In Which Tufty Has A Close Call With A Banana And DI Steel Has A Lie Down
Flipping wingwang . . .
Tufty lay flat on his back, beside the ruined patrol car, blinking up at all the fog. Letting the world whooooooosh round and round and round. It had stopped going up and down, which was an improvement. But wasn’t getting any quieter.
A screechy wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee bagpiped through his poor fizzing brain, bringing with it a weird creaky-squeak-groan kind of noise. Getting louder. Like a huge robot mouse was approaching, or some very heavy metal thing coming loose from its moorings.
Oh noes . . .
He did some industrial-strength blinking.
A very heavy metal thing.
Coming loose.
‘Eeek.’
Scrambling to his feet – not easy in a great-big stabproof vest – he stumbled away from the patrol car.
Which was probably going to need more than a quick once-through-the-car-wash on their way back to the station, what with the Godzilla-sized chunk of pipe-and-valve-work sticking out of its bonnet.
Smashed windscreen. Scratched paintwork.
One of the front tyres was flat too.
Hope they weren’t going to take that out of his wages . . .
A dull burny sensation faded up in the middle of his chest. Like indigestion after a far too spicy curry.
Looking down revealed a thing poking out of his tattered high-vis waistcoat. Sort of dark, and plug-like. A fizzy-wine cork, only made of threaded metal.
He pinched the twisty end between his fingertips and pulled, tugged, and finally yanked, till it popped free of his stabproof vest.
Snidging snudge.
It was a bolt.
A seventy-millimetre solid-metal bolt.
Tufty stuck a finger in the hole it left behind, wiggling through the layers of torn Kevlar and whatever else his stabproof was fashioned from, till the questing digit made his chest sting like a great-big wasp had been at it.
Not quite all the way through, but it was Womble-funtingly close. And right over his heart, too.
Talk about a near-death experience.
This was—
The robot mouse went twang . . .
Tufty hunched, like a ninja, spinning through a quick three-sixty, Kung Fu hands at the ready as he checked his surroundings for immediate threats.
Only when he stopped turning, the universe didn’t – whooshing by at warp factor eight, making him stagger sideways a bit.
Holding onto the murky air for balance till it all slowed down again.
Wow.
That was much cheaper than buying booze. But the hangover wasn’t a lot of fun.
The robot mouse’s squeaky-creak-groan turned into a tortured squeeeeeeeeeeeeal, then a CLANG.
He stared as that massive Bannaner-Spanner logo peeled away from the industrial unit’s wall and smashed to the ground – crushing the patrol car’s whole driver’s side and burying spiky metal struts deep into the tarmac exactly where he’d been lying only moments before.
Nearly deaded three times in ten minutes.
An explosion.
A deadly heart-seeking seventy-millimetre bolt.
And a huge metal bannaner-spanner.
‘Double eek.’ And a Klingon called Derek.
Wait, that wasn’t right . . .
Tufty wiggled a finger in his ear.
‘Tripple eek?’
Nope, could barely hear himself over the wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Should probably find Steel. Everyone knew she was lost without him, because he was the bestest sidekick in the whole wide thingummy. And who knew what kind of trouble she’d get into if he wasn’t there to help.
‘GUV?’ A deep breath made him cough and hack for a bit. ‘DETECTIVE INSPECTOR STEEL!’
Of course she might be calling for help at this very minute, but he just couldn’t hear her over the tinnitus? And the car alarms.
Right. Well. Nothing for it, then.
He unclipped his Airwave. ‘ALPHA CHARLIE TEN TO CONTROL. ASSISTANCE NEEDED AT SILVERMOSS BUSINESS CENTRE!’
A really, really quiet voice whispered back at him. ‘We know! No need to shout. And it’s on its way. ETA: five minutes.’
Fair enough.
Tufty straightened his ragged high-vis, brushing weenie cubes of safety glass away – to ping and clitter-clack against the tarmac. Pulled his shoulders back.
Time to do the Big Brave Police Officer thing, and—
Oooh!
No: hat.
No hat.
Wasn’t wearing his hat.
Mustn’t forget the hat.
It added a touch of gravitas to the uniform. Let people know you were trustworthy and dependable. Could always trust a man in a hat. Like Indiana Jones, or Santa.
And his was still in the car, on the dashboard.
But when Tufty turned to fetch it, the patrol car hadn’t magically unflattened or unexplodified itself, and his hat remained crushed beneath a huge steel banana/spanner.
Poop.
Just have to do this hatless . . .
He strode out into the glowing white blur of dust.
The first couple of people he discovered had somehow managed to arrange themselves into the recovery position. Which was helpful.
Then, up ahead, a silhouette faded into view. Turning into a photographer’s back-end. Her front-end was snapping away, the flash kicking-in every now and then, making the dust-fog shine even brighter.
What on earth were they photographising? It wasn’t as if you could see anything through all this . . .
Graeme Anderson emerged from the haze, back straight, blood smeared on his crisp white shirt. Tie missing. And he had DI Steel’s limp body in his arms.
She was on her back, one arm dangling over the side, face crimson with blood. Mouth hanging open.
Oh fuck.
Tufty rushed forward. ‘GUV?’
And the photographer snapped on.