#the Inspector removed all the useless memories

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

The last thing the Inspector needed to do was shut down Shoop’s ship before it sucked all the water out of a 20-kilometre radius of downtown London.

Of course, the ship would divide the engine room into two parts, trapping Mona on one side. How fortunate that the Inspector could remove all those useless memories to allow her to remember being part Infinity Knight, and the two of them shut down the ship before it started up.

[teawaffles]

The Adventures of John: Chapter 4, Part 2

TW // Mention of abuse

Also, a note for language.

Without even an opportunity for Laura to resist, Sherlock pulled his hand out — and revealed a gorgeous necklace. It wasn’t as if John could remember that necklace itself, but from its elegant sparkle, he judged that it’d been one of the items from their flat.

The despair on Laura’s face only deepened. Beside her, the detective spoke.

“This was stolen from my flat. Since the jewellery was in such a mess, you probably thought it wouldn’t look amiss if just one piece went missing — but that was naive of you,” he said. “Because I have a full grasp of everything that was put there.”

When Laura arrived at their flat, Sherlock had made a show of being indifferent to her request, while making sure that she had taken one of the stolen goods.

To have fully comprehended that chaos — John marvelled at the strength of Sherlock’s memory. During the conversation in the flat, he had persisted in looking out the window, away from Laura: that must’ve been to create a deliberate opening, and test if the girl would help herself to the pile.

Laura had stolen a piece of jewellery from their apartment. Moreover, she’d made up the request to find Dolly. Inevitably, from the two points above, it followed that her goal from the start had been to steal the jewellery. Hence, it formed definite proof that she was one of the thieves’ accomplices.

Confronted by that irreversible reality, Laura was stunned. As for the man, his eyes went bloodshot from anger.

“Y-You’ve gotta be kidding me, you good-for-nothing……. I told you to do it without exposing us—”

Hearing that, Sherlock piped up in a cool voice.

“Shall I take that as a confession? Though, there is still the argument that this kid Laura here is just another one of you vagrants, and you guys have nothing to do with the ring of thieves.”

The man spat on the ground.

“Hmph, I’ve no interest flogging that argument anymore. ——Let’s settle this the fast way.”

Saying that, he drew a small revolver from his pocket, and levelled it at Sherlock. Following suit, a few men among the group also whipped out knives and guns. The remaining crowd cried out softly in fear.

“If we dispatch the both of you right here, the truth’ll remain buried, eh?”

At that unsettling line, his armed accomplices also broke into twisted smiles.

But despite being held at gunpoint, Sherlock seemed particularly unmoved. He observed their actions, and narrated his own view.

“From the looks of it, you lot are the ringleaders, while the rest seem to have been threatened into compliance.”

“Yeah: with just a little bit of a beating, they’ll do anything we ask,” the man smirked.

But Sherlock was calm as he replied.

“From that, I gather not all of you are friends. And seeing how you resort to violence to settle things right away: you’re probably a hoodlum accustomed to crime, aren’t ya?”

“Hoodlum? You’re not wrong, but call us a group of clever thieves if you can. After all, I’ve skilfully manipulated these scum and carried out some brilliant thefts.”

Drunk on his own accomplishments, the man threw a glance at Laura. She hadn’t budged from where she stood; protecting her head, she cowered on the ground in sheer terror. From that, one could easily imagine what maltreatment she and the others had suffered at the hands of these thugs.

His heart filled with rage, John glared at the man.

“That means you forced them to commit crimes, didn’t you?”

“Call it making effective use of them, Doctor Watson,” he drawled. “These people all live on a pittance of a daily income. No one would care if they’re gone. I’ve given them a rather fine job until now, but this time, she just had to screw up. ——As I thought, brats are useless after all!”

“……I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He shouted at Laura, and she repeated that apology over and over as she sobbed.

“You……”

“John, you’re right to be angry, but please calm down.”

At the unforgivable sight before him, the detective’s assistant had balled his hands into fists, but Sherlock persuaded him to keep his cool.

“Ah…… Sorry to get back to the topic, but let me give you some clarity on this case.”

“Huh?”

As before, Sherlock’s demeanour lacked any sort of tension, and his opponent frowned. But the detective paid no heed to that as he continued.

“To sum up the story thus far: the bunch of louts brandishing their weapons here are the ringleaders behind the thefts, and the other vagrants and street merchants were forcibly…… ‘used’, if I were to borrow your words?”

“Yeah, that’s right. You could say that they’re all expendables to be exploited as I please. To have so skilfully manipulated them — I bet my abilities rival those of that rumoured ‘Lord of Crime’ or something.”

“……Well.”

At that name, Sherlock’s eye twitched. But he showed no further reaction than that as he replied.

“In other words, to you guys, their names and faces aren’t even worth remembering?”

“That’s an odd way to put it, but exactly. They’re all disposable — do you really think I can remember all of them? ……That said, how long are you gonna keep prattling on like that? I don’t know if you’re just trying to buy time, but it’s time for you to die.”

Running out of patience, the man broke off their conversation, and moved to pull the trigger: fully intending to shoot the detective and his assistant.

However, Sherlock’s smile remained bold as ever.

“——That’s it then. I’ve gotten your word.”

That instant, John couldn’t believe his eyes.

Among the crowd of vagrants, the ones who were shrouded in hoods — separate from the ringleaders — were now aiming guns at the criminals.

“……Huh?”

“——Don’t move.”

One of the mysterious figures commanded sternly, keeping his gun trained on the lead criminal. Stunned by this sudden development, the man complied; and with his other hand, the figure slowly drew back his hood.

“……Inspector Lestrade?”

Out of sheer astonishment, John murmured the person's name.

The man in the hood, was Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Facing the lead criminal, he spoke in a determined voice.

“From the conversation earlier, it’s clear that you have threatened the poor and coerced them into crime. I’ll hear the details at the station. Don’t even think about resisting.”

Then, the other figures removed their hoods and revealed their faces. One after the other, they confiscated the weapons from the stunned hoodlums. Though they weren’t wearing uniforms, from their practised actions, it was clear that they were police officers.

“W-What the devil is going on……?”

Tonight had been a night of many surprises for this detective. John was yet unable to wrap his head around the situation, and once again, he asked himself a question he’d thought about countless times today.

“Everything’s exactly as you’ve witnessed, John. When I identified this place, I contacted Lestrade at the same time, then got the officers to disguise themselves as tramps and hide among the crowd.”

“But why?”

“If I’d just called in the Yard as usual, we wouldn’t have been able to identify the ringleaders among this large a crowd.”

Sherlock stated that conclusion in brief, then began to explain.

“As I thought about the thieves’ actions, I judged that there was probably a mastermind separate from the ones committing the actual crimes, who was controlling them from behind the scenes. Hence, there was a need to identify this mastermind; but even if the Yard were to round up the entire group of vagrants, like what that ruffian told me earlier, they could just say that they had no relation to the ring of thieves — and that would be the end of it. Moreover, it still wasn’t clear who the ringleaders were, and the ring members who were being threatened would’ve likely been warned not to blab. So, in order to smoke out the ringleaders and elicit a confession, I added a bit of an act.”

Then, the detective looked at Lestrade, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

“——Well, about the disguises: I’d thought about where the police squad could hide themselves, and decided it would be better for them to mingle with the crowd, so they wouldn’t have to sneak about all weirdly.”

