Authors: David Mathew
‘Hello? Anyone home? Hello?’
The man who emerged from behind a curtain made from a rust-coloured pelt had to be the butcher. Wearing nothing but his birthday suit and a blue-and-white striped apron to cover his modesty, he was slapdashed from head to foot in some poor creature’s life fluid. He even had blood on his lips. But his serial killer get-up was not what Connors noticed first and foremost: the man had half of a second head attached to the right side of his ordinary head, the features on this unfortunate addition drooping as if this part of his physiognomy, and this part alone, had suffered a stroke. In total he had three eyes: two blue ones on his ordinary face, one brown eye on the half a head latched on; and though his whole-head was clean shaven, the half-head sported half a moustache on the squashed upper lip, and it was this, the pursed half-a-mouth that spoke to Connors.
‘
Survan-dam?
’ he seemed to ask.
Instructing himself not to stare, Connors said, ‘English? Do you speak English?’
The butcher made no reply but scratched an armpit. Connors mimed bringing food to his lips, then rubbed his belly and hummed appreciatively, hoping that the culture of Toenail Island extended to food appreciation. Still the butcher appeared nonplussed, but now his eyes were drawn to Chelsea, who was muzzle-deep in some scraps she’d found on the floor. Once more Connors rubbed his belly and smiled, before remembering a language greater than that of love. From the back pocket of his jeans he pulled out one of the Captain’s silver coins, unaware of its denomination or value.
The translation was instantaneous: though the full mouth remained straight, as stoic as that of a figure on a Grecian urn, the half-mouth twisted up in a grin made wry by the absence of its complementary half. Oh, this wanker understood all right! Had Connors offered too much?
The butcher stepped forward, one of his bare feet sliding in a patch of blood and silver feathers. ‘
Sloon-yik serl-lul fran
,’ the man said, talkative bell-end that he was, Connors thought.
Just lay the table, knobcheese!
This was the lexicon, he understood – angry and belligerent – of his empty stomach. Connors watched as the butcher stooped and stroked Chelsea’s brow. Chelsea drank up the praise like an infant.
His stomach gargling, Connors assumed mission accomplished. It should only be minutes before he tucked the paper napkin into his shirt collar…
‘He thinks you’re selling him your dog to eat.’
The voice came from behind Connors; cross-legged, Connors span, his fright tuned and revving.
The speaker was Elvis Leader.
‘Have you been following me?’ Connors demanded.
‘To protect you.’
Connors frowned. ‘I don’t need your
protection
, son.’
Elvis sniggered. ‘Your dog wouldn’t agree with you. She was nearly on a skewer with a bowl of bread and corn-dip.’
Connors paused. An ally at this moment sounded agreeable; perhaps this could work. ‘Are you hungry, Elvis?’
‘I could eat a penguin’s sphincter.’
‘A penguin? You have
penguins
here?’
‘Not here,’ replied the boy. ‘The sun should’ve been your clue. Penguins prefer ice.’
Chelsea yapped.
‘Enough of the backchat, son,’ said Connors. ‘Just tell him we’re hungry and have cash. We want an animal’s flesh on a plate, with some green bits for balance. And a beer of some description… Can you manage that?’
Without further hesitation Elvis gabbled; after ten seconds the butcher laughed, using each of his mouths. Then, bowing both
heads, he indicated a table and retreated into the back quarters.
Connors asked, ‘What do you fancy?’
‘There’s not a lot of choice, Con.’
‘Okay; so what are we having?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ Elvis told him.
Hospital Patience
1.
‘Don’t worry, Nurse Jones, I’ve asked the patients not to be sick on your busy schedule. I know you’re busy.’
Bernadette had expected something similar. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said; ‘you won’t believe what happened at home last night. Or this morning, I should say.’
But Margaret seemed in no mood for forgiveness. ‘To be frank, what happened last night,’ she answered, ‘
or
this morning, ranks low on my list of must-knows. You are a nurse and you have patients who depend on your ability to set an alarm clock correctly.’
