He glanced back at the fancy goods stall where the musical Santa had called to him earlier. A clock read 11: 50. “We’re not gonna make it.”
“Shut up, Kevin and keep still,” she ordered as she worked on the knots.
They loosened. She yanked, tugged, pulled at them. His bonds fell loose and suddenly, he, too, was free. They faced each other.
“Leg it,” urged Kevin.
“We can’t. We’ve got to stop these things,” she said, gesturing at the explosive.
“Sceptre,” Kevin pointed out, “I’m against heroism on the principle that it tends to leave you dead. Let’s just scram and call the cops.”
“So you want to leave Pete trapped in here while the place burns to the ground?” she pointed out.
“We don’t know that he is here.”
“Kevin, he has to be here somewhere.”
“Madam,” Fishwick said suddenly and urgently, “Mr Brennan is busy with one of the thugs up by the furniture store. The other is making a run for it.”
“We’ll get him, Fishwick,” she promised. “Where?”
“He’s coming down the stairs as we speak, Madam.”
Sceptre grabbed Kevin’s arm. “Come on, Kevin. We’re needed over here.” She dragged him towards the fruit and veg’ stall.
“I wanna go home,” he whined.
*****
Wesley ran blindly. He had met Torchy in prison and been attracted by the thought of easy money, but he did not fancy tackling a big ex-cop, so he ran, seeking another way out. At every turn, he was thwarted. The shutters were down on all the exits and the only way in and out was through Dimmock’s rear door where he and Torchy had entered. That was impossible because the cop was in the way. There was only one other possibility. In the southeast corner was a music stall with a window to the outside. He would have to smash the glass ... just as he used to when he was a jewel thief. Dragging a fire extinguisher from the wall, he hurried to the music stall.
There was someone ahead of him. One of those two they had tied to the pillar? He no longer cared. All that mattered was his freedom. He charged head down. A terrible smell assailed his nostrils. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sceptre and Kevin coming at him along an aisle and from above came the noise of Torchy and Pete fighting. If everyone was accounted for, who was blocking his way?
He looked up and stopped, his mouth open in terror. Ahead of him was an old man, his straggly white hair covering the collar of a faded, ancient coat. Where the eyes should have been were hollow sockets blazing into him.
Wesley dropped his makeshift weapon and fell to his knees. As the dreadful apparition approached, he let out a terrified scream.
*****
Kevin noticed a fleeting figure disappear round the bottom corner by the music stall. “See that,” he said as he and Sceptre hurried along. “It’s him. Grudge.”
“I saw nothing,” Sceptre said, rushing to the terrified Wesley.
Kevin chuckled at the cringing man. It made a change for someone other than himself being scared witless. “You might not have seen Rudge, but I’ll bet he did.”
Pete appeared with Torchy secured.
Sceptre turned urgently on him. “Pete, it’s ten minutes to twelve. They’ve planted eight bombs all over the hall and they go off at midnight. We have to get out.”
“Or disarm them,” suggested Pete.
Torchy shook his head miserably. “You can’t do that. You try unscrewing the tops and you’ll trigger the circuit, the place will go up and the potassium will still ignite.”
“Then you’ll go with it, Torchy,” Pete assured him.
The arsonist screwed his face up into a picture of futile anger. “Don’t be daft, man. Do like she says and get out. You can’t stop the place catching fire.”
Pete took out his mobile and dialled 999. “This is ex-detective constable Brennan,” he barked when the connection was made. “I’m in Ashdale market hall. Get onto Chief Inspector Locke or DC Keynes and tell them we’ve got twelve potassium bombs ready to go off at midnight. We need the fire brigade and the cops. Move it man.”
“Right,” said Kevin, helping Wesley to his feet. “Now that you’ve done your civic duty, let’s go.”
“Kevin,” Pete insisted, “we can’t leave the place to burn. It’s a listed building.”
His best friend clucked. “I can’t say I like your priorities. Pete, I’m listed in the phone book but it doesn’t mean to say the phone company would hang about to save my arse.”
“Let’s get the bombs together and then decide what to do.”
Torchy was becoming more afraid. “You haven’t time man. Just get out.”
“Where are they, Torchy?”
“Brennan …”
Pete loomed threateningly. “Where are they?”
Torchy told him. Securing the two thugs, they split up and began to collect the deadly devices. By three minutes to midnight, they had seven of them.
“Where’s the other one?” Pete demanded.
“Ladies lavatory,” said Kevin.
“You were supposed to get that,” Pete snapped.
“Yes but, Pete, that’s where I saw …”
Pete dismissed him with an angry gesture and hurried off to the ladies to collect the final bottle.
