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“Crabtree! Crabtree!”
George Crabtree jolted awake, a pair of meaty hands roughly shaking his shoulders. His head throbbed painfully and his body seemed to be stuffed with cotton.
A pale, worried looking face peered down at him. “Crabtree, you all right?”
George groaned, shakily pushing himself into an upright position. “Sir?” His head spun, and his hand flew to cradle the back of his scalp.
Inspector Thomas Brackenreid gripped Crabtree’s shoulders. “You all right?” he repeated, his voice bordering on panic.
Painfully, George nodded. “I think I’ve somehow managed to hit my head,” he mumbled. “But I’ll be all right.” He squinted, gazing around at his surroundings. “Where are we?”
Brackenreid shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve only just woken up myself.”
They were sitting in what appeared to be a dark, empty cold storage, the kind of cellar that was built underground where one might store fruits or vegetables to keep them fresh. The walls were made of thin, rugged bricks, but the floor was hard-packed earth. The shelves and cupboards were bare. It looked like it hadn’t been used in quite some time.
George swallowed. “Have we been abducted, then, sir?” The dull ache at the back of his head made him wince.
Sighing, the inspector ran a hand down the side of his face. “It’s looking that way, Crabtree.”
Pushing himself to his feet, George slowly made his way to the door and tried it. It was locked, of course. His head spun, and he had to grab hold of a nearby shelf to keep himself from collapsing. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, holding his head.
“Crabtree, you sure you’re all right?” The inspector frowned. “Murdoch’s always saying head injuries are serious matters.”
George nodded. He was far from all right, and he knew it. His head throbbed, his ears were ringing and he had the persistent feeling that he might be sick at any moment. He knew, however, that there was nothing to be done about it here. “It’s locked,” he said, gesturing to the door.
It was impossible to tell what time it was. The cellar had no windows and no lights, resulting in an almost pitch black room. If George’s eyes hadn’t long since adjusted to the dark, he would be blind as a mole.
He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself and realizing in confusion that he seemed to have misplaced his tunic. He frowned, realizing that his helmet was nowhere to be seen as well. In a panic, he glanced down at his legs and saw with relief that he at least had trousers on. “Sir,” he whispered. “My uniform’s gone.”
“What?”
“My uniform,” George whispered sharper. “It’s gone, sir, I’m not wearing it. Someone must have taken it.”
“Trying to disguise themselves, I’ll bet.”
George remembered being in a similar position years before: Cecil Fox, the man who had been convicted for murder, hanged and then had subsequently stood up and walked out of the morgue, had knocked George out and stolen his uniform as a disguise. Crabtree’s cheeks burned as he recalled having to walk into the station house wearing Henry’s tunic and no trousers. He was thankful that this time, whoever had stolen his uniform had at least left him with his dignity intact.
“You sure you’re all right, Crabtree?” asked Brackenreid. “It’s freezing in here, and if you haven’t got a coat…”
“I’m all right, sir.” George suddenly started in surprise as Brackenreid seemed to appear next to him. He hadn’t seen him approach.
The inspector studied him quietly, a frown on his face. “Blimey, Crabtree, you’re shaking like a leaf.”
George realized he was right. He hadn’t noticed. His mind was foggier than he’d initially thought.
Laying a hand against George’s face, the inspector’s eyes widened. “Bloody hell, you’re ice cold,” he breathed. In one swift motion, Brackenreid removed his overcoat and draped it over the constable’s shoulders. “Is that better?”
“Sir, now you’ll be cold.”
“You need it more than I do, Crabtree. I’ve got a waistcoat and a jacket and all you’ve got is a shirt and a head injury.”
The oversized coat carried with it some residual body heat from the inspector. George’s skin burned. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until he felt the warmth. He pulled it around himself like a blanket. His eyelids were growing heavy. He shuffled into a corner and closed his eyes.
“Oi,” Brackenreid elbowed him in the ribs. “You’ve got to stay awake, Crabtree. You’ve had a pretty bad knock to the head.”
George pried open his eyes, mumbling, “Detective Murdoch says sleeping after a head injury isn't a bad thing, sir.”
“Murdoch says,” Brackenreid began, his tone slightly reprimanding. “That sleeping won’t make a mild head injury worse, but it will make warning signs of a severe one harder to spot.” He poked George hard, noticing the constable’s eyes starting to slide shut again. “Head injuries tend to get worse over time, Crabtree, and I don’t want you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”
Sighing, George conceded, and fought back his yawns.
