by Julia Hughes
‘Alfie? You’ve given this fucking thing a name?’ He gasped as the silken tail slipped through both their hands, and Rhyllann landed in Crombie’s lap. Pushing him aside, Crombie glimpsed the tail twitching a couple of times like an angry cat, before disappearing into the darkness.
‘Oh hell.’ Swivelling round he saw Rhyllann’s holdall dumped outside the gaping bathroom door and surmised what had happened.
‘Didn’t you see the lock?’ He snapped. But Rhyllann was squeezing himself into the hole, stooping to peer around the crawl space, which Crombie estimated was only about three foot deep, though it covered the same floor area as the house.
‘Gimme your phone Crombie, I think I can see something over there.’ He called over his shoulder. Having recovered from his initial shock, he was in full macho mood.
Crombie grabbed a handful of t shirt, hauling him back.
‘Get out of there now!’ Was it his imagination or did he hear teeth snapping? Rhyllann against the beast would have no chance in such confined quarters; the cramped height would restrict movement for a midget, let alone a six footer.
Rhyllann sat on the edge of the hole, his forehead crumpled with worry lines. His bright yellow “cookie monster” t shirt draped with dusty cobweb strands, a dollop of smeared blood from Crombie’s ruined palm at the hem.
‘Crombie please - call for back up now! That crawl space - that thing - it can access all the houses in this row.’
Crombie’s stomach rolled as he realised what this meant. The walls separating the houses didn’t quite extend into the crawl way, or if they did, had passageways for cables and drainage pipes to interconnect.
‘Oh shit!’ He said closing his eyes tightly.
‘Shit shit shit.’
Rhyllann looked up at him, bewilderment in his eyes. ‘Crombie - what the hell are you doing here anyway? Is this about that twenty quid I borrowed?’
Letting out a long puff of frustration Crombie looked at his watch. Barely one o’clock. He must have dropped off for minutes.
‘Son, your timing is impeccable.’ Pushing Rhyllann aside, he stooped to peer into the cavity, thinking fast, certain he could hear scuffling movements. A rouge breath of dust tickled the back of his throat and he coughed spontaneously trying to think this one through. Would Alfie try to emerge through someone else’s floorboards? Possibly, but more probably not, and more probably none of the other bedrooms had such tatty floorboards, and more likely they’d be carpeted. If he did evacuate the houses, how likely was it he’d lose his job? Where was Wren? He realised he was muttering under his breath, and Rhyllann licked his own lacerated palms, waiting for an answer.
Coming to a decision, mainly formed by his imagination picturing Alfie surfacing in a baby’s bedroom, he pushed upright against Rhyllann’s shoulder, then yanked the youngster to his feet, leaving another smear of blood on the t-shirt.
‘Tell you later son. Let’s go break the good news to your neighbours first.’
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door swung open and Wren staggered in, taking three attempts to slide the yale key into his pocket, before giving up and letting it clatter to the floor.
‘Annie! You’re home.’ He grinned happily, clinging to the wall for support. Crombie groaned out loud.
Pushing past him, Rhyllann grabbed Wren and shook hard, shooting words out like bullets. ‘You little shit! You were supposed to pick us up! Didn’t you get my text? Jesus you didn’t drive home in that state did you?!’
Wren, still grinning pointed at Crombie. ‘Detective Tosser Crombie broke my phone. Wassup Crombie? Been showing Annie Alfie? I mean, showed Alfie Annie?’ He slid down the wall as he spoke, legs splaying like a badly jointed doll. ‘I lost my car.’ He said mournfully.
‘Oh dear lord. He’s drunk.’ Rhyllann looked at Crombie accusingly. Stepping over Wren he said ‘Come on. The sooner we get this done the better.’
Wren grabbed at Rhyllann’s ankle. ‘Get what done? Where you going?’ He hiccupped. ‘Don’t go Annie. Don’t leave me. Carrie left me. She just left me.’
Rhyllann stooped to hiss in his face:
‘We’re going to wake up everyone of our neighbours and tell them to get out of their nice warm beds, onto the cold dark street, because Crombie here thought it was a good idea ....’ He broke off suddenly, raking a hand through his hair.
‘It wasn’t Crombie was it? It was you. You put that bloody great crocodile in my bathroom. Think it was funny did you?!!’ Rhyllann’s eyes bulged, his fingers whitened, clenching Wren’s upper arms, ready to shake him again.
