Fic: The Fix
My third fic for the Countdown to Foxglove Summer, and also for my h/c bingo prompt 'drowning'.
Title: The Fix
Content: h/c, missing scene
Length: 3500 words
Summary: What Nightingale was doing while Peter was hijacking an ambulance and falling into the Thames.
Nightingale observed his apprentice at work and tried not to flinch. Peter wasn't a bad driver, but high speeds in the centre of London would test anyone. Practice makes perfect, he told himself firmly as Peter screeched too fast around the corner of Glasshouse Street. He saw the ambulance half a second before Peter did, but had scarcely drawn breath to shout a warning when the boy slammed on the Jag's brakes, driving the pedal right down to the floor, and they were both thrown forward into their seatbelts. Nightingale closed his eyes as the strong webbing struck his chest like a bullet, and had no idea whether they'd crashed or not. By the time he recovered, Peter was already out of the car and running after the ambulance. The Airwave radio had fallen to the floor when they'd stopped, and Nightingale couldn't hear the chatter. Behind them, there was a chorus of horns.
He should go after Peter. He wasn't sure the boy could deal with the Pale Lady unassisted. But he knew he wouldn't be able to catch Peter's lead, and in his current state he would be as much liability as help in a fight. He forced himself to get out of the car and go around to the driver's side, and pulled the Jag out of the way of traffic before leaning painfully over to pick up the radio.
The details arrived in staccato bursts. Peter was on the scene, according to Stephanopoulos's team. The Pale Lady had cleared the area. They were commencing a search. Ash was injured--stabbed with a railing--but alive and in the ambulance. Peter was with him on the way to hospital. Nightingale frowned. Modern medicine was good, certainly, but for the Rivers...
That was when the chatter about the ambulance being hijacked began. Nightingale listened to the report grimly. The idea that Ash was attached to a bomb he discarded. What could Peter be thinking to have come up with such a story? But the result was clear: Peter was now driving the ambulance with Ash inside it, and not to the hospital. He tracked it and realised where he was going. Oh, good boy, he thought. Savoy Pier. He radioed in to ambulance control.
"The allegedly hijacked ambulance is part of an operation by my department," he said. "The situation is under control. None of your staff are in any danger."
Ambulance control told him, at considerable length, what they thought of police officers taking control of ambulances and driving them around the city at random while patients bled to death in the back of them. Nightingale let the woman berate him while he put the Jag in gear and headed towards the pier himself. It would be best to deal with this in person.
The Savoy Pier was a mess of response cars and flashing lights. Nightingale parked the Jag away from the worst of the scrum, got out and looked for the epicentre of the trouble. The offending ambulance was standing right on the edge of the pier. He paused to take in the deep gouges scraped in both sides, the dents in the bumper and the missing wing mirror on the off-side. Having just witnessed the upper limits of Peter's driving skills, he had no doubt as to their cause. You're not making this easy for me, boy, he thought. There were uniforms sweeping along the riverbank, torches stabbing out over the water, and more inspecting the inside of the ambulance. He identified the senior officer, a sergeant who looked like she took lessons from DS Stephanopoulos in bad temper, talking to a woman in a paramedic's uniform.
"--find that bastard," the paramedic was saying, voice edged.
"We'll find them," said the sergeant. "Now can you tell me--"
"Excuse me." Nightingale produced his warrant card and identified himself. "Constable Grant works for me. Where is he?"
The sergeant pivoted to face him, and took the warrant card out of his hand. She scrutinised it for a very long moment before grudgingly returning it. "So he's not impersonating a police officer, then?"
"No. He was in an operation for my department and I take full responsibility for his actions." With both the sergeant and the paramedic glaring at him, this felt a lot like lying down on his back in front of a pair of hungry tigers and announcing that dinner was served, but it had to be done.
"In what possible universe," the paramedic snarled, very tiger-like, "is interfering with life-saving treatment, hijacking my ambulance and jumping into the river with a dying patient part of a police operation? He should be charged with murder, and if you ordered it, so should you." She looked at the sergeant, obviously expecting her to make an arrest on the spot.
The sergeant, however, had a warier expression, as if recognising that this new prey had teeth of his own. "You're ESC-9?" she asked.
"That's correct," said Nightingale, and hoped they hadn't changed the designation again while he'd been in hospital.
