“Please cuff everyone’s hands behind their backs and then tape each person’s ankle to that of the person next to them. The cuffs and tape are in the bag.” Once these instructions had been completed to her satisfaction, Ulyana Gorshkov shooed Dr Grove away from the sofa and inspected his handiwork. “Good work, Herman. Now please cuff your ankle to the radiator pipe and your wrist to Dr Harker’s free ankle.”
It was quite clear that the four of us were going nowhere, but I did find myself wondering why our captor did not simply shoot us.
“I expect that you are wondering why I do not simply shoot you,” purred Mrs Gorshkov. “It will give me satisfaction to know that you die in fear and helplessness. I want you to feel what my dear Trofim feels at the hands of those monsters.”
“Surely,” said Urban-Smith, “it is me that you want. Why punish the others?”
“Dr Harker and Dr Grove have played their part. As for the old lady, she is what one might call collateral damage.”
“You swine!” I spat. “You fiend! You beast! You blaggart! You rogue! You scoundrel! You villain! You, you, you…..” I had run out of invectives.
“Scourge of the Shires?” suggested Urban-Smith.
Mrs Gorshkov threw her head back and laughed triumphantly.
“Ha ha ha,” she laughed. “Ha ha ha.”
She laughed a little more. “Ha ha.”
Then further still. “Ha ha ha.”
“Any more?” I enquired.
“Yes. Ha ha ha.”
As Mrs Gorshkov continued to cachinnate gleefully, Urban-Smith leaned over and hissed in my ear. “Keep her talking. I need more time.”
I risked a brief glance over my shoulder. Urban-Smith’s hands moved frenetically behind him, his fingers a yandric blur in my peripheral vision as he struggled to align his joints into the best position to free himself.
“Struggle all you want,” scoffed Mrs Gorshkov, and I whipped my head back around to glare at her. “You will not escape.”
“What do you have planned for us?”
She indicated the Scrotech Mongoose 50. “This bass amplifier has been modified to increase its frequency range. This telephone’s ringtone,” she said, drawing a mobile telephone from her pocket, “is a pattern of resonating frequencies designed to cause vibration of clay subsoil and bedrock. Once the telephone rings, it will create a sinkhole into which you and your merry band will plummet…… to your doom!”
“Keep her talking,” whispered Urban-Smith.
“But how exactly does that work?” I asked.
Mrs Gorshkov sighed impatiently. “When I send the signal from this telephone through the amplifier, the clay subsoil beneath us will crumble, causing a cavity into which the surface layer of soil will collapse, taking this house with it.”
“You are behind the destruction of Waspinghuff football terrace.”
“I had a hand in developing the technology,” she said with an air of pride.
“And Wafflebridge Town?”
“Yes, Dr Harker.”
“But why? Have you bet against them to win the South Western?”
She sneered nastily at me. “You are playing for time, Doctor. You know as well as I that the South Western and Devon County leagues are combining to form the South-West Peninsula League. Wafflebridge Town’s performance this season is purely academic.”
“Then why?” I insisted.
She tossed her handsome head and sneered a little more. “Consider this; one does not peel an apple for the peel, but for that which lies beneath.”
“So, there is something underneath the stadium?”
“It matters not, Doctor,” she replied casually, recovering her canvas bag. “In a few moments you shall be dead.” She gazed thoughtfully at me. “I wonder whether there is a football league in Hell.”
She dragged the bass amplifier and battery down the hall, well out of reach, and with a cheery, “do svidánija,” was through the front door and away up Chuffnell Mews.
With a grunt, Urban-Smith freed himself from the handcuffs. “Rupert! Where is your mobile telephone?”
“In my left pocket.”
Urban-Smith rummaged frantically in my trouser pocket, and I cried out as his fingers tightened around my left hemiscrotum.
“Careful, Fairfax. I haven’t kissed them goodbye yet.”
“Aha!” he exclaimed triumphantly, pulling the telephone free. “What is your PIN code?”
“Zero, zero, zero, zero.”
“Come on, come on,” Urban-Smith muttered to himself as he jabbed at the phone. “We have but not a moment to waste. If she dials first, then all is lost.”
