by G R Jordan
On the walk into town, Kirkgordon spotted a small café and sat down inside to escape the noise of overheating cars. This wasn’t like Scotland – too many damn people living here. Ordering a latte, he picked up a local map to peruse. After quickly locating the bird sanctuary and the small natural spring the town was famous for, he studied the map closely for more useful locations. The library, supermarket, leisure centre and pubs were marked and also a viewing spot called “Gibbet Point”. It seemed to be a reasonable walk so he thought he might take a stroll before Austerley arrived on the late evening train, but as it was already mid-afternoon, Kirkgordon reckoned he should find his digs first.
The Shady Palm Guest House lacked the trees of its name and also lacked an en-suite bathroom. The elderly female proprietor was friendly enough and gave the promise of a large fry-up every morning, but the room had such a soft bed that Kirkgordon thought he might sink into its depths never to return. The drab pink bedspread didn’t do much for it either.
Forsaking his room, Kirkgordon set out on the stroll he had planned and a fresh breeze hit his face as he approached the shoreline. The salt air appealed to him at first but then brought back more memories of the island. He found himself checking the sea for tentacles. Focus, dammit, focus.
The rising climb to the viewpoint helped energize him. At the top of the climb was an odd-looking cage, swinging gently in the breeze, and the remains of a small building, now reduced to an archway. As he stood looking out to sea he began to feel optimistic that he could use these two weeks to recover. After all, how difficult would it be to babysit Austerley? There was nothing here to fuel Austerley’s obsession with the occult. Time to recuperate and repair some damage.
Something caught his eye on his way back down. Beyond the path, the grass was closely cut for about a foot before turning wild. His attention had been grabbed by a flash of red against the green, and he strode over to examine it. It was blood, dried blood, and in a significant quantity. Kirkgordon wondered what had happened here. Probably some toddler fell and bashed his head, his self-preservation reassured him, but his heart disagreed. Something kicked in him.
Not much I can do about anything anyway, he thought. I have no idea what happened so best just leave it. But his years of running security and protection details had given Kirkgordon a nose for the out-of-place, and it was hard to drown out what his experience was telling him. Still, that coffee had been good, time for another. He made his way back to the town.
He was recognized by the barista at the coffee house and engaged in a pleasant chat before retracing his previous steps back to the train station. Although SETAA would gladly foot the bill for a taxi, Kirkgordon was enjoying the freedom to roam. The air was fresh with a distinct, crispy saltiness to it and, breathing deeply, he felt invigorated. Then his impending meeting crossed his mind.
When Kirkgordon had last left Austerley, the air between them had been thick with anger. Feeling guilty, Kirkgordon had even asked to be forgiven for trying to kill Austerley during the demonic ritual on the island, but the former asylum detainee wasn’t to be moved. He just won’t listen to reason, thought Kirkgordon, nothing is ever his fault. Serves the stupid arse right for getting me involved in this occult nonsense in the first place.
Standing on the platform, Kirkgordon read the overhead display and saw that the train was delayed. Typical. He searched for the coffee cart from earlier and noticed it had moved to the other platform, so he descended the steps and followed the underground tunnel, ignoring the smell of urine in the subway. Emerging on the other side, he announced cheerily to the teenage server that he required a latte.
“Got black only, machine’s off. Or I can give you this UHT stuff.” Kirkgordon smiled wearily. Black it would have to be.
Austerley had rarely left his bed while Kirkgordon had been babysitting him, instead plaguing Kirkgordon with his constant demands. The mad expert of the occult had also been requesting various books from dubious libraries around the world, all vetted by Havers, SETAA’s top man, of course. The incident on the island hadn’t dampened Austerley’s taste for the strange, but it had reduced his mobility. Havers had suggested a prosthetic and Austerley had readily agreed. With a date two weeks away for the fitting of the limb, this sudden relocation seemed weird to Kirkgordon but hey-ho. Two weeks of sun and Mr Grumpy courtesy of the taxpayer shouldn’t be sniffed at. Better this than being stuck in the flat with him.
