Life on Mars/Discworld Fic
Title: There Are Worse Realities
Author: Snowballjane
Rating: Green Cortina for violence and horrible murders
“The scream was horrible -- inhuman.”
Well ‘human’ didn’t exactly cover a significant part of the city’s population, thought Commander Sam Vimes, although it did appear to describe both victims in this incident. Certainly the unconscious young man who had already been carried away, barely clinging to life, was human and Igor assured him that what remained of the other man was too.
Vimes thanked Mrs Cooper for her help and strolled over to where Captain Carrot was talking to a trio of grey-bearded wizards.
“The unconscious man is Marmaduke Dollard -- a ‘promising student of Magic’,” reported Carrot, “and the other victim was probably Horace Jaxon, the university’s new Reader in Weird Dimensions.”
Vimes turned to the wizards. “We’ll need to place a guard on the university infirmary until Mr Dollard comes around and can tell us who did this.”
“Or what did it,” said one of the wizards, shuddering.
Vimes pursed his lips. Whether the lecturer had been ripped apart by a knife-wielding maniac or a large creature with very sharp claws made little difference in his view. There was a monster of one kind or another loose on the streets of Ankh Morpork.
“Were Mr Jaxon and his student working on something particular?” he asked.
“Yes. In fact, I believe they had been in the Drum, celebrating a breakthrough in...”
The wizard’s eyes flicked to something over Vimes’ left shoulder and went wide with panic.
“Look out!”
The wizards scattered, but Vimes made the error of looking around to see what was behind him, just in time to see a shiny black coach bearing down on him.
“Commander!” he heard. And then the darkness swallowed him.
***
Sam Vimes was standing alone in a dingy alleyway. Windowless brick walls towered above him, while litter blew around his ankles and thin drizzle replenished the dirty stream trickling along the gutter. The pale grey light gave away no clues as to the time of day. So far, so usual in the life of Sam Vimes.
Turning his head to further examine the scene made his vision lurch and swim disturbingly. It had been a long while since that had last happened. He hadn’t been drinking had he? No, he was off-balance, but not, thank goodness, drunk.
He felt dazed and disoriented. Hadn’t he been somewhere else a moment ago? And where exactly was he now? There were plenty of dingy alleyways in Ankh Morpork, but this didn’t look - or smell - like any of them.
And now that he came to glance at his cuffs, the clothes he was wearing weren’t his either. He patted at his sides, finding nothing more protective than soft, light fabric.
“Help!”
The cry sounded as if it came from just beyond the end of the alley. Never mind where he was, there was policing to be done. Ignoring the sickening wave of dizziness, he set off at a run. At least the cut of the strange clothing allowed for easy movement, unlike the ridiculous ceremonial garments he normally associated with being out of uniform. As he rounded the corner into a wider lane he almost tripped over a woman who was picking herself up off the wet ground and swearing furiously.
She gestured in the direction of a scrawny youth in strange clothing who was running off with a large floral bag clutched under his arm. “My shopping!” she shrieked. Vimes accelerated after the thief.
The chase rounded a corner into yet another unfamiliar cobbled lane, apparently between the backs of two sets of small houses. From the opposite direction two men appeared. An ambush! No, wait - there was no mistaking the stance of the two newcomers as they moved to block the passageway. They might not be wearing the uniforms of the Watch, but they were definitely coppers.
The man Vimes was chasing skidded to a halt on the wet cobbles and glanced back and forth in evident panic.
“Hello Roberts, what ‘you got there then?” asked the larger man, who was wearing a light brown coat over clothing similar to Vimes’ own new outfit.
“Shit,” muttered the thief, dropping the garish shopping bag, but his edgy manner, shifting from foot to foot, by no means suggested surrender. Vimes wasn’t remotely surprised when the thief tried to rush him an instant later, charging towards him, a knife glinting dangerously in his hand.
***
As the two watchmen handcuffed Roberts and the woman stuffed packets and cans back into her dropped shoping bag, gushing thanks, Vimes stared at the badge that had come so easily to his hand as he arrested the thief after throwing him to the ground.
Detective Superintendent Sir Samuel Vimes, North West District Police.
“Sir? Sir? Are you all right?”
The watchman in black leather was peering at him with concern. He shook himself.
“Where’s the nearest nick?” he asked. “We should get this man into the cells.”
“Just a few streets away,” said the young man, as the other policeman shoved the writhing Roberts towards a wheeled contraption that looked a lot like one of Leonard Da Quirm’s inventions. “We were expecting you first thing this morning, sir, but you’ve clearly started getting to grips with the patch already. I’m Detective Inspector Sam Tyler, sir. And that’s DCI Gene Hunt. Welcome to Manchester, Super.”
***
“Where’s your armour gentlemen?” asked Vimes, trying hard not to notice quite how quickly the scenery outside the vehicle was moving past the windows. “I can’t be having my officers walking about so badly kitted.”
“Armour, sir? Do the Met have stab-proof vests already? I didn’t think they were around for years yet?”
“Vests Tyler! What use is a vest going to be against a stabbing?”
“Light-weight body armour, made of kevlar. I think it’s under development in the States now, but I didn’t know anyone here had it yet.”
At the driving wheel, Gene snorted his contempt for the idea.
“It’s like... like wearing a giant hip flask Guv.”
Vimes closed his eyes, listening to the conversation ramble. Manchester? Where and what was Manchester?
***
It didn’t exactly look like any Watch House he’d ever been in, but CID’s cluttered office space was unmistakably the haunt of policemen. Greasy food, sweet biscuits and filthy mugs fought for desk space with piles of paperwork, overflowing ashtrays and bags of evidence.
