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It was Saturday, June 22nd. The sun was beaming, the skies were clear, and the temperature was only set to rise. Unprecedented, the papers said. Hottest June 22nd in 30 years. Most enjoyable, too, if you asked most of Oxford. Every inch of the town and its surrounding areas was plastered with families, couples, and everyone who had their Saturday off. Swimming in the river, eating ice cream, playing croquet on the college lawns. Water fighting had become popular with the schoolboys, and they walked around with buckets of icy water ready to claim their next victim; normally each other, but occasionally a parent or unlucky stranger. Those students suffering through their finals even took some advantage of the sunshine, taking shelter in the cool shadows of trees and spreading textbooks amidst the leaf litter. Even those stuck at their posts, be it corner shop, bank counter, or office desk, took some pleasure in the weather, shirtsleeves rolled up and glasses of lemonade close by. It was safe to say that Oxford enjoyed a spot of hot weather; people's best came out with their shorts and linen shirts. For the most part, anyway.
Morse, conversely, despised hot weather. Particularly hot weather combined with being on duty. Sweat seeped through his clothes, undershirt sticking to his skin in a most unpleasant manner, and his trousers not quite falling away from his knees as they should when he stood. Having to bring at least two spare shirts with him to the station, in case he should find himself made unpresentable by the heat. Spending half his shift taking his jacket on and off as required. Perhaps he'd found the problem - his summer wardrobe could possibly use some work, though such high temperatures were usually rare in a town so frequently grey and spattering rain as Oxford. And the primary problem, regardless of what shirts he may or may not need, was that he was on duty; the Oxfordian criminal class seemed to have little regard for the weather when making their felonious plans.
The case Morse was working was a robbery-turned-manslaughter at a local butcher's. Harriet Mansfield, daughter of the owner, a Mr. Lawrence Mansfield, was found on the shop floor with a blow to the back of the head early this morning. The register was empty, and the unfortunate young girl was pronounced dead laid among the broken glass and blood - not all of which was her own, on account of the freshly bought joint of beef that hit the floor with her - at just past 9:00 am. An excellent start for Morse, who left that particular scene rather swiftly lest his own shirt swiftly become stained scarlet as hers was.
Nevertheless, the puddle of blood and bone that left Morse leant against the facade with his mind a little vacant proved useful in other ways. Like Theseus trailing Ariadne's thread, their crimson prints (there were two distinct sets, in fact) allowed Morse to track them all the way to a house. Not the high achieving malfaiteurs he'd become accustomed to finding alongside dead bodies, but rather more likely to be two local boys looking to grab some cash. Just with an unfortunate consequence of a dead girl and a significantly longer time to be expected behind bars.
One had more sense than the other, though, or at least better luck. The boy - maybe seventeen, maybe twenty-three - who answered the door had scraped up knuckles and a little blood on his sock, and by the time Morse asked where he'd been this morning, he had that cornered-animal look to him; not sure whether to lie, fight, run or simply come clean, but plainly panicked and afraid. He picked flight, in the end, and elbowed Morse aside as he sprinted, only socks on his feet, braces hanging at his waist swinging with the rhythm of his stride. Morse pursued him at a sprint for nearly twenty minutes before finally tackling him to the ground on the grass outside the railway station. He accepted the reality of his errors, then, and allowed Morse to escort him back to the station unrestrained, babbling apologies and wiping tears from his cheeks between heaving breaths that matched Morse’s own. Not the day he'd have chosen for a run.
The walk back to the station was long, and steadily Morse felt a pain settle in his scalp. By the time he returned to the police station with his thief in tow, it was throbbing unpleasantly. Strange appeared in the entrance as he approached, giving him a quizzical look,
“Alright?”
Morse nodded, and spoke between breaths,
“One half of the- the Mansfield case, uh- case from this morning.”
“Blimey, you work fast. Haven't even made it to the scene yet.”
He nodded again,
“Could you take- take him down to hold- to holding?”
“Course, matey. Runner, eh?”
“Yeah… I'm going to- uh- you know…” he trailer off and just gestured vaguely towards the building.