Austerley was so damn gung-ho with these dark matters they looked into that Kirkgordon had nicknamed him Indy, although it was a bit ridiculous. Austerley was too heavy and slow to be like Harrison Ford – more like a model T Ford with his deep jowls and rotund belly. And to think he calls me Churchy, thought Kirkgordon. Just because I believe there’s a big man looking out for me. One thing’s for sure in all this nonsense Indy’s got me into: I’m looking for the light again. Definitely looking. I must check out the service on Sunday.
A degree in sound analysis was needed to understand the tannoy announcement but, on looking at the electronic boards, Kirkgordon deduced that Austerley’s train was approaching. The smell of diesel heralded its arrival and the train of four carriages pulled into the station proper. The carriages were obviously old stock and none opened automatically. Kirkgordon recognized a head appearing at one of the windows. Having pushed the window down, the man inside sought a fixture for opening the door. On finding it, he seemed to struggle for an age.
For three minutes, Kirkgordon watched the man struggle and laughed at his efforts. The man’s face grew redder and sweat started to form on his forehead; his hair became matted and its weak curls dampened so it looked like he was wearing a poorly made wig. This was fun.
The train whistled and Kirkgordon tried to wave down a platform attendant but there was none. There was a judder and the train started to move. Ah, bollocks, thought Kirkgordon, I am not chasing him in a taxi. He leapt onto the little wooden step at the bottom of the door as the carriage went past. He placed one hand inside the door and the other on the collar at the back of the man’s neck. Kirkgordon pulled hard and yanked him head first out of the carriage, spinning him clear and onto his back. He then dived into the carriage and threw the luggage out of the window. Just as the carriage was clearing the end of the platform and picking up reasonable speed, Kirkgordon leapt out head first, landing in a forward roll.
Standing, he looked back at the carnage he had caused. Four pieces of luggage were scattered down the platform, one of them open, exposing large white Y-fronts. Beyond these cases was a man in a bomber jacket and a purple knitted hat which reminded Kirkgordon of a tea cosy. His legs were inside jogging bottoms and one foot had a cheap-looking white trainer on it. The other leg ended in a stump. Dammit, I’d better help him up, thought Kirkgordon.
“I don’t need your bloody help. What the hell was that anyway? Can’t you just help people normally?”
“Good to see you too, Indy,” answered Kirkgordon. “I thought you might have had a spell or a rune to open the door with.”
“You can sod off. It’s not that flippin’ easy when you only have one foot. I was just going to press the alarm when you ejected me. Anyway, where are my sticks?”
“Sticks?”
“Yeah, bloody sticks. I don’t just hop about. Remember, I use my crutches to walk with.”
“Ah. Didn’t see them.”
“They were beside the door, dammit. And who’s luggage is all that?”
“Yours.”
“Mine? No, just the small case further up. The rest ain’t mine, Churchy.”
“Get off it, those are your Y-fronts, Indy.”
“As if. Look at the stuff in there with them. I don’t wear bras, do I?”
“Arse! Well, maybe you should. Anyway, get up.”
“I do need a hand with that, as because of some clown I’ve no sticks.” Kirkgordon reached down and put Austerley’s arm around his neck. He then took the excess luggage to the stationmaster with some cock and bull story about a
teenager. Ordering a taxi, he thought how peaceful the day had been before Austerley’s arrival. Here we go, he thought.
Care Home for an Austerley
Well, this looks like a right dump. If I’d known Havers would make us go NHS, I would have paid for private,” said Austerley on exiting the taxi. He was leaning on the taxi roof with both hands steadying himself and feeling lopsided without his sticks. Removing Austerley’s bag with one hand, Kirkgordon manoeuvred himself under Austerley’s shoulder. Like failed three-legged race competitors they fell twice on the way to reception.
“Ah, it must be Mr Austerley. Apologies for not meeting you at the door but your secretary failed to inform us of your arrival time. If your manservant would be so kind as to take your bag to room twelve? That’s down the corridor and take a left, fifty metres and on the left.”
