An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (12 page)

Crombie begun a more through inspection, noting a nasty bruise to Rhyllann’s temple, but otherwise he appeared unscathed. He continued patting down Rhyllann’s body, frisking his legs now in a desultory manner, certain no bones were broken. His breath caught in his lungs as his fingers encountered stickiness. The white of the bandage made whiter by the rapidly spreading splodge of crimson blood. He scrabbled at the bandage, yanking at the safety pin and began unravelling loop after loop of bandage, slowing to ease the last few inches of blood soaked material from Rhyllann’s flesh. He felt limp with relief. The ricocheting bullet had flashed past Rhyllann’s calf muscle, causing the gash made by Alfie’s teeth to open up; however the dense crepe bandage triple thick in some places had provided some protection, and possibly saved him from a gunshot wound.

‘Lizzie - throw me a cushion quickly. Wren - do we have another bandage?’

Lizzie scrambled over with a cushion. Wren lurched to a kitchen cabinet, to rummage through a first aid kit and rolling out a bandage began to re-wrap the wound with efficient movements.

‘Crombie, they’re waiting for you at Hammersmith Hospital. Ask for Doctor Thomas, we’ve got private health care.’ Ripping a tear in the end of the bandage, he tied it neatly, careful to keep the knot from the wound. Addressing Lizzie he said,

‘Me and your Dad’ll get Annie into the Passat. Can you make sure those two are tied up?’

‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ Lizzie said in a small voice.

Wren and Crombie exchanged glances.

‘Lizzie, if you and your Dad take Annie to the hospital, I’ll tidy up here. Then we can think about getting the authorities involved.’

‘It’ll be just as quick Lizzie love.’ And this was true, Crombie told himself.

‘No! You can’t! You can’t move him.’ Lizzie sounded aghast. ‘You can’t take the chance.’

Rhyllann stirred, his eyes fluttered open, and he struggled to sit up. ‘What happened?’ His legs twitched and his face twisted up in pain.

‘Ow! That hurts!’ He reached down to rub at his leg and grimaced again. Looking about the room, his eyes rested on Lizzie, and he managed to raise himself on his elbows, then sat up.

‘I’m not dead yet.’ He snapped pushing Wren’s hand off his arm.

‘How do you feel son?’

‘My head’s killing and my leg feels funny - it keeps throbbing.’ Rhyllann raised a hand to his forehead, obviously woozy, obviously not dying.

‘Come on. I’ve booked you a room at your favourite hospital.’ Draping Rhyllann’s arm over his shoulder, with his arm around Rhyllann’s waist, Wren struggled to his feet.

‘Don’t stand on that leg.’ He ordered, trying to pivot under Rhyllann’s weight.

‘Dad, stop him!’ Lizzie looked about ten years old in her Hello Kitty pyjamas, and Crombie half expected her to stamp her foot. He wanted nothing more than to grab his daughter and take her home out of this mess, leaving these hooligans to do what they wanted. But Rhyllann’s face shimmered with sweat and his eyes rolled up in his head as he passed out again, causing Wren to stagger against the sink unit. Pushing Wren aside, Crombie slung Rhyllann over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and started for the door. Behind him, he heard Wren still giving orders, to Lizzie this time.

‘Can’t you take him?’ Lizzie begged.

‘Your Dad’ll be fine.’

‘He drives like an old lady. Please Wren!’

‘He’ll be fine. Anyhow, I’m not insured on your Dad’s car. Don’t forget now, round the back, facing the Scrubs.’

Crombie kept his head down, his arms tightly around the backs of Rhyllann’s knees, hunching his shoulder and balancing the dead weight to manage the door latch somehow. Lizzie caught up with him at the garden gate and got the rear door of the Passat open ready for him to roll Rhyllann onto the rear seats.

‘Round the back of Hammersmith Hospital Dad.’ Lizzie climbed in next to Rhyllann while Crombie slipped behind the wheel and started the engine.

Crombie was in top gear before they got to the North Pole Road, fish tailed round the corner and jumped the lights to turn right into Scrubs Lane.

‘You’re going the wrong way! Dad! You should have turned left!’

