Safe Refuge for the Exile, Part 2: Left Hanging
Nevermoor: Safe Refuge For the Exile
2: Left Hanging
Left Hanging was aptly named. It was Godforsaken. And so was Derek Baynham. Godforsaken, that is, not aptly named: though he had spent several years trying to get friends and colleagues to call him 'Dex', it hadn't caught on. 'It's just that you look like a Derek', they would say, and that was that.
Baynham stood alone on the so-called platform of the so-called train station of the so-called village of Left Hanging ('there's a nice pub there!' DCS Cooper had insisted, cheerfully; she was half right, but had failed to add that the 'nice' pub was the only thing there). It was still raining, a constant, light drizzle which never quite seemed to come into its own. Baynhan felt sympathy for it, that drizzle. Like him, it was a grafter, industrious in its efforts to get him wet no matter what, to ruin his coat and soak through his luggage and make his hair look like a straggly tabby-cat had crawled onto his head and died. Like Baynham, its success was limited, and yet it kept on going. There was something to be learned from that drizzle.
Taking in his surroundings took approximately ten seconds. Tree at the end of the platform, check. Tree at the other end of the platform, check. Tors in the near distance, check; thick mist almost obliterating those tors from view, present and correct. Some wet grass. Some damp rocks. A lot of mud. Check.
Bloke coming towards him. Check. He'd been told he would be met at the station by a representative of the 'institute'.
But wait, what was this? Expected: burly Farmer Giles type, grown fat and red-faced on Devonshire cream and cow-flavoured cider. Instead: small man of Pakistani heritage, possessing a limp.
Interesting. Here for thirty seconds and expectations already subverted.
The man was limping closer; Baynham could see a welcoming smile on a pleasant youngish face. No; on closer inspection it was a young face, but a young face which had seen too much for its years.
“DI Baynham?” The stranger used the rank like no civilian could; he was obviously a copper.
Baynham, surprised, gladly shook his hand. “Yeah, I'm Derek Baynham. Cheers for meeting me. I thought somebody was coming from the house, though, er -“ he found he'd developed a kind of block in his memory for the name. Probably all the vodka he'd drunk while tearing maps to pieces and crying the other night.
“Nevermoor,” the young lad supplied, smiling. His face was an interesting contrast, burgeoning laughter lines around the eyes suggesting good humour, tighter, deeper lines in the forehead and corners of the mouth indicating something less encouraging. Baynham took a wild guess it might have something to do with the fact that the kid walked with a stick, a stick which looked recently acquired.
“And you're Constable...?”
“Sergeant.”
“Sorry!” He looked far too young, Baynham thought, suddenly less sympathetic. Another bloody fast-tracker.
“Actually, that isn't true, not really. I retired a DS; it was my consolation prize. I'm Ravinder Shoker, by the way. Call me Ravi.”
The name rang a bell. “Weren't you with the Met?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You're the lad who...?”
Ravi Shoker's lips tightened; he looked down at his feet and worried the close-packed earth with the tip of his cane. “Yeah,” he said, eventually. His voice was quiet, but steady.
“I'm sorry,” Baynham said. “I heard about the case, obviously - lost track of the outcome, caught up in something.” It wasn't a something he wanted to think about; besides, at the moment he was more interested in Ravi Shoker. Everyone in the Met knew the name: Shoker had been a rising star. Clever, and clever enough to pretend he wasn't quite as smart as he was. Sharp, and sharp enough to play dumb when it suited him. Took the initiative while respecting authority. Beloved, in a word, of the common copper and the top brass both, a rare gift. A rare bloke. And here he was, limping about in this blasted landscape as though he'd been here since the dawn of time.
“I thought they offered you a desk job, or something,” Baynham mused, frowning.
Ravi Shoker gave him a grin that was too tired and knowing for his years. “Would you have taken that offer, sir?”
“Nah. I suppose not. Hang on, if you've left the Force, how come they sent you to meet me?”
