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fredbassettTitle : In the Not-So-Bleak Midwinter
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 12
Characters : Lester/Lyle, Stephen/Ryan, Norman, Claudia, Connor, Nick, Stringer, Finn, Blade, Ditzy
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Lyle and the SF lads), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word count: 7,000
Summary : Lyle decides Lester needs a break from the ARC.
A/N : Written for the very lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lukadreaming’s Secret Santa on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial. I hope this ticks your wish list!
“Tell me you’re joking, Jon…”
Lyle, lounging at ease on the sofa in Lester’s office, grinned. “It’ll do you the world of good to get away from the office, sweetie. You know you hate the run-up to Christmas.”
“Christmas appears to have started in sodding September.”
“Connor likes tinsel.”
“He also likes life-sized inflatable moose.”
“Your fault for missing them off the banned list. There aren’t any reindeers though.”
“There will be on Christmas Eve. Lorraine conducted a very effective negotiation on his behalf.”
“You mean she threatened to put you on de-caff coffee for the rest of the year if you didn’t agree?”
“That might have had something to do with my decision-making on the subject. I can’t face that obnoxious, fuckwitted excuse for a human being in number 10 without being properly caffeinated.”
“Anyway, stop changing the subject. A couple of days away from this place won’t do you any harm.”
“The diary says I’m washing my hair…”
“No, you’re not, you’re spending the winter solstice at Stonehenge. I’ve always fancied it and you know you don’t like it when my little face crumples with disappointment.”
“You’re banned from Stonehenge. I’ve got the email on file.”
“I’m banned from most places, but it doesn’t normally stop me. And the airstrike got called off, so what’s their problem? I can’t be held responsible for that diplodocus, either. Not my fault the bugger side-swiped one of stones with its tail.”
“To be precise, it side-swiped three of the stones with its tail. You might have noticed that some of the stones come in artfully arranged groups of three, after all, you have spent an unfeasible amount of time there.”
“In my defence, none of them broke…”
“… and he did get the wee beastie back through the anomaly,” Nick Cutter commented, walking in without knocking.
Lyle waved a hand airily. “Quite. Je repose mon valise. Tell him it’ll do him good to get away for a couple of days, Prof.”
“It’s ma valise, you philistine. Valise is feminine,” Lester interjected, wondering at what stage in the conversation it would be considered socially acceptable to scream very loudly.
“It’ll do you good to get away for a couple of days, James,” Nick said obligingly. “Is he taking you to a nice cave somewhere?”
“No, that would probably be warmer.”
“Stonehenge for the winter solstice,” Lyle announced. “He’s looking forward to it already.”
****
“Stonehenge for the winter solstice?” Stephen’s voice rose an octave or two. “How the hell did you get Lester to agree to that?”
“I smiled winningly,” Lyle said, adopting the self-satisfied expression of a pig wallowing in its favourite muck.
“He probably thought you had wind,” Ryan commented.
Lyle flipped him the finger and swiped the last chocolate biscuit off the table in the rec room. “You can come too if you fancy a double date…”
“We’re on shift,” Stephen and Ryan said in unison, without even looking at the rota stuck to the wall.
“’e ain’t seen the buggrin’ forecast, laddie,” Norman said, claiming one end of the sofa. The white-haired maintenance supervisor had what looked like an old school scarf wrapped around his neck and was sporting a large, much-patched tweed jacket over his usual blue overalls. A pair of grey fingerless mittens completed what the well-dressed gaffer was wearing. “When ‘e does, e’ll run a bleedin’ mile. There’s snow comin’ in from th’east. Mind you, better there than ‘ere, the ruddy boiler’s lookin’ reet dodgy.”
“Lambeth Palace again?” Lyle hazarded.
“Nowt to do wi’ ‘em for once, feckin’ thing’s just knackered. Mind you, them buggers ‘aven’t ‘elped.”
“They never do,” Lyle said. “Have you tried the left-footers?”
“They know owt about boilers?”
“Probably not.” Lyle admitted, wishing – not for the first time – that he had a better grounding in theology. Wikipedia and a failed GCSE in Religious Studies only got you so far in discussion with Norman.
“He’s right. Snow’s forecast, Jon,” Claudia remarked, dropping another packet of chocolate biscuits on the table before hostilities had chance to break out.
“You’ve been reading the bloody Daily Express again.”
****
“What’s that white stuff falling from the sky, my little penguin?”
“God’s dandruff?”
“It looks like snow to me, sweetpea.”
“Good job I packed the brazier, a load of wood and your favourite camping quilt, then, isn’t it, Mr Grinch?”
“And it’s a good job I packed a couple of bottles of scotch, a bag of lemons, a jar of honey and my favourite hot-water bottle.”
“I thought I was your favourite hot-water bottle?”
Lester signed theatrically. “Yes, sweetpea, you’ve my favourite hot-water bottle, now get that bloody tent up before I freeze my nuts off. By the way, I’m sure we passed a perfectly serviceable Travelodge at Amesbury.”
Lyle grinned. “Trust me, it’ll be fine…”
Before Lester had chance to retaliate, a huge hairy bear of a man wearing a faded lumberjack shirt over a pair of dilapidated corduroy trousers came barrelling across the frost-hardened track, advancing on Lyle, arms outstretched, declaring in a voice that could be heard over half of Salisbury Plain, “Jon Lyle, as I live and breathe! I was expecting you to wimp out, you soft bugger!”
“Vinnie Rooney, you don’t fucking improve,” Lyle retorted, a wide grin on his face
“Not what you said when I pulled your sorry arse out of that firefight in Helmand.”
The man enveloped Lyle in a crushing hug before he had chance to retaliate. “I honestly didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“Then or now, oh ye of little faith? Vinnie, this is my partner, Jim Lester.”
Vinnie Rooney thrust out a large, grimy paw. “Nice to meet you, mate. I’m pitched up in the van opposite.”
“The one with the woodburner?” Lester asked, shaking the man’s hand, gesturing to the wisps of grey smoke coming from a chimney poking out of the roof of what looked like a converted minibus. The handshake was gentler than Lester had expected, at odds with the man’s larger than life exterior.
Rooney nodded. “Kettle’s on, come over for a drink when you’re sorted.”
Ten minutes later, Lester shook out a thick, down duvet over the inflatable mattress and stood back to admire his handiwork. It was no substitute for either his bedroom in London or the one at Drove Cottage, but it would have to do. The mattress was resting on a thick, insulated mat to keep the cold from seeping up from the ground. The snow had already formed a thin white coverlet on top of their newly erected tent, but at least the inside looked tolerably cosy. They’d brought the second-hand Range Rover Lester had insisted on acquiring for greater comfort on caving trips than Lyle’s much-loved old ex-Army Land Rover, so they’d not been short of room to pack a few home comforts.
Lester had to admit – although not to his lover’s face – that the idea of a weekend away from the ARC hadn’t been wholly unwelcome. He’d been thinking more along the lines of a luxury hotel but a tent on the drove road at Stonehenge hadn’t come a bad second.
Five minutes later, he was crouched inside their neighbour’s converted van, a steaming mug of tea liberally laced with whisky cradled in his hands.
“So what brings you here?” Rooney asked him. “Don’t get me wrong, but something tells me this isn’t quite your normal stamping ground.”
“He does,” Lester said, nodding in Lyle’s direction. “But the idea of a weekend away from mobile phones and all mod cons did hold a certain attraction.”
Rooney’s bark of a laugh filled the van. “You’ve come to the wrong place if you want a backwater. Check your phone.”
Lester did as Rooney suggested and found, to his surprise, that he had a 4G connection.
“And if you fancy a takeaway, there’s menus on the back of the door. Loads of places deliver here, including amazon.”
Lester’s eyebrows met his hairline at speed and bounced off. “You have got to be kidding me…”
“All true, and beats cooking all the time,” Rooney said. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. “So, curry, pizza or chinese?”
“Curry,” Lyle said. “Bloody hell, Vinnie, when you said it was civilised here, you certainly weren’t joking.” He glanced over at Lester. “See, I bring you to all the nicest places.”
A couple of hours later, following an excellent Indian takeaway with all the trimmings washed down by a couple of bottles of beer, Lester was inclined to agree. The snow had continued to drift down, fat white flakes dancing in the air as they sat around Lyle’s small cast iron brazier, watching tongues of yellow and red flames lick at the dry wood. Rooney had rigged up an awning outside the van which served to keep the snow off them and the two canvas windbreaks he’d erected stopped the breeze from joining the party.
The drove road that bisected the new roadway from the visitor centre to the stones was dotted with vans of all shapes and sizes interspersed with a few tents occupied by other hardy – or stupid – souls. Lester had to admit that he hadn’t expected quite so many large gleaming white motorhomes. Vinnie Rooney’s more homely conversion was more the sort of thing he’d had in mind when Lyle had first mentioned the idea.
“So what sort of hush-hush crap are you into now?” Rooney asked, as he chucked another can of beer over to Lyle. “There are a few odd rumours doing the rounds…”
“I bet there are,” Lyle said. “Don’t believe the half of it, mate.”
“I don’t. But even the half of it would make for a damn rum do.” Before Lyle had time to reply, Rooney leaned over to top up the whisky in Lester’s glass and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen enough weird shit in my time. I know what it’s like.”
