Progressive Stories

Ian and louise

It was a dark and stormy night. The power had been off to the cottage for several
hours. They’d eaten their meal by candlelight. It might have been a romantic
interlude. The rumble of thunder rattled the kitchen window where Ian stood, gazing
out into the darkness. Every so often a flash of lightning lit up his face. He was a
handsome man – tall, slimly built with blue eyes and sandy brown hair. Usually, too,
there was a softness to his features, a certain kindness in his eyes. But tonight he
just looked bone weary, drained. He sighed and turned from the window. Louise
was still seated at the table, her shoulders hunched and her head resting on her
arms, her attractiveness hidden from view. Was she crying or merely lost in
thought? He couldn’t tell. He wanted to touch her, comfort her in some way but
didn’t, couldn’t. What would it say? How would she respond? They’d said nothing
to one another the past hour or more, not that it had been easy to talk with the din of
the rain beating down on the tin roof. But the longer their silence had gone on the
harder it seemed for either one of them to speak at all. What more was there to say
anyway? Needing something to do, Ian began clearing the dishes from the table and
stacking them in the dishwasher.
‘Leave it, I’ll do it in the morning when the power’s back on,’ she said, perhaps more
harshly than she had intended.
She got up from the table, slowly, as if weighed down by some incredible force.
Taking a candle with her, she left the room.
Ian finished loading the dishwasher and with a resolute straightening of his back,
followed her.
Ian woke with a start and tumbled out of bed. The strident notes of the smoke alarm
were shrieking throughout the cottage. The smell of smoke was overwhelming. He
hastily shook Louise awake.
‘Get up!’ he urged, ‘There’s smoke, Louise, smoke!’
He opened the bedroom door. The smoke intensified. Through it he could just see
an orange glow from the direction of the kitchen. The smoke billowed and swirled,
becoming denser as the seconds ticked by. And, despite the thickening smoke, the
orange glow was becoming angrier. He slammed the bedroom door shut.
‘Quickly, Louise, grab your purse and get dressed! We’ll have to leave through the
French doors. It’s too dangerous to try the front or back doors.’
Grabbing his wallet and phone, he hastily threw on a top and jeans. He hustled
Louise out the door, off the verandah and away from the cottage. The palpable
tension between them of the previous evening was overwhelmed by the adrenalin
rush as their fight or flight response kicked in.
Safe outside, they looked back at their lovely cottage in stunned horror. Fire was
already erupting through the roof line above the kitchen, growing more intense as
they watched. In the distance, they could hear the peal of a fire appliance. Thinking
that someone had seen the flames and alerted the fire service, Ian rang 000 to make
sure. The call confirmed the fire appliance was on its way to their address.
And, at least the rain had stopped.
‘Ian, the streetlights are on, so the power is back on. We must have left something
on the stove that ignited when power was restored.’
‘Damn!’ Ian said forcefully. ‘I think that was my fault.’
The wooden floorboards and beams were delicious tinder for the hungry fire as it
moved through the house eating all in its path. The fire and smoke so fierce, fire
alarms in neighbouring houses were triggered sending frightened, half dressed
people into the street.
The canny, seeing the fire leaping from the cottage roof, grabbed garden hoses and
tried dousing the fire; their thin streams ineffectual. Other men, recognising the
potential danger, dragged Ian’s vintage motorbike from under the carport. Suddenly,
a series of explosions sent fragments of metal ricocheting across the front yard,
leaving all to look around in fright.
‘It’s the guns and ammo,’ shouted Ian pulling the men away. ‘Quick take cover,’ he
screamed as more bullets shot through the air.
The women of the street who had come out and gathered around Louise, screamed
and grabbed children running for their houses, as the men ducked for cover behind
cars.
‘I hope you’ve got a licence for those things!’ said Don.
Ian, sheepish, looked back at the house.
The fire brigade arrived in time for another hail of bullets and realising it was too
dangerous to attempt to control the fire, began a tentative reconnoitre of the
neighbours’ properties.
Don, realising his house was under threat by the uncontrolled fire, ran yelling for
Peggy to get the kids into the car and away from danger.
‘Just take what’s important,’ Peggy screamed as Don ran inside to collect money and
documents. ‘Don’t worry about the rest.’
