Fic: Burning Issues (Part 3)
Title: Burning Issues (Part 3)
Author: Lesley Mitchell (kjaneway)
Rating: 12-ish, currently.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own these characters, or there would have been a damned sight more than 12 episodes and a good deal less Sullivan snogging.
Notes: So, someone suggested we needed some longer Ash/Scribbs fic. My currently frighteningly overactive muses appear to have taken this as a challenge.
Unbeta'd, as usual, and subject only to my proofing while I shoved it into the LJ client
"Judith Withington," said the harried receptionist to no one in particular, as she tapped away at the admissions computer. "Ah, yes. She was transferred up to Sunshine ward."
Ash and Scribbs looked at her blankly.
"It's the new name for the psychiatric ward. In the right wing of the old sanaitor..."
"Ah, yes. We know where it it," said Ash, turning away, to make the long trudge through the medical rabbit warren.
"Been there before," explained Scribbs briefly, before following her partner's retreating footsteps.
When it had been built, in the later end of the nineteenth century, Middleford Sanatorium had been surrounded by nothing but fields. It had catered for the headstrong wives and daughters of the upper middle class of Victorian England. Those unconventional women whose behaviour so disturbed their wealthy husbands and fathers that they dug into their pockets to have tame doctors pronounce diagnoses of "hysteria", were bundled off to the country, in covered carriages, to avoid the scandal that could only be around the corner if they were allowed to stay in polite company.
With the advent of women's rights and the First World War, the building's purpose was suborned. Many wounded or shell shocked young men recuperated in the large and well maintained gardens that surrounded the neoclassical main building. The Second World War found the place occupied by a squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force, and the gardens turned over to vegetable plots for
the denizens of the expanding town.
The post war era brought more change. Taken over by the fledgling NHS, it became Middleton General Hospital, and increasing numbers of ugly, squat concrete buildings filled the grounds to provide extra space for the increasing population. What space could be spared was lopped off, and sold at cut price rates to whichever unscrupulous developer came up with the biggest backhander, until the hospital was firmly embedded in the suburbs.
The Sunshine Ward took up the right half of the middle floor of the original Sanatorium. It was considered a cosmic joke by the staff that the other half of the floor was given over to Trust middle management, whose strange and arbitrary decision making processes often lead people to wonder which half of the building was inhabited by the mentally disturbed.
After a brief conversation with the duty ward manager, over the world's worst intercom system, the detectives were buzzed into the ward, and left to make their own way to the nurses station, where Kylie tinnily insisted that she couldn't get some boy out of her head.
"DS Scribbins, Middleford CID," she informed the bored heathcare assistant, waving her warrant card. "This is DI Ashurst."
"You here for Judy?"
"We'd like to speak with Mrs Withington, if it's convenient, yes," confirmed Ash.
"Well," she said, looking pointedly at the clock behind their heads, "if you can drag her away from today's repeat of The Outer Limits, you might have a chance."
Ash looked pained.
"Or you could wait about ten minutes, and she'll turn it off herself." She gestured to a pair of decrepit hard plastic chairs, before busying herself again with the vat of coleslaw that appeared to constitute her lunch.
They sat silently, in the proffered seats, waiting with varying degrees of patience for the clock to tick around to the hour, which would mark the change of TV show.
A couple of minutes past three, just as Ash was ready to explode, the woman popped her head over the desk, and said, "Bed number six. Third one in on your left."
The woman in bed six resembled her house; ordinary and semi-detatched. A middle aged bottle blonde in need of a touch up, she sat in the chair by the bed in a worn but well cared for pink dressing gown and turquoise fluffy slippers, staring somewhat vacantly at the now blank television.
"Judith? Judith Withington?" asked Scribbs gently.
When the woman turned to look at her, "Judith, I'm Emma, this is Kate. We're with the police. Do you feel up to talking to us?"
"I'm not mental, you know," snapped the woman. "Just because some jumped up idiot SHO doesn't believe that They," there was a definite capital letter starting the word, "exist, doesn't make me mental."
"Mrs. Withington," said Ash, matter of factly. "We're investigating the death of your husband..."
"Poor Hugo."
"...we need to ask you some questions."
"He fought Them, you know. Never let himself be taken. They pleaded with me, you know, to get him to come too. Said that a breeding pair would be so much more useful to study."
"Oh," said Scribbs in a small voice.
"You told our colleague that you went to bed around 11pm, leaving your husband watching television, and didn't see him again until the early hours of this morning, when you 'went downstairs to fetch a cup of tea.'"
"The transporter always leaves me a bit dry in the back of my throat."
