Scooters Yard

by Clive Mullis

  Dewdrop and Beryl increased their pace as they entered a dark spot and only slowed down when they reached the comfort of a bit of hazy light. Each of them gripped their truncheon tightly in one hand whilst holding onto their whistle with the other, ready to blow, before hurrying on to the next little oasis. They paused briefly, looked around, listening for any sound that might make their hackles rise, before venturing forward once more. They knew the beat, they had walked it often enough; in the daylight hours, it didn’t hold much menace, but with the onset of night, with the floating mist, the streets became forbidding — and the two feelers were not exactly known for their bravery.

  There came a shuffling sound and then a high-pitched screech rang out before two cats, their eyes glinting like sharp green emeralds, sprinted out of an alley to skitter past the two feelers, hissing and spitting as they fought. The noise subsided as they disappeared into the distance leaving something like a hole behind.

  Dewdrop let out the breath he held and began a nervous relieved laugh. His shoulders relaxed and then he turned to Beryl. ‘Bet that scared the shit out of you, didn’t it?’

  He didn’t receive a reply.

  ‘Beryl?’ ventured Dewdrop into the dark. ‘Beryl? Stop mucking about, this ain’t funny.’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Look, if you don’t come back now, I’ll tell all the boys at the watch-house about your secret little hobby. I’m being serious, Beryl; this is definitely not funny.’

  The silence only emphasised the lack of human company. There appeared a void now where once a feeler patrolled.

  ‘Er… Beryl, you know what I mean, don’t you? Your needlepoint: I’ll tell everyone about how you spend your off-duty time.’

  The silence continued for a few more seconds and then a low moan came wafting through the air.

  ‘Beryl? Is that you? Stop kidding around. I’ll keep my mouth shut, honest.’

  Then there came a choking gurgling type of sound followed by a rasping intake of breath. Dewdrop reached into his pocket and pulled out his policeman’s lantern: a tiny little device about the size of an egg-timer. He scrabbled in his pocket for a match and then set to work trying to spark the damn thing. His hands wouldn’t do what his mind wanted to and he struggled to get it going. Eventually he managed it, and the little lantern blazed into life. Then he remembered he had forgotten to refill the thing at the start of the shift, only the Gods knew how long it would last before giving up the ghost.

  A little pool of light emanated from the small device and he held it out towards where the noise had come from. The opening to an alley, which neither he nor Beryl had seen, loomed out of the inky darkness as the mist lifted for a brief few seconds. He inched towards it, the lantern shaking in his grasp. He had a problem: he could only hold on to two things at a time, so he decided to hold the truncheon as well as the light, taking the chance that he could find the whistle in a hurry if he needed it.

  He crept forward in a crouch and eased the light into the alley, a whiff of something really sour hit his nostrils and he hesitated. He took a deep breath and then stepped forward into the unknown. As he entered the alley, the walls on each side seemed to shrink towards him, the entrance behind disappearing into the murk, but now something else occupied his mind as the outline of two feet sticking up came into view.

  Dewdrop sniffed, swallowed bile, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Then against his better judgement, he crept further forward, towards the worn out soles that filled his vision. The bigger part of his mind told him to run like hell, but the little policeman part told him to investigate — unfortunately, that part won.

  The lantern flickered, telling him that it wouldn’t last much longer. Taking another gulp, he reached out to see beyond the soles of the boots. He looked, and it took a while for the information to hit home. He saw a policeman’s uniform, at the top of which he could see a head that looked remarkably like Constable Beryl’s. With that now registered in his mind, he looked down at the chest where he could see a piece of paper pinned to the uniform. He was just about to reach out to have a look at what it said, when the lantern finally gave up the ghost, indicating its demise with a phut type sound, before the blackness suddenly descended.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Constable Toopins, holding out what had now turned into just a little glass jar.

  He gave a shrill, loud and very long blast on the whistle. Not content with just one blast, Dewdrop gave several, quickly, one after another. It didn’t take long before he was totally out of breath, the last blast being barely louder than a budgie with toothache. Fortunately, a few feelers had heard the call, the more conscientious deciding to run in the right direction — soon Dewdrop had company.