Ravi shook his head. Somehow he'd managed to pick up Baynham's case without him noticing, and began limping off with it. Baynham didn't know whether it was ruder to let him get on with it, or to say oi, put that down, you've got a leg off. He decided the latter was better - up to Shoker to decide what he could and couldn't manage, after all.
“Nobody sent me,” Ravi was explaining. “I've been staying at Nevermoor for the past few weeks. When I heard they'd got someone new for the liaison job, I was curious about the kind of person who'd take it on.”
“It wasn't exactly my choice,” muttered Baynham.
Ravi grinned. “I guessed that much. I suppose you could say Nevermoor's your consolation prize, Inspector.”
x-x-x-x-x
He was right about that.
X-x-x-x-x
The Outward Inn was on Left Hanging's 'high street', as the locals affectionately called it; accurately, Baynham supposed, since it was more or less the only street, a road that was little more than a dirt track winding down into a valley, surrounded by moorland on one side and farmland on the other. A church spire came into view, surprisingly tall and impressive-looking. Cottages, small but perfectly kept, with long lawns full of roses and rhododendrons, lined both sides of the road. At the end of the street, looking out onto what might loosely be called the village square, was a pub, very narrow and oddly squat despite being - to judge from the windows - three storeys high; even though it dwarfed the bungalows opposite, it was no bigger than a standard suburban semi.
“Here we are,” Ravi Shoker said, a touch breathlessly. The walk hadn't taken them long, but the hill had been steep and he'd struggled a bit, almost stumbling several times. Baynham had gently taken the suitcase away from him halfway down, feeling that political correctness was less important than Ravi not breaking his neck.
“This is...?”
“Where you'll be staying, yeah. Unless you wanted a room at Nevermoor until you get yourself sorted - there's lots of space, I'm sure Mike wouldn't mind.”
“No thanks.” Baynham was expecting to see quite enough of this Nevermoor place without having to live in it. “This looks, er, quaint.”
Ravi merely grinned at him and pushed open the inn's heavy oak door. Baynham prepared himself to be amazed; perhaps the super-traditional facade of the inn hid a modern yuppie (did they still have yuippies these days?) wine bar. It didn't. The inside looked as much like a typical country pub as the outside - it was dark, full of low exposed beams, the general cocoon-like dimness unrelieved by a dark grey flagstone floor. Charming in its way, he supposed. If he'd come here on holiday he probably would have loved the place. Now, creeping up to the highly polished bar and taking a seat on one of three four-legged stools felt like a death sentence.
The pub, though well stocked with small round tables, old-fashioned high-backed chairs, and a series of pews running around the outside of the room, was entirely empty except for the bartender and one customer who was sitting in a cracked leather armchair near a roaring open fire. He looked up briefly as Baynham passed, cocked his head curiously to one side, then returned to a newspaper he was examining with a bit too much interest to be genuine. Ravi Shoker, intent on negotiating his way through the mess of table and chair legs, didn't notice him.
The bartender watched as the two newcomers seated themselves in front of him. He was polishing an old-style pint glass - the sort with a handle - like he meant it, the expression on his face almost Zenlike. He was heavyset, beergutted, maybe fifty or so, with an untidy mop of off-white hair and a ragged-looking handlebar moustache. His beefy hands turned the glass with surprising dexterity.
“Hiya, Frank,” said Rav.
Frank looked at the lad, his non-expression unchanging, and made no reply.
“Excuse me,” Baynham said, “I've got a room booked for tonight?”
No answer. Maybe he was hard of hearing. Baynham tried again, bellowing this time. It earned him a frown from both the bartender and Ravi, and an annoyed tut from the man in the armchair. Before Baynham could say anything else, Frank reached under the bar. Oh God, he's going for a shotgun! was Baynham's panicked first thought. Acting on instinct, he shoved Ravi to the floor.
“Stay down!” he told the younger man. “I'll deal with this!”
