Father Brown - 'A Passing of Guilt' - 5/7
Oct. 31st, 2018 08:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azombiewritesTitle: A Passing of Guilt
Fandom: Father Brown (tv series).
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Inspector Sullivan, Father Brown, Sergeant Goodfellow, Mrs. McCarthy, Sid Carter and Lady Felicia.
Disclaimer: Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
Chapter Word Count: 6,424
Total Word Count: 41,383
Status: Complete
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.
A Passing of Guilt
Chapter Five
Shouting.
An angry, familiar tone.
His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, an elapsed memory returning. A hitch of breath, his chest tight, limbs trembling as they strained to move beneath blankets thick and heavy. The claustrophobic cacoon normally a comfort, a safe haven but now, in this violent memory he felt threatened, his life at risk.
A scream.
A sound of fear.
His mother’s voice, vibrating along his spine, into the back of his neck, the painful reminder of times past piercing through his mind. Body anxious, his limbs agitated, he tried to move, to defend what was his, to protect . . . turned his head, his body; not enough, resting on his left side. Fought to hide his fear. Struggled to gain his feet, to show his height, his strength . . . his maturity. No longer a child, now physically capable of inflicting injuries on others, of drawing blood . . . of killing if necessary. Flooded with anger, aggression, his fear fled. He felt invigorated, ready to take on the threat, to protect his mother.
A given warning.
A confident tone.
Violence threatened. Evident . . .
Slumber snatched away from him, the nightmare shutting down, eyes snapping open with fear and regret. For the first time in a long time, he’d had the upper hand, gaining control, losing the fear . . . the terror that came with the terrifying images flashing through his mind. He was ready and willing to fight back, certain his was capable. Released a sigh of frustration. Felt his heart pounding in his chest, the tremors running through his body. Felt the cold sweat on his warm skin . . .
Sullivan wanted . . . needed a drink, bottle of scotch whiskey sitting lonely and abandoned in the front living room. He could almost taste the alcohol in his throat . . . no alcohol allowed though. That instruction had been an order, given in a stern voice that demanded no argument. Stared at the shadows playing on the wall instead, the sight now so familiar.
His headache, still persistent, shuffled through his skull. He suffered the pain quietly, with dignity . . . alone. No choice, Macey insistent he take no more painkillers, the Doctor uncertain if the combination of analgesics and the substance Hartford may have introduced into Sullivan’s blood stream were only making things worse for the Inspector. Then told to go home and rest, nothing more he could do until he received the results of his blood test.
Nothing more he could do except worry, his anxiety an aggravating distraction, the emotion foreign and uncomfortable. He knew fear, unadulterated and terrifying moments; the fear expected under the circumstances but this was different. A continuous, lingering worry, a nagging doubt, felt as though he was living in the past; his present . . . his future only a dream.
Placed blame in a deserving place, direction of his blame accurate; Hartford and an assortment of unforeseen events tilting his life onto a sickening angle, a change of stability that left him feeling a little unhinged. Pretty damn sure Hartford’s words were intentional, an attempt to throw Kembleford’s detective inspector off balance, to complicate and obscure a process of thought, of an investigation. It worked. Sullivan too busy thinking of his past rather than the present, of the death of Elizabeth Atwood. She deserved better, she deserved more . . . she deserved a competent detective inspector whose life wasn't unravelling.
Sullivan so sure, so bloody obvious Hartford had done something to him while he lay unconscious after a physical warning. A lack of physical proof meant very little to Sullivan, his reactions proof enough. A mixture of words and an unknown drug doing so much to his emotional stability. He felt changed, different. He felt fear, anger and if he made admittance, he felt . . . desperate and very much alone.
No idea what Hartford had released into his system, wouldn’t know until he got the blood test results back, for now only concerned with the consequences, of impeding death. Hartford had made threats, an opportunity given to him, Sullivan walking into Hartford’s surgery alone; pride and secrecy giving him pause, making a decision that could have cost him his life.
A reckless mistake he would not repeat.
A slow release of breath, a soft sigh. Closed his eyes. The thought of something he couldn’t see . . . something he couldn’t fight slowly taking him away from this world caused the fear to return, the emotion tingling through his limbs, his chest, breath catching in his throat. Unable to distract his thoughts with alcohol, his mind wandered back into the past, images of his nightmare returning, a slow repeat, each image a lingering reminder . . .
A murmur of sound.
So sudden.
The noise so out place.
So close.
Thoughts distracted, Sullivan held his breath, suspicious, the noise out of character.
The sound repeated.
Sullivan rolled onto his back, turning his head, the blankets moving with him. Out of place, a shadow in the open doorway. Frowned, his eyes narrowing, understanding . . . recognition coming too slow . . . too late.
A rush of movement. Two men coming through the open doorway, shades of darkness hiding their features but Sullivan didn’t need to see them clearly to recognise them. Here to give a second warning; certain to be more severe than the first. Heavy blankets a hindrance, Sullivan’s movements too slow, not enough time to throw the blankets aside; they had become his prison, keeping him in place, making him vulnerable . . . too vulnerable.
They were quick, violence a second nature to them, knowledge and experience used to their advantage. They were on him before he could do anything to defend himself, the first man through the door climbing the bed and straddling Sullivan’s hips. Splayed a hand across Sullivan’s chest, keeping him down, leaning over him, giving him very little room to move, to fight back.
Tried to pull his arms from beneath the blankets, to free his upper limbs . . .
A fist struck the side of Sullivan’s head. Weak enough not to cause damage, only meant to stun, to disable, to slow Sullivan even further. It worked. Sullivan blinked, a difficult movement, shadows in the room darkening further, moisture of pain blurring his vision. Strength fell from his limbs, arms and legs pliant, his head lolling to the side. Fingers gripped his chin, a painful hold turning his head. Caught sight of a third man standing in the doorway before his gaze was pulled back to look up into the eyes of a man filled with anger and hatred.
“You were warned.”
Sullivan felt exposed, weak . . . useless. Reminded of his past. He had to fight back. He had to do something. Ignoring the weakness brought on by the blow to the head, the resulting pain, he struggled beneath the man’s weight, legs fighting for release, failing. Tried to lift his hips, to throw the man off, the weight too much, pressing him down into the mattress. More effort required to remove his arms from beneath the blanket, his hands, fingers, wrapping around the man’s wrist, an attempt to release the painful hold, muscles trembling with the effort. The physical embrace across his jaw too strong, fingers digging into his flesh . . . more bruising, the violence painted across his skin, his assailant creative.
A slap across the side of his face, a reminder of who was in control; not Kembleford’s detective inspector but the man hovering over him.
Strength used, pushing Sullivan’s chin up, driving the back of his head into the pillow, forcing his mouth closed, muscles in his neck stretching, pulled too tight. Sullivan growled, in anger, frustration. Strengthened his own hold on the man’s wrist, a frail attempt, useless . . .
Head forced to the side, gaze finding the figure standing in the doorway. Too dark, his features hidden amongst the shadows, Sullivan didn’t . . . couldn’t recognise him but the stance, the way the man carried himself . . . familiar . . . compared what he saw with Albert Atwood, a direct contrast, this man too short, not wide enough in body. Hoped it didn’t take as long for understanding to dawn as it had with Father Brown’s actions.
In his peripheral he could see the man above him moving, leaning in closer . . . too close. Felt the man’s breath hot against his skin, floating across his face, a tainted smell, something rotten. Words whispered into his ear.
“You’ll not get another warning.”
A released grip, the man letting go. Quickly shifted his position, confident, aggressive, raising his knee . . . a heavy weight against Sullivan’s chest, the man’s knee pressing deep, the movement of ribs and cartilage painful. His breath taken, his lungs empty.
Head and jaw now free, Sullivan turned his head and threw a punch, aim faulty, awkward, a glancing blow. It did no good, his situation becoming more violent, the man retaliating, Sullivan flinching with expectation. The man smiled down at him, an ugly expression full of purpose . . . of intent.
Sullivan, now certain they were going to take his life, fought with everything he had left. He was going to die in a place where he had felt safe, dreams his only enemy, his only threat. Hands grabbed his upper arms, holding Sullivan down, further limiting his movements. Fear gripped his chest, lungs struggling . . . so difficult to pull in a breath.
