Rat Revealed

Confrontation

I have made a grave mistake. A grievous error. 

How could I have been so careless? To allow someone to catch me red-handed, to have them discover the secret that I have been harbouring with such caution, to give myself away like that....

Sweat rolls down my temples and my hands are clammy. I find it particularly difficult to restrain my frustration, to keep a straight face, to not waver in the sight of such a calamity.

I must not play along.

"I don't know what you're blathering on about," I say, but I stutter on the last word, and curse myself as the prisoner grins triumphantly. 

"There's the rat," he says, giving me a knowing look. "I see him. I can expose him to the whole world."

"How?" I scoff, realising there was no point in faking it. "You don't know a thing about me."

"You were a member of the Scuttlers, eh?" 

I freeze, a number of unpleasant memories jolting through my mind. 

"I'm from the Brickley Gang," he continues, "And you killed one o' ours."

"So? He was sticking his nose into other's businesses, and I did it on my own accord."

"Boss didn't like that. So I came 'ere to do somethin' bout it."

"Like what? Expose me? You have nothing on me, gibface."

"I don't have to."

He gets up and strolls near me, until we're face to face. The greasy bars are the only thing that separate us. 

What do you want from me?" I say, betraying a hint of panic in my voice.

"Nothing. Just let me go," he replies, and I get a whiff of his musty breath. It has traces of gin on it, and I take a step back, while eyeing him confusedly.

"Then why'd you let yourself get locked up?"

He chuckles drily. "I just wanted to let you know that I can see the rat in you. And that I can let the whole world see it as well if I wanted to."

My face is burning, and I realise that I cannot control my emotions. That is a mark of a weak serial killer. I push this worrying thought to the back of my mind.

I decide that there is only way to end this.

"He say anything?"

Wallows comes up to me, baton swinging by his side.

"No. He's innocent."

Wallows gives me an incredulous look.

"But he turned up with a bloody gun-"

"I know. He didn't do it." I give him a lousy explanation, concerning fake guns and street Arab games, but Wallows is pig-headed enough to trust me, and he buys it.

A few more questions are asked, and Wallows reluctantly opens the cell, eyeing me with worry. The suspect smiles before he is escorted outside by the guards.

He may be innocent for this crime, but I'm not.

Time for another murder.

***