~7~ KARSILAMA ~7~

Stout was not his favorite, though Guinness was tolerable. Bitter was
too bitter, the lagers refreshing on a hot day, but honestly, what he
would have preferred was a good whisky on the rocks. Alas, he had no
money, and thus had to drink whatever anyone bought for him.
Except for that rotgut called white cider, you pretty much had to be on
your last legs to ingest that crap.

"Mulder?"

He drained the last third of his third Newcastle Brown and accepted a
fresh pint of...Tennants?

Neal nodded. "Thought you might want to try it from the tap instead
of the can."

"No pretty girls from the tap," rasped Mulder. God, he was well and
truly getting drunk, at four pints a mere lightweight by British
standards. With Neal, which would cause talk, but fuck it, why the
hell not. Phoebe clearly didn't give a shit. Simon and the rest could go
suck eggs. After all, they weren't the ones he'd spilled his guts too,
were they? They weren't the ones who'd come with him to London,
dragged him to the pub. Nope, that had all been Neal's idea. He was a
good friend, a good mate.

Neal eyed him, then glanced towards the band beginning to set up on
the stage across the room. Mulder could practically feel the burning
comments Neal wanted to make, so finally he muttered, "G'head, say
it."

"I never liked that cunt. And I don't care what you say, she is a bitch,
Mulder! I don't know what the hell you saw in her besides a vagina - "

Mulder stopped listening. The bubbles in his beer made a fascinating
counterpoint to Neal's rage. He mumbled, putting his head down on
the table. "You don't know her, Neal. Anyway, you just want to get
into my pants."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" hissed Neal, poking him hard in the
thigh with one finger. "Besides, I've already been in your pants, and
that has nothing to do with her fucking with your head. You know her
reputation, you know what I've seen, man!"

"I don't believe it. Phoebe would'n do that to me," Mulder awkwardly
rolled his head to look at his friend. "She wouldn't!"

"Tell me again what she said," demanded Neal, who had obviously
had an agenda since Phoebe's phone call earlier in the day.

Mulder sighed morosely. "That she was ditching my sorry ass if I
don't take her for dinner tomorrow night."

"And what kind of woman gives you this runaround after everything
else?"

"A gold digger?"

"No, Mulder," Very patiently. "A bitch. I don't know what kind of hold
she has over you, in fact, yeah, what kind of hold does she have over
you? Is it the sex? Coz surely you've got to know you can get that any
where, right? Women practically throw themselves at you," Neal
shook his head in disgusted admiration. "It's really not very fair to the
rest of us."

Gobsmacked, Mulder gave him an incredulous look. "You're gay!"

Neal shrugged. "I'm an equal opportunity kind of bloke."

"Yeah...whatever. And no, it's not the sex. Well, mostly not the sex. I
don't know, okay! I don't know, we just have this thing..."

"It's a shite thing is what it is."

Nothing much he could say to that. It was never easy, trying to
explain one's feelings when one didn't even know what they were.
Phoebe was hardly his first girlfriend, hell, she wasn't even the one
that was most fucked up.

"There's nothing I can say to make you see the light, is there?" asked
Neal softly.

Mulder sent him a wan smile. "Nope."

Neal was shaking his head, utter confusion and disbelief plain on his
face. He pulled Mulder's pint of lager out of his grasp, drank the rest of
it in one draught before saying, "That's it, no more alcohol for you."

Mulder sat up too quickly, reeled with dizziness and double vision.
"What the hell?"

"It's water for you from now on. I can't take this bunch of bollocks any
more."

"Oh come on, it's been a rough day," he knew he was whining, but
dammit, he was right.

"And it's about to get rougher."

Recognizing the voice, Mulder felt himself slump down. He absolutely
wanted to crawl into a cave and never come out again. He looked over
his shoulder at DC Brooks. "How did you know where to find me?"

"We have our ways," Brooks said, looking at the bar with
thirsty eyes. "Anyway, there's been another one."

"I don't want to go," Mulder moaned. He rubbed his face slowly,
wondering just what the hell he thought he was doing, wondering of
maybe this was farther than he was willing, wondering if his father
had been right all along.

"Your mate's right, son. Go get him some water," Brooks said to Neal
with a jerk of his head towards the bar. "Two pints!" he called, before
taking the recently vacated stool. "Now listen. You're going to throw
that water down your neck and then you're going to come with me to
our crime scene. You will not throw up, you will not make an ass out
of yourself, and more importantly, you will not make a mug out of me.
Understand?"

Mulder nodded.

He nodded through both pints of water and the requisite trip to the
gents to spend his penny, the 2 stops along the way to relieve himself,
once in an alley, once on the dark side of a nearby tree. He was never
going to drink so much at once. Never ever. At least he was feeling less
muddled in the head.

As they approached the crime scene - obvious from a distance by the
flashing blue lights of the pandas - Brooks broke his silence. "Looks like
another rape-murder. Ah, here we are."