The second man moved in, the first man shuffling back to give him room, knee moving from Sullivan’s chest to press against his diaphragm. A hand came toward his face, the fingers stretching . . . Sullivan turned his head away, nowhere to go, nothing more he could do, his struggles becoming weak. A flash of shock when the pillow beneath him was pulled away, not difficult to figure out what the man planned to do with it. Fought so hard to take a breath, lungs already starving . . .
The pillow placed over Sullivan’s face, a suffocating weight. Tried to fight back. Tried with everything he had left. Couldn’t. Lack of air in his lungs already incapacitating, already taking him away . . . already surrounded by darkness. Surprised when fingers grabbed his right wrist – the third man – stretching his arm out across the bed, pulling, too much anger used. Sullivan could feel the pull in his shoulder . . . could feel his consciousness wanning. He knew how long it took to kill a man this way . . .
“Christ, Harry, let him breath will ya.”
A voice snapped back, a thick East London accent. “Do you want to do it?”
“Let up, the boss doesn’t want him dead yet. Just wants him to suffer.”
The pillow lifted, enough room created, giving him a chance to breathe; not enough room to see the third man, to make an identification, to connect a motive to an ongoing physical threat. He was unable to breathe with the knee pressing down, the weight too much, his attempt too weak. The edges of his vision began to fade, a lifeless darkness pushing in, drawing the light away as his struggles for breath continued.
Fingers wrapped around Sullivan’s throat, a gentle caress across bruised flesh . . . a contradiction to the rough hold around his wrist. The touch removed . . .
A sharp pinprick in the crook of his elbow, the injection brutal, Sullivan grunting in surprise and pain, the sound muffled, the pillow pressed back down against his face.
“You won’t get another warning, Inspector. Stay away from the Elizabeth Atwood case.”
A familiar voice. A stumbling assortment of words, each one difficult to distinguish, to understand and make sense of through a fading consciousness. He felt detached, his mind drifting. Limbs heavy, his body swallowed by an uncomfortable weight . . .
.
.
.
The sound of a ringing phone, an insistent, irritating noise.
Sullivan woke with a twitch, a faint jerk of limbs, head lifting slightly before collapsing back onto the pillow. Opened his mouth, a soft rush of breath taken and released. Mind slow to focus, like wading through a thick oncoming tide, he wasn’t sure of his situation, his location, only aware something had happened to him. Aware of something wrong. He felt ill, his head aching, his skin hot, covered with a thick coat of sweat, his bedclothes damp. Body heavy, an unacquainted weight he tried to lift his arms, to shove the thick blankets away. Couldn’t manage it, riddled with exhaustion his limbs too weak.
Eyelids drifting open, his vision blurred, Sullivan searched his surroundings, difficult to determine shapes and colours. Difficult to recognise his location . . . became aware of the sound in the next room; a phone, a hint . . . but he couldn’t . . .
He felt tired, beyond exhausted. Felt the burden of a body in desperate need of sleep. Fought the pull of slumber, something telling him if he were to sleep he would be placed in a vulnerable position . . . already too late. Understood something had happened. He knew it. Just couldn’t determine . . . couldn’t remember what . . .
Closed his eyes . . .
.
.
.
Rolled over onto his side, something soft against his skin moving with him, tangling beneath his arms, over the length of his legs . . . it all felt . . . different, unfamiliar. He could feel heat flowing through his body, his mouth dry, his throat sore. Ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips, a soft moan escaping with a release of breath. Shifted his body, his legs, limbs still heavy . . . fingers, the skin soft, cool, curled around his right hand, a slow embracing movement. Stilled his body, aching muscles becoming tense.
In the background, muted voices, hard to follow the conversation, to understand their intent. Didn’t know if they were friend or foe . . .
Felt the sudden need to struggle, to fight back, to defend his physical health. No recollection to explain his emotions, his need to react . . . on the edge of his consciousness, a memory began to play like a bad black and white movie, a cast of shadows, faces hidden within shades of black and grey. Behind heavy eyelids, images shifted back and forth at a sickening angle, Sullivan left feeling dizzy and nauseated.
So sudden, a quick intake of breath, his memory became clear, all too real, a painful slap in the face. He could remember the assault now, in all its abusive detail. A second warning, more painful . . . more violent than the first. Remembered the fear, the knowledge he was going to die . . . death had come so close. So very, close. He had felt its breath as it pressed down against his face, its fingers as it coiled around his lungs, his throat . . . felt it in the darkness that had gripped his consciousness, pulling him down into a deep, black hole.
If they were still here.
Weakness lingering in his limbs, Sullivan knew he couldn’t fight back.
Fear tight in his chest . . .
Fingers squeezed his hand, a gentle motion, reminded of the fingers brushing across the skin of his throat . . . snapped his hand away, pulled his body back, away from the source of the threat. Opened his eyes, his vision still blurred, damp. Blinked. A few moments before his vision began to clear. Recognised the person sitting next to him, the face staring back at him so familiar.
Turned his gaze away, searching . . . his location quickly becoming obvious, no longer in his own bed, now in a small room in what had to be a hospital. He relaxed back, muscles no longer tense. Closed his eyes. A deep breath. A moment to calm his beating heart, adrenaline and fear pounding through his limbs, his chest.
“I’ll get the Doctor,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she stood up. She stepped away from the bed, about to turn away. A strong tone of voice used as she continued. “Don’t you dare go anywhere, young man.” Allowed her gaze to linger before turning and walking out of the small hospital room.
He didn’t think he had the energy required to leave this bed, this room. Didn’t think he could move beyond the position he was now in; the simple task of moving away from what he had assumed was a threat had taken too much out of him. He felt hot . . . too hot, head and muscles filled with a heavy ache. He felt physically exhausted . . . tired beyond repair. Felt as though death had taken him and unsatisfied with its purchase it had made a valiant effort to return him.
He decided to put what little energy he did have into making sense of his current situation. No real understanding as to why he was here, an explanation required to sooth his confusion. Obvious something was wrong with him. No memory of his travels to the local hospital, brought here by someone else. Found by someone who cared enough to contact the authorities. A nagging doubt; had the warning gone too far, his life taken by mistake . . . too soon, their fun over too quickly, an effort made to keep him alive. He swallowed his fear.
But that didn’t explain the way he was currently feeling. If he were sick . . . a soft groan of realisation escaped through an open mouth . . . Doctor Hartford. The man had given him an injection while he had lain unconscious outside of the Doctor’s medical rooms. Hartford had taken advantage of Sullivan’s vulnerable state, used an opportunity to exact the revenge he had threatened years earlier. Had it been Hartford in his bedroom, the man giving him a second injection . . . he wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure, no proof, unable to recognise the third man. Couldn’t accuse the doctor of anything until he was sure . . .
Sullivan lifted his right hand, the muscles weak, so heavy with fatigue . . . something pulled at the back of his hand. Not enough energy to fight, his dropped his arm, the limb falling onto his chest, the feel of skin too hot. Looked down, noticing his upper body, left bare to cool. No energy left to move, to cover his embarrassment. Frowned when he saw the intravenous drip embedded in the back of his hand, a small strip of bandage keeping it in place.
Definitely ill then.
Or poisoned.
Darkness rested on the edges of his vision, moving forward, pushing in, exhaustion dragging him back down . . . closed his eyes.
.
.
.
Fingers brushed through his hair, his breath catching in response. Fear pulled at his chest. He shifted his body, trying to pull away, muscles straining. Turned his head, the only thing he could manage. The touch began to move, a short journey, palm of a small hand resting against his forehead. Skin soft, the touch gentle and cool against his warm skin . . . a tug of memory . . . understood there was no threat of physical violence involved. He was safe, Sullivan was certain. Let out a breath of relief.
“Inspector?”
“Give him a minute, Mrs. M.”
“The poor man needs to eat something.”
“I’m sure you’re cooking will do wonders for his health, Mrs. McCarthy.”
A flicker of confusion, too long for understanding to arrive at its final destination, kept waiting by a mind driven by exhaustion. Familiar voices continued to converse around him, a conversation he couldn’t follow, too tired to make any effort . . .
.
.
.
A hand around his throat, a powerful hold, his breath forced from his lungs. A hot flush of breath across the side of his face. Words whispered, a warning given. A slap of pain through his chest . . . breath caught in his throat, he grunted with surprise. Heart pounding against his rib cage, his chest heaving, lungs fighting for breath, Sullivan’s eyes snapped open, his gaze frantic, searching, finding nothing but familiar faces standing at the end of the bed staring back at him; their eyes full of worry, expressions full of concern.
