by Clive Mullis
*
Late in the afternoon, the final interviewee walked out of the door, and then the three interviewers could finally sigh, slump back in their chairs and relax. It had been a long long day. They went through the first couple of dozen interviews with a high degree of ease; they were enjoying the process and had already ticked off a couple of likely candidates. However, they had envisaged a few coffee breaks between interviews, a lunch break, and a few more breaks for snacks and sandwiches; but it became a slog, as the two feelers in reception were doing their utmost to keep them as busy as they possibly could, by not giving them a pause between the candidates. It worked — all three were exhausted.
‘How many?’ asked MacGillicudy, wiping his brow and closing his eyes.
‘Three hundred and seventeen,’ replied Diffin, his voice somewhat subdued.
‘Does that include the six men?’
Diffin shook his head, but then realised that the commander couldn’t see him. ‘No, they were extras.’
‘The bloody nerve of them,’ added Rose. ‘One of them didn’t even shave.’
‘I’ve seen plenty of women who’ve needed a shave,’ responded MacGillicudy, to the ceiling. ‘But I’ve never seen one with a waxed moustache before.’
‘In that case, let’s just hope that the ones we’ve picked are women and we haven’t inadvertently put a cuckoo in the nest.’ Rose put that thought into the pot and let them stew on it.
‘Oh gods, no. I hope not. You can check, Rose,’ said MacGillicudy after a while. ‘When they all line up you can take them somewhere private and have a peek. Just to make sure.’
‘No, I’m not,' replied Rose indignantly. ‘If you think I’m going to start lifting up skirts, then you’ve got another thing coming. You can get a doctor to have a look. Tell them it’s a health check.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Diffin, turning towards Rose. ‘Er… do you have to cough like men do? You know, when he checks things?’
Rose sighed. ‘Toby, we girls lack those particular objects. What I think he’s looking for is a hernia when he gives them a squeeze.’
‘Oh.’
‘Never mind, but I think it’s a good idea,’ said MacGillicudy. ‘We’ll get a sawbones in, and he can do the dirty work.’
The piece of paper with the names of the dozen women who were to join the force lay on the desk in front of them. None of them were too young, and none of them too old. All of them were keen, and all of them appeared street-wise — only time would tell if they’d done the right thing.
Cornwallis pulled at his pint and then smacked his lips in satisfaction; he sat in the Black Stoat in Cumerbund Square, a small piazza off Brindlenook Alley, and watched Frankie trying to arm-wrestle a dwarf. After weighing up both his friendship and loyalty to Frankie, he decided to wager a small amount of money on the outcome. Looking at the more practical issues, he decided in the end to put ten dollars on the dwarf. The odds were stacked in his favour. Frankie, though strong and well-muscled, might have stood a chance, had he been wrestling another man — however, a dwarf, was another thing entirely.
Outside, the chill night could turn a nose blue, but inside, the blazing fire in the hearth warmed the pub nicely. Frankie’s face had turned red and he dripped sweat, but the heat in the pub had nothing to do with that. He struggled to keep his arm from smacking the table.
Trugral, a dwarf they had known for some months, refereed the contest. He buzzed around the table making sure of fair play, which meant, in reality, checking to see if Frankie cheated.
‘Arse on the chair, elbow on the table, please, Frankie.’
Frankie shot him a venomous look, and it had to be a look, as he didn’t have the puff to speak. His opponent seemed untroubled and Frankie saw the grin as the long whiskers of his beard twitched.
Cornwallis ignored the groan when it came, just signalled to Eddie for a couple of refills and waited until Frankie slumped down opposite him, rubbing his shoulder and flexing his wrist.
‘Thanks for your support,’ growled Frankie. He wiped his brow and then finished the dregs in front of him.
‘I did support you, but from a distance,’ replied Cornwallis with a grin. ‘Just didn’t want to spoil your concentration.’
‘He were a strong’n though; thought I might have had a chance there for a bit,’ he conceded. ‘How much did you lose?’
‘Ah, thanks, Eddie,’ said Cornwallis, as the pints appeared.