"Please, Mrs. Withington, try and concentrate. What time was it when you went downstairs."
"Oh, there's no need to be like that. I can see you're a sceptic."
"Judith," pleaded Scribbs, desperately hoping that she could get the woman to give them a straight answer before Ash had an anurism, "what time was it when you made your drink?"
"Er... let me think, dear. Ah, yes, it was about half past five. I noticed the clock in the kitchen when I put the kettle on."
"And, you'd come down from upstairs?"
"Yes, dear. They're very good. They put me back in bed when They're done with me, gentle as you like."
"Did you notice that your husband hadn't been to bed?"
"Oh no, dear. Hugo slept in the other room. Part of his fight against being taken."
"So, when you came down to make yourself some tea, did you notice anything wrong?"
"Well, it smelt a little burnt. I thought Hugo had made himself some toast before bed, or something."
"And you didn't notice that the television was still on?"
"No, dear. The living room door was shut and Hugo always turns the sound right down when I go to bed. He's..." she faultered, "he was very considerate of me."
"Why did you go into the living room?"
"Oh, I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No, dear. I drank my tea, and went back to bed."
"So when did you find your husband."
"The alarm went off at 7.15, as it usually does, and I got up and went to make him his breakfast. He likes, no, he liked a good fry up before work."
"While the sausages were cooking, I went to open the curtains in the living room, and... well, there he was! I stared at him so long that the sausages started to burn and the smoke alarm in the hall went off."
Scribbs double underlined a reminder to herself in her note pad to check the smoke alarm in the hallway.
"So... then, I cleared up the mess in the kitchen, and called 999. When the ambulance came, the nice young man who came inside, ran away back to his ambulance, and the next thing I know, you've turned up!"
"Who alerted the press, Mrs. Withington?" asked Ash.
"Oh, that was me. I was sitting there waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and I got the strangest feeling that They'd done this... They'd killed Hugo, as a punishment for not coming with me."
"Who are They, Mrs. Withington?"
"The little grey men, my dear. Only they're not from Mars, so you mustn't call them Martians. They get very angry if you do that."
"And why did you think that the papers would be interested in their, er, punishment?"
"Well, now I had some proof that They existed, didn't I? I've been telling those journalists for years, that They were Out There, watching us, but none of them had ever taken me seriously. Now," she repeated, defiantly, "I had proof!"
Author: Lesley Mitchell (kjaneway)
Rating: 12-ish, currently.
Disclaimer: Clearly I don't own these characters, or there would have been a damned sight more than 12 episodes and a good deal less Sullivan snogging.
Notes: So, someone suggested we needed some longer Ash/Scribbs fic. My currently frighteningly overactive muses appear to have taken this as a challenge.
Unbeta'd, as usual, and subject only to my proofing while I shoved it into the LJ client
"Judith Withington," said the harried receptionist to no one in particular, as she tapped away at the admissions computer. "Ah, yes. She was transferred up to Sunshine ward."
Ash and Scribbs looked at her blankly.
"It's the new name for the psychiatric ward. In the right wing of the old sanaitor..."
"Ah, yes. We know where it it," said Ash, turning away, to make the long trudge through the medical rabbit warren.
"Been there before," explained Scribbs briefly, before following her partner's retreating footsteps.
When it had been built, in the later end of the nineteenth century, Middleford Sanatorium had been surrounded by nothing but fields. It had catered for the headstrong wives and daughters of the upper middle class of Victorian England. Those unconventional women whose behaviour so disturbed their wealthy husbands and fathers that they dug into their pockets to have tame doctors pronounce diagnoses of "hysteria", were bundled off to the country, in covered carriages, to avoid the scandal that could only be around the corner if they were allowed to stay in polite company.
With the advent of women's rights and the First World War, the building's purpose was suborned. Many wounded or shell shocked young men recuperated in the large and well maintained gardens that surrounded the neoclassical main building. The Second World War found the place occupied by a squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force, and the gardens turned over to vegetable plots for
the denizens of the expanding town.
The post war era brought more change. Taken over by the fledgling NHS, it became Middleton General Hospital, and increasing numbers of ugly, squat concrete buildings filled the grounds to provide extra space for the increasing population. What space could be spared was lopped off, and sold at cut price rates to whichever unscrupulous developer came up with the biggest backhander, until the hospital was firmly embedded in the suburbs.
The Sunshine Ward took up the right half of the middle floor of the original Sanatorium. It was considered a cosmic joke by the staff that the other half of the floor was given over to Trust middle management, whose strange and arbitrary decision making processes often lead people to wonder which half of the building was inhabited by the mentally disturbed.
