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r_scribblesIt's out of controooooolll!!! Dammit, I'm enjoying writing this so blinking much!
Darker chapter here, as the cliffie to chapter 4 suggests. Not really any Molly, and Martin has a horrible, HORRIBLE time. Some violence/torture, but nothing extreme. And Martin finally meets the owner of the Other-Voice!
Part 4
Five
-x-
The first thing he was aware of was the pain. The back of his head was in agony, and his torso and limbs felt tight, and ached. That in turn made him aware of the constriction. He couldn’t move. Rough ropes had his ankles tied to chair legs and his wrists bound together behind a chair back. He could feel, but not see them. His world was dark and muffled, and the air he was breathing was stifled. There was a sack over his head. And, he realised as his stomach raced towards the floor and his heart towards his mouth, that was pretty much all that he was now wearing.
Panic. Panic. Absolute oh-God-the-plane’s-going-own-and-I’m-the-one-who’s-supposed-to-prevent-a-crash-but-I-can’t-I-just-can’t Panic. Struggling against the ropes only rubbed friction burns onto his wrists and ankles. He wasn’t gagged, so he shouted for help.
He had to admit that he didn’t really expect a response to his calls for help. Nevertheless, a part of him dared to hope when he heard a door behind him swing open and two sets of footsteps walk through that it might be a light at the end of the tunnel.
But, of course, the “light” turned out just to be that of a freight train hurtling towards him.
‘Our esteemed guest is making an awful lot of fuss, isn’t he, Aloysius?’ came a voice rich and thick as treacle, and utterly menacing.
‘Indeed he is, Mr Battenberg,’ replied “Aloysius” – the one that had spoken to him on the stairs, from his soft, Lancashire accent.
‘See if you can pacify him, would you?’
‘I can but try, Mr Battenberg.’
Something hard and dull – probably a fist – pounded into Martin’s gut. He doubled over as far as the bonds would allow, winded.
‘No,’ he gasped, ‘no, please…’
‘Don’t act so surprised now, Sir,’ said Aloysius, gently. ‘It’s not as though you won’t have seen this coming, considering.’
‘I don’t understand. What have I done?’
‘Oh, come now, Sir. You can do better than that.’
‘Is this…’ Martin’s mind tumbled wildly, attempting to clutch at any explanation for what was going on that could possibly make a shred of sense. ‘Is this some sort of terrorist plot? Because you can do what you like to me, I will never fly an aeroplane into anything, or so much as set foot on one with a bomb attached to me, or inserted into me, or… so torture me if you have to, but it’s not going to happen.’
Martin was aware that his speech would have sounded much more heroic had he not now started to cry.
There was a brief pause before Mr Battenberg spoke again. ‘Our guest is trying to get us to let him go by pretending to be an idiot, Aloysius.’
‘I didn’t want to say, Mr Battenberg, but I do believe you’re right,’ Aloysius replied.
‘It’s very rude of him,’ added Mr Battenberg. ‘Whatever does he take us for?’
‘That’s exactly it,’ sobbed Martin. ‘I don’t know! I don’t know who you are, or want you want from me.’
‘You are quite sure it’s him, Aloysius?’
There were hands grasping at the sack on his head, and it was roughly pulled off. All he saw were the bright lights that momentarily blinded him before the bag was placed back over his head.
‘It’s him, all right, Mr Battenberg.’
‘No… oh…’ another thought hit Martin. ‘Oh, you think I’m Him? I’m not him, I’ve just been told that I look like him, but I’m not, I swear…’
‘He continues to take us for fools,’ said Mr Battenberg. ‘Perhaps our guest hasn’t realised quite how vexing I find that, Aloysius.’
‘Well then, that’s my failing as a host, Mr Battenberg,’ replied Aloysius. ‘Allow me to make the matter plainer to our guest.’
Another blow to Martin’s gut – harder, this time. This one didn’t just wind him, but caused him to vomit up a mouthful of bitter bile, which hit the inside of the sack and began a slow, warm drip onto his torso and lap.
‘Please,’ Martin gasped, ‘please! You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not him!’
‘You’re not whom, Sir?’