"The Ghostbusters," she muttered. "I have twenty years without having to deal with you at all, and now this." She gave a glance around the scene that was eloquent of unspoken swearing.
"I need to speak to Constable Grant at once," Nightingale repeated, scanning the area as well for a tall familiar figure. "And then we will be able to sort this out."
"Well, you'll have a problem with that," said the sergeant, "unless you fancy a swim."
Nightingale looked back at the river, noticing the officers stabbing torchbeams across the surface of the water in a regular search pattern.
"The RNLI and the MPU boat are on the way," the sergeant added. "For him and the victim."
"They won't find Ash," Nightingale said. "But why the hell did Peter go in?"
"Escaping pursuit," the sergeant said stolidly. "The number of idiots who'd rather drown than get their wrists slapped, I dunno." Despite her words, she played her own torchlight over the surface of the water. "It's too dark to have much chance of finding him like this. And the current's strong. The boats have the best chance."
Nightingale stared down at the water's edge, hoping to see a familiar shape break the surface. "He's a strong swimmer," he said, a piece of Peter's records surfacing in his mind.
"Water's cold," the sergeant responded. "If you want to help, sir, get a torch."
Nightingale looked at the water, then at the bristling paramedic still glaring at him. "Might I have a word?" he said in his most courteous tone.
"You should be arrested," she retorted, but the sergeant avoided her gaze. Out of the corner of his eye Nightingale saw her step away and speak into her Airwave radio, glancing back at him. More trouble from that quarter. But he could only meet these threats one at a time.
"I would be most grateful if you could tell me a little more about the patient," he said to the paramedic. "Was there anything unusual about him?"
That got a reaction other than fury at him. "Damn right there was," she said. "He should have been dead in under a minute from that injury. Straight through the heart. I've seen it before. But instead he was yelling and thrashing around, like he wasn't that badly hurt. It's the quiet ones you need to watch in this job, the ones who yell and shout and roll around are probably going to be okay. But then that bastard pulled the railing out... there's no way he could have survived that. But he kept talking."
"Yes." Nightingale lowered his voice as if speaking confidentially. "That is what I expected. I would very much like you to confer with my colleague, Dr Abdul Walid of the UCH. He specialises in matters of this nature. It is my department's business to deal with things that fall outside the purview of conventional events, and Dr Walid will be very interested in your observations on Ash's injury and his response to it. I can assure you that the only way his life could have been saved was by returning him immediately to his river. Which is what Constable Grant did. When Ash is recovered, if you would like, I can arrange for him to meet with you and you will be able to see for yourself that he has not been murdered, or injured in any way by Constable Grant's actions."
He could see the accent, the voice of authority, starting to mitigate her anger. But not completely. "You can't be serious," she said.
"I am entirely serious." He didn't try the charming smile yet; she was still too angry to be charmed. But less angry than she had been. She looked away towards the police, then back at him.
"She said you were the Ghostbusters? Was that a joke?"
Now this was what he needed Peter for. He knew it was some kind of modern reference, but had no idea of the details. "We deal with the uncanny," he said instead. "That is not a joke."
The paramedic was shaking her head, but not entirely in disbelief. "Uncanny is right. You get the weirdest shit on this job." Her eye was caught by the ambulance. "Just look at it!" she said. "We're short of operational vehicles already. Look at that!"
Nightingale didn't need to look. It was, he concluded, encouraging that she had diverted her anger from Peter apparently drowning a patient to Peter damaging the ambulance. That accusation, they could survive. Besides, it was utterly undeniable.
"Please speak to Dr Walid," he repeated.
"Yeah," she grunted, and went off to examine the damage to the ambulance more thoroughly. Nightingale gave the ambulance another look as well. He strongly suspected he would soon find he'd bought it.
The sergeant had finished speaking into her radio and was supervising the search. Nightingale gazed out over the river and saw the two boats now joining in. They would find Peter, he told himself. They were good at their job.
An annoying beep distracted him from this, and it was a moment before he realised it was the Airwave radio in his coat pocket. He answered it, and discovered that the sergeant hadn't lost any time in laying a complaint about him.
"What the hell are you playing at, Nightingale? Hijacking an ambulance? Attacking members of the London Ambulance Service? Has that constable of yours completely lost his tiny mind?"
