A delicate operation - Chapter 3

As some of you may know, in the last month I've moved house, bought a new computer, and re-entered education. And just in case that wasn't enough mental turmoil, I'm now both without home internet access and hopelessly addicted to Welsh language television.
Therefore if I could ask a little leniency when judging the quality of the editing for this, and the next few instalments, and offer the guarantee that normal service will be resumed shortly.
As soon as I've watched the
'Pobol y Cwm' omnibus, possibly….

Title: A delicate operation
Author: clarrie
Rating: PG 13 (possibly rising)

The beige painted woodchip paper of the 'Bide a Wee' guesthouse peeled wetly from around the doorframe, it's curled edges stained brown at floor level from the coconut matting which partially covered the threadbare carpeting on the corridor.
Holmes extended a thin finger and picked distractedly at the substandard decoration. If his plans where to continue apace new arrangements would have to be made, they would need to secure the services of a proficient user of magic, easily enough done, a few questions in the right ears would almost certainly secure a suitable - he shied away from the word replacement.
Holmes took hold of the door handle and twisted hard, pushing the door inward with a smooth movement. A few hours sleep was what he needed, a rest behind the drawn curtains of his room. He stepped into the shadow of the doorway and threw his coat upon the floor.
An explosion of movement caught him off guard, the ball of the Slayer's foot smashed into his ribcage, an elbow was bought down heavily on his crown, the shock and pain knocking him to the floor. Holmes lay, stunned, as the Slayer's blows connected savagely with his throat and jaw. Grabbing blindly at his attacker's ankle Holmes pulled the Slayer to the floor, dragging himself to his feet as she fell. Before he could make use of this temporary advantage the Slayer was on her feet again and barrelling towards him, raking her nails across his face and throat, kicking his legs out from under him. Jabbing and clawing, the intent not to destroy, but to wound, to subdue.
Holmes lay still as the impact of the attack began to wane, the furious, disproportionate strength of his assailant became more controlled, and eventually, stopped. A mouthful of spittle flew at him from the darkness.
'Make no mistake, papa,' spat Russell, staring down at him with contempt, 'If you ever raise a hand to me again, I will end you.'

Sheets of slight but insistent rain were falling from a dishwater sky, still blue with the light of pre-dawn, as Angus Giles reached the front doorway to his lodgings, and -he thought as he attempted to locate his latchkey amongst the detritus that littered his pockets- most of it was endeavouring to flow down the back of his collar. He fumbled the key in his tiredness and bent to retrieve it from the step, wincing a little as his bones protested at their treatment. 'Hello puss,' he yawned, finding himself face to face with the house cat, 'I took the milk train, what's your excuse?'
'Maarp.' The cat bleated piteously and wrapped itself around his legs, sniffing elegantly at the residual odour of Gile's evening meal of fish paste sandwiches. 'Miiiiip.'
'That's easy for you to say.' Giles followed the scrawny feline into the hallway and removed his coat and hat, considering with quiet satisfaction the prospect of a few hours sleep before the day proper began.

'Sunday night, the Paillas, Reed. Scribble it in your diary.'
'Pardon Brooke?' The two Watchers stood, redundant, in the corridors of Bellum house. Waiting upon the call like two schoolboys in the headmaster's study. The clock on the wall counted down the minutes to their appointment, the time locking them out as surely as the bolted door.
'We're going to the Pallias on Sunday night, She's got a friend who, against all persuasion on my part, still wants to meet you.'
'She, I-I-I- Who? Who has a friend?'
'Oh, keep up Reed. Pol Lopez, from the typing pool, Misses Lopez and Kingdom wish us to escort them to the Pallias on Sunday evening, where there will be dancing and festivities,' he took a drag upon his cigarette and grinned wickedly, 'At the very least. Oops, here we go...
The door to the Slayer's quarters opened and a thin, mousey woman peered out into the corridor. She tucked a strand of rough, mud coloured, hair behind her ear and fingered the collar of her cardigan. 'Yes?' She enquired, pointlessly, fully aware of their identity.
'Reed and Brooke, ma'am.' Brooke smiled warmly and extended a hand, 'Modern ballistics training.'
'Quite.' Sniffed Watcher Harding, the Slayer's personal secretary. The challenge of her young charges development was her's alone, to her was the ultimate responsibility of the direction in which the Slayer's brief blossoming would taker her, and to her the burden of attempting to insure that it was not too brief. It was not a burden which sat easily upon her shoulders, and like innumerable Slayer PSs before her she had become petty and unapproachable. 'The Slayer will be taking her instruction in the main practise hall.' She peered down her nose at the two men, no mean feat given the nature of their comparative heights. 'If you would care to follow me.'

