The Flesh is Weak (P&R3)

by Tim Ellis

They drove into Hoddesdon and found an all-night café called the Greasy Spoon.

  ‘I’m starving,’ Kowalski said and ordered the full works of two fried eggs, two sausages, three rashers of bacon, baked beans, and two pieces of fried bread. ‘And a mug of tea,’ he said to the man behind the counter. ‘What about you, Parish?’

  Parish felt hungry as well. ‘The same, please,’ he said.

  There were two Hell’s Angel bikers, three truckers, and a prostitute in the café. They found a table away from everybody else that still hadn’t been cleared of dirty plates from the last customer.

  ‘So, let’s look at the scenarios,’ Kowalski said.

  ‘Worst case is that Murcer calls the police and reports us for assault.’

  ‘Okay, say he does that… The police go round to our houses and Angie and my wife say…?’ He pulled a face. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, where are we likely to be at this time of night?’

  Kowalski rolled his eyes and nodded towards the prostitute who had on a tight red dress, fishnet tights, and a sagging face.

  ‘I’d rather spend the rest of my life in prison,’ Parish said and laughed as the tension eased.

  Kowalski’s face lit up. ‘A stake out?’

  Parish nearly choked on his coffee. ‘Did I ever tell you that you’re a genius, Kowalski?’

  ‘Usually the opposite.’

  ‘Well, never again. From now on, you’re officially classified as a genius.’

  ‘I want a badge to that effect.’

  ‘I’ll get you one.’

  ‘We’ll have to tell Angie and Jerry, so that they know what to say if the police do go round.’

  They pulled out their mobile phones. After reassuring both partners they were still in one piece, they told them what to say if the police came knocking.

  A pot-bellied cook with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth brought their meals, but nobody came to remove the dirty plates from the previous customer. They shrugged and started eating.

  ‘What’s the stake-out we’re on?’

  They ironed out the fine details, polished off their meals, and after shaking hands drove back to their respective homes.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘She won’t come down.’

  He pushed himself up from the breakfast table. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Angie touched his arm. ‘Be gentle with her.’

  ‘She doesn’t need gentle now.’

  He took the stairs two at a time and barged into Richards’ room.

  ‘I have no privacy anymore,’ she said from beneath her quilt.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘What for? You don’t need me, I’m useless.’

  ‘Yes you are, Richards, but you’re my kind of useless.’

  A hint of a smile flashed across her face. ‘Don’t make me smile, my mouth hurts.’

  ‘Life goes on. We have a train to catch, and people to see.’

  ‘I can’t go out looking like this.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do.’ He began pulling her quilt towards him.

  She grabbed the top of it and pulled back. ‘I have no clothes on.’

  ‘Don’t lie, and anyway I’ve seen you naked before.’

  ‘You’re so mean.’ She let go of the quilt revealing her pyjamas.

  ‘You have a choice, you can either come with me to CEOPS in London, or you can stay here wallowing in self-pity, and I’ll look for another partner – what’s it to be?’

  ‘I was beaten and nearly raped last night, Sir.’

  ‘You have a bruise on your face, and your pride is hurt. Those murdered children need you, Richards. Get out of that bed and get ready, you have half-an-hour.’

  ‘People will stare at me.’

  ‘They’ll stare at you, but give me dirty looks. Everyone will think I’m the one that hit you.’

  ‘What can I say if someone asks.’

  ‘You forgot to put your defensive arm up at karate classes.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Sir.’

  ‘Twenty-five minutes now.’

  ‘I’ll need at least an hour.’

  ‘Twenty minutes, and then I put you over my shoulder and carry you out to the car.’

  ‘You’re just the meanest person.’ She glared at him. ‘Well, I can’t get ready with you standing there watching.’

  He smiled, walked out onto the landing and shut the door.

  Downstairs Angie said, ‘Well?’

  ‘She’s getting ready.’

  She pressed her body against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘Mother and daughter are like putty in your hands.’

