Which is how, after Dominic Doubleday, His Man, had set of at a swift pace, chasing the blonde curls of the little servant girl who had been observed bobbing down the High Street on an errand for her Laird, the learned Maister of Kilquhenny, an old reprobate and lecher, weel-kent aboot the Toon as they say, for his appreciation of young girls still, and being something of a xenophile, his particular liking was for girls of a Nordic colouring combined with an Italianate petiteness and with the tongue skills of the Portuguese whose women are especially prized in whore-hoose and bordello for their dexterity in such matters; now, despite his recent Marriage to the beautiful and bounteously endowed Lady Griselda of Longformacus, as noble and well-born a Maid as ever strapped on armour and fought in the Lists with aplomb and innate skill; and indeed, she it was who, perhaps saddened by her new Husbandman's lack of interest in consummating their marriage had, indeed, moved the Marriage Bed to a Garret Room at the back third floor of the tall and narrow house he shared with his Library and his 'Seven Dwarves' as his coterie of tiny Slaveys were affectionately described in the neighbourhood – why, the Cook was just 12 years of age, the eldest of the Household, with the others ranging from 11 down to 7 – and all directly under the instruction of The Maister, feared as a fussbudget who examined every piece of plate for smears and totted up the cost of every dish served to him; indeed, his new Lady did not even have her own Maid, rather having to make do with the youngest of The Dwarves, a tiny redhead whose height barely reached her Mistress's waist, which meant that when assisting with the dressing of Lady Griselda's hair, she had to stand upon a stool beside the chair on which the Lady sat! and Griselda eyed the schmatte in which she was obliged to dress her body - no silks or satins here, instead cheap wool which made her itch and required such linen undergarments as she had brought with her to protect her delicate skin, and the lack of good candles, those used here burned too quickly and smoked rancidly and in doing so forced her to repair early to her tiny chamber at the top of the rear quarter of the house – a house in dire need of plastering and painting, of having it's draughts stopped up; she started to hum 'The Wee Cooper o Fife', absently matching her own situation with that of the Cooper's poor, maltreated and abused Gentlewife; but tonight! yes, she reflected, tonight may be different, for the handsome and illustrious Sir Parlane MacFarlane, who lived just across The High, had made eye contact with her this morning, when she had gone out for a stroll with her maid - their eyes had met and the sensation in her loins was of such an intensity that she almost squealed, possibly would have, were it not for the fact that she was listening intently to Lawyer Elginbrod's Goodwife, lamenting the lack of fresh fish in the market; but later, as she was returning to the House, a passing servant woman had slipped a note into her hand, so quickly, so discreetly that she never truly saw who, or where she went, but the note, when she unfolded and read it in the privacy of her closet, was from He, Sir Parlane, proposing to visit her tonight, having, apparently a duplicate key to the outside door which opened onto the tiny staircase leading in a corkscrew fashion to her very chamber – but how? from where? pshaw! it mattered not, it only mattered that he would come soon after the candles were lit, and that time was almost upon the Toon, she heard below - her Husbandman ordering the Hoose to be lit – albeit meanly – and also calling for Goldilocks, his name for his favourite pet who seemed to have failed to return from an errand, she heard him call for his cape and his walking stick, shouting out orders to the remaining six Dwarves before hastily leaving the House and she heard the door slam behind him; and she wondered if this was the work of Sir Parlane MacFarlane and if it meant he would soon come, so she sent the littlest dwarf down into the House and waited and shortly, saw the handle of the door at the head of that spiral begin to turn and her beating heart beat faster in excited expectation!