  ‘In there,’ he yelled to the first feeler to arrive. ‘It’s Beryl, I think he’s dead.’

  Mags and Hobs were having a mug of tea and a quiet smoke in the hospital dining room while they waited for the bacon sarnie’s to appear, the smell wafting over them as the rashers sizzled in the pan. The cook took out his dog-end, then flicked the ash onto the floor before shoving it back in again, sniffing as the steam went up his nose. He hawked, but fortunately remembered he was cooking, before spitting out the result.

  MacGillicudy poked his head around the door and saw the two ambulance men lounging in repose. He quickly glanced around to see if any feelers were in before deciding he could approach safely. ‘Well, my lads. Sorry to disturb your, no doubt, well-earned cuppa, but I have a question or two to ask.’

  Hobs looked up and nodded. ‘Thought you might, Jethro.’ He took a long drag and indicated a chair.

  ‘Thanks, boys,’ he replied, sitting down and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘A quiet couple of questions.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ responded Mags softly, looking deep into his eyes before lifting them and turning his head. ‘Oi, Charlie,’ he yelled. ‘Could you chuck a couple of eggs on as well; an’ do one for ol’ Jethro here.’

  MacGillicudy winced.

  Charlie threw up a thumb and called over. ‘Right you are, lads; in for a grilling are you?’ He then started chuckling at his little joke. ‘Grilling. Bacon. Commander. Not bad fer this time o’ night.’

  Hobs grinned as MacGillicudy squirmed in his chair. ‘You just carry on, Jethro. Don’t mind any o’ this lot,’ and he indicated all the doctors and nurses draped around the room. Most had their eyes closed as they tried to cat-nap. ‘They’re all too bloody knackered to worry about what you’re saying.’

  MacGillicudy gathered his thoughts as he looked around all those lounging there, exhaustion written on all their faces. He coughed gently and returned his attention to the ambulance men. ‘I want to know about Beryl: what happened, what you did and what you saw.’

  Mags took a last puff and ground out his rollie in the overfull ashtray on the table. ‘Well, when we gets there, he were lying flat out on his back. Gave him a check over and found a lump on the back of his noggin; reckon that had laid him out. Everything else were as good as new. He had this bit of paper pinned to the front of his jacket though, a bit strange that, so I took a look, as it ain’t every day you come across an unconscious feeler with a note pinned to him. It said sommat about “women and the force.” Seems someone doesn’t like the idea of you taking them on.’

  MacGillicudy nodded, he had seen the note not ten minutes before, and someone definitely had the arse about women joining the feelers. ‘What were the feelers who were there doing?’

  ‘Not a lot, as far as we could see. One or two were wandering around looking fer clues, but by the state of that alley, any clue would be hard to come by. Full of shit, snot and feathers, if you ask me.’

  ‘That’s about right,’ added Hobs. ‘There were five feelers there, and none of them looked like they knew what to do. That lad Toopins, you call him Dewdrop, he were in a bit of a fluster, kept saying he was talking to Beryl one second, and the next, he just disappeared. Felt a bit sorry for
him really, only a young lad; bit green is he?’

  MacGillicudy nodded again. ‘Hasn’t done a year yet.’

  ‘That would explain it, then. Something else I noticed: right by ‘is head, I saw a button. I clocked it because it were the same as the ones on Beryl’s uniform. I counted: Beryl’s were all there.’

  MacGillicudy leant forward in his chair, the hairs on the back of his neck springing to attention. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged.

  ‘Not much else to say really. We drags him out, loads him up and brings him here.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said MacGillicudy thinking. ‘What happened to the button?’

  ‘Don’t know about that; that’s your field. Pointed it out to one of your lads, can’t remember who, it being dark ‘an all. Left it to them to sort out.’

  The hairs on the commander's neck were still sticking up. So far, no one had mentioned a button found next to Beryl’s head. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, more in hope than expectation.