There were a few seconds of silence, and then from down the street came the delicate tinkle of a lady’s mirth. The mirth became stronger, growing to a chuckle, then a chortle, then a roar of demented euphoria cut short by a strangled, most unladylike gurgling, and then finally silence.
The ghastly guffawing had set my teeth on edge and I shuddered, but the effect on Dr Grove was positively malefic. He emitted a low groan and slumped sideways, his eyes glazed and unfocused.
“My God!” I blurted. “His spleen is collapsing.”
“Can we help him?” asked Urban-Smith.
“Quickly, Fairfax. You must uncuff me so that I may administer treatment.”
He shrugged helplessly. “I have no key.”
“My bedside drawer,” I shouted. “Hurry, man! He is fading away.”
I burned with curiosity as to how Urban-Smith had foiled Mrs Gorshkov, but my first duty was to Dr Grove, who lay stricken upon the floor, thick saliva running from his slack mouth.
To his credit, Urban-Smith returned swiftly with said key and did not question its presence in my bedside cabinet along with pink, fluffy handcuffs and various other implements and lubricants. Dr Grove and I were soon free from our bonds, and Urban-Smith dialled for an ambulance while I knelt on the floor and made my examination.
Dr Grove’s eyes seemed to have fallen out with one another and were refusing to gaze in the same direction, and he was losing enough saliva to launch a small fishing vessel. If I was unable to stem the flow, he would salivate to death within minutes. I placed a hand upon his abdomen and felt for a spleen. A healthy spleen feels firm and vigorous, but Dr Grove’s failing organ was limp, clammy and impotent. Once the spleen folded in upon itself, all was lost.
In these situations, it is critical to commence treatment without delay, for after a few minutes, nothing short of internal splenic massage will revive a stricken subject. There was no time to lose. I instructed Urban-Smith to hold Dr Grove upright in a sitting position so that I could commence splenic resuscitation.
I drew back my right hand and delivered a hard slap to Dr Grove’s face, the force of which drove his head backwards, spraying Urban-Smith with saliva. Dr Grove’s eyes flickered, but he remained unconscious. I delivered another blow, sending great gouts of foamy drool onto the wall and ceiling, but still there was no response.
“It is not working,” cried Mrs Denford. “He fades before us into the yonder realm.”
I gritted my teeth and increased the dosage. Again and again I struck Dr Grove until his left cheek was swollen and red and Urban-Smith and I were liberally coated with spittle. My shoulder burned and ached as I rained blows upon him, but still he slavered and lolled. I rested my palm against his ribcage, which shuddered and vibrated beneath my touch.
“He’s in splentricular fibrillation.” I gnashed my teeth. Blast! Where was that ambulance? If only I had a desplenibrillator.
There was but one course of action left available to me; the Spleenlich manoeuvre. It was dangerous, but with Dr Grove on a knife-edge, I had no choice. I leapt to my feet and drew back my foot.
“Brace yourself, Fairfax,” I shouted and aimed an almighty kick beneath Dr Grove’s ribs. With a dull thud, my boot found its target, a fountain of saliva erupted from Dr Grove’s mouth, and he reared up, choking and spluttering.
“You did it,” cried U
rban-Smith, but this was no time for celebration. I had yet to attend to the next casualty.
I hurried forth from the house to examine Ulyana Gorshkov, who was collapsed upon the pavement outside number thirty. Although she was breathing irregularly, I was relieved to find that her pulse was strong. I rolled her into the recovery position and guarded her airway, while in the distance, the wail of ambulance sirens drew closer. Urban-Smith appeared at my side and began rummaging through Mrs Gorshkov’s coat pockets.
“What are you doing, Fairfax?”
“Retrieving my new telephone. I slipped it into her pocket during our altercation.”
“To what end?”
“If you recall that three-second sound file that struck down Officer Gribble; I set it as the ringtone. It was this telephone that I rang from yours. I am relieved to see that it did not kill her outright.”
“You were expecting Mrs Gorshkov to attack us?”
“Indeed I was, Rupert. After all, Hell hath no fury, and suchlike.”
I gazed with disbelief upon Ulyana Gorshkov’s radiant features.