A feeling of relief, of comfort swelled through him, an encompassing emotion. Felt the fear fall away, the reprieve an almost unbearable burden. Heart calming, lungs no longer struggling, Sullivan could feel the heat of embarrassment, the emotion a quick replacement. Closed his eyes, hiding behind a thin veil of darkness.
“There he goes again,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Poor man can’t seem to stay awake.”
Confusion stepped in, taking control. Why were these people here? They weren’t friends, often showing their resentment, something he could understand; his own continued animosity toward Brown’s meddling feeding their dislike of Kembleford’s detective inspector. A vague memory of their last encounter, his threat to arrest the priest and Mrs. McCarthy. The memory expanding, revealing too much. He had actually encouraged Carter to interfere . . . to create a physical protest just so he could . . . grimaced in disgrace, his behaviour erratic, so out of character.
“Perhaps you can talk him into a nasty case of insomnia, Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia, a soft smile crossing her features as she looked down at Sullivan.
“As opposed to seducing him, you mean,” said Mrs. McCarthy, moving to the side of Sullivan’s bed, sitting down on the only available chair. Handbag in her lap, she reached out, fingers of her left hand gripping Sullivan’s hand, holding on when the limb jerked with surprise.
“Or boring him with mindless gossip.”
“I do not gossip!”
“Lady Felicia,” said Father Brown before she could reply to Mrs. McCarthy’s denial. “Could you please fetch the Doctor? I’m sure he’d be happy to know the Inspector has woken . . . again.”
“Of course, Father, anything to help,” said Lady Felicia taking one last look at Sullivan, her gaze drifting down toward his bare chest . . . smiled, turned and walked away, leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Woken again. I’ve lost count, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy with a huff of breath. “And for how long this time? The man can’t seem to make up his mind. His addle-brain I’m sure, Father.”
Unsure if Mrs. McCarthy had thrown an insult at him, Sullivan tried to respond, to pull his hand from her grip but she held on. He wanted to assure her his exhaustion had nothing to do with her company. Couldn’t find the energy or the words. Confusion took control of his mind, his thoughts drifting, a continuous motion, no longer able to fixate on one thing. Tried to concentrate, the effort causing physical pain, headache increasing. Struggled with his thoughts, a grimace of frustration filling his features as he turned his head, pressing his face into the pillow. He couldn’t understand why it was so difficult, couldn’t understand the exhaustion. Lost all understanding as to why he felt so tired.
“It’s not the Inspector’s fault, Mrs. McCarthy, you know that. Doctor Macey explained his condition to us,” said Brown as he stepped around the bed, drawing closer to Sullivan’s side.
“Who would drug the poor man, Father, that’s what I would like to know? And in his own home.”
Drug?
“It’s quite possible it was the two men who warned him off yesterday,” said Father Brown. “I’m sure the Inspector will be able to tell us when he’s feeling better.”
Opened his eyes and turned his head, gaze settling on Brown.
“And how long will that be?” said Mrs. McCarthy. “I’m beginning to think he’ll never manage to stay awake.”
Sullivan made an attempt to speak, one word tumbling out, his voice soft, weak. “What?” It was a mistake to talk, even one word. Mouth and throat still dry he coughed; a cough so deep his upper body shifted, his features creasing with pain.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she released Sullivan’s hand and placed her handbag on the floor next to her chair.
“You’re going to be fine, Inspector,” said Brown, leaning forward, patting Sullivan’s left arm.
That didn’t answer his question. More information needed, he stared back at Brown, his confusion palpable.
Mrs. McCarthy filled a small paper cup with water from a carafe placed on the bedside table. Changing position, she sat on the edge of the bed, leant forward, arm reaching across Sullivan and placed her right hand behind his head, lifting and turning him toward her, pulling his gaze from Brown. “Here, Inspector, drink this.”
It took too much effort. Could only manage a few small sips but the relief was immediate even though it added to his exhaustion, eyes closing.
“He’s gone again, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy releasing her hold, allowing his head to rest back on the pillow.
Opened his eyes, staring back at Mrs. McCarthy, flicking his gaze back to Father Brown. “What happened?”
Father Brown looked away, a moment taken before returning his attention to Sullivan. “You’ve been . . . sick, Inspector.”
“What?”
“Drugged is the word Doctor Macey used, Father. They broke into your home, Inspector and attacked you while you slept. And what are the rest of us to do when even the inspector isn’t safe in his own home?”
Putting the cup back on the side table Mrs. McCarthy began to fuss, lifting the sheet up over his upper body and tucking it around Sullivan’s shoulders, paying careful attention to the intravenous drip. She patted the sheet flat, removing wrinkles . . . fussing, brushing the damp hair from his forehead before sitting back and clutching her hands in her lap.
Sullivan didn’t know what to think but he did know how to feel; embarrassed, uncomfortable but lacked the energy to ask her to stop. Didn’t think she would listen if he did, continuing to treat him as someone who needed to be taken care of, a sick invalid . . . a flash of memory. Only recently, he had considered seeking Mrs. McCarthy’s attentions, wanting her to sit him down in front of fire with a cup of tea and a scone. He’d forgotten what it felt like, to have someone care . . .
“Mrs. McCarthy, there’s no need to fuss over the inspector. I’m sure he’s quite embarrassed.”
“Nonsense, Father, there’s every need. The poor inspector is ill and he has no one to take care of him. A man his age should be married. I don’t know why he--”
“You’re an angel and a saint rolled into one, Mrs. M.”
“Usually so healthy,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she fussed some more, another attempt to straighten the sheet covering his body. “How could someone do this to him, Father?”
“Doctor Macey assures us the worst of it is over.”
Took a slow, careful breath, an elongated release. Closed his eyes. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like the worst of it was over. Still tired . . . still too hot. Sick . . . drugged . . . bloody Hartford. Beneath his exhaustion a slow reveal, aches and pains making a repeat introduction. He’d met them before, didn’t want to reacquaint himself with them now. The headache, irritating and inconvenient, was still refusing to renounce its hold on his body. Muscles weak, his limbs heavy, he felt lethargic, as though recovering from a debilitating illness. Couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bad.
Couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bloody miserable.
Consciousness waning, his mind becoming more muddled, he allowed his thoughts to wander.
Not only sick.
Not only drugged.
He’d almost died . . . odds in the attacker’s favour, possible he did die. Brought back with the aid of another. Is that why he was here? Recovering, not only from the drug injected into his body but also from a nasty bout of death? It certainly felt like it, not that he knew what death actually felt like . . . this was the first time in his life it had come so close.
Felt like he was still dying . . .
“I’ve brought you some chicken soup, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Homemade of course. We can’t have Kembleford’s best detective inspector eating anything else. People would talk. Mind you, with all the sleeping you're doing it’s only going cold. It would be a waste if I have to throw it away.”
He could feel the exhaustion as it began to pull him back down, so ready to give in, to allow it to take him once more. Certain Mrs. McCarthy was already unimpressed with the absence of his rousing conversation, he knew she would be even more put out by his inability to show how grateful he was for her concern . . . her ministrations, taking care of him as a . . . a sudden feeling of guilt, an underlying assumption . . . she would understand.
His mind continued to drift, floating on an outgoing tide . . . snapped awake at the sound of the door opening, voices acknowledging company . . . the sound of high heels slapping against the hospital vinyl flooring.
“How is he doing?” said Doctor Macey, following Lady Felicia into the room, closing the door behind him.
“And you with a medical degree,” said Mrs. McCarthy, adjusting the sheet once again. “Can you not see he’s asleep again?”
“Mrs. McCarthy . . .” said Father Brown.
A puff of frustration released from Macey, his shoulders straight with tension and impatience.
Father Brown stepped away from the bed, from Sullivan’s side, worrying gaze steady as he looked toward Doctor Macey. “He’s still having trouble staying awake, Doctor.”
“The drugs are still in his system, Father,” said Macey, moving past Brown. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, opposite Mrs. McCarthy, he reached for Sullivan’s wrist, glancing at his watch at the same time. “His pulse is strong, a little slow though but that’s to be expected.” Placed a large palm against Sullivan’s forehead. A soft hum of disappointment. “Still has a temperature. We’ll do another blood test shortly just to be certain but I’m sure he’ll be back to his normal self in a few hours. As long as his temperature breaks . . .”
“Ahh . . .” said Brown.
Macey looked back over his shoulder at Brown and said, “Don’t worry, Father, he’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “You’ve already said that Doctor. More than once.”
“Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia. “I have it on good authority the good Doctor knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, I hope so. Poor man. Sick as a dog and all because . . .”
Sullivan stopped his struggle to listen, to comprehend the words spoken . . . his attention failing completely, the voices fading quickly . . .
.
.
.
Sullivan felt comfortably warm, relaxed, a soft, thick heavy weight covering his body. Mind drifting in a haze of contentment, he stretched his legs, uncurling them, heels scraping against a sheet covered mattress . . . a sudden realisation; he felt better, not ill or drugged . . . almost back to normal. He still felt tired, the exhaustion subdued, his body no longer desperate for sleep. His headache, now a dull pain, lingered quietly in the background. A faint, sigh of relief escaped . . .
Not a deadly poison then.
Only enough to make a Kembleford detective inspector ill.
Why? What would it accomplish? Not the kind of revenge Hartford had threatened.
A soft crack of sound to his right . . . a sharp intake of breath. Eyes snapping open Sullivan sat up, body ready to fight back. Beaten down by a sudden infliction of vertigo, he fell back, collapsing onto the bed. Closed his eyes, waited until the dizziness passed. A few elongated moments, balance finally restored, no longer broken. Opened his eyes, his vision clear.
Turning his head, a quick glance around the room – still a guest of the local hospital – his gaze finding and resting on Sergeant Goodfellow, the man sitting in a chair beside the bed, a bedraggled newspaper strewn across his lap. Goodfellow stared back at him, mouth open in surprise, an expression of regret on his features.
“Sorry, sir,” said Goodfellow as he made a terrible attempt to fold his paper back into a neat bundle. Frustration getting the better of him, he gave up and dropped it on the floor, shoving it out of the way with his foot. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Throat still dry, his voice hoarse, Sullivan said, “It’s all right, sergeant.”
“Here, sir,” said Goodfellow, filling the small paper cup with water before handing it toward Sullivan.
Sullivan looked at it, more than tempted. Rolled over onto his right side, pulled his arm from beneath the blanket and took the cup in a trembling grip. Lifting his head, he drank as much as he could. Thirst satisfied, he handed the cup back. At least he didn’t spill it all over himself . . . surprised when he felt a little disappointed by the lack of a certain Mrs. McCarthy. Knew he was only feeling sorry for himself, wanting company for his dwindling misery . . . that’s what he told himself.
“How are you feeling, sir?”
“Much better, thank you, sergeant” said Sullivan as he tried to push himself into a more upright position, not wanting to talk to Goodfellow while he was almost flat on his back. Body moving beneath the thick, heavy blanket he found that he couldn’t really manage it. Stopped trying when he began to fear his sergeant might decide to step in and help.
Goodfellow smiled, nodded in understanding and said, “The Doctor said you’ll be right as rain by morning, sir.”
“Is there anything I should know, sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“The investigation.”
“Sorry, sir, I’m under strict orders from Doctor Macey. I’m not supposed to talk to you about the investigation . . . no, sir, there isn’t anything new. We’ve been around the pubs and boarding houses again but we still haven’t found them.”
“The autopsy report on Mrs. Atwood?”
“I’m told it will be on your desk by morning, sir.”
“Right as rain by morning you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just in time then.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, looking away, gaze finding something else to look at, a distraction, a pause in conversation, obvious he had information he didn’t want to pass on.
“Sergeant?”
Goodfellow rubbed his palms against his thighs, his body language awkward. Glanced at Sullivan, looked away before returning his gaze. A deep breath before he spoke. “It’s the Chief Constable, sir. He’s organised a temporary replacement. An Inspector Exton will be arriving in a couple of days. Just while you’re on leave, sir.”
“Leave?”
“Doctor Macey is insisting you take some time off, sir. At least two weeks. Said if you went against his instructions, which he plans to tell you about in the morning, he’ll go to the Chief Constable. Sir.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, sir. Said you’d need the rest.”
“Is that why you’re here, sergeant?” said Sullivan, not caring his tone reflected his anger. “To make sure I don’t leave.”
“No, sir. I’m the night shift. Here to make sure someone doesn't make a second attempt on your life. I’ve got PC Harrington out in the corridor, sir.”
It was Sullivan’s turn to look away, an attempt to hide his embarrassment, a moment of shame. He should have known better, working long enough with Goodfellow to be aware of his loyalty. “I’m sorry, sergeant.”
“It’s all right, sir. You’re still not yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Sullivan, looking back at Goodfellow. “We’ll have to leave before Doctor Macey gets here.”
Goodfellow, his confusion clearly evident, said, “Sir?”
“Can’t have someone else solving a physical assault on my person. Can we sergeant?”
“No, sir. Unless it’s Father Brown.”
“Sergeant . . .”
“Not even Father Brown, sir . . . he was quite upset about what happened, sir. Blames himself for some reason.”
Sullivan was well aware of what that reason was. Atwood making a confession, Brown refusing to break the seal of the confessional. Two physical assaults on Kembleford’s detective inspector the result of a lack of communication. Felt the anger building, blame required, repercussions needed. Knew his thoughts, his feelings were driven by whatever Hartford had given him.
Anger beginning to burn, he needed to think of something else, talk about something else. Pieces of memory still missing, Sullivan said, “How long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday morning, sir,” said Goodfellow, leaning forward in the chair, placing his elbows on his knees.
“Yesterday?”
“Well, technically yesterday. It’s gone two in the morning, sir.”
“And how did I get here?”
“You were late and not answering your phone, sir. I was worried you’d had another run-in with those two men. When I got to the cottage, the front door was open and you were . . . I thought you were dead, sir.”
“And how did Father Brown come to know about it?”
“I believe one of the nurses called him, sir . . . to . . . um . . . one of the nurses called him.”
Turned his gaze back to Goodfellow. Saw the expression on the man’s face. Goodfellow wasn’t telling him everything, not yet willing to reveal something he deemed important. Sullivan swallowed the taste of fear in his mouth, hesitation shifting his body, adjusting his position, now on his back. “How bad was it?”
Goodfellow frowned. “Sir?”
“You said you were here to stop them from trying to kill me a second time. How close was it the first time?”
“Them, sir? So it was the same two men who warned you off the case?”
“Yes and a third man. I don’t know who he was. They put a pillow over my face . . . he gave me an injection.” Sullivan removed his right arm from beneath the blanket. Frowned . . . finally noticing he was now wearing a hospital garment. Looked at his hand, the intravenous drip removed while he’d been sleeping.
As a way of explanation, Goodfellow said, “Your fever broke a few hours ago, sir. They had to keep you warm after that. The nurse said they couldn’t have you catching your . . . death, sir. Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean--”
“It’s all right, sergeant,” said Sullivan, returning his attention to his arm. Stared at the injection sight, a large, circular, purple bruise blooming outward. “What did he do to me?”
“Doctor Macey had your blood tested, sir but all they could tell us was that it included a sedative and something they hadn’t seen before. A homemade concoction he said. The Doctor thinks it was some kind of poison, sir.”
Sullivan nodded. “It certainly felt like it. I seem to remember Mrs. McCarthy complaining about me not being able to stay awake. Said I kept falling asleep . . .”
“You weren’t falling asleep, sir. Unconscious you were . . . most of the time.”
“Oh . . .”
“We were all pretty worried, sir.”
“How close was it then?”
His voice soft, Goodfellow said, “Too, close. That’s why the nurse called Father Brown. I hope you don’t mind, sir but . . . I know you’re not religious so I stopped Father Brown from giving you last rights.”
“That close . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan swallowed his fear and closed his eyes.
“Sir?”
“Just give me a minute, sergeant.”
“Of course, sir.”
A sudden thought, dread filling his chest, anxiety churning his stomach. A moment of regret, angry at death for leaving him behind. Opened his eyes, gaze fixated on a broken tile on the ceiling. In a soft, hesitant voice, his tone almost fearful, he said, “Sergeant? Tell me you didn’t contact my next of kin.”
Goodfellow’s silence revealed too much.
Turned his head, anger filling his features. “Sergeant . . .”
“Sorry, sir but . . . the Doctor wasn’t sure you were going to make it. I called your father, sir. He’ll be here in the morning.”
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six
Fandom: Father Brown (tv series).
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst.
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Inspector Sullivan, Father Brown, Sergeant Goodfellow, Mrs. McCarthy, Sid Carter and Lady Felicia.