‘I’m not…’ Martin floundered. He never had found out his apparent double’s name. ‘I don’t know his name. But I know he’s a detective, and he makes a lot of dangerous enemies and he looks a lot like me, but it’s not me, it’s him…’
‘You’re just playing Silly Beggars now, aren’t you?’ Mr Battenberg asked.
‘No, I’m not, I promise I’m not…’
‘I don’t like playing Silly Beggars,’ Mr Battenberg continued, ‘and I really, really don’t like your little mind games. So the first thing you can do as our guest is drop this pathetic act, and have the common decency to communicate with us as yourself.’
‘But I am being myself,’ wailed Martin. ‘This isn’t an act – why would I pretend to be me?’
‘We’ll come to that question in a while,’ Mr Battenberg told him. ‘But let’s start off with a nice, easy question, shall we? What is your name?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Oh, you must know your name, Sir,’ said Aloysius, gently.
‘Yes, actually, actually, yes, you want to know my name? My name is Martin Crieff.’
Another punch to the stomach.
‘Captain Martin Crieff,’ he croaked. ‘I’m a pilot for a charter flight company, I just flew a dozen Japanese tourists from Venice to London, I was only at the hospital to see my girlfriend. I should be deciding whether I want Chinese or curry right now and watching a film about a stuttering king on a sofa in Tooting. I shouldn’t be here! You’ve got the wrong man, I swear, I swear you have!’
Mr Battenberg breathed a deep, sad sigh. ‘Aloysius?’
‘Mr Battenberg?’
‘The car battery to start with, I think.’
‘Right away, Mr Battenberg.’
‘No,’ Martin screamed. ‘No, please, I’m not making this up. It took me seven goes to qualify as a pilot, I live hand to mouth because I can’t even get a little charter company to actually pay me to fly a plane. I lost my virginity at 23 round the back of the service station where I was working, with a middle aged woman who’d just been left by her husband and it was so awful that we both cried. Why would I make any of that up?’
‘Nipples or testicles, Mr Battenberg?’
‘My dear Aloysius, if you start at the testicles, then where do you go from there?’
‘Of course, Mr Battenberg.’
‘No! Please!’ He felt the sting of crocodile clips biting into his nipples, and started screaming again.
‘Honestly, Sir,’ soothed Aloysius, ‘palaver you’re making now, you’ll have screamed yourself hoarse before I’ve so much as plugged you in. And then however will you tell us the things we need to hear in order to stop? Not a very smart game you’re playing, is it, Sir?’
‘Now then,’ said Mr Battenberg. ‘For the last time before things start to get very painful indeed for you – what is your name?’
‘Stop,’ Martin cried, ‘please just…’
And then came the Other Voice. The voice of the Other-Him.
‘Hello,’ growled the voice haughtily, from behind him. ‘Is it me you’re looking for?’
‘What the f…’ managed Aloysius before he was cut short and a dull thud sounded near Martin’s feet. A limp, unmoving hand flopped against Martin’s calf, making him jump.
‘Oh!’ Exclaimed Mr Battenberg. Then, after a moment came a second, rueful and embarrassed ‘oh’.
‘”Oh” indeed, Battenberg,’ continued the Other-Him, talking ten to the dozen. ‘You knew I was on your tail – I’d expected to find a few clues here and there as to the whereabouts of wherever it would be you’d move on to by the time I’d deduced the location of this hideout, but instead I find you standing around with your Right Hand Man, indulging in one of your favourite pastimes? Sloppy, Battenberg.’ The Other-Him barked out a short, unkind laugh. ‘Sloppy Battenberg. Maybe that’s what they’ll call you in prison. Now – did you want to walk out of here with a modicum of dignity, or shall I knock you out as well and leave you both chained to a radiator for the Yarders to find?’
Battenberg drew breath to reply, but never actually gave it. There was another crack-and-thud.
‘Honestly, John,’ said the Other-Him. ‘Let the man answer, at least.’
‘He was reaching for his gun,’ said another, lighter, rather more Middle Class sounding voice.
‘Yes, I know, but I was curious to see whether he’d point it at me or his hostage before you’d knock him out. Thanks for that racket, by the way.’ A slender, strong hand patted Martin on the shoulder. ‘Perfect distraction. Let’s get these off, they look sore.’ The crocodile clips were mercifully removed. For a split second, Martin hoped that the bag & ropes would be coming off momentarily as well, but the Other-Him started walking away. ‘John. Any signs of a false wall?’