After a brief conversation with the duty ward manager, over the world's worst intercom system, the detectives were buzzed into the ward, and left to make their own way to the nurses station, where Kylie tinnily insisted that she couldn't get some boy out of her head.
"DS Scribbins, Middleford CID," she informed the bored heathcare assistant, waving her warrant card. "This is DI Ashurst."
"You here for Judy?"
"We'd like to speak with Mrs Withington, if it's convenient, yes," confirmed Ash.
"Well," she said, looking pointedly at the clock behind their heads, "if you can drag her away from today's repeat of The Outer Limits, you might have a chance."
Ash looked pained.
"Or you could wait about ten minutes, and she'll turn it off herself." She gestured to a pair of decrepit hard plastic chairs, before busying herself again with the vat of coleslaw that appeared to constitute her lunch.
They sat silently, in the proffered seats, waiting with varying degrees of patience for the clock to tick around to the hour, which would mark the change of TV show.
A couple of minutes past three, just as Ash was ready to explode, the woman popped her head over the desk, and said, "Bed number six. Third one in on your left."
The woman in bed six resembled her house; ordinary and semi-detatched. A middle aged bottle blonde in need of a touch up, she sat in the chair by the bed in a worn but well cared for pink dressing gown and turquoise fluffy slippers, staring somewhat vacantly at the now blank television.
"Judith? Judith Withington?" asked Scribbs gently.
When the woman turned to look at her, "Judith, I'm Emma, this is Kate. We're with the police. Do you feel up to talking to us?"
"I'm not mental, you know," snapped the woman. "Just because some jumped up idiot SHO doesn't believe that They," there was a definite capital letter starting the word, "exist, doesn't make me mental."
"Mrs. Withington," said Ash, matter of factly. "We're investigating the death of your husband..."
"Poor Hugo."
"...we need to ask you some questions."
"He fought Them, you know. Never let himself be taken. They pleaded with me, you know, to get him to come too. Said that a breeding pair would be so much more useful to study."
"Oh," said Scribbs in a small voice.
"You told our colleague that you went to bed around 11pm, leaving your husband watching television, and didn't see him again until the early hours of this morning, when you 'went downstairs to fetch a cup of tea.'"
"The transporter always leaves me a bit dry in the back of my throat."
"Please, Mrs. Withington, try and concentrate. What time was it when you went downstairs."
"Oh, there's no need to be like that. I can see you're a sceptic."
"Judith," pleaded Scribbs, desperately hoping that she could get the woman to give them a straight answer before Ash had an anurism, "what time was it when you made your drink?"
"Er... let me think, dear. Ah, yes, it was about half past five. I noticed the clock in the kitchen when I put the kettle on."
"And, you'd come down from upstairs?"
"Yes, dear. They're very good. They put me back in bed when They're done with me, gentle as you like."
"Did you notice that your husband hadn't been to bed?"
"Oh no, dear. Hugo slept in the other room. Part of his fight against being taken."
"So, when you came down to make yourself some tea, did you notice anything wrong?"
"Well, it smelt a little burnt. I thought Hugo had made himself some toast before bed, or something."
"And you didn't notice that the television was still on?"
"No, dear. The living room door was shut and Hugo always turns the sound right down when I go to bed. He's..." she faultered, "he was very considerate of me."
"Why did you go into the living room?"
"Oh, I didn't."
"You didn't?"
"No, dear. I drank my tea, and went back to bed."
"So when did you find your husband."
"The alarm went off at 7.15, as it usually does, and I got up and went to make him his breakfast. He likes, no, he liked a good fry up before work."
"While the sausages were cooking, I went to open the curtains in the living room, and... well, there he was! I stared at him so long that the sausages started to burn and the smoke alarm in the hall went off."
Scribbs double underlined a reminder to herself in her note pad to check the smoke alarm in the hallway.
"So... then, I cleared up the mess in the kitchen, and called 999. When the ambulance came, the nice young man who came inside, ran away back to his ambulance, and the next thing I know, you've turned up!"
"Who alerted the press, Mrs. Withington?" asked Ash.
"Oh, that was me. I was sitting there waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and I got the strangest feeling that They'd done this... They'd killed Hugo, as a punishment for not coming with me."
"Who are They, Mrs. Withington?"
"The little grey men, my dear. Only they're not from Mars, so you mustn't call them Martians. They get very angry if you do that."
"And why did you think that the papers would be interested in their, er, punishment?"
"Well, now I had some proof that They existed, didn't I? I've been telling those journalists for years, that They were Out There, watching us, but none of them had ever taken me seriously. Now," she repeated, defiantly, "I had proof!"