‘No worries, Jack. Here’s yer winnings.’ He fished out forty dollars and slapped it on the table.
Frankie watched incredulously as the money barely touched the table before Cornwallis whisked it straight into his pocket.
Cornwallis grinned.
‘You bastard,’ hissed Frankie. ‘You said you were going to bet on me.’
‘I nearly did, but then I saw the dwarf.’
Frankie stared at his friend in disbelief for a few moments before grabbing the full pint and downing it in one. ‘Then, just fer that, you can get me another one of these.’
Cornwallis grinned again and then signalled for a refill. ‘I think I might stretch to that, it’s a small price to pay for a little entertainment.’
Big George the bear walked past collecting the glasses and Frankie stopped him with a touch on his hairy arm. ‘Oi, George. You couldn’t arm-wrestle that dwarf for me, could you? The little sod just beat me all ends up.’
‘Sorry, Mr Kandalwick, I’ve been banned from doing that. Broke a man’s arm last month,’ the slow, deep, drawl sort of reverberated as he spoke. ‘Caused no end of trouble did that. I sort of bent it double; it looked like he had two elbows.’ He swept up the empties and lumbered away, shaking his head in remorse.
Frankie pursed his lips in thought. ‘Good job I didn’t try George when I had the chance, then.’
‘No,’ agreed Cornwallis. ‘It would’ve played havoc with your nocturnal manoeuvres.’ Just then his face lit up; Rose walked in looking particularly pleased with herself as she came over and sat down.
‘All done,’ she announced. ‘No turning back now. Next week we will have a dozen lady feelers incarcerated at Pendon.’
Cornwallis inclined his head in acknowledgement, then leant over and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Who’s a clever girl, then?’
‘Me,’ she answered delightedly, and then whipped his beer away and began to drink.
Cornwallis sighed; she did that every time.
Frankie grinned. ‘Come on then, Rose. Whatathey like?’
She lowered the glass and swirled the contents around, looking at the colour and clarity whilst making a sucky noise before swallowing. ‘Wartwranglers Dark?’
Cornwallis nodded.
‘Good, one of my favourites.’ She looked over to Frankie. ‘Like? They are ladies, Frankie. You know: got the bits up here, but not down there.’ She mimed what she meant. ‘Anyway, it shouldn’t interest you, not with Isabella in her condition.’
‘Just professional curiosity,’ replied Frankie innocently.
Rose returned his look with one of her own. Her face did the contortions applicable to when a girl heard what you were saying, but knew what you were thinking — a sort of purse-lipped chewing with eyebrows raised in question.
‘I’m not asking what they look like,’ defended Frankie stoically. ‘Just asking if they’re up to the job.’
‘And you don’t think I would’ve made sure of that?’
‘No, no. I’m sure you would.’
Cornwallis decided the time had come to intervene before it went too far: these two could carry on like this for hours. ‘Frankie said that Isabella wants you to go and see her,’ he said conversationally, as Eddie came over with a pint for Rose.
She smiled at her uncle and blew him a kiss. ‘I will tomorrow,’ she said, turning back to Frankie. ‘She can’t decide on the colour of the nursery room, and you aren’t helping much.’
‘I told her we’d wait until it arrived; what’s the problem with that?’
Rose shook her head slowly. ‘It needs to be done before it arrives. Isabella doesn’t want to be tripping over you and a paint pot while she’s holding a baby. She wants to be able to enjoy the moment. It’s a new life, a little bit of both of you cradled in her arms; she wants it to be warm and snugly. Left to you the poor little thing would be splattered in dripping paint as it lay in its cot.’
Cornwallis and Frankie exchanged glances: unspoken, the thought passed between them. What’s the problem with that?
At the back of the bar, the noise suddenly rose several decibels before dipping away to a heavy menacing silence. The quiet hung there for a few seconds before the noise took over again. The sound gathered pace, indicating that a ruckus had started between a dwarf and a man: the man having decided that he wouldn’t pay up fully on the last bet put down.
