by Clive Mullis
Scooters Yard
by
Clive Mullis
Cover designed by
Glenn Young
http://www.gydesign.co.uk
copyright 2016 Clive Mullis
All rights reserved
Table of contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
About the author
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PROLOGUE
Gornstock sits on the bank of the Sterkle, a wide flowing river which feeds into the Blue Sea on the island of Inglion. Founded by Morris Dancers, the city is still subject to its rules and regulations and the rancour hasn’t gone away.
There is a rent in the fabric of time and space that allows Gornstock’s universe to peek into other universes: the little blue planet of Twearth being just one little blue planet among countless other little blue planets — all of them just a shadow away.
CHAPTER 1
He eased back into the chair with his feet crossed and stretched out beneath the desk, ankles twitching in anticipation. Then, laying his arms across his stomach and interlocking the fingers, he sighed with contentment. He heard a sound, and he grinned; the floorboard creaked as a hesitant step received the full weight of its owner, then a brief moment of silence, followed by a tentative knock on the door. A thought now went through his mind: should he answer promptly or should he let the knockee wait? To answer too soon might indicate his keenness to find out what had prompted the knockee to knock, and if he waited too long, then that could indicate an indifference to the knockee’s presence; a puzzle to ponder, and over time, he would have to figure it out. He erred on the side of caution and snapped upright in the chair, hurriedly scrabbling together some loose sheets of paper.
‘Come,’ he barked.
The door creaked open and a young nervous face appeared in the void. ‘Ready for you now, sir.’
‘Right you are, lad,’ he replied, laying the loose sheets back down onto the desk. ‘I will be down presently.’
‘Sir,’ acknowledged the lad crisply, before closing the door gently.
The grin widened, and then MacGillicudy pushed back the chair and stood up. His newly tailored jacket hung from a coat-hanger, so he stepped forward and brushed it down, taking care not to catch the epaulettes with his fingers, his new epaulettes, bright sparkly ones with a single silver star over two crossed batons, surrounded by a silver circle of interlocking bells. He eased into it and adjusted how it lay across his shoulders with a shrug, and then buttoned it up carefully. He then lowered the stovepipe hat onto his head, adjusted it, and considered himself ready. Walking the three paces to the door, he turned the handle and emerged into the empty corridor; took a quick look up and down then pulled out a clean hankie and gave the new brass nameplate a quick polish: inscribed upon it, in bold lettering, were the words “Commander Jethro MacGillicudy.” A new rank to go with the new job: Chief of Police in the City of Gornstock.
He had neatly trimmed red-brown hair with streaks of grey, full side-whiskers and a bushy moustache with an honest ruddy face which had a toughness to it, a product of his origins; his family had come from the cold mountainous region in the north, a Scleepman, and tough as old boots.
MacGillicudy marched along the corridor and then went down the stairs, thinking that his predecessor would have given his eye teeth for this. Captain Harold Bough had just retired, but he hadn’t been the Chief of Police. The Justice Ministry had dictated to Bough, telling him their requirements, and he had to dance to their tune. However, after the ramifications of a case some months earlier, which involved a minister and a banker, the Warden decided that the police should now be unshackled, allowing it to do its job with minimal interference from government. MacGillicudy, the recipient of the new powers, got the new rank to go with it: Commander.
The police officers, more usually known as The Feelers, who got their nickname from Lord Carstairs Fielding, their founder, waited patiently for their new boss to come and talk to them, the canteen of Scooters Yard being the only place big enough to hold all available. They sat around the tables drinking tea and playing cards while the dartboard received some heavy action. Uniforms were unbuttoned and an element of relaxation imbued those congregating amidst the fug of cigarette smoke. The aroma of bacon sandwiches, farts and burnt coffee beans, enfolded them all in a hug of familiarity and contentment as they talked and joked with one another. They didn’t know it, but their world was about to be turned upside down.
MacGillicudy had taken a great deal of time over his thinking about how he would like the Police Force to progress; he agonised over his decision and thought about how he would have reacted should it have happened to him. To him, progress had to be about improving the lot of the average feeler, how to make the city more secure, how to make its inhabitants feel more comfortable with the role of the police, how to grab more felons and make the streets safer. These innovations would start the ball rolling, and he wouldn’t shirk from the responsibility.
The young feeler waited at the bottom of the stairs until MacGillicudy started his descent, and then he ran along the corridor to the canteen. He burst in waving his arms and yelling that the commander was coming. After a few moments, a quiet began to ripple through the gathering and they all turned their heads towards the door, waiting, pondering, eager to hear what their new boss had to say — maybe they shouldn’t have bothered.
