Jooster multi-chapter series: The Long Road, Chapter 11

[triedunture]

Title: The Long Road, Chapter 11
[Previous parts: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten]
Rating: PG13? I feel very silly giving this a rating. Just make up your own minds!
Beta: the ever-so British hwshipper
Length: 3988
Warnings: Angst, violence, general dark themes.
Summary: A very bad thing happens. And then we must go on.

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'Mphf,' Bertram W. Wooster said. It was a solid argument, he felt, with several pieces of evidence to uphold his thesis: waking was just Not On.

'Sir,' Jeeves' melodious voice whispered, 'it is seven-thirty.'

'Ngggh,' Bertie riposted.

'Indeed, sir. Most unfortunate, I agree.' Jeeves callously slid his arm out from under Bertie's neck, and Bertie's melon flopped to the mattress below. The young master let loose a low groan.

'Don't understand why I let you bully me into seven-thirty,' he mumbled as he rubbed the sleep-sands from his baby blues. 'Seven-thirty is an awful time to wake. Just bally awful.'

'If you recall, I had originally requested my customary waking hour of five o'clock.' Jeeves whipped his silk dressing gown round his pyjama'd frame like a conjurer. 'It was you, sir, who negotiated for the later time.'

'Yes, yes.' Bertie tunneled under a pillow and flapped his hand in the air. 'Go have your shower. I'll be up in a minute.'

'Very good, sir.' There was the vague sound of the door opening and closing as Jeeves oozed out on slippered feet.

It had been nearly two weeks since Bertie had first snugged down in the master bedroom with his manservant. Now the arrangement had become something of a permanent situation. It seemed that Bertie couldn't get a wink of sleep without the familiar heartbeat nearby; he'd tried and failed miserably.

It had happened that the day after said bedding-down, the doctor had stopped by, taken out Jeeves' stitches, and proclaimed him well enough to resume his duties, albeit in a careful and load-lightened manner. Mrs Fennaweave had packed her carpetbag with a firm nod and shook both men by the hand.

'I very rarely have the opportunity to see my patients recover, as most are too old and feeble. This was an unexpected pleasure,' she said with as much pleasantness as Bertie had ever heard from her. As he escorted the woman to the door to see her off and thank her for the thousandth time, she turned to him and, perceiving that Jeeves lagged behind, still buttoning his shirt perhaps, she whispered, 'You be careful, Mr Wooster.'

'What do you mean, Mrs Fennaweave?' he asked with a jovial air.

'I came in this morning to check on the patient one last time.' The nurse paused for a moment. 'Very early this morning.'

Bertie gave a start of realisation and stuck his hands in his slept-in trouser's pockets. 'Yes, yes, I suppose we made quite a picture, what? But I assure you, I didn't kick one whit in my sleep. Jeeves was perfectly safe.'

'I am not referring to his--' Mrs Fennaweave stopped and her jaw tightened. Bertie gazed at her in growing confusion, shaking his head slightly to show he wasn't following. 'I suppose it isn't any of my business. I was paid to do a job and I've done it. I'll just say goodbye, Mr Wooster.'

And she vanished, leaving behind the scent of iodine.

Bertie had watched Jeeves return to his quarters that first night with trepidation, but kept the stiff u.l. After all, Jeeves was a grown man, perfectly capable of sleeping alone in his room; he'd been doing so for years without incident. No need to kick up a fuss.

Except Bertie found that it was the young master who needed tending to. His first night alone in his bedroom, surrounded by fresh, clean sheets and no discernible trace of Jeeves, filled him with absolute horror. And when he closed his eyes and willed himself to unconsciousness, he was plagued by the most ghastly nightmares that had heretofore surfaced in the Wooster brain.

Upon waking, Bertie crept out into the hall and stopped in front of Jeeves' bedroom door. He considered knocking (just seeing Jeeves' face would be a help to his shattered nerves, he thought) but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to do such a disgraceful thing. He curled up on the carpet in front of the door and stayed there throughout the night, nodding off one moment and then sitting bolt upright the next.

When Jeeves found him in the early morning hours, slumped against the door-jamb, he didn't say a word. He merely looked down at Bertie, as expressionless as a plate-glass window, if plate-glass windows ever wore pyjamas and dressing gowns.