“You never did tell me what happened that month you went off the grid in Belize.”
Rooney grinned. “You don’t get me that easily, mate, I signed the Official Secrets Act as well, and did a stint with the Secret Squirrels at Thames House.” He winked conspiratorially at Lester. “Mind you Belize was some serious weird shit…”
“You always were full of the brown stuff,” Lyle said affably.
“Ask your old mum about Belize. She was slapped with a DA notice over that.”
“I did. The old harridan denied all knowledge of it. Said it was just the silly season setting in.” He glanced over at Lester. “Alien invasion, apparently.”
Lester nodded, keeping a commendably straight face. “That’s what we heard, too.” He leaned forward and chucked another log on the brazier. “I’m feeling in need of a warming whisky, my little swamp rat…”
Lyle rolled his eyes, but obligingly tramped over the thick carpet of snow to fetch a bottle of scotch from the Range Rover, which they proceeded to share with the interesting assortment of friends that passed by Rooney’s van on their way up and down the drove. Lester hadn’t seen this number of unreconstructed ‘70s hippies since he’d last visited Glastonbury. As far as he could tell, the vast majority of them were well on the way to being stoned out of their heads, but they were an affable bunch, and no one seemed to be showing signs of being any trouble. There were quite a few kids of varying ages around, making snowmen and chucking snowballs at each other.
It was such a far cry from the pressures of the ARC that he could practically feel the stress draining out of his body. Sir James had been left behind at his London flat, and here he was just Jim Lester, as Lyle had taken to introducing him, taking a leaf out of Ralph’s book. The relaxed vibe was already rubbing off on him and he was seriously considering cadging a cannabis-laden fag off Vinnie Rooney.
Rooney correctly interpreted the look Lester had just cast at his leather tobacco pouch and passed it over to him. “Be my guest. I grew this lot myself in a mate’s greenhouse. Damn nearly won best in show in the WI Easter fete.”
Lester took the worn leather pouch and extracted a packet of cigarette papers and proceeded to roll a thin cylinder of tobacco cut with a very small amount of cannabis resin. He rarely smoked and as far as he could remember, the last time he’s smoked a joint had been after his last exam at uni when he’d got utterly wasted at a party then been dragged on a hard caving trip the next day by his unsympathetic brother.
Drawing the smoke into his lungs and holding it for a moment, Lester wondered what the Prime Fuckwit would do if he could see him like this, dressed in old cords, walking boots, thermal top and a thick fleece jacket, with a lived-in fleece hat pulled down over his ears, surrounded by various relaxed people smoking dope, kids yelling happily and snowballs flying everywhere.
As he let out a long stream of smoke, a woman walked past, pulling a small kid on a sledge, accompanied by a bloke with an unfurled union jack hanging from a long pole resting against his shoulder.
“Dean,” Rooney said. “Good to see you, mate. Jim, Jon, meet Dean and pay your respects to the Union Wally.”
Lester sat up and proffered a hand, realising as he did so that there was a large yellow smiley face superimposed onto the flag. There was bound to be a story behind that. And he must remember to compare notes with Julia Denton at some point about what had really happened in Belize…
*****
“All quiet?” Stephen asked, setting a mug of coffee down on Ryan’s desk.
“Stringer says he and Abby have parcelled up the last of the little fuckers and chucked them back through the anomaly. He says the bishop’s very grateful.”
“Make sure you keep Norman away from him…”
“Too late. They’re getting on like a house on fire, according to Connor.”
Ryan winced. That usually meant a lot of screaming and running around was happening. “How the hell did Norman end up talking to the Bishop of bloody Salisbury?”
“Norm had a theological question to do with the boiler, so Connor patched him through on comms. Turns out the bish is a bit of a dino geek in his spare time.”
“Remind me at what point in my life conversations like this started to seem normal?”
“You haven’t asked whether the boiler’s fixed yet.”
“I’m still sitting here wearing gloves. I think I’ve got my answer.”
“Are they coming back tonight?”
“Abby says no. It’s bucketing down with snow over there and they’ve had an offer of a bed for the night at the bishop’s gaff.”
“Lucky buggers.” Stephen hesitated then added, “What you won’t like is that Boy Wonder says there have been a couple of other very brief flickers in that area. Just quick in and out jobs, but he wonders if there’s a cluster brewing.”
Ryan grimaced. “That’s all we bloody need with snow setting in. Where?”
“Connor says it’s hard to pinpoint exactly, but if he had to put money on it, he’d say it was slap bang in the middle of Stonehenge, with another near a group of barrows about a quarter of a mile away.”
“It fucking would be.” Ryan pulled out his phone. “Let’s see what the phone reception is like over there….”
*****
“4G, mate,” Lyle said, answering Ryan’s question, looking over at Lester and shrugging. “My thumbs are utterly peachy, and we’ve had line of sight on the stones for most of the evening. Nothing odd there, you count a bunch of weirdy beardies wandering around the fence and communing from a distance. Vinnie says they’ll do the full kit and caboodle tomorrow when we get let in. Everyone else is playing in the snow or getting pissed, or a combination of the two. We’ll let you know if we see anything but tell Stringer he’ll fit in all right here. Loads of his old mates from his road protesting days.”
When Lyle finished his conversation with Ryan, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and stared at his thumbs, wondering if his early warning system had knocked off early for the festive season.
“Don’t bloody tell me something’s about to kick off,” Lester said.
“No sodding idea,” Lyle said. “Boy Wonder says he’s picked up some fluctuations in the force or something.”
“Bit like Belize,” Rooney muttered. “Is this going to turn into a busman’s holiday for you two?”
“I sincerely hope not,” Lester said, clearly with no great expectation that life was going to play like a nice puppy.
“Christmas lights, mummy!” The kid on the sledge had a yell that wouldn’t have been out of place coming from a town crier. She was waving a pudgy finger in the direction of the stones.
Lyle swivelled around to face the circle but there was nothing to be seen. “Stringer and co are only in Salisbury if anything does kick off.”
“The only thing that’s likely to kick off is Sweaty if he runs out of dope,” Rooney said. “Relax. It’s the solstice, it’ll all be fine.”
“Famous last words, mate,” Lyle said. He reached for the whisky bottle and poured a smaller than usual slug.
After an uneventful half an hour, Lester asked, “Are people allowed into the stones before tomorrow morning, Vinnie?”
“Nope. English Heretics work on sunrise, not the actual time of the solstice. Dean reckons it’s just to limit the overtime payments. Arthur and co will be forming a circle in a few minutes, and if you don’t want to commit an act of accidental druidism, I’d stay well away, if I were you, mate.”
“If it’s not until tomorrow morning, why has a bloke just vaulted over the fence?”
Rooney stood up to get a better luck. “Oh fuck, looks like Sweaty has run out of fuckin’ dope after all and decided to go postal…”
Against the backdrop of a grey velvet sky illuminated by noting more than moonlight, Lyle watched as a running figure was expertly rugby-tackled to the ground by one of the security guards.
A brief flicker of white light in the middle of the stones sent Lyle’s hand reaching for his phone but it was gone before he had the chance to make the call.
“Something’s definitely kicking off…” Lester commented.
Rooney rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s see what the silly fucker’s up to…”
By the time they’d walked up the drove, avoiding the massed ranks of druids led by a bloke wearing a white sheet topped by a faux gold circlet on his head, they could see the kerfuffle that had kicked off when Sweaty had jumped the fence. He was currently writhing on the ground under the combined weight of two security guards dressed in the regulation black that the job demanded. Other than the lack of offensive weapons, they wouldn’t have looked out of place at an anomaly shout.
As Lyle reached the fence, the woman who’d been towing the kiddie around hurdled the fence in a move that wouldn’t have been out of place on an athletics track and promptly started lamming into the dogpile with fists and feet while yelling at the top of her voice: “Let him up you bastards! Stonehenge belongs to the people, not your fucking bunch of heretic thieves!”
“She has a point,” Rooney said.
“She’s got a kick like a fucking mule,” Lyle said, admiring her passion if not her technique.
Lester winced. “I think that one connected with that poor bugger’s goolies.”
The yell from one of the security guards bore out Lester’s observation. Clearly recognising the greatest threat, one of the guards scrambled to his feet and backed off hastily, holding out both hands and saying, “We need you to go quietly, miss…”
“Tatty’s never done anything quietly in her bloody life,” Rooney muttered. “That’s why we never park the van anywhere near her and Sweaty.”
“Too much information, mate.” Lyle was watching the growing fracas with amusement. None of them had guns or tasers and there’d been no sign of knives, so he was unlikely to need to interfere. For once, this all looked like someone else’s problem.
“You can all fuck right off! Leave him alone!” Tatty delivered another couple of hard kicks from a well-worn pair of Doc Martens.
Lyle, Lester and Rooney practised synchronised wincing.
From outside the perimeter around the stones, another security guard yelled, “The police are on their way!”
“They can join the circle if they like,” commented the man that Lyle had heard referred to as Arthur Pendragon.
“Not sure that’s in their brief,” Rooney muttered, doing his best to edge way, clearly concerned about accidental druidic contamination.
“Would you like to join us?” Arthur asked, with a wide smile only partially hidden by a bushy beard that looked capable providing premium grade accommodation for an entire flock of hedge sparrows.