“W-Wha— What a stupid……”

Upon hearing the truth, the man’s earlier triumphant attitude had devolved into a disgraceful, incredulous one. This time, Sherlock laughed out loud.

“Sure, you can make people follow you, but you’ll also have to keep tabs on them properly. In the first place, when this location was discovered, didn’t it occur to you that I would call in the Yard? You can pretend to be a mastermind, but with your lack of foresight, even the Lord of Crime would laugh.”

“S……Shite.”

“Oi, watch what you say from here on. It’ll be used as evidence against you in court.”

Lestrade warned the man as he clapped him in irons; accepting his defeat, he hung his head bitterly. For a villain who’d exploited people in poverty, and boasted of rivalling the Lord of Crime: it was a downright dreadful ending.

✦ ✦ ✦ ✦

“I’ll always be in your debt, Holmes. And the same goes for you, Dr Watson.”

As he watched the arrested criminals being taken away, Lestrade thanked the detective duo.

However, in contrast to the inspector’s earnest attitude, Sherlock put a hand over his mouth as he tried to suppress his laughter.

“Lestrade. Sorry for saying this when you’re being so serious, but…… you looked surprisingly good as a tramp.”

“H-Hey! That’s rude, Sherlock!”

“By Jove, Sherlock……”

John chided the detective, and Lestrade let out an astonished sigh.

“……Anyway, I’m grateful for your help in resolving this case.”

“Yeah, let me know when you have another interesting mystery next time.”

After that simple exchange, the inspector left to join the other police officers.

Then, Laura — the central figure from today — and an old woman from among the vagrants walked over to them.

“——U-Um, Dr Watson.”

The girl stood right before John. She bit her lip, and sank into a deep bow.

“I’m so sorry for tricking you!”

Laura blurted that out in a loud voice. Then, the old woman also bowed solemnly.

Met with their sincere apologies, John spoke up in a kind voice.

“It’s alright. You had no choice — all of you were being threatened.”

“B-But…… I……”

“Don’t worry about it. In any case, won’t it be tough for you all from here on?”

With a start, Laura realised what he meant, and dropped her gaze. Though they had been coerced into thievery, it was still a fact that they had broken the law. Hence, in order to furnish the details to the Yard, all of them would be taken in for questioning.

The atmosphere turned slightly gloomy, and Sherlock piped up.

“You don’t have to be so serious about it, y’know. Seeing as all of you had been forced into those crimes, the Yard’ll treat you more leniently.”

“Y-You’re right.”

John knew that Sherlock was deliberately being optimistic, in an effort not to worry them both. Hence, though it was a little awkward, John agreed with him.

Perhaps the matter wasn’t as simple as Sherlock had described, but the events from now on would be out of their hands entirely. Hoping that Lestrade would speak well in their defence, John changed the topic somewhat forcibly.

“……By the way, is this lady a relative of yours?”

Hearing that, Laura brightened up, and introduced the old woman.

“Yes, she’s my grandmother; we’ve been making a living together selling food.”

“Truly, please accept my sincere apologies for what happened.”

Hearing the old woman’s husky voice, John finally understood the awkward exchange he had witnessed between them at the park. Seeing as they were family, it was only natural for Laura to be more relaxed around her; moreover, the old woman’s faltering tone had surely been due to her guilt at deceiving him.

John nodded in understanding. Then, Laura took out a small pouch.

“That and this…… Here’s the full amount we’ve taken from you, Dr Watson. Please accept it.”

“Ah, I see. I’d forgotten all about the money. Thank you.”

John was about to reach for the pouch, when all of a sudden, a thought struck him — and he stopped.

“……Um, is something the matter?”

Seeing him freeze up, Laura tilted her head. Then, John withdrew his hand, and instead held up the bag full of items he’d bought from the street merchants.

“‘Taken’? What’re you saying? I bought these of my own accord. I can’t see any issues with them, so I’ve no intention of getting a refund.”

“……Eh?”

“Isn’t that right? I negotiated properly with the merchants in the parks, and bought these items as a customer. There was no trickery at all.”

John asserted that proudly, and beside him, he heard Sherlock chuckle.

Of course, what John said was by no means a show of bravado that he hadn’t been tricked. Laura had been moved by his kindness throughout the day; in an instant, she sensed the emotions imbued in his words. But even so, she knitted her brows, looking troubled.

“Still, I really should return this to you.”

She then offered him the pouch again, but John gently pushed it away.

“Laura, in all honesty, the walnuts your grandmother sold me were delicious. For products that good, it’s only right that I pay a fair price for them.”

His smile was full of warmth as he continued.

“If I happen to see your stall again, I’ll be sure to buy from you.”

“Dr Watson……”

This time, Laura did not press the matter.

She held the pouch as if it were a treasure, and her face brimmed with smiles.

“——Alright. When we see each other again, I’ll be sure to prepare lots of walnuts for you.”

“Yeah, I’m looking forward to that.”

Then, John bade goodbye to Laura and her grandmother; and with his “loot” in hand, he left the scene with Sherlock.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 7

Thomas X Reader

2873

Summary: Reader gets medical treatment. Thomas is not ok.

by @adventuresintooblivion

They didn’t speak again until the Garrison Pub came into sight. Several men were milling about trying to figure out what the hell was going on. They parted with excited chatter craning their necks to see what Thomas was holding.

“Open the door! If you’re not helping, you’re in the way. Go home. We accomplished what we came here for tonight.” 

Only a handful of people remained. Most of them were the Shelbys themselves. Danny paced back and forth in the back of the bar murmuring to himself. Thomas nodded to the small room they conducted their business in. John hurriedly opened it enough for Thomas to set Y/N down on the table.

Y/N sat there swaying back and forth slightly, her eyes closed as she focused on not falling over. Moments later, Thomas draped his coat around her shoulders. A sigh of relief escaped her lips.  For the first time, she looked up at the people gathered around her.

Aunt Pol’s face was pale. A shawl was clutched in her hands with her hair unmade. John blinked blearily, but she could visibly see the fatigue drain away as he took stock of her injuries. Arthur simply wouldn’t look at her. 

Thomas hovered over her protectively. She could just barely see the redness on his cheek where she’d slapped him. His hand rested lightly against her lower back. She could feel his hand shaking even through all the layers.

“The doctor is on his way but there’s a few things I need to ask you before he gets here.” 

Y/N shook her head, “I want to talk to Pol first.”

He stiffened. “Excuse me?”

She lifted her head, leveling her gaze at him, “You heard me, Shelby. I want to talk to Pol first.”

“Did he touch you?” He growled almost under his breath. Something about him changed. His knuckles turned a stark white as they gripped the table. His lips pulled back in an inaudible snarl, eyes wide as he used every inch of self control he had left not to turn on his heels and find whoever had done this.

“Wha…?”

Thomas roared a tremor visibly running through his body, “Did he touch you!”

Understanding dawned on Y/N. She reached out to lay her hand on his. He recoiled. She leaned forward just enough to press her hand over his. Her skin was ice against his rage, but he did stop shaking once she rubbed her thumb across his knuckles. 

She spoke softly, “He didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need to talk to Pol.”

He turned toward her, almost pressing his forehead into her shoulder. “I need answers.”

“And you’ll get them. After.”

Thomas locked eyes with her. Finally, he straightened and led his brothers out of the room.

