Young, Gifted and Deadly

by William Stafford

  “WHAT THE BASTARD BLUE FUCK IS GOING ON?” boomed Chief Inspector Wheeler arriving on the scene. She was standing in a supermarket trolley that was being pushed by security guard Charlie West.

  “We, um, found the killer, Chief,” said Harry Henry. Wheeler glared at him.

  “Someone stop that fucking thing before it gets loose and flattens the town.” She glared at Dennis Lord. “This is all on your head, you fucking wanker.”

  Dennis Lord bristled. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

  “Oh, no?” said Karen Wheeler. “I’ve got divorce papers in a drawer that tell me otherwise. Now get the fuck out of our way, you spindle-dicked spider-fucker.”

  The team was stunned by this revelation. It was Charlie West who took action. He sprinted to the wheel, leaping over the prostrated bodies of Pattimore and Brough and, with a flick of his wrist, skimmed his peaked hat into the heart of the machinery. The gears ground up the hat but it was enough to choke the machinery and bring the wheel to a juddering halt. Smoke coiled from its innards. Silence fell over the scene.

  “Right.” It was Wheeler who broke the silence with a clap of her hands. “I want this area sealed off. Get everybody down the nick. We can sort out who’s done what to whom in the morning. Fuck sake! What a fucking mess!”

  Pattimore climbed off Brough and helped him to his feet.

  “Thanks,” said Brough, taking off his hood.

  “Any time,” Pattimore smiled.

  “Get a room,” muttered Miller.

  18.

  Miller didn’t notice at first. She dropped her bag in the hall and kicked off her shoes. She padded through to the kitchen, sloughing off her raincoat while reaching for the wine rack in one ungainly move.

  She poured herself a generous glass of rioja (hanging around with Brough had improved her palate - she no longer bought bottles with nuns on the label) and headed to the bathroom to fill the tub.

  You’m a silly cow, Melanie Miller, she castigated herself. In her head, her thoughts spoke in her dead mother’s voice. Waving a fake gun around at a serial killer. You’m a bloody silly cow.

  She put the glass on the edge of the bath and returned to the kitchen in search of scented candles. Those nice relaxing lavender ones.

  It was only then she realised something had changed.

  Her path from room to room was unimpeded by gym equipment or keep-fit paraphernalia. She turned around on the spot and took stock.

  All of Darren Bennett’s stuff was gone. Every last kneepad, shin pad and mini trampoline. Gone.

  Miller was seized by panic. She yanked open the sideboard drawers. Her bankbook was still there and so was the wad of cash she kept for emergencies. She dashed to the bedroom. Her meagre collection of jewellery was still present and correct. She sank onto the bed.

  So.

  He hasn’t robbed me. He’s just left me.

  The bastard. The absolute bloody bastard.

  This time her thoughts spoke to her in the smug tones of Detective Inspector David bloody Brough. I told you, Miller, I told you from the start. He’s a wrong un.

  She flopped back with a melodramatic cry of anguish. Silly cow! Bloody silly stupid fucking-

  An envelope crinkled beneath her. She fished it out. One word was scrawled on it in Darren Bennett’s rather juvenile handwriting.

  MEL

  Oh, God. Oh, no.

  Miller stared at the envelope like it was her death warrant. She didn’t want to read it, didn’t want to see his apologies and explanations, his clichés and platitudes.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck him!

  FUCK HIM!

  Now, where did I leave that wine?

  She raised herself onto her elbows, trying to summon the will to go back to the bathroom. She heard a key turn in the front door and then the door closing-

  Who the fuck-

  “Mel?”

  He was back! Miller’s heart leapt and sank at the same time.

  Before she could think to hide in the wardrobe or under the bed, Darren Bennett came into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses.

  “You found it then,” he nodded at the envelope, beside her on the bed. He handed her a glass. She stared at it in disbelief. “You’d better hold mine and all while I pop my cork.”