Bellum House hummed with military purpose. The main block, separated from the nurseries and sleeping quarters by winding corridors and thick walls of duty, rang with the sounds of activity as varied as it was essential. From one room, the steady tapping of typewriter keys spoke of a translating block, rendering an ancient volume in a tongue long dead, or more likely never truly alive, into, Standard English, loose leaf and Times New Roman. From another, girlish cries, hardened and too adult, as life and death conflicts were rehearsed in the safety of familiar surroundings, practised over and again until the point of ending becomes routine and the sensation of mortality loses it's sting. The sparse, happy sound which drifted into their hearing sounded isolated and out of place, to Reed, carefree chatter a rent in the cloth of responsibility from which Bellum was sewn.
They did indeed care to follow Watcher Harding, riding in the wake of her progress through the building at a slight distance. Taking long slow strides in contrast to her bustling, steps, short and rapid, her low heels rapping out a message on the stone and linoleum which lined their path, a staccato distillation of her personality.
'Through here please.' Harding disappeared through a set of modern doors, painted wood and safety glass sitting oddly in the carved stone of the building. Brooke paused in the corridor to finish his cigarette, holding it between the tip of his finger and thumb like a cinema gangster. He caught Reed's eye and gestured to the inscription above the door. 'How's your Latin, Reed old man?'
Reed frowned, puzzled. 'Duobus pedibus super terram? I'm sorry Ozzie I don't quite...'
Brooke let the cigarette fall to the stone floor and ground it beneath his heel. 'One of Mycroft's little jokes, a word from the prodigal to remind us all to keep on our toes.
'This agency stands two footed upon the ground?' Ghosts need not apply!' He gaped, turning excitedly to his erstwhile mentor, 'By God Brooke I thought you were pulling my leg when you told me that.'
'Deadly serious.'
'Have - Have you ever met him?'
'Mycroft? Not that I know of, got three days off school for his funereal. Had a bit of a soft spot for the old bugger ever since...'
'No, the other one.'
'No-no I'm bloody glad to say I haven't,' Brooke took out a fresh cigarette, tapped it distractedly against the wall and placed it between his lips before remembering himself and replacing it carefully in his top pocket, 'Don't go looking to meet the dead, Reed. There's a damn good reason they call it passing on.' He grinned, shaking off the melancholy. 'Come on - duty calls....'

'Mister? 'ere Mister! You dropped something! Mister!' The shambling form, draped in a coat that had at some long ago point been a respectable black velvet, now worn and shiny, darned all over in slightly mismatching thread, halted it's unsteady progress and turned it's head silently at the sound of the cries. White hair hung lank and shiny around it's shoulders and lined and twisted hand curled desperately around it's bundles. He watched as the ragged youth approached him, holding an object aloft and yelling. 'Here, mister! You want to take more care you do, there's all sorts round here.' The youth bought his hand down from above his head as he reached him, 'There's plenty who'd take advantage of a nice old gent like yourself.' The nasty little sound of a flick knife engaging filled the gap between them. 'Your wallet, guv, if you don't mind,' growled the youth, still smiling, 'and no heroics. I don't carry a thing if I'm not prepared to use it.'
His victim watched him without speaking, his eyes, watery and slightly bulbous beneath the wrinkled lids, remaining expressionless, but did not move.
'Come on, Grandad. I ain't got all day.' Hissed the youth nastily, 'Didn't no one ever tell you that time is money?'
His victim continued to watch him without moving or speaking. Making no attempt to cry for help, but giving no sign of handing over any of his possessions.
'Look you stupid old sod, stop -' The youth's words were halted mid sentence, his eyes grew wide and bulged out of their sockets with fear. He began to claw at his throat, clutching at the throbbing jugular as if there were a creature contained within which might hope to catch and kill. A soft, hopeless, gurgle bubbled between his lips and he fell to the ground.
He bent over the now lifeless body of the youth and silently, methodically went through his pockets, taking anything which held his interest. He picked up the flick knife from the gutter, where the youth had dropped it in panic and tested the blade. Still without a word he cut a length of dirty hair from the youth's scalp, and slipping it into his pocket, went on his way....