It was Deputy Assistant Commisioner Folsom. Nightingale braced, and drew breath to answer, but Folsom didn't give him a pause in which to speak. Nightingale stood at parade rest and took the verbal beating without response, staring out over the river.
They really should have found Peter by now. If he was alive to find. And if he wasn't... if he wasn't, Nightingale knew there was one final thing he could do for his apprentice. The men on the front lines should not be blamed when their missions blow up in their faces. Or turn out to be the haunt of eldritch monsters worse than anyone could ever have imagined. Dealing with Folsom was bitterly familiar. He'd dealt with the Court of Inquiry after Ettersberg too.
"Constable Grant," he said coldly when Folsom finally paused for breath, "is still missing. He acted correctly throughout: the only thing that could have saved Ash Thames's life was immediately returning to the river. Constable Grant used the swiftest possible method of returning him, and accompanied him into the water to ensure all went well. And now he is missing in action."
The military phrase slipped out accidentally, but it seemed to silence Folsom. The senior police officers were all subtly intimidated by the fact that he had been a soldier in the war, Nightingale had noticed before.
"I intend to go and assist the search for him," Nightingale continued. "When we know what has become of him, and, if necessary, after I have spoken with his family, then it will be time to discuss his actions."
"We most certainly will be discussing his actions," Folsom responded, but the menace in his voice had been shaken. He signed off, and Nightingale set the radio down and went to look out over the river again. His apprentice hadn't surfaced. The Thames had him, and the searchers were coming up empty-handed. It was time to try a more direct approach. He bent down and unlaced his shoes, took off his socks and folded them neatly, and rolled his trousers up to his knees. He had a pair of Wellingtons in the boot of the Jag, but for this he needed to feel the water on his skin. He walked barefoot through the muddy shore and waded into the river.
Behind him, the constables stared and called something he ignored. The water was icy, and felt unclean and harsh against his skin. He waded deeper, until he could feel the pull of the tide on his calves. He pulled a silver hip-flask from his pocket, and poured its contents into the water.
"Mama Thames," he said. "You have something of mine."
The water pulled on his legs. He planted his feet firmly. "You have something of mine," he repeated. "Return him to me."
A cold wave splashed his knees.
"He entered your waters to return your long-lost son to you," Nightingale said loudly. "Return mine to me."
Another offering was needed. Impulsively, he took off his watch and threw it as hard as he could. There was a splash, and it came flying back and struck him in the chest. Not acceptable. He clenched his fist on his staff.
Then he raised his staff and opened his left hand. The werelight that blazed there was brighter than the one he'd created back when Peter had made him blow up a till for an experiment, as if he'd taken a star and shrunk it to the size of a golf ball. There were shouts from the shore, and the beam of a torch stabbed out at him across the water. Nightingale ignored them and sank the blazing star into the river. The water glowed golden, magic streaming from him into the water.
He held the spell as long as he dared, till his breath was tight in his chest and his vision blurring. Suddenly the water against his legs felt warm and soft and inviting. He let the spell go and staggered dizzily, leaning on his drained staff.
"My thanks to you, Mama Thames," he managed, with a courteous bow to the river. He waded back out of the water, leaning on the staff. His feet were numb with cold when he got back to the Jag, and he rubbed them warm while the constables securing the scene stared at him.
"You all right?" one asked him after a minute.
"Fine." Socks and shoes back on, he leaned back in the car until he got his breath back, but he couldn't rest. He got out and paced along the riverbank, helplessly staring around for a black head against the black choppy water.
It was another ten minutes before his radio sounded.
"We've got a report of a man washed up on the South Bank. Foot of the Oxo Tower. He matches the description of your missing constable."
Nightingale cleared his throat, but before he could ask, the controller added blandly, "He's alive."
He'd already turned the key in the ignition and had the Jag in gear. "On my way," he said, and spun the Jag around--she had a tight turning circle if you knew what you were doing--and headed for Waterloo Bridge.
It was easy to find Peter: he followed the flashing lights. It was always easy to find Peter that way. He used the radio to contact the squad car that was picking him up.
"Do not question him," he instructed them. "He was on an operation for ESC-9. I'll be there to collect him in a few minutes."
In the background he could hear one of the constables saying to the other, "What's ESC-9?"
"The weird squad. You remember that fire in Covent Garden? And the officer who got shot outside the Royal Opera House?"