Disclaimer: Based on the character created by GK Chesterton and the tv series/characters created by Rachel Flowerday and Tahsin Guner.
Chapter Word Count: 6,424
Total Word Count: 41,383
Status: Complete
Summary: A vicious, domineering wife: deceased. A husband rumoured to have a nervous disposition. A disgraced doctor surrounded by rumour. A questionable death. A meddling priest reluctant to meddle and a detective inspector who isn't feeling well. They all come together, brought into a violent confrontation when the wrong person asks too many questions.
Chapter Five
Shouting.
An angry, familiar tone.
His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, an elapsed memory returning. A hitch of breath, his chest tight, limbs trembling as they strained to move beneath blankets thick and heavy. The claustrophobic cacoon normally a comfort, a safe haven but now, in this violent memory he felt threatened, his life at risk.
A scream.
A sound of fear.
His mother’s voice, vibrating along his spine, into the back of his neck, the painful reminder of times past piercing through his mind. Body anxious, his limbs agitated, he tried to move, to defend what was his, to protect . . . turned his head, his body; not enough, resting on his left side. Fought to hide his fear. Struggled to gain his feet, to show his height, his strength . . . his maturity. No longer a child, now physically capable of inflicting injuries on others, of drawing blood . . . of killing if necessary. Flooded with anger, aggression, his fear fled. He felt invigorated, ready to take on the threat, to protect his mother.
A given warning.
A confident tone.
Violence threatened. Evident . . .
Slumber snatched away from him, the nightmare shutting down, eyes snapping open with fear and regret. For the first time in a long time, he’d had the upper hand, gaining control, losing the fear . . . the terror that came with the terrifying images flashing through his mind. He was ready and willing to fight back, certain his was capable. Released a sigh of frustration. Felt his heart pounding in his chest, the tremors running through his body. Felt the cold sweat on his warm skin . . .
Sullivan wanted . . . needed a drink, bottle of scotch whiskey sitting lonely and abandoned in the front living room. He could almost taste the alcohol in his throat . . . no alcohol allowed though. That instruction had been an order, given in a stern voice that demanded no argument. Stared at the shadows playing on the wall instead, the sight now so familiar.
His headache, still persistent, shuffled through his skull. He suffered the pain quietly, with dignity . . . alone. No choice, Macey insistent he take no more painkillers, the Doctor uncertain if the combination of analgesics and the substance Hartford may have introduced into Sullivan’s blood stream were only making things worse for the Inspector. Then told to go home and rest, nothing more he could do until he received the results of his blood test.
Nothing more he could do except worry, his anxiety an aggravating distraction, the emotion foreign and uncomfortable. He knew fear, unadulterated and terrifying moments; the fear expected under the circumstances but this was different. A continuous, lingering worry, a nagging doubt, felt as though he was living in the past; his present . . . his future only a dream.
Placed blame in a deserving place, direction of his blame accurate; Hartford and an assortment of unforeseen events tilting his life onto a sickening angle, a change of stability that left him feeling a little unhinged. Pretty damn sure Hartford’s words were intentional, an attempt to throw Kembleford’s detective inspector off balance, to complicate and obscure a process of thought, of an investigation. It worked. Sullivan too busy thinking of his past rather than the present, of the death of Elizabeth Atwood. She deserved better, she deserved more . . . she deserved a competent detective inspector whose life wasn't unravelling.
Sullivan so sure, so bloody obvious Hartford had done something to him while he lay unconscious after a physical warning. A lack of physical proof meant very little to Sullivan, his reactions proof enough. A mixture of words and an unknown drug doing so much to his emotional stability. He felt changed, different. He felt fear, anger and if he made admittance, he felt . . . desperate and very much alone.
No idea what Hartford had released into his system, wouldn’t know until he got the blood test results back, for now only concerned with the consequences, of impeding death. Hartford had made threats, an opportunity given to him, Sullivan walking into Hartford’s surgery alone; pride and secrecy giving him pause, making a decision that could have cost him his life.
A reckless mistake he would not repeat.
A slow release of breath, a soft sigh. Closed his eyes. The thought of something he couldn’t see . . . something he couldn’t fight slowly taking him away from this world caused the fear to return, the emotion tingling through his limbs, his chest, breath catching in his throat. Unable to distract his thoughts with alcohol, his mind wandered back into the past, images of his nightmare returning, a slow repeat, each image a lingering reminder . . .
A murmur of sound.
So sudden.
The noise so out place.
So close.
Thoughts distracted, Sullivan held his breath, suspicious, the noise out of character.
The sound repeated.
Sullivan rolled onto his back, turning his head, the blankets moving with him. Out of place, a shadow in the open doorway. Frowned, his eyes narrowing, understanding . . . recognition coming too slow . . . too late.
A rush of movement. Two men coming through the open doorway, shades of darkness hiding their features but Sullivan didn’t need to see them clearly to recognise them. Here to give a second warning; certain to be more severe than the first. Heavy blankets a hindrance, Sullivan’s movements too slow, not enough time to throw the blankets aside; they had become his prison, keeping him in place, making him vulnerable . . . too vulnerable.
They were quick, violence a second nature to them, knowledge and experience used to their advantage. They were on him before he could do anything to defend himself, the first man through the door climbing the bed and straddling Sullivan’s hips. Splayed a hand across Sullivan’s chest, keeping him down, leaning over him, giving him very little room to move, to fight back.
Tried to pull his arms from beneath the blankets, to free his upper limbs . . .
A fist struck the side of Sullivan’s head. Weak enough not to cause damage, only meant to stun, to disable, to slow Sullivan even further. It worked. Sullivan blinked, a difficult movement, shadows in the room darkening further, moisture of pain blurring his vision. Strength fell from his limbs, arms and legs pliant, his head lolling to the side. Fingers gripped his chin, a painful hold turning his head. Caught sight of a third man standing in the doorway before his gaze was pulled back to look up into the eyes of a man filled with anger and hatred.
“You were warned.”
Sullivan felt exposed, weak . . . useless. Reminded of his past. He had to fight back. He had to do something. Ignoring the weakness brought on by the blow to the head, the resulting pain, he struggled beneath the man’s weight, legs fighting for release, failing. Tried to lift his hips, to throw the man off, the weight too much, pressing him down into the mattress. More effort required to remove his arms from beneath the blanket, his hands, fingers, wrapping around the man’s wrist, an attempt to release the painful hold, muscles trembling with the effort. The physical embrace across his jaw too strong, fingers digging into his flesh . . . more bruising, the violence painted across his skin, his assailant creative.
A slap across the side of his face, a reminder of who was in control; not Kembleford’s detective inspector but the man hovering over him.
Strength used, pushing Sullivan’s chin up, driving the back of his head into the pillow, forcing his mouth closed, muscles in his neck stretching, pulled too tight. Sullivan growled, in anger, frustration. Strengthened his own hold on the man’s wrist, a frail attempt, useless . . .
Head forced to the side, gaze finding the figure standing in the doorway. Too dark, his features hidden amongst the shadows, Sullivan didn’t . . . couldn’t recognise him but the stance, the way the man carried himself . . . familiar . . . compared what he saw with Albert Atwood, a direct contrast, this man too short, not wide enough in body. Hoped it didn’t take as long for understanding to dawn as it had with Father Brown’s actions.
In his peripheral he could see the man above him moving, leaning in closer . . . too close. Felt the man’s breath hot against his skin, floating across his face, a tainted smell, something rotten. Words whispered into his ear.
“You’ll not get another warning.”
A released grip, the man letting go. Quickly shifted his position, confident, aggressive, raising his knee . . . a heavy weight against Sullivan’s chest, the man’s knee pressing deep, the movement of ribs and cartilage painful. His breath taken, his lungs empty.
Head and jaw now free, Sullivan turned his head and threw a punch, aim faulty, awkward, a glancing blow. It did no good, his situation becoming more violent, the man retaliating, Sullivan flinching with expectation. The man smiled down at him, an ugly expression full of purpose . . . of intent.
Sullivan, now certain they were going to take his life, fought with everything he had left. He was going to die in a place where he had felt safe, dreams his only enemy, his only threat. Hands grabbed his upper arms, holding Sullivan down, further limiting his movements. Fear gripped his chest, lungs struggling . . . so difficult to pull in a breath.