Austerley balanced in total disbelief. The man in front of him wore a purple cravat over a bright yellow shirt with a pair of mid-blue corduroy trousers setting off his purple cowboy boots. Kirkgordon, affronted by the manservant jibe, now chortled to himself as he carried the luggage away. Austerley tried to retreat as the man advanced towards him with a hand extended but found he was unable to escape without hopping away.
“We don’t get many gentlemen in as fine fettle as yourself, except for the odd soldier resting up after injuries. Always a boon that. But with your rugged complexion I’m sure you’ll be ready for the prosthetic in no time at all. Now let me get you a wheelchair. Can’t have you hopping to and fro all day, can we? I’d have thought they would have provided some sticks for you but then that’s the NHS nowadays. My dear Pappy would turn in his grave if he could see the state it’s got into today. Just a nightmare from what it was. Bring back the matrons, I say.”
Austerley didn’t say anything. He knew he didn’t want to but was also keenly aware that even if he did, there were no spaces available in which to insert any words. His mind was still reeling from the primary colour shock of the man’s outfit. Pondering how his nightmares at this point seemed so much tamer than real life, Austerley was suddenly swept off his feet. Pushing the wheelchair against the back of Austerley’s knees, the manager had effectively skittled him into the chair. Before he could recover, the man was leaning over him and continuing with his introduction.
“Now, my name’s Mr Hammond, Graham Hammond Esquire, but you can call me Grahamsey. We all have our little family names here and you’ll be no exception. So it’s Grahamsey. And what do I call you?”
The sudden pause in the conversation took Austerley unaware and he took a moment to realize he was meant to speak. When the question had connected to his brain, he decided this man was getting nothing from him. No, not someone like this. I mean, I don’t mind a feminine side to a man, but what was this, he thought.
“Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you’re just a shy one during the introductions. Hey, that’s alright, we can all be like that sometimes. Well, except me, obviously. I’m what you might call your extrovert. Little Grahamsey here, doing the do and all that, just for you. Oh, I do make myself laugh some times. Tell you what, I’ll just call you Aussie.”
I’m getting pummelled by a fashion car crash, thought Austerley. Not that I’m God’s gift to fashion, but come on. He looks like a children’s TV character.
“Indy, just call him Indy.” Kirkgordon had returned.
“Oh, Indy is it? Now that’s something. From what dark deeds of the past does this rugged man get this title then? Please tell. I’m all ears.”
“It’s his Harrison Ford looks that do it. Have you ever seen such a chiselled chin?” Graham seemed somewhat unconvinced but rallied superbly to extend a hand to Kirkgordon and shake it. I daren’t tell him it’s Austerley’s cavalier attitude to the dark forces of this world and beyond that get him his nickname. Austerley’s probably strange enough for this guy without adding anything extra.
“Well, I’m Graham Hammond, or Grahamsey, as I was telling…” – Graham paused briefly as if checking he wasn’t just missing the joke – “telling Indy. We all stick to our little family names, as I call them. So, we have Indy and Grahamsey, and you are…?”
“Kirkgordon.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Kirk. I used to know an excellent snooker player in Blackpool called Kirk. He could knock any ball into a pocket with his walnut cue, and they don’t make them for fun. He was quite a hustler too and a wild night out, used to have us all in stitches. Got hit by a bus on the promenade after winning a donkey derby as the rear end. Tragic.”
Austerley’s face was frozen. Crystallized in disbelief, he choked at the donkey derby reference to such a degree that Graham produced a handkerchief.
“Actually, it’s Kirkgordon. As in a surname.”
“Right. Well, Mr Kirkgordon, what shall we call you?”
“Churchy,” Austerley butted in.
“Oh, a minister,” observed Graham.
“No, no,” insisted Kirkgordon, “but Churchy’s fine if you want to use it. Indy and I just have a different view of the end times, that’s all.”
