Django Durango

Work had become very tense. Hickinbotham knew he was in hot water and was being scrutinized. He had been reassigned to patrolling the records room, which gave him a lot of time to ruminate on the man he’d nearly killed and who’s career he’d definitely ruined. It weighed on him, but all the same, he could still comfort himself with the knowledge, the simple fact, that all that unpleasantness need not have happened if that man hadn’t run, if he hadn’t been buying illegal drugs in the first place. It was his own fault that Hickinbotham had beaten him to a pulp.

Eventually, Hickinbotham was given an assignment. An arrest, another chance.

Arrests weren’t exactly common these days. It was more likely that a criminal would be collected by the doctors than the bobbies anymore. Perhaps though, despite the problems he’d created in apprehending Miss Boyle’s client, he’d distinguished himself as someone who could bring in a perpetrator in one piece.

He reported to Carmarthen House, determined to redeem himself.

Sergeant Sargent was his partner on this job. His presence suggested Hickinbotham wasn’t entirely trusted to do this with another lower ranking constable, but it also meant that when he did do a fine job of it, Sargent would see it firsthand.

“You’re going to need this,” Sargent said, handing him a loaded syringe. “Knockout Juice. We can’t use our truncheons on Dr. Faraday or we might knock the smarts out of her. Best to sneak up on her and tranquilize her instead.”

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Hickinbotham quite liked the night shift. It was peaceful. Just him and the occasional other constable passing like ships in the… well, the night. He found the ethereal calliope-esque tootling of a Jubilator on the next street soothing. And if it rained (which it almost always did) the streets would shine and sparkle even more than usual. The gas mask made it a little stuffy, but with the fog it couldn’t be helped. It was a sort of privilege to get to see the Village like this, something only Bobbies were afforded.

When he came upon the mangled corpse of a woman in the middle of the street, just on the periphery of a patch of pea-soup, her entrails flung hither and thither, he wondered if that was what had tempted her to break curfew.

He blew his whistle and the constables on the surrounding streets ran to his location. They made quick work of cordoning off the area. One of them popped back to Central to collect Constable Burne-Jones.

Burne-Jones stepped out of the Bobby Popper and approached the scene. He knelt down next to the corpse and inspected the killer’s handiwork.

“Yep,” he concluded, “It fits the M. O.”

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“They all loved the fish-hook-in-the-nose move!” Rodney argued as he pulled the cushions from the couch. It was a new addition to the close-of-day tasks: all the couches had to be checked for lost items every morning.

“That’s not the point!” George snapped. “You don’t just jam your finger up someone’s nose without any warning, you knobhead!” He sprayed the peep show window with glass cleaner and angrily wiped the smudges away. “That is literally the first thing Madame Wanda says when you start here.”

“She never said anything about that,” Rodney said. He felt around in the crevices of the couch, checking for keys and other small items.

“Rule #1: Everything must be agreed upon in advance,” George quoted. “Ring any fuckin’ bells?”

“Sure, for all the kinky stuff with the customers. How’s I supposed to know it goes for something as tiny as that?”

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My Dearest Violet,

You can’t imagine the agony with which I write this, as I do love you so and could not imagine my life without you. I had always thought that we would be together forever. That our children would be as siblings and our husbands as brothers. That our families would be as one.

After yesterday, I cannot see how that could ever be. I have tried to embrace your husband, but he finds threat in everything about us. And I fear what he might do if we persist. I looked upon our savaged lilies, how he ripped them apart and pulled them from their earth, and I know that is what he would do to us if he could.

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Miss Byng had obviously gone on holiday and would not be returning. That left him with the most seniority in the department. That entitled him to her office.

Clive turned the knob and swung the door open.

He would need to redecorate. All this heavy antique furniture and all these paintings of people on horses. She always was a little princess, wasn’t she? So high and mighty, walking around with her riding crop as if she might smack you with it for daring to question her command. Acting like a military leader, like her father, when she’d had everything handed to her on a silver platter. He would be much a better head of the department than she ever was. He understood what it was like to be everyone else. He knew what it was like to have to actually earn things. He’d be more approachable, more common!

He shut the door behind him and locked it.

Clive approached the window. A room with a view. That was how you knew you’d made it. And now he finally had.

He pulled the curtains open and looked down upon the Parade.

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