Sir Parlane MacFarlane drew Dominic Doubleday into a corner, and checked over his shoulder that none of the other servants were within hearing distance, and even then, he lowered his voice to a whisper: “I believe she may be with child!” and his face shone as he beamed at his Man, “if a boy, I fancy Pietro, if a girl, Beatricia, I know you look askance at my xenophilia, but I hae a phalanx of Bishops breathing down my neck and a child to promise to the Church would gain me the imprimatur I need; and Doubleday leant close, “why think you she is with child, My Lord?” thinking to himself that if she is and carries it to birth, he would surely warrant an increase in his wages,” and Sir Parlane placed a finger tip to his lips, when I inserted this very phalanx yestreen, Doubleday, I felt a change that I have felt before, I am no Apothecary or Mid-wife, but I have read on the subject and believe it promises a child, and you forget that there are at least seventy-four bearers of my physiognomy in Auld Reekie already, so we have the blessing of our experience, both in the Act and afterwards,” waving his pointer as he said this, “but if you need confirmation, why not slide your own pole into her canal yourself, and tell me if I am wrong,” and he gave Doubleday a playful jab in the ribs, before ending the conversation with: “I presume you still sluice a grown woman, from time to time, eh, Dominic, or have you given that up, to concentrate on weans? oh, don't deny it, I may be an Auld Cock, but I still Rule the Roost in my ain hoose, and ken exactly wha fucks whae and when and whether the she puts up resistance or feigns her climax to please the he, ah, mon, dinny be sae pit oot: ye're a Cuckold no a Castrato, wha an whaur ye pit yer cock's nae concern o mine, as lang's it disnae upset the Hoose, ye ken whit wimmin are like: they can swally a pint of spunk, but if their neb's pit oot o joint, ye ne'er hear the end o't! see The Maister o Kilquhenny opposite? d'ye ken the wee golden curled lassie that rins errands fer him? aye, ye dae, ah've seen yer een swivellin in yer heid whiles she scampers by, well, it'd suit me fine if ye gie'd her a guid shaftin the nicht,” and Doubleday stared, his Master had never given him such an order before,”if she's no in the hoose when the caundles are due fer lichtin, Auld Kilquhenny'll set oot tae scour the streets fer her himsel – he's got a similar penchant tae yersel, quite protective o the wean, 'tis lovely tae observe - an that'll leave his young wife alane on the tap flair, an I've got a key tae the back stair door, an she's expecting me, so – keep the lassie spread on yer pole till ten o'clock and then she can scamper hame, gie her a groat and she 's tae tell the Auld Goat she met a sailor, an he'll spend the night sniffin an tasting fer the tang o the sea in her quim,” and Sir Parlane slapped his thigh and with a twinkle in his eye said: “while ye Suck the Flavey, I'll Lick the Dady,” and as Doubleday stared at he Master in perplexity, Sir Parlane flushed briefly, laughed and said, “an occasional misspeak, when I am fraught, Dominic, I meant to say, 'you fuck the slavey, and I'll Dick the Lady!'” and such misspeaks – once Doubleday's account, acted out with gusto in the taverns and howffs of Auld Reekie, spread across the land – were thereafter referred to as parlaneisms, until some Fellows of Oxford, acting as much from cultural snobbery as a fondness for the Reverend William Spooner, rechristened them 'Spoonerisms' and the new name stuck, until today when the Clan MacFarlane, advised by Martin Elginbrod QC – whose copyright on all written and performed versions of the said form of words had just been satisfactorily registered with the Intellectual Property Office (conveniently located in two rooms under the roof which are rented in perpetuity from his Chambers) - announced a challenge to the Oxford Term describing it as 'an example of State Sponsored Paternalism and an example of Anti Scottish, English Mad Banners'!