When the bartender re-emerged, he was indeed holding something made of highly polished metal in his meaty hand: a room key. Without comment he pushed it across the bar at Baynham.
“Oh...er...” Baynham took the key with a helpless little shrug of apology. Next to him, Ravi was slowly clambering to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. The bartender stared at them both for a moment, then turned away and pulled a pair of pints. He set them on the bar in front of Baynham, held out his hand, palm up, and waited.
Baynham gave him a five pound note.
The bartender continued to wait.
Baynham handed him a ten pound note.
The bartender went away.
“Er - my change...” Baynham began; the words died into a sad little whine. He gave up and pulled one of the pints towards him.
“Sorry about that, Ravi. I thought he was pulling a weapon.”
Ravi seemed unfazed, if a bit dusty from his interlude on the floor. “Grew up in Central London, did you, sir?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
The man in the armchair gave a small snort. Baynham turned around to glare at him, but he'd already disappeared behind his newspaper again, nothing except dark hair and eyebrows visible, separated by an expanse of pale, lined forehead.
“Who's that?” Baynham whispered to Ravi. “And what's wrong with the bartender?” He took a long gulp of beer, confirming there was nothing wrong with that.
Ravi glanced at the newspaper-reader. “No idea,” he replied. “I don't come in here that often, to be honest. We've got a decent wine cellar at Nevermoor, and there's a bar in the old stables...there's nothing wrong with Frank, though. Why'd you ask?”
“He can't talk!” Baynham hissed.
“I've always assumed he can, but doesn't want to,” Ravi shrugged.
“Well, if he did it would save unfortunate misunderstandings!”
“Most people don't assume somebody's pulling a gun on them just because they're out of sight for a second,” a new voice interrupted.
Baynham turned sharply, “Was I talking to you?” he snapped. He wasn't normally one to pick fights, but then, nor was he usually a beer drinker; the strong country ale on top of the train wine, following an entire day spent without food (he'd been too depressed to eat more than a packet of cheese and onion crisps), had gone right to his head.
“You're in my local,” the man replied. He had lowered his newspaper, revealing a long, pale face, pale grey-blue eyes set above an aquiline nose, and a rather solidly-built frame, which came clearly into view as he got up. His age was impossible to determine; he could have been anything from forty to sixty. He was also about three inches taller than Baynham.
x-x-x-x-x
That last bit should have clinched it, really - older than me he might have been, but this pub-claiming menace was not only taller than me but heavier, and not from eating too much pudding, by the look of him. I should have finished my drink and gone up to my room, but I'd had a bad week - the worst of my life - and I'd already hated this place and everyone in it before I said foot in the bloody stupidly named Outward Inn.
Well, what would you have done?
X-x-x-x-x
“Farmer, I suppose, are you?” Baynham sneered. Bloody yokels, thinking they owned the place just because they - owned the place.
“Yes, I am. What's it to you?” The newspaper-reader had his head cocked to one side again, as if to designate himself the calm, unruffled master of the situation. That little gesture was already irritating the hell out of Baynham. The arrogant sod!
“I'll tell you what it is to me. You people don't know you're born. While you milk your cows and eat your clotted cream, I'm out keeping the streets of London safe, putting my arse on the line!”
The stranger seemed amused. “Are you really? You seem to have your arse on a barstool at the moment.”
“Are you questioning my word?”
“I haven't decided yet. I do think you're probably an idiot, though.”
“Gents...” Ravi had stepped between them. “You've had a long day, sir,” he said to Baynham. “Maybe we should go upstairs and get you settled in, eh?”
Frank the bartender had returned from whence he'd spirited Baynham's ten pound note, and was polishing his pint-glass again, pretending not to be interested in what was happening while blatantly watching all three of them closely.
“I've got this, Frank,” said the smarmy yokel. Baynham was no expert on accents, but he didn't sound like a local yokel, so to speak. Cheeky bastard, acting like Baynham was some kind of interloper when he wasn't even from around here himself!