“Got a cell free, Phyllis?” The desk sergeant brandished a bunch of keys and DCI Hunt manhandled the now subdued Roberts away down a corridor.
“This is Detective Constable Chris Skelton...” A loud jangling erupted from a green device on one of the desks, interrupting Tyler’s introductions. The watchman excused himself and grabbed the handset, answering it abruptly. “Tyler.”
Meanwhile, Constable Skelton directed Vimes to a chair and asked how he took his tea. He was about to protest against all the fuss, but he was still feeling a little cloudy-headed and the hair-raising ride in what was apparently called a “Cortina” hadn’t helped. Maybe tea would settle things down.
“And this is WDC Annie Cartwright,” finished Skelton, who had obviously been presenting the rest of the team while Vimes' mind was elsewhere. The young woman was frowning at a row of horrifying iconographs from a murder scene, pinned on the office wall. As she turned to meet his eyes, a friendly smile chased away the frown. “She’s a woman.”
“I can see that constable,” said Vimes. Ah, some things here weren’t so different from the Ankh Morpork City Watch.
“Oh, no,” stumbled the young man, embarrassed. “I mean, she’s the first woman in CID here. But it’s a good thing. DI Tyler says the Modern Police Force has to be diverting.”
“Diverse, Chris,” corrected Cartwright. “It’s good to meet you, sir. Congratulations on your first Manchester collar.”
Vimes gave her a polite nod of thanks. “DI Tyler’s quite right. When I first took on a dwarf at, er, my old police station I had my doubts, but you couldn’t find a better copper.”
“Bloody hell,” said Skelton, “Ray’ll have a pink fit when he hears that. Dwarves!”
“Funnily enough, DI Tyler got a bit lost on his first day here too,” said Cartwright.
“Yeah," added Skelton, "He’d banged his head and couldn’t remember what year it was.”
“What year?” repeated Vimes to himself.
“Nineteen seventy bloody three,” answered Tyler as he crossed the office to rejoin the group. He frowned and rubbed at his forehead. “I have a message for you. It’s a bit cryptic. ‘Tell Vimes that the Archchancellor says Jackson may have crossed a dangerous line'.”
***
An hour of so later, Det Supt Vimes was installed in his own badly-lit office, with a large fold-out map of Manchester spread across his desk. He needed to work out what was going on. The last thing he remembered was interviewing Mrs Cooper about a murder in Filigree Street. A warning about a runaway coach. Then confusion and panic and a whirl of colour and blurred, confused images.
Then the Manchester alley.
The accents around the police station sounded Lancrastian, but he was quite certain that there wasn’t a huge city full of technomancers hidden up in the mountains.
No, he thought, he was either unconscious and dreaming all of this madness or he’d been caught up in a magic storm that had dumped him in an entirely different reality. Experience suggested that the latter was quite probable.
Apparently the people here believed that he’d been transferred from a city watch called “The Met” after causing political upset. That sounded like something he’d do, he’d agreed, but he’d promised his new boss that he’d be turning over a new leaf in Manchester. He’d been handed the map and told to start working on a plan for policing the next month’s royal visit.
Royalty. Just what he needed.
He’d rather be catching criminals, he’d protested, but that had just elicited chuckles and an instruction to leave that to more junior ranks. His mind went back to the horrific iconographs Constable Cartwright had been studying of a body ripped to pieces. Was it just deja vu, or did the images look remarkably familiar?
And how was Archchancellor Ridcully getting messages to him here? And why couldn’t they make more sense?
“I’m bringing him back in.”
Shouting from the corridor outside his office broke Vimes’ chain of thought.
“On what grounds? There’s nothing to connect him to the second death. And not one shred of evidence to suggest he killed his wife.”
“Not yet there isn’t. That’s why I’m bringing him back in for questioning.”
“So you can bully a grieving man? So you can stitch him up and impress the new Super with an arrest today? I thought we’d made some progress on this,”
“Tyler, I’m warning you…”
There was an almighty clang. Vimes decided it was time to intervene.
“It’s two steps forward, fifteen steps back with you Guv.” DI Tyler’s voice sounded choked and when Vimes stepped out into the corridor, he could see why. Hunt had pinned the younger man to the metal lockers by the throat.
“Hunt! Tyler!” Hunt dropped his grip and rapidly reshaped his furious expression into highly unconvincing bright enthusiasm. Tyler straightened out his collar and looked sulky.
“Is it possible to get a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich around here?” asked Vimes.
“Er, you could try the canteen, sir. Sammy here can probably help you with that salad stuff.” His tone suggested that lettuce was a particularly disturbing perversion in a senior officer.
“Right then, both of you come along to the canteen and tell me all about this case you’re working on.
***
Sam Tyler carried the tray of sandwiches across the canteen to the table where the Guv was describing the two murders they were working on. Having lost one ally upstairs in Superintendent Wolfe, Hunt was obviously determined to make as good a first impression on Vimes as the new Super had made on the Manchester constabulary, by arriving with a villain ready-caught.
From the lined and weathered face, Sam would have thought Supt Vimes must be nearing retirement, but the efficient way he had disarmed and restrained Roberts was 2006-textbook perfect.
“One BLT, sir” he said as he placed the tray on the canteen table. The canteen staff hadn’t been keen on ruining a perfectly good bacon butty with the station’s limp salady bits.
“Mr Hunt, was just telling me about these two killings you’re investigating. Tell me more about the victims.”
“Molly Mills was 27, a dental nurse, married...”
“To a very suspicious feller.”
Sam wasn’t going to stand for the idiotic hounding of an obviously innocent man. “He wasn’t suspicious, Guv. He was in shock. Grieving.”
“He wouldn’t talk in the interview. Couldn’t get two words out of him. Guilty conscience, I reckon.”
