by Brian Hughes
“This won’t do at all.” Felix Wetherby removed the pince-nez from the melanoma of his nose and lowered the magazine. He’d really have to have a word with the paperboy about correcting his order at some point. This extremist version of the television listings was putting him off watching all together.
It’s time for an introduction to this character.
Felix had lived in his apartments at forty-one Caldwell Crescent for a great many years and in all that time his legs had been as rickety as Cyril Smith’s toilet seat. His misshapen cardigan had grown so baggy with age that now it reached down to his threadbare knees.
His cluttered lounge was stained with algae. The skirting boards hadn’t seen a coat of paint in over a hundred years and the tall sash windows were fused into their frames. Bookcases sagged beneath the ballast of volumes as ancient as he was.
The pensioner hoisted himself to his slippers with a grunt. Complaining bitterly he crossed to the table where he’d laid out a ploughman’s lunch.
There was a scrabbling noise from outside as he shuffled into his dining chair one limb at a time.
The scratching grew.
Felix looked up from his pork pie in alarm.
A hirsute creature pushed its flattened body beneath the door, struggled into the lounge, shook itself back into three dimensions and grinned maniacally.
The sort of grin that consisted of 95% fangs and 5% slaver.
“Oh not again!” Felix wiped the butter from his knife and laid it down on the cloth, as though accepting his lot without further complaint. “This really must stop, you know?”
The gremlin leapt onto his lap.
It clenched its horny fist and belted him hard on the side of his head.
Felix recoiled, but the tattooed creature pushed its arm right into his ear.
There followed a struggle.
Moments later a warty artichoke was dragged screaming and kicking from Felix’s head.
Okay...no doubt you’re asking at this point, ‘How can an artichoke scream and kick?’ Well this particular vegetable had cartoon limbs and a gaping mouth inside which you could see a pair of tonsils vibrating.
The vegetable dropped to the dusty carpet.
Felix collapsed headfirst into his chutney, the pork pie spinning off his plate.
The artichoke shook its head in confusion. Or rather it shook its whole body, seeing as they were both one and the same.
Then it took to its heels waving it tiny hands in the air excitedly.
“Oh my God! Look at the state o’ that, Clewes!”
The camera focused on the bedroom halfway up the terrace opposite. Bouncing on the king-sized mattress was an obese man in a pair of boxer shorts. At least, he looked male. From the size of his bosom it was difficult to tell.
This, in itself, wouldn’t have been so bad if the tightly stretched undergarments hadn’t been accompanied by frilly suspenders. Judging by the looks of things he was also pretending to be a teapot.
“I ought t’ lock that pervert up!”
“Actually Sir, you shouldn’t be doing that.” Clewes sorted through the sandwiches that his mother had made him, lifting the corners and dipping in an occasional finger. “What people get up to in their own homes is private business.”
“There ought to be a law against it!” Nesbit adjusted the lux setting, such as it was. The camera was older than most of Giles Brandreth’s jokes. “It’s an offence t’ human dignity, is that! What the ’ell’s he doing with that cucumber?”
“I notice you’re still watching him though, Sir.”
Malcolm was right. The camera was supposed to be trained on the street below. Realising he might have said the wrong thing however, he quickly added, “Superintendent Hodges was eager to let us ’ave the camera, wasn’t he?”
He took a bite from a mackerel sandwich, grimaced and quickly unscrewed his flask. His mother obviously hadn’t emptied the fridge recently.
“Apparently Fatty’s been having a purge on illegal street traders.” Nesbit’s attitude towards his superior was declining as the years crawled by. “But Constable Robins forgot to put the film in the camera, so ’ee ’asn’t ’ad much luck.”
“There’s bin a lot of stuff about illegal trading on the news.”
Clewes took a ginger bite from a slice of walnut cake, then suspiciously sniffed what was left before swallowing.
“It’s costing Greyminster thousands of pounds a year in lost revenue,” he added through a mouthful of crumbs.
“Rubbish!”
