Chapter 3.02
Roberta paused, one hand on the door through to Tufty’s living room, earwigging on the conversation inside as the toilet cistern’s gurgle-roar slowly faded.
A woman’s voice, flat and nasal: ‘I mind we were taking Sticky Paul in after he peed all over that charity shop on Union Street. And Christ knows what he’d been drinking, cos he absolutely drenched two racks of jackets and a dirty-big box of Dan Browns.
’ That would be PC Loraine ‘The Horn’ Foggerty.
‘Give me druggies over piss-heads any day. At least they dinna barf chunks a’ ower your patrol car.’ Sounded like . . . PC Colin ‘Baddy’ Goodman? Or maybe it was Constable Vernon ‘Outie’ McInnes? Difficult to tell. They both had that same teuchter drawl.
You’d think, after four weeks, it’d be easy enough to tell them apart.
‘Aye, if you’re lucky.’ No, that was Outie. ‘Cos if you’re unlucky it’s going all over the back of your heid. And down inside your stabproof!’
Roberta turned the handle and hobbled inside.
It was maybe half the size of her living room back home, but then she and Susan didn’t live in a two-bedroom flat, on the sixth floor of a twelve-storey tower block.
It was almost completely lined with shelves – crammed full of books and DVDs and figurines of monsters and cartoon characters and spacemen and robots – leaving just enough empty wall to mount a shiny elf-sword thing and a sort of oversized Star Trek Batarang, either side of a life-sized, cardboard cutout of Jean-Luc Picard.
The couch was pushed to one side, making room for a folding dining table and six folding chairs, five of which were occupied.
Tufty sat at the head of the table, dressed in a long hooded robe that made him look like a shortarsed monk from a horror movie. Lurking behind a leather screen that came midway up his chest, hiding his rule books, dice, and assorted paperwork.
Next was Outie – late twenties, looking nervous and hairy, with simian arms, and fur poking out the neck of his T-shirt. Wearing a purple-and-gold bishop’s mitre with a big pentagram embroidered on it.
Then The Horn, with her squarish face and the kind of stubby fingers that could dig through concrete. Glasses, no make-up. Shoulder-length brown hair trapped beneath a long muted-red-and-green sock-type hat with a fedora brim. Freddy Krueger meets the Elf on The Shelf.
Then Tufty’s bidie-in, PC Kate MacKintosh – dishwater-blonde hair held back in a ponytail, glasses, quirky smile, cute in a short-and-spanky-chase-me fashion, sporting a leather tricorn hat – à la Dick Turpin – that had dangly bits on one side and a plume of magpie feathers at the back.
Which just left Baddy, who actually had a proper haircut, instead of a shorn-to-the-bone DIY home-clippers job.
Oval head, NHS glasses, and a chin that barely needed shaving once a month.
The only brown face in the party, in a ‘MOS EISLEY HOLOGRAPHIC CHESS CLUB’ T-shirt and a scarlet Robin Hood cap.
It had an oversized leather coxcomb tucked into the brim, like a prolapse.
‘Aye, aye,’ he grinned, as Roberta hurpled over to the last remaining seat, ‘the Beast returns.’
Roberta thumped down into place. ‘Flipping heck, Outie, what did you put in that salsa? Goes straight through you like Toilet Duck.’
Another grin. ‘Scotch bonnet.’ Outie’s hairy hand came up to point right at her. ‘Haaaaaaat!’
Then the rest of them were at it: ‘Haaaaaat! Haaaaaat! Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!’ until she picked hers off the table and stuck it on her head. A big pointy one in dark burgundy, with a wide saggy brim, and ‘WIZZARD’ across the front in gold sequins.
‘Right.’ Tufty rolled some dice in secret, behind his screen, then reached over to point at the big map that sat in the middle of the table. It was a burnt-out, medieval city centre, featuring a bunch of painted miniatures, cowped-over and scattered around the shattered streets.