“Guv, the man couldn’t talk -- he was too busy crying his eyes out. Just ‘cos he doesn’t meet your weird 1970s standards of machismo doesn’t make him a killer.”
“So while you’re pussy-footing around his feelings, he’s free to kill again.”
They were practically snarling at each other across the table, Sam realised, which was no way to behave in front of the new Super. He took a deep breath and forced his body language into something more conducive to rational discussion. “There’s still nothing to connect him to the second victim.”
“Daniel Anderson, 42, children’s entertainer,” said Gene, also settling back in his chair. “His magic bunny survived the attack, it was hopping around the body, leaving little bloody paw prints everywhere.”
“There’s no obvious connection between the two, other than the killer’s MO. Sir - you did want lettuce and tomato on your sandwich didn’t you?”
Supt Vimes had now removed almost all of the lettuce and had just taken a large bite of his plain bacon sandwich.
“Oh yes, inspector. Thank you.”
Chris burst into the canteen. “Sirs!” he shouted, “there’s been another murder!”
***
Just how exactly were CID to make a good impression on the new Super if he kept trying to do their job for them? It was only as the car doors slammed shut and he’d turned the key in the ignition that Gene had realised Vimes was in the back seat and evidently intending to come to the crime scene with them.
Not that Gene hadn’t been impressed by the way Vimes had given that scumbag Roberts a good and proper walloping -- the man was obviously a proper copper -- but senior officers were supposed to wait at the office and harass you for a quick arrest. That was just how things were done.
Also, he could hardly have a quick drink with a senior officer on the scene and Gene badly wanted a swig from his hip flask to settle his stomach. He’d seen a lot of grisly murders over the years -- shootings, stabbings, garrottings, crimes of passion and cold executions, but these latest killings were on a whole new level.
“You’re going to need a bloody big piece of paper to draw the splatter pattern for this one Tyler.”
His DI looked up from where he was crouched beside the body, his face a sickly shade of green. “Henry Briton,” said Tyler, holding up a blood soaked driving licence from the man’s wallet.
Vimes took the wallet and peered inside. He pulled out a handful of pound notes.
“Not robbery then. Wait. What’s this?”
“King of clubs,” said Gene.
Vimes turned the card over, revealing the Queen of diamonds printed on the other side.
“Maybe he was cheating at cards. Someone found out and wasn’t happy.”
“Nah, boss,” said Chris, returning from door-to-door enquires, no doubt with a notebook full of ‘sorry officer, didn’t see anything’. “That’s a conjuring tricks card.”
***
Back at the station, ten minutes later, Chris was drawing quite an audience with his disappearing penny tricks, but Sam Tyler was busy scrabbling through the drawer of evidence bags from the earlier murders.
“The necklace Molly Mills was wearing, Guv, was it a five-pointed star?”
“Dunno. It was just a bit of cheap sparkle. Do that again Chris, I almost couldn’t see where it went that time.”
“No Guv, it was a pentagram. Molly Mills must have been a witch.”
“A witch!” Hunt scoffed. “I know you think Manchester’s still in the Dark Ages, compared with Hyde, Tyler, but I can assure you, we don’t have witches.”
“Actually there were quite a few Wiccans and Pagans in Hyde. Even had one on the Force.”
“Christ, you mean you weren’t the biggest nutcase there?”
“The point is Guv, our killer’s looking for people who claim to have magical powers. But why would anyone be killing magicians?”
“Phobia of coloured handkerchiefs? Revenge for his mother being killed in a tragic sawing-a-woman-in-half accident. Serial killers aren’t exactly the sanest people Sammy-boy - you can’t go expecting their motives to make actual sense.”
Their discussion was interrupted by Superintendent Vimes striding in through the door, announcing with cold certainty: “Marmaduke Dollard wasn’t the victim -- it’s him, he’s here too.”
“Who?”
“He was a student, found unconscious at the scene of a murder back in, er, in London. The other victim had been torn up just like your three.”
“Any connection to magic?”
“Yes, he was a wizard.”
“As in funny handshakes, all that stuff?”
“As in magic. Why?”
“The other victims were two magicians and a witch,” explained Sam.
“Witches, wizards, what next, werewolves?”
Vimes coughed. “Damn, I hope not. They’re a nightmare to arrest.”
Hunt and Tyler chuckled.
“So if you were looking for magic in Manchester, where would you go?” asked Vimes.
Hunt’s answer was instant: “The Paul Daniels Magic Show.”
“Paul Daniels?” Tyler’s question came out as an incredulous squeak.
“You know, that little twonk off Opportunity Knocks. He’s on at the Palace tonight.”
***
Vimes stared through the front windscreen of yet another of the strange cars at the stage door of the Palace Theatre, which was illuminated by a weak yellow bulb. Sam Tyler slid into the driver's seat. “Right, Chris and Annie are inside the theatre. Gene and Ray are watching the front.”
They waited. Time passed. A couple of drunks stumbled past the door.
“You’re not from here are you?” asked Vimes.
“Manchester? Yeah this is my home town.” There was a long pause. “Doesn’t entirely feel like it though.”
A young man emerged from the shadows, wearing a long dark coat and walking with an exaggerated swagger. Vimes sat forward in his seat, squinting for a better look.
“That’s Dollard.”
“He’s just a kid. Could he really do that kind of damage?”
“Let’s ask him.” Vimes popped the car door and got out. “Marmaduke Dollard.”
Well, well, said the student, policemen.
Now that, thought Vimes, was downright creepy. Dollard’s mouth had opened to begin speaking, but his lips hadn’t moved after that.
Tyler, who had been skirting around the car, apparently hadn’t noticed the weirdness. “I am arresting you for the murders of Molly Mills, Henry Briton and Daniel Anderson.”
