Midwinter
Mystery – Chapter Twelve
"Two
Men, A Hearse and a Kind of a Car Chase"
For a long time there
was only nothingness, a cold dark emptiness void of sentience, but
then an indistinguishable sound, a murmur of hope, from an unknown
realm pierced the barrier. A quiet voice calling out from beyond,
growing steadily clearer and stronger, “ John, John, can you hear
me ? Are you all right ?” It was a life line back to reality, from
surely the one, the only person who could have reached him in such a
place. “ Cathy.. is that you ?” he mumbled from his incoherent
state. His full senses began to gradually return to him and he parted
his glazed eyes open, their unfocused vision straining to block out
the brilliant white background that was preventing him from
identifying the features of his deceased wife, “ Am I... dead ?
Is this heaven ?” he asked more out of curiosity than fear.
"NAH, IT AIN'T HEAVEN,
CHIEF ! IT'S MISTRY !” the voice suddenly changed in tone and
gender and John became aware that his mystery companion and situation
were still very much on the side of the living.
"IT'S ME, GEORGE ! DON'T
YER REMEMBER ?” proceeded the young lawman, overly loud and
simplistically as in all things. “ Oh... yes I do... unfortunately
!” John stirred, accepting George's unsolicited assistance in
sitting up. “ Ugh, what happened ?” he groaned, the small
exertion causing yet another shock wave of pain to momentarily
incapacitate him, and give rise to the realization that his head had
grown another hat size with the addition of an even larger contusion
to it's recent collection. “ I dunno, Chief ! ” George answered
earnestly as he knelt down behind John trying to make him as
comfortable as possible propping John up against him, supporting his
fallen comrade with one arm around his far shoulder and the other
firmly grasping the nearest upper arm, and there they rested for a
minute on the wet ground. “ I 'eard you shout out, and came over,
but when I got there – you weren't ! Then I saw some footprints in
the snow, so I followed 'em back 'ere to find you lying on the job as
it were - spark out !” reported George. “ 'Say, p'haps you got
walloped by this 'ere fallen branch ?” the young P.C twisted
slightly backwards and picked up a sizeable branch that lay nearby .
“ Blimey, it ain't 'alf a biggun', Chief ! ” he said weighing it
in his hand, “ ya were lucky it didn't crack yer skull right open !
Specially if it fell from all the way up there !” the young verbose
man cricked his neck attempting to look upwards.
"Uhh,
well it sure feels like it's been cracked open, ” John confirmed
sharply, “ if that's any consolation to you !” His head pounded
in agony as he leant forward while relieving George of his discovery,
“ Huh, that isn't a branch - it's a small trunk in disguise !” he
commented sceptically. “ But, I'd have to be pretty unlucky to be
hit by this branch... while standing underneath THIS tree !” he
followed, turning his head slightly and wincing in discomfort as he
looked up at the lumbering giant towering above them. “ This branch is from an Ash tree, where as this tree ..” he gestured with
wave of a hand to the one immediately above them, “.. is a mighty big Oak !” George stared back down at the misplaced
bough,
"Oh, I guess it couldn't
have been that, then.” he said slightly disillusioned.
"Hmmm, well let's not
write it off just yet,” offered John examing the piece of wood more
closely. “ See here, if you look carefully you can make out some
dark hairs caught on it with traces of what looks like blood …
fresh blood !”
"Oh, yeah !” admitted
George studying it closer and then winced slightly as he looked back
at John. “ Err, you've got some..” he pointed a finger at his
Chief's head and wiggled it about indicating an area above his eyes.
"What ?” John pressed
impatiently, he dabbed a hand lightly across his forehead and
withdrew it to find that the fingers were now covered in a red sticky
substance, from the thin stream of blood that trickled down his face.
“ Ah, of course... blood. Does it look bad ?”
"Well.. erm.. I'd..
probably see the doctor when we get back, if I was you,” advised
George, “ jus' to be on the safe side, like.” John noted his
companion's reluctance to look directly at the wound, and took from
it the truth of the answer. One thing he knew for sure, he had to get
moving again - soon.
