"You OK?" Jason wiped a grimy patch on Rowan's cheek and made it worse. Rowan smiled and nodded. "Um ... well that was good eh?" He grinned and Rowan started to laugh. "Pair of bloody weirdos we are! It's hardly romantic here is it?" He rolled his eyes.

"Well it wasn't at first. It's not too bad now." Rowan moved her legs so Jason could rest his head on them. "We could pile some of this rubble up as a step once we've recovered a bit."

"Recover from that? Never." Jason sniggered. "Yes. Just let me ease this bloody knee up a bit. It's aching like hell. Do you think they're still up there?"

"They haven't been to check if we're alive or not." Rowan answered. "So they either think we're not, or the damage up there is stopping them."

"Hopefully an outer wall's collapsed. At least we won't have some arse locking and opening doors all over the bloody place." Jason rubbed his knee. "Swollen like a balloon." He grimaced.

"Try and rest. We'll only end up hurting ourselves if we start dragging rocks about when we're injured and tired." Rowan shuffled down to lay on the rubble strewn floor.

Maurine Jenkinson and her daughter, Linda, held hands and stared at the TV. Tears had come, dried, returned and dried again. Robin Hutchinson, Jason's solicitor, and now the family solicitor too, was sitting next to them in Maurine's tiny, cluttered, sitting room and had long since stopped making notes.

"Our Jason will be the talk of the Post Office." Maurine said in a daze. "Having it off infront of the whole world. Good lad." She added, winking at her daughter.

"Well he can have it off wherever he likes once he's out of there." Robin commented. "There isn't a Court in the land would sentence him to jail after all that."

"What about all that lot who set him up? Set her up too. Poor woman." Linda said shortly. "That creep on there needs locked up in Slateskill for the rest of his life." She referred to Patrick Adams.

"I think Mr. Adams is going to have his hands very full indeed, him and a few others."

Conrad Michaels had his arm round his wife as he bellowed to Naylor and Thursby's representative down the phone.

"I do not care!" The ex-forces man roared. "I know what a Police stamped item looks like! I do not care who handed what to whom. Do you understand me? That picture was the responsibility of that police station and I want the Chief Superintendent's arse hammered to the wall for it! That young man never stopped respecting my daughter, and continued respecting her memory after her death. You even look in his direction for answers to any part of this and I'll nail your arse to the wall too. Do I make myself clear?"

Thomas Robeson senior fought back the tears as he spoke to Lilian Hornseby, his solicitor.

"Shoplifting." He wiped his eyes. "Poor old bugger was seventy three and as barmy as a coot. He should never have been sent there, Miss Hornseby. Back then, there wasn't all this appeals stuff and different places for different people. You got done, you went to Slateskill. They told me his heart gave out. I still have the letter upstairs, all dated and everything. They told me he was to be cremated and that we could hold a memorial service for him. Me, my late missus and my three lads all went there, Miss Hornseby! Those bastards let us sit there grieving over a pile of bloody stones and a few weeds that they called a memorial garden. All the time, my dad was in a bloody box in the cellar. I was told his Death Certificate was accidentally destroyed in a fire, not long before the place closed. I should have been the first one to pray for him, not two kids who found him by accident. Mistakes is mistakes, Miss Hornseby and the system makes them too but my dad, and those other poor bastards shouldn't have been left there like that and I shouldn't have to have found out about it like that."

"You're damned right you shouldn't." Lilian nodded. "The Board of Prison Services is in alot of trouble here, as is that imbecile on that TV for incompetent negligence."

The entire police shift was sitting in the area behind the front desk watching an old portable TV.

"Hey! Look here!" Officer Terrorist Telford laughed. "Come on lads, let's here it for our own celebrities!" The police officers all whistled and cheered as Stewart, Alan, the Chief, and Terry walked into the station. Derek stood up smiling.

"Well you had me." He laughed. "I knew you were filming Jenkinson in transit but that is amazing!" He pointed at the TV. "Come on, Chief, that has to be staged. How does Jenkinson really know Rowan Hall?"

"He doesn't." Alan snapped. "Why are you here?" He growled at Telford.

"Because I was invited! Hey don't get pissy with me, mate. I joined in when I was asked, that's all." He nodded towards the Chief who grimaced.

"So come on! How does a rat-arse like Jenkinson know Rowan Hall?"

"He doesn't! Are you deaf?" Stewart shouted. "Get that shit turned off and ..."

"He doesn't? You could have fooled me, Stewart." Derek laughed. "They've just finished getting it on infront of the whole nation."

"What?" Stewart elbowed his way to the TV. Rowan was curled up against Jenkison's chest, both in a very fitful and uneasy sleep. "Are you going to do something?" He said through clenched teeth to the Super.

"Oh get out of it Stewart." Derek laughed. "Made our night, that did."

"What did? Perving over two young people who think they're completely alone in there?" Alan snapped again. "Jenkinson's the same age as your son isn't he? That sort of thing float your boat does it?"

"Back off Alan." Derek pointed at his colleague. "It's TV! That was uncalled for."

"Enough!" The Super barked. "Stewart, Alan, Derek, you're with me. You too Terry, we may need you out at Slateskill. McKie, take Morrison and Heron and call in Squad Blue. It's an emergency so none of the usual 'I'll swap shifts' shite off them. Get down to that studio. Telford, contact the next district and tell them to get their arses round to those TV offices. Fowler, take two female officers and get round to Jenkinson's house and you do the same for the Michaels family, Part. Well need shift two out on overtime, so sort it Carter. Move!"

Book Index       Play God       Previous       Next

©Jack Frost & The Hooded Crow