An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures)

by Julia Hughes

  ‘Hurry up, Someone’s bound to come looking after that crash!’ Wren balanced on the bath tub, he stepped down and back for Crombie to climb in. The window sill was hip height, squeezing his shoulders awkwardly into the window, barely listening to Wren’s gibbering (‘He thinks Annie’s me, and is trying to beat information out of him, Crombie he hates your guts!’) Crombie discovered there wasn’t enough room to hoist his leg over the sill. He pulled back again, twisting his arms to clutch at the window frame, trying to dive through head first, almost dislocating his shoulders for the second time that night.

  ‘Hurry up you fat bastard!’ Wren hissed, blue eyes ablaze with anger, ‘I can hear him in my room.’ He froze. ‘Shit. Get out! Get out!’ He pushed ineffectively at Crombie’s chest, pausing suddenly to turn and look towards the landing. ‘Keep quiet!’ Wren darted to the door, pulling it closed behind him.

  With his upper body completely wedged, Crombie made a sitting duck, Wren was right to be annoyed with him, fat foolish and old. “I’ve let her down, I’ve let her down.” He blinked back tears; crying would be a humiliation too far. A bundle of towels on the bathroom floor moved, and Crombie stared into Alfie’s eyes, regarding him with something like pity. The window frame dug into his fleshy upper arms, cutting off blood circulation and his hands began to tingle, cold night air stung his knees, he must have ripped his trousers and grazed them without realising, and now they throbbed spitefully. He wriggled again against the rigid wooden frame, freezing when a door whispered open creating a draught. He stopped breathing when the bathroom door began to edge open too. Throwing his snout with its muzzle of yellow and green electrical tape clear of the towels Alfie waddled forwards, towels continuing to drop away from his body revealing muscular stumpy legs, pedalling in the comical sideways movement they had.

  ‘Oh shit!’

  He could only watch as both doors creaked open; Alfie framed by the bathroom door, across the room one of the Lampton boys - the older stockier one, stood statue like at the bedroom door, his eyes fixed on the alligator, which continued to waddle forwards, dipping his head up and down as though the wrapping around his snout pulled him off balance. Flattened against the wall, his arms above his head, Wren stared into the distance. Apart from a slight wobble of the cricket bat he held aloft in both hands, he too could have been a statue.

  For ten heartbeats, the Lampton boy stared at Alfie. Then the inevitable happened, and he raised his gaze to Crombie, who stared steadily back. A look of joy spread over the granite features, and he called down to the kitchen.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, I’ve got this!’

  Jeering ‘Pose for Poppa, baby, don’t either of you move an inch.’ The Lampton boy fished around in a rear pocket, Crombie prickled with humiliation; he was about to be caught on film again and he wriggled frantically.

  ‘Oh boy, no-one’s gonna believe this!’ producing his mobile, Lampton selected the camera option, with his eyes glued to the view screen, he took a couple of steps into the room, crouching to make certain he got both Crombie and the alligator in shot. With a thwack that gladdened Crombie’s soul, Wren hammered the cricket bat down on the crown of Lampton’s head, as though whacking a stump wicket into a sun baked pitch. The phone dropped from Lampton’s hand to skitter across the floorboards, the guy continued to stare at Crombie with a puzzled expression on his face before toppling forward in slow motion.

  Wren managed to catch him before he nose butted the floorboards, lowering him almost tenderly to the ground. Crombie let go a deep breath, watching as Wren frisked through pockets, bending the guy’s legs out the way to close the door. Stepping over Alfie, Wren hurried to the bathroom window, with a gun in his hand, scooping the phone up on his way and dropping it into a back pocket.

  ‘Here.’ Giving Crombie the gun, he shoved violently, and Crombie popped backwards from the window like a cork, his upper arms screaming with pain.

  ‘Get downstairs, in the garden. I’ll be at the kitchen door.’ It sounded like an old music hall song.

  ‘What about him?’ Crombie whispered.

  Wren frowned. ‘He won’t come round, not for hours.’

  ‘No - the alligator - can’t we use that - chuck it through the window?’

  Wren’s face turned red with fury. ‘No we bloody can’t. Don’t you think he’s had enough upset for one night?! Now get downstairs and wait for my signal.’

