PC Worthy took another step back and stumbled over Teejay’s outstretched tail, causing him to spring upright and turn to face her with a hiss.
Her eyes were wide and her breathing rapid.
“I won’t go to prison,” she shouted, “I won’t,” and to the horror of the assembled, grabbed the elasticated strap from Teejay’s snout and hauled it clear. The crocodile’s mouth opened, and PC Worthy grasped his furry collar and pushed her head as far as she could into his gaping maw.
“No!” Urban-Smith, Mallow and I cried in unison, and sprang forth into the barn, but we were too late. Teejay had already been deprived of his evening meal, and was not about to pass up such a generous offer. His mighty jaws snapped closed on PC Worthy’s head, and she let out a scream of anguish and pain. The crocodile shook his great head from side to side, and PC Worthy shrieked and waved her arms as the sharp teeth penetrated her skull.
Inspector Mallow and I each seized one of PC Worthy’s legs, and Urban-Smith grabbed the baton and attempted to lever the beast’s mouth open, but Teejay was not in a sharing mood. He dropped his shoulder and rolled. There was a crunch, and PC Worthy’s screams became a wet gurgle. Blood ran in rivulets onto the garage floor, steaming in the cold January air.
Mallow grabbed at PC Worthy’s leg again, but she was beyond hope. Her neck was broken, and her skull had been crushed by the enormous force of Teejay’s jaws. The crocodile shook his head again, then dropped PC Worthy’s lifeless corpse to the floor to roar out his warning before going to work on his prey’s abdomen and chest.
We were powerless to intervene, and with Teejay in a feeding frenzy, we dared not attempt to retrieve PC Worthy’s remains. Inspector Mallow turned away with tears in his eyes and staggered out into the clearing, retching and sobbing, while Urban-Smith and I looked on in revulsion and sadness.
“So ends the short career of Kelly Worthy,” said Urban-Smith. “We shall have to update her Twitbook status to, ‘dismembered by a crocodile.’”
“Good God, man,” I spluttered. “Have you no compassion?”
“Compassion is a precious commodity,” he replied. “We should not squander it on a woman like that.”
◆◆◆
28. Has Justice been Served?
Thursday, 11th January 2007
And so I ask myself, is this justice? Cain Upstart lays in a hospital bed whilst Kelly Worthy and Konrad Schwarzkröte have paid the ultimate price for their indiscretions; or have they?
Each has chosen death rather than face the consequences of their ghastly crimes. They have shown no contrition, no penitence. More importantly, they have been deprived of the opportunity to defend themselves; to be judged by a jury of their peers. Of their guilt, there is no doubt, but what of their unassailable right to offer their interpretation of events?
Let us take PC Kelly Worthy. We know that she engineered and took part in the slaying of Adam Upstart, and did so with malice aforethought. But were her actions justified? She had suffered his cruelty and found the criminal justice system lacking to the extent that she felt compelled to take matters into her own hands. One could argue that she acted to avenge not only herself, but also the other victims of Adam Upstart’s heinous crimes?
And ask yourself this; is placing your head inside the mouth of a hungry crocodile the action of a sane person? Could Kelly Worthy truly be held accountable for her actions? Had her ordeal, which had festered within her all these years, driven her to lunacy and impaired her responsibilities? We shall never know.
Let us also consider Konrad Schwarzkröte, a man who through his actions at Auschwitz was complicit in the extermination of countless thousands in the gas chambers that he helped to redesign. Of his complicity, we can be certain for we have heard it from his own lips, but what of culpability? In matters of war, it may be a fine line that a man must walk between duty and decency. What of the drone operator whose Hellfire missile misses its target and destroys a school? Or of the pilot whose payload of mines will continue to maim and mutilate innocent civilians for decades to come?
And finally, what of those World leaders who stand idly by while millions fall prey to famine, disease and genocide, the same rulers whose war of vengeance in Afghanistan and Iraq has cost over a million lives? As voters, we offer our endorsement to these overlords; are we also complicit in this carnage?