  “Darren! What the fuck is going on? What’s this? A goodbye drink and no hard feelings, old girl?”

  “Well,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “I was hoping for some kind of hard feeling, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t know what you mean.” Miller scrambled to her feet. She snatched up the envelope and bounced it off his impressive pectorals.

  “Now, don’t be silly, Mel. You have to accept it. I insist!”

  “You’re incredible!”

  “I have my moments,” he chuckled.

  “If you think I’m going to take this lying down-”

  “We can do it against the wall if you like. Or in the shower.”

  “Get away from me! Oh, I read about it all the time. People split up but they still go back to their exes for sex when they feel like it - but you haven’t been gone for five fucking minutes,”

  “Melanie! Calm down! What are you babbling about? We haven’t split up. Not to my knowledge anyway.”

  Miller was confused. “But all your things-”

  “I told you I was only storing them here temporarily. I’ve got a new lock-up.”

  “But the note-”

  “What note?”

  She picked the envelope from the floor. “This note.”

  “What? You haven’t even opened it, have you? Go on. Look inside.”

  “But-”

  “Go on.”

  Frowning, she tore the envelope open. And took out a cheque.

  “This says fifteen thousand pounds,” she blinked.

  “Paid you back in full and some interest besides.”

  “But-”

  “Sit down, Mel.” He took her hand and sat beside her. Looking into her eyes, he explained that he had used the money she loaned him to make a series of short exercise videos which he had posted online.

  “They’ve gone viral, Mel,” he grinned.

  “What? Like a disease?”

  “Seven million hits. Certainly got me noticed. There’s this chain of gyms and fitness clubs. They want me to be their frontman. They’ve already given me a huge advance. They reckon I have universal appeal. Both men and women apparently.”

  “You don’t say...” Miller was more than a little stunned.

  “But the thing is...” he pulled a face, “They’re based in the States. They want me to fly out. First thing tomorrow.”

  The workings of Miller’s mind were visible on her face. “So... you are leaving then?”

  “Well, yes, but not leaving leaving. It’ll just be a couple of months. Three, tops. And this is all happening because of you. If you hadn’t lent me that money-” his face lit up with sudden inspiration. “Come with me, Mel! You must be due some time off.”

  “I - I don’t know what to say. But it’s brilliant news. For you. Really! It’s wonderful,”

  She hugged him and hoped it wasn’t for the last time.

  “You could come over in a few days or something - once you’ve squared it with work. It’ll be fun.” He hugged her again and then laughed in her ear. “It’s a good job I’m made of money now.”

  “What? Why?”

  “To pay for all the water damage.”

  “What water damage?”

  “You left the taps running! What are you like?”

  Miller smiled a bittersweet smile. “I’m a silly cow,” she said.

  ***

  Brough was a
bout to turn the key in his front door when he sensed a presence in the hallway behind him.

  Oscar!

  Had he been fibbing about being unable to fly over for Brough’s birthday in order to surprise him? Was he really that good an actor?

  In an instant, Brough had convinced himself this was the case and he spun around only to be confronted, not by his hunk of a Hollywood boyfriend but by the wizened Tolkienesque figure of his neighbour, Mr Morgan. The sense of disappointment was almost too great for Brough to conceal.

  “Letter for you,” said Mr Morgan, almost exclusively through his nose. He held out an envelope covered in labels and franking marks. Brough reached for it. “Came this afternoon.”

  “Did you? I mean, did it?”

  It was clearly from Oscar. The airline tickets he’d hinted at...

  Mr Morgan lingered as though expecting a tip. Brough thanked him two or three times, eager to get indoors and open the letter in private.

  “You will keep it down, won’t you?” sneered the nasally neighbour.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Thanks again.”

  “Only I can hear your headboard banging at all hours.”

  Brough was mortified. “I’m sorry - I’ll-”

  He waved the envelope in salute and said thanks yet again. He fumbled his key into the lock and pushed his way into the flat. He couldn’t shut the door behind him fast enough.