Pol was left behind, her eyes wide as she adjusted her shawl. “That’s the first time I’ve seen Tommy listen to anyone when he’s like that.”

Y/N glanced down

“Well, you wanted me to yourself. Now what is it?”

“I think Grace is working for Inspector Campbell.” Y/N said it all in a rush, not trusting herself to actually speak if she took her time with it. 

Today, the inspector had wanted to instill fear in her and make her a useless pawn in this game of his. She hated to admit that she was in fact afraid. Of what she wasn’t sure, but she’d be damned if she let that decide her actions.

Pol cleared her throat. “That’s… a serious accusation. What is your proof?”

Y/N steeled herself before telling Pol everything. How she’d seen Grace at the opera, the little hints here and there that it wasn’t a place she’d normally be caught dead in. Then the great reveal of the man’s identity.

“I watched her hand him a piece of paper. I don’t know for certain that she is working for him, but it seems like the only logical answer, and at this point it’s dangerous to keep it to myself,” she finally finished.

The whole speech had taken a lot out of her, and she was already exhausted at best. Y/N pulled Thomas’ jacket closer around her, grateful that she was finally starting to warm up. At the edge of her senses, she caught a whiff of a smell that was distinctly Thomas. Stale cigarette smoke, aftershave, and hay. She almost smiled as she remembered the horses he loved so much.

Pol rubbed her eyes with the palm of her hands. “That’s a lot of information to deal with. Why haven’t you told Tommy?”

Y/N frowned, “Right now if I did he’d storm off to kill her. I’m not sure that’s the best idea. Hell, maybe turning her in and ending this now would be preferred. I just… I wanted to ask your opinion.”

Her head jerked up. “This is your business. I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

Y/N sighed, finally letting the exhaustion cause her to sag in on herself, “Well, fuck.” 

“I can’t believe you told me this. I won’t be caught complicit if he finds out,” she hissed.

“Pol, I’ve seen the way he looks at her. He likes her, even if it’s just a little, and with Thomas that means miles. This could destroy him. Or it could get one of them killed, and I don’t know if Grace worked at an opera house and just hates it from exposure and this is all some huge misunderstanding. I just don’t know.” Even to her ears Y/N sounded a bit hysterical.

Pol began to pace, thinking. Her heels clicked loudly on the floor, and even if the boys weren’t listening in they’d be able to hear that. After a few solid moments Pol rounded on the wounded girl.

She shook her finger at Y/N. “Listen here. For now, we say nothing. But if ANYTHING goes wrong and Grace is within ten miles of it, you tell him. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Alright, now let's get those boys in here. He’s probably about to strangle Arthur.”

As soon as the door knob clicked, Thomas stormed back in. His eyes were dark and cloudy as they traveled over Y/N’s exposed skin. Behind him, a small man with glasses shuffled in.

He spoke with a nasally voice, “Hello, I’m Doctor Tanish. Now if you could remove your coat I’d like to get to work.”

Y/N reluctantly shed the layer of warmth she’d built during her conversation Pol.

The doctor immediately swooped in, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Are there any pre-existing medical conditions I should know about?”

Y/N glanced at Thomas before turning to the doctor. “I have a bullet that’s lodged in my back that’s an inch to the left of my spine by vertebrae T11. They uh… found it and got me with a billy club. A couple times.”

He paused. “That’s very specific.”

“Yeah, well, you hear doctors say it enough eventually you can parrot it back if you need to.”

He nodded before continuing with this ministrations.

 Thomas, who was leaning against the wall, had turned a light shade of green when she spoke. His world was slowly closing in on him, a dark tunnel taking over his vision. It wasn’t until Arthur elbowed him that he was able to regain some control and return to the real world.

Eventually the doctor needed to see beneath Y/N’s underclothes. 

Pol shooed them out saying, “I’ll be right here with her. Let the girl keep some of her dignity.”

Thomas’ hand snaked out to grip hers firmly. “What did you two talk about?”

Pol’s lips settled into a thin line. “I will not betray her confidence. Just have faith, Tommy.”

He released her, allowing himself to be pushed back out into the pub with the others.

Arthur growled under his breath, “You’re gonna want a family meeting as soon as that doctor is done aren’t you?”

“Am I that predictable?”

He just grumbled and went to take a nap in one of the stalls. John soon followed suit, not really sure what his stakes were in all this. 

But Thomas sat at the bar nursing a glass of whiskey. He couldn’t make out much in the way of sounds. That’s why they like that room so much. There were a few moments when a yelp or shout would set him on edge. But all he could do was wait. 

It wasn’t until the sun had started to come up that the doctor slipped from the room, blood covering his hands. Thomas sat up straighter, not realizing just how much he’d drunk until he tried to stand.

“How is she?”

Doctor Tanish let out a tired sigh. “Exhausted. Most of the damage will heal itself just fine; however, there are a few spots that I am concerned about. Will you be taking care of her?”

Thomas was a gang leader. He didn’t have time to be coddling people while he was supposed to be out managing things.

“Yes.” 

Doctor Tanish nodded, pulled out a piece of paper and began to write. “She has three fractured ribs and another one that was popped out of socket, but it’s back now. Her toe was also broken; that’s been splinted. There was some minor internal bleeding, but that’s been addressed. The thing I’m most worried about is that bullet in her back.”

Bile rose on Thomas’ tongue. “Is it that bad?”

“Well, it was already something that could cause chronic pain and difficulty walking. Now that it’s been agitated, the muscles around it have swollen which would lead to temporary paralysis. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s up and around at all.” He tore the paper of a small notepad and handed it to Thomas, “I’ll have medication waiting to be picked up by the end of the day. I’d get it here earlier, but she insisted that she wouldn’t take opium. Under no circumstances let her walk.”

Thomas nodded dumbly, not exactly sure how to process all the information, but as the doctor left he glanced down at the paper. Detailed instructions were scrawled out in handwriting that was little better than chicken scratch. Luckily, John’s scrawl was also atrocious, and if Thomas could read that, he could read anything.

The door was left open. As he looked at it’s gaping maw, something inside him wanted to run. If he didn’t go in, she would once again become a ghost that haunted his memories. He wouldn’t have to face the words he’d said that night, or back then. 

He took a deep breath and walked in. Thomas was a Shelby after all.

〜

Y/N had stopped paying attention to the doctor a while ago. Between the war and her childhood, she’d gone through all this before. Pol on the other hand looked like she was having a rough time. At one point Y/N even caught herself reaching out to hold the older woman’s hand.

“It’s going to be fine, Pol.” Her voice didn’t even quiver.

Pol nearly jumped out of her skin. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

Y/N flashed her a wicked grin. “Eh, getting hurt comes with the territory.”

“With knowing Tommy.” Pol’s gaze fell. A deep sadness had made a home for itself. It was in the small things. Her posture, her subtle frown, but most of all her eyes. Eyes that Y/N suspected had seen too many people die.

She gave a small tug to get Pol’s attention. “Actually, I was a bastard long before I met Thomas.” Pol’s brows furrowed so she continued, “Da wasn’t exactly a law abiding citizen. Hell, if I’d been a man I’d probably be in the same position as Thomas.”

A silence settled between them as they both came to terms with Y/N’s past. The doctor didn’t seem to care much about what was said around him. He only spoke to instruct Y/N to move. 

Finally Pol spoke, “While I don’t doubt the legitimacy behind your claim, you have,” she paused searching for the right words, “a certain level of education that isn’t typically available to people of our status.”

