Stay Signed In
Do you want to access your site more quickly on this computer? Check this box, and your username and password will be remembered for two weeks. Click logout to turn this off.
Stay Safe
Do not check this box if you are using a public computer. You don't want anyone seeing your personal info or messing with your site.
They, Market Town, were losing 0 – 2 at halftime to the Rovers. They needed to win the game by 3 clear goals and United, who were playing away at the league leaders, City, had to lose their match to ensure the Town’s continued league status – astonishingly United were up by 4 at the half.
The players trooped off dejectedly towards the changing rooms. They hadn’t played badly during the half but injuries and the lack of any depth in the squad made it difficult for them to compete with the other more successful sides in the league. The Chairman looked out from his box as the crowd went into their customary chant, The Chairman out, The Chairman out…&C. He smiled and lifted up his hand towards them. Incensed, the crowd intensified their chanting and waved their fists angrily towards the East European owner as he turned his back to them. His fat interpreter, H, handed him a glass of red wine, which he emptied in one quick draught. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and handed the empty glass back to a young girl who waited on. She suddenly screamed out in terror as the door to the box flew open under the weight of a hefty boot. A dozen angry men wearing the amber and blue club colours, forced their way past the inept stewards and faced up to The Chairman – he was unmoved. The Chairman out, The Chairman out… they sang with vigour into his face as he looked on with indifference. When alerted to the commotion, police officers stormed frantically into the box and placed themselves in between the protestors and The Chairman for his protection - the waitress was knocked silly against the corner of a tabletop due to their reckless entry. The visiting club officials watched in horror as a melee ensued as the officers endeavoured to push the protestors roughly from the box without any verbal persuasion. The Chairman didn’t seem perturbed and he didn’t even try to hide an inane grin that had come to spread across his ashen face – H stood to his side chuckling behind his meaty hand.
One of the protestors, Henry Blake, saw his chance; he would knock that arrogant look straight off the face of the man that had brought ruin to his beloved club these last five years or so. There was a break in the police cordon and Henry, who had been a speedy winger in his younger day playing in the local Sunday leagues, used his considerable dribbling skills to dribble through it. The Chairman held up his hand with his palm outermost and his arm straight as Henry, unarrested and purple with rage, neared him. Henry suddenly staggered backwards as he felt a fierce blow across his temple. Upon seeing the sprawling figure of Henry near his feet, a police officer dragged him across the floor towards the door; tearing the collar of his 1970s retro club shirt as he did so. Once outside the protestor slipped unconsciously from the officer’s grasp with blood gushing from a gaping head wound…
“They’ve done it, they’ve done it,” said Henry as he threw his arms around his best friend, Derek. They had supported the Town from the first day they were born and as young men this was their proudest moment. They hugged each other unashamedly on the terraces at Wembley amongst 20 000 other Town supporters as the club’s skipper, Andy Pearce, held the silver trophy aloft for them all to behold.
…With order restored and the men ejected, H noticed the frightened young waitress sat sobbing in the corner of the box with a lace handkerchief held up to a cut above her right eyebrow.
“Chairman,” he let out as he indicated towards the girl.
The Chairman knelt down in front of the girl and gripped her head gently in his skeleton fingers. He lowered her head and softly kissed her forehead. He said something to her in a tongue she did not understand as H gently helped her to her feet and into the hands of a black-shirted St John’s ambulance man who stood nearby.
The second half went much the same way as the first and the Town ended up on the wrong side of a 0-5 trouncing – they had lost their league status for the first time in their 100-year history. The final whistle blew to a chorus of boos – although these were not directed towards the players, who had done the best they could. Grown men cried as their children looked on in bewilderment. The Chairman out, The Chairman out… resounded out across the rapidly emptying terraces until everyone had left.
“A bit different from the year we got promoted,” said Sergeant Farley Dalton with a sigh, “we couldn’t keep our supporters off the pitch that day… the celebrations went on for days.”
“That must have been more than 5 years ago,” replied the officer to his side, “pity that they came back down again the next season.”
“That was the Chairman’s fault; he sold off all our best players before their contracts ran out.”
“You can’t blame the chairman for everything; at least he built us a decent stadium.”
“What use is the stadium now? We’ll be lucky to get 1 000 in here next season in the lower leagues.”
Football issues aside, Farley had already taken a dislike to the Chairman. He remembered the first time that he had met him when he was investigating the disappearance of 2 of the youth team players not 3 months ago. The story had been in all the national newspapers after the lads had disappeared at the end of a training session and they have never been seen since.
The tall Sergeant had waited in the plush office for the Chairman to appear. H came into the room first followed by the Chairman; who wore the same colour black suit and shirt that he had been seen in ever since. The Chairman ran his fingers through his straggly grey hair as he sat down behind the desk and without a word of greeting; he stared straight at the officer. Finding the Chairman’s intense gaze uncomfortable, Farley found himself involuntarily looking down at his shoes as he asked him some questions via the interpreter. His questioning was, however, fruitless and he felt a chill down his spine as he stood to leave. As the door slammed shut behind him he could hear the murmur of foreign voices speaking animatedly and without empathy – or that is how he perceived them… he was rarely wrong.
***
Dalton worked late down at the station the evening after the game. He hadn’t got the CCTV tapes from the football ground until 8pm and he wanted his cells cleared of the protesters before the usual midnight influx of drunkards come the weekend. It was fortunate that 1 of the cameras had broken away from its stanchion due to a high wind and had angled its lens into the director’s box rather than the left side of the North Stand where it was intended to cover. The drama unfolded on Farley’s PC as he messily dipped pickle onion flavoured Monster Munch into his steaming brew of milky tea. From the tapes he easily identified the instigators and grinned slightly as he saw one of them, the guy now in hospital with concussion, skip through the blue line like a tricky outside left and make towards the Chairman.
