Darkness at Dillingham: An Austerley & Kirkgordon Adventure #2 Page 2

  “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 bi
t 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.

  The girl had turned to face Kirkgordon and, although trim, had enough curves to show she had reached womanhood. Her face showed frustration, begging for help, and riding to her rescue came Sir Churchy Kirkgordon, vanquisher of all things Austerley.

  “Just give her the book, Indy, and let’s get on. I ain’t had any tea.”

  “It’s one of those books,” countered Austerley. Ah, thought Kirkgordon, a little diplomacy required.

  “Can I have a word, Miss? Grahamsey?” Once outside the room, Kirkgordon continued in a quiet voice. “Look, he’s just a little embarrassed that you have found his stash.” There were bewildered faces looking back. “His private reading.” No change on the faces. Okay, delicate isn’t working. “It’s his porn. Okay? He’s a bit embarrassed.”

  “But why is it called Poems to raise the dead?” asked the girl.

  Arse, thought Kirkgordon, why does everyone read Russian except me? “It’s just the cover. Quite clever, really. I mean, where do you hide yours?”

  “Under-sink cupboard, in the bathroom.” The last few words were said by Graham. There was an embarrassed silence as he realized he was speaking out loud.

  “I’ll just take it away, if that’s agreeable?” concluded Kirkgordon. Graham walked away quickly, back up the corridor. The young girl nodded and looked into Kirkgordon’s face.

  “Are you going to be here long?” she asked.

  “Two weeks, they say. I’m not staying here, but I’ll be in town.” Kirkgordon’s eyes dropped from her face down to her chest. On the way they saw a necklace, made in a black metal with some intricate twists.

  “Maybe I can show you around?”

  “Well, I may need a guide.” What’s the harm, he thought. After all, it’s not like I’m wanting to get her into bed. The girl returned to the room and Kirkgordon followed, taking the book from Austerley, saying he would hold it for him. The girl, on seeing that Austerley had everything he needed, left the room and Kirkgordon closed the door.

  “You always take the side of the pretty girl. Your tongue was practically hanging out,” accused Austerley.

  “Hey, I got your book back. And don’t have a go at me for window shopping. That’s all it was.”

  “Well, I’m tired and my back’s sore from you pulling me out of the train. I’m going to get some sleep.” Kirkgordon threw the book at Austerley, hitting him in the midriff.

  “There, but don’t get caught with it. Had to tell them it was your naughty mag.”

  “Cheers for that. Labelled as a one-footed pervert already.”

  “I’ll drop by tonight. Sleep well.”

  “Churchy, did you see it?”

  “See what?” asked Kirkgordon, pissed off at being delayed.

  “Her necklace.” Kirkgordon gave Austerley a quizzical look. “Seen it before. Get me a picture of it if you can.”

  Kirkgordon nodded and waved goodbye in a dismissive fashion. Time for some quality freedom.

  Stretching out his back, Kirkgordon braced himself for the walk back to the town centre, ready to search for a good restaurant. There was a shower just starting overhead but the lightness of the clouds said that it would be brief. As so often, the British weather was providing rain amidst strong sunshine. Just starting to walk, he heard a voice call him.

  “Hey, before you go.” He turned and saw the young nurse again, still in her blue scrubs. “I finish at ten. Fancy picking me up and going for a pint? I can show you the good local ale. You don’t look like an alcopop guy.”

  She’s fast, thought Kirkgordon. He knew he shouldn’t, but it would be late and not much alcohol would be involved. He reckoned he could trust himself.

  “Okay, but it’s not an all-nighter, okay? Just a pint or two.”

  “Quarter past ten. My car’s here, so we can go straight from here.” She turned to re-enter the building.

  “One more thing.” She turned around. “What’s your name?”

  “Titania, but everyone calls me Tania. Except Graham, he calls me Tansey.” Kirkgordon laughed.

  “Okay, Tania, see you then.” He glanced at the necklace she wore before she turned. I’m just getting a photo, that’s all. And some pleasant company. That’s all. It’s okay because that’s all.

  The Not-So-Honourable Captain Smith

  The steak and ale pie at the King’s Head pub was adequate but not a patch on Alana’s cooking. Of all the things being back in her company had brought to the surface, one of the main ones was his appetite for her meals. Always thinking with my stomach: that’s what my mother always said. Still, I sure could have eaten an Alana lasagne.

  There were a couple of hours to kill until his rendezvous with Tania, and Kirkgordon’s first thought was to spend them visiting Austerley. But they would be together for two weeks of this and they would probably be at each other’s throats in no time. Stuff it, he thought, let’s make the most of this free time. Despite being a Saturday evening, all Kirkgordon could find was an exhibition at the local arts centre.

  The rotund and jolly lady on the desk gratefully accepted his two pounds for the “special” display and directed him towards a green door with flaking paint. “Smugglers and Bandits on the Dillingham Coast” read the A4 laminated sheet on the door. Classy, thought Kirkgordon. I’ll bring Austerley here. At least if he wrecks anything it won’t cost the e
arth.

  Opening the door, Kirkgordon was accosted by a man-sized pencil drawing on the wall beside him. In fairness, while it was obviously an amateur effort, it did give off an aura of terror. In an imposing tri-cornered hat, an incredibly detailed long jacket with gleaming buttons, and pantaloons that reminded Kirkgordon of the seventies, the bearded scoundrel was pictured in mid swing of a cutlass. Captain Tobias Smith was the slightly disappointing legend to the picture.

  “Quite the man, was Captain Smith.”

  Kirkgordon turned around and found that the lady from the desk had appeared behind him.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “It’s okay,” said Kirkgordon, “I was just checking out this rather good portrait. Quite the pirate, this fellow.”

  “Well, thank you. It’s one of mine,” the lady answered and smiled. “I’m Jane Goodritch. I run the centre with what little funding we receive. You’d think someone didn’t want the history of this town to be known.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter, just some local politics I guess. But you’re not here for that, Mr…?”

  “Kirkgordon.” The lady waited for a first name. “Just Kirkgordon.”

  “Well, Kirk, the man in front of you has probably provided this town with the darkest hours ever known in its history. Captain Smith was a pirate, or a privateer if you prefer, who came home expecting to run this town with his ill-gotten foreign gold. But a religious order had been set up in his twenty-year absence and the townsfolk refused to make him Mayor on his return, despite all the money he was offering. He was so disgusted that he refused to live in the town and instead resided with his men on his boat in the bay.

  “Then one night, without warning, he took his men ashore to sack the village. There was a night of chaos and most of the buildings burned. The town militia triumphed, but only barely.”

  “Sounds like a nasty case,” commented Kirkgordon.

  “That’s not the end of the tale, Kirk,” continued Jane, “not by a long chalk. You see, as Captain Smith was dying, he was asked by the local priest to confess his sins and receive redemption. Instead he swore a curse on the town, crying out to the devil, vowing that one day his kin would once again lay siege to the town and take it for their own.”