Work Text:
It is the height of summer, the sun beating down from the clear blue heavens with a stifling heat. But rather than sitting by the river in a cool set of linens or drinking a cold beer under a patio umbrella, DeBryn is alone in a rough shed with a body.
Well, relatively alone. The several hundred bluebottles, although not intelligent company, are difficult to ignore. They crawl across the corpse, washing away from DeBryn in waves when he sweeps at them only to flow back moments later, inevitable as the tide. They feast in the huge dark puddle beside the now brownish-red trousers, still damp enough to tempt them. Four, maybe five pints, DeBryn estimates. With no drain in the rough floor, it will be difficult to wash away.
Even with both doors open the stink of blood and feces is suffocating – the corpse is hours old, and has been cooking in the tiny shed with its rusted tin roof and large windows. There’s almost no cross-ventilation, and even DeBryn is having trouble repressing the urge to gag when within three feet of the body. The constant buzzing of the flies, eager to feast on the dead flesh, does nothing to detract from the grisliness.
The dead man is young, mid-20s, in a much-worn shirt and cheap trousers. His calloused hands suggest manual labour, as does the dirt under his nails and in his ears. The bright, sharp saw on the ground beside him and the crooked slices cut into the shed’s wooden wall suggest inexperience. So does the deep cut in his right thigh, severing likely both the superficial and deep femoral arteries.
DeBryn would have reported as much to Jakes, but the sergeant and his attendant constables all vanished into the bright, fresh afternoon soon after the pathologist arrived. Typical. DeBryn shuts his case with a snap and decides he’ll mail his report in – if they’ve time enough to lounge around in the sunshine, they can wait for it. Besides, there’s nothing to indicate foul play – only carelessness.
DeBryn’s looking around for the switch to the weak overhead lamp that’s projecting a soft buttery light on the bloody scene when the front door closes sharply, snuffing out what little breeze there was in the shed. He frowns at it for a moment, but before he can ask Jakes what he’s playing at, Jakes’s voice rings out from the other side. Although muffled it’s definitely the sergeant – DeBryn can’t make out the words, but the snide, mocking tone is unmistakable.
The door opens briefly, framing a thin figure against the blinding afternoon sun, then slams shut again. Morse blinks painfully in the dimness of the shed, but even half-blind his nose must be working: his face wrinkles up immediately in disgust. He takes a few steps forward, eyes tracing over the closed windows, the open back door, the wooden box filled with new tools.
DeBryn can tell the moment he sees the body in its slick pool of blood, covered in a rippling carpet of flies. Even in the yellowish light Morse’s face goes white as his blood pressure drops through the basement. His mouth opens and closes reflexively, and he makes a low noise in his throat.
Then DeBryn is beside him, wedging his shoulder in under Morse’s arm and hauling him hurriedly across the shed while he’s still on his feet. “Come on, Morse. Breathe.”
Morse sinks down heavily onto DeBryn as he staggers – he’s long and leggy but without the weight needed to throw them off course. DeBryn gets them out into the sunshine and fresh air before Morse’s legs give out from under him in earnest, and sits the detective down on the cement lip of an old pump trough just outside the door.
He can hear Morse’s breathing – loud, deep gulps through his mouth – and slipping his fingers under the line of Morse’s jaw feels his pulse racing beneath the clammy skin there. But he stays upright as DeBryn pushes his head down low between his knees, his long fingers curled over his shins.
There’s still some water in the trough from the last good downpour the evening before, and DeBryn gives the pump handle a few exploratory heaves. There’s the heavy weight that indicates it’s sucking, and then a thin stream of water shoots out from the spout. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and holds it under the stream; it’s icy cold. The water trickles down his fingers to drop into the trough as he wrings out the extra and folds the handkerchief into a long rectangle.
Morse is still hyperventilating, his thin frame moving expressively with each breath – shoulders and spine rising, sides heaving. At his weight, it’s not surprising he’s prone to syncope; his blood volume must be below the 30th percentile for his height. DeBryne lifts his collar slightly and presses the cool cotton against the warm skin there. Morse hisses, stiffening for a moment, then relaxes.
