The Benefit of Doubt

“Don’t stop!”

Something cold pressed against Grant's back.

“I hope you have a licence for that.” He glanced down, catching a glimpse of the weapon beneath his coat before it pressed harder against his spine. “Military issue. That's an old pistol. What antique store did you get that from?”

“This is no time for jokes, detective.”

The man was trembling. Grant could feel the pistol rattling against his back, the poor fellow struggling to keep it steady.

“You're being followed.”

“Yeah, by you, it seems.” Grant let out a loud hiccup, cracking his neck as they rounded the corner. His unexpected companion remained close, one arm wrapped around him as though helping a drunkard home.

Not a bad disguise, actually. Plenty of drunks wandering these streets after dark. Grant had been one of them often enough.

“No, I mean, yes, but not just by me.” The man glanced over his shoulder.

Grant didn't need to look. He'd noticed the two figures three streets back, their dark jackets swaying as they followed through the purple haze. Heavy-footed bastards. Not particularly subtle, either.

The smog was especially thick tonight, hanging between the soot-blackened buildings and rolling along the cobbles. Even the lamps struggled to penetrate it, their light reduced to miserable little halos.

“Little tip, buddy. If you want someone to trust you, don't shove an old pistol into their back.”

A tired sigh came from behind him. The pressure vanished, followed by the familiar scrape of leather as the pistol slipped into its holster.

“I, I didn't know how to get through to you. You're in their sights now, detective. You're watched all the time. They'll make you disappear.”

The man sounded even more nervous without the gun in his hand. Grant almost felt sorry for him. He stopped, causing the fellow to stumble against him.

“If you're talking about the two heavy-footed thugs on the other side of the road, I think I'll be fine. These aren't the first mob hires I've had on my tail.”

“They're not from the mob!”

“Oh?” Grant raised an eyebrow and finally turned to face him properly.

He was a short fellow, perhaps a few years younger than Grant, though it was difficult to tell beneath the grime. His jacket might once have been black, but the muddy edges and ash stains had given it a patchwork of colours. His cheeks were hollow, and his eyes darted constantly towards the street.

Poor bastard looked as though he hadn't slept in a week.

The pistol was indeed an antique. An old war model, by the looks of it, stripped and rebuilt with modern technology. A common enough service if one knew where to go.

“And how would you know that?”

“Listen, this case you're on. It's not the mob, at least… well… you know it's not the mob. But you know that, and they know you know that… you can't know. They don't even like people to suspect.” He mumbled the words, looking frantically over his shoulder between each garbled sentence.

Grant's amusement began to fade. “And how would you know about the case I'm on…” He narrowed his eyes, his hand drifting towards his belt.

“That doesn't matter!”

Grant rested his hand on his pistol. The fellow seemed frightened enough without another gun being waved around. “Who are you?”

The man raised both hands. “My, my name's Karl, but, but that's not the point…”

“Okay, Karl…” Grant interrupted, drawing out the name with mocking emphasis. “I'll ask you again. How do you know about the case?”

“The murders of Elien and Richard Pettifer. They were, well… I knew them… I knew what they were looking into.” Karl scratched frantically at his arm.

Grant studied him. The Pettifers, there were two names he hadn't expected to hear tonight.

Most of the station had already lost interest. Two bodies in a burned-out house, no witnesses worth mentioning, and nothing particularly valuable missing. The sort of case that disappeared beneath a mountain of paperwork once the inspector decided it wasn't worth the trouble. But Grant hadn't forgotten.

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a charred notebook. It was more ash than book, its spine held together by his rather questionable attempts at repair. He'd spent the better part of an evening trying to salvage it, much to the amusement of the station clerk.

“It survived the fire…” Karl's eyes widened.

“You've seen this before?”

“I, not the inside. Only heard about it from what Elien told me.”

Grant opened the book. The outer pages were blackened and brittle, but the centre had survived well enough. Some of the writing remained legible, provided one had the patience to decipher it.

“This conspiracy she kept mentioning.” He shook his head. “The…” His finger traced a line of faded ink. “Monarchy of Blood?”

“Shush!” Karl seized his arm and dragged him into the shadows of a narrow alley.

Grant stumbled, nearly dropping the notebook. Beyond the smog, the two figures on the street reacted, their footsteps quickening.

“We need to go. You are in danger.”

Grant rolled his eyes. “Of course.” He chuckled, taking the opportunity to return the notebook safely to his coat.

The alley was hardly an improvement. Brick walls rose on either side, blackened by decades of smoke. While the stench from a nearby rubbish heap was almost enough to overpower the smog.

“You don't believe me?” Karl asked, breathing ragged.