OWWWWW!
He suddenly sat upright; he had spilled his scalding tea across his lap. How could that be? he ejaculated out loud and in astonishment. He had feared cries of police brutality from the tabloids regarding the man’s head wound (never mind the young girl’s injury) but no officer was near to the man when he had received it. He played it again… and again. It must be a fault, he thought, a trick of the light even. After repeated viewing of the incident it seemed like the Chairman, who was at least 5 metres away from Henry Blake, had lifted up his hand a split second before some seemingly invisible force had sent the protestor’s head violently backwards. The police officer involved didn’t put hands on Blake until blood was already gushing from the wound and he was floored. He zoomed in; he thought the Chairman might have thrown something at his attacker – it became evident after further viewing that he hadn’t.
It was getting late and Farley stood up to stretch his weary limbs. He looked out of the window and down towards the old and derelict brewery buildings. It was getting dark and he saw something move in the shadows. He switched off his office light so he could see more clearly. He let out a laugh as he saw the Grim Reaper, a common sight at the Town’s matches of late, complete with plastic scythe making his way slowly across the rubble. He could just about make out the familiar white lettering on the placard he wore around his neck, Death of the Town. The broad and balding Sergeant wondered why the Reaper should be walking about the old brewery site at this time of night.
***
BRING BRING
He awoke with a start in the early hours of Sunday; his mobile was ringing. He answered it.
“Dalton,” he said curtly as he rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. He listened intently. “Okay… give me 30 and I’ll be at the station.” He put down his mobile and sighed. Paula Green, the young waitress had not been seen since last night since she had left the football ground at 6pm – a club official had seen her leave to verify this. Her parents were beside themselves with worry – she had never been late home before.
***
“It’s a bit early for training,” remarked Farley as he made his way around the pitch with the groundsman and old team mate, Sproggy, as they searched the stadium for any sign of Paula – two players had emerged from the changing room carrying a large net bag of footballs. “I’ve not seen those two before,” he added.
“They’re new strikers the Chairman’s brought in from Eastern Europe… H reckons they’re going to revolutionise the club.”
Sproggy indicated towards the tunnel and Farley followed; they saw the youth team goalkeeper coming out; he was putting on his gloves.
“Getting in some extra practise, Darren?” said the groundsman to the young keeper as they passed.
“I’m after the first team jersey,” he replied with a pleasing grin.
“He couldn’t be any worse than the goalie we’ve got now,” said Farley with irony.
“Maybe you should have a go, Farley,” laughed the groundsman. “I remember you had trials here once?”
“I hung my boots up a long time ago,” retorted the Sergeant mournfully and feeling every one of his 51 years today. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the screeching call of constable Noble over the radio. He breathlessly informed his Sergeant that he had come across a locked room under the North stand and H had refused to open it for his inspection.
“I’ll be right there, Noble,” he replied calmly. “And Noble…”
“Serge?”
“…Try to calm down a bit lad; you’ve been watching to many CSIs on Channel 5.”
“Serge.”
***
“Now what’s going on here,” asked the burly Sergeant after he found his way to the underbelly of the North Stand.
“It seems your constable is pushing his weight around and making demands,” replied H, his back firmly against a metal security door
“I’m sure he’s only doing his job,” returned Farley as he indicated the constable should stand back from H.
“Doing his job?” said H with a sneer, “we had plenty of policeman doing a job in the old country; we didn’t expect to meet such antics here in England… we expected freedom.”
“If you’d want to make a complaint then there are procedures.”
“It would be a waste of time… no one ever listens.”
“So… Mr H… what is the problem here?”
“The constable demands that I open up this door… he was filled with menace and I was afraid he would strike me once in there and out of sight.”
Farley struggled to hide a smirk; Noble was about as menacing as a teddy bear. “Would you open the door for me to take a look inside, Mr H? We are only trying to trace one of your missing employees… again.”
“What do you mean, again?” raged H. “It is… It is-”
“How it is… could we?”
“You’ve no search warrant, Sergeant.”
“We don’t need one, Sir; you gave us permission to look around if you remember,” the Sergeant stated calmly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
H reluctantly turned towards the door and quickly tapped in a code on the keypad lest anyone one should see it. He pushed the heavy door open.
“He is not to come inside… the constable; but you can,” said H as he leant into the dark room and flicked on a light. He held his arm out to invite the Sergeant to enter.
The spartan room was painted white… clinically white. The room, which was empty apart from a Perspex box that stood central, stood about 5 yards square with a low ceiling. The box itself was about 4 feet high and stood flat to the tiled floor without legs. It was long and wide enough for a man to lie down inside, roughly the size of a coffin but rectangular in design. A button driven control panel was fixed to the hinged lid that housed strip lights on its underside.
“What the Dickens is that?” Farley asked in bewilderment.
“It is a Mobilator, officer,” said a gruff voice to his rear. “”It is my invention.”
Farley turned to see a gaunt man, roughly his own height, wearing a lab technician’s white smock and trousers enter the room.
“It is for the players to get over their injuries quicker… it is the ultraviolet rays you see, it aids recovery,” the man said proudly. “After a player has rested in here for a session, his injury, whether it be a ligament damage or a fracture, will improve rapidly… after a full course of treatment the player will recover in half the time as a player with the same injury recovering without the use of the Mobilator.”