The second man moved in, the first man shuffling back to give him room, knee moving from Sullivan’s chest to press against his diaphragm. A hand came toward his face, the fingers stretching . . . Sullivan turned his head away, nowhere to go, nothing more he could do, his struggles becoming weak. A flash of shock when the pillow beneath him was pulled away, not difficult to figure out what the man planned to do with it. Fought so hard to take a breath, lungs already starving . . .
The pillow placed over Sullivan’s face, a suffocating weight. Tried to fight back. Tried with everything he had left. Couldn’t. Lack of air in his lungs already incapacitating, already taking him away . . . already surrounded by darkness. Surprised when fingers grabbed his right wrist – the third man – stretching his arm out across the bed, pulling, too much anger used. Sullivan could feel the pull in his shoulder . . . could feel his consciousness wanning. He knew how long it took to kill a man this way . . .
“Christ, Harry, let him breath will ya.”
A voice snapped back, a thick East London accent. “Do you want to do it?”
“Let up, the boss doesn’t want him dead yet. Just wants him to suffer.”
The pillow lifted, enough room created, giving him a chance to breathe; not enough room to see the third man, to make an identification, to connect a motive to an ongoing physical threat. He was unable to breathe with the knee pressing down, the weight too much, his attempt too weak. The edges of his vision began to fade, a lifeless darkness pushing in, drawing the light away as his struggles for breath continued.
Fingers wrapped around Sullivan’s throat, a gentle caress across bruised flesh . . . a contradiction to the rough hold around his wrist. The touch removed . . .
A sharp pinprick in the crook of his elbow, the injection brutal, Sullivan grunting in surprise and pain, the sound muffled, the pillow pressed back down against his face.
“You won’t get another warning, Inspector. Stay away from the Elizabeth Atwood case.”
A familiar voice. A stumbling assortment of words, each one difficult to distinguish, to understand and make sense of through a fading consciousness. He felt detached, his mind drifting. Limbs heavy, his body swallowed by an uncomfortable weight . . .
.
.
.
The sound of a ringing phone, an insistent, irritating noise.
Sullivan woke with a twitch, a faint jerk of limbs, head lifting slightly before collapsing back onto the pillow. Opened his mouth, a soft rush of breath taken and released. Mind slow to focus, like wading through a thick oncoming tide, he wasn’t sure of his situation, his location, only aware something had happened to him. Aware of something wrong. He felt ill, his head aching, his skin hot, covered with a thick coat of sweat, his bedclothes damp. Body heavy, an unacquainted weight he tried to lift his arms, to shove the thick blankets away. Couldn’t manage it, riddled with exhaustion his limbs too weak.
Eyelids drifting open, his vision blurred, Sullivan searched his surroundings, difficult to determine shapes and colours. Difficult to recognise his location . . . became aware of the sound in the next room; a phone, a hint . . . but he couldn’t . . .
He felt tired, beyond exhausted. Felt the burden of a body in desperate need of sleep. Fought the pull of slumber, something telling him if he were to sleep he would be placed in a vulnerable position . . . already too late. Understood something had happened. He knew it. Just couldn’t determine . . . couldn’t remember what . . .
Closed his eyes . . .
.
.
.
Rolled over onto his side, something soft against his skin moving with him, tangling beneath his arms, over the length of his legs . . . it all felt . . . different, unfamiliar. He could feel heat flowing through his body, his mouth dry, his throat sore. Ran his tongue over dry, cracked lips, a soft moan escaping with a release of breath. Shifted his body, his legs, limbs still heavy . . . fingers, the skin soft, cool, curled around his right hand, a slow embracing movement. Stilled his body, aching muscles becoming tense.
In the background, muted voices, hard to follow the conversation, to understand their intent. Didn’t know if they were friend or foe . . .
Felt the sudden need to struggle, to fight back, to defend his physical health. No recollection to explain his emotions, his need to react . . . on the edge of his consciousness, a memory began to play like a bad black and white movie, a cast of shadows, faces hidden within shades of black and grey. Behind heavy eyelids, images shifted back and forth at a sickening angle, Sullivan left feeling dizzy and nauseated.
So sudden, a quick intake of breath, his memory became clear, all too real, a painful slap in the face. He could remember the assault now, in all its abusive detail. A second warning, more painful . . . more violent than the first. Remembered the fear, the knowledge he was going to die . . . death had come so close. So very, close. He had felt its breath as it pressed down against his face, its fingers as it coiled around his lungs, his throat . . . felt it in the darkness that had gripped his consciousness, pulling him down into a deep, black hole.
If they were still here.
Weakness lingering in his limbs, Sullivan knew he couldn’t fight back.
Fear tight in his chest . . .
Fingers squeezed his hand, a gentle motion, reminded of the fingers brushing across the skin of his throat . . . snapped his hand away, pulled his body back, away from the source of the threat. Opened his eyes, his vision still blurred, damp. Blinked. A few moments before his vision began to clear. Recognised the person sitting next to him, the face staring back at him so familiar.
Turned his gaze away, searching . . . his location quickly becoming obvious, no longer in his own bed, now in a small room in what had to be a hospital. He relaxed back, muscles no longer tense. Closed his eyes. A deep breath. A moment to calm his beating heart, adrenaline and fear pounding through his limbs, his chest.
“I’ll get the Doctor,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she stood up. She stepped away from the bed, about to turn away. A strong tone of voice used as she continued. “Don’t you dare go anywhere, young man.” Allowed her gaze to linger before turning and walking out of the small hospital room.
He didn’t think he had the energy required to leave this bed, this room. Didn’t think he could move beyond the position he was now in; the simple task of moving away from what he had assumed was a threat had taken too much out of him. He felt hot . . . too hot, head and muscles filled with a heavy ache. He felt physically exhausted . . . tired beyond repair. Felt as though death had taken him and unsatisfied with its purchase it had made a valiant effort to return him.
He decided to put what little energy he did have into making sense of his current situation. No real understanding as to why he was here, an explanation required to sooth his confusion. Obvious something was wrong with him. No memory of his travels to the local hospital, brought here by someone else. Found by someone who cared enough to contact the authorities. A nagging doubt; had the warning gone too far, his life taken by mistake . . . too soon, their fun over too quickly, an effort made to keep him alive. He swallowed his fear.
But that didn’t explain the way he was currently feeling. If he were sick . . . a soft groan of realisation escaped through an open mouth . . . Doctor Hartford. The man had given him an injection while he had lain unconscious outside of the Doctor’s medical rooms. Hartford had taken advantage of Sullivan’s vulnerable state, used an opportunity to exact the revenge he had threatened years earlier. Had it been Hartford in his bedroom, the man giving him a second injection . . . he wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure, no proof, unable to recognise the third man. Couldn’t accuse the doctor of anything until he was sure . . .
Sullivan lifted his right hand, the muscles weak, so heavy with fatigue . . . something pulled at the back of his hand. Not enough energy to fight, his dropped his arm, the limb falling onto his chest, the feel of skin too hot. Looked down, noticing his upper body, left bare to cool. No energy left to move, to cover his embarrassment. Frowned when he saw the intravenous drip embedded in the back of his hand, a small strip of bandage keeping it in place.
Definitely ill then.
Or poisoned.
Darkness rested on the edges of his vision, moving forward, pushing in, exhaustion dragging him back down . . . closed his eyes.
.
.
.
Fingers brushed through his hair, his breath catching in response. Fear pulled at his chest. He shifted his body, trying to pull away, muscles straining. Turned his head, the only thing he could manage. The touch began to move, a short journey, palm of a small hand resting against his forehead. Skin soft, the touch gentle and cool against his warm skin . . . a tug of memory . . . understood there was no threat of physical violence involved. He was safe, Sullivan was certain. Let out a breath of relief.
“Inspector?”
“Give him a minute, Mrs. M.”
“The poor man needs to eat something.”
“I’m sure you’re cooking will do wonders for his health, Mrs. McCarthy.”
A flicker of confusion, too long for understanding to arrive at its final destination, kept waiting by a mind driven by exhaustion. Familiar voices continued to converse around him, a conversation he couldn’t follow, too tired to make any effort . . .
.
.
.
A hand around his throat, a powerful hold, his breath forced from his lungs. A hot flush of breath across the side of his face. Words whispered, a warning given. A slap of pain through his chest . . . breath caught in his throat, he grunted with surprise. Heart pounding against his rib cage, his chest heaving, lungs fighting for breath, Sullivan’s eyes snapped open, his gaze frantic, searching, finding nothing but familiar faces standing at the end of the bed staring back at him; their eyes full of worry, expressions full of concern.