‘Not a crocodillo. Alligator.’ Wren giggled. ‘See you later alligator.’ The full import of Rhyllann’s intentions hit him, and he struggled to his feet, catching Rhyllann’s wrist between both hands.
‘No Annie, no! Please you can’t. You can’t do diss to me. Not Alfie. They’ll put him back in the box. And they’ll find out about Nefri, Nefri - the ellie fantie too. Please Annie, Mr Chief Inspector Tigger - tell him ... tell Annie no.’ Wren tried to focus on Crombie, but the effort proved too much, and he slumped forward, dropping his forehead against Rhyllann’s chest.
‘She left me Annie. She don’ love me. I’m a horrible person.’ To Crombie’s horror, Wren began sobbing noisily. ‘I love her. I love her so mush. An’ she don’ love me.’
‘Oh good grief - get him in the kitchen and run his head under the cold tap.’ Crombie ordered, flattening himself against the wall for Rhyllann to pass, dragging Wren, with his upper body slumped across Rhyllann’s shoulders as though they were in a three-legged race, broken banister spindles providing obstacles. A fancy dress three-legged race, Rhyllann in bright holiday gear, yellow t shirt, blue denim shorts and sandals, Wren with a retro sixties powder blue jacket with drainpipe trousers, his blond hair still streaked with orange paint. Crombie glanced at his watch again. One thirty. Of all the times for Wren to get drunk, just when he needed to pick the conniving little git’s brains! Sighing heavily, Crombie traipsed after the cousins into the kitchen, to find Rhyllann had taken his orders literally and stood at the sink holding a struggling Wren’s head under a torrent of cold water which splurged directly from the rising main.
Swiping a tea towel from the oven’s handle Crombie rushed to rescue Wren, rubbing dripping wet ice-cold hair vigorously. Steering the bewildered shivering Wren onto a kitchen chair, he yelled at Rhyllann to make coffee.
Wren sobered quickly, glaring at Rhyllann standing behind Crombie’s shoulder.
‘What did you have to let Alfie out for? Didn’t you see the big arse chain? Couldn’t you smell him?’
Rhyllann glared back. ‘It took me three hours to get home by tube. After we waited over an hour for your no-show. No-one’s bloody speaking to me! It only took two hours to fly back from Mallorca! And I had to stand all the way - next to someone eating chicken curry from a carton! Sorry my crocodile sensor didn’t work.’
‘Shut up! Shut up the pair of you!’ Crombie yelled.
Wren winced, holding his head in his hands. ‘Indoor voice - use your indoor voice.’
‘Wren please son, we’ve got to evacuate but quietly. We can’t tell everyone there’s an alligator on the loose. I’ll lose my job, and Alfie will probably be destroyed. I’ll try to keep you out of it, but with your past record son...’ Many people in authority would jump at the chance to throw books at Wren; whole libraries would rocket in his direction.
Narrowing his eyes, Wren gave him a dirty look, a look that managed to convey contempt and weariness for Crombie, and the whole idiotic situation. ‘You’ve only got to evacuate three households, not a bloody city. Go and knock ‘em up and tell ‘em there’s a gas leak or something.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Take him with you.’ He waved a hand in Rhyllann’s direction, buried his head in his hands, hiccupped twice then slumped across the table senseless.
A nasty incessant pain started up in Crombie’s temple, his jaw clenched, but before he could wrap his hands round Wren’s scr
awny neck, Rhyllann grabbed at his wrists.
‘No. He’s mine. I get to strangle him first.’
Crombie breathed in deeply through his nose, eyes still fixed on Wren, now snoring gently. ‘You don’t know what the last few days have been like, what I’ve had to put up with.’
Shaking his head, Rhyllann physically steered him away. ‘Oh yes I do. I’ve had to put up with it for nearly twenty years. Come on. I’ll get changed, you call the gas board and tell ‘em to back up our story.’
Accepting defeat for now, after a short conversation with Sergeant Taylor who cheerfully agreed to back him up, Crombie dialled out to British Gas. To his own ears the story sounded just about believable: The Met police needed to evacuate and they were going under the cover story of a gas leak; to prevent panic and speculation they needed the gas board’s cooperation. Within minutes British Gas, having called the station to confirm Crombie’s authenticity, were on side prepared to confirm to any doubting neighbours that an evacuation was necessary.