“And Horace Jaxon,” added Vimes, although there were probably jurisdiction issues with that one.
Ah, the wizard who called me. He was almost strong enough to control me, but the boy was weak.
Vimes stepped closer, reaching to take Dollard -- or his body at least -- by the arm. The skinny student shoved him away. The gesture appeared feeble, but the force that hit Vimes in the chest felt like being punched by a very angry troll. He staggered backwards, wheezing.
“Who, what, are you?”
I am Skaperotzch Ysdymuk. I have waited in the miserable darkness of the dungeon dimensions for an eternity. This may be the wrong world, but it will serve my purpose. Kneel before me mortal. My reign of terror begins!
Vimes had no intention of kneeling.
As Ysdymuk/Dollard advanced on him, Vimes threw up his his left arm to defend himself against a limp-looking punch. He felt bone crack. A blow to the head sent him reeling to the ground.
***
The air around Dollard snap-crackle-and-popped like a bowl of rice crispies. Every time Sam tried to step closer to him he was overwhelmed by a cacophony of sounds that belonged in 2006. The hiss-beep of hospital machines, the chatter of familiar voices, the theme tune from Eastenders.
But the superintendent was halfway unconscious on the ground, the insane little student crowing over him, and he had to do something.
“Oi!”
Dollard turned to see where the shout had come from and cocked his head, examining Tyler with undisguised curiosity.
“So you’re in the wrong world,” taunted Sam.
This world lacks magic. It is disappointing.
He really was mad then. He’d spent all this time sure there was some rational explanation for what was happening to him. But here he was facing off a wizard possessed by a creature from the dungeon dimensions. Completely cracked in the head. Annie would call the men in white coats if he tried to explain this one to her.
“You think you’ve got problems? I’m supposed to be in 2006! I’m supposed to be a DCI on the promotion fast-track in the era of high-tech policing. I’m supposed to have a very nice flat with a flatscreen TV and top notch kitchen. Instead I’m stuck in 1973 with no clue home to get home and no way to talk to my family and a crappy rented room with terrible wallpaper and no mobile phones and dreadful food and no computers and nightmares about the test card girl off the telly and a violent lunatic for a boss.”
The dungeon dimensions are worse.
Time fell out of sync. A bright flash -- a figure in a green mask hovered above him -- Dollard’s wide manic eyes right up close -- a scalpel pressing into his flesh -- a creature, a tall angry bird made of kitchen knives -- pain tearing into his shoulder.
Sam screamed in agony, staggering backwards, his legs buckling under him.
Knives swished above him. So this was it. He was going to die on an operating table in 2006; outside the stage door of the Paul Daniels Magic Show in 1973. Then he heard footsteps. Running.
“That your girly scream Tyler?” Sam forced his eyes open as Gene and Ray appeared behind the monstrous thing that loomed over him, preparing to cut him to pieces. Apparently completely oblivious to the crackling magic, they grabbed the sharp metal wings... no, they grabbed Dollard’s arms and dragged him upright.
“Right you psycho bastard, are you going to come quietly or are we going to get to beat the living daylights out of you?”
You are noth...
Gene Hunt’s large fist smacked Dollard in the beak...no, face.
Ow, he said -- and collapsed to the ground, out cold.
“Get up Tyler, you big girl’s blouse.”
Sam struggled to his feet, clutching at the bleeding gashes in his shoulder. “Mr Vimes is hurt,” he said. He started hobbling towards the fallen officer, but Gene was there before him.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
Vimes groaned. “I feel like I was hit by a stage coach...”
***
“... like I was hit by a stage coach.”
“You were Sam. You had us worried for a bit, but you’re going to be fine.” That was Sybil, being strong and reassuring, but he knew her voice well enough to tell that she had been more than worried for a bit. She’d been seriously scared.
He drew a deep breath and discovered that that really hurt.
He forced open his eyes and discovered a room full of concerned faces. His family, Wilikins, Igor, Captain Carrot.
“Carrot. Dollard. Ow!” It was apparently to soon to try to sit up. “He killed Horace Jaxon.”
“Sir?”
“Get a message to whoever’s guarding the Infirmary. That isn’t Dollard. It’s something those idiot wizards conjured from the Dungeon Dimensions.”
“How did you... Sir, we just had a message from there. The student woke up screaming crazy stuff - the wizards have him under some kind of restraining spell.”
“Oh. Good then. I think I’m going to take a nap now. It’s been a tiring day.”
***
“1973’s not sho bad I shuppose,” slurred Sam, studying the pale gold liquid in his glass with a great deal of care, as though it contained insights of stunning clarity.
“Didn’t they say at the hospital that he shouldn’t drink after so much blood loss and painkillers?” That was Annie, her concerned voice somewhere above his head.
“Don’t be daft girl. The man deserves a drink.”
Sam supposed that he did, at that. He had two long rows of stitches in his chest and shoulder and his arm was immobilised in a sling, but he wasn’t feeling any pain at this point. Dollard had been carted directly to Park Lane and the word was that Vimes had headed back to London as soon as Casualty had discharged him.
“I mean, mosht of it’s still rubbish, but Annie’s lovely.”
There was a roar of laughter from around the table and a protest of “Sam! Sir!”
“An’ having a violent lunatic bossh can be a very good thing. Punch first, questions later. 's a valid technique.”
“Don’t you forget that, Detective Inspector Sam Tyler. You can’t be hypnotised by a bloke you’ve already knocked out.”
Sam let his spinning head fall forwards onto the table and, a moment later, felt a large hand rest on top of his head and ruffle his hair.
“At least it’s not the Dungeon Dimensions,” he mumbled into the woodwork.