Sir Parlane MacFarlane was, for his times and place, a most remarkable man – not that his education had been so very different from those of his contemporaries – born into a wealthy, landowning Family (his late father Sir Parlane MacFarlane also, had been a professional soldier in the service of the Royal Household and his son was himself trained in Arms at an early age) he had a plentiful amount of time in which to follow his interests; well read, he had augmented his father's collection of manuscripts and books on the arcane and esoteric, with a leaning towards Alchemy and Prophecy; he had a prodigious Memory and his own writings on Aids to Remembrance are known to have proved useful to Giovanni Bruno in his own extensive work in that field; and he was particularly attached to fucking every woman he met, or if she could not be so served on that occasion, to the next best alternatives of anal or oral intercourse, the actual choice depending upon the time, place and circumstances for, the union was always successfully joined; to this end he was able to employ his wit, his charm, his humour, his warmth, his highly developed gift of empathic connection and his less well-known gift of telepathic persuasion, for it was this last gift which on many occasions enabled him to bed a woman with whom he not exchanged even one single word of conversation and certainly without recourse to force; once their eyes had locked, it was foudroyant: she was suddenly utterly and helplessly lost and he the rampant victor, but not, it must be fairly conceded, ever a boastful one – no fuck and tell tittle-tattle he, not one hint of yobbery in his treatment of the recipients of his seed, he never broke the confidence of his conquests, rather it was they who spoke his name to their circle of womanly friendships, who elevated him from just a casual dalliance to an almost mythical status later to be enjoyed by all; the extolled the beauty of his manhood, it's dynamic durability; his one and only fault, as the teller told her tale, was his vacillation – for he could swing from total absorption with the sweet ripeness of her pudenda and his enjoyment of the breaching of her Maidenly defences (even Chastity Hardware failed to keep him at bay) and extolling her adorable list of Virtues, though that significant one was gone for ever, to catching sight of a Maidservant pouring water for her Mistress to bathe her swollen and raw-rubbed Mound of Venus and the achuing Clitoris within and with one bound he and she were gone, perhaps for just the few minutes it might take for him to deflower the poor child, or even – as has been known – an entire month, not, it must be understood that he would have spent the entire month with the girl, for no-one had ever captivated him exclusively for more than a single day and night, and that on only a very few and rare occasions, such as, but No! this is neither the time nor place to sully the memory or ruin the descendants of that particular Union, and they are many, and they are exalted, and they are among the very Highest in this Land and her former Colonies across the Ocean, so Hush! no more for the nonce will I speak or write on this particular subject!
And after gleefully shooting his seed into the Doxy he had requisitioned as atonement for dousing him in a night-soil piss potful of urine and faeces. Sir Parlane MacFarlane was ready for his delayed Breakfast of salted porridge, followed by smoked herring and then a dish of soft-boiled quail’s eggs, while one of the House-maids knelt beneath his table, between his legs, which were hung over her shoulders so that by either squeezing or relaxing, he could communicate his desires to her as she sucked his cock throughout the meal; and while she sucked, Sir Parlane munched and supped and talked to His Man, Dominic Doubleday, positioned just behind his right shoulder – from which place Doubleday could observe his wife at her work beneath the table, and contemplated her skills – which made her their Master's favourite - which brought security to their employment, cemented by the nights she so often spent in Sir Parlane's bed and which, Doubleday fervently hoped, might bring a child, a blessed Son perhaps, which would set them up secure for life – for there was no sign of Lady MacFarlane bearing a son and heir, for her quarters were on the floor above her Lord's and at the opposite side of the House, in the part which she shared with the servants, which was not strange in a Household of their Class – indeed Doubleday had studied the etymology and usage of the noun 'Wife' and did not see any clear application to either Marie or Lady MacFarlane, neither of whom had intimate relations with their husbands and both of whom were 'known' after the Bible by Serving Wenches, although Sir Parlane's Member was extolled by Ladies of Rank throughout the City and widely discussed in their salons with their friends, most of whom, it was widely believed, and, Doubleday knew, rightly so, had accommodated it; why, indeed, at that very moment, down in a fine Tower hard by Holy Rude, The Lady Egbertha Umpherston was just discussing with her good friend and confidant, Clotilda MacCaroon, the change which she had noted came into the eyes of Sir Parlane at the moment of orgasm when they darkened from their normal ice-blue to a deep viridity approaching that of the very Emerald she wore