.”
He rummaged through a mound of documents on the bedside cabinet, reading each one in turn.
“How serious is it, Doctor?” Brabbon enquired from close by.
Nesbit noticed the pressure on his fingertips as she tightened her grip. She was sitting by the bed still wearing the dressing gown and basque.
“Hmmm? Serious? Ah, well…” Downey rubbed his nose with the back of one cuff. “Not serious at all, actually. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m not sure how but every cell in his body appears to have regenerated.”
He turned and stared, blinking moronically. “I’m pleased to inform you, Reginald, your cirrhoses has completely disappeared!”
There followed a pause for some difficult thoughts.
“To be honest, I’ve never come across anybody in such excellent physical condition. Especially considering you were just blown through an ambulance! Don’t ask me how but your spine’s increased six inches in length, your leg muscles have enlarged, your fingers have extended and your bald patch has vanished.”
Nesbit craned his neck to take a look. Ten attenuated toes were playing peek-a-boo at the end of the bed, the chill of metal sending shivers through the extra-long phalanxes.
Bloody ’ell! I’ve turned into Superman. So that’s ’ow the virus works. It must feed on whatever’s in your mind at the point of infection.
“Where’s Cuthbert? And Agatha and that big Scot’s git with the beard?”
“They would have been here only something happened.” Brabbon smiled weakly. She was staring at Nesbit’s muscular chest. “There was a slight accident en route to Dovecote Hall. Nothing serious, just a few broken limbs. They’re all in the next ward. That’s probably what all that racket’s about. Miss McBride insisted on bringing her Tommy gun.”
“Tell me, Inspector…what sort of diet are you on?”
Ignoring the doctor (correctly assuming the word partnership would have been mentioned if he’d allowed him to continue) Nesbit swung his legs over the bed. His feet hit the floor with a smack, having misjudged the distance by several inches.
“There’s work t’ be done! No time for hanging around bein’ sick!”
He manoeuvred himself towards his clothes on the armchair. Brabbon gasped in astonishment. Nesbit noticed her crimson cheeks. She flicked her eyes to the floor.
Hospital gowns never quite cover one’s indiscretion, being laced up the rear in the fashion of a hockey stick. With growing embarrassment Nesbit realised his buttocks were no longer the sagging platypuses they had once been. Now they were pert and devoid of unsightly fluff.
Tugging out the front of the robe, he looked down. His eyes bulged in astonishment.
“Flippin’ ’eck! Piglet’s changed a bit as well, Ma’am. Not so much Piglet anymore as a bloody great warthog!”
Turning to Brabbon he flashed her a grin. Brabbon swallowed.
“Are y’ still on for that…” He stumbled over his words. “Water conservation exercise…” he ended, enigmatically.
“Not bloody half.”
“Then let me get dressed and meet at ’ome in a bit.”
Brabbon scrambled onto her good leg as Nesbit rifled through his clothes, wondering which ones would now fit. “I’ve got some unfinished business t’ see to first.”
She frowned. “Does that mean you’ve worked out who’s responsible for the murders?”
“Let’s put it this way.” Nesbit straightened and noticed how much taller he’d grown, Brabbon’s forehead being at just the right height to eat lunch from his sternum. “I’ve got me suspicions.”
Chapter Twenty-One: The Redheaded League
‘University in Terrorist Attack: Following an explosion on the university campus a statement has been issued by the terrorist organisation believed to be responsible. The six-member-strong squad of right-wing radicals operate under the title of the ‘Fundamentalist University Campaign’...a subversive military faction of the ‘Anti-Religious Student-Examinations Society.’
Run by Beryl Parker-Jones (17) their main strategy is to end the activities of Islamic fundamentalists by preventing them from attending lessons. Siddig Singh (16¾) the only Islamic student attending the university points the finger of accusation towards Tommy ‘Fat-Arse’ Hoyle (18) who sits three desks in front.
Tommy Hoyle denies all allegations, adding vehemently that he regrets having visited the crime scene and writing, ‘Die Fundamentalist Scum’ across it in spray paint.
