Ashes to ashes: a Christmas Jones mystery

Where it all began

If you were to walk down the lane of Pinewood street between 10:00AM and 2:00PM on either saturday or sunday, you would find a street magician trying not to lose her mind.

"Okay." I take a deep breath, rub a hand through my annoyingly blonde hair, and try to show the card again to the small boy in front of me. "Are you sure this isn't your card?"

He shakes his head, like a gladiator giving the death sentence.

It is his card, I hope. Small children are just unable to remember things for over 5 seconds. But until either a: he admits it's his or b: I decide sanity isn't worth it and go jump in the Thames, my entire trick is screwed.

"Jamie!" the woman standing behind him- his guardian, I assume- scolds. She faces me.
"I'm sorry, yes, it is his card."

Well, that's good.
As she nods and sits back down, the glint of a gold chain on her wrist taunts me. It would be so easy; the clasp's simple and she's already distracted. It would take nothing more than three seconds-

No. No, Jones, no. I haven't spent a half year cold turkey just to blow it on something I could get for £5 at Claire's.
Things I could get for £5 from Claire's. That brings back memories.

The crowd is irritated. That, I can tell. The trick isn't ruined anymore, but that doesn't mean they'll forget about it: the more mistakes you make, the more bored the audience gets, and the worst thing a magician can be is boring. That is, according to the 'how to be a magician' wikihow page.

"So is this your card?" I ask, painfully aware of how this looks to the audience. "Or: is this your card?"

I take the original card he chose and mime pulling it out of his ear. Some of the children watching laugh.

"Now: for my next trick-"

I stop, because this is the moment the chancery bell rings.

The chancery bell's not a pretty thing. It's not even a bell, it's a clock. The story goes, when the council commissioned it they didn't know whether they wanted a lavish design or a whimsical one: so the designer combined the two and created the hellish piece that stares me down in the street every day. A statue of a gilded squirrel perches on top of a clock straight out of Gotham city, haunting me with it's expression. And if that wasn't enough: somebody decided it would be cute to have recorded bird noises as the chimes for every quarter-hour. Why they couldn't have gone with bells, I don't know. I suppose it was a nice idea in theory- but they didn't bet on the bird noises corrupting in the rain. Therefore meaning instead of a chorus of garden birds every 15 minutes, I get serenaded by the sweet sound of several blue tits dying a horrible, tourturesome death.

Generally I'd ignore it. The sound of screaming songbirds is surprisingly easy to block out.

But today, the chancery bell happens to be useful: it reminds me how very late I am for court-mandated therapy.

"Sorry kids, gotta dash!" I say, collecting up my tip hat with all of £3 and half a packet of pom bears in it.
And as the birds scream, I run across the square to Kalshem town police station.
***
If you're here:
1. Thank
2. Why
3. This is for a short story writing competition, but I mean feel free to read if you want.

Vote, comment if you want, I think you know what to do.
Hope you enjoy! Or, at least, didn't hate.