Nine

If you want to recapture your youth, cut off his allowance – Al Bernstein

Late-night phone calls made the Captain's blood freeze. It was a visceral reaction, and one that had only appeared in the years that he'd known Tintin, but it was a reaction that had intensified and gotten worse when Tintin had finally moved into Marlinspike Hall. Where as before, late-night phone calls were usually drunk friends talking rubbish, or remembering the good ol' days, now they heralded bad news, like a crow on the eve of battle. He would be sitting in his chair, or perhaps asleep in bed, and the phone would begin to ring. For a moment, he would feel annoyed. Who would ring this late? he would ask.

Then he would remember.

Tintin. Car accident? Drunk-driver? Guns? Knife? Random mugging or practiced vendetta? Kidnapped or murdered? A thousand scenarios would struggle for dominance as he grasped the phone and tentatively answered.

Usually, it would be a plea for help. "The last bus is gone, and we're too poor to get a taxi!" "I'm the designated driver, but I don't have a car." "Please pick me up: I'm cold and a bit tipsy!"

Other times it had been worse, and it was these phone calls that the Captain feared. The "We're sorry, but there's been an accident" or the "We're not sure what happened, but he's missing" calls. They lurked, waiting and grinning at his fear, in the shadows when the phone rang at night.

Now, late Saturday afternoon and pulling into the long drive at the Hall, the Captain figured that it hadn't been the worst Friday night.

The call had come at half past eight in the evening. He'd listened carefully as one of the Thompson's told him that Tintin had been shot. He'd been very calm, and asked – in a very calm way – which hospital was he going to? He'd listened, put the phone down, collected his car-keys, shooed Snowy from the front door, given up and let Snowy get into the car, and then had a mini heart attack. He'd sat in the car for a good five minutes, just parked in the drive-way, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, and grinding his teeth. Then, when he was able to, he drove to the hospital.

By the time he'd reached CHU Brugmann, Tintin was already in surgery. Both Thompsons met the Captain outside the hospital and explained what had happened: Tintin asked them to meet him outside the old factory in Moulinsart before eight o'clock, but they'd been late. They'd been held up in traffic, to be precise, and hadn't made it to the meeting until a little after eight. They'd found Tintin inside the factory on his own; his bike had been hidden in some bushes close by. They'd called the ambulance and as soon as they knew what hospital he was being taken to, they'd called the Captain.

Surgery had taken a few hours. Tintin had been shot in the hip of all places. The bullet had taken a small chunk of bone with it, but he was alive and kicking and, to the Captain's annoyance, able to sign himself out on Saturday afternoon.

"You should have stayed in hospital," the Captain grumbled as the car swung into the garage. For a brief moment, he considered ramming Tintin's motorbike. He wouldn't be able to get into trouble if he wasn't mobile. Luckily, sanity won out and he simply parked the car and glared at Tintin.

Tintin smiled back tiredly. "Worth it," he said. "The two guys that shot me are the same two that tried to run me over. At least one of them is living in a flat above the gallery, and works for Endaddine Akass."

"And getting shot to find that out was worth it?"

"I needed evidence. Now I have it."

"You're an idiot." The Captain opened the car door and got out. With a stiff groan, Tintin followed suit, his face lighting up when he heard the frenzied barking growing closer.

"Snowy!" he called. "Where's my big boy? Where's my big, bad boy?"

"I hope you're well enough to walk him," the Captain said as Snowy galloped into the garage and flung himself at Tintin. "You're not getting him all hyper and leaving him to me, are you?"

"No," Tintin said guiltily. He picked up Snowy and tried to balance him in such a way that his scrabbling paws couldn't hit against his injured hip.

"Liar."

"No, this is research."

Together they left the garage, pausing so that the Captain could slide the door shut. "Research?" he asked flatly.

"Yes. How much does your pet love you."

"Oh, I see. This is a very scientific piece of research, I take it?"

"Very. The findings are explosive."

"Oh? And what are your findings?"

"My dog loves me very much, while your cat hates you."

