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Blackwater Avenue
Chapter 11: A Note through the Prison Bars

Chapter 11: A Note through the Prison Bars

I woke up sweating and ill-rested from a night of ugly dreams. Dead faces, torn corpses, the thunder of bombs, the black skeleton of the old cathedral. My head felt foggy and leaden, as a hangover and amphetamine comedown warred for supremacy behind my eyes. Bright spring sunshine mocked me through the crooked blinds.

Thankfully, I was on the afternoon shift today. It took me a long time even to muster the energy to get out of bed. I tried to steady myself with a cold shower and strong black coffee. When I felt human enough to leave the apartment, I went down to the cheap diner on the corner of my block and forced myself to eat a light breakfast. I wondered if Jandra was doing the same. More likely, she was starting her day with a capsule of stay-awake.

As I ate, I studied the faces of the other patrons. A pensioner sat reading a worn paperback over the remnants of his meal. A group of off-shift factory workers were hunched in a booth together, surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke. A grey-haired woman with half-moon glasses clutched a knot of prayer beads in her hands, her lips moving silently as she recited one of the morning devotions. She reminded me of the old landlady in South Welynte, who had cursed Jandra and I so vehemently.

In all of them, I saw that tight-lipped tension that seemed to be everywhere in Indeleon now. It radiated off them, invisible but undeniable. These people knew something I didn’t.

I managed to get down about half my breakfast. When the waitress came to clear away my plate, she had the same simmering look in her eyes as the others.

On the drive to Seventh Watch, I put on the state news channel. The swing stations had soured for me in recent weeks. Even the jaunty rhythms and stirring bass of the Emerce Quartet no longer sounded right to my ears. Not that the news was much more cheering.

“Today, with the unanimous assent of the Loyal Parliament, His Majesty the King signed into law the newest amendments to the Security of the Realm Act,” the newsreader droned. “The amended Act provides substantial new security resources to the Interior Ministry, and expands the investigatory powers of the Royal Inspectorate of Vice and Virtue.”

“What, do they get to read our fucking minds now, too?” I muttered to myself.

“The amendments criminalise a wider range of seditious activities, including the dissemination of uncensored literature,” the newsreader went on. “The penalties for treasonous or blasphemous speech have been made considerably more severe. The amended Act also creates a new offence of failure to report seditious activity, with a maximum sentence of fifteen years’ hard labour. Citizens are strongly encouraged to notify their local authorities of any suspicious behaviour, including expressions of sympathy for dissident organisations and enemies of the state. At the close of the parliamentary session, His Majesty expressed his hope that the amended Act will strengthen the unity of the kingdom and ensure the safety and prosperity of his loyal subjects.” The newsreader cleared his throat before reciting the usual sign-off. “Long live the King, and praise be to the Almighty.”

The news report gave way to an interval of classical music – shrill trumpets and heavy drums beating out a triumphal march. I turned the radio off.

My head was heavy on my shoulders. The sunshine was too bright, the sky harshly blue over the rooftops. The stay-awake bottle in the glove compartment was calling my name, promising clarity and ease. I bit my tongue and tried to keep both hands on the steering wheel.

I saw the hateful graffiti at least half a dozen times on my journey, including in some alleyways I was sure had been clean the day before. The messengers had been busy last night, in more ways than one.

*

The precinct was noisier than usual when I arrived a few minutes after noon. The amended Security Act was the talk of the bullpen. Everyone knew it meant more work for us, harder and bloodier work, and even more interference from the black-bands.

It turned out it was worse than that. A date – the end of the Month of Banners – was written in huge chalk numerals on the blackboard outside Orczin’s office. “We’re going to have a full Interior Ministry audit,” Lokh explained when I asked him about it. He sounded as delighted as I felt. “Orczin says arrest quotas will be going up, by a lot. We’re also going to get enhanced riot training. Sorry, peacekeeping training.”

“They’re expecting riots in Seventh Watch?”

“I doubt it,” Lokh said, though his tone was unsure. Not surprising, after what we’d witnessed last night. “More likely, they’ll want us on standby to reinforce the other precincts.”

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“Doesn’t the Interior Ministry have its own bloody troops for that kind of thing?”

Lokh gave me a mirthless smile. “It does. But it won’t want to put them in the line of fire when it can throw us in first.”

I thought Jandra was running late, until I looked out at the motor pool and saw our cruiser gone. I went to the dispatch office and quietly asked where she was, praying nobody would overhear.

“She’s out on a solo patrol all afternoon. Estyr Park area,” Erkasri told me. He gave me a quizzical look. “She said you agreed it last night. Should I…?” He reached for his radio mic.

I shook my head hastily. “No. No, it’s fine. Slipped my memory. Too much whiskey on the graveyard shift.” It was a lame attempt to salvage the situation, but the alternative was being openly humiliated.