'Sorry,' Bertie had croaked. 'I couldn't...'

Jeeves offered his hand and helped Bertie to his feet. 'Come with me, sir,' he murmured with all the politeness of a valet leading his master to the proper hotel room. He took Bertie back to bed and resumed their position from the previous night: Bertie's head resting on Jeeves' chest, Jeeves' arm round Bertie's shoulder. Bertie was asleep in moments.

It was later agreed that the two couldn't sleep until noon every day; Jeeves had chores to do after all. And the moment he left the bed, Bertie would be wide awake, unable to continue sleeping in. So after a bit of discussion and debate, 7:30 in the ack emma became the appointed time for their joint rising.

But Bertie didn't have to like it.

With one last grunt, Bertie rolled out of the bed and padded off to run his own bath. At first it had grated on Jeeves' nerves that Bertie was running baths and toasting bread and attempting to dust shelves. That last one in particular had resulted in a bit of a spat:

'Sir, I cannot advise you to continue in this vein,' Jeeves had said with a certain coldness.

Bertie merely glanced at the vase that lay broken on the floor. 'I didn't like the blasted thing anyway. And now there's one less thing to dust, what?' He held his stolen feather-duster aloft.

'I am referring, sir, to the fact that your energies in the domestic realm are no longer a necessity.' Jeeves swept the china shards into a dustpan with two flicks of his wrist. 'It is my duty to cook and clean and see to your comforts, not vice versa.'

'But the doctor said—'

'The doctor said I am healed enough to return to work.' Jeeves took the feather-duster from Bertie's hand with a gentle touch to his wrist, forcing his grip to relax. 'It brings me great pleasure to carry out what duties I can; I ask that you allow me that small thing, sir.'

'All right,' Bertie mumbled. Then, perking up: 'But my egg skills are getting to be quite topping, Jeeves. Surely you wouldn't mind if I sling breakfast together once in awhile?'

The corner of Jeeves' mouth quivered, signalling his version of a smile. 'No, sir, I would not mind.'

'And if we're rising at the same time, I suppose I could allow you to toddle off to perform your ablutions instead of tending to me during mine?'

'Well, sir—'

'That settles that, then,' Bertie said, clapping his hands together. The second compromise of the Wooster household had been reached.

On this particular morning, Bertie rose from his hasty bath and threw on his dressing gown before rushing to the kitchen, but he was disappointed to find Jeeves there ahead of him, already dressed in his pinstriped trousers and other assorted valeting togs. He was laying strips on bacon in the frying pan on the stove; Bertie heard the faint sizzle and smelled the thick aroma.

'Oh, Jeeves,' he sighed, 'I wanted to cook the breakfast today.'

'Yesterday was your allotted day for the task, sir,' Jeeves reminded him, alluding the yet another compromise they'd reached, in addition to the new change of eating the morning repast together at the freshly delivered kitchen table.

'Well, at least let me lend a hand.' Bertie dove into the pantry and shuffled round for a jar of something to put on the toast. He found one unopened but decidedly foreign-looking. 'Jeeves, have you ever had grapefruit-guava jam?' he called over his shoulder.

'No, sir, I don't believe I've never had the opportunity to taste those two tropical fruits together. I recall that particular jar finding its way into the pantry as part of a large gift basket of edibles that your aunt sent for your last birthday.' The bacon hissed as Jeeves flipped it. In another pan, the eggs were well on their way to poached. Bertie sidled up to the stove to have a look; he still hadn't mastered poached eggs and he was keen to see them in action.

He unscrewed the g.-g. jam lid absent-mindedly. 'What sort of day do you suppose it is, Jeeves?' he asked.

'Hm, a day that requires a trip to the market, surely, sir. We also might find the time to drop in at the tailor's, as his telegrams inquiring after my health have become nearly frantic in their tone. Besides putting his mind at ease, we may order several summer-weight fabrics for the season, sir.' One egg was gently lifted from the boiling water with a slotted spoon.

Bertie found a butter knife in the drawer after a moment of fishing.