Cornwallis, Frankie and Rose turned to look, and as the first fist flew, they as one, grabbed hold of their glasses and lifted them up. Shortly a man came flying through the air and bounced off their table — a bit like a stone skimming over a pond — and crashed to a halt by the door. He got up, shook his head, nodded an apology and then tore off to the back of the pub to recommence hostilities. Within a few seconds, he came back, but this time the punch wasn’t as effective as he slid along the floor until his head crashed up against the table leg. Cornwallis and Frankie looked down. Frankie got up, grabbed hold of his jacket, and then taking careful aim, launched him along the floor back into the melee. It turned out to be a pretty good shot as he took out three bystanders and several pints of beer. A free-for-all now started, and everyone hammered into each other.
Eddie removed his weapon of choice from behind the bar — a gnarled wooden club that had been drilled out at the end and had a lump of lead inserted to give it some more oomph — and walked out into the fray.
Fists flew and squelchy bits squelched; the dwarfs were too short to give a Gornstock kiss, so instead resorted to a Gornstock I’mgoingtonutyouinthegoolies, which proved to be highly effective.
A little ball of combatants rolled towards the table where Cornwallis et al were watching with interest. ‘Hey, steady,’ yelled Frankie, and then one of them looked up.
‘Oi, stop it, you lot,’ shouted the man, battering another over the head. One by one, they all looked over and saw Rose sitting there. ‘Sorry, Miss,’ they apologised. They stopped fighting and moved out of the way. ‘Okay, now?’ came the enquiry. Frankie nodded and grinned — then the fight continued.
Eddie wielded his club like a professional, cracking heads and shins with deft flicks of the wrist. Big George grabbed anyone within reach and showed his very big and very sharp incisors before roaring into their faces and, for a bear, cuffing them around the ear in a fairly gentle manner. The unconscious ones he stacked in the corner.
The front door eased open and into the melee walked MacGillicudy. A small group of fighters seemed to engulf him, but he stood unconcerned as he looked about. He saw Cornwallis, Frankie and Rose and nodded to himself before lashing out at those around to clear a space. He then ambled across and sat down, relaxing into his seat. He looked over to Stella, the barmaid, and indicated that he would quite like a drink, and to fill his friends up too. Cornwallis raised an eyebrow in question.
‘Off duty,’ replied MacGillicudy, grinning. ‘Not wearing my uniform.’
Cornwallis nodded sagely and returned the grin.
Stella sauntered over with a tray of beer, stepped over one unconscious patron and then stopped, dipping her head as a bottle came flying across to smack against the wall. She sniffed contemptuously and then carried on.
‘Thank you, my darling,’ said MacGillicudy, raising his voice just enough to get over the din. ‘Gods, I need this,’ and he took a long slow pull.
Stella deposited the rest of the beers and began to return, taking a moment to crash her tray against the back of the head of one whom inadvertently came within reach, the dent showing how much force she could muster.
A dishevelled dwarf crawled out from beneath a few legs and staggered to his feet. Trugral shook his head and wandered over towards Frankie; he had an eye like a duck egg but grinned inanely. ‘You not joining in the fun?’ he asked conversationally.
‘Oh no,’ replied Frankie, shaking his head. ‘I promised Isabella I’d be a responsible adult, now that I’m going to be a daddy. If I went home with an eye like yours I’d never hear the end of it.’ He also knew that Isabella would be sure to hear about it if he did join in with the entertainment, and that would not be a good idea, given her condition.
‘Shame, yer don’t know what yer missing.’ He shrugged his shoulders, turned around, and then charged back in, little legs pumping and arms flailing.
Eddie and Big George began to get control of proceedings, and little by little, the mass of fighters reduced in numbers. After a few more minutes, with order restored, peace once again descended on the Black Stoat.
Frankie eyed the carnage with an expert eye. ‘Not too bad really; though Eddie is beginning to slow up a little.’
‘He only had George to help him,’ replied Rose defensively. ‘You three could have lent a hand.’