“Sounds good; has anyone benefited from the treatment? You wouldn’t think so after watching our lot perform yesterday,” said Farley with a rueful grin.
The man forced a smile. “It has not gone into use just yet; but it will be up and running to benefit our players in the new season.”
Farley was inquisitive; he himself had missed playing at an FA Vase cup final at Wembley through injury - albeit 25 years ago. “Could I see it at work?” he asked.
The man shrugged. “I don’t see why not; but there isn’t much to see.” He handed the officer some goggles. “Put those on to protect your eyes from the ultra violet rays.”
With this the man put on a pair of his own goggles and H turned his back whilst shading his eyes. The man set the machine away and the room flooded with bright ultra violet light. What’s that? thought Farley. For on the tiles near his feet he could see scuffmarks on the floor to both sides of the Mobilator, but only at 1 end. He was just about to ask what had caused them when he heard a loud scream from outside - it sounded like it came from the football pitch. Throwing his goggles to the floor, Farley hurriedly left the room. He made his way as fast as he could go towards the sound of the screaming, which had become more hysterical and louder as he neared them.
He soon came out onto the bright sunlight to see Darren, the youth team goalkeeper, rolling around the pitch in agony – Sproggy was ineffectually attending him to. The 2 East Europeans stood chatting and laughing on the halfway line as if nothing had happened. Farley asked them what was occurring as he made his way over to the stricken keeper. They shrugged their shoulders animatedly and held out their palms thereby indicating that they couldn’t understand what he was asking of them. He shot them a stare as he moved on.
Darren was holding his left wrist in his right hand. Farley had to do a double take… the keeper’s hand was facing the wrong way; the palm to the back and the knuckles to the front.
“What happened?” he asked Sproggy as he rapidly tapped 999 into his mobile phone.
“I’m not sure,” replied the grimacing groundsman, “They were taking long shots at him from the halfway line and he suddenly started screaming… he’s not made any sense since.”
“Would you make sense with your wrist arse over tit like that? He must be in agony… you’ll be all right lad; just hang in there help will soon be on its way… lad?”
Darren slumped into unconsciousness.
“They must have bloody mighty shots on them to do such damage from that range,” said Farley as he suspiciously eyed the twain. He knew something was amiss hereabouts and he would get to the bottom of it by hook or by crook.
***
Farley sat at his desk drumming his fingers against the highly polished wood as he did when he was deep in thought. A rude knock came to the door and the Chief Inspector let him self in without reply. His face was flushed red with anger and he threw a bundle of papers down onto the desktop. He pointed his index finger towards them.
“Do you know what that is?” the Inspector fumed.
“It’s a complaint form,” replied the Sergeant as he picked up the sheets.
“YES it is a complaints form written by The Chairman and it implicates one of your men, Noble… Noble of all people… can’t you control your charges?” he raged.
“I’ll follow it up…”
The Inspector interrupted. “Yes you bloody well will follow it up and I want a report on my desk before you leave this evening… is that clear?”
“Inspector.”
“Make sure you do… and another thing; did you put a search warrant to the magistrates to search the football ground… what the…”
“Yes, Sir; I believe things are amiss…”
The Inspector looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel. “Amiss? Amiss? You go any where near that football ground before you have any proper evidence and I’ll have your stripes… have you got that?”
“Sir.”
“Amiss indeed.”
The Inspector nearly had the door of its hinges he slammed it so hard as he left.
Farley grinned, as he always did when he had a plan.
***
“I’m off out, love… I won’t be late,” he shouted up the stairs to his wife as he let him self out of the front door.
“Okay, Farley have a nice time and don’t drink too much,” she replied amicably. She thought it strange that he hadn’t kissed her before leaving for his local and she dashed to the upstairs window to see him go. She screwed up her face. What in heavens name are you up to, Farley? she said out loud. He was carrying a holdall and wore a black hoody – he looked more like a criminal than a police officer and hardly the attire for a drink with his mates.
***
Farley knew the best way to get into the ground undetected. A large oak tree stood near to the fencing behind the family stand. The tree had been used countless times by fans who would climb up into it and lower themselves down onto the terrace that stood at the side of the stand. During match days his officers would soon eject anyone coming into the ground by this method but it was dark now and no one stood sentinel. He threw his holdall over the railings and hoisted himself up into the tree. It was easy to climb and he was soon high enough to make his move downward. He delayed slightly and remembered the last time he had sat in the tree; he was no more than 10 years old at the time… he remembered the clip around the ear he received from Inspector Grant for his troubles also!
“C’mon lads,” he shouted, “1 more goal and we’re in the second next season.
GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLL
A young Farley, who had no money for a ticket that day, saw his team put 1 in the old onion bag as requested and there would be no time for the restart. They had done it; they had reached the second division for the first time in their history.
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES.
The ground had seen a lot of changes since those golden days in more ways than 1. The Town supporters had always had the wooden North and the away supporters the Kop then… nowadays the aways had the North and the Town had been forced to the West… something to do with the new retail park we were told. Rusted corrugated sheeting and concrete terracing had given way to a spanking new stadium with yellow and blue plastic seats for the fans… what kind of supporter wants to sit down to watch a game I ask you? The oak tree, however, hadn’t changed much… or so it seemed.
He let himself drop to the terrace and without further ado he made his way towards the North stand. He had no fear of the CCTV cameras; he knew they wouldn’t be switched on until the staff had cleared off home and lights were still on in the administration office. However, he still needed to be careful and he kept to the shadows as best he could and he pulled his hood over his face for anonymity lest he should be spotted. He climbed over the advertisement hoarding and disappeared down the tunnel that would take him into the bowels of the North stand.
