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“Operator,” sang the pleasant voice on the other end.
George took a breath, the eerie tingling tune still ringing through his ears. “Yes, operator? This is Station House Four. I have a call on my other telephone; I need you to tell me where it’s coming from.”
“I… I beg your pardon?”
George paused. It seemed like a simple enough request. “I need to know who’s making the other call to the station house. You would have just connected it.” Perhaps she’s new, he thought.
There came a short pause. “Yes, but what do you mean? Is this some kind of joke?”
“I assure you, ma’am, this is no joke.” George couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What kind of operator was this? “It’s a matter of police urgency. I must know where that call is coming from!”
“Constable…” the operator’s voice sounded confused. “The call is coming from inside the station house.”
George paled, slowly lowering the earpiece as her words burrowed themselves into his head. Inside the station house? He wondered, glancing around. But that means… The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as if someone were behind him. He hung up the telephone and turned around.
He was greeted by a white frilly collar, a pointed hat, and a mask frozen in a twisted smile. The clown was silent as a ghost, their fingers fiddled with a gleaming knife.
George staggered backwards. “Who are you?” he demanded.
In response, the clown lunged forward, slashing with the knife.
George threw himself to the side just in time to avoid being sliced in two. Stumbling to his feet, he sprinted across the bullpen. He could hear the inspector’s voice curse in his head, oh, bloody hell!
The clown jogged after him, pushing past pumpkins, brandishing the knife.
A desk suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his path. If only I were some incorporeal ghost, he groaned. I could pass straight through… He paused. Wait! If I were a ghost, this killer clown couldn’t do a thing! I’d already be dead! He shook his head. Shut up, George! Now is not the time!
He could feel the clown behind him, and, in desperation, he grabbed something off of the desk in front of him, whirled around and drove it into the clown’s face.
The clown was only fazed for a moment, regaining composure almost instantly and lunging forward with another slash of the knife.
George ducked to avoid it, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled away. His mind finally stopped whirring and was instead focused on one, single thought: Don’t get murdered, don’t get murdered, don’t get murdered…
The clown’s leg shot out, catching George in the stomach and sending him tumbling backwards onto his own desk. Papers fluttered to the floor as the clown leaned over him, knife raised.
George only had time to bring his hands up to shield his face and gasp out “no!” before the knife came down.
George had always assumed that getting stabbed would feel similar to getting shot. He now knew why people were always saying not to make assumptions.
Getting shot had been, if anything, confusing. It was as if some invisible force had suddenly shoved him to the floor. It seemed like ages later when it started to hurt and he knew that he’d been shot at all.
This was not like that at all. George could feel the knife as the clown plunged it into his chest, biting, cold metal slicing into him like a violent wind. It was violating, knowing there was something inside of you and feeling every bit of it. The pain took all sound away from him. He couldn’t even gasp.
The knife tugged itself free, blood coating the blade and sliding off, splatting onto George’s desk. The clown’s costume fluttered past George’s face as they sprinted away, snatching a long, pointed shoe as they left the station house.
As the pain waned ever so slightly, George numbly praised whatever impulse had driven him to bring his hands up. His arms had redirected the knife’s path. If he hadn’t moved, the knife would have gone straight into his heart, instead of an inch or two to the right. His left hand stung. The knife had grazed past it, slicing a fairly deep cut into his palm.
His blood was red hot lava, pulsing out of him with every heartbeat, trickling down his sides and staining the front of his tunic.
George swallowed, blinking hard. All right, he thought. I’ve been stabbed. He held back a cough. I’ve been stabbed. I’ve… been… stabbed. Staring up at the ceiling, he sucked in as deep a breath as he could. What would Detective Murdoch do if he’d been stabbed?
His eyes found the telephone on Henry’s desk. Perfect. Gritting his teeth, he stretched out his arm. The motion tugged at the wound, making it twinge painfully. He held his breath, biting his lip. His fingers curled around the telephone and he dragged it over.
Lifting the earpiece, he slammed his hand into the hook several times. He was still lying on his back on the desk, so he had to awkwardly rest the receiver on his chest and hold the earpiece against his ear.
“Operator,” it was the same voice as earlier.
George swallowed. He could taste blood. “Ah, yes! Hello…” he sucked in a breath. “I need… you to connect me to… to Detective William Murdoch…” His head was starting to feel like a hot air balloon hovering somewhere above the rest of his body. “Right away… please.”
The operator paused, as if she wanted to ask something, but decided against it. “One moment, sir.”
Only one, he thought grimly. I don’t think I’ve got many moments left, not at this rate. He allowed his eyes to close as he waited.
The answer came a moment later. “Detective William Murdoch.”
If he could move, George might have danced a jig. “Sir,” he breathed.
“George? Is everything all right? Is there a problem with the finger marks on the shoe?”
George let out a sardonic snort. “Sir, about that,” he mumbled. “The clown… took the shoe.” He paused to catch his breath. “Also, I’ve been stabbed, sir.”
“Stabbed?” The detective sounded horrified. “George! Is anyone else there?”
“No, sir. It’s just me, sir.”
“I’ll be right there, George. Hold on.”
George nodded. “Sir?”
“Yes, George?”
“The clown got away, sir.”
“That’s all right, George. It’s hardly your fault.” The detective took a breath. The receiver did little to mask his panic. “Just hang on, George. Julia and I are on the way, all right? Now, I need you to listen very carefully now, all right? Call Inspector Brackenreid, George, all right? Tell him he needs to keep you talking. Can you do that?”
George nodded. His head was shriveling into a raisin. “Call the inspector. Yes, sir.”
“Very good, George. We’re coming, all right? Call the inspector and tell him what happened. We’ll be right there.”