"That was him? Doesn't look like much, does he?"
Nightingale considering telling them he could hear them, but refrained. Instead, he brought the Jag carefully along a narrow side street and onto the pedestrian area on the South Bank and got out.
"You here for your lost sheep?" said the constable. "He's in here. Pretty hypothermic if you ask me."
"I'll take things from here," Nightingale said, not really looking at the constable. There was a silhouette visible in the rear seat of the squad car, sitting huddled wrapped in a blanket. It was Peter.
The boy was half-dead of cold and exhaustion, but was putting on a good show. The constables who'd picked him up handed him over to Nightingale, though they indicated their resentment at being ridden roughshod over by asking for their blanket back. Apparently they were expecting an equipment audit. Nightingale plucked it from Peter's shoulders and handed it back to them with a glare. Peter's teeth were chattering.
Once the Jag's door was closed, Nightingale shut down the radio, waved a hand and intoned the forma, and the interior of the car became uncomfortably warm. Peter's head turned slowly.
"What was that?"
"You're freezing," was all Nightingale said. He started the engine and pulled away from the river.
"You should do that more often. The heating on this car doesn't work very well."
"Nor does the nearside wing mirror, after what you did to her," Nightingale retorted. He didn't mention that the spell to heat the car without setting anything on fire was complex and tiring to maintain, even more so when he was trying to drive at the same time. Peter craned his neck to see the mirror scraped back at an unnatural angle.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I--"
"Never mind. You'll have more to worry about than the Jag soon enough."
He had more than enough to worry about now. Peter had painted a large target on his back, on the Folly's back. He'd done what he could to mitigate the damage, but it would take a great deal more work to smooth it all over again.
But for now, he had an apprentice to look after. Peter's dark skin had a greyish undertone, and he was still shivering when Nightingale reached the Folly and parked the Jag. He stared dumbly at the door, and Nightingale went around and opened it for him, then hauled the boy out.
"Sorry," Peter muttered again. "I just--"
"Why did you go in?" Nightingale asked. "There was no need for that."
Peter stumbled into the Folly, leaning on him, and it took a while for him to answer. "I didn't mean to go out of my depth. But I had to make sure Ash was all right. And--and then I couldn't get back."
Nightingale grunted understanding, recognising the terrors behind the simple words.
Molly was waiting for them in the hallway. She frowned in concern at them both. "Hot drinks and biscuits, please, Molly," Nightingale said. "And please run a bath. And light the fire in his room. Quickly now, if you please."
She bobbed her head and hurried away. Nightingale knew that by the time he got Peter up to the top floor, it would all be waiting.
"A bath?" Peter said.
"The Thames is many things, but not clean. If you have any cuts they'll need extra cleaning. And it'll help warm you." He aimed his apprentice at the foot of the stairs, and Peter began to stumble drunkenly up. Nightingale shadowed him with a hand in the small of his back, hoping the boy wouldn't fall. He didn't think he had the strength in his upper body to catch him. But Peter trudged up the stairs with a stubborn determination that brought a smile to Nightingale's lips, where Peter wouldn't see. He was a good lad.
Nightingale chivvied his apprentice to drink the steaming hot chocolate that Molly had laid out on the tea trolley, and helped him strip off his sodden and filthy clothes and get into the tepid bath. Peter ate five biscuits as well, without apparently noticing what he was doing, and seemed recovered enough to scrub the river dirt away himself. Nightingale retreated, and found Molly had set a chair outside the bathroom, and more hot chocolate and biscuits. She was standing by, giving him a very familiar look, but he needed no encouragement to sit down and recover himself.
Splashing and clattering from the bathroom heralded Peter after another ten minutes, wrapped in pyjamas and dressing gown and slippers and no longer shivering, but still exhausted and wan. He looked at Nightingale in surprise.
"You're still here?"
"A great many people went to a lot of trouble to find you and get you out of the river, Constable," Nightingale said. "I'm merely ensuring that they didn't waste their time. Now go to bed. You have double practice in the morning."
Peter eyed him. "Seriously, sir?"
"Seriously." Nightingale did his best to look stern, but the fatigue after the day's events must have been setting in, because Peter smiled at him.
"Okay. Good night, sir."
Nightingale gave in and returned the smile. "Good night, Peter."
