6. 'ELLO, 'ELLO, 'ELLO, WHO'S THERE THEN?

Josh and Joanie are left to guard the decesased Crin when a policeman turns up...

“All this wouldn’t have happened if there hadn’t been outlaws in the first place,” I grumbled. “Shooting their arrows wherever it pleases them and no thoughts as to who might be sun-bathing where they land! It ought to be against the law. They ought to bring back hanging for such ruthless carelessness!”

The Internet Film crew with their mobile phones and very little else had disappeared to the other side of the vast acreage of crumbling wall which was most of all that was left of a castle that was slowly settling into its own version of death. That meant that Joanie and I were left with the very still and very cold remnants of our friend Crin, and I could tell when I looked at her that Joanie didn't like the proximity any more than I did.

“The Robin Hooders weren’t to know we’d be here,” Joanie reminded me, “after all, they had permission to use this site, and we didn’t know we needed it.”

“I don’t think we bothered when we were The Sparklers either,” I said.

“Maybe you didn’t have to back then,” replied Joanie defensively.

“Probably not,” I nodded.

“Things change,” she confirmed.

“It’s hard to believe he’s an illegal immigrant, what with what the Daily Mail says about his sort,” I mumbled, changing the subject.

“You don’t believe anything printed in that rag, surely?” asked Joanie scornfully. “Everyone knows it’s so right wing you might call it Mein Kampf for the twenty-first century!”

“Hello, ‘ello, ‘ello,” beamed a new voice.

We hadn’t heard anyone arrive. Random voices from the other side of the crumbling wall must have dulled our antennae for anything out of the ordinary, and a quiet police car had pulled up in a lay-by on the main road about fifty yards away without us suspecting anything out of the ordinary was anywhere near. And the new voice belonged to a policeman. A young policeman with a shiny badge and a keen expression that time and experience would soon wipe off his face was grinning at us. But the look of inexperience was there for the moment.

My heart sank lower than it’s ever sunk before.

There stood Joanie and I whilst Crin lounged in absolute and motionless death on his deckchair.

I glanced at him. Yes, he was still dead. He looked it. And the magazine concealing his blood stains was still there with its lurid portrait of a well-breasted and over lipsticked young woman doing her best not to look bored on the cover. I allowed myself a distraction in order to settle my sinking heart and looked at the picture again. Yes, she was bored. I suppose if you do that sort of thing for a living, take your clothes off and replace them with something truly uncomfortable and then hang around for hours while a photographer points his camera at you, you will be bored.

“Hello,” said the constable, smiling warmly and obviously intent on enjoying a day in the country as far away from crime and criminals as he could get and under a blazing sun whilst being surrounded by inconspicuous corpses.

“It’s a lovely day,” I stammered. “It’s good for it.”

I didn’t say what it might be good for but was utterly convinced it must be good for something. Surely all days are?

“Beautiful,” agreed the constable, and he looked at Crin. “Had a good night, did he?” he asked.

“He’s out of it,” I agreed, “couldn’t keep his eyes open so … so he shut them.”

“It was a long drive,” nodded Joanie.

“And it looks like he’s got a rare taste in literature,” grinned the officer, indicating the shiny magazine still resting on Crin’s arrow-hole.

“He does like the ladies,” I grunted, “did when he was young and still … does.”

“Me and my friends have to keep our eyes on him or we’re in trouble, even at our age,” put in Joanie. “He’s got wandering hands and a way about him that can be quite addictive.”

“Are you with the film re-enactors bods?” asked the policeman, “the Heritage people asked me to keep an eye on them, make sure they didn’t get up to any mischief.”

“They’re behind the wall,” I almost gabbled, “over there, shooting arrows into trees and burying Robin Hood.”

“It’s a shame he had to die,” murmured the constable, “he might have done a bit of good if he was still alive. You know, robbing the rich and distributing it to the poor. That’s my idea of crime being put to a good use. But he ain’t still around so he can’t put things right like he used to.”

“It’s a shame,” I nodded, glancing at Crin and hoping he wasn’t about to slide off his deckchair. But he looked safely lodged on it, which was a blessing.

“I’d best go and check on them, then,” decided the young policeman, meaning the Robin Hooders. “Good morning all,” he added as if he’d been wanting to say that all his life.

“Good morning,” chorused Joanie and me.

“That was close,” whispered Joanie when the law was out of sight.

“He doesn’t look very alive does he?” I breathed, indicating the very motionless Crin. “Even sleeping people move a bit.”

“And snore,” added Joanie, “most sleeping people snore. You should hear Scabby when he’s had a couple of pints.”

“He doesn’t look as if he’s going to snore any time soon,” I commented.

I was right. He didn’t look remotely like a man about to snore. Nor did he look like a man about to do anything else, so it was with a great deal of surprise to both Joanie and I when even in the grip of death he did the unexpected.

He farted.

We were standing there, troubled about his very inhuman stillness when he did it. It wasn’t a bold and explosive fart, but it was audible and had about it a sort of bubbly quality.

And it stank.

“Crikey Crin!” I choked.

“What a stink!” exclaimed Joanie, holding her nose in as ladylike a fashion as she could whilst trying to move up-wind of it.

“Hello, hello, hello,” said the returning constable, once again unnoticed, “that smells most… you know what!”

“It’s Crin,” I explained, indicating the still motionless figure. “And curry,” I added as if that would explain everything under the sun.

“He’s a devil when he gets the wind,” added Joanie.

“I can smell what you mean, madam,” grunted the young officer, “and to tell you the truth I’ve got a granddad who does that. Especially after a couple of beers and a vindaloo. Makes a right stink, he does. Well, I’ll be on my way,” and he almost saluted as he turned to half-run away.

“That was...” breathed Joanie.

“Close,” I agreed. “Bloody close! Let’s hope nobody else comes by.

“I’m going to find something more appropriate to hide his injury with,” decided Joanie, “he’s got to read more enlightening stuff than Lesbo Babes in Leather!”

“Probably,” I agreed, doubtfully.

She disappeared into Jed’s camper-van and I sniffed. The fart smell was still there and I was trying to work out whether it was fading to become less potent or whether I was getting accustomed to its toxicity, which made it seem less. Maybe, I thought, the human nose can get used to anything, however objectionable, given time.

“He still pongs something rotten,” murmured Joanie when she returned with a copy of the Sunday Times Colour Supplement. “This is more like it! And it’s all about the root causes of ingrowing toenails amongst the aristocracy, which won’t draw so much attention to itself if that young policeman comes back.”

“Good thinking,” I commended her, and with a great sense of distaste replaced the bored Lesbo Babe with a picture of Lord Somebody-or-other taking his socks off.

© Peter Rogerson 14.06.18

Reviews

[Great Aunt Astri]

A fun read. It had me intrigued and wondering what the conclusion would be, but you left us dangling! How on earth are they going to explain the death of Crin... especially as they managed to fob off the young policeman. But I enjoyed it.

[Peter Rogerson]

I'm glad you found it satisfying. I may post a part (as yet unwritten) today, but at midnight my wife and I are off to Switzerland for a few days, so it may not get written until we get back.