Pestilence

by Ken McClure

  As the seconds passed Saracen was tortured by the thought that what he was attempting had been doomed to failure from the start. The likelihood of him getting the car successfully into gear by falling on the stick was remote. The reality was that he was going to die but he had to keep trying. He succeeded in forcing his left arm off the steering wheel where it fell and dangled uselessly only inches from the stick then he levered his chin down over the wheel rim and felt a momentary elation as he realised that he was about to fall.

  The fall stopped abruptly and agonisingly as his head pitched forward and hit the fascia. Ironically it left him staring down at the gear shift that he had failed to make contact with. Despair briefly threatened to overwhelm him before he became aware of a new sensation. His head was becoming fuzzy as if all pain and worry were beginning to dissipate. There was a suggestion of warmth, even comfort on the horizon…

  Saracen recognised the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning and panicked. The fear of death flowed through his neck muscles and allowed him to turn his head slightly against the fascia in an attempt to break the deadlock but suddenly he stopped struggling as he realised that the knob directly below his mouth was the choke control.

  The choke! The bloody choke’ Why hadn’t he thought about it before? If he could pull the choke out on a warm engine he would stand a good chance of flooding the carburettor and stalling the motor!

  Saracen dropped his lower jaw and worked his mouth round the knob until he had it firmly between his teeth. Then, gripping it tightly, he used it to lever his head away from the fascia. He was on the verge of unconsciousness when he succeeded and fell down into the foot well of the car. Still not sure how far he had managed to pull the choke out he lay blindly into the darkness that surrounded him. He felt consciousness slip away and was only vaguely aware that the engine had started to splutter.

  Saracen woke up in agony. His calf muscles had gone into cramp and he did not yet have enough muscular control to be able to flex them. Worse still, his arms were useless and he could not push himself up from the foot well where he lay with grit grinding into his grazed cheek and the smell of rubber rapidly inducing nausea. But he was alive; he was going to survive; the car itself was beautifully silent.

  Sweat broke out on his face as one of his calf muscles again locked in spasm making him bite his lip in a vain attempt to divert attention from the pain in his leg. He felt a tingling sensation in his neck and shoulders telling him that his upper body was beginning to recover from the effects of the drug. It enabled him to move his body by pressing his forehead against the floor and twisting his shoulders. He could now see a red glow in the fascia above him where the ignition light was still on. Below it he could see the silhouette of the choke control; it was half out. Two centimetres that had saved his life.

  Muscular control was now returning fast. Saracen found that he could move his left arm then shortly afterwards his right. He got back up into the seat and clumsily forced the door open to take great lungfuls of the cold night air, completely oblivious to the rain. He massaged his legs as well as he could with his weak hands and then got out of the car using the top edge of the door for support. He lay with his arms across the roof of the car thinking how wonderful the smell of grass was, how sweet the night air. He even looked up, hoping to see the stars but there was nothing but darkness under invisible rain clouds.

  The car’s interior light was on because the door was open and in the dim light Saracen could see the plastic tubing trailing along the ground from the exhaust pipe to the window. The sight of it filled him with anger, so much so that, even in his unsteady state he took a kick at it, then another and another. He worked his way along it to the tail pipe where he supported himself on the boot lid while he kicked at the joint until the plastic fell free.

  Saracen’s chest was hurting from the exertion. He got into the driving seat again and sat there with the door open until he had got his breath back. His thoughts turned to Wylie and the anger that rose inside him brought on a fit of coughing. Trying to curse at the same time did not help matters until, finally, he got out of the car again and walked around it for a few minutes until the coughing had stopped and he could think clearly.

  How had Wylie got back to town, Saracen wondered. He must have walked, either that or taken the bus. No, he would not have done that. He would not have risked being seen anywhere near the area of the car. Come to that, where was the area of the car? Saracen had to admit that he had no idea where he was. All he knew was that they had driven for about fifteen minutes after leaving the Pathology Unit. But in which direction?

  Saracen thought back to the moment when they had turned off the road to come along the track: it had been a left turn. If he were to drive back along the track and turn right then surely he would be heading in the right direction. He might even come across Wylie on the road. He looked at his watch. It told him that it was eleven fifteen but little else for he had no idea what time it was when they had arrived or for that matter how long he had been unconscious.

  Saracen started the engine and, despite the fact that it was still raining heavily, he wound down the driver’s window. Fresh air had assumed a new importance in his life. He turned the car with some difficulty in the restricted space between the trees and eased his way back along the track, swearing as the nearside front wheel nose-dived into a pot hole whose depth had been disguised by the rain water in it. It was to happen once more before the car was back on smooth tarmac and gathering speed.

  Within minutes Saracen had picked up a road sign and knew that he was seven miles South of Skelmore and heading towards it. Wylie had driven out on the old Atherton road, an ‘A’ class road but relatively quiet since the opening of the nearby motorway. The thought of catching up with Wylie was uppermost in Saracen’s mind and, for the moment, nothing else mattered. His eyes followed the sweep of the headlight beams with absolute dedication, searching the hedgerows and trees for any sign of a walking figure. But as he rounded a bend it was a police warning sign that the lights picked out. It was followed by two others. POLICE…SLOW…ACCIDENT.