The End
Author: Snowballjane
Rating: Green Cortina for violence and horrible murders
“The scream was horrible -- inhuman.”
Well ‘human’ didn’t exactly cover a significant part of the city’s population, thought Commander Sam Vimes, although it did appear to describe both victims in this incident. Certainly the unconscious young man who had already been carried away, barely clinging to life, was human and Igor assured him that what remained of the other man was too.
Vimes thanked Mrs Cooper for her help and strolled over to where Captain Carrot was talking to a trio of grey-bearded wizards.
“The unconscious man is Marmaduke Dollard -- a ‘promising student of Magic’,” reported Carrot, “and the other victim was probably Horace Jaxon, the university’s new Reader in Weird Dimensions.”
Vimes turned to the wizards. “We’ll need to place a guard on the university infirmary until Mr Dollard comes around and can tell us who did this.”
“Or what did it,” said one of the wizards, shuddering.
Vimes pursed his lips. Whether the lecturer had been ripped apart by a knife-wielding maniac or a large creature with very sharp claws made little difference in his view. There was a monster of one kind or another loose on the streets of Ankh Morpork.
“Were Mr Jaxon and his student working on something particular?” he asked.
“Yes. In fact, I believe they had been in the Drum, celebrating a breakthrough in...”
The wizard’s eyes flicked to something over Vimes’ left shoulder and went wide with panic.
“Look out!”
The wizards scattered, but Vimes made the error of looking around to see what was behind him, just in time to see a shiny black coach bearing down on him.
“Commander!” he heard. And then the darkness swallowed him.
***
Sam Vimes was standing alone in a dingy alleyway. Windowless brick walls towered above him, while litter blew around his ankles and thin drizzle replenished the dirty stream trickling along the gutter. The pale grey light gave away no clues as to the time of day. So far, so usual in the life of Sam Vimes.
Turning his head to further examine the scene made his vision lurch and swim disturbingly. It had been a long while since that had last happened. He hadn’t been drinking had he? No, he was off-balance, but not, thank goodness, drunk.
He felt dazed and disoriented. Hadn’t he been somewhere else a moment ago? And where exactly was he now? There were plenty of dingy alleyways in Ankh Morpork, but this didn’t look - or smell - like any of them.
And now that he came to glance at his cuffs, the clothes he was wearing weren’t his either. He patted at his sides, finding nothing more protective than soft, light fabric.
“Help!”
The cry sounded as if it came from just beyond the end of the alley. Never mind where he was, there was policing to be done. Ignoring the sickening wave of dizziness, he set off at a run. At least the cut of the strange clothing allowed for easy movement, unlike the ridiculous ceremonial garments he normally associated with being out of uniform. As he rounded the corner into a wider lane he almost tripped over a woman who was picking herself up off the wet ground and swearing furiously.
She gestured in the direction of a scrawny youth in strange clothing who was running off with a large floral bag clutched under his arm. “My shopping!” she shrieked. Vimes accelerated after the thief.
The chase rounded a corner into yet another unfamiliar cobbled lane, apparently between the backs of two sets of small houses. From the opposite direction two men appeared. An ambush! No, wait - there was no mistaking the stance of the two newcomers as they moved to block the passageway. They might not be wearing the uniforms of the Watch, but they were definitely coppers.
The man Vimes was chasing skidded to a halt on the wet cobbles and glanced back and forth in evident panic.
“Hello Roberts, what ‘you got there then?” asked the larger man, who was wearing a light brown coat over clothing similar to Vimes’ own new outfit.
“Shit,” muttered the thief, dropping the garish shopping bag, but his edgy manner, shifting from foot to foot, by no means suggested surrender. Vimes wasn’t remotely surprised when the thief tried to rush him an instant later, charging towards him, a knife glinting dangerously in his hand.
***
As the two watchmen handcuffed Roberts and the woman stuffed packets and cans back into her dropped shoping bag, gushing thanks, Vimes stared at the badge that had come so easily to his hand as he arrested the thief after throwing him to the ground.
Detective Superintendent Sir Samuel Vimes, North West District Police.
“Sir? Sir? Are you all right?”
The watchman in black leather was peering at him with concern. He shook himself.
“Where’s the nearest nick?” he asked. “We should get this man into the cells.”
“Just a few streets away,” said the young man, as the other policeman shoved the writhing Roberts towards a wheeled contraption that looked a lot like one of Leonard Da Quirm’s inventions. “We were expecting you first thing this morning, sir, but you’ve clearly started getting to grips with the patch already. I’m Detective Inspector Sam Tyler, sir. And that’s DCI Gene Hunt. Welcome to Manchester, Super.”
***
“Where’s your armour gentlemen?” asked Vimes, trying hard not to notice quite how quickly the scenery outside the vehicle was moving past the windows. “I can’t be having my officers walking about so badly kitted.”
“Armour, sir? Do the Met have stab-proof vests already? I didn’t think they were around for years yet?”
“Vests Tyler! What use is a vest going to be against a stabbing?”
“Light-weight body armour, made of kevlar. I think it’s under development in the States now, but I didn’t know anyone here had it yet.”
At the driving wheel, Gene snorted his contempt for the idea.
“It’s like... like wearing a giant hip flask Guv.”
Vimes closed his eyes, listening to the conversation ramble. Manchester? Where and what was Manchester?
***
It didn’t exactly look like any Watch House he’d ever been in, but CID’s cluttered office space was unmistakably the haunt of policemen. Greasy food, sweet biscuits and filthy mugs fought for desk space with piles of paperwork, overflowing ashtrays and bags of evidence.
“Got a cell free, Phyllis?” The desk sergeant brandished a bunch of keys and DCI Hunt manhandled the now subdued Roberts away down a corridor.
