Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Yes, Commissioner,' agreed Quaint. 'I rather think it is.'

A few minutes later, Commissioner Dray grabbed the cell block keys, and strode down the long corridor that led from his office to the cells. Quaint and Madame Destine walked behind him in silent thought, and Sergeant Berry brought up the rear.

'You can have ten minutes with your mate and no more, Cornelius, and you can thank Horace here for that,' Dray said quietly into Quaint's ear. 'My job's going to be well and truly shot if this goes any further than this district, and if your monster has jeopardised my career-he'll hang for it, I swear.'

'Always an open mind, eh, Oliver?' Quaint said, as he clamped his hand firmly on Dray's shoulder, making the Scotsman's heart miss a beat. 'You're going to have to start entertaining the fact that maybe you're wrong on this one-and you're going to have to start thinking like that pretty damn soon. Your ignorance is your greatest weakness.'

'And your stubbornness is yours,' parried Dray.

Quaint grinned. 'Well, you know what I'm like.'

'I'd forgotten,' said Dray, rolling his eyes.

'I admit, perhaps sometimes my mouth gallops ahead of my brain.'

'I'll say! Every time you speak it's like a ten-gun salute. You've only got two settings, Cornelius-explosive and bombastic! You don't know subtlety. It's not in your blood is it?'

'Maybe so,' said Quaint, as he drew a breath through clenched teeth. 'But then, neither is giving up on a friend of mine when he's in trouble.'

Dray unlocked the cell door, and it swung open with a grinding screech of metal against stone. The quartet stared into cell, their eyes adjusting to the darkness slowly and, one by one, they looked to each other for an explanation. An open-mouthed Sergeant Berry looked to Dray, who scowled at Quaint, who in turn then shot a perplexed squint towards Destine. A veil of silent confusion suddenly fell over them.

The cell was completely empty.

Prometheus's discarded woollen cap, lying on the floor next to the iron-grated window and piles of rubble, was the only sign that he had ever been there at all.

THE SMALL, BARRED grate that had served as the only inlet for natural air and light in the cell had been forcibly ripped from its concrete moorings from the inside. The circus strongman known as Prometheus had escaped.

'Remind me again of your employee's innocence, Cornelius,' seethed Oliver Dray.

'There has to be some mistake,' gasped Quaint. 'He wouldn't just-'

'Oh, but he has. He won't get far though, I promise you that,' snapped Dray, as he turned on his heel, and barged past Destine and Quaint, dragging Berry with him in his wake.

Quaint squatted down onto his haunches and inspected the metal bars, discarded on the ground along with chunks of crumbled masonry from the wall. He looked to Destine for reassurance that what his eyes were recording was actually taking place, and he had not just set foot in a warped fantasy land. 'So tell me, fortune-teller-did you see this coming?' he asked.

Destine stood at his rear, her veiled face hiding her expression of surprise, but her silence told Quaint all he needed to know.

'I see,' grumbled Quaint. 'What on earth is Prometheus doing? What does he think this will accomplish? Why would he be so stupid? If Dray didn't already have a noose measured up for him, he will have by now. How the hell do we repair this damage?' he said, peering at the window's grate. 'Hang on…what's all this then?' He licked his finger, and gingerly touched the tip of one of the iron bars. He yelped, and withdrew his hand quickly. 'Well, well,' he said under his breath.

'What's all what, Cornelius?' Destine asked.

Quaint ignored her, and stood up sharply. 'I knew there was more to this than met the eye!' he proclaimed, and approached Destine. She froze as he placed his arm on her shoulder, and plucked something from the tight bun at the back of her head. 'Ah, perfect, Madame. Thank you!' he snapped excitedly, and squatted back down onto his knees, inspecting the grate.

'Cornelius…I know you take great delight in perplexing me,' Destine said, teasing her bottom lip with her teeth. 'But what exactly are you doing with my hairpin?'

Quaint ignored her again, and began poking tentatively with the metal pin at the window's grate in silence.

Destine tapped her foot on the floor. 'The Commissioner will have mobilised his lynch mob by now, Cornelius,' she said impatiently. 'Whatever you are doing, it is costing us valuable time!'

'I don't think so, Madame, I think that-aha!' exclaimed Quaint, skipping easily to his feet for a man of his age and stature. With a broad grin, he held the metal hairpin towards Destine's face. 'This mystery seems to have developed a new level of perplexity, Madame. Take a look!' A thin, barely visible wisp of smoke trailed from the tip of the hairpin, stolen quickly by the wind that blew freely into the cell through the hole in the wall. 'Well, what do you see?' he beamed, like an eager child, proudly presenting a painting to his mother.

Destine lifted her veil and stared uncomprehendingly. 'My eyes are not what they used to be. What exactly am I supposed to be looking at, may I ask?'

'Madame, do you not see? Those bars were not simply wrenched from the wall by Prometheus's strength alone. They have been eaten away! Look…eroded…by some sort of acid! It is burning the metal pin as we speak.'

'Acid?' asked Destine, beseeching Quaint's impassioned eyes. 'But how would Prometheus get hold of acid in a police station?'

'Anyone's guess. Perhaps there is a lot more to this than we had imagined.' Quaint turned, and strode towards the open cell door. 'Come, Madame, let us see what havoc Oliver's causing upstairs.'

'Perhaps we should keep this mystery to ourselves for the time being, Cornelius…I am no longer sure whom we can trust.'

With a crash, Quaint and Destine exploded through the thick set of double doors into the main station office and stared at the pandemonium before them. Commissioner Dray was holding court in the centre of the station as his men rushed about to and fro around him, obeying his every command.

'Hurry it up, men! We don't have all day. God knows when he decided to run for it. Didn't anyone hear anything? There's half a damn wall missing!' Proving that rage can be a most powerful fuel, Dray yelled with the vigour of a man half his age. 'Sound the alarm, I want that man found!'

As Quaint approached Dray and Sergeant Berry, he looked around the madhouse that was the station. Policemen were rushing everywhere in panic, their eyes to the floor, desperately trying to comply with Dray's barrage of orders. Raised voices thronged the air, police whistles screamed and Commissioner Dray had Constable Tucker by his jacket lapels up against a wall.

'When was the prisoner last checked, Tucker?' Dray yelled.

'Sir? The giant, you mean?' said a flustered Tucker. 'Well…he was given some breakfast I think, not too long ago.'

'How long, lad?' Dray demanded.

'About an hour maybe,' said the petrified Constable Tucker. 'Could be a bit longer, I…I'm not sure. Why, what's wrong?'

'What's wrong, Tucker, is that he's bloody absconded! Ripped the bleeding bars out of the damn wall, he did. Have you got cotton in your ears, son? Did you not hear anything?' Dray demanded.

'Why, Oliver…did you?' asked Quaint, stepping up behind Dray.

The Scotsman shot a furious look over his shoulder. 'You stay out of this, Cornelius, this is police business. Your friend just signed his own death warrant.' He switched his stare back to his constable. 'Tucker, get all the men we have available out on those streets right now. I want an immediate street by street search for the prisoner. Use whatever force necessary to restrain him and haul his arse back here, sharpish!'