Superintendent Hodges (56) of the Greyminster CID commented, “The matter is of serious concern and will be top of the list of priorities for things to do after the up-and-coming Policeman’s Ball. Tickets available from the York Street Office.”
Rose Beaumont is also believed to have been involved.’
Extract from The Greyminster Chronicle Feb. 17th 1999. (Late Edition)
During the winter Greyminster’s streets were almost empty. The north wind forced people back into their houses, holding them prisoner and guarding over them by rattling their letterboxes.
Above the rooftops stilts of smoke held the udders of the storm at bay. From the centre of town there rose a particularly thick column of smoke this afternoon. As it twisted upwards imps of burning paper chased one another towards the heavens.
It was coming from the Clewes’ residence. The bonfire at its base cast orange and black streaks across the lawn.
Malcolm struggled with a wad of paper clippings that the wind was determined to have off him. He threw the bundle into the brazier. Then he delved again into the bureau drawer that had been carried into the garden.
Mrs Clewes tottered from the back porch, partially hidden behind a mound of newspapers. Both of them froze as the sound of a car door chopping a stanza of Mozart in half reached their ears.
The back gate creaked. Malcolm glanced at his mother. She was staring back, her mouth open. “Oh, buggerin’ ’ell.”
The pace quickened, the spitting ashes roaring now. If Malcolm could only get rid of this, and that, and this, before the inspector rounded the corner and…
“Sergeant Clewes?” A pair of familiar boots appeared before him. Boots that were pinching their owner’s toes as though they were several sizes too small. “You know that destroyin’ evidence is a criminal offence, don’t you?”
“Sir?” Malcolm squinted at Nesbit’s silhouette against the thundering flames. The mackintosh was there, although it wasn’t around his ankles as usual but somewhere about knee-height. His bulbous nose still supported his piggy eyes but now it was considerably less veined. “What’s happened to your body, Sir?”
“It’s a long story, Malcolm.”
Nesbit went down on one knee, a manoeuvre that in the past would have been accompanied by a number of oaths. “’Appen I’ll tell y’ about it over a pint in the Cockerel’s Sphincter some time.”
His long fingers lifted a floundering sheet of newsprint. Malcolm’s mother clumped past, throwing another bundle on the shrieking pyre.
“How…did you find out, Sir?” Lifting another page to the inferno, Malcolm felt the heat lick up his knuckles. It produced tiny coils of brown smoke. The ends of his gloves appeared to have melted to sticky points.
“Golden rule of detective work, Clewes. If y’ don’t find anythin’, keep lookin’.”
“It wasn’t me you know, Sir? I didn’t write the virus…”
“I’m well aware of that, Malcolm. I ’ad a lot of time in the realms of unconsciousness to suss it out.” Nesbit’s eyes glazed over. “Should ’ave figured it long before now, really. That drawin’ gave it away. The one with the house and the dancin’ kiddies. Looked remarkably similar to the one on your fridge door.”
He raised an eyebrow and studied Malcolm’s expression. “I s’pose you realised what had ’appened just before you left Dovecote ’All?”
“Thought I’d better attend to this lot, Sir.”
Malcolm stared at the fluttering moths of his homework. Then he watched his only child kicking a heap of leaves with his wellington boots. “It wasn’t Timothy’s fault either, Sir. Not really. His mate from school, Simon Jenkins, started it. Bit of a computer whizz-kid by all accounts.”
“In my day idiots always excelled at sports an’ stuff.” Nesbit reached for his pipe, discovered it wasn’t there, felt the urge for a pint and decided to give it a miss. “Nowadays they write computer bloody viruses. Still, it keeps ’em off the street, eh?”
“They’re only kids, Sir. They’ve no idea what they’ve done. I kept on telling them to leave my computer alone.”
Across the brown lawn Timothy was throwing a stick into the branches of an oak tree. God alone knows what he was trying to dislodge. Probably a piece of the manuscript that had started the whole virus off.
