JUNE, 1967

""When it jumps, you "What? No!"

"When it jumps, you run!"

Snarling. Bared teeth, sharper than needles. Gleaming in the summer sun. Bawling. A baby bawling. It was getting closer…closer…

BANG.

Morse sat bolt upright, and a sense of relief washed over him as he recognised the walls of his room. His heart was pounding, sweat dripping off his forehead. He wiped his eyes and let himself fall back onto his pillows. Daylight was dripping in through the half-shut blinds, dancing on the opposite wall. As Morse watched, the light seemed to transform into contorted shapes, like macabre puppets in a gothic theatre. The shapes seemed to writhe on the wall, twisting and turning like a trapped viper. They turned dark too, as if a great shadow had been cast of them. The mass of shapes suddenly formed into… Morse shook his head, as if to shake his memory away. Richardson's store, the explosion which nearly cost him what he had come to call his closest friend, the jars of baby food which had contained those shards of glass. What had happened to the world? What had-

BANG. BANG.

This time Morse was awake. He scrambled up and hastily unlocked the door, shading his eyes as the bright light of morning poured in through the open door.

"'Mornin' sunshine. Or should I say afternoon?'

There in the doorway stood Thursday. Morse looked back into his dark room and just about made out the time. He groaned. He should have been at the station three hours ago.

"You know what you need, Morse? A dog. Not a big one or anything, just a little one. You could take it for walks, you know, and what-have-you. Never know who you'd meet on a walk."

They were sat in the local pub, deep in a corner away from the riff-raff and drunken low-lives of Oxford. Light poured in through the coloured window behind Morse, and he could hear the noises of daily life on the streets outside.

"Of course, you might have to walk it early in the morning before work..."

"Uh…Actually, I'm not too good with animals, sir."
Thursday nodded. Instead of pressing the matter further, he reached into his coat pocket and produced his neatly wrapped sandwiches, as he did every lunchtime whilst on the job.

"What have we got today, then?" He looked at his young partner, and waited for his usual guess as to what was inside his sandwich. Morse had never been wrong. But Morse wasn't listening- instead, he had his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. Thursday waited a moment longer, then he followed Morse's stare. When he had deduced that Morse had just zoned out, as it were, he tried again.
"Well?"

This seemed to wake Morse from his contemplation. Morse fixed his deep green eyes on Thursday. Noticing the sandwiches, he said quickly; "Oh, um… Corned beef. Its on sale down at Mallard's today"

Morse's eyes drifted back to the spot he had been staring at before. Thursday unwrapped his sandwiches, and finding that they were pickle and not corned beef, turned a concerned eye in Morse's direction. Morse's eyes, in turn, weren't concerned. To Thursday they looked dead. He had seen many a good copper in his time with the same look. Morse was never wrong.

"Pickle" he said at last, taking a meagre bite.

"Oh," came the reply.

They sat there in silence for a moment or two, then Fred Thursday finished his sandwich, picked up his coat and said in a voice he had tried to make light;
""Come on then Morse, back to work.'

Back at the station, Morse seemed back to his usual self. That didn't stop Thursday and Bright keeping a close eye on him. Through the glass walls of Bright's office, the two watched Morse, who was sat at his desk, fingers poised at the typewriter. After a moment or two, Morse must have forgotten what he was about to type, for he pushed away the typewriter. This, in turn, pushed a sheaf of papers off his desk which had just been placed there by a new boy, scattering them across the polished wood floor. Morse collected them, and began to flick through them, and Thursday noted that Morse didn't really look at them. He did look at one, however. At first it was just a passing glance before he turfed it to the bottom of the pile, but then he pulled it out from the back and re-read whatever was on the crumpled paper. He then turned the paper over, as if looking for something. Finding there was nothing there, he turned the paper around again and then hurried to his seat. He was just about to pick up the telephone when Thursday appeared? "'What have you got there, Morse?"

"Here," He said, handing the paper to Thursday. "It was in that pile of paperwork that was just delivered to me."

'My Last Duchess," The older man read. "That's a poem, isn't it? Was it Tennyson?"

Morse took the paper back from him. "Um, Browning actually, sir."

By this time Bright had exited his office and had made his way over. "Whatever is a poem doing in your paperwork?" He took the poem and read it out loud.

"That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, looking as if she were alive. I call that piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands worked busily a day, and there she stands.'

"Bit short, isn't it?" Thursday commented. "No Thursday- its only a section of it. The first few lines, I suppose. Am I right, Morse?"

"Yes- but what I'm interested in is this. Look- some letters have been underlined in blue, see?" Bright squinted at the poem. "Oh yes- an I, a W, an N, and a T. Oh look, and a full stop!"

Thursday was puzzled. Morse picked up his notebook and scribbled something down. "Actually sir, what I thought this was was a message…a warning, as such."

""A warning?" Bright asked, agitated. "Whatever for?"

"Not, what, Sir. Who. "
And with that, Endeavour Morse of the Oxford City police showed his commanding officers what he had written on the notepad paper. He had arranged the letters from the poem to form a new message. Thursday's eyes widened as he read the message.
"WIN T.? As in, Win Thursday? My wife? Morse, you have got some explaining to do!"

"It's only a theory, sir! In any case, I think we should call, just to check."He picked up the phone. Thursday snatched it from him.

RING RING. RING RING. Then it cut off, leaving a eerie silence breathing down the other end of the receiver.

The line was dead.