'Sounds easy enough. To the market and tailor's it is, then,' Bertie agreed. He had, in the past few days, been an accomplice on Jeeves' small trips round town during the day. The valet had requested his assistance in carrying heavy parcels and the like, as the doctor had recommended. Of course, Jeeves could have hired a delivery boy to slog about with the parcels, but this was a dashed good chance for Bertie to venture forth from the flat, and he took it. After all, he rather didn't like the notion of being alone in the homestead; after weeks with nothing unusual to report, the policemen had ceased to guard the front door.

Bertie took a slice of toast from a stack of its cooling brethren and jammed it thoroughly. He held the morsel before Jeeves' face, reaching his arm round the man's shoulder as he stood at the stove. 'Here, try a bit, would you?'

Jeeves dutifully took a small bite from the toast and chewed thoughtfully. 'A strange combination, sir, but refreshing in its own fashion,' he proclaimed after swallowing.

'Really?' Bertie took his own sample from the bitten toast. 'Golly, that isn't bad at all. Shall I—'

The peal of the telephone interrupted him, and Bertie padded off towards the noise. 'I've got it, Jeeves,' he assured when the valet moved to answer the ringing as well. 'You just keep an eye on the foodstuffs.'

Bertie shoved the rest of the toast in his hungry mouth and chewed quickly as he picked up the receiver. 'Bertie Wooster here,' he said in a slightly muffled toast-filled way.

'Mr Wooster, this is Inspector Evans.'

Bertie froze. He listened to the words that the inspector spoke over the telephone line, and he made only the requisite 'yeses' and 'I sees' in response. Then he placed the heavy receiver back in its cradle and stood, trembling, by the telephone table. He didn't move until Jeeves floated through the kitchen door.

'Breakfast is—' He stopped short upon seeing the young master so distraught. 'Sir, may I ask who was calling?'

'It was the police,' Bertie said. 'They want me to come down to the station.' He looked up at Jeeves. 'They've got him.'

Jeeves said nothing, merely took another step forward, gesturing with his eyes alone that Bertie should continue.

'At least, they think they've got him. Need me to drop in and point the finger. It makes a chap jolly well filled with butterflies, Jeeves.' Bertie passed a shaking hand over his brow. 'Suppose I can't pick out his face? What if it's not the correct man at all? What if—?'

'Sir.' Jeeves coughed lightly into his fist. 'You can only make your honest judgment and trust that the police will have done their work to the best possible degree. However, if the prospect of confronting this attacker disturbs you, then you are not obligated to go. We might stay in today; the weather looks bleak, after all,' he said, though Bertie could only detect one or two clouds outside the sitting room window.

Bertie shook his coco-nut with a frown. 'But, Jeeves, don't you want to see this bounder brought to justice?'

'I am more concerned with your peace of mind, sir.'

For a moment, Bertie considered it: holing up indoors and pretending not to have received the call from the inspector. To just go on as if nothing had happened, and spend the day reading snippets of the newspaper aloud to Jeeves as he darned a sock or something. But no. That cosy life was a dream, made impossible by the thought that somewhere in the city lurked a man who could bring Jeeves great harm.

'I have to go,' Bertie said.

'Then I will accompany you, sir,' Jeeves answered.

Bertie dressed slowly and carefully, making certain each button was in place and each fastener was done. He didn't know why, but he wanted to present a collected exterior to whomever he might meet in the police station. Jeeves shimmered out for a moment and returned with a rose for his buttonhole. He then took his hat and walking stick from Jeeves, eschewing the breakfast that the man had prepared.

'Nothing against your toothsome fare,' he apologised, 'but I don't think I could stomach anything at the moment.'

'Of course, sir,' Jeeves said, placing his own bowler hat on his head.

They procured a taxicab on the corner and made good time, arriving at the district police station in minutes. Bertie strode up the stone steps and through the heavy door with all the poise he could muster, but he faltered once he was inside the station proper. The place was chaos incarnate. The halls and sitting room bustled with uniformed men, cuffed convicts, urchins and working men from all walks of life, gentlemen demanding to see the chief of police, everyone shouting that they had the wrong man, that they were going to sock someone in the mouth if they didn't quiet down, that they were still waiting, damn it all to hell!