“Well, the only end time I worry about is closing time at the pub. Mind you, they’re not too sharp round these parts, you can usually get a few stacked up if you’re so inclined. Maybe I’ll take Indy here out for a few glasses of champers tonight.” Kirkgordon had to turn away as his face exploded into a silent laugh. He knew Austerley’s eyes would be boring into the back of his head but this was priceless.
“Right then, Indy, better get you down to your room.” Graham strode to the nearest hallway and shouted, “Clivey, are you down that way? Can you do me a delivery?” A gruff voice answered in the affirmative.
“Clivey” turned out to be a six-foot, broad-shouldered man of about thirty with a shaved complexion. Wiry black hair adorned his head and he seemed rather dour as he pushed Austerley towards his new room. After fetching some sticks, Graham escorted Kirkgordon to the room as well.
On hearing a bit of a commotion coming from Austerley’s room (the reason for which seemed to be a debate on whether Austerley should have a particular copy of a book, whether or not it was in compact form), Kirkgordon made his excuses to Graham and wandered back along the corridor. Glancing into an open room, he saw an elderly lady sat on a bed staring at a mirror. She turned her head slowly and studied the stranger in the hall.
“Are you a policeman, son?” she enquired.
“No, madam, I’m not. Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Kirkgordon, feeling a yearning to be helpful.
“They did away with him. That’s why I need a policeman. Not one of those constables either. Proper one like Morse or that French guy. Parrot.”
“Poirot. He’s Belgian.”
“Sounds bloody French to me. Anyway, one of those ones. The ones who take care of the bodies.” Well, thought Kirkgordon, Austerley’s in the right place, this is indeed the nuthouse.
“Who’s been done away with?”
“Norman Melville, of 4 Farnborough Road, Derbyshire. Pleasant man but a bit thick. Nasty habit of scratching his nuts too, when he sat down. Still, he didn’t deserve that.”
“Deserve what?”
“Getting killed. You really aren’t a detective, are you? Too slow. Morse would be on to it by now.”
“Who killed him? When?”
“Just this last week. And they did it. They come in the night if you’ve been chosen and take you away into the night. Then when you come back you’re older. A lot older. I saw Norman before he went and when he came back he was at least forty years older.” Kirkgordon raised his eyebrows. The lady was hunched with a protruding shoulder blade and she struggled to look up at him. He realized she was able to look comfortably in the mirror at him, though this gave the impression she wasn’t interested in anything.
“Don’t look at me like that son, bloody whippersnapper. I ain’t mad. A little absent minded, but not mad. If you’re marked they come for you and you gets old quick. From grape to raisin and a lot less hair,” the old
woman continued.
“So what happened to him?” She stayed silent, looking at the mirror, and Kirkgordon swore her eyes had glazed over. “I said, what happened to him?”
“There’s no point talking to Massey, Churchy,” said Graham from behind Kirkgordon. “She’s catatonic. Lovely lady in her own way. Been here for three months now, little darling. But as far as conversation, she’s not your girl. Awful pity.”
Kirkgordon turned around to see if Graham’s face matched his words but he saw no trace of any lie. But she had spoken alright. It was time to hold counsel, thought Kirkgordon, wait and see how things lie.
“Yes, Grahamsey, lovely woman.”
“Indy is in a bit of a stushie and requesting your presence. Is he always this highly strung?”
“Well, you see, he’s like a top-notch instrument. You have to know how to play him otherwise he just makes a dreadful racket.”
Graham smiled and escorted Kirkgordon back to Austerley’s room.
Standing on one foot beside the bed, Austerley was waving about a small book, out of the reach of a trim, petite blonde-haired girl who was dressed in blue scrubs. Her hair was tied back with a blue hairband, and from the rear she looked no more than eighteen. Clive was just leaving the room, shaking his head.
“What’s the hassle, Indy?” asked Kirkgordon.
“This wench insists on taking my book from me, the Russian one! The ignorant cow thinks I’m liable to do myself an injury with it. Never heard such nonsense. It’s my book, see, mine!”
He’s such a petulant child at times, thought Kirkgordon. And being rude to a woman, too. Pretty little thing from behind. And from the front too, it seems.