  Saracen had slowed to a crawl by the time he had come to the first sign of activity. A policeman in reflective clothing was waving him down with a long-handled torch.

  “There’s been a bit of an accident sir,” said the officer, looking in through Saracen’s open window.

  Saracen’s priorities changed. “I’m a doctor. Can I help?” he asked.

  The policeman looked rather surprised for a moment and it made Saracen realise how dishevelled he must be. His hair was soaking wet, his face, he thought, must be filthy and he had congealed blood on his cheek from the graze.

  “You’d have to be Jesus Christ to do something for the poor sod who got hit sir but perhaps you could take a look at the driver of the car. He’s elderly and a bit upset. You know how it is.”

  Saracen got out, more than ever aware of the policeman’s appraising looks.

  “Been in a bit of an accident ourselves have we sir?” the man asked.

  Saracen was expecting the question. “Puncture,” he said, “Had to change a wheel in this damned rain then the wheel brace slipped and I hit my face on the side of the car.”

  “Always the way sir, “laughed the policeman, “You never get punctures on sunny afternoons.”

  Saracen saw the body lying by the side of the road; it was covered by a tarpaulin. Two policemen were standing beside it waiting for the ambulance to arrive. One was stamping his feet and swinging his arms across his body to keep warm. Saracen went across and was aware of the sound of the rain on their plastic jackets as he bent down to draw back the cover. It was Wylie! His eyes were open and lifeless.

  “You old bastard,” said Saracen under his breath.

  “Can I take it you know this man?” asked one of the policemen.

  There was a long pause before Saracen said flatly, “I know him. This is Dr Cyril Wylie, consultant pathologist at the County Hospital.”

 
“I thought he looked vaguely familiar,” said one of the policemen to the other. “I’ve seen him in court.”

  Saracen pulled back the tarpaulin a bit more and saw that Wylie’s chest had been completely crushed where the car had gone over him. He put back the cover and stood up.

  “Was Dr Wylie a friend of yours sir?” asked the policeman who had flagged Saracen down. He was puzzled at Saracen’s behaviour.

  “No,” replied Saracen, unable to take his eyes off the crumpled heap on the ground.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know what Dr Wylie would be doing out here on foot on a night like this?”

  “Perhaps his car broke down,” said Saracen.

  “Had a puncture you mean sir?”

  Saracen heard the inflection in the policeman’s voice and read scepticism about his own story into it. It put him on his guard. “Possibly,” he said.

  “We’ve put out an alert for his car,” said one of the other policemen but Saracen’s man was reluctant to let the moment go. “The driver of the car that hit him says that Dr Wylie weaved out in front of him as if he were drunk…or had been in a fight or something?”

  So that was it, thought Saracen. PC Super Sleuth had come to the conclusion that he and Wylie had been fighting because of the state of his clothes and the mark on his face. He said evenly, “It was common knowledge that Dr Wylie had a drink problem. He was due to retire soon.”

  “I see sir. I dare say the Post Mortem will reveal all.”

  Post Mortem? thought Saracen. He looked down at Wylie again and said softly, “The final irony was even more bizarre than you thought, old man.”

  “What was that sir?”

  “Nothing.”

  Saracen did what he could for the distressed occupants of the car until the ambulance arrived and then continued his own journey back to Skelmore. It was only then that the full implication of Wylie’s death became apparent and it made a depressing thought. His chance of implicating Garten had gone. The Post Mortem reports on Myra Archer and Leonard Cohen could not now be shown to be false. He was back at square one.

  Saracen looked at his watch; it was a quarter to midnight. Too late or not, depression made him head for Jill’s place.

  “I thought you had changed your mind,” said Jill as she opened the door cautiously. “Good God, what happened to you?” she added as she undid the chain and opened the door so that the light fell on Saracen’s face.

  “It’s quite a story. Can I clean up first?”

  Jill finished cleaning Saracen’s graze and said, “I’m all ears.” Saracen told her all that had happened and watched as Jill’s eyes grew wider. “This is incredible!” she protested.

  “But it’s true,” said Saracen.

  “But if Wylie is dead surely that means that…”

  Saracen interrupted her. “I’ve got nothing against Garten.”

  Jill poured two whiskies and handed one to Saracen. She squatted down at his feet in front of the fire. “What about the death certificate?” she asked.

  “Garten has a PM report that can’t be challenged now. He had every right to sign it.”

  “Of course. I forgot. What about Cohen’s body?”

  “It was cremated this morning. Garten told me.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Saracen looked down and Jill and confessed that he had not thought to doubt it.

  “Perhaps he was just trying to stop you looking for it?” suggested Jill.

  “Now there’s a thought.”

  “How could you find out?”

  Saracen thought for a moment. “I could go up to the crematorium and check the records. I could do that in the morning. I’ve nothing else to do.” Saracen ran his fingers through Jill’s hair and thanked her for the idea.

  “Do you have to go?”

  Saracen smiled and said softly, “No.”