The cottage was a black shadow against the yellow and orange flames shooting into
the sky; the toxic smoke blowing embers across neighbours’ houses. It was a
“Bonfire of the Vanities”. Ian had wanted them to barrel the old building but Louise
refused to let her grandmother’s house go.
The inertia of her shock dissipated, and Louise shrieked at Ian. ‘You idiot! You
fucking idiot!’ She clenched her fists and threw herself at him.
Ian recoiled and ducked his head, escaping the reach of Louise’s spindly arms.
Jonathon dropped his hold on Ian’s motorbike. He shouted at Don, ‘You got the bike,
mate? I’ll get Louise’. Her fists were clenched in readiness to strike Ian. The look on
her face said I won’t miss this time. Jonathon grabbed Louise around her waist. Then
he hesitated as he felt the roundness of her belly. His mind flashed back to Sunday
at the barbeque in Don and Peggy’s backyard and Sarah’s whispers ‘I reckon she’s
pregnant. God help them!’ Jonathon wondered if Ian knew. His next thought had
been: whose it is?
This has been a night of revelation Jonathon thought as he softened his hold on
Louise – the guns and bullets and now a baby thrown into the mix.
‘Well you’ve got what you wanted, Ian. Fuck you!’ Louise continued to shriek. ‘The
cottage’s gone.’
‘But…’ Ian’s plea was interrupted.
‘Now you can build the concrete box of a house you want, just like your bloody
mates.’
The rain began to fall again. Big splats – the prelude to the torrent of a tropical
rainstorm – assaulted Louise and mingled with the tears and soot that had settled on
her face.
‘You’ve destroyed my grandma’s house. I hate you.’
Jonathon held Louise back, this time grabbing her arm, arresting her lunge at Ian.
‘And what’s with the guns? And the ammo? You said you were done with that.’
Her breath, forced through tears and rain, hissed ‘You’re a liar. I hate you. I hate
you.’
She collapsed into Jonathon’s chest. Drained of all energy she sobbed, felt his
warmth, his heartbeat and the familiar smell of beeswax from his wood-turning
hobby. Johnathon gently pushed her away. ‘It’s okay, Louise’.
Ian slouched helplessly staring at the embers, whilst
Jonathon stood, awkward, feeling sick. The sensation of Louise’s swollen belly
stayed imprinted on his fingers.
The worsening downpour quelled the flames in the nearby houses. Firefighters
inspected the remnants of it as the neighbours gathered together in small groups,
gazing at the blackened walls and corrugated iron.
´You arsehole´ shouted Don, ‘who in the fuck keeps ammunition in their garage? My
house, my beautiful house!´ he fell to the ground and knelt in the seeping mud.
Peggy put her arms around him but he pushed her away, refusing to be comforted.
A firefighter emerged from behind Ian and Louise’s house. ‘Looks like it was
deliberately lit,’ he said shaking his head, holding an empty, blackened Jerry can.
The noise of the rain mixed with a distant roar which gradually became louder.
Initially no one noticed but then the roar became so loud that everyone had to take
note. Seven Harley Davidson’s sped boldly past the smoldering ruins. Menacing,
black helmets, leather and glinting chrome flashed through the rain and smoke.
Louise watched them with dismay. What had Ian got mixed up in now?
The rain-drenched crowd watched the bikers stop, just beyond the police car which
had arrived moments earlier. Six riders stood astride their bikes, but one man while
still removing his helmet, ran towards Ian. As he approached both Ian and Louise
moved forward. ‘Vito!’ they shouted, as the leather-clad figure wrapped his arms
around them both. Vito continued holding Louise, but Ian stepped away, shook his
head, and said, ‘I never thought I’d see you here at…’ he looked at his wristwatch,
’half past two in the morning!’
Vito regarded the ruined cottage, ‘I’m so sorry for your home. We were playing cards
when we heard the fire engines and I had a bad feeling. We came to see where they
were going.’
A policeman stepped closer to Ian. ‘Do you know these men?’ He gestured towards
the bike riders.
Ian turned, ‘No. But Vito’s an old friend and the others are in his group. They’re on a
touring holiday. Mixing business with pleasure, and…’ he pressed fingers to his
forehead, ‘I’m so glad to see him.’ The final words were almost a sob.
Vito’s grasped Ian’s shoulder and the gesture steadied him. Ian said ruefully, ‘Looks
like your fireworks disappeared in the blaze.’
Vito shrugged.