The camera swung onto the next house along where Mrs Dawkins was spooning food into a bowl for Tiddles.
“Money doesn’t just vanish, Clewes. It gets redistributed. Instead of the millionaires ’oo own the clothing companies getting all the profit, ’Arry Wilkins down Crookley’s Grove ’as been exercising a bit of socialism.”
“That’s not strictly true, Sir.” Malcolm was having difficulty talking now due to a mouth stuffed with crumbs. “Some o’ the profits from these sweatshops go towards funding terrorist organisations.”
“The only terrorism ’Arry’s into is trying t’ scare his Aunt Violet into rewriting ’er will.” Nesbit focused in on the television set in Mrs Dawkin’s lounge. ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ had just started. “Unlike certain American burger outlets I could mention...” (Editor: The manufacturers of this book would like to point out that Inspector Nesbit’s political views are not necessarily substantiated and therefore do not reflect our own opinions. Or our lawyers.)
The door opened marginally allowing a chink of illumination to spill across the carpet. A spherical woman with her hair in a bun filled the gap. She was carrying a tray of slithering biscuits.
“Supper’s ready, gentlemen.”
Clewes swallowed his own revolting meal, crammed the lid back onto his Tupperware box and tried to hide it.
“How’s the stake out going?” the old dear continued. “I always wanted to be involved in police work but the crime rate round Greyminster’s usually so pathetic.”
“Amazonian Treefrog!” Nesbit’s exclamation brought Mrs Falkhurst to a standstill. “Not a hyena, y’ stupid, brown-toothed cow!”
“I...there’s no need...Mr Nesbit!”
Nesbit sat back, giving the camera a disgusted kick. “Some of these contestants have got about as much brain as a Quorn faggot, Clewes! ’Ow come Tarrant only ever chooses uneducated cretins from the South of England!”
He turned to be confronted by a mountain of custard creams.
“Ah, thank you, Mrs Falkhurst.” Manoeuvring one of the biscuits to the edge of the saucer he checked it over. “They even ’ad Carol Vorderman on once! Y’ don’t get much more thick than that”
A yawn took control of his mouth as he shovelled the biscuit inside and then stretched his arms above his head.
“Movement, Sir!”
“Just a bit of backache, Clewes!”
“No! Down there in the street, Sir.” Malcolm jumped up, brushing walnut crumbs from his legs.
Mrs Falkhurst and Nesbit pressed their noses against the windowpane, the lace curtain leaving a pattern across their tips.
“Something’s ’appening down Balmoral Crescent.”
Across the end of Dunstable Terrace a small parade zigzagged towards the canal. The procession consisted of a conga of animals, strutting purposefully along the gutter with a colourful banner fluttering at their head.
They were accompanied by the sound of miniature kazoos playing ‘Pomp and Circumstance.’
Nesbit squinted in amazement, trying to work out if they were blackbirds or chaffinches.
“Use the camera, Sir.”
Nesbit fumbled in the dark and the tripod fell over.
Seconds later he had the surveillance equipment back on its feet. He pressed his watering eye against the viewfinder just as the words ‘Battery Empty’ flashed across the screen.
“Clewes? I thought I told you t’ recharge this thing!”
The words strobed faster.
Then suddenly: “Oh Fu...”
As far as baroque buildings went Greyminster Hospital was a genuine crackerbox palace. Ivy clambered up the brick walls, checking the throats of the gargoyles and poking the gutters as though they needed attention.
Hasty footsteps filled Emergency Ward Sixteen. Greyminster needed a lot of ‘Emergency Wards’ for such a small town due to its unusually large retired population.
The clacking of boot heels was accompanied by the patter of sneakers and the squeal of wheels.
Miss Duvall headed for the bed in its cocoon of pink curtains. Millicent Broadhurst was sitting bewildered amongst the starched sheets, resembling an appendix that had been removed from a stick insect and then dropped onto an over-washed towel.
As Miss Duvall approached Millicent started to clap, the rocking movement this caused forcing the bedstead to rattle nosily against the radiator.