Y/N shrugged and immediately got scolded by the doctor. “Over-achieving bastard child. Not much else to it.”

Pol leveled her with a knowing gaze but enough had been shared that night. For the rest of the evening they either chatted idly or Pol dozed. The continuous attention was starting to wear Y/N out even beyond her limits.

She vaguely wondered if she was going soft after the war. Then she remembered that she’d been traipsing around town, got kidnapped, beat to hell and walked back on her own. Y/N allowed herself a small smile. Today was a productive day.

“It’ll take a couple months for your ribs and toe to heal but they’ll do it with little assistance. You must stay off your feet however. Especially if you ever want to walk again.” Doctor Tanish’s voice startled Y/N out of her thoughts.

She glanced at Pol’s dozing figure before replying, “I’ve beaten those odds before. But I’ll try not to push my luck.”

He gave her a curt nod and left.

Y/N glanced around the room, grimacing as she remembered that her flat was upstairs. She also had no way to pay for it now until she was healthy enough to work again.

A soft knock got her attention. There by the door was Thomas, peeking his head through as if he were walking into her bed chamber not his office.

“How are you holding up?” Deep circles had carved themselves underneath his eyes. His already drawn features took on a more extreme form in the dim candlelight.

Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off him. “I’m doing pretty well, all things considering. I might need help upstairs, though.”

Thomas cleared his throat before entering the room. He paused a moment to consider the best course of action. Then with little warning he simply picked her up. She bit back a startled yelp, clinging to Thomas as he moved easily with her in his arms.

“Tommy!” she hissed. Y/N couldn’t properly lift her arms to wrap them around him securely, so she clung to the front of his shirt with all she had. Her knuckles turned white instantly.

He simply chuckled. “I think that’s the first time you’ve called me ‘Tommy’ since you got back. Maybe I should pick you up more.”

Y/N could already feel her ears heating up. “Don’t try and distract me with flirting.”

“Why not? It usually works.”

She didn’t reply as they reached her room. With horror she realized that her key was still in the pocket of her jacket. Which was probably in the back of some copper’s car.

Thomas seemed to read her mind, “You don’t have the key anymore do you?”

She shook her head.

He gently set Y/N down, careful not to jostle her. Then produced a pair of lockpicks, making quick work of the shoddy lock. A few moments later Y/N was sinking into her mattress slowly. 

Thomas kneeled beside her. She couldn’t see him; the darkness clouded his features. He reached out, fingertips the barest touch against her skin, to brush her hair out of her face.

Y/N would later blame the overall shittiness of the day for what she did next. She leaned into the touch. Her own hand reached up to cup his and press it to her lips. Thomas froze. But he didn’t pull away.

“Y/N.” His voice was gravilier than usual.

She wasn’t sure how long they sat there, but it felt like all the years that had been lost came back to life in seconds, all at once. Something between them had faded over time. Now was the first time either of them had actually reached back out for it. It was a tenderness they’d never let the world see. A secret of the trenches. A dream of what could be. 

Eventually, the spell broke, and she released her hold on him. At first he didn’t pull away. Then he stood, ending the moment all too quickly.

Thomas cleared his throat, “I...I need to head out. If I catch you on your feet, I swear I’ll send Aunt Pol after you.” 

Y/N chuckled, and pretended her smile was as genuine as she wanted it to be. “I’ll have to be careful and make sure you don’t catch me then.”

He rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind him.

Y/N let the darkness envelope her as she rolled onto her back. Her movements were stiff with pain. Exhaustion seeped into her joints and with Thomas gone there was nothing left to distract her. 

For the first time since it’d happened she let her mind wander over the events of the day, a sob ripped itself from her throat. Then another. She pressed the palm of her hand into her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle herself. But Y/N couldn’t stop the tears from streaming like trails of fire down her cheeks.

[tech-latest-blog]

After buying a smartphone and booting it for the first time, we saw a lot of pre-installed android apps in it, some of them are convenient, but others are not that useful to us, and many smartphone manufacturers locked these applications in the devices so that user could not uninstall them. In this article, we are going to discuss how to remove pre-installed android apps or bloatware.

Bloatware is the pre-installed software on a device by the manufacturer, most of such software is none of the customers use and everyone wants to eradicate these apps from their phone, such applications just cover unnecessary memory space and tend to waste other resources like the battery of the phone, sometimes these useless applications slow down the overall performance of the system. We all want to get rid of these pre-installed apps but there is no option to uninstall them. If you want to remove such apps from your smartphone, you will be able to remove such ineffective and worthless applications after reading this article till the end.

Steps to Remove Pre-installed Android Apps

Here, I am providing some simple steps to remove pre-installed android apps from your smartphone, so that your phone can work with its fullest efficiency and have better performance, also memory space will be utilized efficiently ad you will also observe an enhancement in battery life. Follow these steps to remove pre-installed android apps:

Step 1: Install ADB and Fastboot in Windows/Linux/Mac

We will use the ADB command to remove pre-installed software from your device. For that, your system must be installed with the ADB program, to do that follow the given steps:

First, you need to download and install ADB and Fastboot on Windows(7,8,8.1 and 10)/ Mac/ Linux

Step 2: Install Drivers (Windows)

For a Windows-based operating system, you need to install drivers for your computer to recognize your phone; when your computer is properly connected to the phone with a USB cable. Download the Zip file of drivers from the internet and extract them into your desktop, then follow all the on-screen instructions to install the drivers.

Step 3: Install App Inspector

For removing the app by using the ADB shell, you should know the package name of the application. To identify the required package name of the application, you should download and install the app inspector application from the play store.

Step 4: Enable USB Debugging

Go to system settings of your smartphone, scroll down and tap on "about phone" to open Software Information.

After getting into Software information, tap on build number several times (at least seven-nine times). If you succeeded, then a pop-up message will be shown on the screen which will say "Enable USB Debugging Mode", it means your developer actions are activated.

After entering into developer options Enable USB Debugging mode by switching on the toggle button.

Step 5: Open Command Prompt or Terminal

Open Command prompt or Terminal in your PC and locate the ADB and Fast boot installation directory. In Windows usually, it is found at the below address. And for Mac and Linux users, this directory depends upon the location where you have extracted your zip file after installation.

C:\Program Files (x86)\Android\android-sdk\platform-tools

Open the Command Prompt or Terminal and write the following:

cd Location

Write the exact location of platform-tools at “location” (for example, In windows you will input: cd C:\Program Files (x86)\Android\android-sdk\platform-tools).

Step 6: Start ADB Shell Service

First, you need to check the ADB connection between your phone and your system, for checking that type following into the Command Prompt or Terminal:

For Windows: adb devices For Mac/Linux: ./adb devices

If a string of random numbers followed by a device is shown up on the screen, so it means your device is properly connected.

Next, you need to type the following commands to activate ADB Shell Service:

For Windows: adb shell For Mac/Linux: ./adb shell

Step 7: Disable Bloatware

Open App Inspector in your smartphone and select the app you want to remove and find the package name of that app. Then return to Command Prompt or Terminal in our computer and write:

pm uninstall -k --user 0 PN

Write the complete package name at the place of "PN".

That's it, you have successfully removed bloatware from your smartphone without root.