John tried to
stand up on his own, but the effort was still too much for him, his
legs faltered and he pitched forward. George made a swift
interception, catching him in his arms, “ 'Ere, you'd better let me
give you a hand there,” he offered kindly. With this support John
made his way over to the broad Oak tree and rested against it, “
You were pretty lucky y'know, Chief ! Not with being slugged an' all
that, but 'cos I was with ya !” he said somewhat pragmatically. “
I mean, there's no tellin' how long you could 'ave been left lying
out 'ere... all alone, in the cold and dark. Why it just doesn't bare
thinkin' about - anything might have 'appened to you ! ” he shook
his head at the thought. “ ALL RIGHT, I GET THE PICTURE, THANK YOU
VERY MUCH ! “ snapped John, reacting to his guardian's worrying
thoughts. “ LORD, YOU'RE A CHEERY LITTLE... SOUL, AREN'T YOU ?”
he concluded. He put one arm around the tree and gently lay his head
back against it - experience had taught him that in situations like
these it was best to remain as calm as possible, the slightest
excitement or even the mildest of emotional outbursts could prove
fatal – and closed his eyes for a moment's peace.
“
So, if it didn't fall
from this tree, how did it come to smack you around the 'ead then ?”
George interrupted the interlude, his attention taunted by the
offending timber.
“
It had an accomplice !”
John answered without opening his eyes.
“
Wot, you mean somebody
deliberately whacked you one with it ? Why ?”
“
Too many footprints,”
came John's cryptic reply, as he glanced down at the ground before
them. “ It appears that there's been a lot of activity around here
recently... one man... size 10 boots, I'd say... has been traipsing
all over the place, recently ” he shared the deduction while still
draped around the tree, holding firmly onto it for stability, while
struggling to form his words and thoughts. “ My guess is that they
belong to your 'Mad Monk' chap, and he must have lost something on
the night of the accident, something important to him, something he
had to retrieve.”
“Strewth ! How'd you
come to that ?” George marveled, scratching his thick head of black
hair as if trying to stimulate his perplexed brain cells.
“
BECAUSE... I FOUND IT !
WELL, I SAW IT, ANYWAY ! I guess my calling out to you must have
alerted it's owner of the fact and... and he decided to take matters
into his own hands – literally – to stop me.”
“
So, what was it then,
this thing you found ?” George's curiosity fit to bursting.
“
A gun,” came the
deathly reply.
“
A GUN ! Are you sure ?”
George challenged in surprise.
“
Believe me, I've been on
the wrong end of them enough times to know what a gun looks like, ”
came the seasoned verification. “ I'd say it was revolver, possibly
a Webley .32 caliber, by the look of the barrel I saw sticking out of
he snow.” John frowned trying to replay the picture in his mind.
“
Blimey, a monk with a
gun, eh !” George remarked in surprise and astonishment. And then
after a short pause, “ Why would a ghost need a gun ?”
“
Why does anyone 'need' a
gun ? To stop or kill something, someone.” John answered
thoughtfully. “ It's too bad you didn't see anything... “ he
stopped suddenly in mid-assumption. “ Wait, DID you see anyone
else around here ?”
“
Nah, no one... well,
'cept for some old tramp on a push bike that's all.”
John straightened up and
pushed himself away from the mighty oak, “ A tramp ! What was he
doing ?”
“
Nothing, he jus' came
out the woods, jumped on his bike and rode off down the road.”
“
Didn't you try to stop
him ?” questioned John,
“
No, why should I have ?
He hadn't done anythin' wrong, ” George defended his position. “
I thought you were jus' callin' me over to show me something, how was
I to know you'd got yourself into trouble.”
“
I DIDN'T GET MYSELF INTO
TROUBLE, I WAS ATTACKED FROM BEHIND !” John clarified irritatedly.
“ All right, let's just put it down hindsight for now, shall we ?”
John conceded. “ Now, what about this fellow, you say he was on a
bicycle, right ? Well, there's a chance then that he hasn't got too
far away, in which case we may still catch up with him, if we get
moving fast.”
“
Wot for ?” questioned
George still unsure of this course of action.
“
Oh, I always try to
introduce myself to the local down-and-outs in my district... SO I
CAN ARREST HIM OF COURSE !” John countered sarcastically venting
his growing frustration on the young constable. There was a moment of
silence between the two, both taking stock of their situation, then
George added, “ On what charge ?” John breathed in deeply, an act
that caused him an unexpected amount of pain with very little relief,
before replying, “ How about; Removing evidence, fleeing the scene
of a crime and.. oh yes, assaulting a police officer in his duties –
namely, ME ! Is that enough, or would you like more ? ” George
nodded slightly as he mulled over the facts, “ Yeah I guess. So you
really think he was the one who clobbered you then ?”
“
Well, it's between him
or the tree, and I don't particularly feel like bringing that in for
questioning right now. No, the tramp is our man, I'm sure of it !