They entered the Hall from the back, using the French windows that led to a sumptuous sun room. The cat was snoozing on one of the wicker chairs. She looked up as they entered but decided none of them was carrying food and put her head back down. Snowy, on the other hand, was on the floor and still dancing around Tintin's legs.

"I can't fault you on your research," the Captain said glumly.

"It's a sad life," Tintin said consolingly.

"Feed him." The Captain pointed at Snowy. "I'm going to walk him soon: this stupid gallery thing is on tonight and I promised Ramó Nash I'd attend. I saw him yesterday, when he came to pick up that awful sculpture."

"You're going to that?" Tintin looked up, his tiredness replaced with a new feeling of alertness. "What time?"

The Captain groaned. "Oh, come on! Blistering barnacles, Tintin, you just got shot! Most people would take a day off!"

"I don't like mysteries, and I don't like it when people try to kill me! I sort of want to get to the bottom of this before they finish me off!"

"Well, maybe if you stop putting yourself in danger" –

"Danger my arse! You buy a disgusting sculpture, give my phone number to a strange man, and this is my fault?" The argument continued to the kitchen, where Tintin realised he couldn't stoop down to pick up Snowy's food bowl.

"Thundering typhoons, Tintin, how was I supposed to know that giving your number to someone would get them killed, and lead to a couple of attempts on your life? I'm not psychic! Need a hand?"

"Yes please, I've just been shot," Tintin snapped, giving up trying to reach for the food bowl.

"I know! That's why I'm trying to convince you to shut up and sit down for the night! Do you want to go to this thing? Honestly? Do you think they'll take another shot at you in a crowded gallery?"

"No," Tintin said uncertainly, "but I could…"

"What? Admire the art? Look at the evening dresses? Compare suits with other guys?" the Captain snapped. He shovelled half a tin of Chum into the food bowl and set it back on the floor for Snowy. "What could you possibly do? And keep in mind that you've just been shot, so the chances of a high-speed chase on foot is right out."

"You have a car," Tintin pointed out.

"And? You think I'm leaving a pleasant evening of free food and wine to drive your ass around Brussels in a high-speed chase?" They made their way to the living room, where Tintin gratefully dropped onto the couch, grimacing at the pain in his side.

"Need a painkiller?" the Captain asked sympathetically.

"Maybe later. What happened in HomeandAway last night?"

"Indy wasn't in it. Sorry." The Captain sat heavily into his favourite chair and blew out a noisy sigh. "Of course, you know what's going to happen, don't you?"

"She leaves Romeo and he gets with her half-sister?"

"Not in HomeandAway! Blistering barnacles, I mean with you getting shot!"

"Oh. Fair enough. No. What's going to happen?" Snowy nosed the door open and jumped up onto the couch beside Tintin, trying to snuggle into him but bumping against his injured hip. With a hiss, Tintin picked up the dog and placed him in his lap. Happy, Snowy curled up and started to lick Tintin's fingers.

"It's a good job it happened so late on a Friday," the Captain said glumly. "We have two days before child services turn up asking what happened. What am I supposed to tell them?"

"That I have a job, and I was doing it?" Tintin asked. "It's not like this is the first time I've been shot."

"No, but it's only the second time you've been shot after you started living here. Good god, I can't believe I've said that like it's a good thing." The Captain ran his hand over his face tiredly. "They'll show up, all smiles and sympathy, and do one of their 'assessments'. Then they'll figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Tintin asked, alarmed.

"That I have no idea what I'm doing." The Captain sat back and shuddered. "You'll end up back in a children's home. I'll end up with a nice, peaceful life… Actually, that doesn't sound too bad." He brightened up considerably. "No running around, flying off to different countries or facing down bad-guys!"

"Sounds awful," Tintin moaned. "Very tedious."

"I like tedious. Tedium is my middle name."

"I thought it was Francis? Well, if child services are going to send me away on Monday, I might as well live it up tonight and go to the gallery." Tintin turned his beaming smile on the Captain. "In for a penny, in for a pound, no?"