“Thank you, sir. Goodbye.” George hung up the telephone, letting out a long, slow breath. He lay there for a few moments, his eyes closed, wishing he could go to sleep. No, he thought, forcing his eyes open again. Call the inspector.
He jiggled the hook again, blinking heavily.
“Operator.”
“Hullo…” mumbled George. “I need…”
“Inspector Brackenreid?” The operator filled in. “I heard your last call, constable. I’ll connect you right away.”
“Thank you.”
Several moments later, a tired-sounding Inspector Brackenreid answered. “Hullo?”
George took a few seconds to respond. “Sir.”
There was a pause. “Crabtree?”
“Hullo, sir.”
“Crabtree, it’s the middle of the night. You better have a bloody good reason for calling.”
It suddenly grew dark. George was confused for a moment, wondering if all the power had gone out, until he realized that his eyes had slid shut on their own accord.
“Crabtree?”
“Hello?” came the operator’s voice. “Constable, are you still there?”
“Hullo?” The inspector sounded confused. “Who the bloody hell is this?”
“This is the switchboard operator, sir,” said the operator impatiently. “And the constable on the other end has been stabbed. He’s telephoned the detective, and he's called an ambulance. You are to talk to him and keep him conscious, inspector.”
There was silence for a moment. “Bloody hell,” muttered Brackenreid. “Crabtree?” He called louder. “Crabtree? You there?”
George pried open his eyes. “Here, sir.”
“Thank God.” George could practically feel the inspector’s relief against his ear. “How’d you get stabbed, Crabtree?”
He couldn’t catch his breath. He felt as if he had just run a mile. “... Clown.”
“The bloody killer clown? Bloody hell, Crabtree! What did he stab you for?”
George wet his lips, speaking with effort. “... Haven’t the faintest, sir.”
Brackenreid took a breath. “Oi, how are you feeling, Bugalugs?”
George swallowed. “... Dizzy, sir.”
“I expect you’ve lost quite a bit of blood.” The inspector’s voice quivered slightly.
George closed his eyes. “Mmhmm.”
“Crabtree?”
George made a faint affirmative noise. “Mm?”
“Er… er… did you carve a Jack o’lantern for Watts’s contest?”
George took a while to answer. “Didn’t have… time… sir.”
“That’s all right. You’ve been busy with the case.” Despite the circumstances, George could hear Brackenreid’s grin. “Did you see that pathetic one Watts made?”
George breathed a laugh. His chest burned. His vision blurred, and a collection of multicoloured dots flashed in his eyes. He groaned weakly.
“Crabtree?” There was a pause. “Crabtree? … Crabtree.”
“Mmhmm?”
The inspector whispered a quick ‘thank you’ to someone. “You’ve got to keep talking, Crabtree.”
George huffed a small noise.
“I know! Tell me about all your bloody aunts. That ought to keep you busy for a while. How many have you got, anyways?”
George swallowed. “Aunt Amaryllis… Aunt Aster… Aunt… Azalea…” His voice sounded like it was miles away, carried away by the wind. His hot air balloon of a mind was only tethered by a single hair, threatening to snap at any moment.
“Crabtree? What about Aunt Zinnia? The con woman. How’s she getting on?”
“... Aunt… Be… gonia…”
“Crabtree? Oi, come on, Crabtree, stay awake; stay with us, all right?” the inspector’s voice bordered on frantic. “Crabtree? Crabtree?”
George let his eyes flutter closed. He exhaled a breath, and, as if the final string tying his consciousness down had been cut by scissors, everything faded to black as his mind floated up through the ceiling and off into the cloudless night.
When he blinked his eyes open again, George was lying in a bed, staring up at a grey, mottled ceiling. The sharp smell of disinfectant tingled and prickled in his nose. The clock on the wall told him it was now early the next morning. A few moments later, the pain caught up with the rest of his mind. His chest ached. He let out a groan.
“George?” A hopeful voice asked.
George turned his head to look at the head of neatly combed black hair sitting by the bedside. “Sir,” he rasped.
Detective Murdoch smiled with relief. “You’re awake.” He leaned to the side, nudging someone just outside of George’s field of view.
There came a startled yawn, as if someone had just woken up. “What?” asked Inspector Brackenreid.
“Sir, he’s awake.”
Brackenreid’s face popped up next to Murdoch’s. “Crabtree!” He beamed. “Good to see you. How are you feeling?”
George tried to struggle into an upright position, but that was one motion that his chest would not allow. A swath of bandages tugged him back down to the mattress. He sighed, sinking back into the pillows. “Sir,” he mumbled. “Like I’ve been stabbed.”
Murdoch snorted a chuckle. “Apt.” He shook his head. “You had us quite worried, George.”
Brackenreid nodded solemnly. “When you went quiet on the phone, I thought you’d died.”
“Sorry, sir.” George scratched the back of his head, wincing. His left hand was wrapped in bandages. “And I’m sorry I let the clown get away,” he said.
“Oi—” Brackenreid lightly whacked George with his hat. “You were stabbed, Crabtree. What the bloody hell do you expect you could have done?”
“You did exactly what you should have done,” said the detective. “You called us. You did very well, George.”
The door to the room creaked open. “I thought I heard voices.” Doctor Julia Ogden stepped inside, smiling. “It’s good to see you awake, George.”
“Good to see you too, Doctor.”
“You’ll be glad to know that you should make a full recovery,” she said. “You needed surgery. You had blood building up in your chest cavity, so we needed to drain that and stitch up the damage, but you should heal up nicely.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” He took a deep breath. “I only hope I never see another clown as long as I live.”
“Well,” smirked Brackenreid. “That’s too bad. What with Watts, Higgins and your own bloody reflection, I think you’ll be seeing loads of clowns for the rest of your life.”
They laughed.