But, if bt some chance he turns out not to be, then he may still be
able to help us with our enquiries. He may have seen someone or
something himself,” said John putting his left arm over George's
shoulder for support, preparing to leave the sanctuary of the old oak
tree behind him. “ Come on, let's get back to the..” he hesitated
momentarily before begrudgingly using the word, “..car !” George
slid his arm around John's waist and settled into the burden of
escorting him across the wintry wasteland.
“
Did you see which way he
went, or was he moving too fast for you ?”
“
He took off towards
Salem's stream, in a fair hurry now you mention it all,” revealed
George as he clasped John's free hand as it dangled from his
shoulder.
The two men
braced themselves in solidarity, gazing over the sea of snow that lay
between them and their objective. Normally such a short trek across
an icy white surface wouldn't have been cause for concern – for
either of them - but given it's hidden depths, the growing waves of
unfriendliness from the biting wind and John's sinking state of
consciousness it had suddenly become a far more serious undertaking.
George stepped up to his responsibility as a human crutch, wrestling
with his chief's semi-deadweight whilst trying to stay on his own two
feet. John found the venture equally testing, desperately fighting a
one man battle against his senses, as he came under heavy assault
from dizzy spells, light-headiness and blurred vision. His heart rate
quickened and a streaming cloud of warm breath flowed from him like
an industrial chimney - to be borne aloft by the chilling breeze.
They trudged carefully through the arctic covering, their limbs
entwined with each other, moving in a cumbersome three-legged race
manner. An occasional misplaced step would see them dropping down
into a deeper vein of the white stuff – almost up to their knees at
one point – or narrowing avoiding tripping over a fallen log.
They eventually
staggered out onto the roadside, the bottom of their trousers sodden
with melted snow residue. John still maintained a firm grasp on his
young rescuer whether out of necessity or simply because he was
unable to relinquish his hold - was hard to say. “Right, let's get
a move on,” said John, unable to feel his feet, or little else, in
the penetrating glacial climate – although ironically it was
probably this very condition that was helping him to stave off from
passing out. Upon reaching the motor, John made his way round to his
side of the car and eased himself in – thankful for the rest –
while George busied himself with starting the engine. “ All right,
'ere we go again. Are you you ready ? ” George looked
apprehensively over at John as he turned the motor over.
“
Not really, but I don't
have much choice in the matter, we must find that man... he's the
only lead we have right now !” he answered sincerely and slightly
desperate.
With a cough, a
splutter and a explosive back fire of it's exhaust the old hearse
blasted into life and pulled jerkily away. A series of lurches
followed as it became accustomed to moving again, which George put
down to as a 'warming up' process, while John on the other hand
considered it more a ' trial run' of which both parties – driver
and vehicle – were guilty as charged. Not surprisingly the drive
was neither enjoyable nor expeditious, and the continuing absence of
anything to hold onto was only contributing to John's mounting
anxiety and diminishing cognizance.
All three, the car,
the driver and the reluctant passenger doggedly pursued the spirit of
the road – if not it's parameters – jostling, bouncing and
crashing along in a chaotic manner. Down a shallow
hill, up the other side and round a bend they went, all without hide
nor hair of their quarry, Then finally, a sighting of the lone
cyclist – between the trees - peddling like fury, heading in the
opposite way on a parallel path, “ That's him, that's the fellah !”
cried George in excitement. “ He must have doubled back at the '
Devil's Crossroads', it's about quarter of a mile or so a head of us
!”
“
We haven't got time for
that, cut across the first clearing you see, that should close the
gap up between us,” directed John assuredly.
“
Are you sure ? It ain't
gonna be easy y'know, and I'm not sure if Hettie's can manage it
either. She's taken quite a hammering 'erself recently, y'know !”
“
That makes two of us...
wait... who the hell's, Hettie ?” John asked, not entirely sure if
he had misheard or just not been informed of a possible third party.
“
Oh, Hettie, it's what we
call her,” George clarified, patting the steering wheel.
“
You named your car
'Hettie', why ?” John pressed painfully in disbelief.
“
Well her full name is
'Henrietta', but we call her 'Hettie' for short. And we didn't name
her, the previous owner did !”
“
You mean the undertaker
did. He named his hearse 'Henrietta'...” John concluded slowly, “..
of course ! I should've known better than to ask.” He leant
forward, arms held straight out in front of him locked tight as he
grimly grasped the dashboard, “ Look, just do what I tell for now !
And I'll take full responsibility for any damage to 'Hettie'... and
you, okay ?” George worryingly obliged, “ Right yer are, you're
the boss !” he blurted, changing his foot to the brake, stamping
hard on the clutch and grinding the gear stick through it's paces,
sending the car sharply on a new heading.
