by P W Hillard
Gemma laughed. "We only really thought about the clothes thing on the way in. They only have a charity shop in the concourse. It was either this or a formal suit that they claimed was Chanel."
"There was no way that was real Chanel," agreed Sandra.
"I don't care if it was real or not, it had to look better than this," said Shauna holding the dress under her chin for effect.
Sandra reached into the tote, fishing around for something. "You would have stood out too much. Here. Wear this too," she said, producing a large straw hat from the bag. She handed it to Shauna, whose lip curled in disapproval. "Oh, we got you these too." Sandra removed the last of the bag's contents, a sealed packet of raw chicken breast. "This will help heal those wounds, right?"
"Yeah, that's right," Shauna took the packet, then reached over and picked up a scalpel from a small tray of medical tools that had been left next to the table. She punctured the plastic with one quick stroke, placing the blade back onto the table.
"Is that hygienic? It's not sterile now?" asked Gemma.
"I don't think anyone in here really cares Gem," Shauna said between bites of chicken, great wet drops splattering onto the sheet she clutched to herself.
Jess sat alone on a bench crying. It was to all others, a random bench in a random corridor. To Jess, it was a very specific bench, the same one they had seen on the closed-circuit television. Jess doubted that the bench held any real significance, but this whole ordeal was a long shot, anything would help. Jess had thought perhaps her part in the charade would be difficult, that projecting a convincing level of grief would be beyond her, but when she had seen Shauna in the ambulance, with the E.C.G wires and oxygen mask her mind had wandered, projecting Hannah into Shauna's place and the tears had poured forth unimpeded. Jess always thought that if the worst ever did happen she would be strong, after all, with what she had seen in her job how could anything compare? She was oddly glad to see she was wrong. She had made sure to drop as many hints as possible trying to insinuate that it was a creature that had attacked Shauna. The staff so far seemed to write her off as delirious, and the police who had arrived to question her about the stabbing were simply Gemma and Sandra playing their roles. With nothing else to do, Jess sat on that bench, and cried.
It took less time than she thought it would, before a nurse approached her. The woman was in her late thirties or early forties, her face worn and world-weary. She coughed loudly to get Jess' attention.
"Excuse me," said the Nurse. "But I couldn't help overhear you talking in resus." Jess looked the nurse over and realised she had been part of the team of nurses working on Shauna. "You mentioned something about claws? I hope you don't mind me asking. I would imagine that people have been a little dismissive of you."
"They, they don't believe me," Jess blubbered.
"Well I believe you, I know, I've experienced it myself. I'm so sorry for the loss of your…"
"Girlfriend," said Jess filling the blank space hanging in the air. "She was my girlfriend. We were going to get married. Why does no one, believe me, this thing, it came out of nowhere, all the fur and fangs. It was like from the films, but not muscular. It was thin, all sinew, like a gymnast."
"Sounds like a werewolf alright. Yeah, that's right, a werewolf. They exist, them and many other monsters." The nurse took a seat next to Jess.
"It sounds so crazy…"
"But you know what you saw right?" The nurse smiled sweetly as she spoke.
"How can something like that just do this?" Jess pleaded.
The nurse thought for a moment. "Because no one believes. They don't want to see the darkness. The idea that something lurks out there that doesn't fit into our limited world view. It scares us." The nurse reached into a pocket and rummaged around for a moment. "Look uh, what's your name love?"
"Jess"
"Well Jess, take this." She opened her palm to reveal a single gleaming Roman coin. Jess took it from her, holding it up between two fingers to examine it.
"A coin?" she asked, turning it over.
"I want you to know that there are people out there, fighting against the night. Holding back these monsters as best we can to save as many as we can. I am sorry we couldn't be there in time to save your love, my dear. Here pass me your hand." The nurse slid a pen from her top pocket, clicking it as she did. She took Jess' hand and wrote an address on her palm. "You ever decide you want to learn more, to maybe do something about all this, then you go here, and you hand over that coin." The nurse smiled, stood up and walked off back towards the emergency room.
