Part 36 (1/2)

There seemed little point now in slavishly following Department protocols. That boat had not only sailed, it had sunk. ”I suppose Reg will have already told the girls,” he sighed. ”So. An abandoned boot factory blew up in South Ott last night.”

Monk stared at him, lips twitching. ”Don't tell me. Let me guess. Son of Stuttley's?”

He raised a warning finger. ”Don't. Just don't, all right? Not this morning, Markham. I'm not in the mood.”

”Yeah,” said Monk, sobering, and looked him up and down. ”Yeah, I can see that. Maybe you'd better sit down, mate, before you fall down.”

”Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” He weaved his way across the parlour's dingy, thread-bare carpet and collapsed onto the two-seater sofa. ”Monk, I could murder a cup of tea. And some toast. And some scrambled eggs.”

”And after that sleep for a week, it looks like,” Monk added. He held out his hand. ”Here. Give me that staff and I'll put it somewhere safe.”

Vaguely surprised, Gerald looked down at the gold-filigreed First Grade staff still clutched in his right hand. ”Oh. Yes. I forgot about this.”

”Right,” said Monk carefully. ”Okay. So maybe you shouldn't be making any sudden moves.” He grabbed the staff and lifted it out of the way. ”Just... sit there. Don't think about the girls, or my jalopy, or South Ott, or exploding factories. Think-think happy thoughts, Gerald. You can do it if you try, I know you can.”

He stared at his friend, bemused. ”Monk, what are you going on about? I'm fine. I'm tired and starving, but aside from that I'm fine.”

”Really?” said Monk. ”Then you and I have very different definitions of 'fine', mate. Look-you relax. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.”

”I wasn't planning to,” he said, around a jaw-cracking yawn. ”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Monk. You won't believe what's been going on. Exploding factories is just the beginning.”

”I'll believe anything if you're mixed up in it,” said Monk. ”I should've known what I'd be in for after you turned that mad king's b.l.o.o.d.y cat into a lion.”

Monk was only joking, he was trying to play the fool, like he always did... but suddenly nothing felt funny any more. ”Give it a rest, Monk,” he said, appalled to hear the little quaver in his voice. ”Can you?”

”Oh, G.o.d,” said Monk, equally appalled. ”Who died?”

”Haf Rottlezinder.”

Monk's eyes nearly started out of his head. ”Really? Someone died? You're not joking?”

He gave Monk his most jaundiced look. ”Is this my joking face, Markham? Is it?”

”You don't have a joking face, Gerald.”

”Then take the hint.”

”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,” Monk muttered. ”Rottlezinder's really dead?”

”Yes. He's really dead.” Very dead. Comprehensively dead. Unmistakably, unreservedly dead. Every time he closed his eyes he heard the annihilating boom of the factory exploding. Smelled the tinny thaumic discharge. Imagined himself enveloped in a fine red mist...

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. What's done is done.

Monk cleared his throat. ”Did you-you didn't-b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Gerald-”

With a grating effort, he dragged his eyelids open. ”If you mean did I actually, personally kill him, then no. Not exactly. He was killed by his own unstable hex. But I had to choose between saving him and saving Errol.”

”Blimey,” said Monk. ”Rather you than me, mate.” Then he winced. ”Sorry.”

He shrugged. ”Yeah. That makes two of us.”

”Look, I want to hear all about it, but-let me get you some breakfast first.”

”I don't want to make you late for work. I can-”

”I'll call in sick,” said Monk. ”Or late. Or something. Don't worry about that. You just-take some deep breaths. Cultivate your appet.i.te. I'll be right back.”

The remains of Monk's breakfast were sitting on the parlour table. He'd b.u.t.tered his bread roll but hadn't eaten it. Perhaps the telephone call from Bibbie had distracted him. With a heartfelt groan, Gerald staggered off the sofa, s.n.a.t.c.hed the bread roll off its plate and devoured it. Then he fell onto the sofa again and enjoyed the sensation of being still and quiet. Could eyelashes ache? He rather thought that they could.

Time meandered by. He didn't quite fall asleep, but he did drift into a kind of aimless doze. The room was pleasantly warm, with a cheerful little fire crackling in the fireplace. It was like being in a shabby coc.o.o.n...

”Here you go,” said Monk, returning to the parlour with a mug of tea and a plate of scrambled eggs, only slightly charred bacon and four thick slices of b.u.t.ter-dripping toast. Bless him and the camel he rode in on. ”Wrap your laughing gear around this, mate. You'll feel like a new man, afterwards. And while you're eating you can fill me in on the rest.”

So he did. When both breakfast and tale were finished he sat back, replete, the worst of his dizziness subsiding. Looked at Monk, who was staring at him with dazed fascination.

”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Gerald.”

”Yeah,” he sighed. ”I know.”

”So what's going to happen to Errol?”

He shrugged. ”Don't know. Don't much care. He's Sir Alec's problem now.”

”But you're convinced he didn't sell his work to the Jandrians?”

”You're the one who didn't believe he'd sabotage the portal network. Does Errol selling secrets to an enemy government sound likely to you?”

Monk shook his head. ”No. I said from the start he's a pillock, not a traitor.”

Which reminded him... ”So which Haythwaite was it then, who did the dirty on Ottosland?”

”What are you talking about?”

”It was something Sir Alec said. About Errol maybe not being the first treacherous Haythwaite.”

”Dunno,” said Monk, his interest piqued. ”I'll ask Uncle Ralph. He'll know for sure. He's got closets full of other people's skeletons and he hates the Haythwaites as much as we do.” Monk shook his head again, this time with a tinge of admiration. ”I can't believe you read the riot act to Sir Alec. And I really can't believe he didn't skin you for it!”

Oh. Yes. d.a.m.n. He cleared his throat. ”Ah, Monk? There is one more thing. In the course of the mission debrief I, well, I sort of lost my temper a bit and-well, frankly, I got a trifle carried away and, um, I let it slip that I knew where he got the delerioso incant.”

”Oh,” said Monk, after a moment's horrified silence.

”I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But I swear you won't hear a word about it,” he said quickly. ”Sir Alec and I came to a definite understanding.”

”Yeah,” Monk said slowly. ”And by a definite understanding, did you actually hear him say, I will not string Monk Markham up by his short and curlies for blabbing about his super-secret hex?”

”Well, no,” he said. ”I mean, not in so many words. You could say the understanding was definite, but not... articulated.”

”Right,” said Monk, his expression glum. ”In other words it's back to Probationville for me-if I'm lucky.”

He shook his head. ”No. Not this time. Not on my account. Not again.”