Brackenreid let out a breath, rubbing his hands together. “I better keep you talking,” he said. “That way you’ll have an easier time of staying awake.”
“Talking about what, sir?”
“Why don’t you tell me about all of your bloody aunts? That ought to keep you busy for a while.”
Brackenreid spent the next hour or so periodically poking and prodding Crabtree to make sure he didn’t fall asleep. To say that he was worried about the constable would be a gross understatement.
As time went on, George grew less and less alert with every passing minute, though whether that was from the cold, the head injury or a combination of both, Brackenreid couldn't say. The constable was still coherent, when he managed to muster up the energy to speak, but he was clearly exhausted. His stories about his aunts progressively became shorter and less energetic, and the inspector had to prompt him more than once to continue the story. The constable kept repeating himself, telling the same story about his Aunt Ivy and a local fisherman a total of three times. Brackenreid didn’t mention anything about it. The important thing was that he was talking.
Crabtree’s shivers had stopped, but one touch told Brackenreid that this wasn’t because he had gotten warmer, but because his body had stopped responding to the cold.
Brackenreid’s hand prickled as he wrapped his arms around the constable and pulled him close.
George glanced at him in confusion. “Sir?” he slurred.
“Body heat, Bugalugs.” The inspector smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. “Right now, I think I’m the warmest thing in this bloody cellar.”
Crabtree nodded, leaning heavily into Brackenreid’s chest and letting his eyes close.
“Wake up,” Brackenreid said, poking a thumb into Crabtree’s side.
George’s eyes opened. “Sorry,” he murmured.
The inspector let out a hot breath. He didn’t let it on, but he was silently seething with anger. Whoever had kidnapped them had pummeled the poor constable hard enough to seriously injure him, stolen Crabtree’s uniform and then tossed him into a root cellar to freeze to death without even a second thought. If Brackenreid ever got his hands on them…
George’s head lolled to the side.
“Crabtree?” Brackenreid shook him as gently as he could. When he didn’t get a response, he shook harder. “Crabtree, wake up.”
George mumbled some incoherent nonsense, but his eyes remained closed.
Apologizing under his breath, the inspector reached out and pinched George’s upper arm between his thumb and the side of his forefinger, as hard as he possibly could.
George’s eyes shot open at the pain, but the effect was fleeting. His moment of alertness soon gave way to exhausted drowsiness again.
“Crabtree, you’ve got to stay awake,” said the inspector. “Tell me about your aunts again. What about Aunt Ivy and that fisherman?”
The constable breathed a yawn. “She… found a fish in his bed…”
Nodding, Brackenreid shook him again to make sure he didn’t drift off. “Right, right, and what happened after that?”
George blinked blearily. “She didn’t see it at first…” he slurred, trailing off into silence.
“And she went to kiss him…?” Brackenreid prompted, already knowing the next line.
“And she went to kiss him,” repeated George. “… but she kissed the fish.”
Even though he’d heard the story four times now, Brackenreid couldn’t hold back his smile. “That’s a grand story,” he said. “I’d have liked to see the look on her face.”
A slow smirk spread on George’s face. Several moments of silence passed before Crabtree spoke again. “Sir?”
“What?”
The constable paused. “Do… Do you think anyone knows we’re missing?”
Brackenreid smirked. “That’s what my missus is for, Crabtree,” he said. “She’ll have noticed I’m gone by now.” He smiled, elbowing George gently. “She’ll be beside herself. She’s probably phoned Murdoch by now and they’re all bound to be looking for us right now.”
George nodded. “Mmhmm…” The inspector’s heart clenched as he saw George’s eyes close.
“For God’s sake, Crabtree, don’t close your eyes. Murdoch and the others will be here any moment now. You’ve just got to hold on until then, all right?”
George didn’t respond, but obediently cracked his eyes open. There was only a hint of white and brown visible under his heavy lids. His breaths were shallow and ragged, visible in thin clouds in the air.
Brackenreid sighed. If the constable froze to death in this cellar, he’d never forgive himself for it. He’d been pushing the thought away for hours, but it was becoming abundantly clear that freezing to death was a very real possibility at this point. No one had found them yet, and judging by how quickly the temperature dropped, night had fallen. It was unlikely that anyone would find them now, at least, if anyone did find them, it wouldn’t be quickly enough.
George didn’t feel cold anymore. His headache had subsided significantly since he’d woken up, and he really hadn’t the faintest idea what the inspector was so worried about. He just needed sleep, that was all.
Every time he was on the brink of much-needed sleep, he’d get a poke and the inspector would force him to stay awake.