‘None that I can tell,’ said the man addressed as John. ‘There’s this…’
‘Too small,’ replied the Other-Him. ‘Probably a vault, there won’t be any other victims stored in there. Not alive, anyway. Here.’ There was a jingle off at the other end of the room.
‘Handcuffs?’ asked John.
‘Well, what else are we supposed to cuff them to the radiator with?’ the Other-Him replied, walking towards Martin again.
‘Picking Lestrade’s pocket again, are we?’
There were hands on the sack, again. ‘You know…’ the sack was pulled off. ‘…me…’ The Other-Him trailed off as he and Martin blinked at one another.
It was his face. It was Martin’s face. Only, worn much, much better. It was his face, covered in better skin. His face, topped with better hair. His face, above a taller, sleeker, more poised body, which in turn, was wrapped in much nicer clothes than he had ever worn or his funds would ever allow him to wear.
‘Oh,’ sighed the Other-Him, in understanding. ‘I see.’
And yes, Martin understood, too. He saw now that it wasn’t that this Other-Him looked like Martin – it was Martin who looked like this other guy. This stranger wasn’t the Not-Martin. Martin was the Not-Whoever-This-Person-Was. Martin was, he realised glumly, the Tesco Value version of himself.
‘Bloody Hell.’ Martin’s attention was drawn away from Mister The-Man-Your-Face-Could-Belong-To as John – a round-faced man with a genial expression and a generally comforting air of beige around him – got to his feet from handcuffing the two unconscious torturers to a radiator and stared. ‘Sherlock, there’s two of you!’
Sherlock. So that was the name of the man that Martin wasn’t. Unforgettable, probably unique and a little bit ridiculous, but in a good way. Yes, that sounded about right.
‘What are you,’ John continued, ‘long lost brothers or something?’
Sherlock shook his head, sharply. ‘Very similar facial characteristics. It does happen outside of blood relatives, you know – more often than you’d think. Why else do you suppose it is that every time a new celebrity pops up, so do a multitude of professional Lookalikes?’ he straightened up, clearly with no intention of untying Martin. ‘That idiot Battenberg must have mistaken him for me.’
‘What, they just happened across somebody who looks that much like you?’ John was already walking over to Martin’s aid. ‘Talk about bad luck, Mate,’ added John, sympathetically. ‘Wherever did they find you?’
‘They didn’t,’ replied Sherlock, with a quirk of an eyebrow. ‘Molly Hooper did.’
Martin flushed, and looked down at his knees. So this Sherlock had come to the same conclusion that Martin was finding himself drawn to – that Martin was a substitute for this confident, effortlessly successful, sexy, untouchable man. He was Canderel because Molly couldn’t have real sugar. He was UHT because the fresh milk refused to be drunk.
‘That’s how they stumbled upon him,’ continued Sherlock. ‘They were expecting to find me at Bart’s, they found him looking for Molly. He’s got the wrong height, the wrong complexion and the wrong hair, but if all they’d seen of me had been that Godawful black & white picture that the papers printed after the hairpin case, then they could be excused the mistake. I wonder if there’s anything else, though.’ He pointed at Martin, suddenly. ‘Say “Ah”.’
‘Ahhh,’ managed Martin weakly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘Say “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper”.’
‘P…peter Pip..p…er pick…’
‘Sherlock, stop it,’ John ordered. ‘Sorry about him,’ he muttered to Martin. ‘There we go.’
He pulled the rope away from Martin’s hands. Martin gratefully brought his arms around to cradle over his lap, rubbing at his sore wrists and finally noticing quite how much he was now shaking.
‘Interesting,’ Sherlock told the room, cheerfully, ‘similar vocal qualities, too, enough to fool a layman for a while - although you do have a touch of the Home Counties’ Working Class about your accent – Bracknell, am I right?’
‘Wokingham. And Middle Class, actually.’
‘Bugger. Well, it’s very, very Lower Middle Class, then. Never mind, let’s find you something to wear shall we, Martin?’
‘How did you…?’