  It rained all night and it was still raining when Saracen left Jill’s apartment to set off for Skelmore Municipal Crematorium. It had now been raining for so long that storm drains had failed to cope and several sections of the road were flooded. The worst was only a few hundred metres from the crematorium where the road dipped and then rose sharply to approach the granite walls and black iron gate of the crematorium itself.

  Saracen had to wait while the vehicles in a funeral procession took turns to cross the lake in the dip with caution and high engine revs to keep the water out of their electrics. When he finally did reach the gates he had to wait again when the hearse up ahead spluttered to a halt and blocked the entrance. The drivers of three black limousines behind got out to help but, after failing to re-start the engine, they resorted to pushing the hearse the final few metres up to the chapel entrance. Saracen watched the pathetic sight impassively through flicking windscreen wipers.

  Saracen had no idea how to go about checking crematorium records; he would have to play it by ear. He parked the car well away from the funeral party and waited till everyone concerned had entered the chapel and the polished wooden doors were closed behind them then he got out and made for the door in the building opposite that said, ‘Administration’. He knocked once on the frosted glass door and entered immediately, wanting to be in out of the rain.

  A middle aged woman looked up from her typewriter and said, “The chapel is across the courtyard and to your left.” She suffixed the remark with the kind of tight lipped smile that people behind desks reserve for the ‘general public’.

  Saracen shook the rain from his hair and said, “Thank you. It’s not the chapel I’m interested in. I wanted to enquire about the cremation of a man called Leonard Cohen.”

  The woman was instantly on the defensive. “All our files are confidential,” she said with smug complacency.

  “Why?” asked Saracen.

  The woman appeared to take the question as a personal insult. “They just are that’s all,” she said, bristling with indignation.

  Saracen took a deep breath and said, “All I want to know is, was Leonard Cohen cremated here yesterday? Surely there can be nothing confidential in that?”

  “I am not at liberty to divulge any information at all,” recited the woman primly.

  “Then can I see the manager?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Of course I don’t have a blood…No, I don’t have an appointment.”

  The woman picked up one of her two telephones and pressed a button. Saracen looked at the other one and thought it was probably a direct line to Washington.

  “Mr Posselthwaite? There’s a man here asking questions about our files. I’ve told him they are confidential but he won’t accept it…Yes sir…Thank you sir.” She replaced the receiver and turned to Saracen. “Mr Posselthwaite is coming out,” she announced. She said it as if Saracen should be filled with awe.

  A door opened behind the woman and a small, rotund man wearing pinstripes emerged. “Now then Miss Bottomley, what’s all this about?”

  “This is the man sir,” said Miss Bottomley in triumph.

  The little man pretended to notice Saracen for the first time and said, “May I be of some assistance?”

  Saracen saw all the signs he associated with lesser officialdom in Posselthwaite and knew that the majesty of the little man’s position was about to be maintained by sheer bloody mindedness but he went through the motions anyway and said what he wanted to know.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Then what might I ask?…”

  Leonard Cohen’s body was transferred to the premises of Maurice Dolman and Sons two nights ago from Skelmore General Hospital. I understand that it was then brought here for cremation. I would like to know if the cremation has been carried out yet. If not I would like to see the body.”

  “See the body?” repeated Posselthwaite.

  “I’m Dr Saracen from Skelmore General.”

  “I see,” said Posselthwaite slowly, his face registering disapproval of Saracen’s appearance in
faded jeans and jerkin. He rubbed his chin and pretended to be deep in thought but Saracen suspected that he was thinking up some other way to be obstructive. “I think perhaps I should see some formal identification.”

  Saracen had reached the limit of his patience. “Identification? What for? All I want to know is did you cremate a man called Leonard Cohen yesterday? Where’s the problem? Watch my lips, YES…NO.”

  “This is intolerable!” stormed Posselthwaite. “Never in my career have I been spoken to in this fashion. Just what do you think I am!”

  “You don’t want to know that,” said Saracen. “Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

  All the frustration of the past twenty four hours welled up inside Saracen as he hurried back to the car, bending his head against a wind that drove rain into his face with relentless accuracy. Although many factors were involved, Posselthwaite was the immediate target of his anger. “Stupid little man,” he muttered as he gripped the steering wheel tightly and stared out at the rain through the glass. He noticed a flight of steps leading down behind the chapel and could see from the position of the chimney nearby that they must lead to the furnace room. It gave him an idea.

  Saracen got out the car and ran across to the steps. At the foot he came to a door marked, ‘NO ADMITTANCE’ but he went in anyway. The room was long and dark for there were no windows. Two men were working there and both held long-handled fire rakes. They were removing the ash contents from one of the ovens. One turned in surprise as Saracen entered. “What’s your game then?” he demanded.

  Saracen reached inside his jacket for his wallet and drew out two five pound notes. “All I want is the answer to a simple question,” he said, holding the money up.

  “Here, you’re one of these reporter blokes,” protested the smaller of the two men. “We don’t know anything about any racket! All of the coffins get burned! Understand? All of them! Now bugger off!”

  The other man put a restraining arm on his colleague and said, “Wait a minute George. He hasn’t asked us anything yet.” He looked to Saracen.