Shireling
A Servant of King and Country
The following is a small snippet of an unnamed story that I am working on. I wanted to provide this short excerpt to receive some feedback on concerning my writing style and the setting. The idea is that the story is set in a city that, in order to deal with an outbreak of senseless murders by a knife-wielding maniac, has constructed a police state. The story is meant to explore themes of law and order, society's response to unpredictable acts of violence, and the nature of a truly free state.
“Ghent Crossing, next station. Time, 6:08 PM.”
The rumbling and grinding of metal wheels on bent rails was barely dented by the brassy voice of the conductor. The car swayed back and forth, shifting the bodies of the passengers like the swaying motion of a ship on tempestuous waves. The swaying was soon supplanted by a slight forward lurch accompanied by screeching brakes. Ghent Crossing Station emerged in the windows of the train car, the platform of the dingy station half-deserted and populated only by a few shadowed figures in the flickering light of the nearby clock-light. Each shot tense glances to all the other passengers near the railing before stepping onto the train car. Although, one figure in particular stood out as, instead of standing by the hand-rails tensely and keeping his guard up, he sat down on one of the benches and opened up a newspaper.
Across the front, the headline screamed in bold typeface: “The Slasher Strikes Again!” accompanied by a blurry, black and white photograph of a woman’s body laying in a pool of blood draped in a cloth with an evidence ticket perched at her left foot. The man with the newspaper turned the page, obscuring the front page against his knee as he laid it against his lap.
The door at the far end of the train car slid open, revealing a tall, sliver of a man in a police uniform. The passengers collectively held their breathes, then exhaled. The newspaper found itself once again in the upright position. The policeman’s silver badge reflected the dim light of the single overhead light of the train car as he scanned their faces, watching for any hint of nervousness. Law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear, and so nervousness was a tell-tale sign of a rapacious killer.
The baton came out from the leather holster on his hip, his eyes passing judgment on every stony-faced passenger on the 6:00 to Rapids Station. Finally, he came to the end of the row of passengers and narrowed his eyes as he was confronted with newsprint rather than a face. He set the baton on the top of the page, and folded the paper down revealing the dithering old man behind the paper mask. The man set his hat higher on his forehead and his eyes darted back and forth. Here was the decision. The man met all the classic criteria for a nervous mind, but the key was to isolate the cause. Was this man truly the Slasher? Or a Slasher? Or was he simply frightened to be taken for one? A younger officer would not have made the distinction, but he was no spring chicken. The policeman lingered only a second more before issuing a cautionary command.
“Try not to hide your face, sir. It will only make our jobs easier.”
“Yes, officer.” The old man replied breathlessly.
The policeman turned to face the rest of the car, a dozen eyes fixed on his slender form, clad sharply in his black sergeant’s uniform. He met each of their gazes, then opened the door and disappeared into the next car.
“6:15, Rapids Station.”
Mr. Edwards disembarked the train carrying his newspaper under the crook of his arm and making haste for his flat three blocks down. Darkness was approaching fast, and no man wanted to be caught out past curfew. Already, floodlights were passing up and down the streets, illuminating the cobblestones in their white glow.
The streets near Rapids Station were mostly flanked by looming, gray edifices that had stood since Thomas A. Edwards had been just a little boy. Back then, the area was known as White Rapids Village, an idyllic suburb of the great Center City with flower shops and ice cream parlors, barbershop quartets and couples on tandem bicycles. But, that was a long time ago. Nowadays, it was the furthest of the boroughs out from the Center, and the most violent. Although there hadn’t been any of the signature killings in Rapids Station for several months, it was the murder capital of Center’s metropolitan area. What the authorities didn’t want to admit was that the vast majority of violence, there at least, was brazen gunfights over black market transactions, down in the sewers where the police dared not go.
As Mr. Edwards reached the door of his flat, he took his battered fedora off his head and fished his keycard from his coat pocket. Looking to his left, he watched as a robotic streetcleaner applied more glue to a poster hanging from the wall of the nearby haberdasher’s shop. The poster displayed the city’s seal: a stylized padlock and key on a shield, alongside a picture of a police officer with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed intently on the observer that seemed to follow any passerby like an optical illusion. The text at the bottom read: “Look Them in the Eyes!”
Thomas jumped as the streetcleaner, which he had not been paying attention to, materialized in front of him.
“Curfew is in ten minutes, sir! Can I assist you to your dwelling?”
The large, headlamp-like eyes blinked quickly with mechanical shutters simulating eyelids, and the short, barrel-chested android shot its oblong head forward on its hydraulic neck and tilted it to the side to accompany his question.
“No thank you.”