Crossposted at http://philomytha.dreamwidth.org/125685.html. There are
comments there.
Title: The Fix
Content: h/c, missing scene
Length: 3500 words
Summary: What Nightingale was doing while Peter was hijacking an ambulance and falling into the Thames.
Nightingale observed his apprentice at work and tried not to flinch. Peter wasn't a bad driver, but high speeds in the centre of London would test anyone. Practice makes perfect, he told himself firmly as Peter screeched too fast around the corner of Glasshouse Street. He saw the ambulance half a second before Peter did, but had scarcely drawn breath to shout a warning when the boy slammed on the Jag's brakes, driving the pedal right down to the floor, and they were both thrown forward into their seatbelts. Nightingale closed his eyes as the strong webbing struck his chest like a bullet, and had no idea whether they'd crashed or not. By the time he recovered, Peter was already out of the car and running after the ambulance. The Airwave radio had fallen to the floor when they'd stopped, and Nightingale couldn't hear the chatter. Behind them, there was a chorus of horns.
He should go after Peter. He wasn't sure the boy could deal with the Pale Lady unassisted. But he knew he wouldn't be able to catch Peter's lead, and in his current state he would be as much liability as help in a fight. He forced himself to get out of the car and go around to the driver's side, and pulled the Jag out of the way of traffic before leaning painfully over to pick up the radio.
The details arrived in staccato bursts. Peter was on the scene, according to Stephanopoulos's team. The Pale Lady had cleared the area. They were commencing a search. Ash was injured--stabbed with a railing--but alive and in the ambulance. Peter was with him on the way to hospital. Nightingale frowned. Modern medicine was good, certainly, but for the Rivers...
That was when the chatter about the ambulance being hijacked began. Nightingale listened to the report grimly. The idea that Ash was attached to a bomb he discarded. What could Peter be thinking to have come up with such a story? But the result was clear: Peter was now driving the ambulance with Ash inside it, and not to the hospital. He tracked it and realised where he was going. Oh, good boy, he thought. Savoy Pier. He radioed in to ambulance control.
"The allegedly hijacked ambulance is part of an operation by my department," he said. "The situation is under control. None of your staff are in any danger."
Ambulance control told him, at considerable length, what they thought of police officers taking control of ambulances and driving them around the city at random while patients bled to death in the back of them. Nightingale let the woman berate him while he put the Jag in gear and headed towards the pier himself. It would be best to deal with this in person.
The Savoy Pier was a mess of response cars and flashing lights. Nightingale parked the Jag away from the worst of the scrum, got out and looked for the epicentre of the trouble. The offending ambulance was standing right on the edge of the pier. He paused to take in the deep gouges scraped in both sides, the dents in the bumper and the missing wing mirror on the off-side. Having just witnessed the upper limits of Peter's driving skills, he had no doubt as to their cause. You're not making this easy for me, boy, he thought. There were uniforms sweeping along the riverbank, torches stabbing out over the water, and more inspecting the inside of the ambulance. He identified the senior officer, a sergeant who looked like she took lessons from DS Stephanopoulos in bad temper, talking to a woman in a paramedic's uniform.
"--find that bastard," the paramedic was saying, voice edged.
"We'll find them," said the sergeant. "Now can you tell me--"
"Excuse me." Nightingale produced his warrant card and identified himself. "Constable Grant works for me. Where is he?"
The sergeant pivoted to face him, and took the warrant card out of his hand. She scrutinised it for a very long moment before grudgingly returning it. "So he's not impersonating a police officer, then?"
"No. He was in an operation for my department and I take full responsibility for his actions." With both the sergeant and the paramedic glaring at him, this felt a lot like lying down on his back in front of a pair of hungry tigers and announcing that dinner was served, but it had to be done.
"In what possible universe," the paramedic snarled, very tiger-like, "is interfering with life-saving treatment, hijacking my ambulance and jumping into the river with a dying patient part of a police operation? He should be charged with murder, and if you ordered it, so should you." She looked at the sergeant, obviously expecting her to make an arrest on the spot.
The sergeant, however, had a warier expression, as if recognising that this new prey had teeth of his own. "You're ESC-9?" she asked.
"That's correct," said Nightingale, and hoped they hadn't changed the designation again while he'd been in hospital.