But Crombie had other plans that didn’t include crawling over speed bumps. With a twist of the wheel the Passat mounted the pavement, Crombie gunned the engine and shot through the sentry birch trees, scraping bark, and roared onto the Scrubs at eighty miles an hour. The Passat’s high beams strobed the darkness turning black to white, the tyres churned across London Irish’s Lacrosse grounds onto the smoother running track. Minutes later the Passat’s nose smashed open the metal emergency vehicle access gate, and they hurtled along the cul-de-sac running between the soaring brick wall of the prison and the less threatening white plaster wall of the hospital.

Barely fifty yards away was a sign fixed to a lamppost, on a brown background the letters “PP” discreetly pointed the way to the private wards, Crombie slammed into second gear, and swerved left.

‘Oh thank goodness!’ Lizzie breathed at the sight of a trolley and two white coated attendants clearly waiting for them. Wren must have called ahead again. Circling the roundabout the wrong way, Crombie stopped alongside the trolley; even before he turned the engine off, Rhyllann was transferred onto the trolley. The next few minutes were a flurry of doors opening and closing and rushing down corridors until they came to the theatre, and Crombie and Lizzie were allowed no further. All Crombie ever saw of Dr Thomas was a tall thin figure draped in green, apart from a white mask over his face and white gloves up to his elbows. The upper half of Rhyllann’s body disappeared into the sheath of a shiny white coffin shaped machine, and Crombie surmised they were running MRI or CAT scans. Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief, when Crombie placed an arm around her she turned to bury her face in his chest and began heaving dry noisy sobs.

A young woman hurried towards them, tucking dark hair under her nurse’s cap and with the sweetest smile on her plump face.

‘You must be Lizzie and Lizzie’s Dad. What a nasty scare you’ve had, we’ve got a nice peaceful room waiting.’

She took Lizzie by the arm, but Lizzie clung tighter to Crombie, and he went with her, holding her hand while the nurse helped her into a bed with crisp white sheets, and coaxed her into swallowing a couple of valium. Crombie looked approvingly at the blinking eye of the security camera tucked into a corner of the cell like room. His girl would be safe here. Telling Lizzie he’d be back shortly, Crombie brushed her fringe back from her forehead, and snuck out the room, duty bound to help Wren “tidy up.”

On the drive back across the Scrubs, gnawing at a finger nail, Crombie told himself that if it was the last thing he did as a copper, one cosy little relationship was being exposed. Although even if Lampton and his sons and at the outside Cavan Blenkinsop got long jail sentences, that wouldn’t stop them giving Crombie grief. We’ll have to go into witness protection, he decided. I’ll insist on it before testifying. After all, they’d somehow managed to snatch Lizzie from her college digs in the dead of night. He tried to ignore the little voice that told him he might not be asked to testify. Whitehall might close ranks, in fact - who knew how far Lampton’s reach stretched.

Australia, I’ve always fancied Australia.
He shuddered at the thought of trying to persuade Mrs. Crombie and the girls to leave their roots.

He’d reached the top of Latimer Road now, and indicated right, unconsciously slowing as he ran through the amount of “Tidying up” that lay ahead before he could call the incident in. He hoped Wren wouldn’t be too difficult about giving the alligator up to the authorities, and began worrying about how much force constituted “Justified Resistance”.

He’d no doubt Lampton and his boys would sue him, screaming police brutality and probably have sympathetic newspapers take up their cause and rake over every bit of dirt on Crombie they could find.

Resisting the temptation to gun the accelerator and speed off, Crombie sighed heavily and trundled towards his responsibilities, telling himself that next time an elephant went missing, Rodgers could deal with it. If events didn’t defy belief, he could probably dine out on this story for the rest of his life.

Once again, Wren Prenderson had everyone running round in circles and pissing out straight. His hands gripped the steering wheel again, as he remembered the light in Wren’s eyes as he promised to “tidy up.” And he wouldn’t drive his cousin to hospital either. When it suited him, Wren would wilfully disregard every law in the country.

‘Oh god, what have I done?’ He tried to swallow against a mouth sandpaper dry, knowing he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

******

As soon as Crombie, Lizzie and Rhyllann left, Wren hurried up the stairs to check on Alfie, knowing Crombie would be back soon. There wouldn’t be much time, but there should be enough.