‘Don’t forget, this mustn’t get out - we might need to use the same excuse again, you’re under the official secrets act now.’ Crombie cautioned. But the guy on the other end of the phone line seemed delighted at the break in monotony and willingly agreed to keep their secret.
As he finished talking, Rhyllann re-appeared even more confident and authoritive than usual, dressed in combat uniform. He grinned happily as Crombie finished lying to the gas board. Grabbing Crombie’s phone and using the same line of patter, he called the reception desk of the nearest hotels. With another happy smile, he liberated Wren’s bank card to pay for the best rooms available for two nights. Then he frowned at Crombie, who looked a mess, shirt untucked from creased trousers and tatty old leather jacket with bulging pockets, but he had a warrant card, that trumped all.
‘OK - Hotel rooms booked, British Gas will confirm our story, anything else?’
‘Taxis. Book taxis, then we can pull ‘em from their houses, bundle them in and pack them off.’ Crombie said, ridiculously pleased when the semi-conscious Wren stirred and mumbled drowsily.
‘That’s a clever Crumbley. Ver’ good. How about a bribe too? From British Gas - make out it’s bad for their image and here’s a little sweetener, provided you keep your mouth shut?’ He hiccupped again, his eyes seemed to swim, then focused again.
‘Twenty quid each?’
‘Make it fifty. They might be away from home two nights.’
‘OK - Dave and Francis - Tony and Nicky and their two girls, Marilyn and Colin and brother. Erm. Dave and Tony aren’t talking so make sure Dave gets well away before knocking Tony and Nicky up.’
‘Better take two hundred quid, in case anyone cuts up.’ Rhyllann pulled the notes from the tea caddy as he spoke. Wren nodded, swallowing back another hiccup, motioning at Crombie to begin booking taxi-cabs.
Waves of gratitude swept Crombie. These two horrors were responsible for this mess, but they were doing their damnest to get him out of it.
‘Thanks boys, I really appreciate this.’
He hoped Wren meant to pat his shoulder, and tried not to flinch as the still woozy teenager patted at his stomach.
‘S’kay Crumbley. S’kay. S’my fault anyway. It’s all my fault.’ Wren sounded tearful again.
Rhyllann blew out with exasperation, catching Crombie’s eye he said
‘Look, shape up now, stop with the Jeckell and Hyde act, and when we’ve got Albert back in the bathroom, me and Crombie’s gonna share a little secret with you about women.’
‘S’Alfie. Not Albert. Whoever heard of an alligator called Albert?’ Wren slurred. Adding ‘There’s a secret? A special secret?’
Crombie and Rhyllann nodded firmly. ‘But you’ve gotta man up first. OK?’
Wren nodded so hard Crombie worried he’d make himself dizzy.
‘Son, go and have a rest on your bed. The alligator won’t climb stairs will it?’
‘S’good idea. I think ... I do feel ...’ He broke off as another train of thought diverted him: ‘Actually Crumbley you’re wrong. They can climb. Very good climbers.’ With that Wren folded his arms on the kitchen table, rested his head on them, and fell back into a drunken slumber.
‘Come on. Let’s go tell the neighbours the good news - we’ll come back for him.’
Rhyllann’s combats made him even bossier and Crombie followed, wondering if this plan might actually work, though god alone knew how they’d entice the alligator above ground.
The Bait
‘What about that sword thingy your cousin’s got - you know?’ Crombie asked, following Rhyllann into the street.
‘Not unless you want a real explosion Crumbley.’ Rhyllann said firmly. ‘In any case, the geek wonder broke it, mucking around trying to slice open a stone.’
‘Enough of the Crumbley. Crombie or Sir to you.’ Crombie responded automatically. Although the houses appeared to march in one long terrace, Crombie saw now they’d probably been erected in one large block, divided into four, a narrow side passage along either end of terrace, with two dwellings in the middle. They started at the far end, three houses away from the cousins’ house.
‘Dave and Francis, Francis is agoraphobic.’ Rhyllann explained. ‘Tell her there’s a free mini-bar.’ He scrutinised Crombie more closely.
‘On second thoughts, leave the talking to me. You stand there and look ugly, Crumbley.’
Gritting his teeth Crombie decided to make certain the traffic cops had Rhyllann’s number plate on their radar first thing Monday morning.
