Tales from the Triverse

Pet shop: part 3

Late shift
On duty: DC Yannick Clarke & DC Lola Styles

London.
1973. October.

It was a typical east London high street, lined with takeaway food restaurants for late-night revellers, betting shops, newsagents and hairdressers. As tended to be the case in that part of the city it was also notably more diverse: not only humans from all over the planet but also people from across the triverse, with a higher proportion of koth and aen'fa walking the pavements and browsing the shop windows.

There was a time when Clarke had found it discomforting, even regarded the place as seeming somewhat dirty. Slightly out of control. Those thoughts felt like a long time ago; a different age, a different him. Had he changed, or had the world changed around him? It hadn't been a conscious thing. He'd always expected to get more set in his ways as he got older, not less. His own dad had moved further and further to the left, increasingly entrenched in socialist conspiracies. His uncle had gone in the other direction, but to a similar end. And there was Yannick Clarke, in his mid-fifties, working into his retirement, reconsidering his entire point of view.

He still caught himself thinking like the old Clarke. Looking at a pointy-eared face in a barber and huffing about the good old days of having your hair cut by someone who understood human hair. Or looking at a koth serving someone a cup of coffee, and unable to see past the huge fists, horns and folded-back wings. Flashing images of devils and demons, of dragons from Arthurian stories. He couldn't stop his brain. It was wired in a particular way and that was that - but he could intercept those thoughts, question them, interrogate them like he might a suspect, and choose to reject them.

"I've always love this place," said Styles, as if reading his mind. Her bouncy air of excitement had returned after being absent for the last few months. "Don't you think?"

Clarke smiled. He wasn't sure what to say without feeling like he was lying. "It's interesting."

She shot him a sideways glance. "Interesting? Come on, is that it? Are you being Old Man Clarke again?"

He shrugged and raised his hands in surrender. "Styles, cut me a break." He waved at the opposite side of the street, where a band was playing in an abandoned store front. "I like it, OK? It's taken me a while to realise that, is all."

"Old fart."

"Alright, kid."

She glowered. "Don't call me kid."

"Don't call me old."

"But you are old."

He laughed. "Fair point." He pulled out his notebook and flipped it over to the latest page. "Here we go," he said, pointing up ahead. "That's the place."

"Looks like a pet shop."

It did. Large glass windows out front, stacked floor to ceiling with cages and glass containers. He nodded. "Looks like a pet shop."

They stood on the pavement, looking in through the window. The cages were a mix of all sorts, though primarily rodents. A few snakes. One fish tank. A half dozen frogs sat sleepily on small rocks.

"I've never really understood pets," Clarke said. "No, really. A dog, fine. A proper dog, that you can train. Police dogs - amazing. Guide dogs - amazing." He tapped on the glass, drawing the attention of a rat. "But these little bastards? What's the point?"

She elbowed him in the ribs. "Comfort? Warmth? Emotional connection? Love? Affection?"

"You can have all that if you want, Styles, but at the end of the day you're still clearing up the shit of some idiot creature that doesn't give a damn about you, and would eat you given half the chance."