In Rhyllann’s bedroom, it seemed the Lampton boy had stirred a couple of times, but hadn’t regained consciousness. Wren wanted to hit him over the head again, but he didn’t have the time, in any case it might upset Alfie all over again. He’d burrowed himself in the towels making a nest for himself, and Wren hated to disturb him, but this was necessary.

Using two of Rhyllann’s belts, he knelt beside the animal. Keeping his movements unhurried and crooning all the time, he crossed them under and around Alfie’s belly and front legs to create a makeshift harness. He ran a hand under the electrical tape, reassuring himself it wasn’t too tight, knuckled Alfie’s head and promised to be back soon. He had business to take care of first.

Shouldering Rhyllann’s empty holdall, Wren entered the lounge. An old style free standing safe stood in one corner, its black paint blistering with age. The lock was still good and strong, and the four inch steel door so heavy Wren had to use both hands to open it.

Plonking the holdall on the floor, he transferred everything from the safe, sweeping his hands around the cavernous interior to make certain nothing remained. He left the holdall, now weighing a ton, by the front door and hurried back up the stairs for Alfie. Pushing the door wide open he whistled, then called as though calling a reluctant dog to heel.

‘Come on Alfie, get a wriggle on.’

From the kitchen, the house phone rang. With a thrill of pleasure Wren thought it could only be one person, leaving the door open for Alfie to follow or not as the mood took him, Wren raced downstairs, picking the handset up on the sixth ring.

‘Hello?’ The phone was dead. There wasn’t even a dialling tone. Wren looked up sharply at a slight click followed by an insistent hissing. In the corner of the kitchen, his gloved hand still resting on the cooker’s controls, stood a man in black. He was tall, and he was skinny, and Wren had met him before in nightmares. It was the boogy man Gran warned him and Rhyllann about. A balaclava obscured the top half of his face, against the pallor of his chin, his lips seemed thick and obscenely red, as though he made a habit of biting them. Still holding the phone in his hand, Wren backed away, stumbling into the corridor. One of the banister spindles rolled beneath his foot, and before he could regain his balance, his legs flew out in front of him, and he landed on his backside with a woomph. Still neither of them spoke. Wren knew that if he tried to speak, all that would come out would be a gibber. Grinning and showing a set of perfect teeth, achingly white against the cherry red lips, the stranger grabbed both his ankles, and dragged him back into the kitchen, now reeking of gas. Wren’s throat closed up against the fumes, he clutched the phone so tightly he felt the plastic housing snap, a shard dug spitefully into his palm. He stared desperately into the stranger’s eyes, the same dull black as the woolly balaclava surrounding them.

Suddenly the stranger broke eye contact, his perfectly round eyes bulged. Momentarily his grip tightened on Wren’s ankles, then he was stumbling backwards, his lower lip quivering with fear.

Wren looked up just in time to see Alfie launch himself through the gap in the banisters. He ducked as the alligator’s thick set body flew unerringly through the air, angling towards the doorframe to land against Wren’s attacker with a wallop. The man staggered back against the sink unit and Wren swore he heard an unholy crack and hoped it was the bastard’s spine. Raising his snout, Alfie’s nostrils flared as he sniffed at the thickening sickly smell. Performing an ungainly ‘U’ turn on the man’s body, he waddled past Wren, towards the front door. Breathing heavily, Wren staggered to his feet and followed without looking back.

Five hundred yards from the house, the Passat juddered. Crombie glanced at the fuel gauge, mildly alarmed. A split second later a thunderclap boomed deafeningly loud and violent and displaced air thrust Crombie back into his seat. The Passat juddered again as the air swept back and Crombie watched as flames erupted from the cousins’ house, even while he stamped on the brake and clutch. An inferno raged and the interior of the Passat grew unbearably hot, the windscreen creaked ominously. Without taking his eyes from the flames, leaping thirty, forty feet - impossibly high, Crombie selected reverse and backed off, swinging round to park in the nearest warehouse car park. For once the door opened without protest, Crombie sprung hurriedly from the car and dashed into the street to stare hopelessly at the devastating fire rocketing three stories high, casting dancing shadows against the warehouses opposite.