The unscheduled
detour hadn't progressed very far before John started to regret his
decision, although not a fighter his body was already exhibiting all
the external signs of an overly abused punchbag that had just gone
twelve rounds with a prizefighter, and the only bell ringing he could
hear was the one in his head. He was tossed around the cab like a rag
doll, not having the benefit being sat behind a large steering wheel,
like his driver. But even that didn't fully protect George from the
internal maelstrom either, as he ricocheted in an eternal triangle
between the back of his seat, the wheel, and the driver's door. The
car barely avoided hitting the variety of natural obstacles that
sprang up in front of them, but did manage to to successfully locate
the hardest and most demanding route through the wooded area. The
slapdash course – dictated more by their general size, weight and
speed than any geological factors – bound 'Hettie' to the continual
highs and lows of the terrain, rising and falling, listing and
rolling her way over a variety of exposed roots and odd rocks,
stretching it's structural capacity to the limit. George was also
affected by this irregular motion, “ Ooooh, I don't feel so good,”
he groaned, “ I think I've got seasickness or something !”
“
Hmm, it's hardly a joy
ride for me either !” confessed John. “ Look, just get us back to
the road tas fast way possible. There's no point chasing anyone if
neither of us are fit enough to do anything with them, when their
caught.”
“
Got'cha, I think the
road passes close to that next rise,” George half pointed towards a
small slope that was to the left of them, just high enough to obscure
whatever was waiting on the over side. “ Well don't wait for my
permission, DO IT !” John governed curtly his nerves jangling
under the strain of trying to stop himself from passing out. George
rammed the gear stick into a lower gear and pressed hard on the
accelerator sending the vintage vehicle flying up the incline like a
rocket blasting off from it's gantry – except for the lack of
speed, power and thrust. They soared momentarily in the air like a...
clapped out old hearse loaded up with half a ton of King Edwards,
before crashing noisily back down to earth and ploughing their way
through the final wall of vegetation back onto the road. Leaving a
stream of discarded undergrowth and a shower of sparks in their wake.
“
Lumme, that must be the
exhaust pipe ! I hope we don't lose it - again !” George sounded
genuinely concerned, straining to look out the wing mirror for any
possible collateral damage to 'Hettie' that might have been left on
the road behind them.
“
I wish you wouldn't say
things like that in front of me – it doesn't particularly inspire
confidence,” John said wearily, applying steady pressure to a
throbbing vein over his temple. “ Sorry, Chief, I'm sure
everything's o.k. ! She's a tough old bird really, they don't make
'em like this anymore, y'know !” stated George almost proud of the
out of date vehicle. “ A fact we're all truly grateful for, I'm
sure,” retorted John.
“ Now where's
that damn tramp ?” pressed John, struggling to focus his growing
double vision. “ We should be able to see him soon I reckon,
there's a pretty straight stretch of road comin' up after this next
bend !” reassured George, frantically jiggling and jerking the
gear stick around until finding it's desired position. They took the
curve wide and on two wheels, sparks still trailing behind them. John
had taken up residence in the car's footwell, bracing himself with
his back to the leather seat, partly out of respect for the driver's
competency but more as a desperate attempt to conserve whatever
strength he had left. “ HEY, THERE HE IS !” blurted George
excitedly. “ WHERE ?” asked John rising from the depths, his head
just managing to peer out the windscreen. “ Right there !” George
responded accompanied by a nod of the head as if to accentuate the
pedaling cyclist's position. “ 'Ere look at his little legs move,
they're going like the clappers !” he observed in admiration.
“
I don't care if he's
competing for the Tour de bloody France, get after him !” ordered
John brusquely, driven by the deeply growing fear that his time was
running out.
They rolled along
in pursuit but failed to make much impact to the distance between
them. “ I don't believe this ! How can that two wheeled cyclist be
faster than our four wheeled motor vehicle ? This has to be the most
'pedestrian' car chase I've ever been involved in !” sighed John
gently shaking his head while subsiding back down to the floor.
“
I'm going as fast as I
can, Chief ! But we're going uphill and don't forget we're still
carting a load of spuds in the back !” reminded George.
“
DON'T I KNOW IT !”
John's blood pressure started to rise, a condition not conducive to
his current state of health.
“
Hey, the road's starting
to level off, we should be able pick some speed up now,” George
offered a glimmer of hope. “ ABOUT TIME ! Now put your foot down
and get this infernal machine moving once and for all !” asserted
John unable to hide his impatience anymore. George performed open
gear surgery - the patient rejecting any general clutch relief –
while accompanied by the orchestral strains of grinding gears,
before managing to slam it into third. The car leaped into life,
moving from a steady trot, to a canter and then finally breaking out
into full gallop.