Don yelled angrily. ‘Did you have fireworks in that bloody garage as well as
ammunition?’
‘Only fireworks. Vito donated them for next weekend’s village fete.’
‘You said guns and ammo. We heard you.’ Don looked back to the others who
nodded. ‘And we saw it all exploding.’
‘Sorry.’ Ian exhaled, ‘That’s what Vito called them, and the name stuck in my brain.
Some of the biggest are impressive – as you saw.’
‘And where did you get these fireworks?’ asked the policeman.
‘My factory in China.’ said Vito, producing a business card.
Vito shouted to the other bikers, ‘Le nostre merci sonobruciate!’ He turned to the
quizzical policeman, ‘I tell them. Fireworks are finito.’
Vito looked at Louise. ‘She’s exhausted, Ian. You should come to the hotel. They
have rooms empty.’
Sarah offered beds in her home, but Louise unexpectedly shook her head and
moved to Ian’s side. ‘We’ll use the local hotel. The car’s parked on the road, so
we’ve still got transport’
Louise’s rage had dissolved with the last of the rain, though the noise of her anger
still vibrated in the air. She appeared drained, with dark, shadowed eyes dominating
a gaunt face.
The police agreed to the arrangement, then Ian drove Louise away with a motorbike
escort.
At the hotel, Vito organized a room. While Louise washed the night’s grime away, Ian
shared a glass of Lagavulin with Vito in the lounge. By the time he entered their
bedroom Louise was emerging from the shower wrapped in a towel. He gave her the
whisky he’d brought from the bar and urged her drink it while he cleaned himself up.
When he returned Louise was sitting in bed, an empty glass in her hand. She looked
frail, thin limbs in sharp contrast to the enlarged midriff.
“I’m sorry. I said things to make you hurt – like me.’ She looked up, but Ian waved her
words away and climbed into bed.
‘They talked about me at that barbecue last week. They think I’m pregnant.’ A tear
slid from the corner of her eye.
Ian took her in his arms and pulled her down onto the pillows. ‘Oh, my love. Why
didn’t you didn’t tell me before? Shush. Try and sleep. You need to rest before the
chemo starts tomorrow.’

---

Senior Constable Pete Willasee sat on the corner of his desk, deep in thought and
bouncing his fingers together as if clutching a non-existent ball. Watching him,
Constable Andrew Milkins had thoughts of his his own. He had seen his boss like
this before. He would chew over events from a crime scene, dredge connections
from his memory, imagine what was going on in people’s heads… Sometimes a
searing insight would come that set an investigation on a new path. He was good at
his job; it wouldn’t be long before he would be promoted to Detective Sergeant and
move on from the village posting. But this wasn’t a crime scene they had returned
from – was it? A regrettable house fire, with a fireworks display thrown in. The
blackened jerry can had come from the shed, but jerry cans in sheds were hardly
unusual. Don’t overthink it boss, he thought, and stifled a yawn, glancing at his
watch. It’ll soon be 6 am when night shift ends and I can go home.
Willasee paused his finger drumming, looked over to his constable and addressed
the air. ‘I don’t buy it. We heard those explosions as we left the station – they weren’t
from fireworks. One of the firies told me that he definitely heard the zing of bullets.
And those bikies, with one owning a fireworks factory in China? We can check that
out but ten to one that house or garage had ammunition stored in it.’
Andrew had nothing to offer. He sat passively, expecting Willasee to go on.
‘I’ll make some notes for Senior Constable Dawson to follow up when he comes on
duty. This is definitely fishy.’ Turning to Andrew he added, ‘Leave a note for
Constable Thomason when he comes on duty to check out things at the pub. The
bikies are “mixing business with pleasure” that guy Ian said. I’d like to know what sort
of business, and what sort of pleasure, brings those guys to this village.’
Hercule Foyle arrived an hour later. He met Ian and Louise Brown, commiserated
with them that the rain had stopped too soon and asked them if their out-building had
been a garage, a carport or a shed.
He then walked next door, met Don and Peggy Jones and clicked his tongue as he
examined the ruined side of their house and listened silently to Don’s moans and
complaints. After the fire-fighter who had found the empty jerrycan had shown it to
him, HF replaced it behind the ruins of Ian and Louise’s house and shook his head.