Reed watched the muscular young woman, as she danced back and forth, striking a dummy with feet and fists, driving a stake up through the ribs, down through the breastbone, through the back, the stomach, the shoulder blades, finished she slumped at the dummy's feet.
'Slayer!' Barked Harding at her charge. 'You will stand up straight in the presence of a Watcher!'
'Watcher Reed, Sir!' The young girl jumped rigidly to attention and saluted briskly. 'Watcher Brooke, Sir!'
'Morning Emily...' Muttered Reed smiling wanly over Brooke's shoulder as the senior Watcher stepped forward mischievously.
'What's up, kiddo?' Cooed Brooke grinning wickedly, 'How's tricks?'
The Slayer remained immobile, her gaze darting nervously towards her mentor for reassurance.
'Watcher Brooke would like you to provide a report of your actions.' Translated Harding, taking a seat at the edge of the hall and producing a notebook. 'If you will.'
The Slayer relaxed slightly, 'Mission was partially successful, resulting in the neutralisation of target 41b.' She paused, 'I believe that she was commonly referred to as the Lillith.'

'Now, our old staff sergeant used to have a saying, didn't he Reed?' Brooke stood beside the Slayer, adjusting her pose until the gun sat naturally in her hand, 'He used to say, don't go into Seoul, and if you do, don't come crying to me when they shrivel up and drop off. Which isn't really all that applicable in your case, but he had other advice too which I'm sure we can use. Fire.' A specially tipped bullet ripped through the target. 'Good girl! Now try a killing shot.' A second bullet pierced the right side of the cardboard dummy's chest. 'Well done!' Brooke beamed, 'We could have done with her out there, eh Reed?'
Reed smiled faintly. 'Now, Emily - that is - Slayer Hopkins, have you ever had a gun before? Well, you'll find that you'll have to be much more thorough when cleaning this than you would a normal handgun. Due - you see - due to the unique nature of the bullets. If you'd care to watch me do it first then we can - Oh, hello.' Reed lifted a hand in greeting as Wyndham-Pryce appeared in the doorway. 'Are you looking for Edward?'
The little man stared past him at Brooke and the Slayer. 'The Lillith?' A flicker of cruelty passed across his usually gentle features, shocking Reed a little. 'The bitch is dead?'
'Ding dong, Monty lad,' replied Brooke with a great show of casualness, 'alert the munchkins.'
The older Watcher's posture relaxed as if a burden had been suddenly removed from his shoulders, 'Goodness, goodness me,' He muttered to himself, smiling softly, 'dear me.' He turned on his heels and hurried away.
'Give my love to young Imelda,' called Brooke after his colleague, adding, quietly as an afterthought, 'Poor old sod.'

'Up and about at last Miss? Doesn't seem worth it somehow, the day's nearly over.' Norman Gardener paused in his polishing and smiled shyly at Russell as she slunk into the reading lounge. 'Been a bit poorly have you?'
She smiled distantly, and settled in the worn armchair like the lady of shallot reinterpreted for a domestic setting. 'Travel is so tiring.'
'That it is, Miss, that it is. You travel a lot do you? If you don't mind me asking.' 'Sometime it seems to be all we do.' She sighed.
'Rather you than me, that's all I can say.' Norman frowned. 'Couldn't stand his company, still, like they say, you can't choose your family.'
'No.'
'Still, could be worse I suppose.' Chattered Norman amiably. 'Did he have a bad war?'
'Hmm?' Muttered Russell, staring into nothing. 'I believe he did rather well out of them.' She snapped out of her stupor and turned a winning smile upon her host. 'I wonder, do you know of anywhere nice I might pick up something to eat? I confess I'm a little unfamiliar with the area, and I don't know where a traveller might eat alone without being bothered.'
'The 'Hound and Hall' is a nice clean place for a young lady, Miss, homely like. Not like one of them horrible coffee bars places.'
'And a traveller might be alone there? Without anyone bothering them?'
'I suppose so, Miss. Never really thought about it' He gave the sideboard a final sweep with the duster. 'Still, nothing wrong with liking your own company I always say.' He pushed the grubby cloth into his pocket and wiped the palm of his hands discreetly on his jersey. 'Time for a brew up, I think.' Norman smiled again, nervily. 'Cup of tea before you go?'

