10. Out of the Blue

THE SANDS OF TIME Part 10

After a night that had been unusually untroubled by images of a painful childhood, Desmond woke feeling refreshed and ready to tackle his self[-imposed venture of righting ancient wrongs straight on. And by the wrongs he meant the murders of at least two people that he knew of and perhaps a handful of others that he knew nothing about.

Last night, before he left the Plaice and Chips (which never served plaice and chips but which did manage the odd cheese sandwich, usually curling at the corners) he had watched as paramedics attended to his old history teacher, and carted him off, clearly alive because an oxygen mask was pushed over his mouth and nose when he was lifted onto a stretcher.

Before retiring for the night he had given his daughter Lucy a call, and as it was getting late she was home from her night with the girls. At least, that’s what he called it in his head, ignorant of the fact that roughly half the girls were lads. But he had long since stopped thinking that the social life of his daughter had anything to do with him and he gave no thought to who she might be out with.

“Lucy, you’re not in bed I hope,” he asked.

“Dad, what are you doing up this late?” she asked, and yawned, indicating that she really ought to be in bed herself even if she wasn’t yet.

“I watched as the man I told you about collapsed,” he told her, “on his way home from our local pub.”

“Dad! You didn’t do anything, to him!” asked a shocked Lucy.

“Now my girl, would I ever dream of doing anything that would put the bully into a coma?” asked Desmond, sounding more shocked than he felt.

“I suppose not. So why are you telling me when I ought to be in the land of nod?”

“I wondered if, you know, that you could check what caused it…” he suggested, “just in case… there might have been something behind it.”

“Are you suspicious, dad”

“I don’t know, It all seemed so … convenient, somehow, though I know he was a very old man. I mean is, not was. I don’t think he’s dead.”

“Well I’ll check the news at work when I get there tomorrow and see if I can find out anything.”

“Could you check what he was drinking, Lucy? As a favour? Get his glass to forensics just in case?”

“If there’s still a plod on the scene I will. I guess it was the Plaice? That’s where you usually go when you’re not out on the town.”

“It was.”

“Just leave it to me, dad, and get yourself some sleep!

And that’s what he’d done, and as the day faded away into an image of the man he’d spent his entire life looking on as his arch enemy was carted off to an ambulance, he began one of the few totally peaceful nights he could remember.

All of which meant that he was ready fpr anything when the phone rang later that morning, and it was Lucy.

“I’ve looked at what you asked me to look at, dad,” she said, “and if you’re free it might be helpful if you popped in to see me.”

“What is it?”

“Well, dad, I guess your were suspicious that Mr Pottle’s collapse had more to it than simple old age..?”

“As I said last night, it just seemed to be convenient. There was me, talking to a vicar…

“Dad! You’re not on the turn, are you? I mean, you and a vicar!”

“Don’t be cheeky! No, he was telling me that the old fraud who collapsed had been trying to pave his way to spend eternity with his Almighty via the offices of a man of the cloth, and there he was, staggering out of the door and, seconds later, staggering back in, but on his back!”

“Well, your suspicions, dad, were, as usual spot on. There was something in his beer that shouldn’t have been there, and it knocked him out all right. He’s come round since…”

“So he’s not dead?”

“He most certainly is not. He’s quite composmentis this morning as well, though he doesn’t know what happened to him, just that he started feeling woozy and ended up opening his eyes at the precise moment that a pretty young nurse was taking his temperature.”

“In a way I’m glad.”

“You mean, that you can continue persecuting him?”

“I would never dream of doing anything like that! I’m not the vindictive sort, and you ought to know that by now!”

“Sorry, dad. But you will come in, won’t you? My sergeant needs to have a word with you.”

“This sounds like more than a pleasant chat with the light of my life, Lucy?”

“Well, dad, in a way it was. You see, you were there when an attempt seems to have been made on his life and the victim can’t stop saying it must have been you that was responsible. Apparently you spent a couple of minutes sitting with him at his table, and he reckoned you slipped something into his glass when he wasn’t looking. I know you wouldn’t do anything of the sort, dad, but you must know the way authority works, and you’ve got to make a statement.”

“Of all the… yes, I do know and I understand. I’ll clean my teeth and polish my shoes, and be there, then.”

“It’ll look better than if we send a car for you with all its blues and twos tearing your peaceful little hamlet into pieces.”

“Don’t you even think of doing anything of the sort! I’ll be there in, what, half an hour!”

“Be sure you are, dad. Or I might have to send a car.”

He frowned as he put the phone down. One thing was certain: trouble might well be looming on his personal horizon. He knew the sort of thing that might happen. An old man seems to have been poisoned, though not enough to do more than knock him out for a short time, and when he woke up he pointed a verbal finger at the boy he’d thrashed, he knew he had and might have regretted it had he the capacity to regret anything, unmercifully.

His interpretation of past events was that to Pottle some boys seemed to demand the cane, the good ones, the bright ones, those who might have something loving and decent behind them at home, and those were the ones he chose. That’s how Desmond saw it and he wasn’t far off the truth. He’d had a life time to mull over it and even though time offers many a distortion to memory he kept the essence of his old history lessons essentially accurate in his mind.

And now the author of that cruelty had pointed a finger at him and he knew that the police must listen. He would have done the same had he not retired, but he was the only one that knew the truth so far as he was concerned. He knew nothing of any substance that might have knocked Pottle out, though in his work he’d come upon mountains of the stuff.

He rushed to the bathroom, emptied his bladder as best he could, cleaned his teeth and rushed to his car.

There wasn’t much traffic on the road, which was fortunate, and it was well within the half hour he’d quoted that he arrived at Oceaneye police station.

He was met at the door by a very pretty plain clothes police officer, D.S Rosie Wrizzl, who he knew by sight and had occasionally exchanged a few pleasantries with.

“I’m sorry about this, Mr Boniface,” she said, nervously, “but I’m instructed to arrest you for attempted murder!”

© Peter Rogerson, 16.03.22

...