  First though, Crombie checked the gun, sorely tempted to use it on Wren’s retreating back. Dropping as noiselessly as possible to the garden Crombie duck walked under the half glazed kitchen door, straightening to edge round the corner and flattening himself against the wall. Bones grated as he twisted his head to peer cautiously into the multi paned window, aware of his heart beating painfully, the gun heavy and menacing in his hand, determined to use it and worry about guilt later. Sitting in a kitchen chair at the side of the table, the back of his greasy head presented nicely to Crombie was Harry Lampton. Leaning against the protruding sink counter looking down and to his left was the younger son, carelessly pointing a stubby pistol towards the low slung sofa.

  Crombie’s heart leapt at the sight of Lizzie, her short blonde hair muzzy with sleep, her eyes appeared closed, but he quickly realised they rested with concern on Rhyllann, whose head slumped against the curve between her shoulder and neck.

  Crombie noticed all this in seconds before he dodged back again, and placing both hands on the gun, thumbed the safety off and steeled himself to shot Harry Lampton in the back of the head. He took three deep breaths, sucking oxygen way down in his lungs and letting it out slowly again, looking down at his hands, making certain they didn’t tremble. Peeling himself from the wall, he spun round 180 degrees placing himself squarely in front of the window, arms outstretched, holding the gun double handed. At that instant, Lampton’s son caught the movement. Leering at Crombie, he raised his gun hand to point directly at Lizzie. Lizzie gasped and shrunk back, causing Rhyllann’s head to roll and he stirred drowsily. Lampton senior turned slowly to stare at Crombie, his lips beginning to lift in a triumphant sneer. Lizzie’s face filled with hope, swiftly followed by alarm, and Crombie raised his hands high above his head, trying to plead with his eyes, please please, point that gun away from my daughter, please stop scaring her and I’ll give you anything. He didn’t know if he mentally begged Lampton junior, or a higher power.

  But his silent pleas were in vain, a short sharp noise crackled out and the marrow in Crombie’s bones dissolved leaving him limp and lifeless, until he remembered the gun still in his hand. Lampton senior, quick as a snake moved from his chair to grab at Rhyllann’s hair with one hand, the other pulling down Lizzie who was half rising to her feet, but most bewildering of all, Lampton junior twisted his upper body to stare at the fanlight imploding in a rainbow of red. Events speeded up, in the space of a heartbeat a tangle of bodies writhed on the sofa; Lampton Senior recoiled as Lizzie head butted him around the ear, Rhyllann threw himself to hug Lampton Junior’s gun arm, tugging him off balance. Seconds later a shot rang out, and Wren charged into the kitchen, cricket bat over his head and brought it down against the side of Junior’s face with the force of a chef wielding a cleaver. All this happened while Crombie threw himself at the window, splintering wood and glass into a discordant explosion, rage burning through every molecule of blood galloping through his veins. Rhyllann and Junior were crumpled on the floor, Lizzie and Lampton Senior glared at each other, and Crombie reversed the gun and pistol whipped the reptilian old man with every ounce of pent up fury he possessed.

  Wren swiped his fringe back with his fingers, only for it to spring up in an even madder style.

  ‘Hi Lizzie. Sorry about this.’ He looked Crombie up and down, Harry Lampton crumpled at his feet.

  ‘Sorry I called you a fat bastard.’ Swallowing hard, he leaned over the sink to peer at Rhyllann and Lampton Junior. The cricket bat had caved in the right side of Lampton’s face, one eye stared unseeing up at his attacker, but strangely
only a thin trickle of blood leaked from Junior’s mouth. His arm and jacket flapped over Rhyllann’s face, obscuring all but a clump of dark hair.

  ‘Oh god.’ Vaulting the sink unit, Wren tugged Lampton from Rhyllann’s curled body, while Crombie hoisted Lampton Senior onto a kitchen chair and after cuffing him, grasped a handful of greasy hair and slammed his head viciously against the table.