‘I
did
set it correctly!’
‘You slept through it then.’
‘With good reason!’ Bernadette argued. ‘There was an accident in the village – I was awake until three helping.’
Margaret crossed her arms over her sturdy bosom. ‘Mr Williams, in bed seventeen, for example, has also been awake since three o’clock. I suggest you see to him first.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘And don’t
sigh
.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘In which case my ears are deceiving me. Maybe
I
need a lie-in!’
‘No, Sister… I’ll wash my hands first, if I may.’
‘I insist. And don’t
sigh
.’
It was going to be a long day, Bernadette decided. Only while scrubbing under her nails did she experience a burning sense of ridiculous injustice. The
hours
she’d spent, damn it! And to be spoken to like this! It wasn’t fair. Even by the standards of a normal nursing day, it wasn’t fair.
Two hours and a dozen patients later, Bernadette entered the Staff Room, a strong cup of tea on her mind. She was exhausted... Two women were already inside the room: a young Malaysian nurse on the same grade as Bernadette (they swapped hellos) and a thick-set police officer in her forties. Using a spoon, the latter was squeezing the life out of a purple teabag in a departmental mug. ‘Hi Bernie,’ said the police officer, turning. ‘Good night’s rest?’
‘Very funny, Mo.’ Bernadette flopped onto one of the sofas; suddenly it was like her legs wouldn’t do their job for one more second. They’d called in the unions. ‘You couldn’t make me one while you’re there, could you? If there’s anything left in the kettle.’
‘Sure,’ answered Sergeant Maureen Tennan. ‘Which is yours?’
‘The pink mug with March for Cancer. Teabags in the middle tin, Say No To Biscuits.’
‘
This one? Oh yeah I see… How’s your morning been so far?’
‘Diabolical. What brings you to my shores?’
‘A drink driver brings me to your shores. Doing the school run with a litre of vodka in her system. In her
nightdress
.’
Bernadette nodded. ‘She banged it up?’
‘Write off. BMW, six months old. One of the yummy mummies near the airport. And hubby
won’t
be pleased when he comes home from golf.’ She passed a steaming mug to Bernadette, who nodded her thanks. ‘Why’s your morning been diabolical?’
‘Oh, the fun we had last night. And managerial bullshit.’
Tennan nodded. She’d been there. ‘There’s a squad at the house right now. Environmental scientists, the Water Board… the works. But no one’s coming up with a decent explanation.’ She sipped and smiled. ‘Don’t blame it on the sunshine. Don’t blame it on the moonlight.’
‘I blame it on the boogie,’ said Bernadette, silently resolving at this moment to pay another visit to the war zone on her way home, fatigue or no fatigue, police barriers or no police barriers.
2.
Accident scenes (of which she had seen many) and crime scenes (of which she had seen far fewer) never failed to remind Bernadette of ant-farms. This evening’s activity was no exception. Her neighbour’s house and small front garden were surrounded by police tape, inside which a small plague of uniforms buzzed… Bernadette parked on her own driveway and walked back. If she walked confidently enough, perhaps she could slip under the tape before anyone noticed her.
She was stopped.
‘You can’t come in, I’m afraid, madam,’ said the officer on the neighbour’s drive. ‘There’s been an accident.’
‘I know. I’m a nurse.’
‘I can see that. There’s no one here for you to help.’
‘What about the owners?’
‘Not here.’
‘
So I gather… Kyle, isn’t it? What I mean is, where are they?’
‘They’re safe… How do you know my name?’
‘I’m a friend of Maureen Tennan. You were at her youngest’s birthday party, about a year ago. Northall Village Hall.’
The officer snapped his fingers. ‘I
thought
I recognised you. Well remembered!’
‘So where are Bill and Lucinda?’ Bernadette asked, pressing her advantage and smiling thinly.
The officer frowned. ‘Do you actually know them?’
‘I actually do. I live up the road. Number 77. I was here last night.’
‘Give a statement?’ Kyle asked.
‘Most of it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I asked you first.’