Grant looked at him for a moment. There was something rather pitiful about the fellow. He was clearly terrified, and whatever he believed, he believed it wholeheartedly. He had seen men like him before. Men who'd lost their jobs, their families, and needed someone to blame. The King was a popular choice.

He softened his voice. “Listen, mate. I hear from a lot of anti-monarchists at the station. Your little club sounds no different.” He rested a hand on Karl's shoulder. “Go home, sober up. I'll deal with the mob. If you come into the station tomorrow, sober and calm, then I'll forget that you jammed a pistol into my back.”

“Anti…” Karl's jaw dropped. “No, that's not what…”

“Sober up, buddy. I'm going home.” Grant turned away.

Karl hurried after him. “Listen, those two thugs aren't from the mob. I told you this…”

“Oh yeah,” Grant interrupted. “Tell me everything.” He let out a long yawn.

“This is serious. The King has… um, there are…” Karl struggled for words. “Look, why do you think the mob even exists?”

Grant stopped. “What?”

“The King could crush them easily. He has the secret service, his own retinue. And yet they operate in here, just a few miles from his palace.”

Grant sighed. “And I'm guessing you have a reason for that. Hmmm. What is it? An ancient magical pact with a dead god? An underground dragon being kept at bay, by the mob? Oh, oh, what about a secret demigod, silently pulling the strings from the shadows?” He let out a long breath. “I've heard them all, buddy.”

“The truth is, he just doesn't pay us enough, and the mob have bribes to spare.” He tapped Karl's shoulder, this time with something approaching genuine sympathy. “Most of the people on the force are paid to look the other way.”

“And you?”

The question caught him off guard. Grant looked down. Purple smog flowed around their ankles like a river, gathering in the cracks between the cobbles. He reached for the small pendant hanging over his heart, rubbing its familiar surface between his fingers.

For a moment, he considered answering properly. There had been a time when he'd wanted to change things. When he'd believed a good detective could make a difference, provided he worked hard enough and refused the right envelopes.

“I'm just…” He hesitated. “Happy where I am, I suppose.”

“There is a darker truth, detective.” He paused, apparently expecting another sarcastic remark. “Those men aren't from the mob. They've been sent by the King. The King allows the mob to exist so that he can use them as an excuse. So, the blame will never go where it truly belongs.”

Grant paused, taking a long breath. “I know the Vescari didn't kill the Pettifers, and neither did the Duvall. But that doesn't mean there's some grand conspiracy.”

He had his own suspicions, of course. The fire had been too thorough. The bodies had been found too conveniently. And there was that damned notebook, filled with references to people and places that didn't seem to exist. But suspicions weren't evidence.

Footsteps echoed from the alley's mouth. Grant glanced towards the street. The smog stirred in the breeze.

“We need to get out of here!” Karl said, swallowing audibly. “They won't let…”

BANG!

The sound cracked through the alley. For an instant, the purple smog seemed to split apart.

“Argh!” Karl screamed as a bullet tore into his thigh.

Grant caught him before he struck the cobbles, nearly losing his own footing. He drew his pistol, turning towards the mouth of the alley.

The two men had taken cover behind the corner, their dark coats barely visible through the haze.

Grant dragged Karl towards a shallow alcove in the brickwork. Blood pouring from the man's leg. “Keep pressure on it!”

Karl clutched the wound, whimpering.

A pair of rubbish bins stood on either side of them. Thin metal, rusted through in places. Grant frowned, clicking the activation lever on his pistol. The mechanism came alive with a familiar flash of aqua light.

BANG!

A bullet struck the wall nearby, sending fragments of brick scattering across the alley. Grant recognised the sound. He'd heard those rifles often enough during his years on the force. Expensive things, accurate and reliable, usually reserved for the King's retinue.

Mobsters occasionally got their hands on military weapons, but not often. And certainly not in such good condition. He glanced towards Karl. The fellow was pale, his face twisted with pain.

Grant leaned around the edge of the bins, his finger resting on the trigger.

BANG!

A flash of aqua light illuminated the alley, the bullet tearing through the purple smog. A sharp crack followed as it struck the brickwork beyond.

“Stay down!” Grant barked, pushing Karl further against the wall.

BANG! BANG!

Two more shots, both misses. The figures beyond the smog scattered, their dark coats disappearing behind the corners of the alley.

Grant leaned out again.

BANG! BANG!

“Are you even hitting them?” Karl whimpered.

“Would you prefer to have a go?” Grant shifted, searching the haze for movement. His eyes catching a dark shape passing between two pools of lamplight.

BANG!

A cry echoed down the alley.

“Ha!” Grant grinned. “Sixth time's the charm.” He ducked back behind the bins and released the cylinder of his pistol. Reaching into his coat he found nothing. He checked another pocket. “Oh, damn.”

“What?” Karl asked.

“I'm out.”