  He kissed her then said, ‘More like the other way round.’ He took his mobile off charge and rang Toadstone.

  ‘Hello, Sir?’

  ‘I see you’re getting the hang of these infernal telephone contraptions.’

  ‘It’s been hard, but I think…’

  ‘Have you heard from Murcer this morning?’

  ‘Yes… He called me to say he was sick – why?’

  ‘I don’t care what you have to do, but I want you to get rid of him today.’

  ‘He’s the best entomologist in the…’

  Parish interrupted Toadstone’s praise of Murcer, told him what had happened to Richards, and what he had done about it. He didn’t implicate Kowalski. ‘Officially, Richards had an accident at her karate class.’

  ‘I didn’t know she went… Oh! Is Mary all right?’

  ‘Her face is bruised and her pride is hurt, but she’ll survive.’

  ‘Will she be in…’

  ‘We’re both going to CEOPS in London today, which will give you time to get rid of Murcer.’

  ‘Of course. Leave it with me. I’ll make sure his career is finished, and he disappears into obscurity.’

  ‘I hope so, because if I stumble over him again I might do something that could end my career and put me in prison.’

  ‘We wouldn’t want that, Sir, you’re one of the good ones.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Toadstone. So, we’re clear on what’s required?’

  ‘We’re clear.’

  He disconnected Toadstone and rang the Chief.

  ‘It’s quarter to seven, Parish. I’m having my breakfast?’

  He told him what had happened to Richards.

  ‘Tell me you’ve arrested him?’

  ‘We don’t want to put Richards through all that after what she experienced with Millhaven, Chief.’

  ‘I suppose not, so…?’

  ‘Kowalski and I went round to his house and beat the crap out of him.’

  ‘You haven’t just told me that, Parish.’

  ‘I know. Also, I’ve told Toadstone to get rid of the bastard today while Richards and I are in London.’

  ‘And Murcer didn’t ring the police?’

  ‘If he did he’d have to tell them what it was all about, then he’d be arrested for attempted rape and assault causing actual bodily harm.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Parish.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Chief.’ He disconnected the call and put the phone in his pockets.

  ‘I’m coming up to get you, Richards,’ he shouted up the stairs.

  ‘You’d better not, Sir,’ she shouted back at him. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

  ‘Three minutes,’ he threw back at her.

  ‘You’re not going to get into trouble over last night, are you?’ Angie said.

  ‘No, if it all boils down to who they’re going to believe, Kowalski and I have each other as an alibi. It’s his word against ours, and as I said to the Chief, he’ll have to admit to what he did, and I can’t see him doing that.’

  Richards came in with a crocheted beret on. She wore her hair loose, and had brushed it so that it fell over the left side of her face and partially hid the damage Murcer had done. The bastard had really given her a beating, Parish thought. Her left eye was bloodshot and nearly closed. The make-up she’d applied didn’t fully hid
e the black and crimson bruising. The left side of her jaw and her lips were swollen. There were cuts on her lips from being smashed against her teeth and crusts of blood covering the cuts.’

  ‘You look fantastic,’ he lied.

  ‘I look like the victim of a road traffic accident,’ she said ‘I want a cup of tea before we go.’

  ‘Two minutes, and then we’ll miss the train.’

  ‘He’s like this at work, mum, a slave driver.’

  They heard the post drop through the letterbox. ‘Don’t get me involved,’ Angie said over her shoulder as she went to collect the letters. ‘One for you,’ she said passing Parish a large brown envelope when she came back into the kitchen.

  He slipped it into his briefcase.

  ‘What’s that, Sir?’ Richards asked.

  ‘Need to know, Richards. Right, get your arse moving or we’ll miss that train.’

  ‘I need to know, Sir, it’ll make me feel a lot better.’

  He kissed Angie and pushed Richards towards the front door.

  ***

  Parish parked his car at Chigwell train station and bought two return tickets to Pimlico. It was a reasonably straightforward journey to Oxford Circus on the Central Line, and then a switch to the Victoria Line. Pimlico was the third station southwards, and the journey time was forty minutes.