Once there he set down his bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a fingerprint kit. He went to the keypad on the door and dusted aluminium powder onto the keypads with a small brush. He took an ultraviolet torch from the kit and shone it onto the aluminium; he got some fine dabs. He noted that keypads 4 and 3 had been used the most. He tapped 4 and 3 into the keypads… nothing. 3 and 4… nothing.
“Ah ha,” he suddenly ejaculated. “It’s easy.”
He went on to tap 4-3-3 into the keypads… the wingless wonders holding aloft the golden Jules Rimet trophy! The door opened with a gothic creak. He was just about to enter when he sensed that he was not alone… “What the… what you doing in here?” he managed breathlessly, he heart pumping furiously into his chest, “Do you know you’re trespassing?”
The Grim Reaper did not retort; he stood silent and menacingly brandishing his scythe for a weapon.
“If you are not out of here in 10 seconds I’m going to have you arrest…”
Before he could finish his threat the Reaper swung his scythe towards the Sergeant; with a dexterity that belied his age – he kept sharp playing squash – he ducked as the blade of the scythe whizzed just past the top of his head. To his horror the blade stuck fast into the wooden doorframe… it obviously was not made from plastic as he once thought. As the Reaper wrestled to free it, the shocked officer decided to do one. Off he set, at speed, towards a door at the far end of the corridor. The Reaper freed the scythe and was soon after him, his robes flapping like a vampire’s cloak behind him as he went. Horror; the door wouldn’t open; it was locked. Farley could hear the nearing footsteps of the Reaper and he took 2 steps back. He sent his broad shoulder into the door and the lock easily smashed asunder from his weight. Set off balance he fell into the room; upsetting a rack of freshly polished football boots as he went. Winded, he struggled to get to his feet; the Reaper was nearly on him and had raised his scythe ready to deliver a killer strike. The officer wouldn’t be up in time; he would be pinned to the floor like a helpless butterfly in a rettley. He remained calm and picked up an Adidas Predator football boot, which lay to his side. He threw it into the air and as it came down he swung his size 10 at it. He caught it just right, Fergie style, and it careered into the face of the Reaper, who was only feet away from him at this time. The power of the shot sent the Reaper sprawling backwards out of the room; the scythe fell from his hands and to the floor. Farley sprung up and grabbed the scythe; the Reaper was up and gone in a turn of astonishing speed. The policeman let out a deep sigh… he would have to be more wary; something was definitely amiss without a doubt.
He shut the door behind him for security and rested the scythe agen the wall. He switched on the light. Because of the scuffmarks he had seen earlier under the ultraviolet lights, he knew that the Mobilator had been moved and because of the curved design of the scuffs, which were only at one end, he knew that one end was pivoted whilst the other would swing across. He pushed his considerable weight against the scuffed end and it moved ever so slightly before sticking fast. Farley got a crow bar from his bag and forced it beneath the machine and into the gap. He pushed at the bar and the Mobilator moved 6 inches. Farley could see a gap appearing beneath it; he was proved right. 2 minutes later, and with the help of the bar, he had the machine moved and he shone his torch down onto a set of steep concrete steps that had lay hidden beneath it. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand as a foul stench hit him from below.
“What the Dickens is that dreadful smell?” he mumbled from behind his sweaty digits. He was undeterred by the obnoxious odour however, and he started to make his way bravely downwards.
The smell grew worse as he descended and he struggled to fight off nausea. His torch lit up a light switch on the wall and he switched on the light.
He had seen a lot as a policeman but nothing had ever turned his stomach like what befell his eyes now as he came to the bottom of the stairs. He froze as his mind struggled to take in the full horror of the terrible scene illuminated by dull red overhead lights – similar to what is used in a photographer’s dark room. The walls were whitewashed like the room above and against the far wall stood a row of wooden chairs – similar to the electric chair he had seen on a Death Row documentary on Channel 5. Four pathetic figures lay slumped and silent in the chairs with clear plastic tubing coming out from shining metal prongs that had been stuck into their arms. All of the tubes eventually joined at a common connector and fed into a single stainless steel barrel above their heads. Thick straps secured the prisoners at ankle and at wrist.
He noticed that two of the figures, who appeared to be male by first inspection, were ragged and emaciated to the point of skeletonisation. A third male figure sat next to them wore grey flannel trousers and a white sweat-stained shirt; he hadn’t been there as long as the other 2 if the state of his apparel or physicality be any indicator – or his aroma. The fourth figure… NO… NO… NO; it was a young girl; it was the missing waitress… it was Paula Green. Dalton went to her pathetic body and undid the first strap that held firm her right wrist; her arm fell limp down from the rest.
“Hold on help is on hand,” he said to her as he got out his mobile phone and flipped it open ready to call. “Bother,” he let out in frustration at the lack of any signal. He lifted up the girl’s head gently by her chin, “I’ll be straight back for you, Paula don’t worry.”
“She won’t worry,” said a familiar voice from behind the well-aimed barrel of a silver revolver; it was the gaunt man and he was still wearing a white smock, albeit it was spattered down the front with blood presently.
Farley growled like a grizzly bear and threw his mobile at the man who luckily, for him, managed to evade the missile. The man laughed without opening his mouth; rather like a stifled cough.
“Get back over there,” the man ordered and indicated where he should go with his weapon; Farley did as he was asked. “You’ve made a very big mistake here, Sergeant; I take it no one knows you are here?”
The Sergeant looked fiercely at the man. “What is going on here? Why are those people so badly used you fiend?”
“Maybe I should tell you all you need to know, Sergeant; for a fifth chair can be knocked up very quickly indeed.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a haematologist.”