“That was the problem really. I was always working late or swatting up. Didn’t have much time left for family matters. Same reason why Dot left me, I suppose.” The melancholy in his voice suddenly altered into apprehension. “What are you going to do, Sir?”
“By rights I should bang you up and throw away the key. What d’ you reckon I should do about it, Clewes?”
“Well, Sir…” Malcolm paused as his mother emerged from the kitchen with another mound of discs. There was a screaming hiss as they were flung onto the fire. “I was thinking,” he hesitantly continued. “It might not be such a good idea cramming for that promotion. I always liked working under you and…well…I really ought to spend a bit more time with Timothy, father and son like. It’s been very difficult since his mother went away.”
Malcolm smiled wanly. “I should try and keep him out of trouble. Make sure he gets to school on time, that sort of thing.”
Nesbit sniffed. “You know Clewes, it’s a funny old thing technology. When y’ look at it...” He scratched his head with one of his new fingers. “Can’t say what I’m goin’ to put in my report. I suppose it’s a bit like that film really. You know the one? About the fly?”
“You mean, ‘The Fly’, Sir?”
Nesbit nodded.
“That’d be the one, Clewes. Sometimes experiments just go wrong. Always worried me that, mind. How come when the scientist got ’is molecular structure mixed up with an insect he didn’t emerge with a tiny, iddy-biddy ’ead? And why wasn’t the human ’ead on the bluebottle normal size?”
“What exactly are you trying to say, Sir?”
“What I’m tryin’ to say, Malcolm, is that sometimes machines go wrong without explanation. And, considerin’ the circumstances, that’s what I’ll put in my report. Then I’ll leave it at that.”
Mrs Clewes pulled up alongside them with one ear cocked. A satisfied grin crossed her face. A grin that, for once, held some respect for the inspector.
Nesbit fumbled for the disc in the burnt grass beside him. “Do y’ need a hand burnin’ any of this lot, Malcolm?”
And he disposed of it along with the rest.
Now our story is almost concluded. Apart from one final extract from the Greyminster Chronicle, dated April 16th 1999. A photograph of some grand event in which the faces were hard to make out, being constructed from tiny dots. However there were several recognisable faces in the crowd.
Constable Parkins, looking extremely proud in his uniform and waving his truncheon above his head, was in one corner of the photograph.
Superintendent Hodges occupied most of the back row. Malcolm and Nesbit stood side by side, wearing top hats and penguin suits. They were both grinning at the camera.
At the bottom of the picture Brabbon’s forehead could just be seen. Malcolm’s mother and Timothy stood on the far side, Timothy holding Jarnette’s fingers as though he wasn’t about to lose another mother in a hurry.
And somewhere in the background, what appeared to be, if viewed at an angle with your eyes almost shut, an egg-headed freak gurning sadistically.
That’s the problem with newspapers. They rely on computers nowadays. And sometimes gremlins get into the machinery.
Beneath all of this was the legend:
The Marriage Of Reginald Tiberius Nesbit (54) and Edith Hyacinth Brabbon (46) at St. Edward’s Church, Devil’s Crevice. Best Man - Inspector Malcolm Lesley Clewes (32). Doctor Angus Evesham (49) gave the bride away.
One last word for those amongst us who go to bed at night worrying about Nick Ross. Computer viruses might have the ability to spread devastation. However, to the best of my knowledge, nothing remained of Barclay’s mind. Nothing to corrupt another motherboard or fracture another hard-drive. Despite being connected to the university mainframe, the Greyminster police would like to assure us all that the matter is now closed.
Which is fortunate. Banks, newspapers, libraries, in fact most walks of modern society are dependent on computers.
Even book publishers use them in the design of their books.
So it’s just as well that Dr. Joshua Barclay and his evil minions were all destroyed, otherwise everybody would be sleeping far less soundly tonight.
The End.
BOOK THE FOURTH: THE SECRET HISTORY OF NANCY SKUNK
SPOD: (Spod) Acronym for Special Patrol Ordinance Droid. Dustbin shaped robot with inflatable tyres. Invented circa 2146. Possesses the ability to fly time machines.