‘He always does this,’ sighed John, freeing one of Martin’s ankles. ‘Go on then, Sherlock, I know you’re itching to tell us both.’
‘John,’ said Sherlock, merrily, ‘allow me to introduce you to Captain Martin Crieff, a 33 year old pilot for a small charter flight company based at Fitton airfield. His interests include aviation, aviation and aviation, although he does also enjoy word games, quizzes, Silent Witness and anything involving caffeine. He flew a handful of Japanese tourists to London from Venice today, even though they were originally supposed to be flying to Barcelona. He feels that he generally has an unlucky streak a mile wide, and has had particularly poor fortunes concerning his romantic life in the past, although he believes that particular tide might be turning of late. He’s rather paranoid, particularly regarding Nuns and wasps and was once mistaken for a stripper.’
Martin gaped. ‘How did…?’
‘Easy,’ replied Sherlock, ‘when you consider that, to make use of St Bart’s Mortuary, which is necessary for my work, I have to listen to Molly Hooper prattle on and on and on about you.’
‘Molly told you all of that?’
‘And more. “Martin did this, Martin said that,” blah blah blah. She’s like a broken, besotted record.’ Sherlock presented a pair of trousers to Martin at the same moment that John freed his other ankle. ‘Here we are. The trousers of your enemy. Consider them spoils of war.’
Martin blinked down at his kidnappers, still passed out on the floor, and noticed that the slighter one – Martin guessed that it was Aloysius, although he had no way of knowing for sure – was no longer wearing any trousers.
‘They’re not my enemy,’ he said, quietly, ‘they’re yours.’
‘True, but I already have trousers on, and I doubt you want to remain naked for any longer than is absolutely necessary.’
Martin took the trousers, begrudgingly, and slowly, painfully started putting them on. The sound of sirens approached as he did so. By the time he was carefully pulling up the fly and wishing that his kidnappers could at least have left him his underpants, he was bathed in blue flashing lights shining through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
‘Ah,’ grinned Sherlock, ‘and here comes the Cavalry – late, as usual. John – explain this to the idiots, would you? Be sure to use monosyllabic words for them, won’t you? If all else fails, you might be able to make them understand using some basic shadow puppetry.’ He left John standing with his mouth half-open to reply, grabbing hold of Martin’s shoulder and dragging him towards the door. ‘You’re with me.’
‘Where are you going?’ called John.
‘Little errand,’ Sherlock replied.
Martin clutched his arms around his still naked, trembling and bile-spattered torso as he was manhandled outside, into a crowd of Police and Paramedics. Being stripped, beaten and threatened with intimate electrocution only half an hour beforehand had set the bar somewhat for the misery and humiliation that the evening could possibly bring, and while the twenty-odd strangers gawping at his wretched form being dragged, blinking, from his captors’ hideout by the better-looking him wasn’t going to top that, it made a bloody good stab at it.
‘Good God, Freak.’ A young, mixed race woman in a skirt suit sneered as they passed. ‘I knew you were created in a Lab. What’s this – the prototype?’
‘Your Victim Support skills coming to the fore again, I see, Donovan.’
Donovan chewed at her lip a little. ‘Yeah, well, if you want to get him to a Paramedic…’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ replied Sherlock. ‘A little on the chilly side.’ He reached out his free hand to give the shoulder of a grey haired man at Donovan’s side a friendly pat, then grabbed, twisted and tugged the jacket straight off his back.
‘Oi!’ protested the now jacketless man.
‘This man is missing an Airline Captain’s uniform,’ Sherlock told him, putting the jacket on Martin. ‘Be a good Policeman and find it for him.’
‘What,’ replied the man, ‘while arresting Battenberg and closing down his trafficking ring?’
‘I’ve already done most of the work,’ Sherlock called over his shoulder, walking away with Martin. ‘John’s in there – he’ll get you up to speed. Eventually. Perhaps.’
It was only as they approached the main road that Martin thought to ask; ‘Where are we going?’
Sherlock gazed at him as if where they were going was so clear that Martin was a contemptible idiot for so much as asking. ‘Well, obviously I have a delivery to make, now, don’t I?’ Barely even looking into the street, he snapped his fingers out at a passing Black cab. ‘Taxi!’
