Late shift

On duty: DC Nisha Chakraborty, DC Zoltan Kaminski, DC Lola Styles, DC Yannick Clarke

London

1972. November.

“I’m really very impressed,” said Frederick Lance, shaking Clarke’s hand effusively. They were stood in the SDC office, a light patter of rain on the windows and the late afternoon sky grey and heavy.

“Just doing the job, Mr Lance,” Clarke said, forcing a smile and considering exit strategies from the conversation. He heard a door open and was relieved to see Chakraborty and Kaminski enter. “These two were leading on the case, so it’s them you should really be thanking.”

Lance beamed at the others. “Well, in that case let me extend my gratitude. Without you I would be considerably shorter on funds, and who wants that in the run-up to Christmas, eh? The grandchildren would be most put out.”

“Thanks for your assistance, sir,” Kaminski said. “We appreciate you agreeing to cooperate with the operation.”

“What can I say? Was something of a thrill to be part of a police sting operation. A fine story to tell next time I’m at the club, eh?”

“If you could keep it to yourself for the moment,” Chakraborty said, “at least until the trial is complete.”

Lance nodded and put a finger to the side of his nose. “Of course, of course. Mum’s the word.”

The entrance door swung open and DI Ford entered, arriving for the night. Clarke suppressed a smirk. This should be entertaining. Ford was renowned for his patience and empathy with the London elite.

“Sir, this is Frederick Lance,” Kaminski said, and Clarke thought he saw a wink. “Mr Lance, this is Detective Inspector Robert Ford. Mr Lance here has helped us with the sting operation on the fraud case.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed as he shifted gears to recall the particulars. “Did it turn out to be what you suspected?”

“It did.”

“Nicely done,” Ford stepped forward and extended a hand. “Mr Lance, your help is appreciated.”

“Well, yes, it was the least a humble citizen like myself could do.” Lance shook Ford’s hand for longer than was strictly necessary, and Clarke could see the distaste already rising on Ford’s face. “In fact, I would very much like to make a contribution to your department, Detective Ford. I will have my people talk to the Commissioner. Your staff have saved me from losing millions, so it seems prudent to invest some of that back into this place.” He glanced around the office, the corner of his lip curling as if he wasn’t impressed by what he saw.

Ford smiled, the smile of a wolf about to eat a sheep. “That would be grand, Mr Lance. My ‘staff’ will be thrilled.”

“Good, excellent!” Lance leaned in conspiratorially and looked each of them in the eye. It’s important we stick together, us Earth humans. We were here first and we need to make sure everyone knows that. Well, I must be going. I presume I’ll hear from you if I’m needed for the hearing? I’d be more than happy to provide a statement condemning that criminal thug.”

Kaminski gestured towards the door. “Absolutely, let me see you out, Mr Lance.”

“Very good to meet you all!” Lance declared, as he was escorted gently from the premises.

Clarke stood with his hands in his pockets, and looked expectantly over to Ford. The door clicked shut behind Lance and Ford sighed loudly. “What a gaping arsehole,” he said.

“You only had to deal with him for five minutes,” Chakraborty said, glowering at him, “I’ve been sweet talking him for days now.”

“Well, good job, Nisha. Make sure you wash your hands thoroughly. What about the guy?”

Kaminski lit a cigarette. “On his way across town now.”

London slipped by outside the police car. Petr sat, handcuffed, watching through the rain-spattered window. The car clattered over every bump, his seat thin and through to the springs. He felt nothing. Matters were worse, worse than they’d ever been. He’d lost it all. They’d get him for fraud, easily, but it was the unlawful use of magic that would complicate the sentence. Ordinarily that would mean a swift deportation to Palinor, but his refugee status would most likely put paid to that option. Ironic, really; it might have been his best shot at returning, otherwise.

No, he would be kept on Mid-Earth, confined to a prison for extra-dimensional criminals. They’d all heard about how it worked. He’d be taken away from his family, from Zdan, from Jhena. There was only a numbness to that particular pain; it was the thought of no longer being able to access the tear that crushed him, that withered his hope and made him sink into the back seat of the car, wishing to dissolve into the fabric. He’d had it back, for a summer - a taste of the connection he’d once had, of the power he’d wielded years ago. They would find the tear and lock it away. The chances of finding one had been minuscule, so stumbling on another would be impossible. He would be cut off from wielding for the rest of his life. He’d had one final taste of the power, before it was taken away forever.

Petr knew he should feel for his son, for his wife, for his family. But it was the loss of magic that occupied his every thought, as he was taken through London to await trial.

The White Horse was busy. Half of the punters were police, the rest locals who liked being in the safe company of police. Clarke leaned back in his chair, quietly cradling a pint, and watched his colleagues celebrate the closure of the case. Even Chakraborty looked happy, for the first time in a long while.

“I’d never actually met anyone from Palinor before I worked here,” Styles was saying in her usual overly-enthusiastic manner, “and in, what, a few months I’ve met a princess, a real mage, had dinner with a koth ambassador…best job in the world.”

Chakraborty smiled cynically. “Enjoy that feeling while you’ve still got it, kid.”

“Kid? I’m only five years younger than you!”

“Each year counts double when you’re in the SDC.” Chakraborty lifted her glass and took a deep gulp.

“Neither of you can talk about being old,” said Clarke, scowling at them both.

Kaminski was up at the bar, in theory to get the next round, where he’d been caught up in conversation with Bakker. That was unusual in itself - Bakker wasn’t one to socialise outside of the office.

“You know,” said Chakraborty, “a lot of people in the force join up because they want to make the country safer, or to help stop people they think are dangerous.” She pointed a finger at Styles. “You, though, you seem to be all about learning more about our Palinese guests. Sure you shouldn’t be at a university? Doing research somewhere.”

Styles shrugged, unperturbed. “I think if you’re really going to reduce crime, or make a place better, you need to understand what’s really going on. Palinese migrants don’t become criminals because they’re Palinese. That’s just where they happen to be from. The more I can understand their point of view, the better I can do my job.”

Clarke wondered how long she’d be able to hold onto her utopian ideal of law enforcement.

London

1972. December.

Zdan sat on the low, brick wall as the demolition crew continued to pull down the remaining ruins of the old gym. Men with sledgehammers and pickaxes swung away at the masonry, and a small mechanical digger pushed at the last of the walls.

In what had been the centre of the hall, now open to the elements, was erected a metal box, shining blue-silver in the winter sun. It had been constructed to enclose the portal tear and now was a monument to what could have been. The cage was crude but effective, preventing anyone from accessing the tear.

His father was gone, jailed somewhere across the other side of the city. Far enough that he couldn’t afford the tram fare to visit. It had all happened because he’d found the tear in the first place. If he’d never found it, if he’d never told his father about it, then everything would still be the same.

There were Christmas decorations in the windows of houses along the street. It was a tradition that Zdan’s family had never embraced; his father calling it a celebration of false gods. He had always been very particular about that. Each year Zdan would watch other children, even those on his street whose parents couldn’t afford much of anything, excited to receive a gift, no matter how small.

When he was older he would make a difference, Zdan decided in that moment. He would find another tear, or a way back through the main portals at the station. He’d return to Palinor, to the city from where his parents had fled before he was born, and he would change things for the better. In time, he’d make a difference.

Zdan sat on the wall and watched as the last of the metal panels were soldered into place, sealing away the tear. One day he would tear down all those barriers.