“Against regulations, Morre,” Erkasri scolded me, with an easy grin. He had an open hip flask out on his desk, like half the others in the bullpen. “You’ll need to shape up before the Interior Ministry comes knocking.”

The gleam in his eye made my heart sink. He knows about us, I thought. He thinks we’ve had a lovers’ quarrel, and he isn’t wrong. “I won’t tell them if you don’t,” I replied, with mock nonchalance. “We’re all recidivists here.”

“Oh, Morre,” Erkasri said, just as I was turning away. “A letter came in for you this morning. It’s in your pigeonhole.”

“A letter?” I paused, frowning. I couldn’t recall giving out the precinct address to any civilians lately. Anyone seeking to contact Seventh Watch would hardly be looking for me in particular. Unless it’s the Inspectorate, summoning me for interrogation. “Who from?”

“No clue. No return address. It was addressed to your cruiser. They must have seen you driving around town.” He smirked. “Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer.”

I forced a chuckle. “I look good in uniform, Kas, but not that good.”

“Yeah. More likely, they saw Jandra riding with you, and they’re asking for her phone number.”

I ducked into the little mailroom adjoining the dispatch office. Sure enough, there was a single envelope tucked into my pigeonhole. It was unstamped, only bearing the scrawled words For driver of Car 13, 7th Watch.

Returning to my desk, I slit the envelope open and drew out the note inside. The brief message was written in block capitals, the penmanship shaky and nervous. The paper was smeared with ink from a leaky pen nib. There was no signature.

WATCHMAN DRIVING CAR 13. I HAVE INFORMATION ON MARTYR OSTANDE ST MURDER. PLEASE COME TO IMU – ELVANDER QUAD TOMORROW 1400. WEAR PLAIN CLOTHES. LOOK FOR GIRL WITH DOTTED RED SCARF.

I quickly slipped the note into my pocket, resisting the nervous urge to look around the bullpen to check if anyone had seen me. I thanked the Almighty that Jandra was out. This would have been a hard one to explain to her, even if her mood hadn’t already been pitch-black.

I’d never received such a message before. I didn’t think anyone at the precinct had. We had an anonymous tip line, but it rarely received any tips. People in Indeleon learned at a young age that it was dangerous to draw attention to yourself. The black-bands had censors in every postal depot and taps on every phone switchboard, or so the rumours claimed. If those rumours weren’t yet true, I suspected the Security Act would ensure they soon would be.

Technically, I should have handed the note straight to the chief-of-watch. The bisected informant was an Inspectorate case now. None of my business, unless I made it so. And I knew what might happen if I was caught withholding information, especially now.

And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to knock on Orczin’s door.

I kept the note in my pocket all through the rest of my shift. I worked through my day’s reports with a low-level headache that never quite went away. Cherdane, who sat a few desks over from me, kept playing his horrendous music, to the point that I fantasised about smashing his radio to shrapnel and dumping the fragments in his lap. I thought constantly about how nice a little stay-awake high would feel.

Then I remembered Remkou, stumbling around the precinct with his bleary eyes and nerve-damaged hand. And the broken fury in Jandra’s voice, when I told her to cut down on the stuff.

I couldn’t even call her to check where she was. Patrolling alone in a city that seethed with new, unseen dangers? Pulled up in some side-road, dosing herself into oblivion?

All your fault, partner, I told myself. Isn’t it just like you, to ruin the one good thing in your life.

All I had left, now, was the note. It was burning a hole in my pocket, frightening and fascinating in equal measure. On today of all days, someone was trying to reach through the prison bars that circumscribed our lives. Someone who knew who I was.

If this person knew about the murdered informant, it stood to reason they knew a lot more besides. Maybe they could tell me what the messages in the alleys meant, and why Indeleon seemed to be an inch away from catching fire. Maybe they knew why the stars were coming down.

I was sick to death of feeling bewildered and afraid. I had no energy left to care about the risks. After everything I’d been through, wasn’t I entitled to some answers?

IMU. Indeleon Metropolitan University. It was in Fourth Watch, well outside our normal patrol route. I needed a way to get there tomorrow afternoon, in plain clothes. Taking the cruiser was out of the question. And I wasn’t going to get Jandra involved, whatever happened. If this turned out to be some elaborate Inspectorate sting, or if the silver monstrosity was waiting with sharpened blades, it would fall upon me alone.

As my shift came to an end, I checked the patrol roster for tomorrow. Then I strode through the emptying bullpen to where Lokh and Geisden sat. They looked up in tired greeting from their paperwork. “Could you fellows do me a favour?” I asked them.

“Depends on the favour,” Geisden replied, around a mouthful of chewing tobacco.

“Tomorrow, can we swap shifts? I’ll take your late patrol if you take my afternoon one. I have an errand needs running.”

Geisden grinned. “Got yourself a sweetheart in the red-light district, have you?”

I smiled a fixed smile. “Something like that.”