“Friday Fiction” Series: Life on the Third Rail, Chapters 1-3…
[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]
Living on the Third Rail
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Prologue
Lieutenant Robert Sherman swung into the Humvee with his right arm. He cradled his rifle on his lap and nodded to the driver, an American he only knew as John.
“Drop us outside the village, mate.”
“Yes, sir. Opposite side from where our guys are, right?”
Bobby couldn’t place the accent. US soldiers, their comrades in arms in the hellhole known as Afghanistan, spoke many kinds of English, none of them the Queen’s. He thought John’s was southern US, but no matter. John’s blood was as red as his, and they could both die that day.
About two miles from the village where they hoped to trap some murdering Talibans in a pincer movement to free the village, Bobby spotted a shadowy figure ahead who disappeared behind a berm. John saw him too and slowed.
“Let’s stop. Hicks, jump out and see what that bloke was about. Find his arse if you can.”
Everyone in the vehicle was thinking the same as Bobby and John: IED or land mine. Either one might be nasty.
Hicks jumped out the rear of the vehicle and ran forward. He examined the road and then behind the berm, shaking his head.
“Road only shows the tracks of the American lads,” he said upon his return. “They must already be in place. No sign of that local bloke.”
“Okay. Let’s go, John.”
The Humvee lurched forward as John went through the gears. Two hundred yards farther on they hit the IED.
The last thing Bobby remembered before regaining consciousness in a field hospital was the heavy vehicle flying into the air from the force of the blast. He discovered he was without his left hand, although it seemed to still be there, and his left leg hurt like hell.
Chapter One
Months later…
Bobby saw the drunk hassling the pretty nurse and moved in, restraining him. “Call the police,” he told her.
The coppers took over when they arrived, one constable taking away the handcuffed drunk while the other went somewhere else with the nurse to take her statement. She managed to send a silent thank you his way as they left. He returned to his seat in the waiting room.
He couldn’t help comparing the NHS ER to field hospitals in Afghanistan, not all that different than the tents for Covid victims he’d seen on the news over there. His second tour had ended with his injuries, but he had avoided the fiasco that American president had created after the Taliban’s blitzkrieg-style victory and chaotic evacuation that followed. What a mess!
Afghanistan hadn’t just involved American troops. It had been a cooperative NATO effort, with he and his British colleagues trying to sustain that nation-building, a disaster in the making from day one. The USSR’s Vietnam had become another American Vietnam, and they had dragged other nations’ combatants, consultants, and aid personnel down with them.
He was lucky in a sense. The wound in his leg had healed, only leaving a wee limp. The prosthetic left-hand was stronger than his right, although he’d never be able to tie a fly again. He’d have to buy ready-made ones if he wanted to go fishing in the Lake District. Or he’d use live bait that didn’t wriggle too much.
“Mr. Sherman? You’re up.” Bobby followed the older nurse into a small exam room. “What can we do for you today?”
“I’m just back from Germany two days and my stump’s itching like hell.” He raised his arm and wiggled the prosthetic’s fingers at her. “They said it might with the more humid climate here.”
“Who’s they?”
“The doctors at Ramstein airbase. I was there as a guest in their fancy hospital for a while.”
“I see. War wound then. I’ll take your vitals and then Dr. Murphy will be with you.”
***
The constable who had taken the first nurse’s statement caught Bobby on the way out.
“I probably should get your statement too, sir. I hate to make you go back to an NHS waiting room to do that. If it’s convenient for you, could you come to the station? We should take our prisoner in and get him sorted.”
“I was going there anyway, DC Brody. I have an appointment with DCI Jack Hardcastle there at ten.”
“Oh? Perfect. Either the other constable or I will take your statement if you come in a bit earlier. See you then?”
“I’ll be there. Now here’s me looking for a late breakfast at Dolly’s.”
“They call it brunch now. Some idea to attract toffs, I suspect, trying to make the old place a bit more posh. Still the same menu, though.”