“What the H___ is going on here?”
“You want I should explain to you my work, Sergeant?”
“If that should lead to any kind of explanation Mr…?”
“Just call me Igor.”
“Go on then, Igor, pray tell,” said the officer using a softer tone, his brain needed more time to work out a positive solution if he was to successfully bring about justice hereabouts.
“My machine, The Mobilator, is the crux of my works. Just as I told you before, the machine aids healing and that holds true. However, what I didn’t tell you was that any man, or woman for that matter, using my machine, alongside… er… should we say other applications, has their strength increased 3-fold when they come under its rays.”
“That’s how those East Europeans were able to shoot so hard so as to break young Darren’s wrist from the halfway line,” said the Sergeant feigning a great interest that would by him extra time for thought.
“You are very perceptive, officer, for that is true… may I call you, Farley? …Farley what of a team with 11 players who could kick a ball with such power as the Europeans can?” he did not wait for an answer. “They would climb straight out of the Conference in their first season and would not stop rising up through the divisions until the were crowned kings of Europe… Champion League winners’ medals would soon hang from their proud necks. Think of it Farley; your local club, the team you supported since being a boy, champions of Europe in little more than 6 years. How does that make you feel me lad?”
“That would be very satisfying, Igor.” Farley smiled broadly; it was easy to feed Igor’s vanity and his vanity would also be his downfall to be sure. “How does such a machine work, Igor? What is the part these wretches play in such a great chapter of sports science?”
Igor relaxed the grip on his revolver slightly; the barrel pointed down at Farley’s knees.
“I shall tell you, Farley.” He took a deep breath for theatrical effect. “I farm blood from these wretches, as you so rightly put it, and enrich the blood of certain players with it.”
“But what is so enriching about their blood, Igor? Surely it holds the same qualities as the recipients’ blood does it not?”
“Do not be fooled by the state of their shells, Farley; for their blood is enriched by the blood of the master…”
“Master?”
“The Master… The Chairman; he is of a royal European olde bloodline connected right back through the annuls of time by the bloody broth of deadly power… Dracula himself was his half brother!”
Farley struggled to stay calm in the face of such a madman. “You are saying that The Chairman is a vampire? Then so that makes the recipient of his blood also a vampire if my limited folklore serves me well?”
“That would be so, Farley, but that is where my machine comes into its very own.”
“Really? How’s that, Igor? How does your machine come into its own?”
“The ultraviolet light is the answer, Farley. The enriched blood is fed into the veins under the ultraviolet lights. I can’t go into haematology with you a police officer, Farley, because you wouldn’t understand… but I don’t mean that disrespectfully, we all have our niches and yours is the pursuit of crime,” said Igor as he let the revolver fall to his thigh. “In layman terms the ultraviolet light in effect stops the recipient becoming a vampire but does not restrict the flow of power that usually arrives with classic vampirism. Moreover the recipient takes on the strength and guile of a vampire but without all of the unfortunate side effects… they don’t crave blood and can even play soccer on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The wretches you see here have not had the good fortune to come under the rays of my machine, they are the control hereabouts, and they are indeed as vampire as they come… they would take your throat as quickly as look at you and the light of day would turn them to ashes… it is without a doubt my machine that is revolutionary and makes a difference.”
“That is amazing, Igor… your work is very beneficial; maybe you will be awarded the Nobel Prize for your very worthwhile endeavour.”
“I’d not thought of that Farley, I… UGGGGGGGHH”
Igor’s foul breath was knocked clean out of his body as the big policeman dived across the room knocking him over like a ninepin on the receiving end of a well-aimed bowling ball. The officer picked up the revolver that had fallen from Igor’s grip and pointed it straight at his temple.
“It’s all over for you, Igor… now roll over onto your front.”
Afraid, Igor did as he was asked and Farley clipped one part of a manacle onto his wrist. He roughly dragged the fellow over to the stairs and clipped the second part of the manacle to the sturdy handrail to hold him secure.
THUUUUUD
He knocked Igor senseless with the butt of the revolver.
AAAAAAAAAAGH
Pain shot through Farley’s calf and he looked down to see a writhing Paula grasping his leg in a vice like grip, which he could not release, whilst she mauled viciously at his leg with her bloodied teeth and gums.
“Get off me Paula, get away from me… please,” he screamed out in agony. He was forced to use the revolver butt on her skull in the same way he had with Igor’s thick bonce to get his release. Paula rolled unconsciously to the side. He felt dizzy as he saw his own blood streaming down his leg and soaking into his woollen sock. He grimaced as he examined the wound – it was deep and jagged. The girl murmured softly. Fearing she should recover and attack him again, Farley hoisted her up onto his shoulder and placed her back into the seat she had released herself from; he tied her wrists back up into the straps for his own safety. As a child Farley had watched Hammer House of Horror every Friday night with his father and knew that if one was bitten by a vampire and survived then one would also become a vampire – it worked in this way with werewolves too... he thought. What would his wife say if he became one of the undead? You are looking a bit peaky, Farley; do you think you should stop working regular nights and get some sun on your face for a change? He started to sweat; maybe the change was starting already. He violently shook Igor awake.
“What, what, what?” he let out as Farley slapped at his face to further refresh him.
“Your machine, Igor; tell me how it works…”
Despite the pain in his head Igor smirked as he saw the blood soaking through the officer’s trousers. “You’ve been bitten, Farley; I give you 5 minutes and you will be baying for warm blood… I’ll tell you how the machine works if you let me go.”
It was Farley’s turn to smirk. “Don’t tell me how the machine works and guess whose blood I will be sucking?”
