The Citadel of Chaos Masquerading
I texted Becky on the way asking if she could still get those files, and if she'd be waiting for me when I got back. She said no to both. The first because there hadn't been a good time, everyone on her back since our second night together. And the second because she wanted to keep me guessing. Too many emojis. Too many winking faces. It didn't tease me, it annoyed me. I wanted her to hold when I got back from London, even if after the case I'd never hold her again. She wouldn't mind, I don't think?
I'm going down to Geneva baby
Gonna teach it to you
Black road long and I drove and drove
Came upon a crossroad
London. A blotch of smog. Nothing else. It had become an oligarch's citadel, glass structures scraping the sky like hangnails. I hated this place. The people spoke like this was all there was of England. And the halves were nine quid.
I had been here only when needs-must. The four-hour drive had been pleasant, on the long Roman roads, reminiscent of a nation that had forgotten itself. We mark our history but forget these roads. I had to pass through Lincoln to get to Westminster. The cathedral no longer welcomes me, like a mother holding her arms wide after I'd been at school: it loomed, chastising us. What we had done. My father would be on the outskirts rotting in a room somewhere. I knew I'd be visiting him after this, whether I wanted to or not.
I forgot how many border patrols there were between The North & The South. After all the pandemics, counties had been temporarily separated with toll-booths and border agents. Many had been closed down, but the Met Police took them over in case of insurrection between the counties. London itself, a vast sprawling vector of municipality, had many draw bridges to cross, the boys in blue in their combat armour, MP5SFA3 semi-automatic carbines slung around their necks. I used to fire those, back in the day.
Some of the border officers remembered me and let me through. I had done a lot of work for the Met in the past, so there were still some stragglers who respected my choice to leave, to quit, to become whatever half-baked thing I was now.
And there it was. The citadel of chaos masquerading. Glass skyscrapers in the shapes of eggs or missiles lunging from the ground. The Thames Barrier on full alert as the waters rose. Here there was no flooding. London had been saved from a future of its own devising.
It reminded me of promises, this city. Promises to be kept. Promises no one could forgo. Promises no one would ever be able to abide by.
It was time to meet the journalists.
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Water's Edge
Mystery / ThrillerH J Fields is a Bow Street Runner, a private investigator loathed by public and policeman alike. Straddling the thin blue line, he believes that even if the barrel turns all the apples bad, there must be law somewhere. His first case after getting...