“I’m afraid we don’t do organised religion,” Lester said, his voice silky smooth.
Arthur Pendragon looked puzzled but anything he said in reply was drowned out by the sound of a police car hurtling up the road from the visitor centre on full blues and twos.”
“He’ll look a right fucking prat if he goes into a tailspin when he tried to stop,” Lyle commented.
To his surprise, the police car managed to fishtail to an undignified halt half a metre from the gate across the road. Four coppers jumped out, very much underdressed for the still-falling snow.
Tatty saw them coming and launched another kick into the reduced melee. From the string of colourful curses, it looked like she’d managed to bash Sweaty rather than the other guard. Her boyfriend extricated himself from the puppy pile and looked around him with an owlish expression on his face.
Tatty promptly abandoned him and legged it at speed towards the low perimeter fence. The crowd of druids parted as if she was Moses and they were the Red Sea (which was about the limit of what Lyle remembered from Mrs Hibberd’s religious education lessons at school). She put one hand on rubbish bin and vaulted over the fence in a move that wouldn’t have been out of place in a gymnasium and hit the ground running.
“Oi!” Sweaty sounded aggrieved, but not as aggrieved as the security guard who was still clutching his nuts. “Come back!”
“Stay exactly where you are!” The young copper sounded about as authoritative as Lyle’s mad aunt’s neighbour’s cockapoo.
“You can fuck right off!” Sweaty turned and bolted for the fence with an admirable turn of speed that left Wiltshire constabulary’s finest behind by a country mile.
“I predict this is going to end in tears,” Lester said.
Lyle nodded. “Bugger that. Did you see that flash behind the cabaret act?”
Lester nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So why aren’t your thumbs reacting?”
“Nothing bad’s going to happen?” Lyle hazarded. “It’s not an exact science, sweetie.”
“Then ring Ryan back and tell him that Boy Wonder can bring his bag of tricks over here and run some tests. He’s hardly going to look out of place in this lot.”
****
“Stringer says he can be there in 15 minutes.”
“Tell him there’s a hostage situation.” Lyle’s voice on loudspeaker on the desk phone was almost drowned out by the commotion in the background.
“Oh fuck, that’s all we need,” Ryan muttered.
“Sorry, mate, it’s not what we signed up for either. Who’s out on shout with Stringer?”
“Finn, Blade, Kermit and Ditzy. Finn’s hostage trained, so’s Blade…”
“And Kermit can charm any grannies in a five mile blast radius, but they’re in short supply at the moment. I’ll explain to Guinefort’s family that she’ll be in good hands as soon as they get here.”
“People should be banned from calling their kids daft names,” Stephen commented.
“Guinefort’s a dog,” Lyle said. “Descended from the Great Lurcher of Cumbria, no less.”
Ryan’s eyebrows shot up, seemingly of their own volition, although that was by no means the most bizarre line he’d ever heard Lyle deliver. “You’re telling me someone’s taken a dog hostage?”
“She was asleep in the passenger seat of his car, but Sweaty didn’t know that until after he’d piled in and activated the central locking.”
“Who the fuck’s sweaty?”
“In this fucking white-out? No one.”
“You just said something about being someone being sweaty?” Ryan could start to feel a fucking headache coming on and this conversation with his 2iC wasn’t helping.
“Sweaty’s a bloke. Tatty’s his girlfriend. Guinefort’s a dog. Are you keeping up?”
Ryan was tempted to say no very loudly and put the phone down, but he tried not to be unprofessional while he was on shift. That could wait for the debrief down the pub.
“She’s a bleedin’ saint, not just any old dog.” Norman slapped three mugs of coffee down on Ryan’s desk.
“She’d have to be to put up with that lot,” Stephen said.
Norman rolled his eyes. “An actual saint. Ask the bish.”
“Didn’t realise the C of E did saints.” Ryan hope Norman wouldn’t debate the point, He didn’t feel up to a theological discussion.
“T’other lot never really thought much to ‘er either. Narrow minded buggers. Plenty o’ saints ‘ave been ‘airy.”
“Sorry, Jon,” Ryan said. “It looks like Norm knows something about dogs and saints. Something to do with her name.”
“I’ll be sure to include it in the briefing. Her owners don’t seem to be worried, but the local boys in blue are getting a bit excited. Must be a quiet night. I think this is what classes as street theatre around here.”
“Try not to break anything.”
“You say that every time we end up here.”
“And you never fucking listen.”
****
“He says we’re not to break anything.”
“A sentiment with which I whole-heartedly concur.” Lester looked around at the crowd who’d gathered around the old Volvo. “So what now?”
“Have another drink and wait for Stringer and the lads to turn up.” Lyle fished a battered hipflask out of his pocket and handed it over,
As suggestions went, Lester had heard worse.
“You can’t stay in there all night!” one of the young police officers yelled, even though there was only a think sheet of car window glass separating him from Sweaty.
“Try me!” Sweaty sounded truculent, and more than half pissed.
“Think of the dog!”
“She’s a lurcher, they sleep a lot!”
From what Lester could see, the dog was currently lying on her back with her legs in the air.
“He’s right about that,” commented a short, round-faced bloke in his mid-thirties wearing a knitted beanie hat. “She won’t wake up for hours.”
“Won’t she need a pee?” Lyle asked.
“Dog’s got a cast iron bladder. Sweaty’ll need to piss before she does.”
“Open the bloody door!”
Lyle rolled his eyes. “Lad needs some negotiation training.”
The sound of a vehicle engine being gunned at speed down the approach road form the visitor centre turned a few heads.
A convoy of three black Range Rovers pulled up and Lester watched as Stringer and his lads jumped out, followed by Cutter, Connor and a man in his mid-50s who Lester didn’t recognise.
“Guns are a bit over the fucking top,” one of the onlookers commented.
“Just an exercise,” Lester said, quickly. “Can’t have all the buggers in the camps sitting around doing nothing at taxpayers’ expense.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding? The lot you get around here don’t wear black. That’s special ops crap.”
“Someone better warn ‘em not to get caught up with the druids. They’re looking a bit restive,” Vinnie Rooney said, looking at Lester and Lyle. “Your mob?”
“Might be,” Lyle said, looking shifty.
A moment later, Rooney exclaimed, “Fuck me, it’s Joel Stringer!”
“Vinnie Rooney, you festering fucking excuse for a human being!” Stringer enveloped Rooney in a combat hug from which it was amazing anyone would emerge with intact ribs.
While the hugfest was going on, Ditzy strolled over, his M4 carbine slung across his chest. “Evening, boss,” a nod to Lyle, “sir,” another nod to Lester. “I’d like to introduce the Right Reverend Alan Kirkland.”
A man in an oversized corduroy coat stuck out a hand.
Lester took it. “James Lester. This lot nominally report to me.”
“They did a good job in my cloisters.”
“That’s not something you hear every day,” Lyle commented.
Lester waved a hand at his lover. “My partner, Jon Lyle. Off duty at the moment.”
Joel Stringer extricated himself from the clutches of Rooney and said, “So what’s the gig? Ryan said something about you needing a negotiator.”
Lyle waived a hand at the battered Volvo. “Bloke in there got jumped by the security guards when he went over the fence. There was a bit of a fracas and he ended up in the car with a dog.”
“Saint Guinefort,” the bishop supplied. “Norman filled us in on the way here.”
“Didn’t look so saintly when she peed on Tatty’s kid’s buggy.”
“Even saints need to pee,” the Right Reverend Alan Kirkland said.
“The bish has got a point.” Rooney nodded.
“Finn, over to you so far as the bloke and the dog are concerned,” Stringer said. “Connor, get your bags of tricks set up in case we get any more fluctuations in the force. Prof, can you monitor what’s going on there? Blade, you’re backing Finn up. Ditz, be on hand in case anyone does anything stupid.”
The medic grinned. “You mean try to keep the stones upright.”
“That would be a big help,” Lester commented.
Finn handed his rife to Blade and walked over to the car where the young police officers were still remonstrating with the occupant who, as far as Lester could see was just making an impressive number of rude hand gestures, some of which he filed away for future reference when driving in central London.
Finn said, “Any sign of him having a weapon?”
The two coppers shook their head, as did the burly security guard who had first tackled Sweaty after he’d vaulted over the fence.
“That’s a good start. I’ll take it from here, but could you do me a favour and keep everyone back?”
Although the three of them looked mildly disappointed, Finn’s black uniform carried its usual authority and they moved back, spreading their arms in an attempt to herd the crowd. As a spectator sport, the young soldier’s negotiating tactics were certainly a great deal less entertaining.
In a low voice, he introduced himself as Rob Finn.
Sweaty’s reply was drowned out by a loud hailer as someone chose that moment to announce that everyone was there on the wrong date and they might as well go home and come back two days later to celebrate properly.
“What the fuck?” Lyle looked as puzzled as Lester felt.
“Merlin.” Rooney sighed. “He does this all the sodding time. Thinks we’ve all got the wrong date and that his calculations are more accurate. He’ll fuck off down to the king’s barrow and try to get everyone to join his bloody circle, so watch yourselves as you might end up with an accidental encounter of the druidic kind. The sods are as hard to shake off as ticks on a dog.”
No one moved.
The man with the loud hailer headed for one of the gates in the fencing along the drove, loudly exhorting everyone to follow him.