Bertie stood close to the doorway, marvelling at the writhing masses of humanity in that building. Somewhere behind him, Jeeves cleared his throat.
'Shall I ask for Inspector Evans, sir?'

Bertie scanned the teeming crowd. 'No need, old thing. That's the man there.' He pointed to the sandy-haired inspector, walking calmly through the madness towards them, studying some papers in his hands as if there wasn't a war going on round him. Bertie called out to him over the din, and he looked up.

'Ah, Mr Wooster.' He stepped forward to shake hands with them both. 'Mr Jeeves. Nice to meet you after only speaking to you over the telephone. But you needn't have come; only Mr Wooster can act as an eye-witness, as you have stated that you have no recollection of the gunman's face.'

'I am here nonetheless,' Jeeves said. 'Perhaps I will recognise the man after all. The memory can sometimes be made clear in this manner, can it not?'

'Yes, quite right. Well, if you would come this way.' The inspector led them through the rough crowd and down a corridor. The longer they walked, the quieter it became until only their footfalls echoed off the stonework. 'We'll walk you through the holding area, Mr Wooster. Now, lots of chaps will be there, but there's nothing to worry about; they're all locked up in cells. If you see a familiar face, just give a shout and then we'll know we have the right man.'

'He'll be able to see me?' Bertie asked.

'Yes, but he'll be behind sturdy iron bars. Won't be able to do a thing to you, on my honour,' Inspector Evans said.

They came at last to a door guarded by two beefy specimens of London's finest. After unlocking the door, the inspector led Bertie into the long hall, lined on either side with cage after cage. Inside many of these cells were men, some asleep and slurring in their drunken dreams on plank cots, some pacing the floor of their small space with muttered curses, some curled into tight balls in corners.

Bertie walked slowly down the line, looking carefully at each man.

'Take your time, sir,' the inspector said.

Bertie did so. One of the pacers snapped at him, 'What are you looking at?' Bertie merely tipped his hat and continued on briskly.

His eyes fell on an inmate who was not sleeping, pacing, or despairing. The man lounged on his plank bed, looking quite comfortable and at home. He wasn't watching Bertie, but staring up at the ceiling and whistling to himself. His coat was a threadbare dust colour, and his dark boots tapped in time to his song.

'Can you have him say something?' Bertie whispered to Inspector Evans, still staring at the man.

Evans called out, 'Skinner!'

The man Skinner looked over and said, 'Good day, inspector.' His voice was low, his tone pleasant, miles away from its original intent, but Bertie would know that sound anywhere.

'That's the man,' he said quietly. 'That's him.'

Skinner seemed to finally notice Bertie, and his watery grey eyes alighted on him, looking him up and down, from polished shoes to collar to walking stick. 'What's this, then?' he asked gruffly.

'You're finally going to court,' Evans told him. 'You've been identified.'

'Oh.' Skinner mused over Bertie again. 'Did I rob you, too?' His eyes, unfocused and bleary, seemed to hold no real recognition. It seemed entirely lop-sided to Bertie, who had feared this man and gave so much thought to what his future plans would be. Their brief encounter had changed Bertie's life forever. For this Skinner cove, though, it had been a day of no importance.

Bertie stepped closer to the bars. 'You don't remember me?'

Skinner sat up and shrugged. 'I've robbed lots of people.'

Without taking his eyes off the inmate, Bertie gestured behind himself, to where he could sense Jeeves still standing. 'You shot my valet in the process. Do you not recall that?'

Skinner scratched at his stubbled cheek and stood with languid calm. 'Can't say I do.'

'Steady on,' Evans said slowly, though whether to Bertie or Skinner, it wasn't clear.

Bertie shook his head, his eyes growing hard with ice. 'How can you ask a judge to be lenient with you when you don't even remember your crimes? How can you feel remorse for something you don't care to recall?'

'Simple, that.' Skinner leaned closer to the bars, his stale stench washing over Bertie. 'I don't feel no remorse, and anyone who thinks I should can—'

But the man was not allowed to finish his statement. Bertie lifted his walking stick and, with the speed of a viper, brought it through the iron bars and hooked it round Skinner's shoulders. His other hand darted through the bars on the man's other side and, grabbing both ends of the stick, pulled Skinner viciously against the wall of the cell. Skinner's forehead clanged against the metal and he gave a shout of pain and surprise.

