The Winter Sickness

  Chapter 61 – In Spite of all the Danger

  Something hard and sharp fell over Toby, clipping his legs. It gave him an adrenalin boost, as the shock kickstarted a lizard-brain fight-or-flight impulse. And before Toby knew it he was back on all fours, coughing up his lungs, crouching and looking for the danger.

  He breathed: it had only been a coat-stand that had fallen. The coat-stand wasn’t on fire, he wasn’t on fire... yet. Nor was he there to worry for his own safety. He guessed where the stairs were, and moved.

  There were faint sounds coming from the stairwell. There Toby found the woman, thankfully a wisp in comparison to her heavy husband. He gathered her up, and found she was even lighter in a fireman’s lift than the girls he’d hauled to and from the clinic.

  She seemed to have tried to make it downstairs and had stumbled, falling head-first. In a perfect world Toby wouldn’t have moved her an inch before paramedics had had her in a head-brace. Yet this was the world of Stove, and so very far from perfect.

  As Toby lifted Mrs Orell, he realised that whatever whimperings he could hear from her were irregular and coming less often than before. Smoke was everywhere now, rising up the stairs to meet them as they came down. At least there there was light from the upstairs windows. Toby got as good a grip on her as he could, and dropped into the darkness.

  In the front room the air was now so thick that he couldn’t see the front door from the bottom of the stairs. The smoke gathering at the ceiling was falling in a convex motion to join the Dagoban murk already swirling a foot deep through the room.

  ‘That was nearly me,’ muttered Toby.

  His journeys back and forth through the room had cleared a way now. He judged his angle and moved one step at a time – it seemed to take forever to cross the space, yet to have rushed and slipped could have done for them both.

  Around them lights flickered like ghost ships in a sea fog. Toby guessed the whole room dated from before the era of fire regulations and flame retardant material. Now that the sofa had caught aflame, its fabric burned like paper. Meanwhile, its foam innards glowed orange while belching out darker, blacker smoke. Soon the room would be so hot that any object in it might spontaneously ignite.

  By the windows, curtains became brightly lit. As they fired up, so a decorative sash along their edges separated from the curtains themselves. The burning parts floated off under their own steam as will-o’-the-wisps, casting eerie lights through the smoke.

  Worse, as Toby brushed against these jack-o’-lanterns, they attached themselves to the dark fabric of his jacket. His right sleeve promptly lit itself up. He whacked it with his other hand, scalding it in the process, and nearly losing Mrs Orell.

  He sped up, saw the opaque glow of the doorway, and burst through it, not finding clean air to breath for another three steps.

  Toby dumped Mrs Orell off his shoulder into the deepest laying snow he could see on the road. As she landed, so the cold made her gasp and shook her into a fit of coughing, which became retching, bringing up the foul debris that had had her close to stopping breathing altogether.

  ‘I knew these uniforms were cursed,’ snarled Toby, as he got the burning jacket off. He threw it into the snow, where it sizzled.

  The town had a crew of voluntary firefighters, on duty even with the winter, even with the sickness, even with their sons kept at home and their daughters taken away to the School. By the time Toby came out of the house with Mrs Orell over his shoulder, they already had their hand-pulled fire-cart attached to the nearest standpipe. Others were unrolling the hose to aim through the door Toby had just exited.

  ‘Not a moment to lose, fellows,’ said Toby as they worked with trained efficiency.

  ‘First on the scene, eh Sheriff?’ one asked. ‘You must have the sixth sense.’

  ‘I’ve certainly had help from somewhere.’

  Toby grimaced. He fell on all fours and then into the snow itself. Without a jacket he was freezing, but needed it like a body-size icepack. Both of his journeys through the house had taken place within perhaps forty seconds. Sometimes the brain had to slow things down to keep up.

  From where he and Mrs Orell lay, Toby looked up at the tall houses on the street beyond, with their upper windows watching; and he waved. A stupid, dumb thing to do. But then the town felt stupid and dumb.

  Toby fell back into the snow and laughed, muttering,

  ‘You dumb idiot. Jake’ll have filmed the whole thing. And in broad daylight! No ghost-images from last night for courts to have to sift through, you’ve murdered in the sunlight. You daft, dumb idiot.’