Bobby entered the cafe with his bag of medicines, feeling a bit better about his stump’s condition. He’d been worried that the problem was some kind of allergic reaction to the prosthetic material, but it had been what the doctor in Germany had warned him might happen: a mold just getting started in the heat and humidity of an English summer. He was surprised to see the nurse he’d saved from the drunk gesturing towards her table.
“I didn’t get a chance to thank my hero,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Elaine Barton, but you already knew that.” She offered a hand, and he shook it, all the while enjoying her welcoming smile. “In the ER, we’re trained to sort such confrontations, but that drunken prat was damn strong. Sit down. I at least owe you a cuppa or some coffee. Theirs are both good here.” He sat, picked up a menu, but gave her his full attention. “Where’d you learn to handle yourself that way?”
“Bobby, Bobby Sherman.” It came out sounding to him like Bond, James Bond. Embarrassing. He skirted her question. “I know Dolly’s from way back. I was hoping they hadn’t changed. Actually, I’m having a full breakfast. I’ve only been back a few days, and I’ve skipped a few breakfasts at the boarding house, like today’s, and have done take-aways for other meals. I think coffee comes with breakfast, unless that’s changed.”
“That policy still applies. I’ll have to reward you in some other way. I saw that Brody hit you up for a statement. Aaron’s a nice fellow even if he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“I know that. He didn’t recognize me.”
“You mean from before?”
He touched the scar that ran from his right ear to his chin, another wound he’d received, before the other two and not nearly as bad, considering. “I didn’t have this back then, and I didn’t have my shaggy head of hair then either. I need a haircut.”
“You said you’ve only been back a few days. From where?”
“Afghanistan, by way of Germany.”
“Did you lose your hand to the Taliban?” she said, pointing to the prosthetic.
“Indirectly. They had a nasty habit of planting IEDs when they aren’t tending to poppy fields. Now they’re running that tip of a country again, or attempting to do that, so one can assume they don’t want to blow themselves up.”
“Think of the blood and treasure lost over two decades. It all started when I was twelve.”
Bobby did a quick calculation. “I’m only a bit older than you, I think, but I might have lost a good job while fighting over there for nothing.”
“You were called up?”
“That’s me being a weekend warrior because the money nicely complemented my pay in the Met as a DS, until that obligation became quite a bit more dangerous. And once I was over there, I convinced myself to keep at it, thinking we might be doing something positive for the Afghan people. Big mistake in hindsight. They’ve time-traveled back to before 2001.”
His full English breakfast arrived and he tucked in as if he hadn’t eaten in days. She watched him with a smile as he turned the plate around just so. He always sorted it so that first things he’d eat were closest, in order of preference, and, as he finished that, he’d turn the plate. In this case, it was fried eggs over ham accompanied by toast and marmalade. He broke the yolk so he could dip his toast.
“Nobody knew what would happen,” Elaine said, “especially two decades down the road. Originally the Americans only wanted revenge for nine-eleven; I’m not sure what the UK and other NATO countries wanted.”
“The Americans wanted a coalition so it didn’t look like they were policing the world alone. Or nation-building. They strongarmed us into participating, along with other NATO countries. Yet they unilaterally bailed out. Too late, and a bit disheartening, to say the least.” He eyed her. “But let’s change the topic. Did you get sorted with Aaron?”
“Not much to my statement. Painless. The drunk assaulted me and resisted you. Period. He’ll pay in some way. The Crown Court isn’t lenient with scrotes who assault health care workers, especially during and after Covid. I suppose you missed all that?”
“Yes, but I heard about it, of course. Tough times, I imagine?”
He took a sip of his coffee. Heaven! The swill the military served, American or English, hadn’t been much of an improvement on muddy water.
“The worst thing was that so many idiots refused to get vaccinated or even wear masks.”
“You probably didn’t expect anything like the pandemic when you opted for a nursing career. At least I went to Afghanistan knowing what to expect, or thought I did. How did you get into nursing, Elaine?”