“This is Detective Constable Chris Skelton...” A loud jangling erupted from a green device on one of the desks, interrupting Tyler’s introductions. The watchman excused himself and grabbed the handset, answering it abruptly. “Tyler.”
Meanwhile, Constable Skelton directed Vimes to a chair and asked how he took his tea. He was about to protest against all the fuss, but he was still feeling a little cloudy-headed and the hair-raising ride in what was apparently called a “Cortina” hadn’t helped. Maybe tea would settle things down.
“And this is WDC Annie Cartwright,” finished Skelton, who had obviously been presenting the rest of the team while Vimes' mind was elsewhere. The young woman was frowning at a row of horrifying iconographs from a murder scene, pinned on the office wall. As she turned to meet his eyes, a friendly smile chased away the frown. “She’s a woman.”
“I can see that constable,” said Vimes. Ah, some things here weren’t so different from the Ankh Morpork City Watch.
“Oh, no,” stumbled the young man, embarrassed. “I mean, she’s the first woman in CID here. But it’s a good thing. DI Tyler says the Modern Police Force has to be diverting.”
“Diverse, Chris,” corrected Cartwright. “It’s good to meet you, sir. Congratulations on your first Manchester collar.”
Vimes gave her a polite nod of thanks. “DI Tyler’s quite right. When I first took on a dwarf at, er, my old police station I had my doubts, but you couldn’t find a better copper.”
“Bloody hell,” said Skelton, “Ray’ll have a pink fit when he hears that. Dwarves!”
“Funnily enough, DI Tyler got a bit lost on his first day here too,” said Cartwright.
“Yeah," added Skelton, "He’d banged his head and couldn’t remember what year it was.”
“What year?” repeated Vimes to himself.
“Nineteen seventy bloody three,” answered Tyler as he crossed the office to rejoin the group. He frowned and rubbed at his forehead. “I have a message for you. It’s a bit cryptic. ‘Tell Vimes that the Archchancellor says Jackson may have crossed a dangerous line'.”
***
An hour of so later, Det Supt Vimes was installed in his own badly-lit office, with a large fold-out map of Manchester spread across his desk. He needed to work out what was going on. The last thing he remembered was interviewing Mrs Cooper about a murder in Filigree Street. A warning about a runaway coach. Then confusion and panic and a whirl of colour and blurred, confused images.
Then the Manchester alley.
The accents around the police station sounded Lancrastian, but he was quite certain that there wasn’t a huge city full of technomancers hidden up in the mountains.
No, he thought, he was either unconscious and dreaming all of this madness or he’d been caught up in a magic storm that had dumped him in an entirely different reality. Experience suggested that the latter was quite probable.
Apparently the people here believed that he’d been transferred from a city watch called “The Met” after causing political upset. That sounded like something he’d do, he’d agreed, but he’d promised his new boss that he’d be turning over a new leaf in Manchester. He’d been handed the map and told to start working on a plan for policing the next month’s royal visit.
Royalty. Just what he needed.
He’d rather be catching criminals, he’d protested, but that had just elicited chuckles and an instruction to leave that to more junior ranks. His mind went back to the horrific iconographs Constable Cartwright had been studying of a body ripped to pieces. Was it just deja vu, or did the images look remarkably familiar?
And how was Archchancellor Ridcully getting messages to him here? And why couldn’t they make more sense?
“I’m bringing him back in.”
Shouting from the corridor outside his office broke Vimes’ chain of thought.
“On what grounds? There’s nothing to connect him to the second death. And not one shred of evidence to suggest he killed his wife.”
“Not yet there isn’t. That’s why I’m bringing him back in for questioning.”
“So you can bully a grieving man? So you can stitch him up and impress the new Super with an arrest today? I thought we’d made some progress on this,”
“Tyler, I’m warning you…”
There was an almighty clang. Vimes decided it was time to intervene.
“It’s two steps forward, fifteen steps back with you Guv.” DI Tyler’s voice sounded choked and when Vimes stepped out into the corridor, he could see why. Hunt had pinned the younger man to the metal lockers by the throat.
“Hunt! Tyler!” Hunt dropped his grip and rapidly reshaped his furious expression into highly unconvincing bright enthusiasm. Tyler straightened out his collar and looked sulky.
“Is it possible to get a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich around here?” asked Vimes.
“Er, you could try the canteen, sir. Sammy here can probably help you with that salad stuff.” His tone suggested that lettuce was a particularly disturbing perversion in a senior officer.
“Right then, both of you come along to the canteen and tell me all about this case you’re working on.
***
Sam Tyler carried the tray of sandwiches across the canteen to the table where the Guv was describing the two murders they were working on. Having lost one ally upstairs in Superintendent Wolfe, Hunt was obviously determined to make as good a first impression on Vimes as the new Super had made on the Manchester constabulary, by arriving with a villain ready-caught.
From the lined and weathered face, Sam would have thought Supt Vimes must be nearing retirement, but the efficient way he had disarmed and restrained Roberts was 2006-textbook perfect.
“One BLT, sir” he said as he placed the tray on the canteen table. The canteen staff hadn’t been keen on ruining a perfectly good bacon butty with the station’s limp salady bits.
“Mr Hunt, was just telling me about these two killings you’re investigating. Tell me more about the victims.”
“Molly Mills was 27, a dental nurse, married...”
“To a very suspicious feller.”
Sam wasn’t going to stand for the idiotic hounding of an obviously innocent man. “He wasn’t suspicious, Guv. He was in shock. Grieving.”
“He wouldn’t talk in the interview. Couldn’t get two words out of him. Guilty conscience, I reckon.”