Winifred reached the upended rump of Staff Nurse Gubbins. Snuffling haughtily she tapped her shoulder.
Nurse Gubbins stopped her relentless pillow plumping. It was an impossible job anyway, as anyone who’s ever had the misfortune to experience National Health pillows will no doubt tell you.
“Is the old gal going to be all right?” Without waiting for an answer Miss Duvall handed her wizened companion a colouring book and a box of wax crayons. She’d need something to occupy her mind in such a tedious place, even if Millicent’s mind was about the size of a garden snail’s. “Who brought her in? What happened to get her in this state?”
“Mrs Duvall, isn’t it?”
Sergeant Partridge had warned Nurse Gubbins about Miss Duvall’s imminent arrival. It wasn’t difficult to match the description he’d lovingly imparted with the gale-force woman who now stood before her.
“Miss Broadhurst...” Nurse Gubbins went on. “Was discovered on her kitchen floor. Sergeant Partridge found her when he was doing his rounds. We think she’s had a stroke.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Miss Duvall stiffened as Pip and Flinders pulled up alongside. “She’s always had a thing about Sergeant Partridge. She could never keep her hands off the poor man.”
She turned to her frail colleague who was peeling the wrappers from her colouring set.
“Are you feeling better, dear?!” she asked in a voice several decibels too loud for normal eardrums. A number of pensioners woke up with a start in the surrounding beds. “Are they treating you well?”
“Miss Duvall.”
Nurse Gubbins’ mention of her name caught Winifred’s attention. Somebody had used her proper title for once.
Millicent was stuffing the disrobed crayons into her mouth and chomping happily.
“There’s nothing anyone can do at the moment...”
“You mean, she’s had it?” asked Miss Duvall in alarm
“I mean the consultants are at home in bed.” The nurse checked her pocket watch for no particular reason. “She’ll be fine until tomorrow.”
“Why? What happens then?”
Realising that she was getting all hot and bothered, Miss Duvall took stock of herself and leaned over the shrivelled pensioner.
“You don’t need your cafeteria adjusting do you?”
She might have been on the ball as far as many things went, but Winifred Duvall was still in the changing rooms when it came to medical matters. She felt a reassuring hand flatten on her shoulder.
“Perhaps it’d be best if you left her in peace for now.” Nurse Gubbins tried to steer her down the ward. “You’re frightening the other patients.”
In the closest beds several sallow faces tried to hide beneath their useless crocheted blankets.
Miss Duvall struggled back to Millicent’s side, bending over her again in the fashion of a mechanic.
There was a ‘schnick’. She stood back up, having pulled a tiny roll of card from Millicent’s nostril.
“Ah ha, I thought so.” She turned to Pip. “Come along, dear. We’ll get to the bottom of this lot yet!”
For those amongst you trying to solve this particular puzzle, this is what the latest sentence read:
“Ten: Q. First Journey: Travel West down Poulton Close for ten yards to the junction of Turnbull Lane. Turn North and follow Turnbull Lane for twenty yards. What’s brown and sticky?”
The telephone rang as Constable Jaye struggled through the self-locking door at York Street station. Hoisting her bundle of papers against one shoulder she fumbled for the receiver. After several near misses she eventually grabbed it and held it up against her ear.
“Greyminster Constabulary, Constable Jaye speaking. Oh, hello Mrs Hodges.”
There was a pause. It was just long enough for a spider to scurry across Jack’s abandoned magazine. The voice on the other end of the line twittered animatedly.
“I’ll just check but I think he left about an hour ago...”
Another outburst of chirrups emerged from the earpiece. It sounded as though a flock of bats had gotten into the rafters.
“No, Mrs Hodges,” Jaye struggled on. “He didn’t say anything to us about working late tonight. Hold on, I’ll check.”
She trapped the receiver between her shoulder and her chin, punched the code back into the door lock with her nose and peered into the back of the station.
“His office appears to be empty.”
She shuffled through the papers she was carrying with the nib of her chin. Despite being a police constable, Jaye was incredibly popular with the Romeos around Greyminster. Judging from this display of contortion it was easy to understand why.