  In the hall, he tore open the envelope. Would there be enough time before the flight to pack a bag, have a shower?

  Puzzled, he withdrew a single piece of paper the same size as the front of the envelope. It was most definitely not a plane ticket. At first, Brough couldn’t focus on the lettering or make any sense of the words.

  SURGERY

  CLINIC

  GIFT TOKEN

  Brough gasped in horror as the full truth dawned on him; he dropped the voucher like a wormy apple.

  Instead of a plane ticket to Los Angeles, Oscar had sent him a pass to a cosmetic surgeon in London. Brough was aghast. He kept his eye on the abhorrent thing as though it was a venomous spider that might go for him at any second.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He let out a yelp of surprise.

  This time it was Oscar; his handsome face filled the screen.

  “Hey, baby!” the familiar drawl greeted him. “Figured you’d be home by now. Did you get my gift okay?”

  Brough scowled. “I got something all right. Is it meant to be a joke?”

  “What? No!” It was Oscar’s turn to be puzzled. “It’s a proper gift for my special guy. All you got to do is book yourself in, lie back and let the doctor do the rest.”

  “The rest? What do you mean, the rest?”

  “Well, come on, baby, you got to admit you’ve been looking a little tired lately. A little tuck around the eyes would perk you right up.”

  “Oh, it would, would it?”

  “And under your chin - he can tighten that jawline for you in two shakes.”

  “Anything else?” Brough was tapping his foot but Oscar couldn’t see it.

  “Sure! Anything you want. You just ask. It’s all on me.”

  “No, Oscar, baby, it’s all on me and that’s the point. But go ahead, carry on. Let’s hear it. What else would you like to change about me?”

  “Not change, darlin’, just, you know - make the most of.”

  “I’m waiting. My eyes, my neck... What else? Is my nose too big?”

  “Your nose is perfect.”

  “I’m tickled to hear it.”

  “But... you could do with a little lipo - just a little bit - off your middle - David, I thought you’d love it. Why don’t you love it?”

  “Anything else? Get my flat feet sorted? My arsehole bleached?” Brough was rather loud by this point; a knock on the wall from Mr Morgan could not be far off.

  “David, calm down. The doc says with every procedure he’ll happily chuck in a free circumcision. It’s a bargain.”

  “It sounds like a snip,” said Brough sourly. “If you think I’m letting anyone near my cock with something sharp, you can fuck off.”

  “David, David! Calm the fuck down! If you think about it calmly and rationally for a minute, you-”

  “No! You listen to me for a minute.” Brough fought to keep his voice even. “I’ve just realised something. I’m happy the way I am. I turn forty tomorrow and do you know what? I’m fine with that as well. And let me tell you something else: I am in great shape for forty and if you don’t like it, well...”

  “Well what? It’s just a little surgery, a little help.”

  “Well, guess what: I don’t need it.”

  “Do it for me?” Oscar Buzz batted his eyelashes and pulled his best puppy dog face.

  “Oh, stop that, you outrageous ham. Can’t you accept me the way I am?”

  “That’s exactly it!” cried Oscar Buss. “I want to preserve you the way you are. I want to keep you like this forever.”

  “Oh!” said Brough. “Then I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What for?”

  Although, judging by the look on his face, Oscar had a pretty good idea.

  “I want someone I can grow old with,” said Brough, with a sad little smile. “Goodbye, Oscar.”

  “Jesus fuck! David! Let’s talk about this.”

  Brough shook his head. “No. I’ve had a long day and it’s late. And, apparently, I need my beauty sleep.”

  He disconnected.

  So.

  That was that, he supposed. I have just broken up with the world’s most gorgeous man. Go, me.

  He took a long shower, soaking away the tensions of the day, both professional and personal. Naked in front of a steamed-up mirror, he appraised his physique from every angle. I still look great, he assured himself. As long as I keep up the exercise.

  He pulled the skin of his face back with both hands. Not a bad look - if you wanted to go around like a startled doll.

