My name is Harry Spinks, son of James Spinks, tailor of East
Street. ” Harold replied having no idea why he automatically introduced
his father’s name. He guessed it was to show that he came from a good
family and was not the type to go setting fires.
“Not a Pole is you then, boy?” Francis asked unexpectedly. Harold
waited for a second to see if it was some kind of inside joke, but his face
remained unchanged behind the walrus moustache.
“No, sir” Harold answered. The question annoyed him. The
Poles had been the name given to the army of the Iron Giants when
they invaded the city. They only carried that name during times of war
and they now worked hard for what they had, though you could see in
Francis’ eyes that he did not think they deserved it. Harold’s annoyance
was ignored by the inspector as he continued to scribble into his
notebook as he spoke.
“You saw the fire at the Queens Tavern earlier tonight. In fact there are
reports that you were seen to be loading things into the tavern where the fire started,
would you like to give me your account of what happened, or shall I just get the cuffs
on you now?” Francis spat out in a mouthful, seemingly without the need
to breathe. He obviously thought Harold had done it and was praying
Harold was of Iron Giant descendent as it would have been so much
easier for him to pass the blame onto him, without any questions from
his superiors if Harold was. The law was so corrupt that if you were of
any race but Brilankan – home of the monks and the current ruling
leader - decent laws, such as a fair trial, did not apply, and they could
have him in the cells by morning, such was the fear of the demons. “Well, I know you’re not deaf and dumb so answer me, boy.” Francis said with
spittle forming on his lip. Harold could see the anger growing inside the
inspector. He tried to remember the fire, but the details caused him to
shake again. The fear had left his mind for a while but it seems it had
not left his body, his fingers trembled and Harold could feel his mouth
dry even more, if that was possible.
“Where am I?” Harold croaked, ignoring the question for now.
Harold had a few of his own he needed answering first and felt he
could get away with pushing the inspectors temper a little more.
“You’re in Saint Bartholomew, the Drow hospital just off Duck Street if
you have to know. Though, if you don’t give me an answer to my damn question now,
you’ll be out of here and off to a rat infested cell before you can call your bloody mother
to wipe your snotty nose lad.” Francis said and the angrier he got the more
the almost musical tone of his southern voice came through.
“I was loading the kegs into the cellar as always, when I smelt spirits-”
Harold replied carefully.
“Well, I should hope you bloody would or there’d be little point putting the
kegs in there?” The inspector interrupted and Harold supposed he had a
point. The kegs did always smell of alcohol but never as strong as that
night . “Get to the bit where you set the fire.” Frances said seemingly growing
bored of listening already. Harold didn’t answer straight away because
his attention was snapped elsewhere as, in the distance beyond the
ward; he could hear a Drow accent. It was faint but could just be heard
over the whistling wind. That was all he needed. Harold had the law
trying to slap him in irons and O'Brien’s gang on their way to gut him.
As much as Harold wanted the inspector gone, he knew he had to keep
him there. Inspector Fraser’s humour was less painful than what would
happen to him if O’Brien’s gang even suspected Harold had started the
fire.
“Ok, you really want to know what I saw. I’ll tell you then.” Harold
said still barely able to believe it himself. “The place stunk of spirits, More’n
normal. As I was about to lower myself down to check for a broken drum or
something then I saw someone inside the cellar light a match.” Harold
Street. ” Harold replied having no idea why he automatically introduced
his father’s name. He guessed it was to show that he came from a good
family and was not the type to go setting fires.
“Not a Pole is you then, boy?” Francis asked unexpectedly. Harold
waited for a second to see if it was some kind of inside joke, but his face
remained unchanged behind the walrus moustache.
“No, sir” Harold answered. The question annoyed him. The
Poles had been the name given to the army of the Iron Giants when
they invaded the city. They only carried that name during times of war
and they now worked hard for what they had, though you could see in
Francis’ eyes that he did not think they deserved it. Harold’s annoyance
was ignored by the inspector as he continued to scribble into his
notebook as he spoke.
“You saw the fire at the Queens Tavern earlier tonight. In fact there are
reports that you were seen to be loading things into the tavern where the fire started,
would you like to give me your account of what happened, or shall I just get the cuffs
on you now?” Francis spat out in a mouthful, seemingly without the need
to breathe. He obviously thought Harold had done it and was praying
Harold was of Iron Giant descendent as it would have been so much
easier for him to pass the blame onto him, without any questions from
his superiors if Harold was. The law was so corrupt that if you were of
any race but Brilankan – home of the monks and the current ruling
leader - decent laws, such as a fair trial, did not apply, and they could
have him in the cells by morning, such was the fear of the demons. “Well, I know you’re not deaf and dumb so answer me, boy.” Francis said with
spittle forming on his lip. Harold could see the anger growing inside the
inspector. He tried to remember the fire, but the details caused him to
shake again. The fear had left his mind for a while but it seems it had
not left his body, his fingers trembled and Harold could feel his mouth
dry even more, if that was possible.
“Where am I?” Harold croaked, ignoring the question for now.
Harold had a few of his own he needed answering first and felt he
could get away with pushing the inspectors temper a little more.
“You’re in Saint Bartholomew, the Drow hospital just off Duck Street if
you have to know. Though, if you don’t give me an answer to my damn question now,
you’ll be out of here and off to a rat infested cell before you can call your bloody mother
to wipe your snotty nose lad.” Francis said and the angrier he got the more
the almost musical tone of his southern voice came through.
“I was loading the kegs into the cellar as always, when I smelt spirits-”
Harold replied carefully.
“Well, I should hope you bloody would or there’d be little point putting the
kegs in there?” The inspector interrupted and Harold supposed he had a
point. The kegs did always smell of alcohol but never as strong as that
night . “Get to the bit where you set the fire.” Frances said seemingly growing
bored of listening already. Harold didn’t answer straight away because
his attention was snapped elsewhere as, in the distance beyond the
ward; he could hear a Drow accent. It was faint but could just be heard
over the whistling wind. That was all he needed. Harold had the law
trying to slap him in irons and O'Brien’s gang on their way to gut him.
As much as Harold wanted the inspector gone, he knew he had to keep
him there. Inspector Fraser’s humour was less painful than what would
happen to him if O’Brien’s gang even suspected Harold had started the
fire.
“Ok, you really want to know what I saw. I’ll tell you then.” Harold
said still barely able to believe it himself. “The place stunk of spirits, More’n
normal. As I was about to lower myself down to check for a broken drum or
something then I saw someone inside the cellar light a match.” Harold
Similar Books