Karl stared at him. “You're out of…”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The bins rattled violently. Metal shrieked as bullets punched through their thin walls, scattering rubbish across the cobbles.

Grant threw himself flat, dragging Karl down beside him. A bullet tore through the side of a bin and grazed his calf.

“Argh!” Pain shot up his leg.

Another struck the wall scarcely an inch above Karl's head, showering them with brick dust. Karl screamed, curling into himself.

“Shut up!” Grant snapped. “I'm trying to count!”

BANG! BANG!

Grant pressed himself against the cobbles and closed his eyes. He knew the model. He knew the capacity, the firing mechanism, the time it took a trained soldier to reload. He'd spent enough miserable afternoons on the firing range listening to instructors boast about the damned things.

He separated the reports in his head, counting each shot, listening for the pauses.

A metallic clatter rang through the alley. One was reloading. Another shot struck the bin. Then silence.

Grant opened his eyes. “Right.” He turned to Karl. “Your pistol.”

“W, what?”

“Your bloody pistol. Give it here!” Karl fumbled at his coat, his bloodied fingers struggling with the holster.

Grant reached across him and pulled the antique free. It was heavier than his own weapon. Old military steel, worn smooth around the grip. The barrel had been modified, a crude aqua mechanism fitted where the original firing assembly had once sat. Cheap work, but it would do.

“Please,” Karl whispered. “We need to run.”

“Not much running in you, is there?” Grant looked towards the mouth of the alley. He thumbed the activation lever. A faint hum rose from within the pistol.

He rose and for a moment, the alley seemed strangely quiet. The purple smog drifted lazily between the buildings, disturbed only by the faint breeze coming from the street. Somewhere beyond it, a figure moved.

Grant raised the pistol, bringing the old iron sights level with the distant silhouette. He took a breath in and the world seemed to slow. His finger settled against the trigger.

BANG!

Aqua light erupted from the pistol. The mechanism screamed. A shrill metallic whine cut through the alley, and for the briefest instant, Grant saw light spilling through the seams of the weapon.

“Oh, shi…”

The pistol exploded. Fragments of metal burst from the chamber, accompanied by a violent flash of violet fire.

Grant cried out as the burning mechanism tore across his hand. He dropped the ruined weapon. It struck the cobbles with a hollow clatter, still hissing and spitting sparks.

Grant staggered backwards, clutching his blackened fingers.

“Bloody cheap piece of…”

BANG!

A bullet tore through the smog. It struck him square in the shoulder.

The impact spun him sideways, sending him crashing against the brickwork before he collapsed onto the cobbles.

For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He was certain he'd counted. Pain spread through his chest, sharp and immediate. His left arm throbbing, blood pouring from the wound. His other hand seared with the heat of the ruined pistol.

He tried to push himself up but the pain forced him back down.

“Detective!” Karl cried.

Grant rolled onto his back, gasping. Through the drifting smog, he saw another silhouette. A man stood with his rifle still raised.

“Three?” His voice came out as little more than a wheeze, letting his head fall against the cobbles. “Damned! Too confident.”

Karl was weeping now, both hands pressed against his ruined thigh. Blood had pooling beneath him. “I told you,” he sobbed. “I told you they weren't from the mob.”

“Yes, yes…” Grant coughed.

Footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley. Three figures emerged from the purple haze, their dark coats swaying around their legs, rifles held loosely at their sides.

One walked with a slight limp, a hand pressed against his upper arm.

“Well, at least I got one.” Grant muttered, mouth turning up into the slightest of grins.

None of them spoke. Mobsters liked to talk. They liked threats and the occasional grand speech about who owned which streets. Even the King's soldiers usually had something to say when they caught a criminal.

Grant reached for his pistol, still lying beside him. A boot came down upon his wrist. Pain shot through his injured hand.

He grunted, looking up at the man standing over him. There was nothing particularly remarkable about him. Dark coat and polished boots. A face that could have belonged to any clerk or tradesman passing through the city.

The man bent down, retrieving Grant's pistol. He examined it for a moment before slipping it into his coat.

“Government property,” Grant muttered. “I'll need that back.”

The man stepped away and another crouched beside Karl.

“No!” Karl whimpered, trying to drag himself backwards. “Please, I haven't told him anything! I swear!”

Grant looked towards him and the man beside Karl drew a pistol. The dark barrel settling against Karl's forehead.

For a moment, Grant couldn't quite understand what he was seeing. He looked at the man standing over him, searching his face for some explanation.

The alley fell quiet, save for Karl's ragged breathing and the faint hiss of the broken weapon cooling upon the cobbles.

Grant swallowed, looking towards Karl, the poor fellow trembling beneath the pistol.

“Alright, Karl.” His voice was quieter now. “I'm willing to listen.”

BANG!