‘We could have,’ agreed Cornwallis. ‘But it would have looked as if the law was getting involved. Besides, Eddie is your Uncle, so you could have done something too. It’s not as if you’re exactly helpless in these situations.’
‘But I’m a girl, Jack, just in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Cornwallis smiled, and a wistful look passed across his face. ‘Oh, I’ve definitely noticed you’re a girl, Rose. I’d even go so far as to say that I noticed that last night, and then again, the night before.’ He began to tick off on his fingers. ‘And even the night before that. In actual fact, I think that virtually every night I notice you’re a girl,’ he added whimsically.
‘Erm…?’
‘Oh yes, in this city a man never does the washing up.’
A brief half second of silence followed and then both MacGillicudy and Frankie laughed and banged the table.
Rose pouted, but she wore a half-smile on her lips and had a gleam in her eye — and that told the real story.
‘Well, Jack; then judging from that, I’m a bit of a wuss,’ said MacGillicudy, still laughing. ‘Because I always have to do the washing up as there ain’t a Mrs MacGillicudy to do it for me.’
‘Well, I know a couple of ladies who like to do the “washing up”, so I could always have a word with one of them for you,’ ventured Frankie. ‘They’ll even polish it up for you too. Nothing like a bit of polish to bring it up nice and—’
‘That’s enough polishing, gentlemen,’ laughed Rose, interjecting. ‘There’s a girl present, don’t forget.’
‘No, it’s all right. Stella’s gone now,’ said Cornwallis, just ducking in time.
CHAPTER 3
The measured and controlled cadence was slow but steady, designed to eat up the ground without expending too much energy. The two constables were walking side by side, matching their pace, and looking around for anything that might take their interest. They had on the regulation uniform of stovepipe hat, long-tailed coat with breeches and knee-gaiters. They wore black hob-nailed boots, two sizes too big for one of them, one size too small for the other. Over all this they wore a cloak, loosely tied at the neck. Their heads craned around as they walked, one hand always resting on the handle of their trusty truncheons, which were slipped into compartments in their breeches. One of them nudged the other with his elbow and then nodded to a little alley over on the far side of the street. The other raised an eyebrow, and then a grin spread across the face. They hurried across the street, and taking a last quick look around, dived into the alley.
There were a few steps down, surrounded by some rusty iron railings, and these steps led to the basement level: a dark and dingy looking corner where rats scuttled about.
The two feelers slowly descended, taking care of their steps until they came to the door. Flaking paint, rot, a
nd woodworm appeared to be the decoration; but they didn’t hesitate, they just turned the knob on the door and went through.
They entered a cramped hall where a little light filtered through from the bottom of another door just in front of them. The older feeler pushed at the door and it swung slowly open. The stale fug enveloped them like an old friend giving a hug of welcome, smoke hung as if suspended from the ceiling, and the smell consisted of farts matured through years of imprisonment. There were a scatter of old armchairs around, all the insides seeping out of the well-worn upholstery. Fag burns decorated the arms as well as little brown rings. Journals and books, cast indiscriminately on the dusty and grimy carpet around them, lay unread. A dartboard hung on one wall, and next to it, a notice board with a few tattered looking sheets attached by a couple of coloured little pins. Two men were playing cards, a rollie dangled from both their lips and a brown stained mug positioned on the table in front of each. Both had creased and well-worn faces: one had short sandy hair whilst the other was dark and oil-slicked. Their features were of the lived in variety and heavy with the woes of the world. The sandy haired one looked up out of curiosity, caught sight of the feelers, and twitched his head to indicate the room over on the far side; having passed the message, he turned his attention back to his cards. A few counters, placed in piles on the table, indicated that they were involved in a serious game.
The feelers wordlessly crossed the room, trying not to take too deep a breath, as they had to have time to acclimatise to the whiff — going from the sort of fresh air outside to the aroma inside took some getting used to.
One of the card players pursed his lips in concentration, and then slowly pulled one from out of his hand and laid it on the table with a crisp flick of the fingers. ‘Mr Porky’s postman,’ he growled.