'The Gheddes isn't back yet I'm afraid.' Said Miss Holmes, by way of greeting as Reed and Brooke entered the library. ' I must say Saturday evenings are usually deader than Friday afternoons, it's rather nice to see - oh, dear me, how awful of me, babbling on - there's nothing wrong is there, to bring you here?'
Brooke rolled his eyes. 'Reed wanted to find out about the Lillith. Didn't you Reed?'
'A bit,' Reed nodded shyly, 'I wondered if there was any information?'
'The Lillith?' Miss Holmes frowned thoughtfully as she began to skim through the index, 'Turned in '98, of American Jewish extraction, New Jersey I believe, but living in Europe -'
'Couldn't pass a crib without stopping. ' Interjected Brooke, sprawling languidly beside the short term loans.
'Quite,' Murmured Miss Holmes, raising an eyebrow slightly at Brooke's phrasing, 'Why they called her the Lillith, I imagine,' She scrawled a list of titles on a sheet of pale notepaper in a tight, economic script, 'Absolutely monstrous - here, try these volumes. You really ought to talk to Wyndham-Pryce though, if you're interested.'
'Really?' Reed took the paper and skimmed the titles eagerly, 'I hadn't thought to-'
'Monty's a bit busy at the mo' Bats.' Brooke took his cigarette case from his breast pocket, and began to tap it distractedly on the tabletop, 'Got enough on his plate already.'
'Not trouble with Edward again, surely?' Sighed Miss Holmes, 'It's enough to break your heart, really it is,' She shook her head sadly before adding, practically, 'Ozzie dear I've told you before that you're not to smoke in here.'
'Consider me told, Batty,' Brooke grinned sheepishly and replaced the unlit cigarette in his pocket. 'You may slap my wrist if you wish.'
'Disrespectful child,' clucked Miss Holmes, 'Oh dear,' She pressed her hand to her mouth, 'You'll have to clear out I'm afraid, that is unless you want to lock up?'
'Really?' Broke grinned, 'The G.I. reunion already is it? How time flies.'
Miss Holmes did not dignify this with an answer, save to drop a bunch of keys onto the tabletop. 'Try and make sure that he doesn't draw moustaches on any of the woodcuts, won't you Reed?'
'I'll do my best.' Reed opened the first of a pile of volumes, 'Have fun.'
'We'll be checking to make sure that you're back before ten young lady, and don't let us hear that you've been hanging around one of those coffee bars with any of your beatnik friends -'
'Oh hush,' Miss Holmes slipped her coat on hurriedly, 'I've to be at one of Mrs Shoales' meetings, is all...'
'Dorothy Shoales? Crikey Bats, I never would have put you down as one of the table rapping and ouija board brigade.'
'What? Oh, no, dear me no, she's no more a medium than I am a small.' Miss Holmes gave an odd, schoolgirl giggle. 'I'm, um, I'm something in the way of a fifth columnist, dear, ensuring that it's only noxious smells that the kiddies make with their chemistry set and, um, not nitro-glycerine, as it were...' She laughed again, embarrassed at taking such childish delight in her adventure. 'Night night.'
Brooke grinned. 'Night night, Bats.'

'Going out, Miss?' Norman smiled, nervously. 'Hound and hall', dinner, 'course, you are, forget me own head next, I will.' He cleared his throat, 'That's, uh, that's a very nice frock if you don't mind me saying. Sweetheart collar they call it, don't they? You don't see many of them about nowadays.' He blushed. 'Me sister had a dress like that, is, uh, that's how I know the name like.'
Russell laughed, 'I'll bow to your superior knowledge in the matter, Mr Gardener, I don't follow the fashion pages much.'
'Good thing too, Miss, the way these girls dress nowadays. All those stripy shirts and trousers, they look like a bunch of little boys.'
'I really had no idea that I was so behind the times,' laughed Russell. 'I shall have to go shopping.'
'Oh don't worry yourself, Miss, that's a smashing frock.' Norman picked delicately at a spot of dirt on the counter, 'You seem happier tonight, Miss, if you don't mind me saying. In yourself like.'
'Do you know Mr Gardener, I believe I am.' Russell smiled, another winning smile. 'I really think I might have a little fun tonight.'

To be continued.