“That something so beautiful could prove so deadly,” said I, brushing a lock of errant hair from her forehead.
“Beauty is but skin deep, Rupert. Savagery runs to the bone.”
*
The ambulance arrived shortly thereafter, and I introduced myself to the crew, explaining that Mrs Gorshkov had been stricken by the LOL curse. As the paramedics lifted her onto the gurney, Urban-Smith and I returned to number sixteen.
Dr Grove was propped listless in an armchair while Mrs Denford flitted to and fro, reviving him with sweet tea and biscuits. I palpated his abdomen, and although his spleen was still weakened and flaccid, it was beginning to engorge and lengthen; a sure sign of recovery.
He writhed with pain as I probed his ribs. “Why is it so painful, doctor?” he pleaded.
“Hard to say. Perhaps you were laid awkwardly.”
“Mrs Denford says that you saved my life.” Tears of gratitude ran down his cheeks. “I am forever in your debt.”
“Not at all.” I put my hand upon his shoulder. “It was my genuine pleasure.”
I left Dr Grove in Mrs Denford’s care and joined Urban-Smith, who was examining the Scrotech Mongoose 50. “We should contact Inspector Gadget,” I suggested.
“Not just yet, Rupert. For the moment, I require this amplifier and telephone which the police will surely confiscate.”
I did not ask Urban-Smith’s reasons; I knew that he would confide in me when it suited him to do so. I made my final checks of Dr Grove and, once satisfied that he was in a stable condition, arranged him upon the sofa to spend the night, for I felt it unsafe to leave him unattended with such an unstable spleen.
Urban-Smith tapped me lightly on the shoulder and indicated for me to follow him into the hall so that we could not be overheard. “Rupert. I have an idea that I wish to put into effect.”
“I am all ears, Fairfax.”
“I propose that tomorrow night we liberate Professor Gorshkov from The Iron Lung.”
“Exactly how are we to accomplish this?”
“With stealth and cunning, Rupert. With stealth and cunning.”
◆◆◆
25. FIFTY GORILLAS AND A MONGOOSE
Sunday 19th November
I rose early on Sunday morning and, after checking on Dr Grove’s spleen, enjoyed a light breakfast before heading to Hyde Park for a restoring walk.
As usual, Urban-Smith’s plans were to involve a taxi journey, so I stopped at a cashpoint and was somewhat surprised to find that my bank balance was in excess of fifty thousand pounds.
On my return from Hyde Park, I found Urban-Smith in the living room, dabbling with his latest painting.
“What-ho, Rupert.”
“Morning, Fairfax. Did Dr Grove get away okay?”
“Oh yes. Mrs Denford fed him to the gunwales and accompanied him home.”
“Good show! Now look here, Fairfax, something odd has happened this morning. I find myself half a plum to the better.”
“Half a plum?”
“Fifty gorillas,” I clarified. “That’s almost a square hemimonkey.”
Urban-Smith set aside his brush and fired up his laptop in order to access his online bank-account. “I appear to be in a similar pecuniary position,” he observed. “Our fee from the Colonel.”
“If we abscond with Professor Gorshkov,” said I, “will the Colonel not demand a refund?”
“Torturing the Professor and abducting him to Russia did not constitute a part of our agreement,” said Urban-Smith. “I cannot in good conscience allow this to happen.”
“Why should Professor Gorshkov warrant compassion?” I asked. “He is a killer.”
“And we shall see him brought to justice, Rupert; true English justice.” Urban-Smith retrieved his paintbrush and returned to his painting. “If only life were a painting,” he mused. “One could simply hide one’s mistakes with a dash of yellow.”
I stared at Urban-Smith’s latest abomination squatting like a gargoyle upon its easel, and I shuddered with revulsion.
“There is not enough yellow in the whole of London.”
*
After supper that evening, a delicious serving of boiled beef and carrots upon which Urban-Smith and I blew out our kites, we retired to the living room to discuss Urban-Smith’s plan to rescue Professor Gorshkov.
In the corner of the room was the Scrotech Mongoose 50 bass amplifier attached to its battery.
