Chapter 4

"Brian!" yelled Cecil as he jumped to action, ensuring that he didn't spill his cider when he banged the glass down on the table. His shoulder length hair trailed behind him as he navigated through the customers and outside, bells jingling, warning people to step aside, scanning the area for the source of the scream. Brian appeared at his side, stick in hand. The two dancers drew a few looks of wonder from the onlookers, one small child dropped her lollipop, tugging on her mother's skirt and pointing at the spectacle before her. The dancers quickly took charge of the scene, settled the locals and were swiftly heading towards the noise which was coming from the beer garden behind the establishment.

The scene before them as they rounded the corner was not for the squeamish. The source of the screaming was a dark-haired women who was crouching and feverishly grabbing at her hair. Nobody would go near her. They could see what looked like legs beside her but the angles looked wrong. There was a odd wetness to them which glistened in the afternoon sun but the dancers could see nothing else, the lady was blocking the view. Slowly the pair edged towards her so as not to startle, although the panic she was in suggested that she was well past that point by now. She turned as they approached and gasped, seeing the large men, sticks at the ready. Both realised their error and placed their weapons on the ground, holding hands out to show that they meant no harm. The lady stood and without warning fell into Brian, her face buried in his powerful chest, his standard issue white granddad shirt now muffling her screams. The full extent of the damage could now be seen, and it was not a pretty sight. The deceased, as he was most certainly no longer alive, lay on his back, arms to the sides like the Angel of the North. His face was not recognisable though, pulverised and crushed. Comparing it to a bowl of Eton Mess would be fair if it wasn't that it would ruin any future appetite for the dessert. 

Brian's face wore a confused look as the lady comforted herself. He put his arms lightly around her and said "there, there" in a less than soothing manner. Cecil quickly cordoned off the area, asking people to step away as this was "Morris business". He searched the body for signs of I.D. but found nothing. Assuming that the perpetrator may still be around he made a mental note of everybody he had seen within the last hour. Cecil's power of recall was well known amongst his fellow dancers. He had taught himself at an early age to learn new routines from one viewing and had honed this skill to being able to remember all kinds of random facts and observations. He carried out a sweep of the area as well to make sure that he hadn't missed anyone, all the while the lady continued to take refuge in Brian's arms.

"Do you think this is our guy again?" asked Brian when he felt that it was safe to talk. "I'd wager my melodeon on it," was Cecil's response. He was not usually a betting man, but the signs were all there. The facial damage, the removal of identification. "This isn't good. It was bad enough that one attack happened, but we were sat in the vicinity for this one. There was a time when I could smell danger. People are going to lose faith in us, fast."

"Damage limitation? Can we cover it up?" asked Brian.

"Too many witnesses," replied Cecil. "We should be open about it else it'll look bad."

"Can we say it was a training exercise? That one usually works."

"With this much blood? And your friend there?"

Brian looked down and saw that the lady had now settled and was looking up at him, shaking. He walked her back into the pub whilst Cecil carried on surveying the scene. He ordered her a brandy for her nerves and sat silently with her whilst she tried to steady her hand enough to drink it. The large morris dancer looked around, everywhere but at the lady. His embarrassment was complete when after shaking slightly she vomited over his corduroy breeches. "I'll take you home," was all that Brian said, the lady looked at him and nodded.

Back outside, Cecil had finished his checks and had covered the body with his forest green waistcoat. They managed to tease the lady's name and address out of her and were about to escort her home when a voice piped up from across the street.

"Hey, morris dancers. Are you having a problem? What's the matter? Are people not scared of you any more?" The voice had a non-specific European twang to it. The first thing they saw was purple. Lots of it. The voice was coming from a man on the other side of the road dressed in bright purple spandex. The sunlight glinted off the thousands of sequins which adorned his outfit. His long black hair swished as he flicked it out of his piercing blue eyes and glared at the bemused dancers as he waited for an answer. People were watching. They were expecting retaliation. They were expecting the stranger to be put in his place by Shropshire's finest. Instead, the men looked at each other and quietly walked away in the direction of the address they'd been given. Behind them they could hear gasps and murmurs as their world fell apart around them.