The Devil's Fever

10

Jeffers stumbled along the pavement, not sure of where he was going but just glad to be putting one foot in front of the other.

He walked and walked, the noise and sights and smells and cramped carnival that is London not even close to penetrating the fog sat thick in his mind. He saw nothing and remembered nothing, so focused was he on what the contents of his head, his vain attempts to process what had just happened.

Shoot dead. Him demoted.

Everything he worked for gone, in a stroke of what now could be seen for what it was: rank, selfish stupidity. Misplaced bravura. The idiocy of the arrogant male.

He weaved between pedestrians without acknowledgement, step by step, foot by foot trying to wrest some control, some calm back into his emotions.

He walked and walked and walked, across bridges, down alleyways and along avenues. Slowly being able to sit with the shock. Piece by piece putting back together a reality shattered by the day's events.

He didn't even notice the rain when it started.

He walked for what felt like hours. Past half remembered taverns and buildings echoing of some memory, but nothing broke through.

When his focus resharpened he knew exactly where he was. Why had his feet brought him here? Why was this the refuge his unconscious had chosen to seek?

He knocked on the door and when it opened he felt the warmth hit him from inside the homestead.

"Well hello dear boy. You alright old chap? You look a hell of a mess", Weston touched Jeffers on the shoulder and Jeffers leaned into it, whether for actual support or just the need for some human contact right now.

Weston ushered him in and sat him in front of the fire crackling in his living room hearth. He summoned staff to bring a blanket to wrap around Jeffers' shoulders then poured a brandy for his unexpected guest.

"You couldn't have got a cab? Truly awful weather today", Weston handed him the brandy and took another good look at Jeffers. He was staring into the fire and was still as pale as when he'd been outside. It was clearly more than the cold that was bothering him. Weston sat down in an armchair opposite, slowly circling his brandy around the snifter, trying to pick the right words to say.

"They hung him", said Jeffers, eyes still firmly on the flames. "Did it this morning."

Weston nodded slightly, and took a small sip of his drink.

"You not going to say anything?" Sniped Jeffers, looking at Weston for the first time.

"It's a sad affair."

"You didn't give a shit."

"I didn't know the boy."

"You don't mind innocent people dying?"

"Unfortunately, I imagine it happens all the time." The irregular crackle of the fire pin pricked through the silence in the room as they sat. "Do you want a change of clothes Arthur?"

"No", said Jeffers, taking his first drink and letting the liquid warm its way down his throat.

"So what do we do now?"

"We?"

"Yes, you and I. What do we do now about The Devil's Fever?"

Jeffers let out a small laugh, "This is not the time to talk of your stupid fucking theory."

"I think it's exactly the time."

"Well you fucking would wouldn't you?" The anger in Jeffers' tone caused Weston to wrinkle his lip in distaste. He had not seen his companion like this before and he did not care for it.

"Well then let me bow down to your superior knowledge Detective Jeffers."

"I ain't no detective any more."

"This is no time for histrionics."

"They demoted me. Back on the beat now."

"For trying to get the boy released?"

"Insubordination."

Again silence fell between them and the fire crackled away, the warmth emanated from it in stark contrast to the chill in the air between them. "It was never going to work."

"Says you. The font of all fucking knowledge."

"Arthur, if you're going to insult me, do feel free to leave."

"Got out of me what you needed have you?"

"I'm not sure you're in the mood for company."

"No, there's only one type of my company you're interested in isn't there?" The jab hurt Weston, though his face didn't show it, he still sternly stared at Jeffers who again looked to the fire.

Once the sting from the accusation has passed, Weston calmly moved to end this unpleasantness, "I think you should leave."

"Of course you fucking do. 'Cos if I 'int in your bed and I 'int letting you play detectives you're not interested are you?"

By this point Weston had risen from his chair and walked to the doorway, hoping to illicit Jeffers into doing the same, however the squat, powerful man still sat exactly where he started, face leant towards fire.

"You disappoint me Arthur."

Jeffers spun in his seat, the fire he was looking at now seemingly reflected in the burn behind his eyes.

"And you disgust me, Weston. All this money, all this opportunity and what do you do? Eh? Come up with stupid little theories and let your imagination run away with you? You got me doing like you did, putting two and two together and coming up with eight. All these easy answers with no real proof, all just stories we made up to make ourselves feel better. And look where it's got us, you in't no scientist and I in't no detective so I guess that puts us in our place don't it? Back to where we should be."

"Leave. Now."

"Sure, I'll leave. I'll leave right now. And you go back to your little fantasies James, like a good boy should. But some of us have to be in the real world, Some of us have to eat. Some of us have to live. Where real things happen. We can't live in a fantasy like you do with your money and your ideas. Some of us have to live."

"Well then, feel free to get out and live any way you want, free from me and my terrible influence over you."

A coldness had swiped across Weston's expression. It removed the playfulness, the youthful naivety that Jeffers had so associated with him, and replaced it with a stony resolve. As the grip of his actions closed tight around Jeffers' gut once more he rose swiftly, bustling past Weston and out through the front door, back into the drifting rain he had sought to avoid when he entered.

Weston watched him go, storming down the street at pace, hunched up from the weather, hands in pockets and shoulder high by his ears.

Good riddance, he thought, slamming the door on the street scene, but the pit of his stomach and the heaviness of his heart told him a different story altogether.