More Like This:

How to Create Your Own Chrome Browser Theme

How to Uninstall Built-in Apps on Windows 10

How to Remove Zoom App from Your Phone and PC?

via TechLatest

[ktpal15]

RS Angst Fic

So, I found out why my writing club fic was so fluffy- it was because all my angst was saving itself for this thing! I was watching Live Free, Live True last night, and then the safe gifset coincidentally popped up on my dash again, and it made me realise that Don says that everybody hates the noise of the typewriter and doesn’t use it. In s2, however, all of Flight’s paperwork about Hinchcliffe is typewritten, so I have a new headcanon that the typewriter was unofficially his, and this fic was born.

Sorry for the terrible, terrible feels. S4 spoilers, maybe minor s5 spoilers, Ed being sad

While the rest of the city revelled in the last few days of the nineteenth century, Edmund Reid distracted himself by reorganising the station house. Enough time had passed that he felt he could do so without disrespecting the changes Bennet had made during his time as Inspector. Most of the changes had been minor, merely slight increases in efficiency, but the real challenge lay in the dead room. After Jackson’s departure it had slowly become a storage room, with nearly half now used only to contain the items that simply did not belong anywhere else. If Reid had anticipated the memories those items would bring back, he doubted he would have entered the room. The shelves still contained most of the Captain’s medical equipment, much of it completely foreign to the replacement assigned by the Yard, who had deemed it useless. There was a stack of notecards bearing unlabelled fingerprints beside a stack of blood-spattered sheets, both evidence of experiments performed in a time that felt like another life. Feeling unready to determine the fate of the Captain’s belongings, Reid turned to the tables that had been pushed into the corner. For the most part they contained a combination of evidence from cases that had been closed years ago, and the effects of the countless corpses who had come through this room. At least those would be easy enough to get rid of. Watches, photographs, a single ladies’ shoe, these could all be removed to clear the way for the new surgeon he hoped to hire. As Reid piled items into a crate for disposal, a small metal object caught his eye. It was a model ship, the size of a child’s toy but with much greater detail and a name engraved in tiny letters on the side. Argentine Marine. He reached for it, then hesitated. He could recall only too well the day they had stood in this very room and pulled this from the lifeless hand of Dick Hobbs. Hobbs, who would have made a fine detective, and who Reid himself had hardly noticed until he was gone.

Needing a break from handling the last possessions of the dead, Reid turned to another table, this one holding assorted items that had been put aside during the remodel. On the corner sat a coffee grinder that used to grace the table behind the front desk. Once he had assured himself that the parts still functioned, he put it aside to give to Don Artherton. From what Reid had heard he was enjoying his retirement, and the old burr mill might make a welcome nostalgic gift.

Beside that and gathering dust was a typewriter, hardly ever used and then replaced with a newer model during the station’s renovation. He had not even thought of it since its use as a weight in one of Jackson’s experiments. It had been purchased at the insistence of former Constable Flight, who impressed upon Chief Inspector Abberline the many ways such a device had made things easier in Bloomsbury. The men of H Division had hated the noisy thing, and after Flight’s departure it had been cast aside, a useless reminder of a man they had wished to forget. Reid absently wondered what had become of the boy, before deciding that it was probably best not to know.

In checking to see if the typewriter even still worked, Reid accidentally knocked over a picture frame that had occupied the spot beside it. Righting it, he sighed at the image of Rose Drake, captured at the height of her happiness and kept on Bennet’s desk as a reminder of the joy that awaited him at home. Reid doubted that expression would ever cross her face again, and the thought brought up a wave of grief, both for the life that had been taken from Rose and the similar fate that had befallen poor, dear Emily.

Deciding that he had had enough for the evening, Reid picked up the crate of junk and turned to leave. There were too many memories here, too many reminders of the sheer number of people he had lost in such a short span of time.

Pausing on his way up the stairs, Reid took in the painted image of the man who, in life, had been his dearest friend. Of all of them, he was the hardest to get over. There were still days where for the briefest of moments Edmund would expect Bennet to come into his office with a fresh case, or meet him for an afternoon at the Bear. But all that remained was the stern man in the painting, watching over his station house as it tried to welcome the new century.

[siobhanoleary-blog]

after - a short story

Camille

I opened my eyes and saw the rectangular lights and white ceiling.

‘Mrs. Ainsley?’

A face loomed over me. A man, unknown. For some reason I focused on his nasal hair. ‘You are ok,’ he said. His voice was heavy with French English. ‘You are in a hospital in Lyon. Everything is okay. Just a bad concussion and a few bruises. You are very lucky.’

Lucky?

I tried to speak, to form the word ‘why.’

He leaned in. Eyes enlarged by a heavy pair of spectacles. I could smell his aftershave, the hint of mint on his breath. My tongue was burred, heavy. I laboured to form a ‘w’.

‘Water?’

I nodded, or seemed to, or perhaps just shut my eyes. Everything began with a ‘w’. What, why, water. He shone light into my eyes, and after a few ‘hm’s’ of vague approval he asked about the pain. I couldn’t relay a certainty of pain anywhere— I told him this.

“Good, good. We shall keep you for observation for twenty-four hours and then you can be released. Unless the police—”

What he said next I can’t recall, some murmured doctor speak of a Post-Traumatic nature.

‘What trauma? What police?’ It was difficult for me to speak, as if there was a great distance between my brain which held the words, and my mouth which should speak them. I sensed the doctor’s evasiveness — he didn’t answer. Instead: ‘Is there someone we can contact for you? A friend? A relative?’

‘No,’ I said. Why wouldn't he tell me what had happened?

‘Your husband? Mr. Luca Ainsley?’

‘We’re not married.’

‘He’s listed as your next of kin.’

‘The divorce,’ I said. ‘The paperwork…’

‘Ah, yes. Here it is,’ he stabbed the relevant sheets. ‘I see that the police called him, but he declined to come.’

I felt a humming of humiliation in my chest.

There was a knock on the door. A policewoman leaned in. ‘I am Sergeant Rowe,’ she said. ‘May I come in?’ She entered gently. She was small and rounded, not fat, but neatly stacked like glasses in a kitchen sink. She pulled a chair to the side of the bed, cleared her throat, and took out her notepad. ‘The doctor tells us you don’t remember what happened?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, automatically.

‘It must be very confusing for you.’ Was she trying to be kind? I couldn't tell. She tried to repress a sigh.

‘I must inform you this is something terrible.’

I was trying to think through a cloud of head injury, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling the outline of a memory in the dark. ‘You were involved in a very serious incident with your car.’ She waited, watching me as if gauging my reaction. Like the doctor she had chosen her words as if picking rice with chopsticks, evading. I waited, she waited, watching me.

Then she said, ‘Four children have been killed.’

Only then did I begin to feel a panic, not about the children - but about the moment in time that had fallen from me. The children weren’t real; no more real than if I’d read about their deaths in the paper. But the missing time — the part of me that I could not retrieve — it was like waking up in different room to where you fell asleep in. It was like waking up and finding Luca gone from my bed, and that moment of confusion when I wondered where he was. Slowly Sergeant Rowe came into focus and I knew what I was supposed to ask. ‘Was it my fault?’

She shifted in the seat, still watching me. ‘There is an investigation, of course. So at this time we cannot conclude fault definitely. Your car hit a bus stand on the corner of Rue Louis Dansard and Grande Rue de la Guillotiere. Four children were waiting. Two died almost instantly, the third and fourth were taken to hospital. They died a few hours later. We’ll need a statement from you, we’ll need you to be available for the duration of the investigation.’ I began to cry — for myself. Pity for myself that I had lost hours, had lost my mind, was hurt and vulnerable and confused. I wanted my husband to fold his arms around me and tell me it would be ok but he would not.

