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Thompson’s lost plimsole

Part sixteen

Sgt Grout and Mr Twist were now only a short distance from the chapel. Moving slowly, they could both sense that there was something, or someone, lurking in the undergrowth. Suddenly something moved. Sgt Grout flicked on his torch, the beam of which illuminated a pair of glowing red eyes. In an instant the hound leapt at him. Sgt Grout dropped his torch and fell backwards, Mr Twist swung his pickaxe handle at the hairy beast (the hound, not Sgt Grout). The axe handle made contact and the hound ceased moving. Regaining his composure and his torch, Sgt Grout examined the dead animal. It would not have taken the skills of a mortician to ascertain that the beast had been dead for much, much longer than the few seconds that had already elapsed. It was in fact a stuffed Wolfhound with red glass eyes. It had been thrown at the Sgt by the two hooded individuals who now emerged from the bushes. Constables Perkins and Blott had made there way to the other side of the parked lorry and had apprehended the driver, but not before he could give a warning that sounded like an owl hooting . Three monks appeared out of the darkness and launched themselves at Perkins and Blott, whilst near the chapel, Sgt Grout and Mr Twist were grappling with their adversaries. Sgt Grout managed to subdue and handcuff his opponent and then set to dragging the other felon off Mr Twist. As old Twisty rose to his feet, two shots rang out. He was hit in the leg and in the shoulder. His pint-sized assailant turned and ran into the wooded darkness.

Lights were now going on in the Hall. Sgt Grout turned to Mr Twist who was now clutching at his wounded shoulder. “Go and catch him Sgt, don’t worry about me, it’s not the first time I’ve been shot”. The Sgt picked up Mr Twist’s revolver and chased after the diminutive monk. Several figures were now moving across the lawns from the Hall and more lights were going on. Constable Blott hadn’t wasted time with his adversaries. A swift boot to the kneecap of one of the monks with his size twelve boot and a hefty punch to the stomach and jaw of the other two, soon brought their fighting spirit to a halt.  The small monk was now making his escape along the wooded footpath when he ran into Mr McQueen. “Oh, not you again!” the monk exclaimed, “I thought we’d sorted you out”.  “Look,” said Colin, “I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to give yourself up to the Police and I’m sure you must have been coerced into this business by those ruffians. As I said before, you have a fine deep voice and there will always be a place for you in the choir”. The little monk stood there for a moment, then went into a forward roll, sprang up face to waistband of Mr McQueen and then punched him in the testicles again. 

As Colin fell to the floor the monk stepped over him and continued to make his escape, only to come face to bosom this time with Miss Clench. As he stepped to one side, so did Miss Clench and as he stepped to the other side, she matched his movements. A little side to side dance now took place until the exasperated monk spoke. “It’s a bit late at night for an old woman to be walking in the woods isn’t it, Mrs?”  “I like to walk in the woods at night, you never know who you are going to meet”. “Well” he said, “Tonight you’ve met a monk with a gun”. Which he pointed at her. “Well”, she relied, “tonight you’ve met a mature lady with a handbag, and a handbag always beats a gun”. “This is not Rock, Paper, Scissors, Mrs”. With a practiced swing of the handbag, she relieved him of his gun. “There” she said, “Handbag wins”. The mini-monk had had enough. “Get out of my way you old trout, or you’ll get what he got”. “Oh dear, such rudeness from someone so young who really should be tucked up in his bed and sound asleep”.  Now he was really wound up. “I’ll put you to flaming sleep in a minute if you don’t get out of my pigging way”.  With that, he drew his fist back and punched at Miss Clench. She was holding her handbag in both hands, right at the intended point of contact. The monk’s hand smashed into the bag. He let out a scream. “What the f*** have you got in there, a ruddy house brick?”  “No” she replied, “Just half a brick”. With both hands clutching the bag, she raised it up and then brought it down on his hooded skull. He fell unconscious to the floor. Miss Clench bent down to check that he was still breathing. He was.

Sgt Grout had now found his way to where Miss Clench was standing and to where Mr McQueen had perched himself against a tree in order to soothe his troubles. The Sgt shouted for Constable Perkins to come and take charge of the unconscious monk. He turned to Miss Clench asking her to follow him so that he could keep an eye on her. “Yes Sgt” she replied, “But just one moment”. She turned her head in the direction of the monk and whispered, as any mother would to her own sleepy infant.   “Night, night, young man, sleep tight”. 

The Headmaster and several of the sixth form boys were now surrounding Mr Twist. A stretcher had been called for and he had been carried to the front of the Hall awaiting the arrival of the ambulance and a few more reinforcements from the police station.  The Headmaster accompanied Mr Twist to the hospital, Miss Clench was driven home and Mr McQueen limped back to his rooms, metaphorically kicking himself for allowing that diminutive individual to better him twice.


Published by crispinunderfelt

All round good egg. Humanist and red wine drinker.

6 thoughts on “Thompson’s lost plimsole

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