One of the spectators responded with, “Piss off, it’s more fun here!”
A few minutes later, one of the men in the crowd started wandering around, taking bets on how long Sweaty would stay in the car.
“It’s not taxed,” one of the coppers said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “We can have him for that, as well as for trespassing.”
“Give it a rest, boys,” Stringer advised. “The idea is to get him and the dog out. When that’s over it’s job done. You can leave this one to us. I can hear what’s being said over Finn’s mic, and it sounds amicable enough. Sweaty’s complaining the dog’s started farting.”
“Farts like a fucking trouper,” Rooney said. “Mind you, so does Sweaty.”
“So does Finn. They’ll get on like a house on fire.”
“Do you think he’s in need of spiritual guidance,” the bishop asked.
“Finn or Sweaty?” Stringer sounded amused.
Alan Kirkham smiled and gestured to the man with the loud hailer. “I was thinking more of him.”
“He’s very keen on forming circles…” Rooney said.
“Then I’m sure we’ll get on very well.”
“Knows a thing or two about boilers, too,” Ditzy commented as the bishop made a beeline for the man known as Merlin.
“Good, let’s hope the buggering thing is fixed by the time we get back…” Lyle rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting a bit bloody parky standing around here.”
It was even parkier two hours later and the Siege of Stonehenge showed no signs of coming to an end. Sweaty had discovered a six pack of beer in the car and was busily emptying each one whilst keeping up an amicable dialogue with Finn as well as complaining about the increasingly sulphurous farts coming from the sleeping lurcher.
Guinefort’s owner, a tall, lanky man wearing a duffle coat that looked several sizes too big for his spare frame, wandered over to see how his dog was doing and stayed for a chat with Finn, who by now had listened to much of Sweaty’s life story.
The snow had continued to fall and the chances of anything but a four by four getting away from the area were slender, much to the annoyance of Wiltshire’s finest, who were now stranded beyond the end of their shift and were starting to look more than faintly grumpy, especially since Stringer had put a damper on the idea of making an arrest even if Sweaty did deign to leave the car.
“Is this sort of thing normal?” Lester asked Rooney.
“This is a bit more bizarre than usual,” the former solder admitted. “We don’t normally get a bishop turning up. Mind you, he’s welcome as often as he wants provided he keeps Merlin out of the way. The guys a right royal pain in the arse.”
“With a fondness for circles.”
Lyle shrugged. “Everyone should have a hobby.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took his hands out of his pocket and looked down at them.
“Trouble?” Stringer kept his voice low.
“Maybe. More of a prickle than an itch.”
The special forces captain pulled a couple of spare earpieces and mics out of his pocket. “Get on comms, Jon. Keep us posted if anything changes.” He handed the second set to Lester. “Connor, did you catch that? Anything from your end?” Hearing Connor’s response, Stringer looked across at Lester and shook his head. Seemingly all was quiet on the anomaly front. “Finn, can you wrap up at your end? Things might be about to get a bit lively up here.”
Lester fitted the small earpiece, then pulled his fleecy hat down around his ears to cover it.
“Think the dog’s on our side, boss.” Finn’s voice came over the comms channel. “She started farting again.” He rapped on the car window. “Sweaty, mate, don’t you need a piss by now? You’ve drunk four of those ruddy cans.”
“Don’t talk about it!” There was a note of concern in Sweaty’s voice.
“You’ve drunk five haven’t you?” Finn sounded impressed, even though Lester knew the lad could easily sink ten pints and still use a rifle with devastating accuracy. “Blimey, mate, you must have a bladder like a fucking bull elephant! You’ve been in there bleedin’ hours…”
“I said don’t talk about it!” Sweaty had now started to whine. “Aw, fuck, man, the dogs just trumped again. Smells like a bad egg farm in here.”
“So come out. No one’s going to arrest you, I promise…”
“So what about them fuckers? They were going on about me car not being taxed.”
“They’ve got better things to do this close to Christmas than booking you. Jeez, they’re on overtime already and their boss ain’t gonna to want to pay ‘em extra while they book you. Trust me… open the door and you can nip round the side of the car and write your name in the snow…”
While Finn was engaging Sweaty in an increasingly frantic dialogue on the subject of bladders and their capacity, the Right Reverent Alan Kirkham had got his hands on the loud speaker and was enthusiastically conducting possibly the most ecumenical service of his career with assorted druids, including a woman in very impressive fake fur hat, at least Lester hoped it was fake. If not, a large quantity of roadkill fox was nesting on top of her head.
“Connor’s picking up some magnetic fluctuations, sir.” Ditzy appeared soundlessly at Lester’s side. “It would be good if we could keep this lot looking away from the stones.”
“Finn and the bishop are doing wonders for keeping everyone’s attention away from the stones, but I think the Sweaty Show might be reaching its finale,” Lester said. “Has anyone got any other ideas?”
“Fireworks,” Vinnie Rooney said. “I’ve got a few big buggers in the van. That’ll keep ‘em occupied.”
Rooney and Lyle hurried off while Lester cast an anxious glance at what was going on in the stone circle. Stringer, Blade and Ditzy had taken up station close to the stones, with Connor and Cutter peering at Connor’s magnetometer and other instruments. From what he could tell over the radio link, there had been there had now been three strong fluctuations in the magnetic field n the middle of the stone that Connor felt were a prelude to an anomaly bursting into existence. If it did, he hoped that any resulting anomaly wouldn’t last long if they followed the pattern of what he’d picked up earlier. But one thing they all knew was that anomalies were unpredictable…
****
Connor had rigged up a camera feed to the middle of the stones, so Ryan, Stephen and Norman has taken up station in the command centre with Ranjit, the technician on the nightshift. They were watching proceedings on the main screen, while around it on each of the subsidiary screens were additional feeds from the soldiers’ chest cameras.
Currently the most entertaining was Finn’s as he continued the negotiations with the strangely named Sweaty, who, by now, was squirming in his seat and begging for Finn to pass him a bottle through the window so he could fill it.
“No can do, mate. Use one of your cans, there’s enough of ‘em in there.”
“Can’t!” Sweaty wailed. “I crushed ‘em!”
With what must have been a heroic effort, Finn stifled a snigger. “You could just pee in the car. I doubt the dog’ll mind.”
“It’s me car, man!”
The ADD bleeped ominously.
“Readings getting high,” Ranjit warned. “Conn, I think you’ve got one about to appear.”
“Time for that distraction, I feel, gentlemen,” Lester said, his voice low but clear through the comms link.
Finn reached out and grabbed the car door by the handle. In one fluid movement he jerked the door open and reached inside to grab Sweaty by the collar and haul him out.
At the same time, the sky to the north of the stones exploded into a gold and silver starburst, drawing an approving cheer from the crowd.
The group clustered around Merlin and the bishop joined in the cheering. In a voice well used to preaching from a pulpit, the Right Reverend Alan Kirkham announced, using the loud hailer to good effect, “Happy Solstice, everyone!”
The crowd took up the cry of Happy Solstice, just as an anomaly flared into life in the middle of Stonehenge, lighting up the sky like the world’s biggest sparkler.
Everyone roared their approval.
Through Finn’s chest cam, they watched as Sweaty promptly fumbled with his flies and dashed around the other side of the car.
“Was that door unlocked the whole time?” Stephen asked, patching into the same comms as the soldiers on site.
“Yeah,” Finn said. “The local muppets hadn’t noticed. And I didn’t see any point in spoiling the fun. Surprised the dog hasn’t gassed him, though. That’s some stink in there.”
“Never realised saints farted so much,” Ryan said.
Norman rolled his eyes. “You got your theology degree from where, laddie?”
“It’s closing!” Ranjit, normally renowned for his utter unflappability sounded positively animated.
“Thank fuck for that,” Ryan said. “Not sure I can take much more excitement.”
“Not every night the boiler gets fixed by a bishop,” Norman said.
“Not every night I get to meet a saint!” Finn said.
“What’s she like?” Stephen enquired.
“Sleepy,” Finn said. “And fucking farty.”
****
“Told you I bring you to all the best places,” Lyle said, taking a swig from his hip flask and holding it out to Lester.
The whisky danced a fiery trail down to his stomach. “Can’t fault this one for street theatre, sweetie.”
“So can we do it again next year?”
“Don’t push your luck…”
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 12
Characters : Lester/Lyle, Stephen/Ryan, Norman, Claudia, Connor, Nick, Stringer, Finn, Blade, Ditzy
Disclaimer : Not mine (except Lyle and the SF lads), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word count: 7,000
Summary : Lyle decides Lester needs a break from the ARC.
A/N : Written for the very lovely
lukadreaming’s Secret Santa on primeval_denial. I hope this ticks your wish list!“Tell me you’re joking, Jon…”
Lyle, lounging at ease on the sofa in Lester’s office, grinned. “It’ll do you the world of good to get away from the office, sweetie. You know you hate the run-up to Christmas.”
“Christmas appears to have started in sodding September.”
“Connor likes tinsel.”
“He also likes life-sized inflatable moose.”
“Your fault for missing them off the banned list. There aren’t any reindeers though.”
“There will be on Christmas Eve. Lorraine conducted a very effective negotiation on his behalf.”
“You mean she threatened to put you on de-caff coffee for the rest of the year if you didn’t agree?”