  ‘What’s that, Sheriff?’ asked the Fireman. But Toby was spark out.

  Jake was watching through his telephoto lens behind one of those high windows. He wasn’t worried about being given away. He was breathing deep sighs of relief for Mrs Orell and Toby getting out unharmed, even if the woman’s husband hadn’t been able to be saved. And he felt pathetic, for being stuck in his upstairs room unable to help.

  Yet he sensed he wouldn’t be stuck there for very much longer.

  Chapter 62 – Lost to Snow

  ‘Sheriff?’

  Toby woke with a jolt, suddenly realising how cold he was. The snow was melting under him, his shirt was soaking.

  ‘Sheriff!’ repeated the Fireman.

  ‘Get this down you,’ said a woman from the street, leaning over him in her apron. Toby took the offered tumbler, and found the water was half-brandy, and then took another slug.

  ‘Best restorative going, my old Pa used to say.’

  The Fireman echoed the sentiment, ‘Come on, Sheriff. No, no, it’s not mouthwash, no spitting it out now.’

  ‘He’s going to be sick,’ said the woman. To which the Fireman answered,

  ‘Thank you, I can see that clearly enough from here. Come on, Toby. Up you sit. Get the old pipes working in the right direction.’

  The woman was watching Toby intently, saying,

  ‘It wasn’t just the fire – you’re all beat up. What happened to you?’

  Toby spoke without thinking,

  ‘Crawley hit me.’

  ‘Looks like you caught him somewhere too,’ said the Fireman, ‘judging by the ruby knuckles clutching that tumbler! Knocked him half-way into next week, I’ll wager.’

  ‘I couldn’t see.’

  ‘He’ll be tasting blood in his food for days.’

  ‘But what was it all about?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I tried to take him in.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time,’ she said and shook her head.

  Toby heard another voice then. It was an old lady speaking; she was standing by what Toby knew would have been a neat little garden under all the snow. It was the garden Billy Meting and Lloyd Thornton had been laid out in the night before. She said,

  ‘I remember you. You helped the Sheriff last night.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. At least I tried to.’

  ‘And that poor boy. The others just dumped him there, but not you.’

  Toby tried to wave away the good regard, and learnt he’d lost a layer of skin from the palm of his left hand. He wasn’t coughing, but could hardly breathe. The old lady added,

  ‘That big one’s a bully.’

  Toby half-laughed, ‘Next year they’re putting him in charge.’

  ‘Then you have to stop him!’

  Toby couldn’t argue with that.

  He tried to rise, but fell back into the snow. With others’ help, he made a better go of it the second time.

  Someone found his singed, damp jacket and held it open for him, saying,

  ‘Get this on, before you catch your death.’

  Toby leant forward to do as instructed, and was sick like Mrs Orell had been, narrowly missing the jacket and those holding it. It was another minute before they had him dressed.

  ‘My hat!’ he called, but it was gone, lost somewhere along the line and not recovered.

  The firefighters had got the water flowing. They seemed t
o be matching the blaze, but the Orell house was lost. Soon their priority would be dampening down the neighbours’ places. Across the road the public gallery was watching this go on.

  ‘It’s Crawley did this,’ one shouted.

  ‘Someone’s driven him mad,’ said a firefighter.

  ‘You need to get him, Sheriff,’ voiced another crowd-member.

  Toby groaned as inner-steel reformed itself through his body. With his jacket pulled on, he wiped his mouth clean, nodded his respects to those who’d helped him, and straightened to something like his full height.

  ‘Which way?’ he called to the gallery.

  Half-a-dozen of them pointed and called the same.

  ‘Then wish me luck.’

  Chapter 63 – The Chase

  Toby already knew it was ‘Crawley did this.’

  After passing two or three houses in the direction he had been given, Toby found the trail of blood. He followed the drops around the corner of one building, and then another, and then along a walkway behind gardens.

