DEFINITELY, HONESTLY, THE FINAL EPISODE OF MORSE

DEFINITELY, NO HONESTLY, THE FINAL EPISODE OF MORSE.

Chief Inspector Morse, lay back, gritted his tooth and hoped to God
that nobody would notice the edges of pink Babygro protruding from his
sleeve.
For an eternity he'd been suspended in a paralytic Dante's Inferno coma
where all he could hear was some brat screaming to be fed. Or to have
its rear end dealt with.
Purgatory.
Thank God for a few moments of lucidity. But how the hell had he got
here? If this was the tail end of some almighty bender he couldn't
remember embarking on it.
God damn it, his mind must have gone.
Concentrate. Concentrate.
He screwed up his fists. Frustration boiled. Exploded. The brat started
to bellow somewhere nearby.
Morse forced himself past the din. There'd been an official version -
heart attack, overwork - but perhaps that was a cover-up because still
he came up with a vivid picture of the imbecilic determination on
Lewis's face as he drove straight at him. Accident? Ourmam seemed to
think so.
"Little love," she'd coo, bending over him, "It were an accident, but
I'm ever so glad now."
But...
No. Leave that.
Mustn't get side-tracked. Got to assemble the facts.
What else did he have to go on? Where was he, for a start?
Morse bit hard down on his thumb. The background screaming stopped
abruptly. He struggled to a sitting position and looked round. Quaint
pubs. Esoteric bookshop. Fine seventeenth century clock arch straddling
a steep street. A juggler. Even someone attempting a 1930's song and
dance routine in a quiet corner. Outside the Post Office crouched a
flamboyantly ragged busker playing, of all things, a Celtic harp.
Slowly murdering Pachelbel's Canon by the sound of it. And masses of
people, waiting for something to happen. Tourists mostly, gawping at
the local, half of whom were self-consciously got up in travesties of
Elizabethan costume: brocade curtains; cake doily ruffs.
A porcine Town Crier strutted and bawled, silently aped by a lugubrious
jester flailing arthritic limbs. Two unholy friars hovered outside the
Bank.
Morse knew this pit of eccentricity. Somewhere in deepest Devon.
Imprtant Real Ale Festival here every autumn. It was on the tip of his
tongue. Tot...Tot... Totnes.
Ourmam pushed through the crowd. The rest of the family trailed after
her.
"No point being stuck behind that lot. Can't see nothing."
She stopped near the Bank. Morse glared at the harpist, who'd stopped
to relight his joint. Ourdad leered at the Lady Mayor mincing past in
high heels and a gold chain.
"Kinky!"
Morse closed his eyes and groaned.
"Why'd we have to come to this dump?" whined Kylie.
"Orange rolling," growled Ourdad, "Get yourself up by that clock arch
quick. Under elevens is first. They'll give you an orange. Just make
sure yours is first over the winning line. Good prizes."
"What they want to roll effing oranges down effing hills for? grunted
Jason, trying against all the acned odds to look cool and
condescending, "Effing daft idea."
"Part of our Culture, ent it?"said Ourdad, admiring his use of the
unfamiliar word. He repeated it. "Cul-ture."
Morse raised his eyes to heaven but said nothing.
"BOR-ing," moaned Kylie.
Ourdad gave her an impatient flip. "Tell her what you was telling me,
Gloria."
"Something to do with King William," explained Ourmam, who'd bought a
guide to the South Hams at a car boot.
"Yeah?" Kylie took out her gum and examined it.
"William of Orange, you idiot," snarled Morse, "God help us! That's the
whole point. Deposed James the Second. Crowned 1689 after accepting The
Declaration of Rights."
Nobody took any notice.
" Williamanmary," Ourmam persisted, "You must have heard of him. Don't
you do no history at school?"
Kylie looked baffled. The chewing stopped. Yeah. We're doing the
seventies."
"What - nineteen seventies? That ent history."
Ourdad gave Kylie a push. "Quick! They're lining up."
"Do I have to?" She moved unwillingly, scowling and dragging her
feet.
"Suppose I might as well have a go, an' all," muttered Jason, his voice
cracking as he sized up a substantial blonde in denim micro
shorts.
A horn blew.
"Watch your back," yelled Ourdad, seizing the pushchair.
The security van nosed up to the Bank, mounting the pavement and
stopping just short of the harpist. Laurel and Hardy robots emerged,
striding purposefully through the crowd with the grim expressions of
those having real work to attend to.
"They're off!"
Morse tensed. Something was wrong. He could practically taste nervous
anticipation in the air. He craned his neck. The two monks were wearing
stocking masks under their hoods.
"LEWIS! Where the hell are you?"
The monks slid inside the Bank. Any noise was muffled by the roar from
the crowd as the smaller children kicked oranges down the slope.
"Come on, Kylie!" yelled Ourdad.
A beetroot-faced Kylie scuffed what looked like an orange flannel
towards the finishing line. Close behind her came Dennis the Menace's
younger brother. He gave her a sly kick.
"Cheating slimeball. Your orange's flat."
"So what, nerd?" Kylie kicked him back. Twice. And kneed him as per
Ourdad's homespun self-defence lessons.
The black monks emerged from the Bank breathing heavily, separated and
began to lose themselves amongst the crowd. One paused next to Morse,
dropping a tenner.
"They're getting away! shouted Morse, "Do something. Stop them."
Nobody took any notice.
One of the security guards crawled painfully into the street. Mouthed
something. Collapsed. But all eyes were fixed on the older children who
came belting down the hill with a clatter of Doc Marten's. Jason was
well behind, puffing and panting, aflame with lust and aggravated
acne.
Morse leaned forward, trying to reach the note. It was all the evidence
there was, for God's sake. His fingers were almost there... he touched
it. The pushchair toppled over. The strap broke. He was rolling down
the pavement towards the guard's outstretched hand.
And that brat was screaming blue murder again.
"CARMEN!" Ourmam screamed, diving after him, "Mummy's poor little angel
girlie!" As she picked him up, she caught sight of the twitching guard.
Her long drawnout screech sandblasted Morse's tattered remaining
memories of his past existence. And this time the damage was
irreversible.