“Good paying job, and I didn’t want to spend the years of study necessary to become a physician. The ER is as close as I’ve come. Helen’s the head, the nurse who attended you, but I’m second in command now. We’ve seen just about everything, even wounds like yours from motorway accidents.”
Bobby glanced at the diner’s clock. “I have to leave. I have an appointment to try to get my old job back.” He gulped some more coffee. “Raincheck on my reward?”
“I get off at four. I’ll take you to dinner. It’ll be eating out, but not take-away. Pub food and draught ale. I have the graveyard shift tonight, so I need to eat early and a lot.”
“I enjoy pubs. I’ll be waiting on that bench at the entrance to the hospital for you.”
Chapter Two
Bobby arrived early enough to make his statement to DC Brody. The constable led him to an interrogation room.
On the way, someone yelled, “Hey, Bobby Sherman, welcome back!”
“What was that all about?” Aaron said after they’d taken seats opposite each other in a claustrophobic room with a small table and two chairs. Bobby didn’t remember it, but things had changed in the station since he’d left: new people and remodeling.
“You probably don’t remember me. You’d just started, and I left soon after that for Afghanistan. I used to work here. I hope to get my old job back.”
“Um. Bobby Sherman? Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“DS Robert Sherman? I sat on the far side of the main room from you.”
Aaron thought a moment. “Aha! Now I remember. I worked for another DI and alongside another DS. That DS is no longer here. Moved to another station and is a DI now. I guess I have to say welcome back too. Maybe we’ll be working together. My DI is always complaining about being shorthanded. Is your appointment with DCI Hardcastle?”
“I hope so. I didn’t see Jack in his office. We should get started on my statement, though. He’s usually on time.” In fact, Bobby couldn’t remember Hardcastle ever being late.
Aaron was fast enough and thorough at taking Bobby’s statement, so the two were able to have a cuppa together before he looked for Hardcastle, who’d passed by, stopping only for a wave to Bobby and to grab a bag of crisps.
“I guess he remembers you,” Aaron said.
“I’m like a sheep that needs to be shorn, so Jack still has a good eye. I saved his butt once, so he should remember me. He was my DI, after all.”
“Um. Yes, I remember that now. I wasn’t on his team. Were you one of them who called him Hard-Arse? I was too new to risk saying anything like that.”
“I always thought of him as Kojak, with the lollipop replaced by a toothpick.”
Aaron smiled. “I heard that he needed that as a pacifier to replace a fag, a bad habit he’d ended.”
Bobby stood. “Good to catch up, Aaron. Maybe we’ll get a case a bit more interesting than a violent drunk.”
***
After a few pleasantries, mostly about army life—Jack Hardcastle had also experienced it in Yugoslavia—the graying DCI got down to business. He chewed his toothpick as he looked Bobby over.
“First, let’s get one thing straight, Sherman. The Met only has to give you back your old DS post, and that doesn’t have to be back here. Can’t be, as a matter of fact. No openings. In any case, you need one of our quacks to okay you for active duty. The Home Office doesn’t accept some damn American military doctor’s determination.”
Bobby frowned. “I see. I guess my record working for you isn’t good enough?”
Jack shrugged. “Might be for me, but like I said, we don’t have a DS position available here. God knows we need more coppers, but the superintendent has budget constraints. He also tends to follow Met rules, which means you’ll have to accept a DS position anywhere in the metropolitan area.”
“I might as well join the king’s guard then, I guess. Or maybe become a PI. So this appointment today is a waste of time, yours and mine?”
“Could be…unless…” Jack’s voice trailed off and he began to hum “God Save the King.” He stopped and then laughed at the hound-dog expression on Bobby’s face. “You always take things too seriously for your own good, lad. Would you accept my old DI position? It’s still open.”
“That’s not funny. I thought I only could only come back in as a DS somewhere else.”