  ‘When are you going to say, “I told you so?”’

  They were sat next to each other on a hard seat facing a side window as the blackness of the underground tunnel outside flew by. Parish had his eyes closed. He was drifting in and out of sleep, and he didn’t turn to look at her. ‘You should know I’m not that type of person, but I can say it if it’ll make you feel better?’

  ‘I should have listened to you.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’

  She elbowed him gently in the side. ‘Stop making me smile, my face hurts too much.’

  ‘You look like you’ve had a fight with a yeti.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’ll get better.’

  ‘On the outside, but I’m a bit of a train wreck inside as well, Sir.’

  ‘That’s why you’re going to go to counselling. It’ll get better as well… In time.’

  ‘I’m not very good at choosing men, am I?’

  ‘Useless would be a better word.’

  She held her hand up to her face and made a noise. ‘What’s in the envelope, Sir?’

  He’d forgotten about the large brown envelope he’d put in his briefcase with the Somerset House crest on the front.

  ‘Which part of ‘need to know’ didn’t you understand? I can go over it again in greater detail if you want me to?’

  ‘You know I’ll find out, Sir?’

  ‘I know you will, Richards. It’ll give you something to look forward to.’ He stood up as the train came to a stop. ‘We’re here.’

  They squeezed off the train and meshed with the crowd as it moved up the escalator like a many-headed monster, along the corridor, and down another escalator to the southbound line terminating at Brixton. The electronic display indicated that the next train would be along in one minute.

  He was stood on the yellow warning line like a marathon runner waiting for the starter pistol to discharge. ‘Are you with me, Richards?’

  ‘I’m here, Sir,’ he heard to his right.

  The train brakes screeched.

  There were people all around.

  He felt something hard in the middle of his back.

  Then he was floating through the air in slow motion. To his left he saw the train travelling towards him, and he began thinking about the speed of light and sound, and knew that the speed of sound was a lot slower than the speed of light.

  As he began calculating the difference between the two and his chances of survival after being hit by a train travelling at a hundred miles an hour, he felt a crushing weight on his chest. Pain, emanating from his knees, shot up his legs and shrivelled his testicles. It was then that he realised he was dead.

  ***

  John Linton woke up with a start. The seven faceless people he’d killed in Iraq had him cornered in a cellar, his rifle was jammed and there was no way out. He’d had the dream before, and guessed it was something to do with a conscience. Either way, he knew there was nothing he could do about it, apart from going to his doctors and requesting counselling. They’d have given him counselling, help him to live with what he’d done, but that was the point – he didn’t want to live. Once he’d killed Amy’s murderer those faceless Iraqi terrorists could do what they wanted with him.

  He would like to have walked down to the hotel restaurant, but he didn’t want to leave the rifle in the cupboard for the maid to find, that would have caused him no end of problems. Instead, he phoned Room Service and ordered scrambled egg on toast and a pot of tea. A fry-up would have been good, the full works. He thought about the Army breakfasts, and in some ways wished he were back there with his mates.

  After a shower he put on clean clothes. There was a knock at the door, he checked it was Room Service before opening it. He sat in the one chair and ate his scrambled eggs as he watched the news. Then he heard what he’d been waiting for. The reporter stood on the steps outside the Old Bailey and said, ‘Today Aaron Carter goes on trial for killing seven year-old Zoe Lewis in a stolen car being chased by the police.’ The news report cut to seventeen-year-old Aaron Carter leaving the Crown Court in Chelmsford. He was smirking and sticking a finger up at the cameras.

  John knew Aaron Carter was a juvenile, but he was also nearly a man and knew the difference between right and wrong. What he’d done was wrong, but it seemed that he was going to get away with it. John didn’t understand the legal aspects of the case, but killing someone with a car was judged to be an accident rather than murder.