***
Igor lifted the lid and bid that Farley should get in. Farley climbed inside and looked suspiciously at the operator.
“It will be for your own good, Igor that you help me recover; I’ll put a good word in for you… maybe make a deal if you behave.”
“I should work better should you take off the handcuffs,” said Igor hopefully.
“I think we’ll keep them like this… I like been cuffed to you, Igor; I’m growing quite fond of you.”
“Very funny,” said Igor as he pushed down the lid; trying not to crush the officer’s right forearm that stuck out due to the arresting manacles.
Igor was just about to set the machine away when the lid popped up. The silver revolver appeared over the top of the box. “Remember that I can see your every movement through the Perspex, Igor and if I think anything is going wrong for me I will shoot you right in the face.”
“I am aware of your trusty endeavour… now please relax, Farley.”
Igor pushed down the lid as far as it would go because of Farley’s exposed arm and operated the keypads. The blue ultraviolet light lit up the room.
Minutes later Igor switched the machine off and Farley popped up like a slice of wholemeal from a toaster. “All done?” he asked.
“All done,” replied Igor with a grimace.
***
Once out of the room, which he secured from the outside with his crowbar with everyone safely locked inside, Farley made for the fresh air. He could see the red sky of dawn beginning to light up the opening to the tunnel. Before he got very far he heard a laugh; it was The Chairman… The Master.
“Officer Dalton how nice to see you, ” growled The Chairman as he turned back his lip like a rapid dog to expose a pair of more than effective looking fangs.
Farley brandished the revolver. “Best if you step aside, Chairman and let me past.”
The Chairman laughed and shook his head slowly. “Fire away, officer; those bullets will bounce off my hide like split peas from a child’s pea shooter.”
“Why the sudden grasp of our English, Chairman?”
“It seems a foreigner in this country gains more mystique if no one knows what they are saying… very strange this land and so easy to get one’s own way here.”
“That might appear so, Chairman but, like the weather in our fair isle, everything is so changeable hereabouts.”
The Chairman lifted up his palm in the same way as he had when Blake met his sudden demise in the director’s box. Farley readied himself for evasive action… he had seen painful evidence of its mighty smite. He could see the force glow red in The Chairman’s palm and when it was sent toward him, Farley easily dodged the released energy bolt in the same slow motion and rubber backed manner just as Neo did whilst dodging the Agent Smith’s bullets in the The Matrix.
Amazed by his newfound agility, Farley said, “Chairman… looks like we are on an even footing here.”
“Maybe not,” said The Chairman as he shouted for H. H stepped out from the shadows still dressed in the garb of the Reaper minus the mask. Farley winked at H; H looked worried in return. The Master suddenly began to circle the Sergeant at a distance; slowly at first and then gaining speed until he flew around the officer like a tethered rocket. H took up a karate stance… who should he contend with first?
Basic police training came into its own here for the policeman; it would be for the best to sort out The Master before H… always go for the most dangerous or biggest first… obvious reasons and described on page 76 of the Policeman’s manual… subsection 11b for the purist.
…Farley remembered how he had saved a penalty in the semi-final of the FA Vase.
“You’ll not stop this one, keeper,” said an old timer from behind the goal, “Our striker hits it harder than Lorimar (Lorimar struck the ball at an unstoppable 70mph during his Leeds United heyday).”
Farley rolled up his sleeves and crouched down ready. The striker ran up and hit the ball true and with venom. Farley guessed right and dived to his left (what?); he pushed the ball away from the goal to the utter delight of his teammates…
Farley crouched and waited, as with the penalty kick that sent him into cult status around the small mining village of R_______; The Chairman began to growl and salivate like a wolf as he began to move closer to the policeman with each rotation. He would not have to guess which direction to take this time, to be sure… but his timing must be spot on.
YEEEEEEEEAAAAAW
Farley threw himself forward just as The Chairman came between him and the tunnel; he crashed into The Chairman and knocked him backwards towards and through the tunnel. The Chairman didn’t land until he fell into the lush green turf that was the pitch outside. He screamed out in agony as the early morning sun came from behind a cloud and burned into his paper flesh. In true movie vampire fashion, he shrivelled and fell to ashes in a trice. Farley breathed a sigh of relief as he struggled to his feet. He saw Sproggy at the other end of the pitch; he was aerating the turf with a garden fork.
“You all right, Farley? Doing another search are we?” he shouted over and oblivious to Farley’s troubles.
Farley smiled and beckoned the groundsman over.
“I don’t want to worry you, Farley, but there’s smoke puthering from your right hand!” Sproggy let out in panic.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHH
Farley ran for the darkness of the tunnel. Of course, his right arm hadn’t received the ultraviolet light like the rest of his body… the sun would burn it to cinder if he stayed out much longer.
CRAAAAAAASH
In his panic he had forgot about H who brought the crowbar across his shoulders as he came back into the shadows. He looked up from the hard floor to see H ready to bring it down onto his unguarded head.
“Bye, bye, officer,” he said petulantly as he took theatrical aim.
PROOOOOOOONG
H dropped the bar and it rattled noisily down onto the concrete floor. He soon followed his weapon and fell heavily down and across the prone officer, a garden fork sticking out of his back for his troubles.
“Thanks, Sproggy,” said the big policeman breathlessly under the weight of H before falling into unconsciousness.
Part II
“Why is that big Sergeant over there wearing a black gauntlet on his right hand?” asked a young police cadet as he was shown around the station for the first time. “Has he been injured whilst fighting crime?”