He didn't need to stay awake. He needed to sleep. He let his eyes slide shut.
"Crabtree, wake up." He felt a small shove on his shoulder. George ignored it. Sleep was so nice…
"Crabtree. Crabtree!"
George drifted off, letting the inspector's voice act as a lullaby. He wouldn't be asleep long. Only a few minutes.
"Crabtree! Crabtree, wake up!" Brackenreid shook the constable. "Crabtree!"
No response. He was asleep.
Brackenreid cursed under his breath, his heart pounding in his temples. He shifted, gently moving Crabtree into a more comfortable position, sitting nearly on his lap with his head against Brackenreid's chest. He wrapped his arms around the constable's cold body, feeling every slow and shallow inhale and exhale, counting the seconds between them. He noted with a pang in his chest that the space between the breaths was gradually lengthening.
If help didn’t come soon, Crabtree wouldn’t be waking up.
Brackenreid swallowed, letting out a shuddering breath. He stared up at the dark ceiling, choking out a shaky, humorless laugh. “Any minute now, Crabtree,” he whispered. “Murdoch will bust through that door and we can get you to a nice warm hospital and you’ll be right as rain.”
Unsurprisingly, the constable didn’t respond.
Interlacing his fingers with George’s limp ones, Brackenreid gripped Crabtree’s hand tightly. “You hear that, Bugalugs? They’re on their way, I promise.” He squeezed the lifeless hand. “I promise. I am not going to let you die on me.”
George’s hand was cold as stone. His face was pale and lax, like it was made of wax or clay and not living, breathing skin.
“Hang on, Crabtree,” breathed the inspector, his chest aching. “Just a little longer, I promise.” The constable couldn’t hear him, he knew that well. The words were purely for his own benefit.
He sat there in the darkness for what seemed like ages, holding the limp constable’s dead weight against his chest, hanging tightly to each inhale and subsequent exhale. He rubbed George’s hands between his, desperate to generate some warmth. The barely perceptible white cloudy wisps swirling in time with Crabtree’s ragged exhales slowed.
Brackenreid bowed his head, pulling the constable’s body tighter. It wouldn’t be long now. “I’ve got you, Crabtree,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
He held George until he exhaled a breath and didn’t take another one in.
Brackenreid swallowed. Tears burned behind his eyes, a burning ache building in his chest. He took a shuddering breath, squeezing Crabtree’s cold, limp hand, and began sobbing.
The inspector wasn’t sure how long he sat there crying. It could have been hours later when a sudden noise made him jump.
Something pounded on the door, rattling the frame. Muffled voices spoke quickly and sharply amongst each other.
“It’s locked.”
“Break it down!”
“I’m trying—”
The booming knocks began again. “Sir?” a familiar voice called. “George? Sir? Are you in there?”
Brackenreid blinked, wiping away tears. “Murdoch?”
“Sir!” Murdoch sounded breathless. “Are you away from the door, sir? I’m going to kick it in.”
After he confirmed that he was well away from the door, Brackenreid braced himself, protectively twisting away from the doorframe and pulling Crabtree as far away as possible. The door shook, suddenly bursting open to reveal Detective Murdoch standing in the doorway, Doctor Ogden and Detective Watts following at his heels and about a half dozen constables trailing them like ducklings.
The cellar was flooded with moonlight, shining a striking, clear beam straight across the room to Brackenreid and Crabtree on the ground.
“Sir!” Murdoch called, his voice dripping with relief. “Thank goodness, we’ve been looking…” he trailed off, his face draining of all colour as he saw George, still wrapped in the inspector’s coat.
Doctor Ogden flew to the constable’s side, silently pressing two fingers to the side of his neck, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. She let out a sob after a moment.
Watts stood as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on George’s pale, motionless body.
Brackenreid sniffed, trying hard to regain his composure, not wanting to break down in front of his men. “He… he got a head injury, and the bloody bastards took his uniform… with the cold, he…” His voice broke tearfully.
Murdoch covered his mouth with his hand, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Taking a deep breath, he raised a hand, touching his forehead, his chest and his left and right shoulders in the Sign of the Cross. He sniffed, laying a trembling hand on his wife’s quivering shoulders.
The cellar was silent as a tomb. One by one, the constables removed their helmets and bowed their heads in respect for their colleague.
Brackenreid closed his eyes. Crabtree’s hand had gone stiff. Tears streamed down the inspector’s face, landing on the constable’s body. Bloody hell, Crabtree, the inspector heaved a breath. I’m so sorry. He choked on an exhale, breaking down into sobs once more. I’m so sorry.