“Pete,” Sceptre urged when he returned, “We’ve under two minutes. We can’t do it. Let’s just go.”
Pete ignored her, scanning the area, seeking inspiration. He looked at the fire extinguisher Wesley had been about to use. Red. Water type. No good.
Torchy was on the verge of panic. “Brennan, we’ve got to get out. You’ve ninety seconds.”
“Fishwick,” cried Sceptre, “can you get these devices out of here?”
“I can pass through glass and walls, Madam,” said her butler with implacable calm, “but I cannot take solid objects with me. I would recommend that your do as the individual called Torchy suggests and get out.”
Sceptre faced her friends. “Fishwick can’t help.”
“How come he can never get us out of it when we’re up to our necks?” demanded Pete. He turned on Wesley. “Where were you headed?”
The actor did not look up. He was still in a state of terror.
“What were you going to do with this fire extinguisher?” Pete pressed further, but still Wesley could not answer.
“Maybe he was gonna put the bombs out,” suggested Kevin.
“No,” Pete disagreed, “it’s a water type extinguisher. Can’t use it with potassium.”
“Did everybody but me learn about potassium?” asked Kevin.
“You probably cut school that day.” Pete’s brow knitted in thought. “Wesley had something in mind for this extinguisher. What?”
“One minute, Pete,” Sceptre urged. “Let’s just get out.”
Pete cut in. “Why would a smash and grab artist …” He trailed off and looked towards the music stall, through the windows at the falling snow … window … window … window.
“Quick. Bring the bombs.”
He plucked the fire extinguisher from the floor, hurried to the music stall and hurled the extinguisher at the plate glass.
It shattered; alarms began to trill into the snowy night. As Kevin and Sceptre arrived with the bombs, he took them and threw the lot through the aperture. The church clock struck midnight.
“Hit the deck,” he called out.
Fireworks burst from the roof of the nearby town hall, illuminating the night and at the same time, Torchy’s bombs began to explode, shattering nearby windows and bringing a cheer from the carol singers and drunken crowd outside the Red Lion.
*****
“I suppose I should say well done, Brennan,” said Chief Inspector Locke, “but I won’t.”
They watched Torchy and Wesley being helped into the police van.
“What about Dimmock?” asked Pete.
“Keynes is going for him.” Locke reported. “He’ll deny it.”
“Well, you have our
testimony.” Pete reminded him, “and you can always pressure Torchy.”
Locke smiled and wandered off to his car. “Merry Christmas, Brennan. And you two.”
The Spookies team watched Locke being driven away.
“There goes a happy man,” said Sceptre.
“And we’d better go home,” said Pete, looking at the boarded-up market hall window. “Forensic won’t let us in there again tonight.”
“You know what I don’t get,” Kevin said as they wandered off. “Who did switch on the Santa, and what did scare Wesley?”
“These things happen, Kev,” Pete suggested. “Battery operated toys. Y’know.”
“It was George Rudge,” Sceptre affirmed.
“Yeah,” Pete snorted, “and I’ll stay sober for the rest of Christmas.”
Kevin glanced back at the market hall and just for a moment he thought he saw the face of an old man with white, straggly hair. Across the square, church bells pealed in celebration of Christmas, and the face at the window smiled.
“Must be a trick of the light,” Kevin muttered to himself. “George Rudge never smiled.”
THE END
The Author
David Robinson is a 61-year-old freelance writer, novelist, audio book reader, blogger, and all round curmudgeon with a passion for pork pies and brown ale. He lives and works in Greater Manchester, England.
An all-round writer, novelist, blogger and competition judge, he was a volunteer editor on 50 Stories for Pakistan (http://www.bigbadmedia.com/50-stories-for-pakistan/) anthology whose profits go to the Red Cross to help those afflicted by the 2010 floods in Pakistan. He was also a managing editor on 100 Stories for Queensland, the proceeds going to help victims of the Queensland floods of January 2011.
In January 2012, Crooked {Cat} Publishing picked up the Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries and the first title under their banner The Filey Connection is scheduled for publication on March 2nd.
Connect with David online:
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You can email brickbats and bouquets on [email protected] where he may or may not respond to you depending on whether the pubs are open.
Kindle titles from David Robinson
FICTION
Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries
The Filey Connection
A Murder for Christmas
A Halloween Homicide
Tales from the STAC Casebook
The Handshaker
Space Truckers
A Spookies Compendium
Coldmoor
The Dead Web
HUMOUR
Flatcap – Grumpy Old Blogger
NON-FICTION
E-book Formatting & Publishing on the Kindle
Hypnotherapy for Health
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Table of Contents
The Haunting at Melmerby Manor
The Man in Black
The Haunted Market
A Spookies Compendium Page 66