"The Ghostbusters," she muttered. "I have twenty years without having to deal with you at all, and now this." She gave a glance around the scene that was eloquent of unspoken swearing.
"I need to speak to Constable Grant at once," Nightingale repeated, scanning the area as well for a tall familiar figure. "And then we will be able to sort this out."
"Well, you'll have a problem with that," said the sergeant, "unless you fancy a swim."
Nightingale looked back at the river, noticing the officers stabbing torchbeams across the surface of the water in a regular search pattern.
"The RNLI and the MPU boat are on the way," the sergeant added. "For him and the victim."
"They won't find Ash," Nightingale said. "But why the hell did Peter go in?"
"Escaping pursuit," the sergeant said stolidly. "The number of idiots who'd rather drown than get their wrists slapped, I dunno." Despite her words, she played her own torchlight over the surface of the water. "It's too dark to have much chance of finding him like this. And the current's strong. The boats have the best chance."
Nightingale stared down at the water's edge, hoping to see a familiar shape break the surface. "He's a strong swimmer," he said, a piece of Peter's records surfacing in his mind.
"Water's cold," the sergeant responded. "If you want to help, sir, get a torch."
Nightingale looked at the water, then at the bristling paramedic still glaring at him. "Might I have a word?" he said in his most courteous tone.
"You should be arrested," she retorted, but the sergeant avoided her gaze. Out of the corner of his eye Nightingale saw her step away and speak into her Airwave radio, glancing back at him. More trouble from that quarter. But he could only meet these threats one at a time.
"I would be most grateful if you could tell me a little more about the patient," he said to the paramedic. "Was there anything unusual about him?"
That got a reaction other than fury at him. "Damn right there was," she said. "He should have been dead in under a minute from that injury. Straight through the heart. I've seen it before. But instead he was yelling and thrashing around, like he wasn't that badly hurt. It's the quiet ones you need to watch in this job, the ones who yell and shout and roll around are probably going to be okay. But then that bastard pulled the railing out... there's no way he could have survived that. But he kept talking."
"Yes." Nightingale lowered his voice as if speaking confidentially. "That is what I expected. I would very much like you to confer with my colleague, Dr Abdul Walid of the UCH. He specialises in matters of this nature. It is my department's business to deal with things that fall outside the purview of conventional events, and Dr Walid will be very interested in your observations on Ash's injury and his response to it. I can assure you that the only way his life could have been saved was by returning him immediately to his river. Which is what Constable Grant did. When Ash is recovered, if you would like, I can arrange for him to meet with you and you will be able to see for yourself that he has not been murdered, or injured in any way by Constable Grant's actions."
He could see the accent, the voice of authority, starting to mitigate her anger. But not completely. "You can't be serious," she said.
"I am entirely serious." He didn't try the charming smile yet; she was still too angry to be charmed. But less angry than she had been. She looked away towards the police, then back at him.
"She said you were the Ghostbusters? Was that a joke?"
Now this was what he needed Peter for. He knew it was some kind of modern reference, but had no idea of the details. "We deal with the uncanny," he said instead. "That is not a joke."
The paramedic was shaking her head, but not entirely in disbelief. "Uncanny is right. You get the weirdest shit on this job." Her eye was caught by the ambulance. "Just look at it!" she said. "We're short of operational vehicles already. Look at that!"
Nightingale didn't need to look. It was, he concluded, encouraging that she had diverted her anger from Peter apparently drowning a patient to Peter damaging the ambulance. That accusation, they could survive. Besides, it was utterly undeniable.
"Please speak to Dr Walid," he repeated.
"Yeah," she grunted, and went off to examine the damage to the ambulance more thoroughly. Nightingale gave the ambulance another look as well. He strongly suspected he would soon find he'd bought it.
The sergeant had finished speaking into her radio and was supervising the search. Nightingale gazed out over the river and saw the two boats now joining in. They would find Peter, he told himself. They were good at their job.
An annoying beep distracted him from this, and it was a moment before he realised it was the Airwave radio in his coat pocket. He answered it, and discovered that the sergeant hadn't lost any time in laying a complaint about him.
"What the hell are you playing at, Nightingale? Hijacking an ambulance? Attacking members of the London Ambulance Service? Has that constable of yours completely lost his tiny mind?"