  He followed the trail through the same old yards with the same old junk; through spaces where the snow that covered them had dirtied from the moment it had touched the ground. And the trail went on and on. Nor did Toby see another soul – if any of the townsfolk had seen Crawley, then they were keeping well out of it.

  Toby asked himself: How had a wounded man, labouring under injuries and under the weight of his own rotten life, got so far? Toby hardy had the energy left to follow. The side of his head had been shrieking since getting back on his feet, and he was sure he must have hit it in the burning house. Crawley had already struck him on the temple. Could he be suffering brain injury, a fractured skull? And how could he do anything about it even if he knew?

  Toby leaned against a fence to pause, undid his top button, loosened his shirt and the tie knot beneath. Then – finally – he heard shuffling, and in the snow before him could see not only drops but whole gamuts of blood. It wasn’t soaking into the slush, as coloured water might. It was like thick red paint, splashing the snow with its weight, hanging and dripping over the shapes of frost and ice beneath it.

  Toby quit breathing – and there he heard clearer the sound of another’s breath. It was halting and gargled, as if the person’s mouth was underwater.

  The nightstick came at Toby quickly and directly. It came around the corner of a white wooden building. There was no intention to scare, it was meant to injure, to break Toby’s bones. Toby flinched, threw himself back against the wall as the blow was taken by the building’s corner-beam. That would need recarpenting come spring, Toby found himself thinking.

  ‘You’re not playing games, are you?’ whispered Toby as he got his breath back. He was amazed an injured man still had the strength and control to inflict such a blow. The nightstick was quickly dropped, and as Toby recovered, he heard Crawley shuffling off along the other side of the building.

  Toby tried to quieten his breathing to examine his injuries. He wouldn’t move from against the wall until he knew he wouldn’t collapse the moment he did so. Yet there was nothing there, the blow hadn’t caught him – he had reacted quickly enough. There was only the stinging of the skin of his burnt hand, and the pain in his temple every time he turned his eyes too quickly.

  He moved away from the wooden wall, and tested himself standing unaided. Then he rounded the corner, stepping over the stick. Toby half-thought of picking it up himself, but fought the notion. He was better than that, he didn’t need such a weapon – the prospect of what it might do in his hands scared him.

  The splintered corner of the building led around to that house’s backyard. Only, Toby realised it wasn’t houses that backed onto the alleyway, but shops. Through an open gate, he could see pallets and sacks. This was the back of main street; and the yard would have been that of Buddy Bob’s Hardware and Animal Supplies.

  So that was where Crawley had been running to: to where he used stay, where he would be safe. To the friend who could patch him up and hide him, surrounded by all those handy dangerous toys...

  But Crawley hadn’t gone into his friend’s yard. He’d only gone further along the alleyway, where he had now turned and was facing Toby. Toby stared back at him. The snow between them was splattered with bright colour like a Jackson Pollock canvas. Toby was penned in between the fences on either side. He thought of retreating, but knew he didn’t have the speed. He thought of dodging forward into Bob’s back yard, but wasn’t sure if he could have made it through the gate before Crawley was upon him. No, the only thing to do was stand his ground.

  Toby wished he’d picked up the stick. Stood there in that tight channel, they did not speak. There was no talking left in Crawley. He was a creature without words, he had regressed beyond that level. He only followed one animal impulse: an understanding that Toby was his enemy and must be destroyed. He didn’t even seem to care about his own condition: blood was pouring out of him, staining his shirt and uniform all down his left side. Those little beads of lead shot had been put there by Orell’s gun. Perhaps Toby had helped them along with a lucky punch? Either way, they had been working their way up through his ribcage and into the soft organs held inside.

  The harm done was immense – Toby thought that Crawley now seemed about as self-aware as a dog who saw his reflection in a pond and thought it was another dog barking at him.

  And then Crawley moved.

  When he did so it was with an energy and speed that Toby hardly credited. It may have been the man’s last act, but Toby knew it would be enough. For Toby had hardly managed to trail Crawley that far. He’d had harm done too, to every part of him. And Crawley, till he dropped, until his beating heart gave out, would fight like a savage – biting, gnawing his way through Toby till there was nothing left.