“That might have had something to do with my decision-making on the subject. I can’t face that obnoxious, fuckwitted excuse for a human being in number 10 without being properly caffeinated.”
“Anyway, stop changing the subject. A couple of days away from this place won’t do you any harm.”
“The diary says I’m washing my hair…”
“No, you’re not, you’re spending the winter solstice at Stonehenge. I’ve always fancied it and you know you don’t like it when my little face crumples with disappointment.”
“You’re banned from Stonehenge. I’ve got the email on file.”
“I’m banned from most places, but it doesn’t normally stop me. And the airstrike got called off, so what’s their problem? I can’t be held responsible for that diplodocus, either. Not my fault the bugger side-swiped one of stones with its tail.”
“To be precise, it side-swiped three of the stones with its tail. You might have noticed that some of the stones come in artfully arranged groups of three, after all, you have spent an unfeasible amount of time there.”
“In my defence, none of them broke…”
“… and he did get the wee beastie back through the anomaly,” Nick Cutter commented, walking in without knocking.
Lyle waved a hand airily. “Quite. Je repose mon valise. Tell him it’ll do him good to get away for a couple of days, Prof.”
“It’s ma valise, you philistine. Valise is feminine,” Lester interjected, wondering at what stage in the conversation it would be considered socially acceptable to scream very loudly.
“It’ll do you good to get away for a couple of days, James,” Nick said obligingly. “Is he taking you to a nice cave somewhere?”
“No, that would probably be warmer.”
“Stonehenge for the winter solstice,” Lyle announced. “He’s looking forward to it already.”
****
“Stonehenge for the winter solstice?” Stephen’s voice rose an octave or two. “How the hell did you get Lester to agree to that?”
“I smiled winningly,” Lyle said, adopting the self-satisfied expression of a pig wallowing in its favourite muck.
“He probably thought you had wind,” Ryan commented.
Lyle flipped him the finger and swiped the last chocolate biscuit off the table in the rec room. “You can come too if you fancy a double date…”
“We’re on shift,” Stephen and Ryan said in unison, without even looking at the rota stuck to the wall.
“’e ain’t seen the buggrin’ forecast, laddie,” Norman said, claiming one end of the sofa. The white-haired maintenance supervisor had what looked like an old school scarf wrapped around his neck and was sporting a large, much-patched tweed jacket over his usual blue overalls. A pair of grey fingerless mittens completed what the well-dressed gaffer was wearing. “When ‘e does, e’ll run a bleedin’ mile. There’s snow comin’ in from th’east. Mind you, better there than ‘ere, the ruddy boiler’s lookin’ reet dodgy.”
“Lambeth Palace again?” Lyle hazarded.
“Nowt to do wi’ ‘em for once, feckin’ thing’s just knackered. Mind you, them buggers ‘aven’t ‘elped.”
“They never do,” Lyle said. “Have you tried the left-footers?”
“They know owt about boilers?”
“Probably not.” Lyle admitted, wishing – not for the first time – that he had a better grounding in theology. Wikipedia and a failed GCSE in Religious Studies only got you so far in discussion with Norman.
“He’s right. Snow’s forecast, Jon,” Claudia remarked, dropping another packet of chocolate biscuits on the table before hostilities had chance to break out.
“You’ve been reading the bloody Daily Express again.”
****
“What’s that white stuff falling from the sky, my little penguin?”
“God’s dandruff?”
“It looks like snow to me, sweetpea.”
“Good job I packed the brazier, a load of wood and your favourite camping quilt, then, isn’t it, Mr Grinch?”
“And it’s a good job I packed a couple of bottles of scotch, a bag of lemons, a jar of honey and my favourite hot-water bottle.”
“I thought I was your favourite hot-water bottle?”
Lester signed theatrically. “Yes, sweetpea, you’ve my favourite hot-water bottle, now get that bloody tent up before I freeze my nuts off. By the way, I’m sure we passed a perfectly serviceable Travelodge at Amesbury.”
Lyle grinned. “Trust me, it’ll be fine…”
Before Lester had chance to retaliate, a huge hairy bear of a man wearing a faded lumberjack shirt over a pair of dilapidated corduroy trousers came barrelling across the frost-hardened track, advancing on Lyle, arms outstretched, declaring in a voice that could be heard over half of Salisbury Plain, “Jon Lyle, as I live and breathe! I was expecting you to wimp out, you soft bugger!”
“Vinnie Rooney, you don’t fucking improve,” Lyle retorted, a wide grin on his face
“Not what you said when I pulled your sorry arse out of that firefight in Helmand.”
The man enveloped Lyle in a crushing hug before he had chance to retaliate. “I honestly didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“Then or now, oh ye of little faith? Vinnie, this is my partner, Jim Lester.”
Vinnie Rooney thrust out a large, grimy paw. “Nice to meet you, mate. I’m pitched up in the van opposite.”
“The one with the woodburner?” Lester asked, shaking the man’s hand, gesturing to the wisps of grey smoke coming from a chimney poking out of the roof of what looked like a converted minibus. The handshake was gentler than Lester had expected, at odds with the man’s larger than life exterior.
Rooney nodded. “Kettle’s on, come over for a drink when you’re sorted.”
Ten minutes later, Lester shook out a thick, down duvet over the inflatable mattress and stood back to admire his handiwork. It was no substitute for either his bedroom in London or the one at Drove Cottage, but it would have to do. The mattress was resting on a thick, insulated mat to keep the cold from seeping up from the ground. The snow had already formed a thin white coverlet on top of their newly erected tent, but at least the inside looked tolerably cosy. They’d brought the second-hand Range Rover Lester had insisted on acquiring for greater comfort on caving trips than Lyle’s much-loved old ex-Army Land Rover, so they’d not been short of room to pack a few home comforts.
Lester had to admit – although not to his lover’s face – that the idea of a weekend away from the ARC hadn’t been wholly unwelcome. He’d been thinking more along the lines of a luxury hotel but a tent on the drove road at Stonehenge hadn’t come a bad second.
Five minutes later, he was crouched inside their neighbour’s converted van, a steaming mug of tea liberally laced with whisky cradled in his hands.
“So what brings you here?” Rooney asked him. “Don’t get me wrong, but something tells me this isn’t quite your normal stamping ground.”
“He does,” Lester said, nodding in Lyle’s direction. “But the idea of a weekend away from mobile phones and all mod cons did hold a certain attraction.”
Rooney’s bark of a laugh filled the van. “You’ve come to the wrong place if you want a backwater. Check your phone.”
Lester did as Rooney suggested and found, to his surprise, that he had a 4G connection.
“And if you fancy a takeaway, there’s menus on the back of the door. Loads of places deliver here, including amazon.”
Lester’s eyebrows met his hairline at speed and bounced off. “You have got to be kidding me…”
“All true, and beats cooking all the time,” Rooney said. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. “So, curry, pizza or chinese?”
“Curry,” Lyle said. “Bloody hell, Vinnie, when you said it was civilised here, you certainly weren’t joking.” He glanced over at Lester. “See, I bring you to all the nicest places.”
A couple of hours later, following an excellent Indian takeaway with all the trimmings washed down by a couple of bottles of beer, Lester was inclined to agree. The snow had continued to drift down, fat white flakes dancing in the air as they sat around Lyle’s small cast iron brazier, watching tongues of yellow and red flames lick at the dry wood. Rooney had rigged up an awning outside the van which served to keep the snow off them and the two canvas windbreaks he’d erected stopped the breeze from joining the party.
The drove road that bisected the new roadway from the visitor centre to the stones was dotted with vans of all shapes and sizes interspersed with a few tents occupied by other hardy – or stupid – souls. Lester had to admit that he hadn’t expected quite so many large gleaming white motorhomes. Vinnie Rooney’s more homely conversion was more the sort of thing he’d had in mind when Lyle had first mentioned the idea.
“So what sort of hush-hush crap are you into now?” Rooney asked, as he chucked another can of beer over to Lyle. “There are a few odd rumours doing the rounds…”
“I bet there are,” Lyle said. “Don’t believe the half of it, mate.”
“I don’t. But even the half of it would make for a damn rum do.” Before Lyle had time to reply, Rooney leaned over to top up the whisky in Lester’s glass and said, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen enough weird shit in my time. I know what it’s like.”
“You never did tell me what happened that month you went off the grid in Belize.”
Rooney grinned. “You don’t get me that easily, mate, I signed the Official Secrets Act as well, and did a stint with the Secret Squirrels at Thames House.” He winked conspiratorially at Lester. “Mind you Belize was some serious weird shit…”
“You always were full of the brown stuff,” Lyle said affably.
“Ask your old mum about Belize. She was slapped with a DA notice over that.”
“I did. The old harridan denied all knowledge of it. Said it was just the silly season setting in.” He glanced over at Lester. “Alien invasion, apparently.”
Lester nodded, keeping a commendably straight face. “That’s what we heard, too.” He leaned forward and chucked another log on the brazier. “I’m feeling in need of a warming whisky, my little swamp rat…”
Lyle rolled his eyes, but obligingly tramped over the thick carpet of snow to fetch a bottle of scotch from the Range Rover, which they proceeded to share with the interesting assortment of friends that passed by Rooney’s van on their way up and down the drove. Lester hadn’t seen this number of unreconstructed ‘70s hippies since he’d last visited Glastonbury. As far as he could tell, the vast majority of them were well on the way to being stoned out of their heads, but they were an affable bunch, and no one seemed to be showing signs of being any trouble. There were quite a few kids of varying ages around, making snowmen and chucking snowballs at each other.