Frank nodded once, put the glass back, and disappeared into a back room.
“You should be getting off, Ravi,” Baynham said, not to be outdone; he took off his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves. “I'll take it from here.”
“I really don't think...”
“Go home, son. Put your feet up.”
Ravi hesitated.
“Don't worry,” the yokel said, grinning, “when I'm done with him I'll stick him through your letterbox.”
Ravi looked even more alarmed, tensing as the big man walked right up to him and, leaning forward, muttered something in his ear. To Baynham's surprise, Ravi did a small double-take, then nodded and - still somewhat hesitantly - picked up his stick.
“Right, sir, I'll be off. If you need anything, you know how to get to Nevermoor, don't you?”
“I'll sort him out,” the yokel said, comfortably.
“Oh, you will, will you?” growled Baynham, incensed.
Ravi gave him an uncertain look, chewing his lip as though trying to keep himself from saying something - then he smiled, almost apologetically, and made his way to the door.
Five seconds after the heavy oak had shut behind him, Frank vanished again, and Baynham was left alone with his new nemesis.
“Well then,” he said.
“Well then,” said his nemesis.
“Outside?” Baynham suggested.
“It's raining. Let's do it in here.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
A pause. Baynham couldn't quite bring himself to make the necessary move; his sleeves were rolled up, his jacket on the floor, his face flushed and his breathing rapid; he looked, in short, like an idiot. His thoughts were running something like this:
Just hit him!
But he's twice the size of me!
Who cares, he's just some shit-for-brains plough-pusher, you've had training in self-defence!
But he's twice the size of me!
“Well?” the shit-for-brains plough-pusher asked, pleasantly, after a moment. “Calmed down a bit now, have we? In that case, let me...”
He took a step forward, hand outstretched.
X-x-x-x-x
Okay, I probably should have realised he wasn't actually intending to fight me at all, and was only going to shake hands and introduce himself. I was drunk and in a pisser of a mood, all right? I'd had a terrible week and a big bloke I'd spent the last ten minutes insulting was coming right at me - what would you have done?
X-x-x-x-x
Baynham drew back a fist and whacked the yokel as hard as he could in the face.
The big man staggered back, hand clasped over his nose, blood spurting between his fingers, mumbling thickly, “shit! Shit! What the fuck did you do that for?”
“You want some more!?” Encouraged by his victory, Baynham was hopping from one foot to the other like an enraged rooster, hands clenched into fists in front of him, ducking and feinting. “Come on, you smarmy bastard yokel!”
“Are you a bloody lunatic, or what?” his opponent gasped, as Frank materialised out of nowhere and wordlessly handed him a handkerchief. “Ta, Frank.”
Baynham took a step back; now there were two large yokels glaring at him. “All right - which one of you scumbags wants it first? Either one! Not - not both at once, though, it isn't gentlemanly...” As they each took a step towards him he began to wonder what the odds were of vaulting over the bar without braining himself.
The advancing pair had stopped, however, and were regarding Baynham with expressions that looked more surprised than angry. “Who are you?” the farmer demanded suddenly, through the handkerchief, his voice sounding thick and nasal, as though he were talking down a nose which was, presumably, no longer quite so aquiline.
“Er -” the adrenaline-and-ale-fuelled manic rage was beginning to dissipate, and as it did it occurred to Baynham that his boss at Dartford might not appreciate hearing this kind of anecdote about his new inspector. Nor would be relish, Baynham supposed unhappily, having to arrest the newcomer for assault. “I'm nobody!” he blurted.
“Your name,” the big man snapped, and Baynham was inescapably reminded of DCS Cooper's best dog-handling voice.
“Derek Baynham,” he mumbled, then, with a last-ditch attempt to save face, “and you'd better remember it!”