Part 6
Darker chapter here, as the cliffie to chapter 4 suggests. Not really any Molly, and Martin has a horrible, HORRIBLE time. Some violence/torture, but nothing extreme. And Martin finally meets the owner of the Other-Voice!
Part 4
Five
-x-
The first thing he was aware of was the pain. The back of his head was in agony, and his torso and limbs felt tight, and ached. That in turn made him aware of the constriction. He couldn’t move. Rough ropes had his ankles tied to chair legs and his wrists bound together behind a chair back. He could feel, but not see them. His world was dark and muffled, and the air he was breathing was stifled. There was a sack over his head. And, he realised as his stomach raced towards the floor and his heart towards his mouth, that was pretty much all that he was now wearing.
Panic. Panic. Absolute oh-God-the-plane’s-going-own-and-I’m-the-one-who’s-supposed-to-prevent-a-crash-but-I-can’t-I-just-can’t Panic. Struggling against the ropes only rubbed friction burns onto his wrists and ankles. He wasn’t gagged, so he shouted for help.
He had to admit that he didn’t really expect a response to his calls for help. Nevertheless, a part of him dared to hope when he heard a door behind him swing open and two sets of footsteps walk through that it might be a light at the end of the tunnel.
But, of course, the “light” turned out just to be that of a freight train hurtling towards him.
‘Our esteemed guest is making an awful lot of fuss, isn’t he, Aloysius?’ came a voice rich and thick as treacle, and utterly menacing.
‘Indeed he is, Mr Battenberg,’ replied “Aloysius” – the one that had spoken to him on the stairs, from his soft, Lancashire accent.
‘See if you can pacify him, would you?’
‘I can but try, Mr Battenberg.’
Something hard and dull – probably a fist – pounded into Martin’s gut. He doubled over as far as the bonds would allow, winded.
‘No,’ he gasped, ‘no, please…’
‘Don’t act so surprised now, Sir,’ said Aloysius, gently. ‘It’s not as though you won’t have seen this coming, considering.’
‘I don’t understand. What have I done?’
‘Oh, come now, Sir. You can do better than that.’
‘Is this…’ Martin’s mind tumbled wildly, attempting to clutch at any explanation for what was going on that could possibly make a shred of sense. ‘Is this some sort of terrorist plot? Because you can do what you like to me, I will never fly an aeroplane into anything, or so much as set foot on one with a bomb attached to me, or inserted into me, or… so torture me if you have to, but it’s not going to happen.’
Martin was aware that his speech would have sounded much more heroic had he not now started to cry.
There was a brief pause before Mr Battenberg spoke again. ‘Our guest is trying to get us to let him go by pretending to be an idiot, Aloysius.’
‘I didn’t want to say, Mr Battenberg, but I do believe you’re right,’ Aloysius replied.
‘It’s very rude of him,’ added Mr Battenberg. ‘Whatever does he take us for?’
‘That’s exactly it,’ sobbed Martin. ‘I don’t know! I don’t know who you are, or want you want from me.’
‘You are quite sure it’s him, Aloysius?’
There were hands grasping at the sack on his head, and it was roughly pulled off. All he saw were the bright lights that momentarily blinded him before the bag was placed back over his head.
‘It’s him, all right, Mr Battenberg.’
‘No… oh…’ another thought hit Martin. ‘Oh, you think I’m Him? I’m not him, I’ve just been told that I look like him, but I’m not, I swear…’
‘He continues to take us for fools,’ said Mr Battenberg. ‘Perhaps our guest hasn’t realised quite how vexing I find that, Aloysius.’
‘Well then, that’s my failing as a host, Mr Battenberg,’ replied Aloysius. ‘Allow me to make the matter plainer to our guest.’
Another blow to Martin’s gut – harder, this time. This one didn’t just wind him, but caused him to vomit up a mouthful of bitter bile, which hit the inside of the sack and began a slow, warm drip onto his torso and lap.
‘Please,’ Martin gasped, ‘please! You’ve got the wrong person. I’m not him!’
‘You’re not whom, Sir?’