It was such a far cry from the pressures of the ARC that he could practically feel the stress draining out of his body. Sir James had been left behind at his London flat, and here he was just Jim Lester, as Lyle had taken to introducing him, taking a leaf out of Ralph’s book. The relaxed vibe was already rubbing off on him and he was seriously considering cadging a cannabis-laden fag off Vinnie Rooney.
Rooney correctly interpreted the look Lester had just cast at his leather tobacco pouch and passed it over to him. “Be my guest. I grew this lot myself in a mate’s greenhouse. Damn nearly won best in show in the WI Easter fete.”
Lester took the worn leather pouch and extracted a packet of cigarette papers and proceeded to roll a thin cylinder of tobacco cut with a very small amount of cannabis resin. He rarely smoked and as far as he could remember, the last time he’s smoked a joint had been after his last exam at uni when he’d got utterly wasted at a party then been dragged on a hard caving trip the next day by his unsympathetic brother.
Drawing the smoke into his lungs and holding it for a moment, Lester wondered what the Prime Fuckwit would do if he could see him like this, dressed in old cords, walking boots, thermal top and a thick fleece jacket, with a lived-in fleece hat pulled down over his ears, surrounded by various relaxed people smoking dope, kids yelling happily and snowballs flying everywhere.
As he let out a long stream of smoke, a woman walked past, pulling a small kid on a sledge, accompanied by a bloke with an unfurled union jack hanging from a long pole resting against his shoulder.
“Dean,” Rooney said. “Good to see you, mate. Jim, Jon, meet Dean and pay your respects to the Union Wally.”
Lester sat up and proffered a hand, realising as he did so that there was a large yellow smiley face superimposed onto the flag. There was bound to be a story behind that. And he must remember to compare notes with Julia Denton at some point about what had really happened in Belize…
*****
“All quiet?” Stephen asked, setting a mug of coffee down on Ryan’s desk.
“Stringer says he and Abby have parcelled up the last of the little fuckers and chucked them back through the anomaly. He says the bishop’s very grateful.”
“Make sure you keep Norman away from him…”
“Too late. They’re getting on like a house on fire, according to Connor.”
Ryan winced. That usually meant a lot of screaming and running around was happening. “How the hell did Norman end up talking to the Bishop of bloody Salisbury?”
“Norm had a theological question to do with the boiler, so Connor patched him through on comms. Turns out the bish is a bit of a dino geek in his spare time.”
“Remind me at what point in my life conversations like this started to seem normal?”
“You haven’t asked whether the boiler’s fixed yet.”
“I’m still sitting here wearing gloves. I think I’ve got my answer.”
“Are they coming back tonight?”
“Abby says no. It’s bucketing down with snow over there and they’ve had an offer of a bed for the night at the bishop’s gaff.”
“Lucky buggers.” Stephen hesitated then added, “What you won’t like is that Boy Wonder says there have been a couple of other very brief flickers in that area. Just quick in and out jobs, but he wonders if there’s a cluster brewing.”
Ryan grimaced. “That’s all we bloody need with snow setting in. Where?”
“Connor says it’s hard to pinpoint exactly, but if he had to put money on it, he’d say it was slap bang in the middle of Stonehenge, with another near a group of barrows about a quarter of a mile away.”
“It fucking would be.” Ryan pulled out his phone. “Let’s see what the phone reception is like over there….”
*****
“4G, mate,” Lyle said, answering Ryan’s question, looking over at Lester and shrugging. “My thumbs are utterly peachy, and we’ve had line of sight on the stones for most of the evening. Nothing odd there, you count a bunch of weirdy beardies wandering around the fence and communing from a distance. Vinnie says they’ll do the full kit and caboodle tomorrow when we get let in. Everyone else is playing in the snow or getting pissed, or a combination of the two. We’ll let you know if we see anything but tell Stringer he’ll fit in all right here. Loads of his old mates from his road protesting days.”
When Lyle finished his conversation with Ryan, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and stared at his thumbs, wondering if his early warning system had knocked off early for the festive season.
“Don’t bloody tell me something’s about to kick off,” Lester said.
“No sodding idea,” Lyle said. “Boy Wonder says he’s picked up some fluctuations in the force or something.”
“Bit like Belize,” Rooney muttered. “Is this going to turn into a busman’s holiday for you two?”
“I sincerely hope not,” Lester said, clearly with no great expectation that life was going to play like a nice puppy.
“Christmas lights, mummy!” The kid on the sledge had a yell that wouldn’t have been out of place coming from a town crier. She was waving a pudgy finger in the direction of the stones.
Lyle swivelled around to face the circle but there was nothing to be seen. “Stringer and co are only in Salisbury if anything does kick off.”
“The only thing that’s likely to kick off is Sweaty if he runs out of dope,” Rooney said. “Relax. It’s the solstice, it’ll all be fine.”
“Famous last words, mate,” Lyle said. He reached for the whisky bottle and poured a smaller than usual slug.
After an uneventful half an hour, Lester asked, “Are people allowed into the stones before tomorrow morning, Vinnie?”
“Nope. English Heretics work on sunrise, not the actual time of the solstice. Dean reckons it’s just to limit the overtime payments. Arthur and co will be forming a circle in a few minutes, and if you don’t want to commit an act of accidental druidism, I’d stay well away, if I were you, mate.”
“If it’s not until tomorrow morning, why has a bloke just vaulted over the fence?”
Rooney stood up to get a better luck. “Oh fuck, looks like Sweaty has run out of fuckin’ dope after all and decided to go postal…”
Against the backdrop of a grey velvet sky illuminated by noting more than moonlight, Lyle watched as a running figure was expertly rugby-tackled to the ground by one of the security guards.
A brief flicker of white light in the middle of the stones sent Lyle’s hand reaching for his phone but it was gone before he had the chance to make the call.
“Something’s definitely kicking off…” Lester commented.
Rooney rolled his eyes. “Come on, let’s see what the silly fucker’s up to…”
By the time they’d walked up the drove, avoiding the massed ranks of druids led by a bloke wearing a white sheet topped by a faux gold circlet on his head, they could see the kerfuffle that had kicked off when Sweaty had jumped the fence. He was currently writhing on the ground under the combined weight of two security guards dressed in the regulation black that the job demanded. Other than the lack of offensive weapons, they wouldn’t have looked out of place at an anomaly shout.
As Lyle reached the fence, the woman who’d been towing the kiddie around hurdled the fence in a move that wouldn’t have been out of place on an athletics track and promptly started lamming into the dogpile with fists and feet while yelling at the top of her voice: “Let him up you bastards! Stonehenge belongs to the people, not your fucking bunch of heretic thieves!”
“She has a point,” Rooney said.
“She’s got a kick like a fucking mule,” Lyle said, admiring her passion if not her technique.
Lester winced. “I think that one connected with that poor bugger’s goolies.”
The yell from one of the security guards bore out Lester’s observation. Clearly recognising the greatest threat, one of the guards scrambled to his feet and backed off hastily, holding out both hands and saying, “We need you to go quietly, miss…”
“Tatty’s never done anything quietly in her bloody life,” Rooney muttered. “That’s why we never park the van anywhere near her and Sweaty.”
“Too much information, mate.” Lyle was watching the growing fracas with amusement. None of them had guns or tasers and there’d been no sign of knives, so he was unlikely to need to interfere. For once, this all looked like someone else’s problem.
“You can all fuck right off! Leave him alone!” Tatty delivered another couple of hard kicks from a well-worn pair of Doc Martens.
Lyle, Lester and Rooney practised synchronised wincing.
From outside the perimeter around the stones, another security guard yelled, “The police are on their way!”
“They can join the circle if they like,” commented the man that Lyle had heard referred to as Arthur Pendragon.
“Not sure that’s in their brief,” Rooney muttered, doing his best to edge way, clearly concerned about accidental druidic contamination.
“Would you like to join us?” Arthur asked, with a wide smile only partially hidden by a bushy beard that looked capable providing premium grade accommodation for an entire flock of hedge sparrows.
“I’m afraid we don’t do organised religion,” Lester said, his voice silky smooth.
Arthur Pendragon looked puzzled but anything he said in reply was drowned out by the sound of a police car hurtling up the road from the visitor centre on full blues and twos.”
“He’ll look a right fucking prat if he goes into a tailspin when he tried to stop,” Lyle commented.
To his surprise, the police car managed to fishtail to an undignified halt half a metre from the gate across the road. Four coppers jumped out, very much underdressed for the still-falling snow.
Tatty saw them coming and launched another kick into the reduced melee. From the string of colourful curses, it looked like she’d managed to bash Sweaty rather than the other guard. Her boyfriend extricated himself from the puppy pile and looked around him with an owlish expression on his face.
Tatty promptly abandoned him and legged it at speed towards the low perimeter fence. The crowd of druids parted as if she was Moses and they were the Red Sea (which was about the limit of what Lyle remembered from Mrs Hibberd’s religious education lessons at school). She put one hand on rubbish bin and vaulted over the fence in a move that wouldn’t have been out of place in a gymnasium and hit the ground running.