This all had happened in the blink of an eye, leaving no one else any time to react. Skinner cried to be unhanded, and Bertie growled incoherently in response, keeping him pinned with all his wiry strength. Soon, though, everyone snapped into action: Bertie felt Evans and Jeeves put their hands on him to try and pull him away from the bars, but he would not let go. Blood was now running freely from the inmate's forehead, but Bertie adjusted his grip on the walking stick and smashed it against the back of Skinner's neck, hemming him in once more. Evans shouted for the guards, and more feet came running.

'For God's sake, Wooster, let him go!' Evans shouted.

'No,' Bertie snarled.

'Sir, please,' Jeeves said.

'No!'

Finally, the power of four men overcame Bertie and he was torn away. The whangee clattered to the floor and Skinner, gasping for the breath that had been choked from him, stumbled to the ground.

Still, Bertie fought his captors, lunging for the man, screaming threats and epitaphs and pure fury. The other inmates joined in the shouting, and soon the entire holding area was in an uproar.

'Take him out of here!' Evans ordered.

Jeeves' unruffled voice cut through some of the chaos. 'Is there a quiet room where I might—?'

'Yes, yes, through there!' someone directed, and before he knew what was happening, Bertie found himself shut in an empty private office with Jeeves' hands clamped on his arms to keep him from struggling.

'Let me go!' Bertie thrashed some more, but Jeeves stood firmly between Bertie and the door. On the other side, Bertie heard the guards ordering the inmates to be silent and the sounds of a racket slowly being controlled. But the fire in Bertie's heart would not die out in kind. He tried to free himself from the iron grip of his valet once more.

'Sir, please calm yourself.'

'I'll kill him!' Bertie screamed, nostrils flaring. 'I'll wipe that grin off his map, I swear!'

Jeeves shook him by the shoulders. 'Sir, stop it this instant!' This was roared with all the authority of a drill sergeant, and Bertie at last stopped struggling.

He went still, the colour draining from his face as his eyes focused on the man before him. His breathing came in pants and gasps, and his hands shook with the after-effects of adrenaline coursing through his blood. Bertie felt tears in his eyes.

'Oh, god,' he whispered. 'What am I doing?'

'Sir—'

'I'm going mad, aren't I?' Bertie's eyes darted along the stone floor as if looking for the reason that had deserted him. 'I'm going completely mad.'

'No, sir, you're—'

'I wanted to murder him. I still do. Oh, Christ in Heaven, Jeeves, I'm losing my mind.' He swayed on his feet, his gasps for air becoming tinged with tears that ran hotly down his face and down his throat. Still Jeeves held him close.

'Sir, please—'

'What's happening to me?' Bertie was weeping openly now. 'What sort of man am I turning into, Jeeves? I—'

Jeeves bent his head and placed his mouth over Bertie's, swallowing the sobbing questions, the heart-racing panic. His lips were firm and unhesitating, but soon they gentled and rested there softly, unpretending. Bertie's eyes widened, then slid shut, and more tears leaked from beneath his eyelids.

Jeeves broke the kiss and looked directly into Bertie's eyes, which drifted open under the scrutiny. 'You are still Bertram Wilberforce Wooster,' Jeeves said, 'and I am still at your side.'

Bertie stood there awestruck, clinging to Jeeves for support, knowing only that he couldn't stand alone.

Jeeves looked much the same, his eyes wide and disbelieving, as if he didn't quite trust the reality of what he had just done. He looked down into Bertie's face, and Bertie saw real fear bloom there, much like the morning he'd woken Jeeves from his nightmare.

'Jeeves, what...?'

Jeeves wrapped his arms round Bertie's slim shoulders and nestled Bertie's head under his chin, so that they couldn't see each other's faces. 'Let's return home, sir. I do not believe a police station is the most sensible setting for the conversation which I imagine we should now be having.'

'Yes,' Bertie nodded, staring blankly at the way his pale hand rested on Jeeves' black sleeve. 'Let's go home.'

Continue to Chapter 12.