‘I’m not…’ Martin floundered. He never had found out his apparent double’s name. ‘I don’t know his name. But I know he’s a detective, and he makes a lot of dangerous enemies and he looks a lot like me, but it’s not me, it’s him…’
‘You’re just playing Silly Beggars now, aren’t you?’ Mr Battenberg asked.
‘No, I’m not, I promise I’m not…’
‘I don’t like playing Silly Beggars,’ Mr Battenberg continued, ‘and I really, really don’t like your little mind games. So the first thing you can do as our guest is drop this pathetic act, and have the common decency to communicate with us as yourself.’
‘But I am being myself,’ wailed Martin. ‘This isn’t an act – why would I pretend to be me?’
‘We’ll come to that question in a while,’ Mr Battenberg told him. ‘But let’s start off with a nice, easy question, shall we? What is your name?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Oh, you must know your name, Sir,’ said Aloysius, gently.
‘Yes, actually, actually, yes, you want to know my name? My name is Martin Crieff.’
Another punch to the stomach.
‘Captain Martin Crieff,’ he croaked. ‘I’m a pilot for a charter flight company, I just flew a dozen Japanese tourists from Venice to London, I was only at the hospital to see my girlfriend. I should be deciding whether I want Chinese or curry right now and watching a film about a stuttering king on a sofa in Tooting. I shouldn’t be here! You’ve got the wrong man, I swear, I swear you have!’
Mr Battenberg breathed a deep, sad sigh. ‘Aloysius?’
‘Mr Battenberg?’
‘The car battery to start with, I think.’
‘Right away, Mr Battenberg.’
‘No,’ Martin screamed. ‘No, please, I’m not making this up. It took me seven goes to qualify as a pilot, I live hand to mouth because I can’t even get a little charter company to actually pay me to fly a plane. I lost my virginity at 23 round the back of the service station where I was working, with a middle aged woman who’d just been left by her husband and it was so awful that we both cried. Why would I make any of that up?’
‘Nipples or testicles, Mr Battenberg?’
‘My dear Aloysius, if you start at the testicles, then where do you go from there?’
‘Of course, Mr Battenberg.’
‘No! Please!’ He felt the sting of crocodile clips biting into his nipples, and started screaming again.
‘Honestly, Sir,’ soothed Aloysius, ‘palaver you’re making now, you’ll have screamed yourself hoarse before I’ve so much as plugged you in. And then however will you tell us the things we need to hear in order to stop? Not a very smart game you’re playing, is it, Sir?’
‘Now then,’ said Mr Battenberg. ‘For the last time before things start to get very painful indeed for you – what is your name?’
‘Stop,’ Martin cried, ‘please just…’
And then came the Other Voice. The voice of the Other-Him.
‘Hello,’ growled the voice haughtily, from behind him. ‘Is it me you’re looking for?’
‘What the f…’ managed Aloysius before he was cut short and a dull thud sounded near Martin’s feet. A limp, unmoving hand flopped against Martin’s calf, making him jump.
‘Oh!’ Exclaimed Mr Battenberg. Then, after a moment came a second, rueful and embarrassed ‘oh’.
‘”Oh” indeed, Battenberg,’ continued the Other-Him, talking ten to the dozen. ‘You knew I was on your tail – I’d expected to find a few clues here and there as to the whereabouts of wherever it would be you’d move on to by the time I’d deduced the location of this hideout, but instead I find you standing around with your Right Hand Man, indulging in one of your favourite pastimes? Sloppy, Battenberg.’ The Other-Him barked out a short, unkind laugh. ‘Sloppy Battenberg. Maybe that’s what they’ll call you in prison. Now – did you want to walk out of here with a modicum of dignity, or shall I knock you out as well and leave you both chained to a radiator for the Yarders to find?’
Battenberg drew breath to reply, but never actually gave it. There was another crack-and-thud.
‘Honestly, John,’ said the Other-Him. ‘Let the man answer, at least.’
‘He was reaching for his gun,’ said another, lighter, rather more Middle Class sounding voice.
‘Yes, I know, but I was curious to see whether he’d point it at me or his hostage before you’d knock him out. Thanks for that racket, by the way.’ A slender, strong hand patted Martin on the shoulder. ‘Perfect distraction. Let’s get these off, they look sore.’ The crocodile clips were mercifully removed. For a split second, Martin hoped that the bag & ropes would be coming off momentarily as well, but the Other-Him started walking away. ‘John. Any signs of a false wall?’
