Bertrand Bunny and the Gravedigger’s Tooth – Part 4
Little Dan Marsten had pelted and tripped and snagged painfully and nastily through
the thickets in the horrible pitch blackness, the dimming sounds of the out-of-town
carnival’s hurrahs and jingles giving way to a murky netherset of whispering chilly
wisps of dark forest sounds.
Snap, on spindles of snip-twigs as his feet hurdled clumsily on. What he ran from he
didn’t know. The wet bracken thwacked against his side, down his hip and bare shins
and made him slow, weakened, lost and hopeless.
His father’s child, he’d grown his precious few years up in what some might call an
irresponsible mystery, provided for and taken care of by faces, including that of his
oft-absent father, that were hard and reliable, but lacked anything behind the
superficial understanding one naturally imparts to a child. Perhaps, then, if all that had
been even slightly different, if he had been allowed but a year or two more to grow,
shine, learn, then he would been quite so frightened by the sound and sawdusty must
of the fayre, or ran in a panic from the clownish barker looming over him, upset by
something it reminded him hazily some time ago. Perhaps, if things had been different,
he would not, when hiding from the boorish and inevitable search party of father’s
loud men, have suddenly, inadvertently, been subjected to the sight of father wrestling
and beating and cramming his sharp fists into that same barker’s mouth and face and
coming out with a shining blood hand with tooth and supporting-skin chunks flush to
it, all the shouting and pain visceral and terrible.
Little Dan ran and cried and above all did not think or understand, part of his
rational kid-mind looking to dim imagination and possibly yearning for some warmth
and stability he’d never had. But all that was too eloquent and rational to be
realistically going through his head. He was shit-scared and wet and now his knee and
shins were getting cut deeper by wayward bits of bark. His foot suddenly went in a
bog, all thick and sandwichy, and he was pulled over onto the ground, which was on a
slight uphill incline.
It was at this time when he had a fearful moment to take stock that he became aware
of a few sure things at once. One, the carnival din had faded, superseded now by some
whistly wind and water jet lashes of the drizzle that was faster and more aggressive by
the minute. Two, the light – the only light – that had formerly been offered by the
gibbous moon, not quite hole or right, was being swallowed again now by belching
black cloud clumps, the sky a horrible dark grey-khaki industrial. All was near blackpitch. Three, he wasn’t alone.
However unlikely or horrible unfair or cliché it was true, and it was all the
nightmares and horror of a frightened child at once. A thin beam of light cut through
the darkness and waved unevenly around, searching, jerking to a halt suddenly as it
found its mark. Then heavy steps and the swishing of branches being beaten back by
the figure approaching. Heart in mouth, the little boy shivered, rooted to the spot, and
hoped, as any child would above anything else right now, that he wouldn’t die.
***
When Crawford arrived at Bertrand’s little flat at around ten the morning after, the
bunny still hadn’t returned from the previous night’s outings. Rather than becoming
anxious, Crawford decided to sit and to give it ‘til elevenish before actively taking
some action. In any case, what would he do? If something nasty had befallen Bertrand,
it would almost certainly be an off-the-face-of-the-earth affair; no point following one
of those up. Move on, was what he’d learned – or tried to, at least.
The apartment was a scuzzy Bohemian style affair. Some neglected plants on a
dusty, soily windowsill. One of them flowering – a Christmas cactus, fairly pleasant
amongst the gloom and drudgery. The tables and surfaces crammed and spilling with
papers and ends of fags and muck. An open plan living area with crumbled remains of
packets, light food for a poor stomach, some discarded pellets (as a self-styled PI,
Bertrand never espoused the pet rabbit lifestyle or notion). He had, however, properly
dug in on his sleeping quarters, filling it with the insulating comforts of hay and
crinkled newspaper shreds, giving it a half must, half inky sort of whiff. The bunny
often joked, in his lighter moments, of bringing in a big consignment of chicken wire
mesh to nail all around the doors, windows, fireplace, as his diminutive pet relatives
would, to safeguard against any man-size foxes biting their vicious way in.
As it turned out, worry would have been unnecessary. At something-past, Bertrand
hopped in, looking dishevelled, but bright. His bad eye was still leaking.
Crawford played it cool. “It smells off in here. You should get a maid.”
“I could do with a maid,” Bertrand agreed, flicking his hat off and yawning and
stretching. Crawford saw, as his furry arms went up, nasty blood-matted coarse
patches of hair, very angry-looking. Bertrand too noted first Crawford expression and
then the wounds themselves.
“Don’t ask. Ask in a moment. First I need to drink something.” Bertrand hopped
over to the kitchen area – which was a rather dreary continuation of the living
partition – and rummaged amongst dusty bottles.
Crawford saw his face betraying discomfort at the effort as his wounds pained him.
“Oh, dear,” said, wincing.
“But I think a maid…” Bertrand continued, finding what he was looking for: a jug
of cordial covered with cling film, “…would tip me over the edge. Besides, there’s no
room.”
“You’d lodge her here with you, then?”
Bertrand was busy measuring cordial out into an empty jar, eyes crossed and tired.
“Hm?”
“I said you’d lodge her with you, then?”
“Lodge who?”
“It doesn’t matter. So what happened?”
