Hugh Hamilton
'Here' turned out to a be the outskirts of a snow-capped little village, quaintly decorated in seasonal colours. Ben and Hugh were no longer sure they weren't dead. Hearing a distant choir, the latter turned to the former.
"Did I ever tell you—"
"Don't," said Ben. "I know."
A few moments later, they were beckoned from the helicopter's blood-spattered interior by Freeman and his much-discussed firearm. Delirious, Ben strapped on an invisible parachute and dove into the snow. Hugh, meanwhile, fell into the snow with no apparent effort.
"You take the little one," said Freeman, gathering up Ben and draping him over his shoulder.
"But... he's bleeding," said the pilot.
"And?"
"These pilot digs don't just buy themselves."
"Well, unless you'd care to join him, you'll do as I say."
The pilot spent a moment trying to word something about surgical thread before relenting. Having secured the bodies to their persons, Freeman and the pilot trudged off through the fire-glow merriment, eventually reaching the heart of the village.
"Can we rest a moment?" asked the pilot, stooping suddenly.
Freeman stopped halfway into a blink. "Why?"
"He's heavy."
"Heavy? He's all of three pounds."
"Kilos."
"What?"
"Three kilos."
"My good man, three pounds does not equal three kilos. You think the metric system was a linguistic phenomenon?"
"No, I—" The pilot stopped. "Let's go."
After doing just that, Freeman and the pilot arrived at a cosy little house at the end of the village. Freeman knocked. They waited. Finally the front door swung open, revealing an overweight man in a beard.
"I've brought the detectives as requested, sir," said Freeman, dipping his head subserviently.
The man surveyed the bloodied bodies, adjusting one of his red suspenders as he did so.
"Jesus Christ."
"I've brought the detectives as requested, Jesus Christ."
"Why are they bleeding everywhere?"
"Why are they bleeding?" said Freeman.
"Yes."
"I stabbed them."
"You stabbed them."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Orders."
"Whose orders?"
"Er, your orders."
"Did I order you to stab them?"
"In a way."
"In which way, exactly?"
"In an indirect kind of way. It was more of a look you gave me."
"A look?"
"Yes, and based upon that, I took the initiative and—"
"Stabbed them."
"Yes."
"Did it ever occur to you they might have come willingly? Say if you said, Hey guys, the person at the bottom of this whole mystery would like a word with you, if you'd care to step into this helicopter?"
"No. They're a fiendish pair." Freeman glared at both in turn.
"I would so have done that," said Hugh, suddenly regaining consciousness.
"Me too," said Ben.
"You see?" said the man. "And now we have to waste my dear trained-nurse wife's time patching them up. Dear?"
A round, homely woman appeared in the doorway.
"Can you take care of these two bleeding gentlemen for me?"
"A'ight."
In a formidable display, the woman put Hugh over one shoulder and Ben over the other, not so much as grunting as she carried them down the hall.
"I really appreciate this, Mrs...?" said Hugh, now bedded.
"Oh, we'll have none of that formality here. Just call me Deir."
"That sounds awfully inappropriate."
"You can stick with Deirdre if you'd prefer. Just none of this 'Mrs' business."
"Deirdre Business," said Hugh. "That's a cool name."
"What?"
"Forgive my friend," said Ben, chiming in from the adjacent bed. "He gets funny around stunningly beautiful women."
"Will you quit doing that?"
Deirdre chuckled. "I'll get you two patched up, shall I?"
Half an hour later, Ben and Hugh emerged in matching blue dressing gowns.
"Who said you could wear my dressing gowns?" barked the man, seated around an inviting wooden table with Freeman and the pilot.
Hugh gulped. "Deirdre — Mrs Business."
"Well, then she shouldn't have gotten pregnant."
"Um..."
"I know, I know. I may hold some old-fashioned views about women, but at least I'm not one."
"I..."
"Now I suppose you're wondering why I dragged you all this way."
"Kinda."
"Well, then I shall tell you. But first — cocoa."
No comments:
Post a Comment