dropped the lighter, let his eyes roll up and his
head sink into the top of the sofa as the draw slowed his heart to one beat an
hour and filled his head with beautiful, warm porridge.
Lights
sparkled and popped in blue and gold and red and the safety curtain went up,
hundreds of feet of greyness hoisted away into the gods. Slowey’s head dropped
again, still so heavy, and he was looking again at the floor of the stage,
oddly formed from gravel and glass. He rolled his neck and saw the curtain
proper, a thin fabric of purple paisley that didn’t quite reach the floor. The
roaring was fierce now but didn’t come from the auditorium, which in any case
seemed empty.
“Come
on, wake up.”
How
rude, he thought, about to take another bow. Had someone just slapped him? He
was so outraged it made him dizzy.
“Come
on, mate. Ambulance is coming. For fuck’s sake, don’t you be properly hurt.”
Slowey
was back in the pub car park, eyes wide open, feet lashing out, baton still
clenched in his right hand, nails digging hot furrows in his palm. The world
appeared still but his head and stomach told him he was plummeting. A purple
paisley dressing gown failed to accommodate the testicles of the figure
crouching before him.
“I’m
police,” said Slowey. He took in the figure’s hairy arms, hefty jewellery and
bifocal glasses before he turned and vomited onto the tow bar of the caravan.
“Course
you are, petal.”
A
Staffy appeared and began lapping up Slowey’s vomit with growling gusto. The
man stood and dragged the dog backwards by its collar.
“Daphne,
don’t be so rude. Maureen,” he shouted. “Come and take Daphne. Did you phone
like I asked you?”
The
man disappeared through the fire doors, the dog straining against his grip and
licking its lips. Slowey braced himself against the caravan and willed himself
to stand. Sirens were howling somewhere. He did hope all that fuss wasn’t for
him. Then the man was propping him up, guiding him away from his car, his keys
left dangling from the door lock.
“Who
are you?” asked Slowey, now reclining on a wall seat inside the pub, a towel
packed with ice on his head and a glass of water in front of him.
“Not
much of a detective, are you? This is my pub and you’re the first cop to
actually appear while it’s being screwed. So cheers.” The man raised a tumbler
of whisky in Slowey’s direction.
Opposite
the bar, both the one-armed bandit and the cigarette machine stood open, doors
levered off, change and fags taken. Slowey traced the tender eggs swelling on
his scalp, choked back bile and wandered if he’d sacrificed thousands of brain
cells for a few hundred quid’s worth of nicotine.
“That’s
not why I’m here,” he mumbled.
“Come
again?”
A
red light blinked from the ceiling above the optics, drawing Slowey’s gaze to
the dull lens of a camera lurking in the cobwebs and coving.
“Does
that camera work?”
“As
far as I know. Bought one of those hard disk recorder drive things for it an’
all. The cheeky bastards took it. And judging by the bits of it I found in the
car park, one of them brained you with it. Does that help?”
Blue
lights flickered through the frosted windows and a diesel engine rumbled into
the car park.
“Too
early to say. Any chance of a short or is it past last orders?”
DI Ray
Newbould and DCI Dave Brennan believed in a clearly defined rank structure.
Brennan sat behind Newbould’s desk, jaw on steepled hands and double chin
almost masking the small, tight knot of his tie. Newbould perched on the edge
of his desk, one foot swinging, touching his tie pin or stroking an
head sink into the top of the sofa as the draw slowed his heart to one beat an
hour and filled his head with beautiful, warm porridge.
Lights
sparkled and popped in blue and gold and red and the safety curtain went up,
hundreds of feet of greyness hoisted away into the gods. Slowey’s head dropped
again, still so heavy, and he was looking again at the floor of the stage,
oddly formed from gravel and glass. He rolled his neck and saw the curtain
proper, a thin fabric of purple paisley that didn’t quite reach the floor. The
roaring was fierce now but didn’t come from the auditorium, which in any case
seemed empty.
“Come
on, wake up.”
How
rude, he thought, about to take another bow. Had someone just slapped him? He
was so outraged it made him dizzy.
“Come
on, mate. Ambulance is coming. For fuck’s sake, don’t you be properly hurt.”
Slowey
was back in the pub car park, eyes wide open, feet lashing out, baton still
clenched in his right hand, nails digging hot furrows in his palm. The world
appeared still but his head and stomach told him he was plummeting. A purple
paisley dressing gown failed to accommodate the testicles of the figure
crouching before him.
“I’m
police,” said Slowey. He took in the figure’s hairy arms, hefty jewellery and
bifocal glasses before he turned and vomited onto the tow bar of the caravan.
“Course
you are, petal.”
A
Staffy appeared and began lapping up Slowey’s vomit with growling gusto. The
man stood and dragged the dog backwards by its collar.
“Daphne,
don’t be so rude. Maureen,” he shouted. “Come and take Daphne. Did you phone
like I asked you?”
The
man disappeared through the fire doors, the dog straining against his grip and
licking its lips. Slowey braced himself against the caravan and willed himself
to stand. Sirens were howling somewhere. He did hope all that fuss wasn’t for
him. Then the man was propping him up, guiding him away from his car, his keys
left dangling from the door lock.
“Who
are you?” asked Slowey, now reclining on a wall seat inside the pub, a towel
packed with ice on his head and a glass of water in front of him.
“Not
much of a detective, are you? This is my pub and you’re the first cop to
actually appear while it’s being screwed. So cheers.” The man raised a tumbler
of whisky in Slowey’s direction.
Opposite
the bar, both the one-armed bandit and the cigarette machine stood open, doors
levered off, change and fags taken. Slowey traced the tender eggs swelling on
his scalp, choked back bile and wandered if he’d sacrificed thousands of brain
cells for a few hundred quid’s worth of nicotine.
“That’s
not why I’m here,” he mumbled.
“Come
again?”
A
red light blinked from the ceiling above the optics, drawing Slowey’s gaze to
the dull lens of a camera lurking in the cobwebs and coving.
“Does
that camera work?”
“As
far as I know. Bought one of those hard disk recorder drive things for it an’
all. The cheeky bastards took it. And judging by the bits of it I found in the
car park, one of them brained you with it. Does that help?”
Blue
lights flickered through the frosted windows and a diesel engine rumbled into
the car park.
“Too
early to say. Any chance of a short or is it past last orders?”
DI Ray
Newbould and DCI Dave Brennan believed in a clearly defined rank structure.
Brennan sat behind Newbould’s desk, jaw on steepled hands and double chin
almost masking the small, tight knot of his tie. Newbould perched on the edge
of his desk, one foot swinging, touching his tie pin or stroking an
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