“I'll see you in the Guv’s office then, matey.”
Morse just nodded in response.
—
He headed first to the cloakroom, where he discarded the sweat soaked shirt he'd put on this morning in favour of one left here for such occasions, in hopes that the roiling heat under his skin and pummeling in his head might abate. His heart also stubbornly refused to slow its pace, leaving him not quite able to draw enough breath. Perfectly alright, nothing a bit of rest at his desk couldn't fix. He slid his tie up to his throat and headed towards that promise of relief that was his desk. Not that he made it quite that far, of course - Thursday beckoned him into his own office the moment he stepped through the doors.
“Morse! I hear you've already found a suspect. That must be record time even for you.”
“Sir. He left a, uh-” he found he still couldn't draw enough air to his chest, “ a trail of blood… footprints, sir– right to his front door. I suspect–” he sighed and tried again, “suspect they didn't think she was, uh- actually dead. sir.”
“So, two of them, then? Any ideas for him?”
“Yes. Two sets of prints… and no, sir, but– but the boy will likely give, uh-” he swallowed thickly, drawing in a deep breath that still wouldn't relieve the aching void in his chest, “-give up his friend quite quickly… young, and quite, uh… afraid.”
“Right. Best get onto him then. You been out in the sun, Morse? Looks like you've got a touch of sunburn.”
Morse frowned and touched his hand to his forehead. His skin was burning hot - perhaps Thursday was right.
“Need to get you a hat, eh?” Thursday chuckled, “anyway, I'll meet you downstairs?”
Following Morse’s assent, he turned to leave. Morse laid his hand back on his forehead. His apparently toasted skin felt as hot as he did, the unpleasant rolls of heat that spread from his shoulders. He just needed to sit a minute. Then his pulse would stop racing, his breathing would depend, and the nausea would fade. He frowned. Nausea? When had that started? He supposed it was a mixture of incessant drumming pain in his skull and the frequent heaving breaths he was taking. Damn sunshine. Morse would happily have enjoyed a nice damp June, or even just one with a few more clouds. None of this ‘record temperature’ stuff everywhere did anyone any good.
Job went on though. Their young killer awaited. So he stood, though that sent a fluttering dart of pain through his chest. He leant back on his desk, breathing as deep as he dared, willing his pulse back down and pushing back the roiling threat in his stomach. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, eyes closed tight, but after what felt like a few seconds, he dragged himself towards the interrogation room. What was wrong with him today?
—
“What's his name?”
The boy sat opposite Thursday. Morse stood in his corner, Strange in the other. The boy had been crying - eyes puffed up and red, handkerchief balled in a clenched fist. Sam Macavely, aged 19. His eyes darted between the three of them, fear in his gaze. He looked down at the desk, muttering his reply;
“Just me. I did it on my own.”
“Look, Sam-” Thursday hesitated just slightly at the name, “-we know that's not true. This will all go better for you if you cooperate with us.”
The boy, Sam, met his gaze, which was not an unkind one. Thursday had a soft spot for the young and ill-fated.
“My, my older brother. Ben. He planned it, see. We're short on rent, as usual, and we'll be on the streets if we don't pay again. Since Dad–” The boy sighed.
“Well,” Thursday fixed the boy with a stern gaze, “you won't need to worry about having a roof over your head for a while. The girl's dead.”
His eyes widened. “What? No, no, not Harriet. No, she was alive when we left. I felt her pulse. You have to believe me! I'm no murderer, sir.”
Morse interjected, “But she was unconscious?” the world was beginning to tilt for him, and he hoped he wouldn't end up the same.
“Yeah. I saw Ben- I saw him hit her. Knock her down. But that was all, just out cold. I checked, sir, I did.”
“She fell against the counter. Broke the glass. Broke her skull.” Morse’s stomach was really starting to turn, and he felt his pulse jumping.
The boy nodded, “there was glass, on the floor.”
Something was creeping along his throat. He felt a flush rise in his face along with it. He needed to-
“Excuse me a second.”
He made an effort to walk normally as he pushed open the door, though he wobbled a little. His headache was nearly blinding, and his vision was grey at its edges. He made his way towards the bathroom, pace quickening with every step.