Sandra stood at the other end of the corridor, checking quickly that no one else was on the other side of the double doors. She gestured, and Shauna quickly trotted down the corridor, holding her hat with one hand and the hem of her dress with another. Their route from the morgue to the main exit went directly past the emergency ward. Having someone recognise Shauna when she was supposed to be lying dead downstairs wasn't a prospect any of the three women relished.
"Come on, come on," chanted Sandra as Shauna manoeuvred her way past some bemused visitors. "Ok, we look clear," said Sandra. Through the small window, she could see Gemma was stood past the intersection to the emergency ward and was nodding. "Go, go, go," Sandra chanted, pushing the door open.
"Not exactly seal team six," Shauna laughed as she quickly crossed over to Gemma, with Sandra in close pursuit.
"Always wanted to say that," Sandra admitted. "Too much Tom Clancy over the years I think. We good to go?"
"Yeah, just down the stairs to the concourse, then we hook a right to the car park," said Gemma.
The three women walked side by side across the concourse. Quickly they stepped past overpriced newsagents, coffee shops with a poor selection and misplaced charity shops. They evaded oblivious porters transporting elderly patients from one place to the next. Taking a sharp right past an information booth that was worryingly empty, they stepped through the large automatic doors onto the street. Before the main entrance was a U-shaped section of road. Along one side were several disabled parking bays, on the opposite side was a taxi rank. Directly before the doors, at the apex of the turn, was a set of bays alternately marked "ambulance" and "police." Sandra pulled a cluster of keys from her pocket and pressed the open button on a large black fob. The lights flashed on a police car parked in the bays. There was a loud thunk as the doors unlocked.
"We had to get a marked car, so we could use the parking space," said Sandra opening the passenger side door. "You'll have to sit in the back."
"You know, I've never been in the back of one of these," replied Shauna as she opened the rear door and slipped onto the seats, taking care to tuck her dress behind her knees so it didn't get caught in the closing door.
Gemma closed the driver side door and wound down the window, reaching out to adjust the wing mirror. "You know," she began as she tweaked the mirror, "me neither."
"I have," said Sandra. "It was after a pretty nasty hen do in Blackpool mind."
The car started with a low rumble. "Oh, now you have to tell us more. Blackpool eh?"
From the back-seat, Shauna snorted. "Heh, Blackpool Beecham."
Sandra shot her a glare from over the seat's headrest. "Don't you start, Sandy is bad enough. I don't need another nickname sticking with me."
Chapter Seventeen
Dale Cooper sighed. He had seen werewolves tear a man apart, banished twisted spirits to whatever nether realm they went to, and sent unspeakable twisted cosmic things back to their own reality. None of that had proven as difficult as his current assignment. Babysitting two very bored grown women. Currently one was complaining loudly about a valuation that had been given on a small chest of drawers during the Antiques Roadshow rerun she was watching. From what Dale could tell the current value was extortion compared to how much they would have cost new. He ignored the commotion, deciding instead to carry on with his work. His hands plunged deep into the water, dragging a sponge across the plate. Happy, he placed the
plate onto the drying rack and grabbed the next dish to clean.
Behind him, the fridge opened with a slurp, air rushing in as the rubber seal was broken. "Don't mind me, just popping the red sauce back," said Lucille, plastic bottle of tomato ketchup in hand.
"Now I know you are the devil," laughed Dale, "put that in the cupboard."
"What no? The sauce goes in the fridge."
"Some sauces, mayonnaise goes in the fridge. Red and brown in the cupboard." Dale crossed his arms to try and sell his point, but only succeeded in getting his shirt wet in an odd cross-shaped stain. White bubbles dripped from his hands.
"Woah," said Lucille giggling slightly. "There's a lot to unpack here. First I don't think mayonnaise is a sauce?"
"Sure, it is, you dip chips in it, it's a sauce." Dale smiled, sure in his assertion.
"I'm not sure that logic works. What about mustard?" Lucille slid the bottle into the clear plastic tray that lined the fridge’s door. It slotted in between two bottles of milk. "You can dip chips in mustard, is that a sauce?"