in a brooch at her throat, perhaps, we may suppose, in memory of that very occasion which gave birth to Lord Umpherston's Eldest Son and Heir to the Title and Estates of the Umpherston Family and whose own eyes were of a most marked ice-blue while his features bore no discernible resemblance to Lord Umpherston himself; and their, (we are back with Sir Parlane and Marie Doubleday) entanglements gave Doubleday freedom to pursue his own interest in young girls – there were a number in the house, to whom the propinquity of living all hugger-mugger in such a Household gave him, by added virtue of his own role as Sir Parlane's Man, ample opportunity and easy access, and all of whom he fucked regularly, along with the scullery-maids and small slaveys from the neighbouring Houses, not that anyone would have objected, for these wenches were made only for skivvying and being fucked quite regardless of their age for recall, if you will, that this was a dark period in the History of our Country and it's Peoples when childhood did not exist, when children were only small adults and for the poor, work began as soon as they could walk and follow orders (recall that, even in a much later time, Little Boy Blue, the first printed version of which was in circa 1744 although it was probably known in Shakespeare's time, was about 5 years old and our present tale is set in far less civilised and enlightened times than his) and, when older, bringing more of their kind into being and service; why, surely it is a known fact that among the mediaeval Aristocracy, Nobility and Gentry, even down to the Merchant Classes too, a young Gentleman would give up his virginity to a nominated Maid of the House when he was perhaps 10 or 12, depending upon his maturity, always on the strictest understanding that no child borne of such an act of union would ever be acknowledged or accepted and that if she acquiesced appropriately and demurely, the Mother and Child would always have a place with the family; but back to Doubleday for he now saw that Sir Parlane had finished his meal, set down his knife and spoon and patted Marie on her head, which was the sign for her to release the rampant cock from her mouth, turn around, lifting her skirts and aprons and present her rump; parting her cheeks for Sir Parlane to insert his member (to her cunt, Doubleday was pleased to see, rather than her arse) and she began, balancing on hands and knees, to swing her body forward and back, until Sir Parlane grasped her buttocks and pulled them hard to him, so that his cock was driven deep into her; his body stiffened, he gave out a long sigh of satisfaction as his seed was pumped into her; “aaaah! that was a good one, Dominic, I think it's time for work.” and he pulled out of Marie, wiped his cock with a napkin and pushed it back into his hose; Dominic Doubleday allowed himself a brief nod of appreciation to Marie and helped his Master to his feet.
When Doubleday returned with the news that one Elphinrod Dalwhinnie, a tetchy quacksalver who lived under the eaves of the rickety tenement, had been winkled out after admitting discharging his night-soil pisspot over the High Street at just about the time Sir Parlane MacFarlane had been the victim of The Law of Unintended Consequences, and the as-yet unidentified 'Law of Gravity' - for Sir Isaac Newton was not yet even a twinkle in the eyes of his unconceived parents whose nuptials were still to occur in a hundred or more years' time - and offered up fulsome apologies for the indignity his carelessness had heaped upon the weel-kent philosopher and philanderer MacFarlane's head and dignity, and he in return had uncharacteristically dismissed his earlier fury and simply ordered Doubleday to give the charlatan a penny and return him to his garret – “but bring his doxy to me, I feel the need for some gutter-snipe to service me this day, perhaps an odour of the excrement has entered my spleen and needs must be obeyed before I can move on to the more elevated delights befitting my station – like fucking that damned nun still residing in yon oubliette and contributing not one farthing nor payment in kind towards the costs of her board and lodging!”
He may have been considered a paragon among the city's bibliotaphs, for his vast collection of the works of Nostrodamus and even The Predictions of True Thomas, one learned in the Gramarye, a Black Belt in Necromancy, and something of a Soothsayer in his spare time, but, so engrossed was he in his study of the Crow's Feathers he had found at the foot of the old tenement, that he failed to hear the cry of “Gardyloo” from high above and, as a consequence, was drenched by the contents of the night's Piss Pot, and so Sir Parlane MacFarlane, with a loud curse and shake of his fist in the general direction of the pourer, up-the-way – who was already back a-bed with his Doxy, and heard none of it – scurried back home to his House, which stood many yards above the oubliette where Sister Evadne Eglantyne sat in chains and ordure, to change his soiled silks and satins for a long, brown, hooded robe which rather gave him the appearance of a Franciscan Friar – oh! the irony! and smirked smugly at his own treachery as he ordered his Man, Dominic Doubleday, to evict the entire tenantry from that stair unless the one who had polluted his person, should own up – or be named by one of his neighbours!