The darkness of the evening was split by the ultra-bright lights being
set up by who he presumed were the Forensics people. White plastic
sheeting was being wound about the entirety of the crime scene to
keep out the press photographers. Even so, flashbulbs went off in
Mulder's face, afterimages burned into his retinas and making
walking over the rough ground difficult. Finally he asked Brooks,
"Where are we?"

"On the line between Elm St Station and Terminus. The switchyard."

Oh. Mulder went from drunk to sober in a moment. He wished it were
daytime, so he could see the area - it would just have to wait for the
morning. Nonetheless, in the residual glare of the lights, he could see
the embankment on the left, falling away from the tracks towards
what appeared to be either a very short, scraggly forest or a field of
brush and bramble. To the right loomed a couple of long, one storey
buildings that resembled tobacco barns. Rusty rolling stock
unattached to any engine sat on the tracks, and in the farthest
distance, just barely visible, was the Terminus station itself. Which
meant...they had come in by a back road? Maybe it wasn't important.
Or maybe he was out of it just enough to miss something that could
break the case wide open. He determined not to drink heavily again
until it was all over and done.

"Come on, this way," called Brooks, already several strides away,
holding out a tin of Vicks.

Jogging to catch up, Mulder took the tin and said, "Do we know
anything else?"

Brooks shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, seemed satisfied with
something. "We've two bodies this time, one old, one fresh. Bloke
walking his dog found the old one, WPC called in the other while
shining her torch along the embankment."

They entered the fenced-in area, ducking under blue and white CRIME
SCENE tape after a quick nod to the PC guarding the opening. There
was a heavy stench in the air, diesel fuel, creosote, a faint whiff of the
sea, and underneath, the skunky smell of death. The two women were
a couple of yards apart, the nearer one lying on her back, legs spread,
her face covered by her navy panties. Her shoulder-length straight
hair, dyed a harsh yellow, had been fanned out around her head like a
short halo. Given her choice in clothing color; long-sleeved dark red
shirt, pleated navy skirt - it was a grotesque parody of a Madonna
icon in real life.

Mulder took a moment to wonder at his apparently now-cast-iron
stomach. The sight was shocking, but he supposed the previous one
had taken away his dead body virginity. Perhaps by this time he'd
just seen so many crime scene photographs that real bodies made less
impression. At least she looked decent, not that she would be mistaken
for having dropped to the ground after a heart attack or an aneurysm.

Brooks strolled over to the other body, which lay on its side after
having been rolled or thrown down the embankment. This one was
naked, splayed loose limbed like a doll tossed aside by a child. Bruises
had bloomed on her fair skin, the entirety of her right side dark
maroon with pooled blood. Livor mortis, Mulder knew after reading
so many autopsy results, from lying there shortly after her death.

"Mitchell," called Brooks. "Where's the ME?"

The PC at the entrance turned and said, "Donaldson's on his way, sir.
Got caught up in that accident on Charleston Ave."

"Figures," Brooks muttered. He squatted downwind of the body and
squinted at her torso. A tech setting up lights turned them on and
Brooks grimaced, held his hand to his nose. "Ah, Christ. She's been
opened up. Forensic's'll tell what's been removed, if anything. Shoe
prints, looks like some teasing with a knife or other sharp implement. I
can see bite marks on her belly but I don't want to assume she's been
raped. Jones, I want pictures on my desk as soon as possible."

"Sir."

"I don't need to look, do I?" asked Mulder. A chill passed through him
and he turned the up the collar of his leather jacket.

Brooks briefly glanced over to the right, then returned his gaze to
Mulder and said without hesitation, "You get your ass down here
right now."

Mulder dutifully made his way to the body. There were no words to
describe the horror of it, of her. He was grateful he remained upright
and conscious, was even more relieved to feel pity instead of nausea.
He was also a little disturbed at the vague sense of excitement he felt
over the new puzzle.

"Get him!" yelled someone.

"Shit!" cried Brooks. He hastily stood and scrambled back up the
embankment, began running towards one of the long, single storey
buildings.

Mulder followed more slowly, noted the other coppers converging
upon a knot of people in the open space between buildings. There was
shouting, a lot of it, and as he approached the group two PC's forced a
tall, brown haired white man off the ground to his feet. He was
disheveled and wide-eyed, dressed in dark clothing and sturdy work
boots Mulder's father would have called 'shit kickers'. He was shoved
into the back of the nearest car and it soon drove off, lights flashing.

"Come on," panted Brooks. "Let's go interview our suspect."

On the way back to Duthie Park it belatedly occurred to Mulder that
Tosh was nowhere to be seen. "What about Tosh?"

Brooks snorted derisively. "Stupid fool broke his damned foot leaving
the Jolly Captain, gave himself a nasty crack on that thick skull as
well. He's in hospital for the next couple of days."

"So...does this mean I'm working with you, now?"

"Until Tosh gets back, that you are."

Admittedly, it was 10pm on a Friday night, but even so Duthie Park
was jumping. Mulder wasn't aware of it was because of the new
murders or something else. Nonetheless, the energy in the station was
charged, coppers walking everywhere with determined strides, faces
stern, no one taking time to chat or joke. It was eerie and he felt out of
the loop, even though he had been at the scene.