‘None that I can tell,’ said the man addressed as John. ‘There’s this…’
‘Too small,’ replied the Other-Him. ‘Probably a vault, there won’t be any other victims stored in there. Not alive, anyway. Here.’ There was a jingle off at the other end of the room.
‘Handcuffs?’ asked John.
‘Well, what else are we supposed to cuff them to the radiator with?’ the Other-Him replied, walking towards Martin again.
‘Picking Lestrade’s pocket again, are we?’
There were hands on the sack, again. ‘You know…’ the sack was pulled off. ‘…me…’ The Other-Him trailed off as he and Martin blinked at one another.
It was his face. It was Martin’s face. Only, worn much, much better. It was his face, covered in better skin. His face, topped with better hair. His face, above a taller, sleeker, more poised body, which in turn, was wrapped in much nicer clothes than he had ever worn or his funds would ever allow him to wear.
‘Oh,’ sighed the Other-Him, in understanding. ‘I see.’
And yes, Martin understood, too. He saw now that it wasn’t that this Other-Him looked like Martin – it was Martin who looked like this other guy. This stranger wasn’t the Not-Martin. Martin was the Not-Whoever-This-Person-Was. Martin was, he realised glumly, the Tesco Value version of himself.
‘Bloody Hell.’ Martin’s attention was drawn away from Mister The-Man-Your-Face-Could-Belong-To as John – a round-faced man with a genial expression and a generally comforting air of beige around him – got to his feet from handcuffing the two unconscious torturers to a radiator and stared. ‘Sherlock, there’s two of you!’
Sherlock. So that was the name of the man that Martin wasn’t. Unforgettable, probably unique and a little bit ridiculous, but in a good way. Yes, that sounded about right.
‘What are you,’ John continued, ‘long lost brothers or something?’
Sherlock shook his head, sharply. ‘Very similar facial characteristics. It does happen outside of blood relatives, you know – more often than you’d think. Why else do you suppose it is that every time a new celebrity pops up, so do a multitude of professional Lookalikes?’ he straightened up, clearly with no intention of untying Martin. ‘That idiot Battenberg must have mistaken him for me.’
‘What, they just happened across somebody who looks that much like you?’ John was already walking over to Martin’s aid. ‘Talk about bad luck, Mate,’ added John, sympathetically. ‘Wherever did they find you?’
‘They didn’t,’ replied Sherlock, with a quirk of an eyebrow. ‘Molly Hooper did.’
Martin flushed, and looked down at his knees. So this Sherlock had come to the same conclusion that Martin was finding himself drawn to – that Martin was a substitute for this confident, effortlessly successful, sexy, untouchable man. He was Canderel because Molly couldn’t have real sugar. He was UHT because the fresh milk refused to be drunk.
‘That’s how they stumbled upon him,’ continued Sherlock. ‘They were expecting to find me at Bart’s, they found him looking for Molly. He’s got the wrong height, the wrong complexion and the wrong hair, but if all they’d seen of me had been that Godawful black & white picture that the papers printed after the hairpin case, then they could be excused the mistake. I wonder if there’s anything else, though.’ He pointed at Martin, suddenly. ‘Say “Ah”.’
‘Ahhh,’ managed Martin weakly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘Say “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper”.’
‘P…peter Pip..p…er pick…’
‘Sherlock, stop it,’ John ordered. ‘Sorry about him,’ he muttered to Martin. ‘There we go.’
He pulled the rope away from Martin’s hands. Martin gratefully brought his arms around to cradle over his lap, rubbing at his sore wrists and finally noticing quite how much he was now shaking.
‘Interesting,’ Sherlock told the room, cheerfully, ‘similar vocal qualities, too, enough to fool a layman for a while - although you do have a touch of the Home Counties’ Working Class about your accent – Bracknell, am I right?’
‘Wokingham. And Middle Class, actually.’
‘Bugger. Well, it’s very, very Lower Middle Class, then. Never mind, let’s find you something to wear shall we, Martin?’
‘How did you…?’