‘Mr and Mrs Riley were attending a funeral yesterday, in the north of the country. Instead of driving back down last night they’d decided to stay at Mr Riley’s brother’s place in Durham. They’re still there, as far as I know. They were told there’s nothing much to come home to for a while.’
It sounded like a prepared statement; but the important facts had been conveyed – Bill and Lucinda were not coming home straightaway.
‘You were saying?’ the officer prompted.
Knowing that Chris would be furious with her, Bernadette fessed up.
‘Two guys came to our door last night – very late. One of them was the man who lost half his head. When the explosion happened, I was one of the first in the back garden.’
‘And this is in your statement,’ said Kyle.
‘No, this is the part that’s off the record.’
‘I see. Why did they come to your door?’
‘They were burglars. They were checking us out,’ Bernadette lied. If Chris was going to be furious that she had said anything of this to the police
at all
, he was going to go bug-eyed if she mentioned that they had been burgled an hour or so earlier.
They were checking us out
was close enough. But she hadn’t given Kyle what he needed, she was certain. She had given him some fresh information but nothing more – and the tidbit didn’t add much. So what if she could identify half the head of a dead man? It was the same guy who had come knocking. Big deal.
What happened to the younger guy? Bernadette wondered. How had he escaped?
Had
he escaped?
In Bernadette’s mind an approximate timeline had been drawn up. The two thieves had done Number 77 first, and taken items that could be replaced – things with a monetary value. And because Chris was terrified of the police, and because there’d be no claim on the insurance, the police were not called to the scene of this first burglary. But the
thieves
didn’t know that the police would not be called. Having got away with the theft, what on earth had brought them back to the same street? If they’d been feeling punchy with success, why not go at least as far as Eaton Bray or Dagnall?
What had brought them back?
They were looking for something specific, thought Bernadette. We weren’t the intended target; we were only convenient – the building was empty. But they made a mistake. They went to the wrong house.
What are Bill and Lucinda hiding?
Kyle was asking Bernadette something. Bernadette tuned in.
‘But they didn’t actually steal anything?’ he said.
‘No, they didn’t actually steal anything,’ Bernadette replied. Immediately she felt strange. It was the first time in her life that she had deliberately lied to an ambassador of the law. There was something liberating about it.
Vowing that she would get inside that house, one way or another, Bernadette trudged along to her own. Chris was waiting for her.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he demanded.
‘Don’t I get a kiss?’
‘Okay, kiss.’ He kissed her. ‘
Now
where’ve you been?’
‘To the Quatermass Experiment down the road, as if you need to ask… Have you done dinner?’
‘There’s a chicken in. I thought we
agreed
, Bern.’
‘Well I didn’t have much choice,’ Bernadette lied again – the second fib in five minutes. ‘They saw me driving past, they waved me down…’
Chris followed Bernadette into the kitchen. ‘Who did?’
‘Smells
lush
. Rice and peas?’
‘
Mais oui.
But
who
did, Bern?’
‘Some colleagues from work. They waved me down so I parked and went back. I thought they were gonna tell me something new, but it turns out they wanted the goss from me. Of which there is
nada
.’
Chris remained silent. Nervously expecting more questions, Bernadette glided around the cramped cooking quarters, filling the kettle and dropping teabags into two mugs. It wasn’t until her partner said, ‘I have a game tonight’ that Bernadette knew that she’d got away with it. For now, at least.
‘Where? And what?’ Bernadette asked.
‘Luton. Texas Hold’em.’
‘Oh dear.’ She smiled. ‘You always come back from Texas Hold’em sounding like Boss Hogg from
The Dukes of Hazzard
.’
‘Hey babe, what can I say?’ He held his arms wide. ‘I’m
trying
to get the Rosco P. Coltrane down pat but it ain’t easy.’
‘I suppose not.’ Bernadette waited. The water in the kettle continued to boil. Then she added: ‘I think we should consult the Object.’
‘I’ve been dreading you saying that.’ The man sighed. ‘But I agree with you.’