  At that moment he sincerely hoped the bastard never woke up again. Grabbing a knife from the block, Crombie sawed at the cords binding Lizzie’s wrists. As soon as she was freed, he hugged her briefly, before pushing her back on the sofa, and knelt beside Rhyllann’s body opposite Wren. Wren’s hand hovered over Rhyllann’s shoulder, he stared up at Crombie wordlessly. Feeling strangely detached, Crombie rolled Rhyllann onto his back, and straightened his legs. Rhyllann’s skin was unnaturally sallow, but Crombie was encouraged by the warmth and firmness of the flesh and blood beneath. Touching his index and middle finger under Rhyllann’s jaw, he felt a steady pulse and felt his breath on his arm. Wren watched with eyes that seemed enormous, encircled with dark shadows. Something in Crombie’s face spoke to him, with a huge sigh of relief he yanked a mobile from his pocket, and called up a number on speed dial. The other party must have answered promptly, Wren began rattling out orders.

  Crombie begun a more through inspection, noting a nasty bruise to Rhyllann’s temple, but otherwise he appeared unscathed. He continued patting down Rhyllann’s body, frisking his legs now in a desultory manner, certain no bones were broken. His breath caught in his lungs as his fingers encountered stickiness. The white of the bandage made whiter by the rapidly spreading splodge of crimson blood. He scrabbled at the bandage, yanking at the safety pin and began unravelling loop after loop of bandage, slowing to ease the last few inches of blood soaked material from Rhyllann’s flesh. He felt limp with relief. The ricocheting bullet had flashed past Rhyllann’s calf muscle, causing the gash made by Alfie’s teeth to open up; however the dense crepe bandage triple thick in some places had provided some protection, and possibly saved him from a gunshot wound.

  ‘Lizzie - throw me a cushion quickly. Wren - do we have another bandage?’

  Lizzie scrambled over with a cushion. Wren lurched to a kitchen cabinet, to rummage through a first aid kit and rolling out a bandage began to re-wrap the wound with efficient movements.

  ‘Crombie, they’re waiting for you at Hammersmith Hospital. Ask for Doctor Thomas, we’ve got private health care.’ Ripping a tear in the end of the bandage, he tied it neatly, careful to keep the knot from the wound. Addressing Lizzie he said,

  ‘Me and your Dad’ll get Annie into the Passat. Can you make sure those two are tied up?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ Lizzie said in a small voice.

  Wren and Crombie exchanged glances.

  ‘Lizzie, if you and your Dad take Annie to the hospital, I’ll tidy up here. Then we can think about getting the authorities involved.’

  ‘It’ll be just as quick Lizzie love.’ And this was true, Crombie told himself.

  ‘No! You can’t! You can’t move him.’ Lizzie sounded aghast. ‘You can’t take the chance.’

  Rhyllann stirred, his eyes fluttered open, and he struggled to sit up. ‘What happened?’ His legs twitched and his face twisted up in pain.

  ‘Ow! That hurts!’ He reached down to rub at his leg and grimaced again. Looking about the room, his eyes rested on Lizzie, and he managed to raise himself on his elbows, then sat up.

  ‘I’m not dead yet.’ He snapped pushing Wren’s hand off his arm.

  ‘How do you feel son?’

  ‘My head’s killing and my leg feels funny - it keeps throbbing.’ Rhyllann raised a hand to his forehead, obviously woozy, obviously not dying.

  ‘Come on. I’ve booked you a room at your favourite hospital.’ Draping Rhyllann’s arm over his shoulder, with his arm around Rhyllann’s waist, Wren struggled to his feet.

  ‘Don’t stand on that leg.’ He ordered, trying to pivot under Rhyllann’s weight.

  ‘Dad, stop him!’ Lizzie looked about ten years old in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, and Crombie half expected her to stamp her foot. He wanted nothing more than to grab his daughter and take her home out of this mess, leaving these hooligans to do what they wanted. But Rhyllann’s face shimmered with sweat and his eyes rolled up in his head as he passed out again, causing Wren to stagger against the sink unit. Pushing Wren aside, Crombie slung Rhyllann over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and started for the door. Behind him, he heard Wren still giving orders, to Lizzie this time.

  ‘Can’t you take him?’ Lizzie begged.

  ‘Your Dad’ll be fine.’

  ‘He drives like an old lady. Please Wren!’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Anyhow, I’m not insured on your Dad’s car. Don’t forget now, round the back, facing the Scrubs.’

  Crombie kept his head down, his arms tightly around the backs of Rhyllann’s knees, hunching his shoulder and balancing the dead weight to manage the door latch somehow. Lizzie caught up with him at the garden gate and got the rear door of the Passat open ready for him to roll Rhyllann onto the rear seats.