Sergeant Rowe, touched by my grief, put her hand on my shoulder, ‘Your driver’s licence is suspended during the investigation.’

* * *

I found an empty cup in the kitchen sink. I had not put it there. It seemed oddly bold, as if it was yelling — a proud cup looking up at me with its remnant puddle of coffee. Black, no sugar. I place the cup on the table. I suppose I should be frightened. Someone had been here.

Down the stairs, I knocked on Mrs. Bancels’ door and she opened it a fraction, keeping the chain on the latch as if to suggest she feared for her life. ‘Enfant Meurtrier’, she hissed and slammed it shut. The words were everywhere, now, whispered like a prayer in the grocery store, the chemist, as I walked down the street. I was no longer sure if it was being uttered or if I was simply hearing it in expectation.

Enfant meurtrier

‘Mrs. Bancel, has anyone been in my apartment?’ No answer, I knocked again, louder and tried my bad French.

‘I know someone was there. Comment sont-ils entrés? Vous leur avez donné une clé? Did you give them a key? That’s against the law.’

She hissed and relenting, I gave up. Maybe Luca had come back to collect something. Back to our land…

Just the other week Mrs Bancel had said to me, ‘I forgot to inform you. My cousin, he say the land, Luca never buy it.’ I had stood there, quite unable to move. Although we’d sunbaked on the grass, traversed along the streams, the land, our land. Although he’d said the words, ‘This is ours now.’ Even though he said we would only be renting this apartment for weekends, to get a feel for the place…

And at that same time, at the exact moment when he kissed me, when he put his hand up my skirt, Caroline had been in Marseilles. She had been four months pregnant.

On weekends, he couldn’t get enough of me, constantly taking me to bed. ‘Let me look at you, let me look at you.’ He’d been inside me with his lies.

It was immediately after she told me of her news that I became aware of a bad taste in my mouth, it was like cancer, my skin smelt of it. I put my hand on the car door. Keep going, I had said. The language class in town. It was a fact, like the car. It was all I had. I got in the car, I started the engine. And I was driving, straight, straight on. Through the village. I passed the small grocery shop, the post office, the apothecary — the market. Around the corner, toward the small school. Keep going, keep going, I told myself.

And then the windshield burst open like a daisy to the sun.

‘It is Detective Inspector Gregory Pommel’, a voice said through the intercom. I tried to phone—‘

I was jolted from my fractured memory at once.

 ‘Yes I’m sorry, it’s disconnected. The bill, I forgot to pay it. Please come up.’ I felt embarrassed that the phone company had shut me off. But everything was in French. Would this come up in the investigation? I buzzed him up.

He appeared, slightly too large for the doorway, angular, lanky, dorky. In his early sixties, he was thin, with a narrow face, receding hair and quiet, dark eyes under eyebrows in need of trimming.

  ‘Please come in,’ I said. Polite, calm. ‘Can I get you something?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. But no caffeine. Im not a good sleeper.’

  ‘Tea, chai, green?’ Was this right? Should I be offering him herbal tea? He was here to talk about dead children and all I had was manners. As if I was hosting a cocktail party for the associates in Geneva. Smile, serve exquisite canapés while wearing an elegant black dress. Anything to distract from the atrocities in the files.

 ‘Perfect,’ Pommel said, without specification. He removed his coat and gloves but not his scarf. The scarf was lime green and likely hand made, it didn’t suit him. I suspected someone had made it for him as a gift, his wife or daughter.

We sat, I poured. My hand was visibly shaking as I struggled to maintain a hold on the teapot that I had overfilled, he saw this. ‘Don’t worry’.

‘Worry?’

‘I mean, don’t be afraid.’

‘Of the tea?’

‘No.’ He struck a smile. ‘Of me.’

I placed the tea pot down. Is that it? Am I afraid of him?

Would he know about how I lost control? I glanced at his kind, tired face and tried to imagine him doing exactly that, shouting or crying. Cursing at the sky, or simply into the void of an empty apartment. I tried to imagine him being afraid. But it wasn't about personal experience for him but professional observation: he had seen people lose control. His profession — like Luca’s— concerned people who lost control.

‘Am I going to be arrested?’ I said.

‘Why?’ He twisted the top button of his coat between his fingers. ‘You think that the accident is your fault? Fault would imply that you purposely drove into them with the intention to kill. Do you believe that you are a person capable of such an act?’

Luca believed that every atrocity committed was done so by a capable person. He would say everyone is capable of everything, down to the bone. To him, violence is circumstantial. The nicest man, given the right set of circumstances, may become the most brutal genocidaire. Everyone? I would push him, even you, even me? How do you think these atrocities happen, he’d replied, if not for people like you, people like me?

‘I can’t remember what happened. But I had the car, and I was behind the wheel. And it was the children that ended below it. I can’t tell you anything for certain’

‘Maybe you were driving recklessly.’

I looked at the cups on the table. I hadn’t put down a coaster and could see his cup forming a ring on the white coffee table. Was he asking me to incriminate myself? Was this some form of gentle interrogation? ‘Was I?’

‘Did you, for example, accelerate needlessly on the corner?’

Had I? I had. For certain now I could feel the way my foot pressed into the pedal, with muscles strained and knuckles white. That was it. Suddenly relief washed over me but it was soon replaced with a burning shame. ‘Yes I am sure, I can see it now. In my mind.’ My cheeks burnt. ‘Oh God. I did. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’

I was ejecting words, these useless empty words — like I was reading a script. Sorry, sorry, sorry, but only sorry because of the fear and self pity I felt for what would become of me. No— I couldn’t feel anything for the dead children. I wished to be weeping, screaming in pain on my knees and begging for forgiveness as those parents cried ‘Meurent de cancer, Meurtrier d’enfants, die with cancer’. But even here I could feel the creeping selfishness layered like a pages in a closed book. Maybe if they beat me with bats, opened up my skin — then I would feel. Their resentment and sadness could infect me and make me feel real, make me exist. There was no separating me from myself, this useless, abandoned, selfish woman who wanted to feel guilt not for what she had done, but so she could prove to herself that she existed.

My face was damp with tears.

‘No. It was not your fault. You didn’t accelerate. All evidence reveals it was an accident and it will be treated as such.’

‘But I remember —‘

‘You don’t. There is just chance and luck and fate and their claws that caught you, those children and those families in this cruel accident.’

‘I’m not crying for them.’

‘No.’ He said, almost inaudibly. ‘You are crying for yourself.’

It was at this moment that I thought of telling Inspector Pommel about the coffee. But I couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t take it as a sign of insanity. And then decide to inquire again about the nature of the accident. I could see the coffee cup still on the table, peaking up just above the couch Pommel was sitting on, just hovering by his left shoulder. He suggested that we visit the incident scene together.

‘I always like to go to the scene a few days later. To know the place without all the cars and confusion. That it remains just a place that once cleared, holds no memory of its past.’

I fumbled with the alarm system, Luca always punched in the code. He put on his coat and gloves and suggested that we cut through the village on the footpath as he preferred to walk. The morning was dewy and grey, darkened by a fog that refused to rise. The castle and river were blanketed by it, Lyon revealed its dullness. All French cities were to me the ugly cousin of Paris. Where Luca told me we would never live. And where I told everyone in high school I was going.