“Patience,” Bertrand said soothingly, finishing his cordial preparation. After
putting every effort into decanting the precise amount, he then simply went over to
the sink (also dirty) and, turning the tap onto full, splashed a shitload of water
violently into the jar. “There we are.” He drank deeply.
Crawford couldn’t wait longer and chanced it. “Brox?”
Bertrand drained the jar and signed, coming over and sitting, very lacklustre. He
nodded in reply. “Fortunately.”
“Fortunately? Damn. I should’ve stayed.”
“I knew you’d feel that way,” Bertrand said, no hint of a smile. “But I understand.
You have other things going on.”
“Oh, do shut up,” Crawford snapped back. It was cruel. Bertrand knew well
enough that he’d very little indeed ‘going on’. Many places he’d once frequented with
a recurrent gaggle of friends he’d now visit alone. The Belgian Moules bar. The nice
old picture house that played independents and still used projectionists and reels.
Even his favourite pub. Countless nights, Crawford sat alone in a warm booth with a
strong IPA. Times like this he put it down to getting to know Bertrand. There had
been others, acquaintances, the gaggle, at least until round-about a year ago.
After a moment Crawford said “So you…”, trailing off as he’d no idea of what.
“The pickup. As I said,” Bertrand replied, rummaging around the mucky side table
and finding a matchbox. He shook it to verify the contents. “Only it was I, me,
waiting, not the other chap.” He lit himself a half-burned fag end off the table and
puffed it away.
“Who was?”
“Some thug,” Bertrand twitched his whiskers and shook his head offhandedly.
“Inconsequential. What matters is that, yes, it was Brox, at around half past midnight
– and I got the jump on him.”
“You never did,” Crawford replied, full of incredulity.
“I certainly did,” Bertrand replied. “Got behind him and stuck my paw into the
back of his head, like as if it were a gun, you see, and said, in a husky sort of way,
‘don’t fuckin’ move’. I actually said the f-word, too, like in the gang films. Problem is,”
he went on, face pained as he recalled, “he realised quite soon that it was, well, a paw,
not a gun.”
Crawford put his head in his hands, imagining the scene. “He hit you?”
“Worse. Had a knife. Swished it about, got me two, three times. I hopped around
as best I could. Minor wounds.” He held up his bloody arm. “Eurgh. Never again. I’m
taking a pistol next time, I don’t care what you say.”
Crawford knew there was little point in arguing. Grimly he imagined the sort of
horrible scrapes that Bertrand would get them into if he started to conduct all of his
business down the end of a gun.
The bunny continued: “However, you’ll like what comes next.”
“Go on, then.”
“I managed to get away,” Bertrand said, semi-excitement in his voice. “And tailed
him.”
“You followed an unhinged drug dealing gangster?” Crawford asked, as ever
incredulous.
“He isn’t unhinged. He’s got all of his hinges. Just stupid, is all. And yes. He ran –
and I hopped. I’m an exemplary hopper. Across those low rooftops, I tell you, I felt
like a comic hero, I wish you could try it.”
“I’ll pass.”
Bertrand leaned forward to conclude his chapter. “And… well, have a guess.”
Crawford strained to think, gauging his answer carefully so as not to appear thick
or slow. “The hideout?”
“Yes.”
“I give up.”
Bertrand clapped his paws together. “The old factory one mile along the canal!”
He declared victoriously. “Rather obvious now, I must admit.”
“Excellent,” Crawford said, and he meant it. “D’you want me to call them? Or
have you already?”
Bertrand looked puzzled. “Called who?”
“The law!”
“The–– No, no, we mustn’t do that,” Bertrand said in his most withering
headmaster tone. “What could they possibly do that we couldn’t do better? Besides,
Brox’d sniff them a mile off.”
“I thought you said he was stupid?”
“He is stupid. Stupid men have canny instincts; I suppose to make up for the
stupidity.” Bertrand had a little chuckle. “The law, indeed. No, if we’re to see this
through then we must do it the two of us, alone.”
“For God’s sake,” was Crawford’s annoyed response. “We can’t do this. We need
the state to take him down, contain him.”
“Alone,” Bertrand repeated, as if Crawford hadn’t spoken. “And tonight.”
Crawford nearly jumped out of his seat. “No! And no!”
“YES.” Bertrand’s tone was hard, firm, final. “Now get your coat.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.” Bertrand rose from the chair and hopped over to the hat stand to dress
himself. “We’ll stop somewhere for breakfast – I’ve nothing in to offer you – and
then to the old factory to stake it out.”
“Please. You need sleep,” Crawford implored, desperation in his tone.
“Balls. I’ll hibernate when it’s done. Get your coat.” He popped his trilby on,
tipping it to a rakish angle. “You haven’t heard the whole of it, anyway. We have to
take Brox down. And soon. He’s a blight. A menace. More so than we first thought.
He’s involved with something big, bigger than usual, what though I’m only halfcertain of, but we must stop him. I know Brox. He’ll be out of control if he gets in too
deep.”
“I know, I know this,” Crawford protested, still clinging to a small chance of
talking Bertrand out of it, “ but––”
“It isn’t narcotics,” Bertrand said, tone now dead-serious, “at least, not chiefly, as
far as I could see. But I know it, I could tell from experience, when I saw the factory,
saw what was going in, and coming out, and when, and who, and how. It was people.
Brox is profiteering people.”
***