“You could say that,” replied Noble indifferently as he showed the lad to his duties. “That’s Sergeant Farley Dalton… as you will no doubt soon find out if you step out of line.”
Night shift and Farley sat at his desk behind a mountain of files; his in tray well behind his out as usual – as was everyone else’s hereabouts. 6 youths, aged 15 to 17, had been caught fighting a rival gang with knives and baseball bats on the town’s C.C.T.V cameras and had just been brought in. He was processing the associated paperwork whilst he waited for their solicitor to arrive – he was more than an hour late. He didn’t have this trouble in the past; before Human Rights reared its ugly head – the youths are hardly Albanian freedom fighters to be sure. In a more sensible time if a juvenile committed a crime you had their parents up to the station in no time at all; nowadays however, through the act, they are allowed an appropriate person to be present – which is usually a lardy lazy leftwing legal knob jockey. Moreover, more often than not, parents remain ignorant of their offspring’s criminal shenanigans.
“Where’s Noble with my Kebab?” he asked a PC who had just placed a cup of tea down onto his desk. “I’ve been here nearly 7 hours and I haven’t had time for a bite yet… I’m beginning to hallucinate.”
“There he is, Serg,” returned the PC as Noble came through the door carrying a carrier bag which he sulkily handed over to the salivating Sergeant.
“Where in heaven’s name have you been Noble? I sent you for my supper 3 hours ago… it doesn’t take that long to nip down to the Blue Dolphin does it?”
“There was a big queue, Serg…”
“Big queue my arse, Noble,” he interjected, “I’ve got my eye on you, you little toe rag… did you order extra chilli?”
“Yes Serg.”
Farley unwrapped his supper and began to shovel the greasy lamb strips into his mouth just as the Chief Inspector came unexpectedly through the door.
“What is that revolting smell?” He let out through pinched nostrils.
“It’s Sergeant Dalton’s kebab, Sir, he often has one during an evening shift,” said Noble with a sneer.
“Well it seems that it was a good decision to come to the station during the evening shift to see how things are run… Dalton what are you doing?”
“I’ve been unable to get away from my desk, Chief Inspector, I’ve been so busy… this is my supper I am eating… I can hardly go without my supper of an evening…” said Dalton with shredded cabbage hanging from the side of his mouth and chilli sauce smeared all over his prominent chin.
“…This is an office and not a student’s grotty bed sit, Sergeant… what is that you are eating?”
“It’s a doner kebab, Sir… it’s very tasty.”
“What is it made from?”
“It’s spiced lamb, Sir.”
“Spiced lamb? Spiced lamb? Have you no sensitivity towards your fellow officers? One of your squad members may be vegetarian for all you know… or even worse, a vegan and you are sat there munching at dead animal’s flesh… I ask you, what sort of team leader are you?”
Farley shrugged in bewilderment. “No one’s ever bothered before, Sir… no one… don’t think we have a veggie…”
The Chief Inspector bawled his interruption. “…If I ever catch you eating such a thing again in my station your backside won’t touch the ground before you are back outside pounding the beat… DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”
“Crystal, Sir,” replied Farley as he licked garlic mayo from his fingertips.
As usual the door slammed violently shut under the Chief Inspector’s wrath. Farley grimaced and threw his half eaten kebab into the wastepaper bin. “Dick,” he whispered under his breath.
The office door opened and in walked a young police officer, WPC Smith; she looked flummoxed and upset.
“Are you okay, Deborah?” Farley inquired.
“Not really Serg; I’m a bit fed up.”
Farley indicated that she should sit down and gave up his seat for her. “What’s the problem and what can I do to help?” he asked with great humility as he perched on the end of his desk.
“You can’t really do anything, Farley… it’s just that… urrrg… I was up at the Oak Down estate at teatime to investigate a complaint. Some old chap has had his car scratched and he knows who did it.”
“Can he prove it? Were there any witnesses?”
“No… that’s the problem as usual.”
“We have to have proof Deborah; that’s the way we work… it’s the only way.”
“I know that, Farley… I just really feel for the old fellow; he’s an old soldier, he fought in the Second World War. It’s his pride and joy… the car. He’s had it for years and he keeps it in showroom condition; it’s an old type Rover… just like the 1 my granddad had before he died.”
“So who does he believe damaged his paintwork?”
“Some youths were throwing stones at his greenhouse last night and he chased them off with a flea in their ear and a threat to tell their parents – for what use that would be up on the Down – if they returned. Anyway, to cut a long story short, him and his wife decide to go out for a drive this afternoon and when they went out to the car it was scratched all down the bonnet… it’s a right mess. The same group of youths stood nearby grinning and carrying on… he didn’t see the youths do the damage unfortunately… uugh… but without a doubt it was them; it was obvious by their behaviour.”
“There’s not a lot we can do then, Deb,” said Farley with a nasal sigh.
“Last week there was hardly any trouble on the estate and I felt we were getting somewhere with the local youths… what happened to the patrols that were up there, Serg?”
“They were taken off to monitor motorists on the new road; there’s been a lot of speeding going on…”
“…Is that all this job is about, Serg? Raising revenue? I came into the force to make a difference… you know what I have been doing for the last 2 weeks? Handing out bloody leaflets to persuade… to… to advise people not to stab each other… you can’t make much of a difference leading a bloody leaflet campaign can you… or fining some poor motorist for having a faulty brake light or being 10 miles over the speed limit at 1 0’ clock in the morning,” the young WPC raged almost hysterically.
