window cleaners at a private school - part 5

Brashwood Manor was situated in the posh part of London. But Brexham Estate was emphatically not. The estate had a certain bedraggled hang-dog look about it, as if it too knew what other people said about it, and knew it to be true. The sultry Sunday morning was just maturing gracefully into that hazy period between morning and afternoon, when a man was espied on the road. He was running. This was nothing new, and the street urchins stood eagerly to spot the expected policeman behind him as was the norm in Brexham. Yet there was no policeman, and as the man came closer, his police uniform became distinguishable and immediately the urchins turned their gaze in the opposite direction looking for who he was chasing. No one. They turned back to the policeman...only he had disappeared too. Shaking their heads and putting it down to the extra-strong weed they were smoking, the urchins collapsed back into the dark previces from where they had come out, gloomily observing the lack of quality entertainment, or what normal people would describe as lootings, robberies and street-fights.
The policeman hadn't infact been a figment of drug-fueled imagination, rather he was at this moment panting up a side-alley. He stopped abruptly at a shabby door and knocked on it sharply, then hastily stopped, as the door practically collapsed. Chastened he knocked with slightly more care.
"Open up inside" shouted the policeman, "Important news for a Mr Danny Ali".
The house remained defiant in the face of the law. The law getting increasingly exasperated put aside any vestiges of professional decorum remaining and marched into the house.
"WHAT DA HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING" snarled a voice. The room was a dingy affair. It had threadbare sofas all around the walls, with piles of blankets in each corner, and a remarkable table dominated the room in the centre, which on closer inspection proved to be an operation table, with some bloodstains remaining on it, hinting darkly at its past occupation.
The man that had spoken lay on this operation table, which seemed doubled up as a bed.
"Well bloody SPEAK then, just cuz you is de law dont mean nothing round here man." Just as quickly as he had exploded, the black man rolled over, facing away from the policeman, and for all intents and purposes seemed intent on going back to sleep.
"Err..." began the wrongfooted police officer,"Theres been a crime committed in the early hou-"
"I aint never done it" the man interjected with his eyes still closed.
"No, no thats not what I meant-", the policeman continued.
"Cuz I was here with my crew all the time. Ask Bob." Here the black man, with his eyes still closed, pointed from under the quilt, at the corner and jerked his hand upwards.
The policeman turned again to what looked like a big pile of blankets, which was now slowly, rising, as if under the black mans command, and parting like the Red Sea under Moses' guiding hand. A bald man emerged, seated on a wheelchair, which was so old, with enormous wheels, that it could have been mistaken for a go-kart.

Gods wrath - Part 4

It seem that the real God, offended at being associated with the false Gods, took his revenge by revealing to Mr Fry in one sensational, ethereal and spontaneous experience that there is a man standing in the hallway and making an infernal racket.
Mr Fry stood up distracted, not exactly the epitome of a typical driven Biblical Prophet, (there was a distinct lack of silk waistcoats in those days anyways), but still a man inspired is not to be stopped. He marched upstairs, stumping his snooker cue ahead of him.
"Took your bloody time getting here didn't you" he announced, gloriously unperturbed by the sight of an armed intruder. Mr Fry's voice had a curious multi-layered aspect to it, which, coupled with his educated accent, gave his speech a rich, aromatic almost spicy flavour.
This synaesthesia didn't go down well with the crestfallen Mr Beedle, who was going through agony. Here was a situation where the man he was supposed to kill, was aware of him, and more alarmingly seemed to have expected him. And he didn't seem to appreciate that the weaponry was in his hand either.
"Put that knife away, you silly little git" he continued brusquely, " we have a lot to get through tonight". He approached Mr Beedle and grasped him firmly by his arm and proceeded onwards towards the staircase, half-dragging the dazed Mr Beedle with him, cue still in hand.
"Your father did a great service to me once - and I promised I would repay him. Never thought it would be like this mind you," he chuckled to himself as they arrived on the landing.
The landing was dimly lit, and Mr Beedle's sense of alarm and rancour to the Gods increased. He vehemently promised himself to never seek divine intervention into his miserable life ever again. "Stands to reason that with my life being so miserable, even an improvement will only take it to a slightly less miserableness, the effect of which on me is as if its got more miserable, who is expecting something good, he thought to himself."
While this empirical analysis of the "Beadleability" scale of miserableness was continuing, Mr Fry had arrived at the correct door, and pushing open the door with the butt of his cue, he continued into the room carrying Mr Beadle with him.
"Hand over your knife" Mr Fry demanded sharply to the astonished Mr Beadle.
"B-but why?" asked the gentleman in question.
"Because if you don't" he said, raising his voice as if talking to a particularly unruly pupil, and approaching threateningly with his cue stick held aloft, "this cue will perpetrate unseen atrocities on your poor little skull, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I dont think you want that".
The knife exchanged hands. Mr Fry promptly stabbed himself in the arm.
"WHAAHT!"Shrieked the distressed Mr Beadle.
"Calm down lad" snapped Mr Fry,"And come over here and smear this over yourself" he said proferring his bleeding arm. Mr Beadle deciding that this was a more-vivid-than-normal dream, complied with equanimity. Mr Fry quickly went over to the window and wiped the knife on the curtain. He then proceeded to liberally douse the floor, table and a leather chair with the still bleeding arm.
"No point doing things in halves I always say" he said smiling at Mr Beadle for the first time, who in keeping with his recent accept of the vagaries of life, smiled back and did nothing else.
Mr Fry next headed over to a wardrobe in the corner and stooped over to retrieve a hankerchief from the floor, and tie it around his cut. He then stood up and extracted a black bomber jacket, a baseball cap, jeans and a pair of plain black trainers, and quickly dressed himself in it.
"Okay, I'm off. I want you to use this first... successful mission of yours to further yourself in your profession." he winked as he said the word "successful" and headed to the door.
"Wait, what do I do?" asked Mr Beadle having accepted that there was going to be no killing taking place today.
"Don't be stupid lad" said Mr Fry reverting to his waspish tone "make a getaway".
with that he disappeared through the door leaving behind a dazed Mr Beadle staring after him.

End of Chapter 1