*
“These are all excellent questions, Rupert.” It was nine o’clock, and Fairfax and I were sat in Ulysses’ kitchen. “Men with far greater intellect and far more time on their hands than you or I have wrestled with these dilemmas.” He took a swig of coffee. “Lex talionis,” he mused. “The law of retaliation. An eye for an eye, and so forth. Is that justice or merely vengeance?”
“I would say justice,” I replied.
“Would you now?” Fairfax yawned and ran a hand through his hair. “Would you apply the same principle to Teejay, the crocodile? Does Teejay have to die too?”
“Of course not,” I insisted. “If a man drives his car into a bus queue whilst under the influence, you cannot punish the car. The car can no more take responsibility for its actions than a tornado or avalanche, and so it is with a crocodile. Man is different; he has eaten from the tree of knowledge. He is more than base instinct. He has a responsibility and a duty to his fellow man.” I wagged my finger sternly. “Anders de Wolfmann, or should one say Anders von Grünefrosch, is another matter entirely. The man should be tried for his war crimes. We should alert the authorities immediately.”
“To what end, Rupert? The man barely clings to life by a thread. He will die long before he can be brought to trial, leaving just a grieving and shamed son.”
“Should Professor de Wolfmann not know what kind of man his father truly is?” I postulated.
“Professor de Wolfmann has laboured his entire life for the advancement of science. How does burdening him with the truth serve justice? Must the son bear the punishment for the father’s iniquity?” Urban-Smith took another deep gulp of his coffee. “You and I occupy an extremely precarious position. We have strayed from the path of what is legal in order to pursue what is just. In the last week, we have resorted to burglary, theft, trespass, deception, perverting the course of justice, the buying and selling of narcotics, the solicitation of prostitutes, and fraternising with war criminals in order to further our cause.”
“When you put it like that, it all sounds rather sordid,” I conceded.
“Sordid indeed,” he confirmed, “but great fun nonetheless.”
*
After breakfast, we packed our things and caught a taxicab to Scragnell Police Station, where we gave our statements and said our farewells to Inspectors Mallow and Arsolé, thence onwards to the station, the one fifteen to King’s Cross, then westward by foot along the Euston and Marylebone Roads before turning right onto Baker Street and wending our way through to Chuffnell Mews.
We were greeted at the door by the excitable Bichon Frise, Gonzáles, who had quickly adapted to his change of environment and the attentions of Mrs Denford, who doted upon him as if he were her own flesh and blood. I stooped to deposit my bag and swept Gonzáles up in an attempt to hug him, but he growled and bared his teeth, and I hastily returned him to ground level.
The week’s events had left me physically and emotionally exhausted, and I elected to head directly to bed, but not before contacting Nell in order to arrange a liaison for the following evening. I rang Beefy at the mortuary and reassured him that I would be presenting myself for duty on Monday, and then I rang Dr Gibson Steinway to thank him for his assistance and hospitality.
Finally, I crawled into bed and neither dreamt nor stirred until the next morning.
◆◆◆
29. Fo’ Sizzles.
Friday, 12th January 2007
I rose and showered at around eight, and went in search of breakfast. Mrs Denford had taken Gonzáles to Hyde Park, so I had to burn my own toast. Wishing for some early morning conversation, I carried my tea and toast t
hrough to the living room, where Urban-Smith was standing before his easel, working on a new abstract.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
I tilted my head to the side. “It puts me in mind of a giant mosquito playing the harmonium.”
“Capital!” he cried, “for that is precisely what it is.”
“Does it have any significance?”
“I should think that if one were to encounter a giant, harmonium-playing insect that it would be of enormous significance. At the very least, it would make a fine anecdote.” He resumed his painting.
“What do you think will become of our three-legged killer, Teejay?” I pondered.
“There is a sanctuary in the Florida Everglades for physically disadvantaged crocodilians,” he replied without turning around. “They have agreed to play host. Teejay is being temporarily housed at London Zoo, and will be air freighted over to Naples Municipal Airport in Florida next week.”
“Good grief!” I gasped. “How much do you think it costs to transport a crocodile from here to there?”
