Rat Revealed

Suspect

When I enter the police station, I feel as if all eyes are on me.

Louis with his side-burns, eyeing me with cold eyes, hands gripping his shiny baton.

Gilbert, the fat constable, giving me a putrid stare, hands beside his left side, where he tucked his pistol.

Chester, beady-eyed and mousy-faced, curling his moustache, looking at me from underneath his top-hat with disgust, betrayal.

My insides quench and I panic; they have found out. Somehow, they know the rat inside me.

In a split-second, I have to choose between facing the punishment for my crimes, or running as fast as I can to the backdoor of the station. A bead of sweat rolls down my temples and I poise to escape-

"Oye, chuckaboo. You alright?" 

Then it vanishes. The sights, sounds and feels of the dilapidated police station hits me from all sides, and I am embraced by the reality of my fake life, as my fellow sergeant Wallows gives me a knowing grin.

"Whats'a matter, Matthias?"

"No, I'm fine." I clear my throat. "Dandy."

"Brilliant. Got another today."

He waves a newspaper at my face, and I read the headlines:

MAN SHOT DEAD AT GALLAGHER'S REFINERY

I vaguely recall the sight of the corpse, and almost smile. But any thought of contentment vanishes as I read what is written below:

POLICE ARREST SUSPECT

"Suspect?"

"That's right. Found him loitering around the dead sod, pistol in his hand and everythin'. Chief wants you to get somethin' out of the guy, enough to lock 'im in the roundhouse till his mama comes for 'im."

I am piqued with a strange interest. I want to know who this suspect is, how he was thick-headed enough to stand near a dead man with a pistol in his hand. Oh well. The public wasn't very clever when it came to stuff like that. 

But surely they weren't that thick?

"Take me to him."

"Right'o chuckaboo."

***

The cells are dark, dingy. As my eyes adjust to the lighting, I observe squeaking rats scurrying across the cracked floor, and they remind me of...well, myself if I'm honest. I see all the sods I help locked up, battered faces, hatred on their face as I walk by them. I do not care about them. They are merely pawns in this game I play. 

We stop at one cell, and inside I see a man sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the floor.

"I'll leave you to it then." Wallows throws the keys to me and walks away, swinging his baton. 

My gaze travels to the man in the cell. Perhaps I can put the murder on him. Get him to say some unsavoury stuff, a bit of mental gymnastics, and no one will even find a trace of the trail that leads to me.

I knock the bars with my baton, and he looks at me.

A chill travels up my spine, as I get that feeling again. That he knows who I am.

As if reading my mind, he says in a raspy voice:

"I know you're a killer."

***