A feeling of relief, of comfort swelled through him, an encompassing emotion. Felt the fear fall away, the reprieve an almost unbearable burden. Heart calming, lungs no longer struggling, Sullivan could feel the heat of embarrassment, the emotion a quick replacement. Closed his eyes, hiding behind a thin veil of darkness.
“There he goes again,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Poor man can’t seem to stay awake.”
Confusion stepped in, taking control. Why were these people here? They weren’t friends, often showing their resentment, something he could understand; his own continued animosity toward Brown’s meddling feeding their dislike of Kembleford’s detective inspector. A vague memory of their last encounter, his threat to arrest the priest and Mrs. McCarthy. The memory expanding, revealing too much. He had actually encouraged Carter to interfere . . . to create a physical protest just so he could . . . grimaced in disgrace, his behaviour erratic, so out of character.
“Perhaps you can talk him into a nasty case of insomnia, Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia, a soft smile crossing her features as she looked down at Sullivan.
“As opposed to seducing him, you mean,” said Mrs. McCarthy, moving to the side of Sullivan’s bed, sitting down on the only available chair. Handbag in her lap, she reached out, fingers of her left hand gripping Sullivan’s hand, holding on when the limb jerked with surprise.
“Or boring him with mindless gossip.”
“I do not gossip!”
“Lady Felicia,” said Father Brown before she could reply to Mrs. McCarthy’s denial. “Could you please fetch the Doctor? I’m sure he’d be happy to know the Inspector has woken . . . again.”
“Of course, Father, anything to help,” said Lady Felicia taking one last look at Sullivan, her gaze drifting down toward his bare chest . . . smiled, turned and walked away, leaving the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Woken again. I’ve lost count, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy with a huff of breath. “And for how long this time? The man can’t seem to make up his mind. His addle-brain I’m sure, Father.”
Unsure if Mrs. McCarthy had thrown an insult at him, Sullivan tried to respond, to pull his hand from her grip but she held on. He wanted to assure her his exhaustion had nothing to do with her company. Couldn’t find the energy or the words. Confusion took control of his mind, his thoughts drifting, a continuous motion, no longer able to fixate on one thing. Tried to concentrate, the effort causing physical pain, headache increasing. Struggled with his thoughts, a grimace of frustration filling his features as he turned his head, pressing his face into the pillow. He couldn’t understand why it was so difficult, couldn’t understand the exhaustion. Lost all understanding as to why he felt so tired.
“It’s not the Inspector’s fault, Mrs. McCarthy, you know that. Doctor Macey explained his condition to us,” said Brown as he stepped around the bed, drawing closer to Sullivan’s side.
“Who would drug the poor man, Father, that’s what I would like to know? And in his own home.”
Drug?
“It’s quite possible it was the two men who warned him off yesterday,” said Father Brown. “I’m sure the Inspector will be able to tell us when he’s feeling better.”
Opened his eyes and turned his head, gaze settling on Brown.
“And how long will that be?” said Mrs. McCarthy. “I’m beginning to think he’ll never manage to stay awake.”
Sullivan made an attempt to speak, one word tumbling out, his voice soft, weak. “What?” It was a mistake to talk, even one word. Mouth and throat still dry he coughed; a cough so deep his upper body shifted, his features creasing with pain.
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she released Sullivan’s hand and placed her handbag on the floor next to her chair.
“You’re going to be fine, Inspector,” said Brown, leaning forward, patting Sullivan’s left arm.
That didn’t answer his question. More information needed, he stared back at Brown, his confusion palpable.
Mrs. McCarthy filled a small paper cup with water from a carafe placed on the bedside table. Changing position, she sat on the edge of the bed, leant forward, arm reaching across Sullivan and placed her right hand behind his head, lifting and turning him toward her, pulling his gaze from Brown. “Here, Inspector, drink this.”
It took too much effort. Could only manage a few small sips but the relief was immediate even though it added to his exhaustion, eyes closing.
“He’s gone again, Father,” said Mrs. McCarthy releasing her hold, allowing his head to rest back on the pillow.
Opened his eyes, staring back at Mrs. McCarthy, flicking his gaze back to Father Brown. “What happened?”
Father Brown looked away, a moment taken before returning his attention to Sullivan. “You’ve been . . . sick, Inspector.”
“What?”
“Drugged is the word Doctor Macey used, Father. They broke into your home, Inspector and attacked you while you slept. And what are the rest of us to do when even the inspector isn’t safe in his own home?”
Putting the cup back on the side table Mrs. McCarthy began to fuss, lifting the sheet up over his upper body and tucking it around Sullivan’s shoulders, paying careful attention to the intravenous drip. She patted the sheet flat, removing wrinkles . . . fussing, brushing the damp hair from his forehead before sitting back and clutching her hands in her lap.
Sullivan didn’t know what to think but he did know how to feel; embarrassed, uncomfortable but lacked the energy to ask her to stop. Didn’t think she would listen if he did, continuing to treat him as someone who needed to be taken care of, a sick invalid . . . a flash of memory. Only recently, he had considered seeking Mrs. McCarthy’s attentions, wanting her to sit him down in front of fire with a cup of tea and a scone. He’d forgotten what it felt like, to have someone care . . .
“Mrs. McCarthy, there’s no need to fuss over the inspector. I’m sure he’s quite embarrassed.”
“Nonsense, Father, there’s every need. The poor inspector is ill and he has no one to take care of him. A man his age should be married. I don’t know why he--”
“You’re an angel and a saint rolled into one, Mrs. M.”
“Usually so healthy,” said Mrs. McCarthy as she fussed some more, another attempt to straighten the sheet covering his body. “How could someone do this to him, Father?”
“Doctor Macey assures us the worst of it is over.”
Took a slow, careful breath, an elongated release. Closed his eyes. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like the worst of it was over. Still tired . . . still too hot. Sick . . . drugged . . . bloody Hartford. Beneath his exhaustion a slow reveal, aches and pains making a repeat introduction. He’d met them before, didn’t want to reacquaint himself with them now. The headache, irritating and inconvenient, was still refusing to renounce its hold on his body. Muscles weak, his limbs heavy, he felt lethargic, as though recovering from a debilitating illness. Couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bad.
Couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so bloody miserable.
Consciousness waning, his mind becoming more muddled, he allowed his thoughts to wander.
Not only sick.
Not only drugged.
He’d almost died . . . odds in the attacker’s favour, possible he did die. Brought back with the aid of another. Is that why he was here? Recovering, not only from the drug injected into his body but also from a nasty bout of death? It certainly felt like it, not that he knew what death actually felt like . . . this was the first time in his life it had come so close.
Felt like he was still dying . . .
“I’ve brought you some chicken soup, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “Homemade of course. We can’t have Kembleford’s best detective inspector eating anything else. People would talk. Mind you, with all the sleeping you're doing it’s only going cold. It would be a waste if I have to throw it away.”
He could feel the exhaustion as it began to pull him back down, so ready to give in, to allow it to take him once more. Certain Mrs. McCarthy was already unimpressed with the absence of his rousing conversation, he knew she would be even more put out by his inability to show how grateful he was for her concern . . . her ministrations, taking care of him as a . . . a sudden feeling of guilt, an underlying assumption . . . she would understand.
His mind continued to drift, floating on an outgoing tide . . . snapped awake at the sound of the door opening, voices acknowledging company . . . the sound of high heels slapping against the hospital vinyl flooring.
“How is he doing?” said Doctor Macey, following Lady Felicia into the room, closing the door behind him.
“And you with a medical degree,” said Mrs. McCarthy, adjusting the sheet once again. “Can you not see he’s asleep again?”
“Mrs. McCarthy . . .” said Father Brown.
A puff of frustration released from Macey, his shoulders straight with tension and impatience.
Father Brown stepped away from the bed, from Sullivan’s side, worrying gaze steady as he looked toward Doctor Macey. “He’s still having trouble staying awake, Doctor.”
“The drugs are still in his system, Father,” said Macey, moving past Brown. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, opposite Mrs. McCarthy, he reached for Sullivan’s wrist, glancing at his watch at the same time. “His pulse is strong, a little slow though but that’s to be expected.” Placed a large palm against Sullivan’s forehead. A soft hum of disappointment. “Still has a temperature. We’ll do another blood test shortly just to be certain but I’m sure he’ll be back to his normal self in a few hours. As long as his temperature breaks . . .”
“Ahh . . .” said Brown.