Perhaps he felt my reminiscing, for he suddenly asked, ‘Why are you here? Lyon? Alone?’

The question was abrupt, and I couldn't help but feel he was trying to reveal a motive. I could not differentiate between what was simple conversation and what was interrogation.

‘My husband and I were going to build up the valley, our dream house…’ I was aware that he would notice my use of the past tense.

‘Excuse me,’ he jerked, quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my business.’

‘Isn’t it? Isn’t everything your business in a case like mine? Who am I? Why am I here? what was I doing driving past the bus stop on a day like that?’ I heard myself in my monologue. ‘The dream house, it was a lie. He never even bought the land. But that’s why I’m here. I believed him.’ Again that shame burnt in my cheeks. I couldn’t remember the last person I spoke to about this. It was likely my lawyer.

‘We are divorced now.’

‘I know, it’s in your file— French efficiency.’ Humour.

‘Does your file also say that he left me for another woman? A small squeaky woman?’ Oversharing.

‘No. We’re not the KGB.’

Maybe he was trying to lighten the mood. And then I reminded myself. Four children were dead. Four children were dead and I hid my face.

‘I must seem despicable.’

Simply, quietly, he replied: ‘I could not tell you how to seem. The tragedy is yours also.’

By now we’d come to the side street that led to the corner. I expected that by now I’d feel some sort of sickness. That my memory would slide into the template before me.

But there was nothing.

And once we arrived at the corner there was nothing there either, but a few flowers and the unnoticeable absence of a bus shelter. They would have taken it away along with my car, tangled within each other. The children scattered like discarded junk mail along the sidewalk.

‘I can’t remember anything. I wish I could tell you what happened here.’

I looked at the road, how it curved between two buildings, as I had for the past 8 months. I had followed Luca everywhere without complaint. I had loved Paris, with its cafes and bars and romance. I hadn’t wanted to be in Lyon. There was no specific reasoning that I could understand for this. But it was a sense of disconnection, as if I’d accidentally got on the wrong bus and ended up on the other side of town.

Once the revisit was over he walked me back to the apartment. I received no welcome from Mrs. Bancel, despite the fact she was standing right at the entry way — eavesdropping with her broken english.

I had not told Inspector Pommel about the cup. It was in the sink. A chair at the dining room table was slightly askew. I stood and listened, though I was quite sure he was gone.

The flat was very quiet. Even the Bancels’ ever-projecting french radio was mute. The silence felt like a withdrawal, a withholding, that might at any moment surge back with a scream.

He had been here again. He, I inferred, because the coffee was black, and I didn't know any women who drank their coffee black. Really, it was an impression. The masculine scent of him hung upon the air — I could almost determine the disturbance of molecules by some atavistic radar.

But what did he want? To sit here with that coffee? I could find no other trace of him. He hadn’t rummaged through my drawers the way a stalker might. Hadn’t taken anything the way a thief would. Deliberately, he had left the cup for me to find.

I washed the cup and placed it on the sideboard. I pushed the chair straight against the table. I felt a creeping coldness. The small hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. He was not in the room, he was not in the flat, but the cup was his message: he could come anytime he wanted. When I was not there. When I was there…

It was pointless to speak to Mrs. Bancel, though she must know who it was. He could not have entered without her complicity. She perched like an owl behind the peephole of her door. Perhaps she had given him a key.

Pommel

Philmon Zhikov had put nothing of Xenia’s away. Three dolls sat on the dining table, carefully aligned along a Dora the Explorer plastic placement. He had thought that she was a better role model for little girls than the numerous princesses — Cinderella, Snow White; Dora was independent and provocative.

A number of stuffed animals were stationed or abandoned about the room: a teddy bear on the floor near the pantry, a giraffe on the sofa; a cat and a monkey with large plastic eyes and rainbow fur crouched on top of the TV. On the coffee table were two rubber snakes, a green crayon, a yellow sock, a book about a baby elephant, a plastic spoon, a purple ribbon, a mini handbag decorated with pink and gold sequins, a princess crown, a yellow bath duck, a ladybird key ring, a plastic Russian doll.

  Sometimes it took years for parents to put their dead child’s possessions away. By then it was too late: the ability to recover was forfeited. Objects wielded great power. Left out, they became museum pieces. Artefacts. Packed away they became memories. The psychology of grief was not complicated. Mothers who beat their children to death cried just as hard as those whose children had drowned accidentally in the river.

 In this house the toys, the casual mess, suggested the expectation of return. We’ll clean up later. Later hung upon the air like asbestos. There was a smell of dried fruit.

Philmon had not bathed recently, his clothes were the ones he’d worn at the hospital a week ago. He looked like a tramp.

He sat in an armchair. Detective Pommel took the couch. But as he sat something squeaked. He rescued a doll from under his left buttock, and held it, not sure where to put it. Mr. Zhikov looked at the doll, and Pommel knew what he was seeing, the little girl laugh.

Pommel, very carefully, placed his coffee on the table. ‘Mr. Zhikov, I know this is very difficult for you. I need to go over your movements that morning.’

Philmon shifted in his chair, his gaze drifted past Pommel and down toward the Russian doll, then out towards the window. He was a man underground. He could not move against the pressure of the earth above him, could not see because of its dark weight.

‘She didn’t want to go. But I had to go to the shop. My own business.’

‘Go? Go to school?’

‘Yes, she wanted to stay at home. She hadn’t done well since Anna died.’ His expressionless face sliced like a blade, his eyes rotating finally toward Pommel. ‘She would meet the other children at the bus stop. With Simone Courtemanche and her child, and Vidia Chesnay’s sons, Claude and Joanna. Correct?’

‘Yes,’ said Zhikov. ‘They all live on the street or around the corner. Sometimes Simone takes them in the car but it was being serviced.’ He fiddled with a thread on the arm-rest. ‘An issue with the air conditioner, I believe.’

Outside, laughter and the faint roll of tires on gravel. Silence slipped out of consciousness. Pommel hesitated. How many times had he done this? Waited for a parent to recount the last hour of a child’s life. The hour when anything else could have happened.

‘I always walk her to the stop when she isn’t driven by Simone. She told me again that she didn’t want to go. That she was too tired, that she was sick, that she wanted to come and help me at the shop. We talked about it. She—she started to cry. I said I couldn’t have her in the shop, she would be bored, she would get in the way. That’s what I said. “You’ll get in the way.” So she agreed. She wanted to be good for me. That’s how its been between us after Anna, we help each other. I reached the shop at nine thirty. It was busy. There was a conference in town and I had a lot of customers. The phone rang several times but I let it go to voicemail. That’s why. That’s why when the hospital called…’ He let the sentence fall.

There wasn’t more to say. He fiddled with the thread again, Pommel could see his skin redden. He put away his notebook. He glanced around the room again.

‘She could have come to work with me,’ Philmon said, his eyes wet but no tears fell. ‘She would have been no trouble.’

Later, Camille was waiting outside his office. ‘Come in,’ he said. After they both sat down, he smiled at her politely. ‘How are you?’

She returned a smiled that indicated she was okay.

‘What will you do now?’

‘Leave.’

‘Where?’