  Both Mags and Hobs shook their heads. Just then, Charlie came over with the bacon and egg sarnies and laid them out on the table with a couple of bottles of sauce. Mags and Hobs pounced on them, poured on half a bottle of brown sauce and squidged the top slice of bread down so that the yolk of the egg and some sauce leaked out of the side.

  ‘Lovely stuff!’ exclaimed Hobs, as he raised the sandwich to his mouth.

  MacGillicudy looked at his and then shrugged his shoulders. It was late and he was hungry; shame to waste a perfectly good bacon and egg sarnie. Old habits die hard, he thought, as he took a large satisfying mouthful.

  Rose tossed and turned in the bed: her mind full of what the commander had said when they were at the pub. She sighed heavily and looked over to Cornwallis who didn’t have any trouble at all in sleeping. She sighed again and then dug him heavily in the back with her elbow.

  ‘Uh?’ he grunted.

  ‘Jack? Are you asleep?’

  ‘Wasssamatter?’ came the groggy response.

  ‘I need to ask you something.’

  Cornwallis yawned and then grunted some more as he rolled over. ‘What?’

  Rose raised herself on one elbow and leant over him. She never wore anything in bed and Cornwallis had a beautiful moment; he might be half asleep, but he still could appreciate what loomed over him, enough to make him agree to anything, as he had found to his cost on numerous occasions.

  ‘Did Jethro really mean what he said? I mean, it’s still early days, and I just wondered if you thought he might change his mind.’ She stroked his face with a delicate finger.

  His arm slid around her waist and she didn’t resist as he pulled her close in. ‘He won’t change his mind. He can’t afford to anyway, so there’s no need to worry.’

  She sighed. ‘Okay, I believe you.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re awake now, aren’t you?’

  He nodded, brushing her skin in the movement.

  ‘Oh goody,’ she exclaimed, as she began to delve beneath the covers.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cornwallis had a spring in his step as he walked towards Scooters Yard. He’d had an early start but that didn’t bother him at all — to get woken up under those circumstances…

  He’d already been down the dwarf tunnels and spoken to Goodhalgan, the King of the Dwarfs, and they had reached an agreement that suited everyone. They had just begun to get to work as he left.

  MacGillicudy sat in his office, nudging some paperwork around the table in the hope that some of it would find its way into the bin without him actually putting it there — a Commander of Police had to have some sort of conscience.

  ‘Ah, Jack. Good to see you,’ he said, raising his head and painting a smile on his face as Cornwallis came in. He twiddled a button between his fingers. ‘Have you had any luck with our little friends?’

  ‘More than luck. Goodhalgan has got to work already. You should have an additional entrance ready by this evening. One of their tunnels runs very close, apparently, and it won’t take them long to dig an offshoot. He said you can get your team down by supper time.’

  ‘Really? As quick as that? What did you agree to?’ he added, with a bit of concern.

  ‘Nothing more than what we talked about.’

  ‘Oh good: mind, that’s bad enough.’ He sighed and then rubbed his head with his hands. ‘I’m still not sure how I’m going to get that done.’

  ‘You’re resourceful, Jethro; you’re a man who can get things moving. Just say it and I’m sure the minister will see how beneficial it’ll be to the city.’

  ‘You think that?’

  ‘I've already mentioned the cellars and health and safety, but I’ll have another word with my father, seeing as he has the minister in his pocket.’ Until recently, the earl had been kept at arm’s length within the government, a minister without a ministry, normally something deemed to be a dead-end job. However, the earl had now become the Warden’s right-hand man, owing to the fact that the Warden could trust none of his colleagues, apart from the earl. Cornwallis senior now had a reputation as someone whom it would be better not to cross, his very suggestion generally considered to be not a suggestion — an order would be closer to the mark.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. A specific liaison officer dealing with all things dwarf might give ideas to every other minority in the city, though. How are we going to deal with them?’

  ‘Might be a good idea if every minority had one, but one thing at a time, Jethro; let’s get this sorted out first. What’s that you’re playing with?’