Macey looked back over his shoulder at Brown and said, “Don’t worry, Father, he’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “You’ve already said that Doctor. More than once.”
“Mrs. M,” said Lady Felicia. “I have it on good authority the good Doctor knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, I hope so. Poor man. Sick as a dog and all because . . .”
Sullivan stopped his struggle to listen, to comprehend the words spoken . . . his attention failing completely, the voices fading quickly . . .
.
.
.
Sullivan felt comfortably warm, relaxed, a soft, thick heavy weight covering his body. Mind drifting in a haze of contentment, he stretched his legs, uncurling them, heels scraping against a sheet covered mattress . . . a sudden realisation; he felt better, not ill or drugged . . . almost back to normal. He still felt tired, the exhaustion subdued, his body no longer desperate for sleep. His headache, now a dull pain, lingered quietly in the background. A faint, sigh of relief escaped . . .
Not a deadly poison then.
Only enough to make a Kembleford detective inspector ill.
Why? What would it accomplish? Not the kind of revenge Hartford had threatened.
A soft crack of sound to his right . . . a sharp intake of breath. Eyes snapping open Sullivan sat up, body ready to fight back. Beaten down by a sudden infliction of vertigo, he fell back, collapsing onto the bed. Closed his eyes, waited until the dizziness passed. A few elongated moments, balance finally restored, no longer broken. Opened his eyes, his vision clear.
Turning his head, a quick glance around the room – still a guest of the local hospital – his gaze finding and resting on Sergeant Goodfellow, the man sitting in a chair beside the bed, a bedraggled newspaper strewn across his lap. Goodfellow stared back at him, mouth open in surprise, an expression of regret on his features.
“Sorry, sir,” said Goodfellow as he made a terrible attempt to fold his paper back into a neat bundle. Frustration getting the better of him, he gave up and dropped it on the floor, shoving it out of the way with his foot. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Throat still dry, his voice hoarse, Sullivan said, “It’s all right, sergeant.”
“Here, sir,” said Goodfellow, filling the small paper cup with water before handing it toward Sullivan.
Sullivan looked at it, more than tempted. Rolled over onto his right side, pulled his arm from beneath the blanket and took the cup in a trembling grip. Lifting his head, he drank as much as he could. Thirst satisfied, he handed the cup back. At least he didn’t spill it all over himself . . . surprised when he felt a little disappointed by the lack of a certain Mrs. McCarthy. Knew he was only feeling sorry for himself, wanting company for his dwindling misery . . . that’s what he told himself.
“How are you feeling, sir?”
“Much better, thank you, sergeant” said Sullivan as he tried to push himself into a more upright position, not wanting to talk to Goodfellow while he was almost flat on his back. Body moving beneath the thick, heavy blanket he found that he couldn’t really manage it. Stopped trying when he began to fear his sergeant might decide to step in and help.
Goodfellow smiled, nodded in understanding and said, “The Doctor said you’ll be right as rain by morning, sir.”
“Is there anything I should know, sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“The investigation.”
“Sorry, sir, I’m under strict orders from Doctor Macey. I’m not supposed to talk to you about the investigation . . . no, sir, there isn’t anything new. We’ve been around the pubs and boarding houses again but we still haven’t found them.”
“The autopsy report on Mrs. Atwood?”
“I’m told it will be on your desk by morning, sir.”
“Right as rain by morning you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just in time then.”
“Yes, sir,” said Goodfellow, looking away, gaze finding something else to look at, a distraction, a pause in conversation, obvious he had information he didn’t want to pass on.
“Sergeant?”
Goodfellow rubbed his palms against his thighs, his body language awkward. Glanced at Sullivan, looked away before returning his gaze. A deep breath before he spoke. “It’s the Chief Constable, sir. He’s organised a temporary replacement. An Inspector Exton will be arriving in a couple of days. Just while you’re on leave, sir.”
“Leave?”
“Doctor Macey is insisting you take some time off, sir. At least two weeks. Said if you went against his instructions, which he plans to tell you about in the morning, he’ll go to the Chief Constable. Sir.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, sir. Said you’d need the rest.”
“Is that why you’re here, sergeant?” said Sullivan, not caring his tone reflected his anger. “To make sure I don’t leave.”
“No, sir. I’m the night shift. Here to make sure someone doesn't make a second attempt on your life. I’ve got PC Harrington out in the corridor, sir.”
It was Sullivan’s turn to look away, an attempt to hide his embarrassment, a moment of shame. He should have known better, working long enough with Goodfellow to be aware of his loyalty. “I’m sorry, sergeant.”
“It’s all right, sir. You’re still not yourself.”
“Thank you,” said Sullivan, looking back at Goodfellow. “We’ll have to leave before Doctor Macey gets here.”
Goodfellow, his confusion clearly evident, said, “Sir?”
“Can’t have someone else solving a physical assault on my person. Can we sergeant?”
“No, sir. Unless it’s Father Brown.”
“Sergeant . . .”
“Not even Father Brown, sir . . . he was quite upset about what happened, sir. Blames himself for some reason.”
Sullivan was well aware of what that reason was. Atwood making a confession, Brown refusing to break the seal of the confessional. Two physical assaults on Kembleford’s detective inspector the result of a lack of communication. Felt the anger building, blame required, repercussions needed. Knew his thoughts, his feelings were driven by whatever Hartford had given him.
Anger beginning to burn, he needed to think of something else, talk about something else. Pieces of memory still missing, Sullivan said, “How long have I been here?”
“Since yesterday morning, sir,” said Goodfellow, leaning forward in the chair, placing his elbows on his knees.
“Yesterday?”
“Well, technically yesterday. It’s gone two in the morning, sir.”
“And how did I get here?”
“You were late and not answering your phone, sir. I was worried you’d had another run-in with those two men. When I got to the cottage, the front door was open and you were . . . I thought you were dead, sir.”
“And how did Father Brown come to know about it?”
“I believe one of the nurses called him, sir . . . to . . . um . . . one of the nurses called him.”
Turned his gaze back to Goodfellow. Saw the expression on the man’s face. Goodfellow wasn’t telling him everything, not yet willing to reveal something he deemed important. Sullivan swallowed the taste of fear in his mouth, hesitation shifting his body, adjusting his position, now on his back. “How bad was it?”
Goodfellow frowned. “Sir?”
“You said you were here to stop them from trying to kill me a second time. How close was it the first time?”
“Them, sir? So it was the same two men who warned you off the case?”
“Yes and a third man. I don’t know who he was. They put a pillow over my face . . . he gave me an injection.” Sullivan removed his right arm from beneath the blanket. Frowned . . . finally noticing he was now wearing a hospital garment. Looked at his hand, the intravenous drip removed while he’d been sleeping.
As a way of explanation, Goodfellow said, “Your fever broke a few hours ago, sir. They had to keep you warm after that. The nurse said they couldn’t have you catching your . . . death, sir. Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean--”
“It’s all right, sergeant,” said Sullivan, returning his attention to his arm. Stared at the injection sight, a large, circular, purple bruise blooming outward. “What did he do to me?”
“Doctor Macey had your blood tested, sir but all they could tell us was that it included a sedative and something they hadn’t seen before. A homemade concoction he said. The Doctor thinks it was some kind of poison, sir.”
Sullivan nodded. “It certainly felt like it. I seem to remember Mrs. McCarthy complaining about me not being able to stay awake. Said I kept falling asleep . . .”
“You weren’t falling asleep, sir. Unconscious you were . . . most of the time.”
“Oh . . .”
“We were all pretty worried, sir.”
“How close was it then?”
His voice soft, Goodfellow said, “Too, close. That’s why the nurse called Father Brown. I hope you don’t mind, sir but . . . I know you’re not religious so I stopped Father Brown from giving you last rights.”
“That close . . .”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan swallowed his fear and closed his eyes.
“Sir?”
“Just give me a minute, sergeant.”
“Of course, sir.”
A sudden thought, dread filling his chest, anxiety churning his stomach. A moment of regret, angry at death for leaving him behind. Opened his eyes, gaze fixated on a broken tile on the ceiling. In a soft, hesitant voice, his tone almost fearful, he said, “Sergeant? Tell me you didn’t contact my next of kin.”
Goodfellow’s silence revealed too much.
Turned his head, anger filling his features. “Sergeant . . .”
“Sorry, sir but . . . the Doctor wasn’t sure you were going to make it. I called your father, sir. He’ll be here in the morning.”