“Oi!” Sweaty sounded aggrieved, but not as aggrieved as the security guard who was still clutching his nuts. “Come back!”
“Stay exactly where you are!” The young copper sounded about as authoritative as Lyle’s mad aunt’s neighbour’s cockapoo.
“You can fuck right off!” Sweaty turned and bolted for the fence with an admirable turn of speed that left Wiltshire constabulary’s finest behind by a country mile.
“I predict this is going to end in tears,” Lester said.
Lyle nodded. “Bugger that. Did you see that flash behind the cabaret act?”
Lester nodded, his expression thoughtful. “So why aren’t your thumbs reacting?”
“Nothing bad’s going to happen?” Lyle hazarded. “It’s not an exact science, sweetie.”
“Then ring Ryan back and tell him that Boy Wonder can bring his bag of tricks over here and run some tests. He’s hardly going to look out of place in this lot.”
****
“Stringer says he can be there in 15 minutes.”
“Tell him there’s a hostage situation.” Lyle’s voice on loudspeaker on the desk phone was almost drowned out by the commotion in the background.
“Oh fuck, that’s all we need,” Ryan muttered.
“Sorry, mate, it’s not what we signed up for either. Who’s out on shout with Stringer?”
“Finn, Blade, Kermit and Ditzy. Finn’s hostage trained, so’s Blade…”
“And Kermit can charm any grannies in a five mile blast radius, but they’re in short supply at the moment. I’ll explain to Guinefort’s family that she’ll be in good hands as soon as they get here.”
“People should be banned from calling their kids daft names,” Stephen commented.
“Guinefort’s a dog,” Lyle said. “Descended from the Great Lurcher of Cumbria, no less.”
Ryan’s eyebrows shot up, seemingly of their own volition, although that was by no means the most bizarre line he’d ever heard Lyle deliver. “You’re telling me someone’s taken a dog hostage?”
“She was asleep in the passenger seat of his car, but Sweaty didn’t know that until after he’d piled in and activated the central locking.”
“Who the fuck’s sweaty?”
“In this fucking white-out? No one.”
“You just said something about being someone being sweaty?” Ryan could start to feel a fucking headache coming on and this conversation with his 2iC wasn’t helping.
“Sweaty’s a bloke. Tatty’s his girlfriend. Guinefort’s a dog. Are you keeping up?”
Ryan was tempted to say no very loudly and put the phone down, but he tried not to be unprofessional while he was on shift. That could wait for the debrief down the pub.
“She’s a bleedin’ saint, not just any old dog.” Norman slapped three mugs of coffee down on Ryan’s desk.
“She’d have to be to put up with that lot,” Stephen said.
Norman rolled his eyes. “An actual saint. Ask the bish.”
“Didn’t realise the C of E did saints.” Ryan hope Norman wouldn’t debate the point, He didn’t feel up to a theological discussion.
“T’other lot never really thought much to ‘er either. Narrow minded buggers. Plenty o’ saints ‘ave been ‘airy.”
“Sorry, Jon,” Ryan said. “It looks like Norm knows something about dogs and saints. Something to do with her name.”
“I’ll be sure to include it in the briefing. Her owners don’t seem to be worried, but the local boys in blue are getting a bit excited. Must be a quiet night. I think this is what classes as street theatre around here.”
“Try not to break anything.”
“You say that every time we end up here.”
“And you never fucking listen.”
****
“He says we’re not to break anything.”
“A sentiment with which I whole-heartedly concur.” Lester looked around at the crowd who’d gathered around the old Volvo. “So what now?”
“Have another drink and wait for Stringer and the lads to turn up.” Lyle fished a battered hipflask out of his pocket and handed it over,
As suggestions went, Lester had heard worse.
“You can’t stay in there all night!” one of the young police officers yelled, even though there was only a think sheet of car window glass separating him from Sweaty.
“Try me!” Sweaty sounded truculent, and more than half pissed.
“Think of the dog!”
“She’s a lurcher, they sleep a lot!”
From what Lester could see, the dog was currently lying on her back with her legs in the air.
“He’s right about that,” commented a short, round-faced bloke in his mid-thirties wearing a knitted beanie hat. “She won’t wake up for hours.”
“Won’t she need a pee?” Lyle asked.
“Dog’s got a cast iron bladder. Sweaty’ll need to piss before she does.”
“Open the bloody door!”
Lyle rolled his eyes. “Lad needs some negotiation training.”
The sound of a vehicle engine being gunned at speed down the approach road form the visitor centre turned a few heads.
A convoy of three black Range Rovers pulled up and Lester watched as Stringer and his lads jumped out, followed by Cutter, Connor and a man in his mid-50s who Lester didn’t recognise.
“Guns are a bit over the fucking top,” one of the onlookers commented.
“Just an exercise,” Lester said, quickly. “Can’t have all the buggers in the camps sitting around doing nothing at taxpayers’ expense.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding? The lot you get around here don’t wear black. That’s special ops crap.”
“Someone better warn ‘em not to get caught up with the druids. They’re looking a bit restive,” Vinnie Rooney said, looking at Lester and Lyle. “Your mob?”
“Might be,” Lyle said, looking shifty.
A moment later, Rooney exclaimed, “Fuck me, it’s Joel Stringer!”
“Vinnie Rooney, you festering fucking excuse for a human being!” Stringer enveloped Rooney in a combat hug from which it was amazing anyone would emerge with intact ribs.
While the hugfest was going on, Ditzy strolled over, his M4 carbine slung across his chest. “Evening, boss,” a nod to Lyle, “sir,” another nod to Lester. “I’d like to introduce the Right Reverend Alan Kirkland.”
A man in an oversized corduroy coat stuck out a hand.
Lester took it. “James Lester. This lot nominally report to me.”
“They did a good job in my cloisters.”
“That’s not something you hear every day,” Lyle commented.
Lester waved a hand at his lover. “My partner, Jon Lyle. Off duty at the moment.”
Joel Stringer extricated himself from the clutches of Rooney and said, “So what’s the gig? Ryan said something about you needing a negotiator.”
Lyle waived a hand at the battered Volvo. “Bloke in there got jumped by the security guards when he went over the fence. There was a bit of a fracas and he ended up in the car with a dog.”
“Saint Guinefort,” the bishop supplied. “Norman filled us in on the way here.”
“Didn’t look so saintly when she peed on Tatty’s kid’s buggy.”
“Even saints need to pee,” the Right Reverend Alan Kirkland said.
“The bish has got a point.” Rooney nodded.
“Finn, over to you so far as the bloke and the dog are concerned,” Stringer said. “Connor, get your bags of tricks set up in case we get any more fluctuations in the force. Prof, can you monitor what’s going on there? Blade, you’re backing Finn up. Ditz, be on hand in case anyone does anything stupid.”
The medic grinned. “You mean try to keep the stones upright.”
“That would be a big help,” Lester commented.
Finn handed his rife to Blade and walked over to the car where the young police officers were still remonstrating with the occupant who, as far as Lester could see was just making an impressive number of rude hand gestures, some of which he filed away for future reference when driving in central London.
Finn said, “Any sign of him having a weapon?”
The two coppers shook their head, as did the burly security guard who had first tackled Sweaty after he’d vaulted over the fence.
“That’s a good start. I’ll take it from here, but could you do me a favour and keep everyone back?”
Although the three of them looked mildly disappointed, Finn’s black uniform carried its usual authority and they moved back, spreading their arms in an attempt to herd the crowd. As a spectator sport, the young soldier’s negotiating tactics were certainly a great deal less entertaining.
In a low voice, he introduced himself as Rob Finn.
Sweaty’s reply was drowned out by a loud hailer as someone chose that moment to announce that everyone was there on the wrong date and they might as well go home and come back two days later to celebrate properly.
“What the fuck?” Lyle looked as puzzled as Lester felt.
“Merlin.” Rooney sighed. “He does this all the sodding time. Thinks we’ve all got the wrong date and that his calculations are more accurate. He’ll fuck off down to the king’s barrow and try to get everyone to join his bloody circle, so watch yourselves as you might end up with an accidental encounter of the druidic kind. The sods are as hard to shake off as ticks on a dog.”
No one moved.
The man with the loud hailer headed for one of the gates in the fencing along the drove, loudly exhorting everyone to follow him.
One of the spectators responded with, “Piss off, it’s more fun here!”
A few minutes later, one of the men in the crowd started wandering around, taking bets on how long Sweaty would stay in the car.
“It’s not taxed,” one of the coppers said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “We can have him for that, as well as for trespassing.”
“Give it a rest, boys,” Stringer advised. “The idea is to get him and the dog out. When that’s over it’s job done. You can leave this one to us. I can hear what’s being said over Finn’s mic, and it sounds amicable enough. Sweaty’s complaining the dog’s started farting.”
“Farts like a fucking trouper,” Rooney said. “Mind you, so does Sweaty.”
“So does Finn. They’ll get on like a house on fire.”
“Do you think he’s in need of spiritual guidance,” the bishop asked.
“Finn or Sweaty?” Stringer sounded amused.
Alan Kirkham smiled and gestured to the man with the loud hailer. “I was thinking more of him.”
“He’s very keen on forming circles…” Rooney said.
“Then I’m sure we’ll get on very well.”