“Oh, trust me.” The stranger took the handkerchief from his face and grinned unnervingly through a mouthful of blood. “I will.”
x-x-x-x-x
Previous chapter: Cop, Interrupted
Next Chapter: There But For the Grace
2: Left Hanging
Left Hanging was aptly named. It was Godforsaken. And so was Derek Baynham. Godforsaken, that is, not aptly named: though he had spent several years trying to get friends and colleagues to call him 'Dex', it hadn't caught on. 'It's just that you look like a Derek', they would say, and that was that.
Baynham stood alone on the so-called platform of the so-called train station of the so-called village of Left Hanging ('there's a nice pub there!' DCS Cooper had insisted, cheerfully; she was half right, but had failed to add that the 'nice' pub was the only thing there). It was still raining, a constant, light drizzle which never quite seemed to come into its own. Baynhan felt sympathy for it, that drizzle. Like him, it was a grafter, industrious in its efforts to get him wet no matter what, to ruin his coat and soak through his luggage and make his hair look like a straggly tabby-cat had crawled onto his head and died. Like Baynham, its success was limited, and yet it kept on going. There was something to be learned from that drizzle.
Taking in his surroundings took approximately ten seconds. Tree at the end of the platform, check. Tree at the other end of the platform, check. Tors in the near distance, check; thick mist almost obliterating those tors from view, present and correct. Some wet grass. Some damp rocks. A lot of mud. Check.
Bloke coming towards him. Check. He'd been told he would be met at the station by a representative of the 'institute'.
But wait, what was this? Expected: burly Farmer Giles type, grown fat and red-faced on Devonshire cream and cow-flavoured cider. Instead: small man of Pakistani heritage, possessing a limp.
Interesting. Here for thirty seconds and expectations already subverted.
The man was limping closer; Baynham could see a welcoming smile on a pleasant youngish face. No; on closer inspection it was a young face, but a young face which had seen too much for its years.
“DI Baynham?” The stranger used the rank like no civilian could; he was obviously a copper.
Baynham, surprised, gladly shook his hand. “Yeah, I'm Derek Baynham. Cheers for meeting me. I thought somebody was coming from the house, though, er -“ he found he'd developed a kind of block in his memory for the name. Probably all the vodka he'd drunk while tearing maps to pieces and crying the other night.
“Nevermoor,” the young lad supplied, smiling. His face was an interesting contrast, burgeoning laughter lines around the eyes suggesting good humour, tighter, deeper lines in the forehead and corners of the mouth indicating something less encouraging. Baynham took a wild guess it might have something to do with the fact that the kid walked with a stick, a stick which looked recently acquired.
“And you're Constable...?”
“Sergeant.”
“Sorry!” He looked far too young, Baynham thought, suddenly less sympathetic. Another bloody fast-tracker.
“Actually, that isn't true, not really. I retired a DS; it was my consolation prize. I'm Ravinder Shoker, by the way. Call me Ravi.”
The name rang a bell. “Weren't you with the Met?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You're the lad who...?”
Ravi Shoker's lips tightened; he looked down at his feet and worried the close-packed earth with the tip of his cane. “Yeah,” he said, eventually. His voice was quiet, but steady.
“I'm sorry,” Baynham said. “I heard about the case, obviously - lost track of the outcome, caught up in something.” It wasn't a something he wanted to think about; besides, at the moment he was more interested in Ravi Shoker. Everyone in the Met knew the name: Shoker had been a rising star. Clever, and clever enough to pretend he wasn't quite as smart as he was. Sharp, and sharp enough to play dumb when it suited him. Took the initiative while respecting authority. Beloved, in a word, of the common copper and the top brass both, a rare gift. A rare bloke. And here he was, limping about in this blasted landscape as though he'd been here since the dawn of time.
“I thought they offered you a desk job, or something,” Baynham mused, frowning.
Ravi Shoker gave him a grin that was too tired and knowing for his years. “Would you have taken that offer, sir?”
“Nah. I suppose not. Hang on, if you've left the Force, how come they sent you to meet me?”