“Including collection and trained escort at both ends, about two thousand pounds. Two thousand, one hundred and fifty to be precise.”
“You seem very well informed,” I observed. “I presume that you will be footing the bill?”
“Indeed I will, Rupert. We did, after all, give our word that we would ensure Teejay’s welfare. I telephoned the Linctus Memorial this very morning and asked the staff to pass the news to Cain Upstart.”
I must avow to being unexpectedly moved by this gracious gesture. “What has prompted this generous display of compassion?” I enquired.
He paused transiently mid-brushstroke and sighed. “This case has been steeped in misery and ill-will. As with the original Tripod Jack killings all those years ago, six souls have been taken, not to mention the wanton and loathsome slaughter that surrounds the Fourth Atman. I could not bear for a noble creature such as Teejay to become another victim.” He daubed a little more paint onto his composition.
“Speaking of the Atman,” said I, for indeed we were, “how do you intend to proceed?”
“As to that particular matter, I have yet to formulate a strategy,” he lamented. “There is little to go on; just the dying words of a renegade Nazi.”
“Yes indeed,” I agreed. “I got soul.”
“Can I get a hallelujah?” Urban-Smith shouted, throwing his hands into the air in an uncharacteristic display of frivolity. “Blast!” he expectorated. “In my reverie, I have given my composition a superfluous dash of yellow.”
“Perhaps your mosquito could be enjoying a banana,” I suggested.
“I think you are confusing abstract with surreal, Rupert.”
He continued to dab away as I completed my breakfast, by which time Mrs Denford had returned with Gonzáles who, despite his morning exertions, was suffused with such energy that he felt compelled to sprint round and around the kitchen for several minutes until Mrs Denford chastised him harshly and sent him to his basket with a digestive.
I was desirous of making a good impression upon Nell later that evening, so I ventured into the West End to buy a new corduroy jacket and some gabardine trouserware. Having made my purchases, I lunched at a small bistro on Oxford Street and made my way through Soho and onto the Charing Cross Road to browse some specialist reference emporia, for some of my editions had become water-damaged.
Fatigued from my excursion, I took a late afternoon nap before showering, shaving and grooming myself in readiness for the evening ahead.
I had arranged to meet Nell at Fo’Shizzles, a rap themed restaurant owned by London-born rapper and entrepreneur, Busta Nutner. It was a chill evening, and I shuffled restlessly for several minutes until Nell hove into view downwind of my position and hailed me with a cheery wave. She greeted me with a peck on the cheek, and I held open the door of the restaurant for her to enter.
We were met just inside the entrance by the head waiter, who was clad in formal jacket and trousers, with bow tie and the shiniest pair of black brogues that I had ever laid eyes upon. Around his neck hung a small digital dictation machine, and with a press of a switch, we were regaled with a basic electronic drum beat and bass line, and the rapping commenced.
“Welcome to Fo’ Sizzles, it’s the natural choice,
So listen to the beat and to the sound of my voice.
I’m Maître D, I’m the main MC,
If you’re looking for a table, you come see me.
We got a table at the back for you and your hoes,
If you’re looking for the restroom, just follow your nose.
We got treats so sweet for you and yo’ bitches,
But if you don’t pay the bill, you’ll be washing the dishes.”
The restaurant was stuffed to the gunwales, and we had to walk sideways to squeeze between the chairs as the Maître D led us to our table at the restaurant’s far end. Nell and I spent a minute or two perusing the menu until our waiter came to take our order.
“Evening, playas, my name is Jameel,
I’m your waiter this evening, and I’m spitting for real.
While you’re making a selection, I’ll be bustin’ a rhyme,
Like a cop bustin’ heads at the scene of the crime.
Just let your hair down, I’ll treat you real fine.
Order a drink, we got spirits and wine.
You can buy it by the bottle, you can buy it by the glass,
But if you don’t leave a tip, I’ll pop a cap in yo’ ass!
Our food is bitchin’, straight outta the kitchen,
Our chef’s on a mission to destroy the competition.
So take a minute to make your decision.
The plat du jour is the fo’ sizzling chicken.”