“What I said was that the Met only has to offer you a DS. We can offer you something better. To keep the accountants happy, you’d come in here as a DS and I’d immediately promote you to DI. I’d heard about your being wounded over there in that hellhole. We kept my old position open for you. Need to think about it, Bobby?”
“Hell no! Thanks, Guv. I mean Detective Chief Inspector.”
“For you, still just Jack.” He stood and the two men shook hands. Jack then patted Bobby on the shoulder. “Everything’s already cleared with the super. You’ll still have to get our medic’s okay, although I’m sure that’s only a formality. You’re right-handed if I remember correctly?”
Bobby flexed the prosthetic fingers of this left hand. “This is state of the art. I just couldn’t do all the British military needed me to do, so I received an honorable discharge.”
“You don’t have to use a gun even if that were your right hand, just call for a SCO19. And I bet that prosthetic gives you a mean left hook. I heard about how you handled that drunk. Was that nurse worth it?”
Bobby smiled. “Promising. At least I won’t be the stereotypical wounded soldier flat on my back and falling for my nurse. I am looking forward to getting back in the dating game, though.” He waved the prosthetic hand again. “This might hold me back.”
“Nonsense. ‘Nough of that talk. You’ll be fine.” Jack handed Bobby a card. “Appointment for our Hindu quack. Ten a.m. tomorrow. Report here to work afterwards with your papers. One of your sergeants will get you sorted and set up in your new office. Welcome back, DI Sherman.”
***
“You look like the cat who ate the canary,” Elaine said as she approached the bench where Bobby had been waiting for her. “Must have been a better afternoon than morning.” She sat beside him. “Mine certainly was. Did you get your old job back?”
“Better than that. I got promoted. You can call me Detective Inspector Sherman now.”
“I didn’t realize your were in the Met. And that’s wonderful! Now we have two things to celebrate.” She leaned into him and kissed his cheek. “That’s an aperitif. We’ll take my car. I’m guessing you don’t have a vehicle yet.”
“I don’t even have a flat lined up yet. I have a room in a boarding house. Its best feature is that it’s close to my police station. Say…” He pulled the appointment card out of his pocket. “You don’t happen to know a Dr. Patel, do you?”
“He specializes in prosthetics, but he’s not NHS. For those who can afford him and have a need of prosthetics, we give them referrals to him. I’ve cosigned a few of those, all for accident victims, not coppers.”
“You don’t know him well enough to put in a good word for me, I suppose.”
Elaine tapped Bobby lightly in the gut. “From what I saw, you’re fit enough. Just tell him about how you handled that drunk. God, they can get nasty and violent sometimes, and they can be incredibly strong. I wonder why the Met is sending you to Patel.”
“Probably because of what you said: He’s a prosthetic specialist,” Bobby said, raising his left hand. “My DCI doesn’t seem to trust the American specialist I had in Germany.”
Elaine laughed. “Waste of money then. Patel will just confirm that specialist’s opinion, I’m sure. Can’t hurt to have him take another look at your stump, though.” She eyed him. “You ready, DI Robert Sherman? I need a nice pub dinner and ale to accompany it. I’m paying.”
“I should pay for my own.”
“We can split the check next time.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
Free fiction. While all my novels are reasonably priced, even the print versions, you can’t beat free. Current ‘zines now aren’t worth my time—their submission processes are more onerous than those for any novel—so I now give away my short fiction. If you’ve been regularly reading this blog, you’ll know that free fiction can be found in the “Steve’s Shorts,” “ABC Shorts,” and “Friday Fiction” archives, but it’s often serialized like this story. It then moves (non-serialized) into a free PDF download. See the complete list of free, downloadable PDFs on my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page at this website. If you feel guilty about enjoying the reading of my free fiction, please donate to your favorite charities; some good ones are the American Cancer Society, the American Heart Association, the Nature Conservancy, and the World Wildlife Fund. Donations to them and others are often tax deductible; donations to the NRA and PACs are not.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