“Take your time, Morse. I’m sure Jakes can stand to linger in the sun for a while longer.”
“And you, Doctor?” inquires Morse after a moment, in the guttural tone that suggests he has little control over his voice. He doesn’t look up, but reaches up one long arm to peel the handkerchief from his neck and press it against his face.
DeBryn shrugs. “My other patient isn’t going anywhere. Besides, my initial examination is complete, and there’s very little sunlight in the morgue.”
“Cause of death?” asks Morse, still speaking to the earth.
“Exsanguination, caused by severing of the femoral artery. The autopsy will be more definite, but it looks self-inflicted. Accident, of course. Saw slipped while he was cutting something low in the wall. A ventilation shaft, perhaps.”
Morse takes a deep breath and straightens, peeling the handkerchief from his face and blinking widely. His eyes are over-dilated, but adjust quickly in the sunlight. His colour is still a bit on the grey side, and as he stretches out his hand to return the handkerchief DeBryn reaches out to take his pulse instead. Morse tries to tug away, but DeBryn pulls harder. “Ah. Spite me at your peril, Morse. Next time you need to avoid a trip to Casualty, whose door will you knock on?” He glances at his watch and counts, then releases Morse’s wrist. “That’ll do. Still a bit of tachycardia, but it should fade in the next half hour.”
Morse pulls his hand back with a look of mild affront, and rises. If he notices DeBryn subtly angling to stand between him and the very hard pump – and DeBryn learned early on that there’s very little Morse misses – he ignores it. In any case, he only winces as he finds his feet, doesn’t even sway.
“Headache?”
“No,” lies Morse. DeBryn hasn’t encountered many poor liars in the constabulary; it’s a little refreshing.
“Well, regardless, you’d better have something to eat when you get back to the station. And plenty of fluids. And, in fact, you might consider hydrating more in future before coming on these calls. Vasovagal syncope – fainting,” he translates, seeing Morse’s blank look, “– is ultimately caused by low blood pressure. Increased blood volume through liquid consumption will help to reduce that. Not caffeine,” he appends.
“Right. Thanks,” says Morse, somewhat sceptically.
“Which one of us attended medical school, Morse?” prompts DeBryn, and sees the scepticism replaced by chagrin.
“Alright, alright, I’ll … hydrate better next time.”
“Very good. Now I think you’d better go round the outside. I’ll pick up my bags and meet you on the other side. Need a lift?” he asks, heading for the open doorway.
Morse frowns and reaches out a hand to stop him. “Wait – what? No, I’ll come through.”
“I think that is an extremely poor idea,” says DeBryn, allowing a little acid to seep into his voice. “And if it’s your pride you’re worried about, you might consider how you’ll disguise having fainted in a pool of blood. Go round the outside and check the windows or look for footprints, or something,” he adds, in a more sympathetic tone. Even DeBryn can recognize that showing reluctance to the pathologist isn’t at all the same thing as showing it to fellow coppers. Especially if one of them is Jakes.
“The constables will have already done that,” says Morse, with just a hint of sulk as he rubs fretfully at his temple.
DeBryn sighs, and turns to address him properly, with frank honesty. It seems to be what Morse respects. “Look, Morse, it’s a health condition you can’t control. Entirely autonomic nervous system. You can accept that and deal with it as such, or you can keep falling on your arse and hope someone’ll be around who’s predisposed to catch you. You’re not exactly a gracious patient, you know.”
Morse stares down at him, a little slack-jawed. Then he closes his eyes and gives a slow, rueful smile. “I – yes. You’re right. I am a – a terrible patient. Much worse than your usual, I’m sure.”
“Undoubtedly,” agrees Debryn, but in a kindly tone.
“And I am grateful for your help – as always. And – I would very much appreciate a ride. After I finish examining the windows from the outside.”
“Right. Well, I’ll be waiting in the car, then.” DeBryn watches Morse set out along the side of the shed, strides long and even. He tries the window set in the one visible wall of the shed with a firm but cursory pressure, then continues on and disappears around the side of the shed.
DeBryn shakes his head, and goes back inside to pick up his traps.
END