  ‘Round the back of Hammersmith Hospital Dad.’ Lizzie climbed in next to Rhyllann while Crombie slipped behind the wheel and started the engine.

  Crombie was in top gear before they got to the North Pole Road, fish tailed round the corner and jumped the lights to turn right into Scrubs Lane.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way! Dad! You should have turned left!’

  But Crombie had other plans that didn’t include crawling over speed bumps. With a twist of the wheel the Passat mounted the pavement, Crombie gunned the engine and shot through the sentry birch trees, scraping bark, and roared onto the Scrubs at eighty miles an hour. The Passat’s high beams strobed the darkness turning black to white, the tyres churned across London Irish’s Lacrosse grounds onto the smoother running track. Minutes later the Passat’s nose smashed open the metal emergency vehicle access gate, and they hurtled along the cul-de-sac running between the soaring brick wall of the prison and the less threatening white plaster wall of the hospital.

  Barely fifty yards away was a sign fixed to a lamppost, on a brown background the letters “PP” discreetly pointed the way to the private wards, Crombie slammed into second gear, and swerved left.

  ‘Oh thank goodness!’ Lizzie breathed at the sight of a trolley and two white coated attendants clearly waiting for them. Wren must have called ahead again. Circling the roundabout the wrong way, Crombie stopped alongside the trolley; even before he turned the engine off, Rhyllann was transferred onto the trolley. The next few minutes were a flurry of doors opening and closing and rushing down corridors until they came to the theatre, and Crombie and Lizzie were allowed no further. All Crombie ever saw of Dr Thomas was a tall thin figure draped in green, apart from a white mask over his face and white gloves up to his elbows. The upper half of Rhyllann’s body disappeared into the sheath of a shiny white coffin shaped machine, and Crombie surmised they were running MRI or CAT scans. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief, when Crombie placed an arm around her she turned to bury her face in his chest and began heaving dry noisy sobs.

  A young woman hurried towards them, tucking dark hair under her nurse’s cap and with the sweetest smile on her plump face.

  ‘You must be Lizzie and Lizzie’s Dad. What a nasty scare you’ve had, we’ve got a nice peaceful room waiting.’

  She took Lizzie by the arm, but Lizzie clung tighter to Crombie, and he went with her, holding her hand while the nurse helped her into a bed with crisp white sheets, and coaxed her into swallowing a couple of valium. Crombie looked approvingly at the blinking eye of the security camera tucked into a corner of the cell like room. His girl would be safe here. Telling Lizzie he’d be back shortly, Crombie brushed her fringe back from her forehead, and snuck out the room, duty bound to help Wren “tidy up.”

  The Biggest Mistake of Them All.

  On the drive back a
cross the Scrubs, gnawing at a finger nail, Crombie told himself that if it was the last thing he did as a copper, one cosy little relationship was being exposed. Although even if Lampton and his sons and at the outside Cavan Blenkinsop got long jail sentences, that wouldn’t stop them giving Crombie grief. We’ll have to go into witness protection, he decided. I’ll insist on it before testifying. After all, they’d somehow managed to snatch Lizzie from her college digs in the dead of night. He tried to ignore the little voice that told him he might not be asked to testify. Whitehall might close ranks, in fact - who knew how far Lampton’s reach stretched.

  Australia, I’ve always fancied Australia. He shuddered at the thought of trying to persuade Mrs. Crombie and the girls to leave their roots.

  He’d reached the top of Latimer Road now, and indicated right, unconsciously slowing as he ran through the amount of “Tidying up” that lay ahead before he could call the incident in. He hoped Wren wouldn’t be too difficult about giving the alligator up to the authorities, and began worrying about how much force constituted “Justified Resistance”.

  He’d no doubt Lampton and his boys would sue him, screaming police brutality and probably have sympathetic newspapers take up their cause and rake over every bit of dirt on Crombie they could find.

  Resisting the temptation to gun the accelerator and speed off, Crombie sighed heavily and trundled towards his responsibilities, telling himself that next time an elephant went missing, Rodgers could deal with it. If events didn’t defy belief, he could probably dine out on this story for the rest of his life.