“Knows a thing or two about boilers, too,” Ditzy commented as the bishop made a beeline for the man known as Merlin.
“Good, let’s hope the buggering thing is fixed by the time we get back…” Lyle rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting a bit bloody parky standing around here.”
It was even parkier two hours later and the Siege of Stonehenge showed no signs of coming to an end. Sweaty had discovered a six pack of beer in the car and was busily emptying each one whilst keeping up an amicable dialogue with Finn as well as complaining about the increasingly sulphurous farts coming from the sleeping lurcher.
Guinefort’s owner, a tall, lanky man wearing a duffle coat that looked several sizes too big for his spare frame, wandered over to see how his dog was doing and stayed for a chat with Finn, who by now had listened to much of Sweaty’s life story.
The snow had continued to fall and the chances of anything but a four by four getting away from the area were slender, much to the annoyance of Wiltshire’s finest, who were now stranded beyond the end of their shift and were starting to look more than faintly grumpy, especially since Stringer had put a damper on the idea of making an arrest even if Sweaty did deign to leave the car.
“Is this sort of thing normal?” Lester asked Rooney.
“This is a bit more bizarre than usual,” the former solder admitted. “We don’t normally get a bishop turning up. Mind you, he’s welcome as often as he wants provided he keeps Merlin out of the way. The guys a right royal pain in the arse.”
“With a fondness for circles.”
Lyle shrugged. “Everyone should have a hobby.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took his hands out of his pocket and looked down at them.
“Trouble?” Stringer kept his voice low.
“Maybe. More of a prickle than an itch.”
The special forces captain pulled a couple of spare earpieces and mics out of his pocket. “Get on comms, Jon. Keep us posted if anything changes.” He handed the second set to Lester. “Connor, did you catch that? Anything from your end?” Hearing Connor’s response, Stringer looked across at Lester and shook his head. Seemingly all was quiet on the anomaly front. “Finn, can you wrap up at your end? Things might be about to get a bit lively up here.”
Lester fitted the small earpiece, then pulled his fleecy hat down around his ears to cover it.
“Think the dog’s on our side, boss.” Finn’s voice came over the comms channel. “She started farting again.” He rapped on the car window. “Sweaty, mate, don’t you need a piss by now? You’ve drunk four of those ruddy cans.”
“Don’t talk about it!” There was a note of concern in Sweaty’s voice.
“You’ve drunk five haven’t you?” Finn sounded impressed, even though Lester knew the lad could easily sink ten pints and still use a rifle with devastating accuracy. “Blimey, mate, you must have a bladder like a fucking bull elephant! You’ve been in there bleedin’ hours…”
“I said don’t talk about it!” Sweaty had now started to whine. “Aw, fuck, man, the dogs just trumped again. Smells like a bad egg farm in here.”
“So come out. No one’s going to arrest you, I promise…”
“So what about them fuckers? They were going on about me car not being taxed.”
“They’ve got better things to do this close to Christmas than booking you. Jeez, they’re on overtime already and their boss ain’t gonna to want to pay ‘em extra while they book you. Trust me… open the door and you can nip round the side of the car and write your name in the snow…”
While Finn was engaging Sweaty in an increasingly frantic dialogue on the subject of bladders and their capacity, the Right Reverent Alan Kirkham had got his hands on the loud speaker and was enthusiastically conducting possibly the most ecumenical service of his career with assorted druids, including a woman in very impressive fake fur hat, at least Lester hoped it was fake. If not, a large quantity of roadkill fox was nesting on top of her head.
“Connor’s picking up some magnetic fluctuations, sir.” Ditzy appeared soundlessly at Lester’s side. “It would be good if we could keep this lot looking away from the stones.”
“Finn and the bishop are doing wonders for keeping everyone’s attention away from the stones, but I think the Sweaty Show might be reaching its finale,” Lester said. “Has anyone got any other ideas?”
“Fireworks,” Vinnie Rooney said. “I’ve got a few big buggers in the van. That’ll keep ‘em occupied.”
Rooney and Lyle hurried off while Lester cast an anxious glance at what was going on in the stone circle. Stringer, Blade and Ditzy had taken up station close to the stones, with Connor and Cutter peering at Connor’s magnetometer and other instruments. From what he could tell over the radio link, there had been there had now been three strong fluctuations in the magnetic field n the middle of the stone that Connor felt were a prelude to an anomaly bursting into existence. If it did, he hoped that any resulting anomaly wouldn’t last long if they followed the pattern of what he’d picked up earlier. But one thing they all knew was that anomalies were unpredictable…
****
Connor had rigged up a camera feed to the middle of the stones, so Ryan, Stephen and Norman has taken up station in the command centre with Ranjit, the technician on the nightshift. They were watching proceedings on the main screen, while around it on each of the subsidiary screens were additional feeds from the soldiers’ chest cameras.
Currently the most entertaining was Finn’s as he continued the negotiations with the strangely named Sweaty, who, by now, was squirming in his seat and begging for Finn to pass him a bottle through the window so he could fill it.
“No can do, mate. Use one of your cans, there’s enough of ‘em in there.”
“Can’t!” Sweaty wailed. “I crushed ‘em!”
With what must have been a heroic effort, Finn stifled a snigger. “You could just pee in the car. I doubt the dog’ll mind.”
“It’s me car, man!”
The ADD bleeped ominously.
“Readings getting high,” Ranjit warned. “Conn, I think you’ve got one about to appear.”
“Time for that distraction, I feel, gentlemen,” Lester said, his voice low but clear through the comms link.
Finn reached out and grabbed the car door by the handle. In one fluid movement he jerked the door open and reached inside to grab Sweaty by the collar and haul him out.
At the same time, the sky to the north of the stones exploded into a gold and silver starburst, drawing an approving cheer from the crowd.
The group clustered around Merlin and the bishop joined in the cheering. In a voice well used to preaching from a pulpit, the Right Reverend Alan Kirkham announced, using the loud hailer to good effect, “Happy Solstice, everyone!”
The crowd took up the cry of Happy Solstice, just as an anomaly flared into life in the middle of Stonehenge, lighting up the sky like the world’s biggest sparkler.
Everyone roared their approval.
Through Finn’s chest cam, they watched as Sweaty promptly fumbled with his flies and dashed around the other side of the car.
“Was that door unlocked the whole time?” Stephen asked, patching into the same comms as the soldiers on site.
“Yeah,” Finn said. “The local muppets hadn’t noticed. And I didn’t see any point in spoiling the fun. Surprised the dog hasn’t gassed him, though. That’s some stink in there.”
“Never realised saints farted so much,” Ryan said.
Norman rolled his eyes. “You got your theology degree from where, laddie?”
“It’s closing!” Ranjit, normally renowned for his utter unflappability sounded positively animated.
“Thank fuck for that,” Ryan said. “Not sure I can take much more excitement.”
“Not every night the boiler gets fixed by a bishop,” Norman said.
“Not every night I get to meet a saint!” Finn said.
“What’s she like?” Stephen enquired.
“Sleepy,” Finn said. “And fucking farty.”
****
“Told you I bring you to all the best places,” Lyle said, taking a swig from his hip flask and holding it out to Lester.
The whisky danced a fiery trail down to his stomach. “Can’t fault this one for street theatre, sweetie.”
“So can we do it again next year?”
“Don’t push your luck…”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2019-12-28 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 04:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-28 09:20 pm (UTC)The setting is perfect and the supporting cast outstanding (the bish, Vinnie, farting lurchers and Norman being Norman ...) But it's the dialogue that absolutely makes the fic. There are so many fantastic lines, and I'd be here till next Christmas quoting them all, but I think my favourites are probably the left-footers knowing nothing about boilers, the act of accidental druidism, and the Great Lurcher of Cumbria! Finn's negotiations and the car door being unlocked all through made me howl. And naturally the smiling winningly/was it wind? line had me tittering as well!
This is best story ever - thank you! I'm off to re-read it immediately!
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 04:52 pm (UTC)It's largely based on real life events. And the Great Lurcher of Cumbria exists! I've met one of his descendants. *g*
I wasn't sure it would ever live up to the original story, but it was a lot of fun trying.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 10:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 01:33 pm (UTC)Great fun to read.
no subject
Date: 2019-12-29 04:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-12-30 10:07 am (UTC)I was giggling madly throughout. The entire situation was priceless. The 'accidental druidism' and the farting lurcher were definite highlights.
Well done, and I do believe I recognised a few of those stories/scenes...
no subject
Date: 2019-12-30 11:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 02:16 pm (UTC)Love it, love it, love it!
no subject
Date: 2020-01-01 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-05 08:11 pm (UTC)That was not what I expected from a visit to Stonehenge and I'm sure Lester didn't expect it either *g*
I laughed so much through the fic, just what I needed. Great story! ^_^
no subject
Date: 2020-01-07 01:18 am (UTC)The problem with trying to be funny is that you never know if you succeed or not! But it's great when it does hit the spot.
no subject
Date: 2020-01-06 04:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-07 01:17 am (UTC)There's no need to make things up when life is quite that bizarre!
I could even have licked the stones if I'd wanted to!
no subject
Date: 2020-01-16 08:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-21 10:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-18 08:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-01-21 10:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-07 01:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2020-09-07 05:29 am (UTC)