  Toby’s head was pounding now, his sight in one eye was dimming – wasn’t that a symptom of a haemorrhage? Toby pondered this quite clearly, as he noticed something else.

  Toby wasn’t a religious man. He wouldn’t even have been been able to understand the mechanics of a god creating a villain, putting a good person in trouble, and only then mercifully offering the good person a way to contain the evil. But at that moment something shone on Toby. As there, just inside the back fence of Bob’s yard, were resting a batch of garden tools. And tallest among them, with a long wooden handle, was a fork. An old hay-gatherer sort, used in whatever function they had for it in the animal supplies side of the business. And the width between the pitchfork’s two curling prongs was just about that of Crawley’s neck.

  So, the bull had one last charge in him. But this Matador had horns too.

  Without even thinking – for thinking would have been fatal – Toby ran for the open gate. He no longer had to worry about Crawley catching him before he got there, as he was going to catch him anyway.

  Luck favoured the brave, and Toby made it in time. He reached into the yard and grabbed the fork by its long pole, pulling it into the alley. There he spun in above his head like a Samurai might his sword, and had its prongs pointed right at Crawley as he roared – literally roared – straight at him along the narrow way.

  A movement, a nervous flinch, a moment’s hesitation could have seen either spike catch the side of the big man’s neck – for the fork was only just wide enough. But instead the prongs only grazed him on his way between them; to leave it for Crawley’s voice-box to thump against the crux of the fork as it connected.

  It was a sickening sound, like when a football coach has a player bite down on a piece of wood before straightening a twisted knee. A real bone-and-cartilage crunch. Toby felt the full force of Crawley’s weight as he connected with the fork, losing hold of the handle and being thrown backward into bloody, gritty snow. But it was with relief that the pair of them collapsed side by side.

  And then everything was still.

  Chapter 64 – The World Catches Up

  Lying on his back, with the wooden pole resting over him, Toby uttered,

&n
bsp; ‘It’s done. It’s over.’

  Then the sleepy feeling that he had had in the burning house returned, he murmuring to no one, ‘Leave me here, I’m dying.’

  Although he was doing nothing of the sort.

  Toby dreamt that he was lying in snow, then woke to find he was. He’d blacked out.

  ‘There’re only so many times I’m going to wake from these,’ he said, as his eyes opened to learn they were full of dirt. Slumped there, the snow had repeated its trick of being cool to lie on, then becoming too cool. His neck and tunic were wet, and he could no longer rest there comfortably.

  Toby raised himself to look at his prey. Or had he been the prey, and Crawley the hunter? He had been the hunter in the end. Thank god the worm had turned.

  Toby rose, and stood unsteadily over Crawley. The sight took time to sink in. He’d half-expected to see his enemy squirming, screaming, fighting to get back up. But Toby sensed the man’s stillness as he lay there.

  Like Toby, Crawley had ended up flat on his back. His legs had continued to run as the upper part of him had been stopped dead in its tracks. The weight on his spine as he fell must have knocked the wind right out of him.

  The wound to Crawley’s neck displayed only redness, yet his mouth was foaming with blood. Toby also noticed how a fork-prong had snagged the soft part of Crawley’s left ear as the two had flown past each other. Drops of blood dripped down his neck, to leave a mark like the kiss of a vampire.

  The victim was whimpering and making occasional wet yelps. Somewhere in there his voice-box was crushed. The animal beyond language now couldn’t speak if it had wanted to.

  Toby had half an idea then to take the fork and stamp it into the ground to pin Crawley’s neck. Yet his opponent was down and down bad, and that would have been an insult. Toby went to walk away, when a hand flapped up against his tall boot. Toby spun and planted his foot on Crawley’s shoulder; before the bloodied paw fell down again.

  The exertion caused the broken man a fit of coughing and gargling, splattering blood on his face and the surrounding snow. Toby held his boot in place. He had him – he had him! By hook or by crook, he had driven his enemy’s mania onto the surface. He had seen its full flourish, phlegm-flecked and blood-spattered. He had made Crawley a lunatic, and he had defeated him. Toby saw his goal was realised, and at that moment wondered what he had become?