Flamingo Pondyalsya Ch 1

FLAMINGO PODNYALSYA Ch 1

By Philip Miller

Craig Burnett rang the doorbell a few times but there was no answer. He rapped hard on the old victorian brass door knocker,  catching his thumb in the process and cursing under his breath -  ‘haven’t these people heard of the “Hive”, for Christ sake! Wrinklies! probably think they’ll get stung- probably would too’. Curtains began to twitch next door to the dilapidated semi and there was no response from inside. Not a sound. Craig walked slowly past the large bay window, cautiously trying to get a view through a small slit in the heavy mildewed curtains. He turned and raised a cautionary hand to his colleague before asking her to fetch the Iron Lady from the meatwagon. Cody, struggling,  handed the heavy metal battering ram to Craig. Two powerful strikes strategically delivered was enough to force the door inwards off its hinges, offering up a tremendous noise as it hit the hard 1930’s Belgian mosaic floor. The young officers walked into the dust-filled hallway and with a degree of trepidation eased opened the reception room door. That is where they found him. He was sitting slumped in his chair with his oxygen mask still strapped to his face, or what was left of it.  Someone or something had mutilated it beyond recognition and both hands and feet were missing. Both officers began to gag at the stench and were quickly brushed aside by the paramedics who were stopped dead in their tracks.  The old man had been there a while as the dead flies would suggest; five or six days at the most. Craig followed protocol and made the relevant calls. Cody was keeping inquisitive by-passers and neighbours at bay while she waited for back up, oblivious to two small children who thought it an opportune moment to relieve themselves up the rear of the police van while it sat empty then ran off shouting, “labagiu, labagiu”. They were soon grabbed by an old man who began to beat them both severely around the legs before launching the pair inside there ramshackle hovel, spitting and cursing as they went..

It had been a long day and when Cody and Craig had finished there shift they decided to have a drink at the Cow and Templar pub. Naturally, they talked about the day’s events but when it came to the demise of the old man  Cody felt a cold chill down her spine.

‘ Can we talk about something else’, she said, as she took a large gulp of Muscato.

Craig was staring into his near-empty beer glass and then turned to see if anyone was listening.

 ‘I just can’t believe the state of the place. Did you see the colour of the walls and the ceiling? They were shit brown, and that bird, dead in the cage, the same colour’.

‘All right Craig! do you have to go on about it’, said Cody, softly.

‘Jesus! that little bird must have been smoking about 60 fags a day to get that colour, I’m sure it was a yellow canary once’. He looked at Cody and made the sound of a parrot, mimicking its death throe. They both laughed and Craig wished she would laugh more. He loved her smile. He loved lots of things about her. Pity, she was married to his brother.  He felt an urge down below and felt bad about it. He loved them both, his brother and Cody.  He smiled to himself. Lucky bastard he thought.

                                                   1

Monday morning soon arrived and for Craig, the weekend was over far too quickly and his hangover was crippling. He walked into his department’s office and sat down at his desk. After Ignoring his colleagues he massaged his temples, wincing at the hammer blows inside his skull.  He had a sudden flashback and grimaced. He sat for a few minutes trying to decide where he could crash for a few hours; the first aid room  - no, always stinks of puke on a Monday morning;  transport room out back; no – nerdy Nigel is always there, the guy never sleeps and he never changes his socks either; meat-wagon – nope, all the little favours normally get done in them over the weekend.  He began tapping his pencil on his laptop, looking rather pensive when it suddenly dawned on him that his was the only sound resonating around the office. It was dead quiet. He looked up. Why are they all staring at me? he thought.  He wiped his face with his hand, checking to see if he had something on it, like a wart or clump of hair that he missed while shaving, before running his fingers through his hair quickly, just in case something was stuck on his head.

‘OK!  What's up? Whats happened?’, he said to no-one in particular as he arched back in his seat.

Not a sound from anyone. Craig’s heart began to race. His head was already throbbing and the silence just compounded the tension which was only made even worse when Chief Inspector Moreau opened his small office door and beckoned him in. Craig stood up and marched into the small war room and quietly sat down. His foot started to itch – always did when he was nervous.

‘When did you last see Cody?’

‘Two nights ago Sir, what’s happened, is she all right?’

‘No, she’s dead'.

‘Oh! My God! No,’ I don’t believe it, what, w-why! How? no. Tom. What about Tom? Jesus!

‘There is more bad news I’m afraid Craig’.

Craig was in shock. He was in survival mode. His mind went into overdrive and it began to rapidly slam shut all the doors of his amygdala and hippocampus, slowly rendering him into the human form of a jellyfish when the last sentence he heard sent him into  the abyss------ ‘ your brother’s dead too’.

The young officer thought his heart was in his head and it was about to explode. His  Palms started to sweat and his feet were itching like crazy. He had an intense ache in his stomach, a hollow emptiness that was screaming to get out. He made for the door but Moreau beat him to it.

The inspector stood at 6’6” and was a good 8 inches taller than the young officer. He placed his hands on Craig’s shoulders and looked down at him sympathetically.

‘Sit down lad,’ he said, in an almost fatherly manner.

                                                   2

Craig sat down but his mind was all over the place. Why both dead? It’s crazy. He took a sip of water from a glass on Moreau’s desk then took a deep breath just as the chief inspector sat down opposite him.

Moreau studied his subordinate for a few minutes and then stood up and looked out the window.

‘Have you ever heard of The Okhrana or a man named Ruberov?’  He said softly, almost inaudible.

‘No Sir,’ sniffed the young officer, still blinking back the tears.

‘We believe the man you found dead was Ruberov. Before he defected to Britain in 2007 he was an amateur archaeologist who had a contact in one of Russia’s most prestigious DNA research facilities.

We think that he, along with his friend, had evidence that the remains of the last two children of the Romanov’s that were found in a shallow grave are, to coin a phrase, “fake news”. Now, while this means nothing to you it does indeed mean a great deal to the Russians, especially the Kremlin. They don’t want this getting out as it could cause an almighty diplomatic row and indeed a threat to world peace. The Okhrana were the secret police of the Russian Imperialist Empire and, like the Phoenix, have risen again, operating covertly in Europe, mainly here in London. We think the KGB killed Ruberov. They want Okhrana too.

Craig sat down open-mouthed for a minute before asking, ‘what on earth does this have to do with me or Cody or Tom, for Christ’s sake!

‘Nothing, but the KGB will not gamble on this. They cannot risk anything getting out. They can quash stories but scientific evidence is hard to deny. Now, do you know anything about Okhrana?’ he asked sternly, staring intently at Craig. ‘ Did you find anything in that room? Did you take anything?’

‘No Sir. Nothing.’

The phone rang, which made Craig jump. Moreau answered it then shortly dismissed the rather perplexed and confused and shocked young officer.

‘Go on,’ sighed Moreau

‘Forensics here Sir, cleared with the Home Office. Anthrax Ebola hybrid, highly contagious. The mortality rate is 100%’.

Moreau ended the call and stared out the window for a moment before hitting speed dial on his phone.

‘He knows nothing and soon he will be dead anyway, as will I. Flamingo Podnyalsya! God bless her Imperial Majesty! God bless Russia’.

Craig Burnett walked uneasily and unsteadily to his desk. He felt something near his ear, wiped it, and then collapsed.

                                                         ©  Copywrite of Phillip Miller