Swiping his keycard, Thomas pushed the door open into a narrow hallway and shut the door behind him. The hall was dimly lit, with creaky hardwood floors and lined with heavy metal doors with large padlocks on them. He was greeted almost immediately by the landlord, another android---this one with an almost grotesquely long frame. Its round head leaned forward as its long arm extended towards him.
“The rent, sir, for you and your wife. One hundred and forty dollars.”
Reaching again into his pocket, Thomas brought out a stack of bills and handed it two one-hundreds, prompting the robot to add the extra sixty to next month’s.
“Now would you kindly lock me in?”
The landlord nodded slowly, and walked with Thomas to his flat, 2114. The android opened the door and held it for him.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you.”
As Thomas disappeared behind the door, the landlord’s metal tentacle extended a skeleton key towards the door and secured the padlock, pushing the door secure with a heavy thud. Mr. Edwards was locked in for the night.
The interior of 2114 was similar to that of the hallway, a floor of creaky wooden planks, mint-green and white stripped wallpaper pealing at the top and the corners. The one room contained a bed, chair, table, sink, and a gas stove. Around the corner, a small watercloset was almost completely filled by a toilet, small vanity, and an antique bathtub. Thomas merely threw his coat, newspaper, and hat on the bed and loosened his tie. He grimaced as he found that his hat had missed the bed and knocked over one of the photos laying on the bedside table. He rushed to retrieve the picture and breathed a sigh of relief as he found the glass unbroken and the photograph below, a picture of a young man and a woman dressed for a wedding, was unharmed. Gingerly, he placed the picture back on the nightstand and stood back up.
“Deary, are you home?” The gravelly, female voice came from one of the air conditioning vents above the bed.
“Yes, dear. How was your day?”
“Very boring. But the President was on television today.”
“Really,” Thomas smiled and feigned interest, “what did he say?”
“Something about taxes, I think.”
He laughed silently to himself. His dear Edna could remember every name of every character ever paraded on a daytime soap opera, but couldn’t even remember how to write a check.
“When is the next time you come to visit?”
“I think I’ll come tomorrow after work, I’m too tired tonight, my dear. And besides, I’m already locked in.”
“Okay, well, I’ll put on a pot of tea then!”
“No, Edna---” Thomas paused and sighed as he heard the sound of her lighting a burner.
He groaned as he took his tie off, and unbuttoned his vest.
“Thomas, I put the tea on!”
“I know, dear.”
“When will you be coming up?”
He reached under his pillow and took out his old Army revolver, holding it loosely in his gnarled old hands. Checking to see that it was loaded, he put the weapon back under his pillow.
“Tomorrow for sure, my love.”
“Ghent Crossing, next station. Time, 6:08 PM.”
The rumbling and grinding of metal wheels on bent rails was barely dented by the brassy voice of the conductor. The car swayed back and forth, shifting the bodies of the passengers like the swaying motion of a ship on tempestuous waves. The swaying was soon supplanted by a slight forward lurch accompanied by screeching brakes. Ghent Crossing Station emerged in the windows of the train car, the platform of the dingy station half-deserted and populated only by a few shadowed figures in the flickering light of the nearby clock-light. Each shot tense glances to all the other passengers near the railing before stepping onto the train car. Although, one figure in particular stood out as, instead of standing by the hand-rails tensely and keeping his guard up, he sat down on one of the benches and opened up a newspaper.
Across the front, the headline screamed in bold typeface: “The Slasher Strikes Again!” accompanied by a blurry, black and white photograph of a woman’s body laying in a pool of blood draped in a cloth with an evidence ticket perched at her left foot. The man with the newspaper turned the page, obscuring the front page against his knee as he laid it against his lap.
The door at the far end of the train car slid open, revealing a tall, sliver of a man in a police uniform. The passengers collectively held their breathes, then exhaled. The newspaper found itself once again in the upright position. The policeman’s silver badge reflected the dim light of the single overhead light of the train car as he scanned their faces, watching for any hint of nervousness. Law-abiding citizens have nothing to fear, and so nervousness was a tell-tale sign of a rapacious killer.
The baton came out from the leather holster on his hip, his eyes passing judgment on every stony-faced passenger on the 6:00 to Rapids Station. Finally, he came to the end of the row of passengers and narrowed his eyes as he was confronted with newsprint rather than a face. He set the baton on the top of the page, and folded the paper down revealing the dithering old man behind the paper mask. The man set his hat higher on his forehead and his eyes darted back and forth. Here was the decision. The man met all the classic criteria for a nervous mind, but the key was to isolate the cause. Was this man truly the Slasher? Or a Slasher? Or was he simply frightened to be taken for one? A younger officer would not have made the distinction, but he was no spring chicken. The policeman lingered only a second more before issuing a cautionary command.
“Try not to hide your face, sir. It will only make our jobs easier.”