"Well no," admitted Dale. "Clearly not. You can't drizzle mustard though."
"Of course you can, how would you explain how you put it on a hotdog?"
"No-one sensible does that. That's an American thing. Hot dogs get red sauce, brown sauce or barbecue sauce at a push. I wouldn't count anything Americans do towards sauce categories. They put mayonnaise on bread instead of butter. Mayonnaise in a sandwich is fine, but it needs to be on top of the ingredients, not spread across the bread. Ergo drizzled." Dale shook his hands; suddenly aware they were dripping onto the kitchen floor.
Lucille held up one finger and smiled a twisted sinister smile, like a schoolteacher who had caught her least favourite pupil smoking. "Ah, but you put mayonnaise in a sandwich with a dollop, not a drizzle."
"A dollop is just a drizzle you were too lazy to spread around." Dale's voice was serious, as though he had just delivered devastating news. Lucille burst out laughing, an honest hearty guffaw. Dale's stern face twitched and then broke, joining in on the laughter. Together they laughed, the kind of side-splitting laughter that spirals off into laughing at the absurdity of the laughter itself.
Lucille sighed. "That's…" she giggled to herself again, "the stupidest thing anyone has ever said to me. And I've been around the circuit more times than I would like to admit." She found herself slipping back into laughter and placed her hands-on Dales shoulders to steady herself.
"I'll take that. Always good to be the best at something, even if it's being dumb. At least then I can't disappoint," Dale said.
"Oh, you never disappoint," Lucille replied, and pulled Dale in close, planting her lips on his. They stood there silent for a moment, all laughter paused by their embrace. They broke apart, and Dale's face was sullen.
"You know I can't do this," he said, his voice low and quiet. "It's not…ethical. You're in witness protection, I'm a police officer. The conflict of interest there could cost me my job."
Lucille's head dropped. She stared at the floor, watching her foot as she nervously twitched it back and forth. "I don't care. At least admit you like me," she said raising her head, her eyes locking with Dales. "You can do that much right?"
"Look, I do. It's why we can't do this. You wouldn't see me at all anymore. It's precarious as is. Everyone already knows you’re interested and your little stunt with the trip to Blackpool didn't help at all. If we did anything, we would be found out in about ten seconds." Dale's shoulders dropped as he leant back on the kitchen worktop.
"I can be subtle!" Lucille protested.
"No, you can't. I don't think it's in your nature. You're supposed to be in witness protection, incognito, but you chose the name Lucille. You chose to run a bar, exposing yourself to who knows how many people a day. The wall outside your bar has a sign with an actual devil on it. I really don't think you could be subtle even if you wanted too. And that's ok, that's just how you are, that's you. I wouldn't want that to change, but it means this is a no go," Dale said, he averted his gaze, placing his hands into his pockets sheepishly. Bubbles split over the edge of his pockets, scraped from his hands as he did so.
Lucille stood there for a moment, for once in her long life lost for words. Eventually, she smiled, leant forward and pecked Dale's cheek with a swift kiss. "I understand, I think." She turned and stepped out from the small kitchen into the living room. "Hey, you guys think mayonnaise is a sauce?" she shouted. Two faces turned to meet her. Abbie, her compatriot in hiding, who was wearing an all-black set of velvet pyjamas, and Aasif. Aasif was still technically a trainee detective and had been assigned to help Dale and his partner Rajan. He wore a simple white shirt and a pair of black slacks. His hair was well kept, held in place by a layer of wax. His beard was short and immaculately trimmed. One of his shirt sleeves was folded at the elbow, the circumstances of his recruitment also costing him his right forearm. It was the first time in Aasif's life he had been glad to have been left-handed. Awkward scissors and difficult notebooks seemed not so annoying anymore.
"No," said Aasif. "Not a sauce. You couldn't cook anything in mayonnaise. No one is mixing it with rice or noodles or anything. At least I hope not."
"Of course, it is," said Abbie shooting Aasif a glare. "You can drizzle it on stuff. It's a sauce."