Ravi shook his head. Somehow he'd managed to pick up Baynham's case without him noticing, and began limping off with it. Baynham didn't know whether it was ruder to let him get on with it, or to say oi, put that down, you've got a leg off. He decided the latter was better - up to Shoker to decide what he could and couldn't manage, after all.
“Nobody sent me,” Ravi was explaining. “I've been staying at Nevermoor for the past few weeks. When I heard they'd got someone new for the liaison job, I was curious about the kind of person who'd take it on.”
“It wasn't exactly my choice,” muttered Baynham.
Ravi grinned. “I guessed that much. I suppose you could say Nevermoor's your consolation prize, Inspector.”
x-x-x-x-x
He was right about that.
X-x-x-x-x
The Outward Inn was on Left Hanging's 'high street', as the locals affectionately called it; accurately, Baynham supposed, since it was more or less the only street, a road that was little more than a dirt track winding down into a valley, surrounded by moorland on one side and farmland on the other. A church spire came into view, surprisingly tall and impressive-looking. Cottages, small but perfectly kept, with long lawns full of roses and rhododendrons, lined both sides of the road. At the end of the street, looking out onto what might loosely be called the village square, was a pub, very narrow and oddly squat despite being - to judge from the windows - three storeys high; even though it dwarfed the bungalows opposite, it was no bigger than a standard suburban semi.
“Here we are,” Ravi Shoker said, a touch breathlessly. The walk hadn't taken them long, but the hill had been steep and he'd struggled a bit, almost stumbling several times. Baynham had gently taken the suitcase away from him halfway down, feeling that political correctness was less important than Ravi not breaking his neck.
“This is...?”
“Where you'll be staying, yeah. Unless you wanted a room at Nevermoor until you get yourself sorted - there's lots of space, I'm sure Mike wouldn't mind.”
“No thanks.” Baynham was expecting to see quite enough of this Nevermoor place without having to live in it. “This looks, er, quaint.”
Ravi merely grinned at him and pushed open the inn's heavy oak door. Baynham prepared himself to be amazed; perhaps the super-traditional facade of the inn hid a modern yuppie (did they still have yuippies these days?) wine bar. It didn't. The inside looked as much like a typical country pub as the outside - it was dark, full of low exposed beams, the general cocoon-like dimness unrelieved by a dark grey flagstone floor. Charming in its way, he supposed. If he'd come here on holiday he probably would have loved the place. Now, creeping up to the highly polished bar and taking a seat on one of three four-legged stools felt like a death sentence.
The pub, though well stocked with small round tables, old-fashioned high-backed chairs, and a series of pews running around the outside of the room, was entirely empty except for the bartender and one customer who was sitting in a cracked leather armchair near a roaring open fire. He looked up briefly as Baynham passed, cocked his head curiously to one side, then returned to a newspaper he was examining with a bit too much interest to be genuine. Ravi Shoker, intent on negotiating his way through the mess of table and chair legs, didn't notice him.
The bartender watched as the two newcomers seated themselves in front of him. He was polishing an old-style pint glass - the sort with a handle - like he meant it, the expression on his face almost Zenlike. He was heavyset, beergutted, maybe fifty or so, with an untidy mop of off-white hair and a ragged-looking handlebar moustache. His beefy hands turned the glass with surprising dexterity.
“Hiya, Frank,” said Rav.
Frank looked at the lad, his non-expression unchanging, and made no reply.
“Excuse me,” Baynham said, “I've got a room booked for tonight?”
No answer. Maybe he was hard of hearing. Baynham tried again, bellowing this time. It earned him a frown from both the bartender and Ravi, and an annoyed tut from the man in the armchair. Before Baynham could say anything else, Frank reached under the bar. Oh God, he's going for a shotgun! was Baynham's panicked first thought. Acting on instinct, he shoved Ravi to the floor.
“Stay down!” he told the younger man. “I'll deal with this!”
