Stuart Pawson - The Mushroom Man

The room was a dump. The dr alon suite was threadbare and the wallpaper bore black marks where the furniture had rubbed against it for years. Discarded clothing was flung about the place and a plate bearing the relics of a meal was still on the table. A well-used flypaper hung from the ceiling; didn't know you could still buy them.

I tried not to breathe.

Against the far wall was what I took to be a Welsh dresser. The shelves were filled with cheap little trophies and shields. I walked across to examine them. Most had been awarded to Rhoda, for her body-building exploits, but were mainly bronzes, with an occasional silver. Even at her chosen sport she was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. On the mantel shelf were several photos of the pair of them in various poses, bodies glistening like porpoises. They must have thought they looked good, and that was all that mattered.

I started opening drawers and cupboards, not sure of what I was looking for. The dresser was filled with all sorts of household items, glass and crockery, some of it good quality. Nothing for me, though. A sideboard contained all the documents that we acquire and hoard in our passage through life: like insurance policies, old gas bills and the instructions for the microwave. The cupboards in it were stuffed with clothes, mainly woolly jumpers. I turned to a writing desk in the corner.

Like a professional burglar I opened the bottom drawer first, and when I saw the contents my stomach convulsed, as if it had been clawed by a polar bear. The drawer held a pile of newspaper cuttings, and smiling at me from the top sheet was the face of Annabelle. In a corner lay an unopened carton of shotgun cartridges. I'd found what I'd come for:

Rhoda Flannery was the Mushroom Man.

I sat on the floor for several minutes, back to the wall and staring at the carpet. There were plenty of questions, but I couldn't come up with any answers. God willing, when Annabelle was well I'd spend the rest of my time with her. Marry her, if she'd have me. And I'd leave the police force. All it offered was a front-row seat at a Greek tragedy, and I'd paid in full.

Outside it was raining again, or was it still raining? I stood in the doorway to the flats and tried to radio Control.

"Priest to Control."

No reply.

"Charlie Priest to Heckley Control. Acknowledge."

Silence.

"I say again, this is Charlie Palooka with an urgent message to Heckley Control. Answer the goddamn radio, Arthur."

I flicked the switch off and on and pressed the 'speak' button, but wasn't even rewarded with a hiss of static. I'd have to use the mobile phone in the car.

As I stepped off the curb my left foot went into a pothole filled with water. It came over my ankle and filled my shoe.

"Bugger!" I cursed, shaking my soaking foot. "Bugger-bloody-damn!"

"And fuck!" I added for good measure.

"Arthur, why can't I reach you on my radio?" I snapped, when he answered the phone.

"Sorry, Mr. Priest. We could hear you. You must have another faulty radio. The transmit button sticks in when it's wet. What was all the cursing about?"

"I stepped in a puddle. Up to my knee. I'll have to go home to change my shoes. Look, Arthur, these radios should have been sorted weeks ago." I was annoyed about it, and having one cold foot didn't help.

"We thought they had been. All the new ones were sent back and modified."

"It's not good enough. I'll have words with the supplier. A fault like this could cost someone's life."

"You're right, boss. Put it in your pocket, then it won't get left in the car."

I retrieved it from the glove box where I'd tossed it. "OK. Now listen to this. I want an APW broadcasting for Rhoda Flannery, home address: forty-nine Attlee Towers, Heckley; driving a grey 1988 Ford Fiesta. You've got the number."

"Will do, Mr. Priest. What's it about?"

"She's the Mushroom Man."

"Sheest! Are you sure?"

I ignored the question. "Suspect is armed with a shotgun, and very dangerous. On no account to be approached by unarmed officers. I'm outside Attlee Towers now. Can you have someone here as soon as possible? Oh, and inform Mr. Wood."

Five minutes later a local patrol car joined me, and said that an ARV was on its way. I pointed out Rhoda's flat to them and gave strict instructions that they were to wait for the armed officers if she came back. I said I was going home to change my shoes and would then go to the station. It could be a long day.

I reversed the car into my drive, so I could make a fast getaway if anybody rang. It felt cold inside the house, and I was chilled through. The radiators weren't on at that time of day, so I turned the gas fire fully on and pulled the easy chair closer. I kept my jacket on, but removed my shoes and socks so I could toast my feet. There was a draught on my neck, so I sank lower into the chair. When I'd thawed out I'd make a drink and a sandwich. Meanwhile, I'd just relax and let the others do the running around. It was out of my hands.

Well, I thought it was.

This was my parents' house, inherited by me after they died. Dad was a do-it-yourself freak. He'd installed the central heating, years ago, and made a good job of it. Except for one small thing. In the hallway, under the carpet, there is a trap door that gives access to the circulating pump. It creaks every time you walk over it. He'd tried to fix it and so had I, but without success. As I sat there, warming my feet, it creaked. Somebody was inside the house.

That was why it was cold: one of the windows was open. I reached out and picked the phone up from the coffee table alongside my chair. It was dead. I delved into my inside pocket for the radio, but just as I touched it the door flew open.

The ridiculous and the terrifying are sometimes just a hair's-breadth apart. She was wearing a man's suit that was two sizes too large for her even before her body had been wasted by disease, topped off by a trilby hat. She would have looked as if she were auditioning for the Artful Dodger had it not been for the gaunt face, dotted with sores that would never heal because her immune system was gone. And the sawn-off shotgun. The Dodger never carried a shotgun.

"Who the hell are you?" I said. I knew the answer, but would never have recognised her.

"Put your hands where I can see them," she croaked, 'and say a quick prayer, before I blow your fucking head off." Her voice was a cackle, like she had a throat full of eggshells.

"It's Rhoda, isn't it?" I said.

"And you're the late Charlie Priest." She pointed the shotgun at me.

It focuses the attention like nothing I'd experienced before. Keep 'em talking, the book said.

"Why?" I asked. God! Was that the best I could do? "Don't you think I deserve an explanation?" Marginally better.

"What explanation did you give Don?" she hissed.

"Don committed murder," I told her. "He knew what was coming; bore no grudges. It was my job to put him away, and I did it."

"He was innocent. He wouldn't lie to me. You didn't get him life, you gave him a death sentence." She was shrieking now. "Do you know what it was like? A hundred men sharing a needle, passing it from cell to cell for a month until someone brought a new one in? He didn't deserve what he got in there."

I was hopelessly off balance, sprawled in the armchair with my arms dangling over the sides. I pulled my feet back against the seat as I spoke: "Nobody deserves that, Rhoda. Least of all you."

"What do you care? Look at this!" she screamed, flinging her hat into the corner. The red mane had gone, replaced by a patchwork of weeping lesions. I felt myself recoil at the sight. "Well, we got it, whether we deserved it or not, and now you get yours." She levelled the gun at me.

"What about the others, Rhoda? Did they deserve what they got?"