Commander MacGillicudy adjusted his hat yet again and puffed out his chest before decisively grabbing the handle and pushing open the door. The sea of faces were already waiting, some augmented by a rollie dangling nonchalantly from the corner of their mouths, a mug of tea fixed halfway between table and lip, a laugh cut off as though snipped by a pair of scissors. Up at the back, an old feeler made a comment, the younger feelers only half-managing to stifle the adolescent giggles. MacGillicudy’s eyes narrowed as he looked towards the group; he’d heard the last couple of words. “… Commander MacWanker.” A few feelers shuffled away from his gaze and the commander locked eyes with the perpetrator. Some things never change, he thought wryly as he walked towards the raised platform, made from a couple of crates of beer and a few bits of four-by-two. Revenge would come in a most appropriate way.
The chairs shuffled and a couple of coughs rent the smoke-infused room as they watched MacGillicudy step up onto the little platform and regard them all.
‘Gentlemen,’ he intoned. ‘Police Officers of Gornstock; fellow feelers.’ His eyes scanned the canteen, and then he felt a nudge on his
arm as someone handed him a mug of tea with the words “The Twearth’s Greatest Boss” written on it in big black letters. He took a slurp and smacked his lips in satisfaction, hot and so strong you could stand a spoon up in it. This must be Wiggins’ idea. ‘As you are no doubt aware,’ he continued. ‘I have now been appointed Commander of Police. The last couple of weeks have involved me in discussions with the Ministry, and the result of those discussions I can now tell you. We are to have several new departments: the first to tell you about is the new Department for Investigating Crime, D.I.C, and it will be concerned with major investigations.’
‘Who’s to head it, sir? yelled someone from the back. ‘Is he gonna be called the DIC-head?’
Laughter greeted the question and MacGillicudy inwardly cringed, he closed his eyes momentarily and slowly let out the breath he held. After a long time deliberating, nobody had thought of that one. It could have been a better start. He should have known; whatever some people might say, some feelers were sharper than a knife on a strop and he dreaded to think what they were going to make of the rest of it.
‘Very droll, I’m sure,’ he replied to the wag. ‘However, initially, I will be in charge of the department. So, Magot, would you still like to call me a DIC-head?’ He finished the question with a hard stony look that dared the questioner to respond. Magot knew when to keep his mouth shut, but MacGillicudy knew that the comments were really going to start flying as soon as he left the canteen.
He finished staring and then scanned the room quickly, indicating that it might be advisable not to make any further comment. He bared his teeth in a sort of a smile and then continued. ‘Furthermore, I intend to develop a department with the sole responsibility for dealing with the streets and roads in the city, keeping them clear and sorting out problems with the traffic.’ He thought quickly and couldn’t come up with a rude acronym for that one, so he continued with a little more confidence. ‘Also, there will be a department dealing with non-human citizens.’ Nope, that one was safe too, he decided. ‘Of course, there are all the little vices that everyone who’s anyone gets up to: drugs, blackmail, sex, etc. So we will have a specialist department for that too. An excited murmuring began at this, as their imaginations began to run riot, and he decided that there wouldn’t be any trouble in filling that one up with volunteers. ‘And finally, for the moment at least,’ he wondered whether to drag the announcement out, because he knew they were going to explode; in a way, he looked forward to seeing their reaction. ‘Gentlemen, you are not going to be just gentlemen any more. I have decided to open up our ranks to members of the fair sex. We are going to take on female recruits.’
The silence seemed to go on forever as this little grenade of knowledge detonated inside their heads. He looked around the sea of faces and watched as the expressions contorted into grimaces of puzzlement and incomprehension, horror and bewilderment and horrified bewilderment — women? In the feelers?
MacGillicudy turned and quickly left the canteen, leaving them dumbstruck with incredulity. He smiled inwardly as he marched through the building, and then paused while he waited for the eruption — and then it came, rolling along the corridor like a tidal wave. Round one to him, he thought, as he climbed the stairs back to his office.
Sergeant Wiggins followed hot on his tail. MacGillicudy sat at his desk shuffling some papers when the expected knock came. Wiggins’ face had angst written all over it as he came in and MacGillicudy reckoned he’d only escaped with a promise to come straight upstairs and try to talk sense to the commander.
‘Senior Sergeant Wiggins,’ began MacGillicudy with a smile, as the door closed.
‘Acting Senior Sergeant,’ corrected Wiggins, as he crossed over to the desk.
‘Er… no, actually. As of today, you have been substantiated in post,’ returned the commander.
Wiggins stopped dead in his tracks with his foot half-raised, his face drained of colour. ‘Wha… what?’ he stammered.
MacGillicudy offered the chair. ‘I’m making it permanent, Horace. I’m sorry to disappoint you, as I know I said that it would only be temporary. However, things change, and this is a thing that has changed.’
‘But… but I don’t want to be Senior Sergeant, Jethro,’ he replied, a pleading look on his face.
‘And I didn’t want to be sitting at this desk, Horace, but I am. So while I am sitting here, I intend to do the best job I can, and that means I need a Senior Sergeant I can trust — and like it or not, you’re that Senior Sergeant.’