When the bartender re-emerged, he was indeed holding something made of highly polished metal in his meaty hand: a room key. Without comment he pushed it across the bar at Baynham.
“Oh...er...” Baynham took the key with a helpless little shrug of apology. Next to him, Ravi was slowly clambering to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. The bartender stared at them both for a moment, then turned away and pulled a pair of pints. He set them on the bar in front of Baynham, held out his hand, palm up, and waited.
Baynham gave him a five pound note.
The bartender continued to wait.
Baynham handed him a ten pound note.
The bartender went away.
“Er - my change...” Baynham began; the words died into a sad little whine. He gave up and pulled one of the pints towards him.
“Sorry about that, Ravi. I thought he was pulling a weapon.”
Ravi seemed unfazed, if a bit dusty from his interlude on the floor. “Grew up in Central London, did you, sir?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
The man in the armchair gave a small snort. Baynham turned around to glare at him, but he'd already disappeared behind his newspaper again, nothing except dark hair and eyebrows visible, separated by an expanse of pale, lined forehead.
“Who's that?” Baynham whispered to Ravi. “And what's wrong with the bartender?” He took a long gulp of beer, confirming there was nothing wrong with that.
Ravi glanced at the newspaper-reader. “No idea,” he replied. “I don't come in here that often, to be honest. We've got a decent wine cellar at Nevermoor, and there's a bar in the old stables...there's nothing wrong with Frank, though. Why'd you ask?”
“He can't talk!” Baynham hissed.
“I've always assumed he can, but doesn't want to,” Ravi shrugged.
“Well, if he did it would save unfortunate misunderstandings!”
“Most people don't assume somebody's pulling a gun on them just because they're out of sight for a second,” a new voice interrupted.
Baynham turned sharply, “Was I talking to you?” he snapped. He wasn't normally one to pick fights, but then, nor was he usually a beer drinker; the strong country ale on top of the train wine, following an entire day spent without food (he'd been too depressed to eat more than a packet of cheese and onion crisps), had gone right to his head.
“You're in my local,” the man replied. He had lowered his newspaper, revealing a long, pale face, pale grey-blue eyes set above an aquiline nose, and a rather solidly-built frame, which came clearly into view as he got up. His age was impossible to determine; he could have been anything from forty to sixty. He was also about three inches taller than Baynham.
x-x-x-x-x
That last bit should have clinched it, really - older than me he might have been, but this pub-claiming menace was not only taller than me but heavier, and not from eating too much pudding, by the look of him. I should have finished my drink and gone up to my room, but I'd had a bad week - the worst of my life - and I'd already hated this place and everyone in it before I said foot in the bloody stupidly named Outward Inn.
Well, what would you have done?
X-x-x-x-x
“Farmer, I suppose, are you?” Baynham sneered. Bloody yokels, thinking they owned the place just because they - owned the place.
“Yes, I am. What's it to you?” The newspaper-reader had his head cocked to one side again, as if to designate himself the calm, unruffled master of the situation. That little gesture was already irritating the hell out of Baynham. The arrogant sod!
“I'll tell you what it is to me. You people don't know you're born. While you milk your cows and eat your clotted cream, I'm out keeping the streets of London safe, putting my arse on the line!”
The stranger seemed amused. “Are you really? You seem to have your arse on a barstool at the moment.”
“Are you questioning my word?”
“I haven't decided yet. I do think you're probably an idiot, though.”
“Gents...” Ravi had stepped between them. “You've had a long day, sir,” he said to Baynham. “Maybe we should go upstairs and get you settled in, eh?”
Frank the bartender had returned from whence he'd spirited Baynham's ten pound note, and was polishing his pint-glass again, pretending not to be interested in what was happening while blatantly watching all three of them closely.
“I've got this, Frank,” said the smarmy yokel. Baynham was no expert on accents, but he didn't sound like a local yokel, so to speak. Cheeky bastard, acting like Baynham was some kind of interloper when he wasn't even from around here himself!