Morse near fell to his knees in front of the toilet bowl as his guts knotted. Dizziness waved through him as he heaved his breakfast out of his mouth. Coughing and spitting, he leaned his aching head against the cool porcelain. The acid taste in his mouth caught him first, but it was the smell that hit his nostrils that made the bubbling feeling in his throat return, a wash of unsteadiness accompanying the emptying of his guts once more.
He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there. Time blurred in painful seconds. He felt hot and uncomfortable, though his shirt remained as crisp, clean and dry as when he'd put it on. Still he couldn't slow his heart or block out the pounding in his head. He remembered he had a job waiting for him, but wasn't sure what that was. Police business, probably. That boy, Sean? No, Sam. Interrogation. Oh, of course. Interrogation. He should… should get back. He pushed himself up the wall slowly, though even the wall kept bending away from him, and stumbled back towards the interrogation room he'd come from earlier.
He found it empty; Thursday would have wrapped up. Headed back… to the office. Right. Office. Morse turned himself round - the corridor continued this motion as he walked - and made his way back to his desk. He sat heavily, staring at the brown envelope on the desktop. The girl's personal effects, supplied by one of the uniforms, he supposed. He tipped it on top of the various papers and documents, resting his boiling head on his hand.
“Morse,” Thursday approached him, Strange in tow, “you alright?”
He nodded. A motion that sent the whole room spinning on its axis. Perhaps he should go home. But no, there was a young girl dead. And a boy to blame that they should find.
“Younger brother's suggested his co-conspirateur might be hiding with a friend over in Marston. We're heading out.”
Something landed beside him amongst the girl’s effects. Morse turned his head, startled. Car keys.
“You can drive.”
Morse swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, and the acrid taste of vomit lingered in the back of his throat. This wasn't a good idea. He felt– no. No, he was quite alright. But perhaps driving was unwise.
“Actually, sir, I might-” he took a couple of shallow breaths, “ might take the rest of the day off. If you'll be alright without.”
Thursday looked him up and down.
“Yeah ‘course. Strange and I can manage. Off you go then, we'll see you tomorrow.”
Morse nodded and pulled himself out of the chair. Grey static crowded his vision, but he ignored it. It would fade. All he had to do was walk to the door of the station. He knew the way. Strange was talking to Thursday about something he couldn't quite make out. He took a step, only his knee wouldn't take it and bent beneath him. He felt himself falling towards the floor, but couldn't see it; his vision was only black and grey. He heard his name, felt strong hands catch him by the shoulders.
“Alright, put him down. On his side, there.”
“He's burning hot, sir.”
“Morse, can you hear me?”
The voices faded. All he could feel was his pulse firing a mile a minute. Then he could feel nothing at all.
—
He was in his bed. His head felt thick and heavy, and hot, though the rest of him felt cool. The temperature must be lower at night – and night it must be, since there was no sun lighting the backs of his eyes red, as it was every morning now that the summertime stretched the daylight into the early hours. It woke him around five every day, of late, on account of his curtains being rather poor quality and the window in his flat being opposite the west side of the pavement. That and… well, he didn’t sleep much any more, regardless, not since… everything. He’d take the time now, if it wasn’t yet morning. Eyes still closed, he sighed and rolled to his other side. Only a hand clamped onto his wrist. Panic rushed through him; his eyes flew open and he bolted upright, bringing his free hand in front of him. He heard a muffled grunt as it collided with something soft. A person, and the one holding him down – his other hand flew up from where it had strained against the stranger’s grip. He felt a tug at it still, followed by a sharp pain. Free from his attacker anyway, he pushed himself upright, looking around the space. He wasn’t at home at all. Rather, he was on a hospital ward; Cowley General judging by the architecture. Why was beyond him, though – he wasn’t working a case right now, nothing dangerous. Something moved opposite him. He flinched back instinctively. His attacker from earlier, he assumed.
“Morse.”
He frowned. It was-
“Sir?”
His voice came out only a whisper. He cleared his throat, brought a hand to it.