“How did he get here?” cried Tavish, catching his first sight of the latest apparition in the cavern; “you know him?” asked Bernie; “he's a stain on Edinburgh's civic pride, that Man,” said Tavish, displaying a bitterness not not normally heard in his voice, “Assistant Chief Constable Duncan Doubleday, or DoubleCross to anyone who's had the misfortune to work with him; he has his fingers in every piece of corruption, of vice and depravity you'll find under the mask of respectability the City wears; he's more bibulous than W C Fields ever was, owns several hectads populated by thieves, fences, prostitutes of all ages, drug dealers and crack-houses, money launderers fronted by granite and marble banking houses; even my brother Pherson, who shot me, hadn't a good word to say about ACC DoubleCross and Pherson is Emeritus Professor of Criminology at the Uni, so he's smelt many a stink in the Capital and when you hear a Nocturne playing in your head and Ladies of the Night are plying their trade, behind them, behind the Pimps and Ponces, the Puppetmaster pulling their strings is Old DoubleCross,” he spat phlegm onto the rock floor; “but if he's a Police Officer,” asked Tammy, “how does he get away with it?” and Tavish grunted, then said: “he has enough dirt on every bent Politician, Lawyer, Copper and Judge, not to mention Businessmen, Tax Dodgers, Givers and Takers of Bribes and Kickbacks and Insider Traders in anything that can be bought and sold, from Cobbles and Gratings lifted after dark from the High Street, to pre-pubescent boys and girls from Eastern Europe or The Philippines and Thailand; his Mentor was Martin Elginbrod – not the present one, his Father – when DoubleCross was a DI in Vice and first got a taste for the more extreme forms of Paedophilia, his tastes were guided and refined and access made easier by Elginbrod and his friends, including Jimmy Savile, one of whose people opened a Specialist Club financed by a Russian Oilygarch, former KGB Handler, Boris Goodenuv, they all had a predilection for young boys and girls and The Club – named, incidentally, The Gents which should give you an idea of the kind of place it was - gave them a safe haven to practice what they preached and act out their fantasies and suddenly young DI Doubleday was right in the centre of the action, but instead of collaring the lot of them he became one of their most dedicated members and they had him by the short and curlies – oh, he was made, set up for a life of unbridled sex with anyone he fancied, and they had a noose around his neck – when Elginbrod's fingers snapped, Doubleday's heels clicked – he was their Gopher, Finder, Fixer and Minder and his pockets were lined with cash and condoms”; “so how do you know all this about him?” asked Tammy, back home the Chief Investigative Reporter on The Scotsman whose finest virtue was that most of the words which issued from her mouth were framed as Questions, suddenly realising that there was a gap – nay a chasm - in her knowledge of what was supposed by her colleagues and friends to be her Mastermind Specialist Subject – The Underworld of Scotland's Capital City – which was not a picturesque reference to the network of streets, closes, nooks, crannies and oubliettes still existing far beneath the cobbles and tartanalia of The Royal Mile and it's fine buildings, homes of Scotland's National emblems of – Crown, Commerce, Religion, Law, Governance, and Militaria!
The exhilarated WPC Isa Urquhart rolled away from the slumbering body of her bedmate and answered her mobile, as she pandiculated to losen her neck muscles – it was a call from DI Brevity and he sounded anxious: “Oh, Isa, I'm sorry to disturb you at this time of the night, or morning, but we've just got the DNA results back from Carolina Moonbeam – the blood you found in the Milking Parlour has been provisionally identified as that of Assistant Chief Constable Duncan Doubleday, and indicate a high level of bibulation, so he may not be sober – which could account for the crash, together with the injuries which may have preceded it; I've been trying for the last couple of hours to trace him; we've called and visited his home, but his wife seems to have left him and we only found a young girl there who doesn't speak English, so we're hoping to find a translator – but we don't yet know what language she is speaking; we found his own car in Morningside, and the Forensic Science Department are all over it as we speak; we're trying to track his movements through his mobile, which seems to have disappeared from the map and – oh, there's no easy way to say this, Isa: I need you here, to co-ordinate that exercise, you're the best bloodhound we've got, can you come in?” And Isa turned to look at the sleeping Meg, who stirred slightly and rolled towards her, eyes suddenly open and a big smile on her face; “half an hour, Guv, that's all I need and I'll head straight in,” “and see if you can rouse Gertie, she's not answering her mobile, will you?” and Isa let her gaze move to the other two sleepers in the bed, who made up the coterie which had thoroughly colligated during the night; Gertie was pressed up against the magnificent bulk of Bess's bosom, “I think I know where she is, Guv, I'll rouse her and bring her with me,” and she could hear Brevity relax: “pure dead brilliant, Isa, you're Wonder Woman!” and Isa smiled to herself, and thought: “I'm not the only one!”
