Almanac Fiction: Swifty Taylor and the Dead Coach (Episode 9)

 

 

The landlubber in me screamed loudly in relief when I reached the sanctuary of terra firma, where I felt exceedingly more sure-footed than when lolling about aboard a yacht. It was nearing midnight as I crept stealthily along the foreshore, trying my utmost to meld into the shadows cast by the dull streetlights. My senses had a heightened air of awareness about them, thanks to the crisp night air. So when I heard the footsteps quietly gaining on me from behind, I was prepared.

 

He was only a metre or so from me when I turned quickly, wrenched the Jameson bottle from my pocket, and swung hard, collecting him across the forehead. The largish man expelled a word which might have been an expletive, but he didn’t go down for the count. Angry, he charged at me with fists flailing, and managed to get in a couple of good ones. But my initial blow from the bottle had wearied him, and it didn’t take much to finish him off. He tried to grab for me as he collapsed on to the path with a thud, but I managed to keep my feet. I can’t be sure if I laid a boot in, but I sure felt like it. The lights from the city across the bay were reflecting off the water and onto the body. I could see that it was one of Jack Shepherd’s henchmen, and he was wheezing loudly now. He had no identification on him to speak of, but his name wasn’t Arthur Murray, and he hadn’t been here to give me a tango lesson. It sure was interesting that he had been prepared to give me more than a verbal bon voyage.

 

My adrenaline was pumping now. I prided myself in being able to handle myself in a scrap, but it had been a while since I’d had to dance with my fists. I had always considered myself a lover more so than a fighter. And although there were a few ex-girlfriends who might question my commitment to being the former, there was little doubt that I ever showed any interest in being the latter.

 

My nose was beginning to throb. Blood was seeping from a cut on my cheek. It seemed that Shep’s man’s fists had managed to connect and inflict a little damage after all. Before making sure that the medallion was safely tucked away deep in my jacket pocket, I decided that it might not be best if I returned home. There would more than likely be a welcoming committee lying in wait, and that was a welcome I was in no mood for right now.

 

I kept telling myself that the only real option was to knock on the door of Laura’s apartment off Aitken St, and seek refuge there. I texted her before I arrived, and she was waiting to let me in. When she turned on the entry light and caught sight of my face, she gasped. “You should see the other guy,” I smirked, weakly. She ushered me inside, and made a show of fussing about and tending to my wounds. All the while, I told her about my theory that her brother had died aboard the Mona Lisa. I said I was not sure whether it was an accident or deliberate, but I that I was certain that Dean had hidden his medal in the toilet cistern. To keep it safe? To leave as a clue should anything happen to him? Regardless, I now had it. And I was considering taking it to the police.

 

 

The sun was battling its way into the room when I awoke. I looked in the mirror. My head didn’t quite resemble that of the elephant man, but nonetheless I wouldn’t be traipsing down red carpets any time soon. The apartment was quiet. I called out to Laura, but she was gone. And – not the first time, I thought ruefully – she wasn’t answering her phone when I called. I lifted my jacket from the chair beside the bed and rifled through my pockets. It seemed that the premiership medal of her late brother Dean was gone also. Wherever Laura and the missing medallion were, I was ready to bet the grandstand that they were in the same place. And I had a nauseous feeling that I knew where.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

 

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