“Yes, officer.” The old man replied breathlessly.
The policeman turned to face the rest of the car, a dozen eyes fixed on his slender form, clad sharply in his black sergeant’s uniform. He met each of their gazes, then opened the door and disappeared into the next car.
“6:15, Rapids Station.”
Mr. Edwards disembarked the train carrying his newspaper under the crook of his arm and making haste for his flat three blocks down. Darkness was approaching fast, and no man wanted to be caught out past curfew. Already, floodlights were passing up and down the streets, illuminating the cobblestones in their white glow.
The streets near Rapids Station were mostly flanked by looming, gray edifices that had stood since Thomas A. Edwards had been just a little boy. Back then, the area was known as White Rapids Village, an idyllic suburb of the great Center City with flower shops and ice cream parlors, barbershop quartets and couples on tandem bicycles. But, that was a long time ago. Nowadays, it was the furthest of the boroughs out from the Center, and the most violent. Although there hadn’t been any of the signature killings in Rapids Station for several months, it was the murder capital of Center’s metropolitan area. What the authorities didn’t want to admit was that the vast majority of violence, there at least, was brazen gunfights over black market transactions, down in the sewers where the police dared not go.
As Mr. Edwards reached the door of his flat, he took his battered fedora off his head and fished his keycard from his coat pocket. Looking to his left, he watched as a robotic streetcleaner applied more glue to a poster hanging from the wall of the nearby haberdasher’s shop. The poster displayed the city’s seal: a stylized padlock and key on a shield, alongside a picture of a police officer with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixed intently on the observer that seemed to follow any passerby like an optical illusion. The text at the bottom read: “Look Them in the Eyes!”
Thomas jumped as the streetcleaner, which he had not been paying attention to, materialized in front of him.
“Curfew is in ten minutes, sir! Can I assist you to your dwelling?”
The large, headlamp-like eyes blinked quickly with mechanical shutters simulating eyelids, and the short, barrel-chested android shot its oblong head forward on its hydraulic neck and tilted it to the side to accompany his question.
“No thank you.”
Swiping his keycard, Thomas pushed the door open into a narrow hallway and shut the door behind him. The hall was dimly lit, with creaky hardwood floors and lined with heavy metal doors with large padlocks on them. He was greeted almost immediately by the landlord, another android---this one with an almost grotesquely long frame. Its round head leaned forward as its long arm extended towards him.
“The rent, sir, for you and your wife. One hundred and forty dollars.”
Reaching again into his pocket, Thomas brought out a stack of bills and handed it two one-hundreds, prompting the robot to add the extra sixty to next month’s.
“Now would you kindly lock me in?”
The landlord nodded slowly, and walked with Thomas to his flat, 2114. The android opened the door and held it for him.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No. Thank you.”
As Thomas disappeared behind the door, the landlord’s metal tentacle extended a skeleton key towards the door and secured the padlock, pushing the door secure with a heavy thud. Mr. Edwards was locked in for the night.
The interior of 2114 was similar to that of the hallway, a floor of creaky wooden planks, mint-green and white stripped wallpaper pealing at the top and the corners. The one room contained a bed, chair, table, sink, and a gas stove. Around the corner, a small watercloset was almost completely filled by a toilet, small vanity, and an antique bathtub. Thomas merely threw his coat, newspaper, and hat on the bed and loosened his tie. He grimaced as he found that his hat had missed the bed and knocked over one of the photos laying on the bedside table. He rushed to retrieve the picture and breathed a sigh of relief as he found the glass unbroken and the photograph below, a picture of a young man and a woman dressed for a wedding, was unharmed. Gingerly, he placed the picture back on the nightstand and stood back up.
“Deary, are you home?” The gravelly, female voice came from one of the air conditioning vents above the bed.
“Yes, dear. How was your day?”
“Very boring. But the President was on television today.”
“Really,” Thomas smiled and feigned interest, “what did he say?”
“Something about taxes, I think.”
He laughed silently to himself. His dear Edna could remember every name of every character ever paraded on a daytime soap opera, but couldn’t even remember how to write a check.
“When is the next time you come to visit?”
“I think I’ll come tomorrow after work, I’m too tired tonight, my dear. And besides, I’m already locked in.”
“Okay, well, I’ll put on a pot of tea then!”
“No, Edna---” Thomas paused and sighed as he heard the sound of her lighting a burner.
He groaned as he took his tie off, and unbuttoned his vest.
“Thomas, I put the tea on!”
“I know, dear.”
“When will you be coming up?”
He reached under his pillow and took out his old Army revolver, holding it loosely in his gnarled old hands. Checking to see that it was loaded, he put the weapon back under his pillow.
“Tomorrow for sure, my love.”