Later, the SOCOs having been and gone, with all their evidence gathered from the Rest Room in the Milking Parlour used by the Mystery Man, copies of CCTV footage, though nothing had been spotted other than grainy images of a bulky figure staggering away from the 'cows' and being helped inside by one of the Mature Milk Maids – Meg – for there were no cameras inside the building, and there was no indication of him leaving, and every inch of the spotlessly clean interior had been examined minutely with only the tang of carbolic Soap in the air; now the meticulous WPC Isa Urquhart together with Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle was completing the Timeline, with it's rows for the people who had been at the Milking Parlour from the moment the Mystery Man arrived with the troupe of 'cows' until the discovery of his disappearance by Isa, and the columns which broke down the day into five minute parts, and which showed who had been inside or outside the Milking Parlour throughout that time-frame; and meanwhile DI Gordon Brevity was interviewing the bibulous Farmer Farmer back at The Cowgate and Grassmarket Community Policing Hub (having been thoroughly dissatisfied with the Statement already given to DS Goldy Brevity in his Farm House) and there was a distinct easing of the atmosphere around and within the Milking Parlour when the minatory Farmer farmer's menacing look had been removed – even the Czech and Slovak Milk Maids were singing some of their traditional songs fro their distant homeland and and even Gertie, perhaps not quite an oniomaniac, nevertheless felt her urge to go shopping had eased and she was enjoying a mug of Cocoa with Isa, Meg and Bess, the other Milk Maids having returned to their Hostel in Oxgangs: “I think,” sighed Isa, as she relaxed, her boots and socks removed and her feet on Meg's lap where they were most relaxingly massaged, “I think we did a bit of a bodge this morning, taking so long to believe The Gadfly” - we might have caught up with this Mystery Man if we had listened to him and believed what he told us!” “but surely no-one can accuse us of carelessness and sloppy thinking?” asked Gertie, “as soon as we had confirmation of his story from the Ski Slope's CCTV we got right on to it,” and Isa reached out and took one of Gertie's hands in hers: “cold hand, warm heart – you are truly loyal, Gertie, and I love you for it, but nonetheless, a quicker response might had collared that Dude!” and Bess took Gertie's other hand in hers and opening her bodice, demonstrated her tried and tested - and acclaimed throughout the Dairy Industry – Hand Warming Bosoms, much to Gertie's intense delight!
Four Milk Maids stood meekly in a row as the two police officers approached, but looked blankly at her when the inquisitive WPC Isa Urquhart asked them if they had been on duty between 8 and 10am that morning – one yawned widely, another stuck her tongue out, the third scratched her head under her mop cap, while the third whistled what might have been a tune; Farmer Farmer spoke up: “I'm sorry, Sergeant, but these girls are either Czech or Slovak and don't have a word of English between them, other than 'piss off' or 'fuck off' which seems to be de rigueur these days, I might suggest speaking with the two Mature Milk Maids, over there,” and he indicated two sonsie lassies standing by the door of the Milking Parlour; Isa made a quick decision: “I feel in my waters that this may be a dzud, with a dearth of reliable information and a whitewash to follow, but we'll just have to do our best – Gertie, you have the one in Red and I'll tackle the one in Blue, 30 minutes tops then we'll compare notes,” and they took the women to opposite ends of the plant; Isa studied hers for a minute, and then got stuck in: “what's your name?” “Meg, whit's your'n?” which Isa, professional to her roots, ignored; “how long have you been a Milk Maid?” “since ah wiz nae mair'n fower or faive,” “where did you train?” “Xanadu,” “where's that?” to which Meg indicated South-East with her thumb, adding: “ma Faither's Fermentation, aboot twal mile ower thae hulls,” “and how old are you now?” “fuck aff, ah'm urny tellin ye!” “there's no need to be impertinent!” “nor's ther ony need fer yow tae be so impident, asking a daecent body her age!” “it's a more than decent body, Meg, and I apologise for venturing where you feel I shouldn't, though perhaps if I explain to you, then you may feel more inclined to help me,” “whirraboot?” “a man,” “ah hate them! hate them aw! an thon Fairmer Fairmer, he's the wurst o them aw, a greedy pig, ye ken he wurks us till oor hauns is bleedin, tak a luik