Wiggins aimed an incredulous stare at his commander as he tried to formulate an argument in his mind, but he had trouble in transferring the thought to his mouth. MacGillicudy returned the stare with a knowing grin as Wiggins struggled to get his words out.
‘Er… Sir, pleeeease,’ he pleaded again, as the thought began to fly away, desperation galvanising him. ‘Look,’ he said, as he grabbed hold of the bit of string dangling in his mind. ‘I’ve been a feeler for twenty-six years. I’ve been happy doing that; I don’t want the responsibility. Our old Captain Bough persuaded me to take on the Sergeants stripes, but I only did it as a favour for a while, and then the same with you, when you asked me to act up. You agreed; only until you sorted everything out and then I could return to walking the streets again, doing what I know I can do well. Not this organising lark.’
‘You finished, Horace?’ replied MacGillicudy, unmoved.
‘No. I want my life back. I want to have a crafty smoke in some little cubbyhole. I want to step into an alley when I see something happening when it don’t really matter. I want to slurp me tea when I sit ‘round a watchmans’ brazier on a cold winters’ night. I want to do all those things an old feeler does.’
‘You’ve definitely finished now, Senior Sergeant Wiggins, because Senior Sergeant it is, and Senior Sergeant it will remain.’
Wiggins took a deep breath. ‘You’re a hard bastard, Jethro.’
MacGillicudy smiled his agreement and sat back in his chair.
Just a year or two younger than MacGillicudy, Wiggins had certainly aged better. He still had a mop of dark wavy hair, lean of body, clean-shaven with a face that didn’t have that lived in look — yet. He had joined the feelers at sixteen and had always been a conscientious feeler, though wholly unambitious. The last few months had turned his life upside-down as unwanted promotion followed unwanted promotion.
‘Good, that’s all settled, then.’ MacGillicudy leant forward and pushed a wad of notes bound with string over to him. ‘All this is for you. It’s the plans that the Ministry and me have hammered out. There’s a little more there than I told that lot,’ and he indicated the door with a jab of his finger, ‘but I think it will be better to let them know the rest, as and when, little by little. But, as you need to know the direction the force is going to take, you can enjoy a little light reading.’
Wiggins sighed heavily and pulled the wad over towards him. He untied the string; then flicking over the first page with a degree of trepidation, he began to scan down. He stopped reading, and, after a pause, looked up at his commander. ‘Women? You really don’t mean to go through with it, do you, Jethro?’
MacGillicudy grinned and then winked. ‘What do you think, Horace?’
‘You can’t, you really can’t. Didn’t you hear that lot down there? Half of them wouldn’t recognise a female if they had one thrown at them, the other half only think they’re good for one thing.’
‘Then they’ll have to get used to it, because like it or not, women we will have.’
Horace Wiggins spent the rest of the day in a sort of daze. He’d gone back down to the canteen to tell everyone that Commander MacGillicudy would not be moved, determined to see the idea through, come what may, and that nothing could stop it now. The resultant uproar had continued unabated until the feelers left to go on their beats. Only then did a sort of peace descend on the Yard: but he knew that the main topic of conversation, as the feelers plodded around, would be the imminent arrival of female feele
rs.
He’d wondered where the commander had got the idea from, because it certainly hadn’t come from him. He’d spent all of his life avoiding them. Oh, he didn’t have anything particularly against them, just that he didn’t know too much about them. Yes, he’d come across them during his working shift, and he’d managed to deal with them, in an arm’s length sort of way, but to have one close to him, possibly walking beside him on a beat, well, that didn’t bear thinking about. They had breasts and things, or lack of things, so how could he spend all day looking at them? He would see their bits out of the corner of his eye as they bounced and wobbled as they walked, and then another thought occurred to him — what if he wanted to have a widdle? Whatever would he do? He would normally dip down an alley, but how could he do that with a female standing next to him? And how would they have a widdle? Oh, he knew all about it, how everything fitted together, but unusually, his mother had brought him up to respect women. He’d only ever dreamt of doing it, but had never actually done it. It should only happen when you married one of them, but he had married the force. He always joined in the conversations with the lads about them, all the suggestive suggestions and all the unsubtle expectations of what a particular one of them would do. But in truth, the real truth, they scared the shit out of him. And anyway, whatever could you find to talk about to one of them? Washing dishes? Ironing? Bringing up children? He shook his head forlornly at the thought. Battleball, cards, drinking, women; real men talked about that sort of thing. A horrible thought then entered his mind; The Truncheon, the feelers pub — would that mean that women feelers were going to be allowed in there? He shuddered, and then quickly tried to dismiss the thought; but however hard he tried, it kept sneaking back. The Truncheon, the holiest of holies, the feelers’ oasis, the island in a sea of confusion; the one place to go to get away from it all, his sanctuary — it would be desecrated.