  He reached a box from the cabinet. He had been saving the product for his fortieth birthday. He re-read the packaging.

  GREY AWAY

  It was after midnight. Happy birthday to me!

  He put his foot on the pedal to open the bin and dropped the box of hair dye inside.

  Then he took himself to bed and tried not to make the headboard rattle too much.

  19.

  “Donald Phillips,” said Chief Inspector Wheeler, once Brough had reminded her how to work the projector. The severed head of the pentagram killer appeared on the screen. Miller gasped. Stevens cooed. “I had people out all fucking night looking for that, but once some boffin in Ballistics had worked out the speed of the wheel and the parabola of the projectile, well, it was a piece of piss.

  “The headgear consists of your basic balaclava. The horns are papier mâché over a wire frame - coat hangers or something very like. They still need to run tests but they reckon it’s likely that the coat hangers made the horns act as antennae which, coupled with the steel plate holding his skull together, meant it was able to pick up mobile phone calls directly in his brain. Voices literally in his fucking head.”

  “Enough to drive anybody doolally,” said Stevens.

  “So,” said Brough, “he picked up phone conversations and thought they were the devil speaking to him?”

  “It’s looking that way,” Wheeler agreed. “Given that he was already deluded, it didn’t take much for him to believe he had a direct line to the dark lord Bathmat himself. When actually, he was mainly picking up calls from this.”

  She held up an evidence bag for them all to see. In it was a mobile phone.

  “Young lad handed this in. Think you know him already,” she looked pointedly at Stevens and Pattimore. “Young fellow by the name of Logan Lawrence
- Am I ringing any bells?”

  “He never mentioned anything like this,” said Pattimore weakly. Brough sent him a look of support.

  “Turns out,” Wheeler went on, “he was getting calls from a mysterious benefactor who employed him and his mates to fuck about, causing disruption, as we have seen in the supermarket and at the stables. They formed a gang - the Monks, for fuck’s sake - complete with an initiation. Standing out on the school field looking for the ghost of the old prior that’s said to walk there. It was during Callum’s initiation that his grandfather first made contact. The lad completely fell for it, believing the old man to be the prior from the olden days, and he’s happy to do his grandad’s bidding. Meanwhile, the other three don’t see a thing - they’re off taking pictures of their bum holes on Callum’s phone. We haven’t got to the bottom of it yet but I understand part of the plan was to upload pictures of their arses to Paul Barker’s laptop. For blackmail purposes.”

  “But, why?” said Miller.

  “Why what? Why cause all this disruption?” Wheeler searched her team’s faces for signs of life.

  “Um,” said Harry Henry. “They - the victims - were all involved in this academy business, weren’t they?”

  “That’s right. Go on.”

  “So, somebody pays kids from the school to cause trouble around the town, in their uniforms, to prevent the academisation of Priory High.”

  “Exactly,” Wheeler beamed. “Now, the GCSE-winning question is, who would do this? Who would pay the boys? And I’ll give you a clue: it wasn’t that fusty old fuddy-duddy of a deputy head...” She waited. “No?”

  The Serious team was deep in thought.

  Superintendent Ball came in. “Morning, chaps! Ladies! Good result last night,” he grimaced when he saw what was on the screen. “Excellent teamwork. You may be interested to know the Dedley Eye is closed for good and is to be dismantled as soon as we’ve finished with it. Health and Safety wins again. Dennis Lord, as you can imagine, is furious.”

  “Hoorah!” said Wheeler. “That’s one in the eye for him! The bastard.”

  “And,” Ball continued, “I’ve just come from the hospital. Callum Phillips is there is a right state. A catatonic state, to be exact. It has hit him hard, the realisation of what he’s been involved with. His father is with him, the poor man. He says the boy’s mind is fucked - although I don’t think that’s the correct psychiatric terminology. Such a bright boy, by all accounts. What a waste! It’s worse for the intelligent, apparently: mental illness.”