at thon,” and she showed the sympathetic WPC two hands, scrubbed red raw, chapped and scabbed where they had bled, “he'll no let us use ony moisturisers, jist carbolic soap, Carbolic Soap! in this day an age? whaur's yer Elfin Safty at Werk wen itz needit? nae-fuckin-whaur! yin pair of disposable gluvs a week, each, coz oor jist weemin, an thae Checks and Slaveys, urny in the Unyin neeva, they cannae tok tae us n oo cannae tok tae thaem, it's Divide n Fuckin Rool, that's yon Fairmer Fairmer's wey, beleev ye moi, its Asset Strippin, thon's whit's gaunin oan heer! aw they Wankers wi their fuckin massif omnibuses like pigs in a truffle an him cryin hissel a Goormay Fairmer, he's yin o they ithir thingies, yow'll ken, Sargent!” this last with a wink, and Isa winked back, “you mean gourmand, greedy pig you said,” “too fuckin right, he's oot tae gourmandize his ain fuckin pockets on the backs o the wurkurs, me n Bess n them poor Checks n Balances, he's got The Instychute peyin him ower the oads fer his weed patches an wha gets tae sell the mulk tae the Whale Sailors, Fairmer-fuckin-Fairmer thatz wha,” “would you like me to ask our Fraud Squad to investigate?” “aye, invest-aw-ye-like, it'll aw be in sum taxi van like thae Seashells, bit gie him a couple of sleppless nichts if ye like, Hen,” and Isa knew she had won the Milk Maid over; “when the cows came in this morning, did you see an injured man, he'd been involved in a car crash in the field where the cows were and we think he might have perhaps used one to help him make his way from the vehicle,” “aye, ye shood've seyd ye wiz looking fer him, his heid wiz aw bashit and there wiz blud aw ower him,” “where did he go?” “nae whaur,” “do you mean he's still here?” “aye,” “where?” “in oor rest room – itz the ainly facilitation The Instychute gied us, soas we kin hae a wee lie doon when we've wir periods,” “can you show me?” “aye, it's jist alang heer,” “in here” “aye, jist push ton door, that's it,” but when she got there, the cupboard was bare, though there were signs that The Man had lain on the bed, streaks and stains of blood and vomit on the starched white sheet, on the gleaming white towels, even on the intense white walls, a Hand Print, but of The Man, nothing, she turned to find Meg almost pressing against her, trying to see over her shoulder, full and vibrant breasts pressing against Isa in the doorway, lips only inches from her own, “is there another rest room?” “aye, next door, dae ye want a wee lie doon? itz the Men's yin bit ther's nae men heer less ye coont Fairmer Fairmer an he nevva cums inside, cum oan Hen, ah'll gie ye a haund,” and the door closed behind them with a satisfying click as Meg turned the lock, and in the remaining twenty minutes Isa conducted a thorough in-depth investigation of Meg and discovered all her secrets of Milk Production!
As she stood beside the Hub Panda, waiting for Farmer Farmer to climb into his enormous black and chrome 4 Wheel Drive Gentlemen Farmers' vehicle of choice, the hawk-like WPC Isa Urquhart noted him speaking on his mobile – and as she climbed into the police car, she remarked to her Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle: “I bet he's calling the Milk Maids or someone at The Institute, I told him not to tell anyone we were coming to the Milking Parlour!” and Gertie's eyes shone: “do you suppose he's married?” she asked, and Isa shot her a glance: “if he is, I pity the poor woman, he's so fastuous and a dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist, and probably the opposite of uxurious, whatever that is. . .” and Gertie piped up: “how about 'mulish'? I know it isn't specifically descriptive of a husband's unreasonableness towards his wife, but he does look like a mule – oops, I shouldn't pass judgement on people, should I?” she had blushed to her roots and with her tummy feeling like a whirlpool was on the verge of hyperventilating, not to mention tears, so Isa soothingly replied: “this car isn't wired for sound, Gertie, and what is said between a Trainee and her Mentor, is strictly between ourselves, unless, of course, you are confessing to a criminal act or the intention to commit one – you aren't, are you?” and Gertie shook her head so violently her Trainee WPC Standard Issue Cap fell off over her eyes and she stamped on the brakes so suddenly that the car squealed to a Starsky and Hutch stop which flung gravel over Farmer Farmer's Gentlemen Farmers' Pink Wellies, and Isa murmured, “sweetly done, Gertie, that's put him on the back foot,” and patted Gertie's thigh reassuringly, “and I do believe those strapping young ladies are the Milk Maids!”