It was Deputy Assistant Commisioner Folsom. Nightingale braced, and drew breath to answer, but Folsom didn't give him a pause in which to speak. Nightingale stood at parade rest and took the verbal beating without response, staring out over the river.
They really should have found Peter by now. If he was alive to find. And if he wasn't... if he wasn't, Nightingale knew there was one final thing he could do for his apprentice. The men on the front lines should not be blamed when their missions blow up in their faces. Or turn out to be the haunt of eldritch monsters worse than anyone could ever have imagined. Dealing with Folsom was bitterly familiar. He'd dealt with the Court of Inquiry after Ettersberg too.
"Constable Grant," he said coldly when Folsom finally paused for breath, "is still missing. He acted correctly throughout: the only thing that could have saved Ash Thames's life was immediately returning to the river. Constable Grant used the swiftest possible method of returning him, and accompanied him into the water to ensure all went well. And now he is missing in action."
The military phrase slipped out accidentally, but it seemed to silence Folsom. The senior police officers were all subtly intimidated by the fact that he had been a soldier in the war, Nightingale had noticed before.
"I intend to go and assist the search for him," Nightingale continued. "When we know what has become of him, and, if necessary, after I have spoken with his family, then it will be time to discuss his actions."
"We most certainly will be discussing his actions," Folsom responded, but the menace in his voice had been shaken. He signed off, and Nightingale set the radio down and went to look out over the river again. His apprentice hadn't surfaced. The Thames had him, and the searchers were coming up empty-handed. It was time to try a more direct approach. He bent down and unlaced his shoes, took off his socks and folded them neatly, and rolled his trousers up to his knees. He had a pair of Wellingtons in the boot of the Jag, but for this he needed to feel the water on his skin. He walked barefoot through the muddy shore and waded into the river.
Behind him, the constables stared and called something he ignored. The water was icy, and felt unclean and harsh against his skin. He waded deeper, until he could feel the pull of the tide on his calves. He pulled a silver hip-flask from his pocket, and poured its contents into the water.
"Mama Thames," he said. "You have something of mine."
The water pulled on his legs. He planted his feet firmly. "You have something of mine," he repeated. "Return him to me."
A cold wave splashed his knees.
"He entered your waters to return your long-lost son to you," Nightingale said loudly. "Return mine to me."
Another offering was needed. Impulsively, he took off his watch and threw it as hard as he could. There was a splash, and it came flying back and struck him in the chest. Not acceptable. He clenched his fist on his staff.
Then he raised his staff and opened his left hand. The werelight that blazed there was brighter than the one he'd created back when Peter had made him blow up a till for an experiment, as if he'd taken a star and shrunk it to the size of a golf ball. There were shouts from the shore, and the beam of a torch stabbed out at him across the water. Nightingale ignored them and sank the blazing star into the river. The water glowed golden, magic streaming from him into the water.
He held the spell as long as he dared, till his breath was tight in his chest and his vision blurring. Suddenly the water against his legs felt warm and soft and inviting. He let the spell go and staggered dizzily, leaning on his drained staff.
"My thanks to you, Mama Thames," he managed, with a courteous bow to the river. He waded back out of the water, leaning on the staff. His feet were numb with cold when he got back to the Jag, and he rubbed them warm while the constables securing the scene stared at him.
"You all right?" one asked him after a minute.
"Fine." Socks and shoes back on, he leaned back in the car until he got his breath back, but he couldn't rest. He got out and paced along the riverbank, helplessly staring around for a black head against the black choppy water.
It was another ten minutes before his radio sounded.
"We've got a report of a man washed up on the South Bank. Foot of the Oxo Tower. He matches the description of your missing constable."
Nightingale cleared his throat, but before he could ask, the controller added blandly, "He's alive."
He'd already turned the key in the ignition and had the Jag in gear. "On my way," he said, and spun the Jag around--she had a tight turning circle if you knew what you were doing--and headed for Waterloo Bridge.
It was easy to find Peter: he followed the flashing lights. It was always easy to find Peter that way. He used the radio to contact the squad car that was picking him up.
"Do not question him," he instructed them. "He was on an operation for ESC-9. I'll be there to collect him in a few minutes."
In the background he could hear one of the constables saying to the other, "What's ESC-9?"
"The weird squad. You remember that fire in Covent Garden? And the officer who got shot outside the Royal Opera House?"