He wandered around, sniffing and poking at the ruins, and then walked slowly into
the centre of the village, watching it wake and begin a new day, and entered the one
and only hotel. He asked for Ian and Louise’s room number and, just under an hour
later, emerged and walked over the road to the police station. The time was 6.25
a.m.
“Good heavens!” Senior Constable Dawson exclaimed, “I’ve just come on duty and
read Pete Willasee’s notes on the fire, and you walk in. I’ve certainly heard of you,
sir, and I’m rather glad you’re here. Extra eyes on the job, so to speak. But how did
you know about the fire in the first place?”
“Ah, S.C. Dawson,” Hercule Foyle replied, “another happy coincidence, even though
I don’t believe in coincidences. I happen to be staying with an old friend of mine,
Miss Joan Marble. You may have heard of her, even though she lives in the next
village. She received an early telephone call from a friend in this village and
arranged for me to be brought here by the milkman, who services both villages. Miss
Marble considered that, as the matter had to do with a fire and motorcycle riders, it
was more in my bailiwick than hers.”
“Well,” replied S.C. Dawson, “I must admit I’m rather pleased to hear that. Not that I
have any, um, yes, let’s get down to work, shall we? These notes of …”
“Excuse me, Senior Constable,” HF interrupted quietly with a raised hand, “there is
no need for notes or for discussion. There is only the need for you and your
constable to bring all of the motorcycle riders, including Mr Vito, to the hotel in, shall
we say, one hour’s time – seven-thirty – together with Peggy and Donald Jones and
Sarah and Jonathon Smith. You may have to ask your two comrades who have just
gone off duty to come back on duty for a short period of time. I shall address
everyone in the hotel’s dining room, which will be vacant, and I shall bring Louise
and Ian Brown with me. Ah, you do carry handcuffs with you, don’t you, Senior
Constable?”
Just after 7.32 a.m., Hercule Foyle stood up in the hotel dining room, cleared his
throat and quickly counted those present. He nodded to himself. Probably the largest
audience he’d ever had. Twenty, including two from the fire brigade and the
hotel-keeper who insisted, seeing it was his hotel, after all.
“Good morning,” he began, “and thank you for attending so willingly. Last night’s fire
was a most disruptive disturbance, and the sooner it has been dealt with, the better
for all concerned, and especially for Mrs Louise Brown who is not pregnant but is
suffering with gastro-oesophageal cancer. With her new salt and smoked-food free
diet, and giving up cigarettes and Scotch, we very much hope that she will soon be
on her road to recovery. Unfortunately, she will have to do so without the assistance
of her husband, Mr Ian Brown. He is a fully paid-up member of the Vito motorcycle
gang and his own cycle was in the garage, shed or carport – which has been so
completely destroyed that I had to ask which it was – and his neighbours aren’t at all
sure, either, as they’ve never seen inside it.”
Hercure Foyle paused for a moment, smiled at Messrs Jones and Smith, and
continued. “The building was the gang’s, ah, store-place, until last night, and held all
of their firearms and ammunition, plus a deal of imported fireworks purchased to be
used as innocent camouflage by Mr Vito who told his fellow villains, in Italian, that
“Our goods – OUR goods – are burned.” Mr Ian Brown did set fire to his kitchen, but
accidentally by leaving the gas on for the one hundred and first time (as his wife
inferred later). The power was off, you will remember. When asked if he knew the
cycle riders, he stated pathetically , “No, I do not know them but they are on a touring
holiday.” Yes, Mr Ian Brown lied more than once to cover his gang’s hoard of
firearms, and had spent the previous day so much on edge that he badly upset Mrs
Louise Brown just before she was to begin treatment for her illness. Fortunately, they
have told me that they had quickly realised what they were doing to each other and
had mended their relationship as they do love each other.”
Hercure Foyle again paused, to let his words sink in, and then continued. “Mr Vito,
helped Ian Brown steady himself as he was very rattled, and he, Mr Vito, and the
other members of the gang, will have time to consider reasons for collecting illegal
firearms and ammunition while they await their day in court. Fortunately, Louise
Brown has friends nearby in Peggy Jones and Sarah Smith.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, this unhappy incident can be brought to a close and I
thank you for your attendance. Although it is rather early, I’m sure Mine Host of this
hostelry will happily afford those of us who are still free, a round of his good cheer as
he will be able to ‘dine on the story,’ as they say, for some considerable time to
come. It was, in fact, ladies and gentlemen, a story cleverly concealed by words