“Morse,” His tone changed a little, “hold on, I’ll grab a nurse.”
His frown only deepened with confusion. He followed Thursday’s eyeline to his hand, the same one he’d been holding down only moments before. Only now it was covered in blood – his blood. It ran down his hand and fell in fat droplets onto the sheets below. Morse groaned and closed his eyes, more than a little dizzy. It started to hurt, then, as such things always do when you become aware of them, but unsure what to do with it, he just held it there, floating.
“Morse. You alright?”
“Mmm.”
He opened his eyes, but kept his head turned away. Tried not to think about- agh. He closed his eyes again. He felt hot and cold all over.
“Morse, the nurse is going to clean up your hand. That okay with you?”
He nodded.
“Right,” Thursday spoke again, though not to him, “Mind how you go. He’s not quite with it yet.”
He opened one eye, turned to look at Thursday.
“What happened?”
“You yanked your drip out, is what happened.” He brought a hand to his cheek, “Clobbered me ‘round the jaw too, while you were at it.”
“No, not— mmm.”
He felt that flush of dizziness again, looked away and down before he passed right out. He could feel the nurse’s hands on his. He rubbed at his eyes.
“Before that. Why am I here?” He added, as an afterthought, “sorry.”
“Quite alright,” Thursday replied, with a slight smile, “The doctor said heatstroke. Passed right out back at the nick, you did. Gave us all a bit of a fright.”
“But why-”
“Well, chased that boy halfway across Oxford, didn’t you? Don’t think I’d have made it back, not that day. Would have found me the same way somewhere in the street.”
“Which boy?”
“Sam.” Thursday frowned, “Macavely. From the Mansfield case.”
“The– oh.” Mansfield. Robbery gone wrong. Trail of blood, two boys. Sam and- “Ben?”
“Found him. He was staying with a friend like his brother thought. Tried to hop a train to London when he saw the body get carried out, only Trewlove saw him walking from the scene.”
“Oh. Good.” Wait. Morse frowned a little. “That day. You said– how many has it been?”
“Don’t you worry, just the one. It’s just gone midnight.”
“You won’t be leaving just yet, though, Mister Morse,” the nurse spoke up now; she’d finished sorting his hand. “You’re past any dangerous temperature now, but you’ve still got quite a fever.”
“And you’ll listen to her, won’t you, Morse? Few more days of rest, at least.”
Morse nodded. Ordinarily, he’d argue, but his eyes felt heavy, and his body ached. A little more rest would be nice. Then he’d go back to work.
“You should go home, sir. Mrs Thursday’ll wonder where you are.”
Thursday gave a slight chuckle, looking down.
“I’m sure. Well, I’ll drop by in the morning.”
He stood, picking up his hat from the table.
“Oh, no need, Sir. Besides, you’ve got a case to finish up.” Morse yawned.
“Night, Morse.”
He was asleep before Thursday pushed through the door.
—
A funny thing, a gun. When one holds one, they are beautiful objects, all fine springs and smooth machined parts. Looking down the barrel of one is another thing entirely. Something that looks simply like a silver tube, yet holds the power to end everything.
The figure holding out the .22 in front of Morse had no discernible face, a fact that should have concerned him, or at least been a point of note, yet he made no reaction. A nervous rush spread through him, all the way from the base of his neck to the ends of his fingers. His pulse was racing, but his focus remained right there, on the barrel of the gun. When it is fired, it happens as though time itself has lost its pacing. First, Morse hears the clicking of gears and the curling of a finger – the trigger is pulled. Next, a deafening crack that echoes three distinct times before it dies away. Morse flinches at the sound. Then, he sees a flash of sparks at the mouth of that cylinder, bright and yellow. They are followed shortly by the emergence of a bullet, gold and shining, hauntingly dangerous, yet thrillingly beautiful. It twirls slowly as it flies, like a ballet dancer lifted into the air and flung around by her partner; Esmeralda, perhaps, or maybe Medora, in an enchanting pas de deux between lethal weapon and enabling instrument.