He left us to choose from the menu. I decided on a Phat Pimp salad (seasonal chronic salad, fo’ drizzled wit’ balsamic vinegrizzle, funky-ass fried chicken strips, red onion, beef tomatoes, all pimped out wit’ grated parmesizzle and phat fresh-baked focaccia) and Nell plumped for the spaghetto bolognizzle (fo’ real, it’s da sickest blend of Aberdizzle Angus, all up in a rich garlic ‘n’ tomato sauce on a big-ass bed of fresh spaghetti ‘n’ shit).
We drank wine while we waited for our meals, and I apprised Nell of Urban-Smith’s success in unravelling the case of Tripod Jack, and our epic battle with Teejay, the crocodile.
Nell cooed and oohed and aahed at appropriate intervals. “What happened to the crocodile?” she asked, concerned for the beast’s safety.
“Never fear, it has gone to a good home.”
Our food arrived at this juncture, and I busied myself upon it while Nell spoke of embalming and tombstones and suchlike of relevance to her studies, but once our desserts arrived, the conversation turned to more pressing matters.
“Where do we go from here, Nell?” I asked, poking sadly at my dope-thuggin’ cheesecake with a fork. “Do I have a place in your future?”
“Oh, Rupert,” she sighed, unable to meet my eye. “Who knew that love could be so divisive?” A tear rolled down her soft cheek and fell into her bowl of bangin’ brownies and vanizzle ice cream. “My life has changed so much since I met you, and I’m frightened. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I don’t want to lose you either, Nell, but nor do I want to hold you back. Please tell me what you want.”
We sat quietly and spooned dessert into our mouths.
“I love you, Rupert,” she whispered, “but Clara excites me. She’s so passionate and sensual. When she touches me, it’s intoxicating. I need her…. sexually.”
I was stunned. I sat there with my spoon hovering halfway between the bowl and my open mouth, my mind in turmoil and my pride reeling.
“Oh, Rupert,” Nell giggled. “You look like an advertisement for cheesecake.”
“But, but, but,” I spluttered, lowering my spoon, “do I not satisfy your desires? Is my kiss not like sweet nectar upon your lips? Does my touch not pleasure you?”
; She blushed deeply. “Of course, Rupert. When we make love, it’s paradise, but….” She paused to take another bite of her brownie, evidently selecting her next words judiciously. “It’s different. It’s like….. it’s like my meal tonight. I loved my Bolognese and I love my brownies and ice cream, and I want them both.” She stopped and stared at me, mouth agape. “That’s it, Rupert. I want you both, but….” The tears were flowing freely now. “Oh, Rupert. I ask too much. You are a gentleman, a man of principle. How can I ask you to compromise your morals? How can I ask you to share your affections between two women?” She reached across the table and grasped my hand. “My greatest desire would be to have both you and Clara make love to me together, but I know that you cannot. I know that you would never allow yourself to touch another woman while we are together. I can see it in your eyes; the very thought of it makes you shudder.”
“Weeeeeelllllllllll,” I murmured, nodding my head slowly and rolling my eyes to the ceiling. “Much as it would pain me to do so, if you wish me to make love to you and Clara together, I would consider it as a last desperate measure to salvage our relationship.”
“Rupert,” she gasped. “Do you mean it? You would allow yourself to enjoy sexual congress with two women together? You would allow us to feast upon your nakedness and gorge ourselves upon one another for hour upon hour of orgasmic bliss, just to make me happy?”
“I would, Nell,” said I. “I would do it for you. Who knows,” I shrugged, scooping a spoonful of cheesecake from my bowl, “perhaps I could even learn to enjoy it…. with practice.”
*
That evening, Nell and I liaised with Clara as she finished her shift at The Blue Belvoir, and the three of us shared a taxi cab to Nell’s flat at Saville Towers.
Midnight found Nell lying in the corner, her hands bound behind her back and a ball gag in her mouth, gently whimpering. I was supine upon Nell’s bed, my wrists and ankles bound, and sporting nothing but my bedsocks and my tumescence.
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Page 23