Frank nodded once, put the glass back, and disappeared into a back room.
“You should be getting off, Ravi,” Baynham said, not to be outdone; he took off his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves. “I'll take it from here.”
“I really don't think...”
“Go home, son. Put your feet up.”
Ravi hesitated.
“Don't worry,” the yokel said, grinning, “when I'm done with him I'll stick him through your letterbox.”
Ravi looked even more alarmed, tensing as the big man walked right up to him and, leaning forward, muttered something in his ear. To Baynham's surprise, Ravi did a small double-take, then nodded and - still somewhat hesitantly - picked up his stick.
“Right, sir, I'll be off. If you need anything, you know how to get to Nevermoor, don't you?”
“I'll sort him out,” the yokel said, comfortably.
“Oh, you will, will you?” growled Baynham, incensed.
Ravi gave him an uncertain look, chewing his lip as though trying to keep himself from saying something - then he smiled, almost apologetically, and made his way to the door.
Five seconds after the heavy oak had shut behind him, Frank vanished again, and Baynham was left alone with his new nemesis.
“Well then,” he said.
“Well then,” said his nemesis.
“Outside?” Baynham suggested.
“It's raining. Let's do it in here.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
A pause. Baynham couldn't quite bring himself to make the necessary move; his sleeves were rolled up, his jacket on the floor, his face flushed and his breathing rapid; he looked, in short, like an idiot. His thoughts were running something like this:
Just hit him!
But he's twice the size of me!
Who cares, he's just some shit-for-brains plough-pusher, you've had training in self-defence!
But he's twice the size of me!
“Well?” the shit-for-brains plough-pusher asked, pleasantly, after a moment. “Calmed down a bit now, have we? In that case, let me...”
He took a step forward, hand outstretched.
X-x-x-x-x
Okay, I probably should have realised he wasn't actually intending to fight me at all, and was only going to shake hands and introduce himself. I was drunk and in a pisser of a mood, all right? I'd had a terrible week and a big bloke I'd spent the last ten minutes insulting was coming right at me - what would you have done?
X-x-x-x-x
Baynham drew back a fist and whacked the yokel as hard as he could in the face.
The big man staggered back, hand clasped over his nose, blood spurting between his fingers, mumbling thickly, “shit! Shit! What the fuck did you do that for?”
“You want some more!?” Encouraged by his victory, Baynham was hopping from one foot to the other like an enraged rooster, hands clenched into fists in front of him, ducking and feinting. “Come on, you smarmy bastard yokel!”
“Are you a bloody lunatic, or what?” his opponent gasped, as Frank materialised out of nowhere and wordlessly handed him a handkerchief. “Ta, Frank.”
Baynham took a step back; now there were two large yokels glaring at him. “All right - which one of you scumbags wants it first? Either one! Not - not both at once, though, it isn't gentlemanly...” As they each took a step towards him he began to wonder what the odds were of vaulting over the bar without braining himself.
The advancing pair had stopped, however, and were regarding Baynham with expressions that looked more surprised than angry. “Who are you?” the farmer demanded suddenly, through the handkerchief, his voice sounding thick and nasal, as though he were talking down a nose which was, presumably, no longer quite so aquiline.
“Er -” the adrenaline-and-ale-fuelled manic rage was beginning to dissipate, and as it did it occurred to Baynham that his boss at Dartford might not appreciate hearing this kind of anecdote about his new inspector. Nor would be relish, Baynham supposed unhappily, having to arrest the newcomer for assault. “I'm nobody!” he blurted.
“Your name,” the big man snapped, and Baynham was inescapably reminded of DCS Cooper's best dog-handling voice.
“Derek Baynham,” he mumbled, then, with a last-ditch attempt to save face, “and you'd better remember it!”
“Oh, trust me.” The stranger took the handkerchief from his face and grinned unnervingly through a mouthful of blood. “I will.”
x-x-x-x-x
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