"That was him? Doesn't look like much, does he?"
Nightingale considering telling them he could hear them, but refrained. Instead, he brought the Jag carefully along a narrow side street and onto the pedestrian area on the South Bank and got out.
"You here for your lost sheep?" said the constable. "He's in here. Pretty hypothermic if you ask me."
"I'll take things from here," Nightingale said, not really looking at the constable. There was a silhouette visible in the rear seat of the squad car, sitting huddled wrapped in a blanket. It was Peter.
The boy was half-dead of cold and exhaustion, but was putting on a good show. The constables who'd picked him up handed him over to Nightingale, though they indicated their resentment at being ridden roughshod over by asking for their blanket back. Apparently they were expecting an equipment audit. Nightingale plucked it from Peter's shoulders and handed it back to them with a glare. Peter's teeth were chattering.
Once the Jag's door was closed, Nightingale shut down the radio, waved a hand and intoned the forma, and the interior of the car became uncomfortably warm. Peter's head turned slowly.
"What was that?"
"You're freezing," was all Nightingale said. He started the engine and pulled away from the river.
"You should do that more often. The heating on this car doesn't work very well."
"Nor does the nearside wing mirror, after what you did to her," Nightingale retorted. He didn't mention that the spell to heat the car without setting anything on fire was complex and tiring to maintain, even more so when he was trying to drive at the same time. Peter craned his neck to see the mirror scraped back at an unnatural angle.
"Oh. I'm sorry. I--"
"Never mind. You'll have more to worry about than the Jag soon enough."
He had more than enough to worry about now. Peter had painted a large target on his back, on the Folly's back. He'd done what he could to mitigate the damage, but it would take a great deal more work to smooth it all over again.
But for now, he had an apprentice to look after. Peter's dark skin had a greyish undertone, and he was still shivering when Nightingale reached the Folly and parked the Jag. He stared dumbly at the door, and Nightingale went around and opened it for him, then hauled the boy out.
"Sorry," Peter muttered again. "I just--"
"Why did you go in?" Nightingale asked. "There was no need for that."
Peter stumbled into the Folly, leaning on him, and it took a while for him to answer. "I didn't mean to go out of my depth. But I had to make sure Ash was all right. And--and then I couldn't get back."
Nightingale grunted understanding, recognising the terrors behind the simple words.
Molly was waiting for them in the hallway. She frowned in concern at them both. "Hot drinks and biscuits, please, Molly," Nightingale said. "And please run a bath. And light the fire in his room. Quickly now, if you please."
She bobbed her head and hurried away. Nightingale knew that by the time he got Peter up to the top floor, it would all be waiting.
"A bath?" Peter said.
"The Thames is many things, but not clean. If you have any cuts they'll need extra cleaning. And it'll help warm you." He aimed his apprentice at the foot of the stairs, and Peter began to stumble drunkenly up. Nightingale shadowed him with a hand in the small of his back, hoping the boy wouldn't fall. He didn't think he had the strength in his upper body to catch him. But Peter trudged up the stairs with a stubborn determination that brought a smile to Nightingale's lips, where Peter wouldn't see. He was a good lad.
Nightingale chivvied his apprentice to drink the steaming hot chocolate that Molly had laid out on the tea trolley, and helped him strip off his sodden and filthy clothes and get into the tepid bath. Peter ate five biscuits as well, without apparently noticing what he was doing, and seemed recovered enough to scrub the river dirt away himself. Nightingale retreated, and found Molly had set a chair outside the bathroom, and more hot chocolate and biscuits. She was standing by, giving him a very familiar look, but he needed no encouragement to sit down and recover himself.
Splashing and clattering from the bathroom heralded Peter after another ten minutes, wrapped in pyjamas and dressing gown and slippers and no longer shivering, but still exhausted and wan. He looked at Nightingale in surprise.
"You're still here?"
"A great many people went to a lot of trouble to find you and get you out of the river, Constable," Nightingale said. "I'm merely ensuring that they didn't waste their time. Now go to bed. You have double practice in the morning."
Peter eyed him. "Seriously, sir?"
"Seriously." Nightingale did his best to look stern, but the fatigue after the day's events must have been setting in, because Peter smiled at him.
"Okay. Good night, sir."
Nightingale gave in and returned the smile. "Good night, Peter."
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