“There’s nothing on the overtime sheet either, Mrs Hodges. I’ll tell you what, if he comes back I’ll tell him his dinner’s in the dog.”
One last explosion of wildfowl noises. Jaye’s coffee-coloured skin turned a slight hint of red.
“No, it was meant to be a joke, Mrs Hodges. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise Griswald had been put down.”
Let’s leave this conversation to run its natural course.
At exactly that same moment, Superintendent Hodges himself emerged from Greyminster hospital. He was crumpling a brown paper bag between his clumsy palms. Hunting around for a dustbin he eventually stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Then he fastened his buttons in the same delicate manner that Oliver Hardy often did.
“What’s our next step, Mrs Duvall?” From the arched entrance further along, Miss Duvall and her hotchpotch of companions stepped out into the moonlight.
Pip was still pushing Flinders, although the doorstep was proving to be difficult. The town planners had insisted that, despite the hospital being the most obvious spot in Greyminster for a ramp, it was a listed building. Therefore it was subject to the plethora of laws governing architectural alterations. Laws that apparently overlooked the yellow chimney sprouting from the concrete annex and the gaudily painted burger bar at the corner of the car park.
“We’ve still got that label for the 48 inch chest,” Flinders continued.
Hodges backed into the shadows until only the curve of his stomach could be seen. Realising his toecaps were sticking out, he shuffled further backwards.
Then he sucked in his belly for good measure.
“Yes...absolutely we have.” Miss Duvall was turning all the information they’d gathered around in her head. “I can feel it in my bones, you know? Something bad’s drawing close.”
Hodges’ stomach diminished slightly with another suck.
“We’ll worry about it in the morning.” Miss Duvall lifted her brolly and tried to flag down the passing milk truck, mistaking it for a taxi. Seymour Barley, acting executor for the Barley round, frowned across his leopard skin steering wheel and trundled on. “In the meantime, we could all do with a good night’s sleep.”
There was an audible sigh of relief from Hodges’ entrance. (Editor’s note: I can almost hear Syd James’ dirty laugh.)
Seconds later Miss Duvall, Flinders and Pip had tottered, squeaked and clattered off, respec
tively.
After a quick crane of the neck to make sure they’d gone, Superintendent Hodges stepped onto the pavement. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and set off at a sprint in the opposite direction.
To round off this chapter, the reader must now accompany me forwards through time. Same location, more or less. Just a few hours deeper into the night. According to the oval clock at the end of Ward Sixteen it was just turned three in the morning.
Staff Nurse Gubbins was sitting in her spotlight, scribbling lethargically.
Further down the ward Millicent Broadhurst was curled up in the darkness, red and green smears around her lips where she’d sucked the last of her wax crayons dry.
There was a scuffle from under the bed.
It was shortly followed by the sound of a bed pan chiming.
Snuffle, sniffle, scritch, scratch, grunt.
Using the crocheted blanket as a rope ladder, the artichoke clambered up onto Millicent’s knee. For several seconds it stared at her, its hands on its hips and a frown scribbled across its head/body.
There was a rip!
Then a groan!
And a struggle broke out beneath the blankets. Millicent tugged at the Mickey Mouse feet protruding from the plughole of her mouth. The artichoke wriggled, gripping the back of her tongue as it hauled itself deeper into her throat.
With a crunch of ineffectual gums Millicent bit down as hard as she could. The tumbler on the cupboard toppled over, releasing her false teeth into the affray.
In desperation she reached for the alarm button above her head.
Nurse Gubbins looked up from her never-ending files, blinked wearily, then noticed the flickering light on the panel beside her.
Her chair legs screeched as she leapt to her flat feet and stomped off down the ward in the manner of an excited penguin.
Reaching the bed, she tore back the curtains only to discover the old woman lying on her back with what resembled a gherkin sticking out of her mouth.
Neither vegetable was moving.
Millicent’s eyes were fixed solidly on the clock.