Suddenly, Morse was standing yards away from the bullet, yet it glowed and glinted as it flew on its steady path towards him. Fear coiled in his gut. No longer was it beautiful. No, now it was deadly, and heading straight towards him. He was looking death in the eye, and it was staring straight back. He turned to run, but found he was unable to move his shoulders to turn. Instead, his body twisted half a turn at his waist and his legs began to run, while his torso remained in place. His head turned to the side, trying to escape, but the bullet simply swung round with him. He couldn’t escape it, his death. It was coming for him. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t hide. He could only wait, for the agonising pain that came in huge shockwaves crashing over the shores of his veins. It radiated from his hip, bone deep and aching. Looking down, he saw the spreading puddle of blood on his trouser leg where it coloured the fabric almost black. Soon, he felt rivulets running down his leg, gathering in his shoe. It sent shivers of panic along his spine. He would bleed. He would die. Like them, like all of them, those men and women and children whose corpses he’d seen on pavements, carpets, fields and more. The pain spread to his abdomen, this time a stabbing, searing agony. The red stretched across the stark whiteness of his shirt this time, not stopping until the front surface of it was entirely covered in dark, sticky crimson. He would die. Very soon, he was sure of it. His chest rose and fell quicker and quicker as panic set in. There was blood in his mouth, flooding from his throbbing nose and pooling on his bottom lip before sliding down his throat, an ominous flow of molten rock. It filled his lungs like a bottle of wine – he could see it, looking down, two milk bottles rising with red contents. Red everywhere, the floor beneath his feet flooded with an ever-spreading lake of scarlet. It was on him, it was in him. Everything was shaded in red, as if a filter had been placed across a projector; shadows were long and tinged with dark red. Shadows of people, whom he’d loved, whom he’d buried, and whom he had yet to watch suffer and die. They were everywhere, surrounding him. A dull, ringing pain in his temple joined the rest. There was blood in his eyes, a constant stream, flowing out of the corners to join the rest on the floor. Only it wasn’t just his any more. Each and every person around him began to run rivers of dark red, joining his own until it wasn’t just a puddle any more. The tide rose until he was waist deep, neck deep, and his head slipped underneath the surface of an ocean of spilled blood. He tried to swim upwards, took a deep breath of air as his face breached the surface, only to be dragged back downwards by the hands of corpses. Morse screamed. Heard his name, the call of the dead as they took him to join them.
“Morse!”
A hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He opened his eyes, and saw blue. Blue walls, blue sheets, and a face. Thursday. The blood in his eyes was gone. Shapes were outlined not by red but white light. His lungs, though, still felt as if they were filled with thick, clotting blood. He gasped for air, but couldn’t find any.
“Alright, Morse, just breathe.”
Breathe. He needed to breathe. He drew in a deep breath, cool air filling his lungs. Relief washed through him, clearing away the blood in sea-blue waves.
“That’s right. You’re just fine, Morse. It’s the fever, is all.”
Morse nodded, focused on breathing in shaky breaths. He lay back against the bed. He was soaked in cold sweat, as were his sheets.
“Thought I told you to finish up with the case before you came back.”
“Well, that’s what I came to say. Young Ben confessed first thing this morning. They’ll be sentenced in due course, but our bit’s over.”
“Good. That’s good.”
Morse could hear the doctors doing their rounds somewhere in the room, their chatter interlaced with conversations between various family members and patients.
“I’ve spoken with Bright. You’re not to be back until Friday at least.”
Morse sighed, “Wednesday.”
He received an eyebrow raise in response.
“Take the week, Morse. Come back a step forward, not one behind.”
The collection of doctors were approaching his bed, with their white coats, clipboards and smugly well-educated looks.
“Look, I’ll leave you to it. But I mean it. Friday.” He turned and left.
“Thursday,” Morse called after him.
He turned and fixed his gaze upon Morse sternly, but not unkindly. He mouthed ‘Friday’, and turned back to his path, placing his hat on his head.
He’d be back Tuesday – they both knew it. He’d be sat at his desk before the rest of them, looking more than a little gaunt and pale, but ready for the next puzzling case that came in. Some things - usually very few - in their lives were certain, and this fact was one of the surest.