The Man's fever caused him to debacchate, slurred sounds, incomprehensible as words, issued in a stream of apparent invective, offering glimpses into his confused perceptions, cries to God and Christ mingling in a kind of henotheism with appeals to Allah and HaShem, Thor and Wotan; his listeners picked up references to their own penetralia – he seemed to know intimate details of their lives, interspersed with wild ramblings, and then after threshing his limbs ineffectually, he sank into an exhausted torpor; Bernie and Tammy held a conclave with Thomas – their other patients were still in the 'sick bay'.
The Man's ragged breathing was stridulous, he seemed as in a fever, flushed, his skin burning to the touch – whether this was caused by the heavy blow struck by Tammy in the Tower Cell which had shattered his skull, or some infection which had made contact with the exposed viscera, none of them could say, they were not doctors; but it was generally agreed that Tammy's blow had probably foreshortened his life, though by how much was moot, and this was to both Bernie and Tammy who had suffered each at his hands, splendiferous – Vive La Nous! though they would like to know why he had tried to kill them!
And it was just at that moment, when her eyes skittered over the luminosity of the Spiral Nebula, glowing across the vastness of the Universe, that she heard a dull whump behind her, like the popping of a distant cork, and, turning. brought her vision down to the bathos of a naked man on the floor of the Cavern and a flash of gratulation made Bernie jump as if touched by electricity and she grabbed The Hunter's dory, fashioned with a spear-head at one end and a spike at the other and it was only the hand of Tammy that stayed her, and she knew that Tammy had also recognised The Man and if he was to die it would be by their Joint Enterprise!
The Farmer was a ruddy faced man named John Farmer – Farmer Farmer; and was not overjoyed to see the two WPCs approach across his clean and tidy yard, but was enough of a Gentleman Farmer to invite them into his office, offering insincerely fulsome praise of Police Scotland Officers whom, he knew were doing a “wonderful job in difficult times”; when Gertie slid the screen shot of a line of cows crossing his field at Hillend, below the Ski Slope which dropped from the height of the Eastern-most Pentland Hill, he laughed – a rich baritone, cut short when Isa spoke, her voice as cold as ice: “you told us, sir, that you kept no cows in that field, can you explain this?” and Farmer Farmer had the good grace to blush; “my apologies, I assure you; I don't know what you are working on and when I received the call from your Constable Clutterbuck, she sounds very pretty, indeed you all look very pretty, and she was enquiring if I kept cows in that field, I told the truth – I keep no cows in that field and have not for several years; if my pedantry has caused you any difficulty I am truly sorry – but the fact is I lease that field, in fact all of my land, to The Roslin Institute,” and the omniscient WPC Isa Urquhart suddenly knew what Farmer Farmer was going to say: “Dolly, the Sheep?” she asked; “exactly,” said Farmer Farmer: “or in this case Robbie the Robot!” and Gertie squeaked in confusion: “you mean those are Robot Sheep?” - Farmer Farmer poured three measures of Irn Bru, although he had the look of a three-fisted whisky drinker himself and handed one to each of his visitors; “not sheep, cows; but not strictly cows either – think Billion Dollar Man and you are getting closer: let me explain,” and Isa nodded encouragement; “these are hybrids; a dairy cow is really just a biological machine for turning grass into milk; so these are the next step in combining machine and biology: they are robot milkers (if you will excuse the nominalization) manufactured to resemble Belted Galloways, just because someone at the Institute happens to like Belted Galloways, and they contain a cloned digestive system so that when they chew the cud – or graze on grass, to reduce it to a degree of bathos which sums the entire process up – it is turned into milk, and as they do not sleep, they can do this all day and night long; the staff from the Institute milk them perhaps six times a day, rather than the traditional twice, morning and night; and unlike conventional high production indoor Milking Plants, they look just like cows in a field and this soothes the mind of environmentalists and tree-huggers, if you will forgive my slip there; every day at a time which is programmed into them, they make their way to the Milking Parlour where two pretty Milk Maids are waiting for them; after the last Milking yesterday they were transferred to a different field: because they are eating grass all day and night and have to be rotated regularly to allow the field to recover;” Isa stood: “thank you Farmer Farmer, can you take us to the Milking Parlour, we will need to speak with the Milk Maids rather urgently, or PDQ if you prefer!” and Gertie leapt to her feet too.
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