‘He always does this,’ sighed John, freeing one of Martin’s ankles. ‘Go on then, Sherlock, I know you’re itching to tell us both.’
‘John,’ said Sherlock, merrily, ‘allow me to introduce you to Captain Martin Crieff, a 33 year old pilot for a small charter flight company based at Fitton airfield. His interests include aviation, aviation and aviation, although he does also enjoy word games, quizzes, Silent Witness and anything involving caffeine. He flew a handful of Japanese tourists to London from Venice today, even though they were originally supposed to be flying to Barcelona. He feels that he generally has an unlucky streak a mile wide, and has had particularly poor fortunes concerning his romantic life in the past, although he believes that particular tide might be turning of late. He’s rather paranoid, particularly regarding Nuns and wasps and was once mistaken for a stripper.’
Martin gaped. ‘How did…?’
‘Easy,’ replied Sherlock, ‘when you consider that, to make use of St Bart’s Mortuary, which is necessary for my work, I have to listen to Molly Hooper prattle on and on and on about you.’
‘Molly told you all of that?’
‘And more. “Martin did this, Martin said that,” blah blah blah. She’s like a broken, besotted record.’ Sherlock presented a pair of trousers to Martin at the same moment that John freed his other ankle. ‘Here we are. The trousers of your enemy. Consider them spoils of war.’
Martin blinked down at his kidnappers, still passed out on the floor, and noticed that the slighter one – Martin guessed that it was Aloysius, although he had no way of knowing for sure – was no longer wearing any trousers.
‘They’re not my enemy,’ he said, quietly, ‘they’re yours.’
‘True, but I already have trousers on, and I doubt you want to remain naked for any longer than is absolutely necessary.’
Martin took the trousers, begrudgingly, and slowly, painfully started putting them on. The sound of sirens approached as he did so. By the time he was carefully pulling up the fly and wishing that his kidnappers could at least have left him his underpants, he was bathed in blue flashing lights shining through the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
‘Ah,’ grinned Sherlock, ‘and here comes the Cavalry – late, as usual. John – explain this to the idiots, would you? Be sure to use monosyllabic words for them, won’t you? If all else fails, you might be able to make them understand using some basic shadow puppetry.’ He left John standing with his mouth half-open to reply, grabbing hold of Martin’s shoulder and dragging him towards the door. ‘You’re with me.’
‘Where are you going?’ called John.
‘Little errand,’ Sherlock replied.
Martin clutched his arms around his still naked, trembling and bile-spattered torso as he was manhandled outside, into a crowd of Police and Paramedics. Being stripped, beaten and threatened with intimate electrocution only half an hour beforehand had set the bar somewhat for the misery and humiliation that the evening could possibly bring, and while the twenty-odd strangers gawping at his wretched form being dragged, blinking, from his captors’ hideout by the better-looking him wasn’t going to top that, it made a bloody good stab at it.
‘Good God, Freak.’ A young, mixed race woman in a skirt suit sneered as they passed. ‘I knew you were created in a Lab. What’s this – the prototype?’
‘Your Victim Support skills coming to the fore again, I see, Donovan.’
Donovan chewed at her lip a little. ‘Yeah, well, if you want to get him to a Paramedic…’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ replied Sherlock. ‘A little on the chilly side.’ He reached out his free hand to give the shoulder of a grey haired man at Donovan’s side a friendly pat, then grabbed, twisted and tugged the jacket straight off his back.
‘Oi!’ protested the now jacketless man.
‘This man is missing an Airline Captain’s uniform,’ Sherlock told him, putting the jacket on Martin. ‘Be a good Policeman and find it for him.’
‘What,’ replied the man, ‘while arresting Battenberg and closing down his trafficking ring?’
‘I’ve already done most of the work,’ Sherlock called over his shoulder, walking away with Martin. ‘John’s in there – he’ll get you up to speed. Eventually. Perhaps.’
It was only as they approached the main road that Martin thought to ask; ‘Where are we going?’
Sherlock gazed at him as if where they were going was so clear that Martin was a contemptible idiot for so much as asking. ‘Well, obviously I have a delivery to make, now, don’t I?’ Barely even looking into the street, he snapped his fingers out at a passing Black cab. ‘Taxi!’
Part 6