  Aaron Carter was the worst kind of human being. He’d killed someone’s little girl and didn’t give a shit, even taking pride in what he’d done and threatening to do it again. Well, Mr Aaron Carter, Judge John Linton has weighed up the evidence and in the absence of a jury found you guilty. Sentence has been passed, and you will be executed today at twelve o’clock outside the Old Bailey. Anything more that you might wish to say, you can say to Lucifer when you meet him.

  And as soon as those coppers found Amy’s killer for him, he’d do the same to him.

  He finished his scrambled egg, poured himself a second cup of tea, and waited for the minutes to tick by.

  ***

  If he was dead, how was it that he could hear noises? Why could he still feel the pain in his knees, his elbows, all over his body? Why was it that the wind in the tunnel blew through his clothes and made him shiver? And what was nibbling on his ear? He remembered reading once about a man who had survived being run over by a train in Melbourne, Australia - he had fallen between the platform and the train. Paramedics had pulled him out with a few cuts and bruises. The details of the miraculous escape had passed through his mind as he plummeted between the tracks, and the train had skidded over him. He knew that it would be suicide to move, so he had lay very still and pressed himself into the hard gravel. He heard the emergency brakes screeching, people shouting and screaming, and the smell of oil and grease wafted up his nose. His inclination was to lift his head and look up, but he had kept his eyes tightly closed and his face pressed into his hands.

  He wanted to urinate, but he imagined being rescued and people holding their noses and looking in disgust at the large stain on his trousers – he kept tight control of his bladder.

  What had happened? He’d felt something hard in his back, was he pushed? Surely not! No one knew he was here. Unless… he’d been followed, but by whom – and why? Who would kill a senior police officer? Masterson had been killed because of what he knew. Maybe it was the same people. Who else could it have been? Trevor Naylor – was he still in the country? Was it someone he’d put in jail who had been released and was now looking for revenge? Had Rick Murcer followed him? Maybe he was being paranoid
. Maybe it was really an accident. Maybe someone had been pushed and they’d reached out their hands to cushion the fall, and pushed him in the back – an accident – all quite innocent, no conspiracy, no attempted murder – merely a simple twist of fate, but he knew he was fooling himself.

  ‘Hello?’ someone said and prodded him.

  He opened his eyes and saw a large brown rat staring back at him. It reminded him of the hideous mutations living in the underground tunnel network that he’d seen in a horror film once.

  ‘Hello?’ he replied.

  ‘You’re still alive?’

  ‘That would be my guess, seeing as I’m talking to you.’

  ‘I’m a doctor. Just lie still, we’re going to get you out of there.’

  ‘It would help if you could get this train off me?’

  ‘We don’t want to cause you any more injuries by having the train reverse.’

  He didn’t know for sure, but he didn’t think he was injured. For all he knew though, the train could have scythed through his clothes, opened up his back, and his arse was on view to the world. ‘I’m okay, get the driver to reverse.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Hello, Richards.’

  She was crying. ‘I thought you were dead. My mum would have killed me.’

  ‘As you can see, I’m not dead. And I’m so glad your mum’s not going to kill you.’

  ‘Come on, Miss, the driver’s going to move the train back, so that we can get to your husband.’

  ‘No… he’s my boss.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want him left there then?’

  Parish heard the man’s demented laughter. It went quiet for a few minutes then he heard the train slowly shunting backwards. Again, he had the urge to lift his head, open his eyes to see how far above him the train was, what the distance between life and death had been, but he kept his curiosity locked up in a dark place.

  Two men lifted him up by the arms. One of them, a man in a suit and tie, said, ‘An ambulance has been called.’

  Parish shook his head. ‘I’m fine, I don’t need an ambulance.’ He scrambled back onto the platform. The crowd applauded at his astonishing escape. He saw a number of mobile phones pointed at him, and imagined that he’d be an ‘item of interest’ on the six o’clock news. Richards hugged him. He checked his body. His hands were filthy and grazed, his suit was ruined, the knees of his trousers were torn and blood had begun to coagulate on deep scratches underneath from the gravel on the track.