Mere seconds had passed, yet it seemed he had been staring back down the street forever, eyes transfixed. Again and again Crombie moaned, ‘Oh my god, ohmy god, oh mygod.’ He began running towards the burning building, then stopped, wringing his hands, his lungs struggling with heavy dry breaths, unable to take his face away from the flames until another explosion boomed out, making him duck and he retreated back to the Passat, swiping at his eyes, filled with gritty smoke.

The flames bright orange tinged with blue grew higher and higher, seeming to defy gravity as they reached for the skies, and now the whole terrace rolled with smoke, magically bursting into multi-coloured flames; there were several smaller explosions and Crombie saw the little green Stag had caught fire.

‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.’ He began chanting again, feeling vaguely he should call the fire brigade. As if conjured up by his mind, from far away, he heard the first of the sirens as fire engines approached. To his surprise seconds later the engines pulled up, hesitated then rolled a couple of hundred yards away from the inferno. Crombie’s hearing could pick up a crackling now, like a radio tuning in but louder than any static he’d ever heard, he wondered if it had been present all the time, his ears felt curiously waterlogged, and he cupped his palm against them, trying to create a vacuum, only succeeding in making his eardrums ache.

The flames seemed to be retreating, Crombie wrenched his gaze away to watch firefighters struggling with hoses. Glancing back to the cousins’ house he noticed every now and then the darkened brickwork showed through the flames. Crombie followed one flame which seemed especially possessed, sucking in his breath as it jumped across the alley, to be followed seconds later by a ball of fire which rolled along the garage rooftops stopping against the outside wall of the chip shop.

Crombie shouted, and wanted to run, to alert the firefighters of this new danger, but his legs wouldn’t work for some reason. With baited breath he watched the fireball burn out against the wall, hoping it would exhaust itself before setting fire to Maudie’s. The ball shrunk into itself, now it was only the size of a football, and just as Crombie thought it was going to be alright, another explosion sharper and more business like filled the air, sucking it away from Crombie’s lungs and flares flew up in bright blues and greens from the fats stored in Maudie’s fish and chip shop.

‘Whoa! Look at Mouldy’s fish and chip shop go!’

Crombie’s blood turned to water, and he turned slowly, certain he was hallucinating.
 

Barely two yards away, wearing a green Kermit the Frog t-shirt Wren stood clutching Rhyllann’s holdall in one hand, holding a length of rope in the other. Harnessed to the other end of the rope, Alfie gave Crombie his customary put-upon stare, and lowered his body to the ground with a sigh.

‘Gas explosion. Lucky no-one was caught in that!’ Wren raised his eyebrows at Crombie, jerking his head towards the car he said

‘Shouldn’t we be going? If we leave now, we can make Weymouth for breakfast.’

Crombie gaped at Wren, bruised and battered, his trainers caked in mud, but somehow triumphant. Wren smiled shyly as if to say “impossible, but here I am.” Furious suddenly at all the chaos Wren had single handedly created, Crombie said sharply.

‘Wren Prenderson, I’m arresting you ...’ He faltered. Swinging his head back down towards the devastating scene almost certainly engineered by Wren, he watched as firefighters stood about watching the last of the flames dying away. A crowd of sightsee-ers were keeping well back, and finally the police arrived, blue lights flashing importantly.

‘Give me a hand Crumblie.’ Wren had the boot open, and after a brief hesitation, Crombie turned to help load Alfie into the Passat. Wren satisfied himself that Alfie was comfortable, and slipped into the passenger’s seat, waiting for Crombie to buckle up next to him. Before Crombie started the engine, Wren scrabbled around in Rhyllann’s holdall, producing three smartphones. He lined them up on the dashboard. Comprehension dawned on Crombie. Lamptons’ smartphones. All Lamptons’ contacts. He could even access their computers. Wren smiled, reading his mind.

‘How d’you fancy being King of London?’ Settling back in the passenger’s seat, Wren closed his eyes.

By the time Crombie got on to the M3 motorway, deserted at this time in the morning, he decided he liked that idea very much.