Meanwhile, the
cyclist becoming aware of the activity behind him set to putting his
own foot down, and began cycling like some possessed madman towards a
small narrow hump back bridge. “BLAST IT ! We'll never make it over
that, not in this anyway. He's as good as gone already ! ” John
clenched his teeth in annoyance, slumping back down on the seat. “
You may as well slow down, there's no point beating ourselves up
about it any further,” he concluded, and started to prepare himself
for the long journey home. But then he realised that not only were
they not slowing down but were in fact hurtling even faster towards
the restricted opening of the stony bridge, he leant nearer to his
driver incase he hadn't heard him and repeated, “ I SAID YOU CAN
SLOW DOWN NOW !”
The look of
concentration on George's face was seismic and he erupted without
provocation, “ I'M TRYING, BUT THE GEARSTICK IS JAMMED SOLID ! I
TOLD YER 'HETTIE' COULDN'T TAKE ALL THAT BUMPIN' AROUND !”
“
Oh, 'all the bumping
around', yeah sure that must be it,” John repeated skeptically,
suspecting it was more down to driver abuse. “ Well, just hit the
brakes, then !” he calmly advised.
“ I CAN'T.... WE DON'T HAVE ANY !”
George replied, a tinge of hysteria in his voice. “ WHAT !” John
startled turning on his constable for further corroboration, while
aware of the rapidly approaching impediment in their path. “ WHAT
DO YOU ' WE DON'T HAVE ANY' ?”
“ THEY'RE AT THE
GARAGE BEING FIXED ! “ came the unwanted answer from the unhelpful
driver. John's mind raced wildly for any other scenarios, “ RIGHT,
WELL CUT THE ENGINE, THEN ! AND GENTLY APPLY THE HANDBRAKE UNTIL WE
START TO SLOW DOWN !” George sat at the wheel nodding his head in
silent agreement, his face wearing a pained expression then began to
shake his head,
“
IT'S NO USE, THAT WON'T
WORK EITHER... I CAN'T REACH THE HANDBRAKE !” he cried.
“
WHY NOT ?” John
glanced down in search for it, “ WHERE THE HELL IS IT ?” his
manner now infected by the same form of desperation. “ I THINK....
YOU'RE SITTING ON IT !” screamed George, wiping the sweat away from
his eyes with the back of a hand. “ It.. just came away in my hand
the other night, and I haven't had time to sort it out yet !” he
followed weakly, knowing that there were going to be repercussions
for this failing. “ Mebbe, if I cut the engine we might slow down
enough to scrap through it ?”
“
NO, there's too much
going against us now, like momentum and a dirty big pile of spuds !
And that small bridge will never be able take all our weight, ”
John replied morosely, his gaze drawn to the road ahead as they
hopelessly followed the persistent pedaller into the
claustrophobically channelled hedged road.
“
You know if we survive
this lot I'm going to kill you ! Kill you then fire you, is that
clear ?” informed John calmly accepting that the end was nigh for
them as they entered the run up to the small structure.
There was no time
for anymore recriminations or fears as George broke, “ HEY LOOK,
THERE'S A BREAK IN THE HEDGE OVER THERE, I'M SURE OF IT !” then -
as per his usual modus operanti - he suddenly threw the car at the
suspect hole with full zeal.
“
WAIT, THAT'S NOT AN
OPENING ! IT'S A WOODEN...” John's cries were cut short as an
ear-splitting cracking sound preceded a jarring crash and a wave of
disintegrated timbers and pieces of splinters cascaded over the car's
bonnet and windscreen. George switched the wiper on to remove most of
them from his field of vision while steadfastly maintaining his iron
grip and set course.
“ GATE ! A BLOODY
CLOSED 5 BAR WOODEN GATE !” John shouted incredulously, then fell
strangely silent. From there on in they were in the hands of speed,
trajectory and providence as they hurdled their way across a barren
field, fortunately empty of everything except a solitary haystack –
which they immediately ran into. For a while only the sound of it's
engine running over gave any notice of their existence, as they lay
completely interned in the deep pile of dry straw. Slowly, George
stirred from being slumped over the wheel and collapsed back into his
seat, “ Uhhh, wot were you saying, Chief ?” he finally asked.
When no answer was forthcoming he called out, “Chief... CHIEF ARE
YOU ALL RIGHT ?” he squinted into the darkness, “ CHIEF !” he
called again only with more concern, but still no reply came back.
After a while George was able to pierce the darkness and make out the
corner of the cab where John was sat to discover that - he had
vanished !
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