Only five were still standing: by far the fanciest figurines, each one wearing fantasy outfits and the same hats as the people gathered around the table. Well, except for Tufty – who wasn’t there.
The wee loon raised his arms. ‘The first snows of winter begin to fall, drifting down from an ashen sky. Melting where they hit the stones that are still hot to the touch. Settling on the dead bodies.’ Dramatic pause.
‘The scrape-marks and blood you’ve been following disappear under the door to the local tavern.
One of the few buildings still standing: “The Boar and Griffin”.
’ Tapping the map with an extendible pointer, so they all knew where he was talking about.
Baddy put on his character’s Terry-Thomas voice: all posh, English, and lispy. ‘I rap on the inn door with a pleasing rat-a-tat-tat rhythm.’
Another secretive dice roll. ‘The tavern door creaks open, and there stands a hideous half-troll in a stained leather apron, holding a mop in one hand and a severed human arm in the other.’ Then Tufty dropped into a gruff, ‘What you want? We’z closed!’
Kate went all pirate. ‘I uses me Thief’s Eye to see if there’s anything worth stealing in the room beyond. And gets me a squint at what the ’eck’s going on.’ She rolled non-secret dice of her own. ‘Thirteen.’
‘OK . . .’ Tufty consulted the inside of his screen.
‘Between the half-troll’s hairy legs you can make out a pleasing hostelry, with an open fireplace, wooden tables and chairs.
It also contains a pile of crumpled bodies – some of who are missing various bits – and what looks like a Goblin, in chef’s not-so-whites.
She’s using a pair of pliers to pull the teeth from a dead barbarian, singing away to herself. ’ He put on a creepy voice:
‘Tooth pie, tooth pie,
We’ll fry their gizzards and pickle their thighs,
Wrap it in pastry and stuff it with eyes . . .’
Baddy grimaced. ‘Remind me not to eat here.’ Then back to being Terry-Thomas: ‘Hey nonny, nonny, and well met, jolly Innkeep. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Linda Mooncog, Bard par excellence, renowned throughout the nine kingdoms, and these are my companions.’ A pointy finger went around the table, starting at Kate.
‘Skink Moatcheat, logistics; the Venerable Cleric Rennin Omens, spiritual guidance; Ariglyn Rooftree of the Woodland Realm, security; and The Great Eberto Alters, Wizard of Resettlebora, spells, enchantments, and magical whatnots.’
Roberta gave Tufty/the Innkeeper a cheery wave, and because everyone else was doing funny voices, launched into an unflattering impersonation of Chief Superintendent Pine: ‘Aye, braw tae meet ya, wee man!’
‘Indeed.’ Baddy leaned forwards. ‘My companions and I were wondering: what happened to your lovely town?’
Tufty rolled. ‘He sniffs. Chews. Then spits at your feet. It looks like mashed spiders.’
‘Urgh!’ The Horn shuddered. ‘Too graphic.’
Tufty part-trolled it up again: ‘What ’appened to our “lovely town?” What’s it look like? Now sod off, we don’t open till dinnertime. Chef’s still workin’ on the menu.’ Miming pulling teeth. ‘Then he slams the door in your faces.’
Hmm . . .
Roberta sat forward. ‘Can I do some sort of time-window spell, so we can see into the past?’
‘Check your spell book.’
Not so much a book as two sides of A4 with her character’s stats on it. And only six spells: Tasha’s Hideous Laughter, Chaos Bolt, Burning Hands, Magic Missile, and Detect Magic. None of which looked time-windowy. ‘Bollocks.’
Outie raised a hairy hand. ‘If we can find a victim of the attack, who’s not too smashed up, I can cast Speak with Dead?’
‘Arrrr . . .’ Kate winked. ‘Well, mateys: looks like we best rummage ourselves up some nice fresh corpses for the padre here . . .’
Baddy waved a tortilla chip about, generously loaded with Toilet-Duck dip. ‘. . . so I said, “Either you put your trousers back on, or I’m dragging you down the station like that.” And you know what he did? He—’
‘Whipped off his pants and ran around whirling his willy about like an aeroplane propeller.’ The Horn rolled her eyes. ‘You tell this story every time.’