  ‘A button, a police uniform button. Someone hit Constable Beryl on the head last night, rendering him unconscious with a note pinned to him telling me to stop recruiting women. It’s a good job they didn’t kill him; they found this button next to him.’

  ‘Really? Let me have a look.’

  MacGillicudy passed it over and Cornwallis looked at it, twisted it over and handed it back.

  ‘One of the ambulance men saw it, but I had to ask around before one of the feelers remembered picking it up.’

  ‘Who picked it up?’

  ‘Foley, a youngster.’

  ‘What about the note?’

  ‘Here.’

  Cornwallis took the note and read. “Police is for men. Stop employing women or there will be more of the same.”

  ‘Someone definitely has the arse. You going to ignore it?’

  ‘Of course.’ MacGillicudy sat back, scratched his head and let out a breath that left his lips vibrating long after it had gone: the sound much like a deflating balloon with a pinched neck. ‘Just to change the subject; I haven’t seen the cat about much. I know he’s around as I’ve heard the screams when a feeler has tried to stroke him. Mind you, no self-respecting watch-house cat would do anything else. It wouldn’t be right to be a nice fluffy bundle of joy and contentment, the lads wouldn’t trust it. That cat must have been reading up on what a police cat is meant to do, and that is, bite the hand that feeds it.’

  Cornwallis grinned. ‘I think Frankie might have had something to do with that. I believe he gave a few instructions.’

  ‘That would explain it, then. Have any of you had a word with him?’

  ‘Not yet, but it’s still early days. I think if anyone can root around, then Fluffy’s your man… or should I say feline’

  A yell of fury followed by a yell of pain wafted in through the open window, right on cue. Cornwallis and MacGillicudy looked at each other and then hurried over to look. Sure enough, down below, a feeler cradled his hand as it dripped blood all over the nice clean newly swept yard. The tail of a cat could be seen hiding behind a couple of boxes and a rusty old contraption, once used by old feelers to extract a little bit more information than a felon was prepared to give: a museum piece really, from the days of the old Morris Council; thankfully, now consigned to taking up space and being used as a can-crusher by the cook.

  ‘At least we know he’s still about,’ said MacGillicudy. �
�I just wish he’d come up with what we need.’

  ‘He will, Jethro. You know what that cat can do; we just need to let him do it. Patience my old friend, have a bit of patience.’

  Pendon loomed out of the mist like a ghost ship riding the current through a bank of fog, the ethereal effect ruined by a feeler letting out a loud wet fart. A raucous laugh came from close by, followed by a whimper of dismay. Rose stopped to listen to the exchange.

  ‘I think I followed through, Barry.’

  The laughter took on a more cynical sound. ‘Serves yer bloody right, boy. You shouldn’t have had that corry last night. Ye gods, the wind’s in my direction, you dirty little sod.’

  ‘S’not my fault, Barry, it were all them spices, an’ all them onion bargey thingy’s.’

  ‘If you expect any sympathy from me, boy, then you is very much mistaken. Oh, Jeeesh. I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Rose could see in her mind the hand desperately wafting the air as Barry tried to reverse the flow.

  ‘Oh gods, Barry. I can feel it dribbling down me legs.’

  Rose could hear the tension in the voice as the situation became desperate.

  ‘I can’t stay here. Barry, I gotta do something.’

  ‘Then go and do something, but fer gods sake, get out of my air.’

  Rose waited as she heard the quick stepping feeler depart from his post and head through the mist towards the academy. As the feeler got closer to the door, he came into vision; a young feeler, waddling quickly, like a duck running from a butcher’s knife not wanting to become dinner.

  Rose pulled a face and edged closer to the door, the older feeler had his back turned and stared off into the distance; only the Gods knew what he hoped to see.

  The whiff in the lobby still lingered and she quickly hurried through to the back where the girls waited for the day’s lessons to begin. Diffin came through the door at the same time as she arrived and seemed surprised to see her.

  ‘Oh. Er, Miss Morant, I mean Rose. I didn’t expect to see you this morning.’ His nose gave a twitch as the lingering odour found a home.