“I hate to cast doubt, Fairfax, but I don’t believe you can create a sinkhole on a boat.”
“You can create one beneath a boat if it is on a lake, but that is not my intention. My intention is to create a distraction, during which we will board The Iron Lung, locate Professor Gorshkov and take him into our custody.”
I remained sceptical. “Surely Colonel Smirnitsky will have the boat guarded?”
“Oh, undoubtedly, but that is where the amplifier comes in. You recall the reports of the widespread phantasm sightings that accompanied the Wafflebridge and Pringford sinkholes?”
Indeed I did.
“Indeed I do,” I replied accordingly.
“Well, by using a copy of the LOL signal limited to the seventeen to twenty hertz range, we can induce visual hallucinations and feelings of dread, but without the associated brain haemorrhages and collapsing architecture.”
I was not convinced.
“I am not convinced,” said I. “Unless it renders the Colonel’s men blind, I fail to see how that will aid us.”
Urban-Smith flashed me a grin and produced a shopping bag from beside his chair, from which he withdrew a black bedsheet. Pulled over his head, the sheet covered him in his entirety apart from his eyes, which peered out from two unevenly cut holes.
I was still unconvinced.
“I am still unconvinced,” I said. “Are those sheets bullet-proof?”
“Ha,” laughed the spectral figure. “Ha ha! Were there a Nobel Prize for facetiousness, I would be advising you to start work on your acceptance speech.” He turned on the Mongoose 50 amplifier, which emitted a loud buzzing, and attached his mobile telephone to the input. “If you would be so kind as to ring my new number please, Rupert.”
“Will it have the same effect on us as it did on Mrs Gorshkov?”
“No. It is quite safe.”
I did as instructed, and within a few seconds, my heart started to pound and I felt nauseated and frightened. Around the room, six or seven dark apparitions rose out of the floor and began to sway and billow about me. A loud shriek from upstairs indicated that Mrs Denford was experiencing a similar visitation.
As the phantasms swooped and fluttered, I attempted to identify Urban-Smith, but I could not distinguish him from the other spectres that flitted in and out of my field of vision. I cast my gaze from one figure to the next but was none the wiser.
A voice at my ear caused me to bleat, and I almost fell from the sofa.
&
nbsp; “Perhaps I should have worn my school tie, Rupert.”
My hands shook as I terminated the telephone call, and the ghastly sensation abated.
“Fairfax!” A furious Mrs Denford had appeared at the door. “Was that really necessary? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Denford,” said Urban-Smith, removing his sheet, “but it was all in the line of duty.”
There came a sharp rapping at the front door, and with a huff, Mrs Denford turned on her heel to admit the visitor while Urban-Smith refolded the sheet into his bag.
“Righto, Rupert, that’s our taxi. I will grab the sheets and telephones, and if you could please bring the amplifier, car battery and your wallet, then we shall be on our way to Tilbury docks.”
*
We were driven south by a cheerful young gentleman, who chattered Polish into his mobile telephone for the entire journey, pausing occasionally to apply the brakes or swerve from the path of other road users.
I endeavoured to make conversation although I suspected I would have been better advised to make a will.
“Do you not think, Fairfax,” I hissed through clenched teeth, “that this plan of yours is rather macadamian?”
“Do you not mean, ‘Machiavellian?’” suggested Urban-Smith.
“No,” I insisted. “Macadamian; I consider it to be nuts?”
“We shall see soon enough.”
We were deposited at the entrance to Tilbury docks and made our way quietly westwards towards The Iron Lung. Keeping to the shadows, we edged across the train tracks and towards the dock until we found a dark corner from which to surreptitiously observe the boat. There were lights visible through the portholes, and on the deck, a burly gentleman in shirt sleeves and shoulder holster was leaning against the bow rail, smoking a cigarette.
We waited for him to return below decks, then crept onto the dock and positioned the Scrotech Mongoose 50 so that it would unleash its full force directly towards the boat. Urban-Smith attached the car battery to the jump leads, plugged in his mobile telephone and turned the amplifier to its maximum volume. Thus prepared, we retreated behind a nearby parked car and pulled our black sheets over our heads.
Laugh Out Dead Page 19