(Definition taken from the Oxford English Dictionary, 23rd Century Edition)
Chapter One: At the Dawn of Antiquity
It is generally agreed by those in the literary profession that there’s nothing so despicable on God’s clean Earth as a self-appointed book critic. Not that all book reviewers fall into this category, of course. However, Damien Roach, having failed with his own literary endeavours, was well and truly despicable. He occasionally filled in at the Greyminster Chronicle when the agricultural correspondent was off sick.
Damien was fascinated by ancient druids. In particular the last sect in Greyminster after the Vikings took over. He’d stolen several books on the subject from the library. In fact, they were the only books he’d ever read, making him an unfair judge of other people’s work. Although he doesn’t appear in our story yet, I thought it best to mention him now and prepare the reader for when he does.
August 14th, 1944. War had taken its toll on Greyminster. Ardwick’s Hardware Store had stood for generations on the High Street, sandwiched between the butchers and the bank. Supplying its customers with bolts and brass locks and copper-bottomed frying pans. Now however, masking tape criss-crossed the broken windows and thick wooden joists thrust themselves up through the red slate tiles.
With a tinkle the bell above the front door performed its dance for one last time before falling off surrounded by a tutu of dust. Two women entered, dragging a beanbag behind them. They studied the clutter with circumspect eyes.
“This is the place all right.” The pensioner patted her bun nervously. “What time did y’ say it was?”
“Almost four-thirty in the afternoon.” Her young companion tapped the pocket watch in her palm.
“Shuttin’ up time. This should be about right…”
As if taking its cue from the old woman’s words a whistle pierced the atmosphere. It rose in strength as though determined to stay cheerful against all odds.
Seconds later the cellar door burst open beneath a set of stepladders. A short gentleman in a granddad shirt marched into the room.
“Evenin’ ladies.” The ladders were placed against the shelves that occupied one wall. “Be with y’ in a minute…”
For a moment the ironmonger stared in confusion at the old woman, prodding his spectacles up his nose. Then he shook his head and with the dexterity of a hamster scaled the steps. Unshouldering the box of light bulbs, his whistle grew more ebullient.
With the sort of creak that foretokens doom, the bottom corner of the stepladder fractured. There was a crash that sent copper U bends and wooden trowel handles exploding outwards. For a moment the ironmonger dangled precariously from the shelf.
T
hen he plummeted, head over heels, the spectacles spinning from his forehead. That is to say, by rights he ought to have plummeted. And to his certain death at that. Only instead he reached a halt around the middle of the third shelf. Below him the pensioner released the button on the contraption in her hand. Then she punched the air with a screwed up fist.
“Got ’im.” She hobbled across to the motionless shopkeeper, grinning. With one cautious finger she poked the area where his kidney would have been. “Bring that beanbag over ’ere and put it beneath ’im. That should be enough to cushion ’is fall.”
This, however, is not the start of our story. Our story begins long before the War. Long before gaggles of men marched along the town’s streets with broomsticks for rifles and chamber pots for helmets.
Watch the hands of the great clock turn. Watch Britain’s mighty democracy diminish in stature until it is nothing more than a squabbling rabble of druids. Another place. Another hour long, long ago.
The Wiltshire Plains to be exact. Four thousand, one hundred and thirty two years backwards through antiquity.
Give or take the odd month.
A colossal stone structure rose from the blasted heath into the murky atmosphere. A collection of ghostly oblongs that would baffle archaeologists throughout the rest of history.
It was Thursday morning, although the word ‘Thursday’ hadn’t yet been invented. The huge wooden cranes around the pit seemed to have been flattened by the fog. A monolith descended. An enormous hunk of chiselled Welsh granite.
“Darn a bit!” The mechanical dustbin waved its Mickey Mouse gloves, steering the obelisk into its foundation.
A crunch shattered the dawn. The sort of crunch that a steamroller would make when viewed from a hedgehog’s point of view. Special Patrol Ordinance Droid 65B transformed into a wok beneath the slab.