‘I have no clue. Maybe London… I don't know…’ and her voice trailed off. But it returned again in an oddly astute way. ‘Would it be possible to see the photographs. From the accident.’

‘No. Even if I wanted to I—’

She looked directly at him. Something in her eyes did not give away an inch of what was behind them. Her attractiveness could not be ignored, the dizzying scent of her. He felt hot with embarrassment and lust. He passed in the corridor. ‘Please, Pommel.’

Ten minutes later he came back with a plastic evidence bag. He shut the door behind him. ‘This is completely unlawful,’ he said, and felt immediately childish.

For a long moment she held the bag. ‘May I open it?’

‘Yes,’ he said and watched her thin, fragile fingers press open the seal of the bag. She took out a yellow strip of fabric with flowers on it.

‘This was Xenia’s?’

Pommel nodded.

‘Will it be returned to her father?’

‘Now that the investigations are over, yes.’

‘Will it help him?’

‘I doubt it.’

Camille put the fabric back in the bag. He took the bag. And then he reached out for her, surprising himself. His hand on her shoulder, along her collarbone. She didn’t look up from the synthetic floor but he felt the warmth of her, the soul of her through the red sweater.

There was a break in the possibility of things. An opening.

But he said, ‘Take care of yourself.’

Camille

In returning from the office and beholding that fragment of a past life I began to think about the curvature of the road. How it remains crucial to the accident.  If not the cause, then a deciding factor. It had caused me to swerve. Without the curve, the children would not be dead. Without me, they would not be dead. The children and I moving along our timelines. But the scene, like me, carried on, away from the carnage, effacing and unchanged.

I think that’s why I went to the window, as if Lyon might reveal to me the key to its banality. But of course there was no secret, the silent night was unremarkable. No cars. Only the still sigh of 2am. 

The air was sharp.  Then, shifting my gaze, I saw him on the other side of the street.

He had a numb shape, a middle-aged, balding man. I felt I should recognise him, that I did know him. From the village? Did he work at the hotel? Had I seen him in the supermarket? Was he a neighbour?

But I felt more than familiarity — rather, an intimacy. A connection that in the next second I had to dismiss because I did not know him, had never met him. There was only the feeling, and the way he turned from me and hurried off, as if he’d forgotten the gas on at home.

I knew from the sense of him. It could only be him that had gotten the key from Mrs. Bancel. He had sat in my kitchen and drank a cup of coffee. Waiting, watching, scenting. He had wanted some sense of me.

He had it now. He’d been standing there in the dark road for hours. He had seen me return from Pommel’s. I had spent an unnerving amount of time with the policeman overseeing his child’s death. And while that small, ruined body was disintegrating, I had been comforted, I had been attractive.

Pommel

Sergeant Tansetta knocked on his door, ‘I thought you would want to know, Sir. The neighbours reported a bad smell and uncollected mail in the letter box at Philmon Zhikov’s residence.’

He drove with him to the home. The smell, it turned out, was just old rubbish. But Philmon was missing.

‘The neighbours?’

‘The lady next door — Alex Lipchitz — she phoned it in; she says she can’t remember when she last saw him. Maybe not for a week?’

Pommel wandered through the house. Beyond the kitchen, Philmon had a small office where he’d done his accounts. He was a meticulous business man, but chaos was now what used to be order: bills, junk mail, sympathy cards.

Yet, placed to the side, a letter: stacked neatly atop it all in a purposeful fashion. Pommel picked it up. Inside he found a small note handwritten in blue pen. He opened it.

Dear Mrs. Bancel,

 As you know I left the phone bill unpaid. Please find enclosed my check for fifty-six euros to cover the outstanding charge plus the reconnection fee for postage. I apologise for the inconvenience.

Yours,

Camille Ainsley

The name was like a punch in the gut. He shut his eyes, the better to see the glow of her skin. He lifted the paper to his nose, imagining the scent.

He turned his back to the house and pressed his phone to his ear. He stood like this for a long time. But of course her line was disconnected. The monotonous tone was deafening in his ear. He pretended to hang up.

* * *

It took Mrs Bancel a moment to answer the door. ‘Inspector,’ she said, looking at him with a glimmer of curiosity. ‘Please come in.’

He cleared his throat. ‘This will only take a minute.’ He brought out Camille’s letter. ‘We have just found this at Mr. Philmon Zhikov’s house. I wondered if you might know how it got there.’

‘No.’

‘There’s no criminal intention here, Mrs Bancel, but I need your help — your honesty — is important. Mr Zhikov has gone missing.’ He handed her the letter. She took it, regarded it with great mystery. ‘It’s addressed to you,’ he said. ‘How did it come to be in Mr Zhikov’s house?’

For a long moment she debated with herself. Could she conduct a believable lie? Or should she manipulate the truth? Pommel could almost see her flipping through the deck of cards.

‘I was doing the right thing, no matter what the law says. He came, a few days after the accident. At first I didn’t recognise him. He was dirty, unwashed. He said he needed to go upstairs to Mrs. Ainsley’s apartment. He didn’t want to steal anything, or make a mess, he just needed to see where she lived. Myself, I don't understand what it was about but I didn’t see the harm.’

‘So you gave him a key?’

‘Several times.’

‘And he was here that morning I came by?’

The faint movement of her head, just a singular nod.

Pommel felt a surge of anger — almost jealousy. He wondered if Camille knew about the intrusion, and decided not to tell him. What had Philmon done there? What had he wanted?

‘And the letter?’

‘After the inquest — you know, it was a great travesty to find no fault. Someone should be held to account.’

‘And then you gave this letter to Mr Zhikov. Why?’

Now she was silent. And now he felt she wasn’t searching for a lie but for a reality. A reflection that she had not yet attempted to impose upon herself. ‘I just saw him,’ she sad. ‘He looked terrible, he was suffering. We passed each other on the pavement in the cemetery. He would have been visiting his wife, his daughter. Can you imagine? Both in one year? He asked me if I knew her. I didn’t see the harm.’

The harm, no one ever saw the harm.

Camille

The cup, the coffee within. I almost welcomed the little routine: how I would wash the cup tenderly, scour the outside and then the inside — in a circular motion up and down. This was our slow waltz, a kind of seduction.

But today: he hadn’t drunk the coffee. The cup was on the table, still full, the dark brew lukewarm. The chair was askew but not normally how he left it — neatly returned against the table.

I went from room to room, trying to figure out if he’d been there, too. And what he’d done. I didn’t want change, I was dwelling in time like a cradle.

The closed bedroom door formed a dull hum. Only a gold of light protruded from the narrow gap between door and floor.

I waited in front of it. Half expecting it to open for me. I placed my hands against it - feeling for a pulse.

‘Hello?’

No one answered.

‘Hello,’ i said again.

I listened for movement, a step. I watched the gap to see if it would darken with a shadow. But there was nothing.

I wrapped my hand around the cold silver, smooth. I turned it.

The room was as I had left it, the curtains open, the bed made. I thought perhaps I’d closed the door by mistake, although I’ve never liked closed doors. Always the implication of something behind them.

Then I noticed the arrangement on the bed.

A small strip of cotton with a flower print. A toy plane. A piece of flannel. And a Russian doll. Individually, the objects were unremarkable… But as a quartet.

It didn’t take me - or him - very long. 

I didn’t struggle. The feeling of his rough hands around my neck. The tight pull of the strands of my hair that became caught beneath them. 

I felt more alive than I think I ever have.