The sound of busy rustling came through from the galley kitchen – the door lying open so Kate could still be part of things as she clattered a whole bag of oven chips onto a tray, ready for cooking – while everyone else lounged about the table, out of character, but still wearing their hats.
Well, everyone except Outie: off for a fag on the wee concrete balcony.
Roberta scooped up some hummus on a cheese-and-onion crisp. Turned out crisps-and-disps were remarkably similar to chips-and-dips. ‘Aye, we’ve all had helicopter willy wavers.’
‘You know,’ The Horn crunched a carrot stick, ‘it’s so nice we can talk shop again. Our last wizard was a civilian and you can’t, can you. Too risky.’ Going in for some cheese dip. ‘And I know, officially you’re not Job anymore—’
‘Nah.’ Baddy shook his head. ‘Once Job, always Job.’
Tufty tried the taramasalata. ‘I has been wondering though, guys, maybe Roberta does wants an break from all the police gossip? Maybe it does has being a sore point, and all that.’
Which was just sodding weird. Hearing the wee loon use her real name, instead of calling her Sarge, or Guv, or Your Royal Scariness. Could see him wriggling when he said it too. As if it was just wrong.
Suppose that’s just what happened when you retired . . .
‘Nah, I don’t mind.’ She shrugged. Frowned. Disped another crisp. ‘Kind of soothing, to be honest.’ Chewing on the thought. ‘Not that I miss running about after stots and scumbags. I used to, but now?’
Tufty nodded. ‘Good for you.’
‘Did a mindfulness course at North East College. Got me to recognise my patterns of “learned obsession” and develop tools to deal with “obtrusive cognitive patterns”.’ Scrunching on a pickled-onion finger. ‘Oh aye: my Police Scotlanding days are over.’
The Horn drooped. ‘Wish mine were. You know what I spent my day doing? Standing around like a pickled fart, guarding the burnt-out remains of a noodle van.’ Making explanatory hand gestures at Baddy.
‘Like a burger van, only for noodles.’ Back to normal.
‘Someone dragged the owner out and battered the living crap out of her with a cricket bat, nicked her takings and most of her ingredients-slash-kit, then set fire to her van, and off they buggered.’
‘Ouch.’ Tufty grimaced. ‘Which noodle van was this?’
‘Dunno . . . Something alliterative that rhymes. Somethingy Something, Noodley Doodley?’
‘Oh noes! Not Hungry Helen’s Noodle Doodle?’
She snapped her fingers. ‘That’s the one!’
‘Thrice times arrrgh . . .’ Bereft and saggy. ‘Now I does never get to taste her spring rolls, Har Gow dumplings, chicken-and-mushroom chow mein . . .’ Pouting. ‘We got blowed-up last time, before I could eat anything.’
Baddy got stuck in to the Toilet Duck again. Boy must have a cast-iron stomach. ‘That Operation Firedrake?’
A nod. ‘Second time this month.’
Hard to tell which was nicer with the hummus – cheese-and-onion ridges, or spicy-beef maize hoops. So Roberta went for the double. Keeping her voice all casual. ‘Any noise on our Body-In-The-Bin?’
At which, Tufty’s eyes narrowed. ‘Thought you didn’t care?’
‘Don’t really. Habit more than anything.
’ Crunch, munch, scrunch. Not bad . . . ‘See when I got back home from that aborted retirement party? I stuck my box-o’-shite under the bed in the spare room and forgot all about it.
Haven’t touched the thing since.’ Big smile. ‘You’re looking at a changed woman.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Tufty stared at her with one eyebrow raised, as if he didn’t believe her and was desperately in need of a slap.
But Roberta let it go, because she was a changed woman.
Plus, being Dungeon Master, the wee squit could make The Great Eberto Alters’ life miserable. And you had to watch that kind of thing, because playing a first-level wizard was hard enough . . .