Charm came easy to Rhyllann, and he seemed on good terms with his neighbours, huddled together as they were in such a small community they probably had no choice. Dave’s eyes flickered over Crombie as Rhyllann explained earnestly that they needed his co-operation. A shortish guy with tattoos on both forearms and a bulldog neck merging seamlessly into his balding head, he nodded and disappeared, reappearing five minutes later with a suitcase which Crombie suspected he kept ready packed for occasions like this. Apparently “the wife” was staying with her sister for the foreseeable future, Dave had been about to visit for the weekend and the thought of being catered for in a top hotel instead seemed to please him enormously.
The next neighbours Tony and Nickie were trickier, their eldest daughter Becca was about to give birth. The girl finally emerged in a tracksuit, pencil thin apart from the huge bump she carried in front, clutching her younger sister Molly’s hand for reassurance. That left Marilyn, her ex-husband who still lived with her, and her brother. Crombie presumed that the shorter guy was her brother, both he and Marilyn were well under five foot, the ex-husband seemed a giant in comparison. As predicted, Marilyn was full of questions, Rhyllann guided her firmly towards the taxi, promising to feed her rabbits and water her plants, and text her if anything went “Tits up”. Finally they too were gone, and Rhyllann and Crombie had full possession of four houses.
Starting at the far end again they let themselves into Dave and Francis’s house. The front room was sparse and surgically clean. It seemed they lived in the kitchen, white paint turned magnolia with nicotine stains, a pile of yellowing newspapers on the kitchen table. Turning on all the lights, Crombie went first upstairs, Rhyllann following with a baseball bat he’d found by the front door.
‘Where do we start?’ Crombie asked, looking around the cluttered spare room, shoulders slouching.
‘I say rip up the floorboards, get some metal dustbin lids or something to use as shields and kind of herd the thing back to ours.’
An immense weariness overcame Crombie. ‘That “thing’s” got a mouthful of large pointy teeth and a hinged body that can turn corners. There’s no other way. We’ve gotta sober your cousin up.’ Crombie headed for the stairs.
‘Can’t we chuck stink bombs or something down there and gas him out?’ Rhyllann said hopefully as he followed. ‘Don’t they trust you with a gun yet Crombie? We could have shot it. Or how about this Crombie ... Crombie! Where’re you going? You nev
er listen to a word I say!’
Head down, Crombie slogged back towards the cousins’ house, thinking if he had a gun, he’d shoot the bloody alligator, Wren and Rhyllann and the next person who tried to tell him about human or animal rights. This night seemed to be lasting forever, the cheerful art deco sunrise above the kitchen door mocked him with its fake promise of dawn, and Crombie’s heart sunk further as he surveyed the empty kitchen and realised Wren had taken his advice and retired to bed. He groaned out loud at the thought of slogging up three flights of stairs and slapping Wren into some kind of sobriety.
‘Crombie why don’t you sit down before you fall down? I’ve got an idea.’
He didn’t protest when Rhyllann nudged him over to the sofa, sinking into the cushioned upholstery with a sigh.
Turning a chair to face him, Rhyllann straddled the seat and began earnestly.
‘Listen to me for once OK, hear me out. I’ll make that hole bigger, prop the ramp inside it, and lay a trial of food into the bathroom.’
Crombie turned this over in his mind. ‘It might work.’ He said doubtfully.
Rhyllann flashed a hundred watt smile, one capable of sinking a thousand maidenheads. ‘It will work.’ He encouraged. ‘I’ll make certain all the bedrooms are closed off, it’s dry and dusty under those floorboards, crocodiles like wet and humid. He won’t be able to resist.’
He patted Crombie’s knee, and got to his feet. ‘You sit here, this won’t take long. We’ll have something to eat while we’re waiting, and figure out what to do with the bugger.’
This time Crombie didn’t mind being treated like a geriatric.
After making a raid on the fish and chip shop’s bins, Rhyllann dashed upstairs, from the racket he made Crombie assumed the plan was well underway. Thinking he may as well make himself useful, he got up and went to check out the fridge. By the time the front door slammed signalling the start of stage two of “Operation Alligator”, Crombie had all four rings on the gas stove alight, and was happily anticipating a full English breakfast. I’ll get Wren up next, he can give that sanctuary a ring. Crombie didn’t ever intend to spend another night like this.