Aware of the Chief Inspector’s presence in the next office, Farley said, “Take the rest of the night off, Police Officer Smith… we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
The young WPC dropped her fair and bobbed head. “Sorry Sergeant… I shouldn’t have…”
Farley smiled and waved her away; he knew how she felt… he certainly did; he often felt like going home himself… and not ever coming back. But he had a job to do; a job that he was good at.
***
Farley kicked the waste bin as hard as he could; it crashed against the ceiling and showered Noble with white cabbage, chilli sauce and kebab meat. He was furious and this is for why…
…The C.C.T.V camera’s footage of the youths was not deemed conclusive enough as to identify them and, moreover, the knives and baseball bats they abandoned at the crime scene, which would have yielded evidence against them, were dismissed by the Crown Prosecutor as too flimsy to warrant the cost of tests. When the Sergeant escorted the youths out of the station they laughed in his face and taunted him with all sorts of mischief should they ever see him out on the streets…
Farley decided he needed to book some time off; he had plenty hours owing to him. He was tired and he hadn’t seen much of his wife, Cherie, of late. They could take a few days trip to the Lakes and do some walking; how they loved the Lakes. He would come into the station briefly tomorrow night to speak to WPC Smith as he promised, and then he would leave straight away afterwards for Cumbria.
The Chief Inspector was a little disgruntled at this but he showed some humility for once and the Sergeant got his well-deserved leave.
***
Farley pulled his vehicle into the filling station and filled it up with petrol – he had a long journey ahead. Cherie asked him to get her some mineral water when he paid for the petrol. He replaced the nozzle and went to go. He complained to himself as he went; he had dripped petrol onto his gauntlet
“Farley, Farley,” said his wife with a little bit more than excitement as she let down the window.
“What is it, what is it?” replied her husband, his nerves in shreds.
“Over there, over there; he’s just got out of that Mercedes… it’s Richard Bigdon…”
Richard Bigdon was a world-renowned pianist, a virtuoso no less, who had his roots in the little market town and was a frequent visitor.
“Should I ask him for his autograph for you?” Farley teased.
“Don’t you dare,” shrieked Cherie.
When Farley got to the pay booth, a smiling Bigdon held open the door for him; he thanked him and entered just as a Vauxhall Corsa sped onto the forecourt with a screech of tyres; loud music blared out from a woofer in the boot. Bigdon grimaced.
“Not your kind of music, Mister Bigdon” said Farley with a broad grin; the virtuoso laughed out loud as his return.
Farley was just about to pay for his petrol at the counter when the door to the booth flew open and in rushed a group of 4 youths wearing baseball caps and hoods. The tallest of them barged passed the off duty Sergeant and grabbed the petrol attendant by the scruff.
“Why haven’t you let the pump go, loser?” he bawled into a terrified face. “I haven’t got all night you know.”
“You didn’t… you didn’t p… pay last time…”
“So what? Nobody is going to do anything about it are…”
YEAAAAAAAAAAAGH
He was wrong… very wrong indeed. In a trice he was face down into the confectionary stand with his arm locked half way up his back.
“Let go of me you big b_____!” he yelled.
“You heard him; let go of him,” came a menacing voice to Farley’s rear.
He spun around to see a stocky youth, aged about 19, approach him; he was holding out a craft knife.
“I’m a police officer and I would put that down if I were you, lad,” said the Sergeant calmly.
BOOOOOOOOOOOSH
Before the youth could reply he was flat on his back floundering like a drowning fish and the knife was in the gloved hand of the officer.
“What the…?” ejaculated Bigdon as he rubbed his at eyes; he wasn’t quite sure of what he had just witnessed.
The others turned to flee. Bearing in mind the booth was more than 15 yards from door to counter and Farley was at the far end with his boot on the back of the flounderer and the 2 remaining youths were merely feet away from the door when they made that rapid getaway.
WOOOOOOOOSH
By the time they reached the door, to Bigdon’s utter bewilderment, their way was blocked by Farley’s barrel chest in the doorway.
“How did he do that?” Bigdon asked the astonished wide-eyed cashier; the cashier shrugged his shoulders a little bit more than he had ought.
“You’re not going anywhere are you lads?”
THUUUUUUUD
THUUUUUUUD
***
“Officer,” said Bigdon to Farley as he climbed into his vehicle, “can I have a word, please?”
“If your quick about it,” he replied politely. “I’ve got to go back to the station to make a statement before I get gone for my break.”
Bigdon grinned wildly. “I’ve never seen anything like it; the way you took out those youths… are you a martial artist of sorts?”
The big officer pushed his hand through his thinning crown. “Something like that,” he muttered with modesty.
Bigdon pushed a card into his hand. “If you ever want a job ring me; I would pay you double of what you are earning now as a police officer to oversee my personal security.”
Farley looked down at the card. “Thank you Mister Bigdon but I’m all right where I am thank you.” He tried to give the card back.
“Keep it,” said Bigdon as he climbed back into his vehicle.
***
Sergeant Farley Dalton toyed with the green embossed card between his fingers and looked down at his telephone. He might ring the number… maybe tomorrow. He would ring it tomorrow and why not?
“Are you listening to me, Dalton?” asked the Chief Inspector in near hysterical tones, “there has been some serious allegations thrown your way because of your heavy handed manner with those poor unfortunate boys at the petrol station…”
Farley held up his gloved hand. “Enough, Sir.”
“Enough?” returned the Chief Inspector.
“I’ve had enough; I’m leaving.”
“But you’ve just returned from leave… I sanctioned it for you.”
“No, Sir, you don’t understand… I’ve had enough and I’m leaving… I’m leaving the force.”
He stood up to his full height and held out his hand to his superior. “Good luck, Sir… you’re going to need it.”