“Guv, the man couldn’t talk -- he was too busy crying his eyes out. Just ‘cos he doesn’t meet your weird 1970s standards of machismo doesn’t make him a killer.”
“So while you’re pussy-footing around his feelings, he’s free to kill again.”
They were practically snarling at each other across the table, Sam realised, which was no way to behave in front of the new Super. He took a deep breath and forced his body language into something more conducive to rational discussion. “There’s still nothing to connect him to the second victim.”
“Daniel Anderson, 42, children’s entertainer,” said Gene, also settling back in his chair. “His magic bunny survived the attack, it was hopping around the body, leaving little bloody paw prints everywhere.”
“There’s no obvious connection between the two, other than the killer’s MO. Sir - you did want lettuce and tomato on your sandwich didn’t you?”
Supt Vimes had now removed almost all of the lettuce and had just taken a large bite of his plain bacon sandwich.
“Oh yes, inspector. Thank you.”
Chris burst into the canteen. “Sirs!” he shouted, “there’s been another murder!”
***
Just how exactly were CID to make a good impression on the new Super if he kept trying to do their job for them? It was only as the car doors slammed shut and he’d turned the key in the ignition that Gene had realised Vimes was in the back seat and evidently intending to come to the crime scene with them.
Not that Gene hadn’t been impressed by the way Vimes had given that scumbag Roberts a good and proper walloping -- the man was obviously a proper copper -- but senior officers were supposed to wait at the office and harass you for a quick arrest. That was just how things were done.
Also, he could hardly have a quick drink with a senior officer on the scene and Gene badly wanted a swig from his hip flask to settle his stomach. He’d seen a lot of grisly murders over the years -- shootings, stabbings, garrottings, crimes of passion and cold executions, but these latest killings were on a whole new level.
“You’re going to need a bloody big piece of paper to draw the splatter pattern for this one Tyler.”
His DI looked up from where he was crouched beside the body, his face a sickly shade of green. “Henry Briton,” said Tyler, holding up a blood soaked driving licence from the man’s wallet.
Vimes took the wallet and peered inside. He pulled out a handful of pound notes.
“Not robbery then. Wait. What’s this?”
“King of clubs,” said Gene.
Vimes turned the card over, revealing the Queen of diamonds printed on the other side.
“Maybe he was cheating at cards. Someone found out and wasn’t happy.”
“Nah, boss,” said Chris, returning from door-to-door enquires, no doubt with a notebook full of ‘sorry officer, didn’t see anything’. “That’s a conjuring tricks card.”
***
Back at the station, ten minutes later, Chris was drawing quite an audience with his disappearing penny tricks, but Sam Tyler was busy scrabbling through the drawer of evidence bags from the earlier murders.
“The necklace Molly Mills was wearing, Guv, was it a five-pointed star?”
“Dunno. It was just a bit of cheap sparkle. Do that again Chris, I almost couldn’t see where it went that time.”
“No Guv, it was a pentagram. Molly Mills must have been a witch.”
“A witch!” Hunt scoffed. “I know you think Manchester’s still in the Dark Ages, compared with Hyde, Tyler, but I can assure you, we don’t have witches.”
“Actually there were quite a few Wiccans and Pagans in Hyde. Even had one on the Force.”
“Christ, you mean you weren’t the biggest nutcase there?”
“The point is Guv, our killer’s looking for people who claim to have magical powers. But why would anyone be killing magicians?”
“Phobia of coloured handkerchiefs? Revenge for his mother being killed in a tragic sawing-a-woman-in-half accident. Serial killers aren’t exactly the sanest people Sammy-boy - you can’t go expecting their motives to make actual sense.”
Their discussion was interrupted by Superintendent Vimes striding in through the door, announcing with cold certainty: “Marmaduke Dollard wasn’t the victim -- it’s him, he’s here too.”
“Who?”
“He was a student, found unconscious at the scene of a murder back in, er, in London. The other victim had been torn up just like your three.”
“Any connection to magic?”
“Yes, he was a wizard.”
“As in funny handshakes, all that stuff?”
“As in magic. Why?”
“The other victims were two magicians and a witch,” explained Sam.
“Witches, wizards, what next, werewolves?”
Vimes coughed. “Damn, I hope not. They’re a nightmare to arrest.”
Hunt and Tyler chuckled.
“So if you were looking for magic in Manchester, where would you go?” asked Vimes.
Hunt’s answer was instant: “The Paul Daniels Magic Show.”
“Paul Daniels?” Tyler’s question came out as an incredulous squeak.
“You know, that little twonk off Opportunity Knocks. He’s on at the Palace tonight.”
***
Vimes stared through the front windscreen of yet another of the strange cars at the stage door of the Palace Theatre, which was illuminated by a weak yellow bulb. Sam Tyler slid into the driver's seat. “Right, Chris and Annie are inside the theatre. Gene and Ray are watching the front.”
They waited. Time passed. A couple of drunks stumbled past the door.
“You’re not from here are you?” asked Vimes.
“Manchester? Yeah this is my home town.” There was a long pause. “Doesn’t entirely feel like it though.”
A young man emerged from the shadows, wearing a long dark coat and walking with an exaggerated swagger. Vimes sat forward in his seat, squinting for a better look.
“That’s Dollard.”
“He’s just a kid. Could he really do that kind of damage?”
“Let’s ask him.” Vimes popped the car door and got out. “Marmaduke Dollard.”
Well, well, said the student, policemen.
Now that, thought Vimes, was downright creepy. Dollard’s mouth had opened to begin speaking, but his lips hadn’t moved after that.
Tyler, who had been skirting around the car, apparently hadn’t noticed the weirdness. “I am arresting you for the murders of Molly Mills, Henry Briton and Daniel Anderson.”
