Th ey’d taken Wrecker’s from me, but I didn’t especially need a kneecapper’s blade. Any dagger, even a pen knife, would suffi ce for the last bit of killing I had to do. I caught a whiff of piss as I imagined it. A quick slash across the carotid. Lots of blood—lots of mess—but they were used to tidying up death here. I knew no one would shout for help or call for the whitecart. If anything, they’d have their tea hour down at the pub and share a few good-riddance pints. Th ey might still at that. I had one sleeve left intact. When they tossed me in my cell, I’d be alone. For now I’d have to endure this. Sitting shackled to a chair for hours wasn’t comfortable, but it was a nice break from the hell I’d been through over the past two weeks. Questioning, for all its hideous rep, wasn’t as bad as all that. Dust coated the gaslight chimneys, all of which were blackened on the inside from long use. Yellowed wanted posts and faded ambrotype tints hung on point from a warped cork-backed board, on which someone had pasted a headline from Th e Queen’s Voice: Your Colonial Taxes at Work.
