The stars were gone; only bats circled overhead. The silence was gone, drowned by the shouts of a crowd. The vast emptiness of space shrank to the narrow confines of a cricket pitch.
On the ragged remainders of what might have been grass, a mind that had a moment ago known nothing but law and light and space struggled to raise up a body which had cut through the fabric of the world like a sword.
By the time he had returned to his feet, the Relentless Inspector had sufficiently returned to himself that he became aware of figures rushing towards him, and the fact that this was highly irregular. Yet it was not unwelcome. Their steps cut through sigils that had burned their way into his eyes, and so he could instead turn his attention towards hearing their words over the din of the crowd.
“…ball must’ve hit him…”
“…bleeding, see?”
“…distracted…”
An elbow swung into the ribs of one figure with the inevitability of a law; another of them was pushed aside in a motion as definite as a judgment.
“…b____y b_____s, let me through…”
The last of the figures fell, and revealed a sight that sent the Inspector staggering. Paradoxes flaked off a form who might have been familiar; as they fluttered to the ground, they wrote truths that were lies, constants that reshaped themselves in every moment, laws that were chaos, and he could bear to watch no longer.
“…sir, everything all right?” He knew the voice, and he knew the concern plain in it.
In the language of the stars, there was only the truth. The words that passed his lips carried less power, did not burn, yet the truth could not be concealed regardless. “I… believe I may require assistance.”
“Let’s… let’s get you somewhere quieter then.” Concern became alarm, and a hand took hold of his elbow. “Somewhere with tea.”
As he allowed himself to be guided off the pitch, a bell tolled.
The Inspector’s pen moved across the paper without pause, without mercy, as decisively as he had once moved across a cricket pitch and a universe. The question before him demanded an answer, and the answer was clear. If 26 across was “evening”, then the bird in 19 down must be a dove. Cause still followed effect. Logic still applied. Even a puzzle invented by Hell yielded to rational consideration. All was well with the world.
There was a heavy knock.
This was unusual, and more than a little alarming. There were but few who knew this address of his, and none would knock so heavily.
Nevertheless, he answered the door.
A pair of Special Constables entered. It had become easier, by now, to see their steps as mere movements, to allow the unfolding patterns in every gesture to slip away like a half-remembered dream.
Then Mr Wines followed, and the weight of the memories made the Inspector sway.
Yet he swiftly steadied, and as he did, he saw clearly what the situation required.
Soon enough, the Inspector and his unexpected guest sat at the small table, hunched over two cups of Surface green tea.
“No alcohol for us. Our head still hurts. But what happened between you and… me… might have done our health well. We must face who we were, to better who we are.” Mr Wines raised the cup to its hood.
“Indeed.” The Inspector nodded slowly, yet his voice was steady. “As to your statement, it-”
Mr Wines cut him off with a wave of its claw. “…will not need to go beyond these walls, will it?”
A Special stepped closer, and placed a box upon the table. “Green, directly from the Surface,” remarked Mr Wines, and opened the box a fraction.
Had the box contained sunlight, it could have had no more profound effect upon the Inspector than the delicate scent that now filled the small room. Eyes closed, he sniffed the air, seeming almost more like a bloodhound than Chiot, curled up under the bed, did.
The box snapped shut, and he straightened.
No further words were spoken. The visitors took their leave, and the Inspector remained alone with the box of tea and his inevitable doubts. He had acted correctly; had the evidence he had obtained amounted to aught, it would nevertheless be inadmissible, having been acquired in so irregular a way.
And yet, on the table stood a box of tea, suggesting to a mind hardened by the Neath perhaps a darker motive than simple appreciation of a duty done well.
He had done right, could have cited the pertinent regulation in his sleep, and still the doubts remained.
Strange as the thought might be, this was, perhaps, good. Years and years after Inspector R____-H______ had informed him about the advantages of doubts, he found himself not longing for the certainty he had known but recently, found himself almost embarrassed by how keenly he had missed it in these first moments after the match. Such utter clarity of purpose, unhindered by even the slightest thought, was reserved for mere tools; and it would not do for an officer of the law to fondly remember having been a pen.