“And Horace Jaxon,” added Vimes, although there were probably jurisdiction issues with that one.
Ah, the wizard who called me. He was almost strong enough to control me, but the boy was weak.
Vimes stepped closer, reaching to take Dollard -- or his body at least -- by the arm. The skinny student shoved him away. The gesture appeared feeble, but the force that hit Vimes in the chest felt like being punched by a very angry troll. He staggered backwards, wheezing.
“Who, what, are you?”
I am Skaperotzch Ysdymuk. I have waited in the miserable darkness of the dungeon dimensions for an eternity. This may be the wrong world, but it will serve my purpose. Kneel before me mortal. My reign of terror begins!
Vimes had no intention of kneeling.
As Ysdymuk/Dollard advanced on him, Vimes threw up his his left arm to defend himself against a limp-looking punch. He felt bone crack. A blow to the head sent him reeling to the ground.
***
The air around Dollard snap-crackle-and-popped like a bowl of rice crispies. Every time Sam tried to step closer to him he was overwhelmed by a cacophony of sounds that belonged in 2006. The hiss-beep of hospital machines, the chatter of familiar voices, the theme tune from Eastenders.
But the superintendent was halfway unconscious on the ground, the insane little student crowing over him, and he had to do something.
“Oi!”
Dollard turned to see where the shout had come from and cocked his head, examining Tyler with undisguised curiosity.
“So you’re in the wrong world,” taunted Sam.
This world lacks magic. It is disappointing.
He really was mad then. He’d spent all this time sure there was some rational explanation for what was happening to him. But here he was facing off a wizard possessed by a creature from the dungeon dimensions. Completely cracked in the head. Annie would call the men in white coats if he tried to explain this one to her.
“You think you’ve got problems? I’m supposed to be in 2006! I’m supposed to be a DCI on the promotion fast-track in the era of high-tech policing. I’m supposed to have a very nice flat with a flatscreen TV and top notch kitchen. Instead I’m stuck in 1973 with no clue home to get home and no way to talk to my family and a crappy rented room with terrible wallpaper and no mobile phones and dreadful food and no computers and nightmares about the test card girl off the telly and a violent lunatic for a boss.”
The dungeon dimensions are worse.
Time fell out of sync. A bright flash -- a figure in a green mask hovered above him -- Dollard’s wide manic eyes right up close -- a scalpel pressing into his flesh -- a creature, a tall angry bird made of kitchen knives -- pain tearing into his shoulder.
Sam screamed in agony, staggering backwards, his legs buckling under him.
Knives swished above him. So this was it. He was going to die on an operating table in 2006; outside the stage door of the Paul Daniels Magic Show in 1973. Then he heard footsteps. Running.
“That your girly scream Tyler?” Sam forced his eyes open as Gene and Ray appeared behind the monstrous thing that loomed over him, preparing to cut him to pieces. Apparently completely oblivious to the crackling magic, they grabbed the sharp metal wings... no, they grabbed Dollard’s arms and dragged him upright.
“Right you psycho bastard, are you going to come quietly or are we going to get to beat the living daylights out of you?”
You are noth...
Gene Hunt’s large fist smacked Dollard in the beak...no, face.
Ow, he said -- and collapsed to the ground, out cold.
“Get up Tyler, you big girl’s blouse.”
Sam struggled to his feet, clutching at the bleeding gashes in his shoulder. “Mr Vimes is hurt,” he said. He started hobbling towards the fallen officer, but Gene was there before him.
“Sir, can you hear me?”
Vimes groaned. “I feel like I was hit by a stage coach...”
***
“... like I was hit by a stage coach.”
“You were Sam. You had us worried for a bit, but you’re going to be fine.” That was Sybil, being strong and reassuring, but he knew her voice well enough to tell that she had been more than worried for a bit. She’d been seriously scared.
He drew a deep breath and discovered that that really hurt.
He forced open his eyes and discovered a room full of concerned faces. His family, Wilikins, Igor, Captain Carrot.
“Carrot. Dollard. Ow!” It was apparently to soon to try to sit up. “He killed Horace Jaxon.”
“Sir?”
“Get a message to whoever’s guarding the Infirmary. That isn’t Dollard. It’s something those idiot wizards conjured from the Dungeon Dimensions.”
“How did you... Sir, we just had a message from there. The student woke up screaming crazy stuff - the wizards have him under some kind of restraining spell.”
“Oh. Good then. I think I’m going to take a nap now. It’s been a tiring day.”
***
“1973’s not sho bad I shuppose,” slurred Sam, studying the pale gold liquid in his glass with a great deal of care, as though it contained insights of stunning clarity.
“Didn’t they say at the hospital that he shouldn’t drink after so much blood loss and painkillers?” That was Annie, her concerned voice somewhere above his head.
“Don’t be daft girl. The man deserves a drink.”
Sam supposed that he did, at that. He had two long rows of stitches in his chest and shoulder and his arm was immobilised in a sling, but he wasn’t feeling any pain at this point. Dollard had been carted directly to Park Lane and the word was that Vimes had headed back to London as soon as Casualty had discharged him.
“I mean, mosht of it’s still rubbish, but Annie’s lovely.”
There was a roar of laughter from around the table and a protest of “Sam! Sir!”
“An’ having a violent lunatic bossh can be a very good thing. Punch first, questions later. 's a valid technique.”
“Don’t you forget that, Detective Inspector Sam Tyler. You can’t be hypnotised by a bloke you’ve already knocked out.”
Sam let his spinning head fall forwards onto the table and, a moment later, felt a large hand rest on top of his head and ruffle his hair.
“At least it’s not the Dungeon Dimensions,” he mumbled into the woodwork.
The End