"Thank you!" exclaimed Dale.
"Drizzle it? On what, how are you even drizzling something that thick?" Aasif looked visibly puzzled.
"Salad," began Abbie. "You get a nice salad, you can drizzle mayonnaise across the top. Especially if you have a squirty bottle."
"No way," said Lucille, who was leaning against the kitchen door frame. "You put salad cream on a salad. Everyone knows that"
"What, you are a wrong'un," said Dale. "Salad cream is horrible. It's just rancid mayonnaise."
"I like Salad cream," admitted Aasif. So, they continued, their discussion taking up most of the next few hours.
"Sauce sir?" asked the waitress. Commodus looked down at the plate she had slipped before him. Two slices of bacon that were more fat than meat. A pair of sorry looking slightly floppy sausages. Mushrooms that were oddly glistening.
"Uh yes please, brown please," he said. The waitress smiled and grabbed a half-empty glass bottle from the table next to him. "Thanks," said Commodus taking the bottle from the young woman's hand.
"Anything else?" she asked, wiping a dribble of sauce off her hand with her apron.
"No, that's fine thank you." He shot her a smile back, though it was partly to hide his disappointment with the breakfast. His experience with the hotel had been dire so far. His commotion with checking in had been only the start. His water pressure in the room was abysmal, not that it mattered, as the hotel hadn't provided any towels. The room had a television, but it was attached to the desk at an angle that meant it was impossible to see from the bed, despite there being nowhere else to sit in the room. They had given him a kettle and a selection of tea bags, but the only spare plug was by the bed, meaning he had to place the boiling shaking kettle on his mattress to use the thing. All this was compounded by the fact that the hotel had a large portion of its ground floor given over to a bar and restaurant that seemed to have a tribute act night every night. Last nights was Abba. Commodus couldn't imagine ever being the kind of person who went to a hotel specifically to attend its bar. He wondered what path your life had to take for that to be your outlet.
He sighed and picked up the sauce bottle. The sauce had dribbled out from under the screw-on metal lid, making the outside slightly sticky. Commodus unscrewed the lid and tipped it up. Nothing came out. Rolling his eyes, he slapped the bottom of the bottle. Sauce poured out, far too much of it, covered his plate. "At least this might be edible now," he muttered quietly to himself. He stabbed one of the sausages with his fork. It tore, almost folding in half as he lifted it, the two halves only remaining attached by a thin string of skin. He closed his eyes and placed it into his mouth. It tasted cheap, the meat inside being oddly coarse
and grainy. Chewing angrily, Commodus picked up the local paper he had bought from the newsagents about an hour before breakfast. His offer of free breakfast had proven to be a curse rather than a gift.
He opened the paper, flicking idly through its pages. He scanned over articles, looking for anything strange or unusual. Often hints at his quarry had been picked up by others but mistaken for something mundane. Nothing jumped out immediately. A local couple were angry about a new fence being erected by the council, the paper having taken a photo of the two of them stood in front of it with exaggerated scowls. Local schoolchildren had met a sportsperson with a middling results record but had once attended that school. A nearby seafood restaurant was up for an award. Commodus groaned, stabbing his fork into the mushrooms, which were weirdly firm. It was going to be a long hunt.
Rajan closed the door behind him, and removed his coat eagerly, placing it onto one of the coat hooks on the walls. "It is hot outside," he said, fanning his face with his hand. "Wearing a coat was a mistake." He bent down, grabbing the shopping bags he had dropped as he had entered.
"You get everything we asked for?" said Lucille, walking alongside him, but not offering to take a bag.
"Yes, everything. I got to ask, do you need salad cream and mayonnaise? It feels redundant having both, they're basically the same thing." He strode past Lucille, stepping into the small kitchen. He dropped the bags onto the worktop.
"Yes well, I won't get into that now, it got pretty heated," Lucille said.
"What got heated?"
"Doesn't matter," Lucille said, opening one of the bags. She removed a packet of chocolate bars, took one out and began to unwrap it. "So, it's hot out?"