Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'So, this Quaint was some kind of…'

'Opportunist,' snapped Dray. 'Or so he used to call himself, whatever that means. We found all these secret caves once, up in the Peruvian mountains, so we thought we'd stick around, searching for anything we could trade on back home. The locals were besotted with gold, you see, and the stuff was everywhere. They had these great big temples just full of the stuff, sitting around gathering dust! The tribe located there were simple folk, content to just sit in the sun and pray. So…seeing as it was all going to waste, my father decided that we'd make good use of all that gold ourselves,' Dray paused, watching the flicker of glee upon the youngster's face ignite.

'Now, my old man, he was a rogue in his youth, an' no mistake, but he was one shrewd operator. He'd been tipped off by a ruthless young French thug-a man who seemed to care even less for the locals than we did. A right nasty piece of work, he was…up until Quaint shot him, but that's another story. So, Father cooked up a deal to take over the tribe, and ship out all the gold back to England, where we'd all be rich men. So, we pitched up our camp, and made ourselves at home. We'd only been there a short time, when Quaint turned up and started shouting the odds at my father.'

'What's up with the bloke? Didn't he want to be rich?' asked Jennings.

'Quaint's the kind of person who loves to get involved, laddie. He'd set himself up as some kind of high authority or something, like he was better'n the rest of us. He stood up on the moral high ground and preached about this and that. How we were "messing with other cultures" and should learn to leave well alone!'

Jennings laughed like a guilty schoolboy.

Dray continued. 'When the final move came to overthrow the village by force, Quaint stood against us-against my father. Everything went haywire, and if it weren't for me, my father would've put a couple of bullets in him for sure. There was a big set-to with the villagers, and Quaint managed to turn the bloody lot of 'em against us. We had to grab what we could and get out of that place.'

'And that was the last you saw of Quaint, eh?'

'Well, you know what they say about bad pennies, Jennings,' said Dray. 'I made a deal with your mate Reynolds. He's supposed to be making sure that the bastard gets what he deserves…in exchange for me keeping our boys off Hawkspear's scent, and out of his business.'

'Right, I've got it now,' said Jennings. 'That Reynolds bloke has been blackmailin' you. Can't you just buy 'im off, like? Can't we just lock 'im up somewhere? Or, better'n that, 'ave someone sort 'im out, good an' proper?'

'It's not that easy, Jennings,' said Dray sharply. 'I've never even met the man-he uses you as his bloody messenger boy. I can't risk that information getting out. It'd be a bloody disaster.'

'So, what's he got on you then? Somethin' from the old days?'

'Not on me, Jennings-on my father. Back in Peru, he was involved in a couple of…I guess you could say "questionable" cargo deliveries…the type that you don't make receipts for.'

'What…like smugglin', you mean?'

Dray scratched at his chin. 'Big strong folk, those Peruvians. They fetch a pretty penny, and the women…very exotic, laddie, y'know what I mean?'

'What, your father was smugglin'…people?' asked Jennings. 'Slaves, you mean?'

'And somehow, this Reynolds fellow has found himself in the possession of evidence against my father. If it ever got out-not only would it kill my father, but it'd probably drag me down with him.'

'Crikey! And ain't your old man some kind of lord?' asked Jennings.

'Sir George Dray, successful businessman, and personal friend to a lot of people in high places, so he is. Royalty, aristocracy, clergy…just about anyone who's got any clout in this damn country these days,' said Dray, forcing a mouthful of whisky down his throat. 'He'd be crucified if this knowledge ever came out.'

'Maybe Reynolds is in league with Quaint? Maybe Quaint told 'im all he knows?'

'Blackmail's not exactly Quaint's style, Jennings,' smiled Dray.

'So what can we do, guv?' asked Jennings eagerly.

'Against Reynolds…not one damn thing,' said Dray dourly, running his finger over his teeth. 'Against Quaint though…now that's another thing entirely.'

MADAME DESTINE WATCHED meekly from behind the folds of her tent's entrance, as Prometheus argued furiously with Butter nearby. The discharge of the Irish giant's voice almost blew the tiny fellow off his feet, but to his credit, the Inuit stood his ground.

'That's easy for ye to say, lad, it's not ye's head on the block, is it!' Prometheus yelled. 'How'd ye feel if ye couldn't even close your eyes at night in case the law decides to sneak up on ye?'

'Ye might find this hard t'believe, Butter, but Cornelius ain't right all the time! We don't all see him with rose-tined specs like ye do.' Prometheus spun on his heels and set off down the slope of the lawns. 'Stay here with the Madame…that's where ye can do all the helpin', lad.'

'I heard 'im well enough, laddie,' snarled Prometheus. 'But the locals in Crawditch are knockin' down the police's door, bayin' for me blood. If I don't do this now, what d'you think's goin' to happen? They'll find me, man…they will! I'll be tucked up asleep one night and get a wee knock on me door. They'll chain me up and they'll drag me away…I won't know when and I won't know where.'

'Wait until Mr Quaint returns.'

'No, Butter-I'm goin' back t'Crawditch t'face what's comin' -before it comes after me first. Geddit? At least this way I get t'have a say in me own fate!'

Butter buried his head in his hands. 'Then…take me with you. I might be helping.'

Prometheus stared at the man as if he had just discovered an entirely new species of human being. 'Take ye with me, are y'in-sane, man? A second ago ye were tellin' me how I wasn't s'posed t'be going anywhere-and now you want to come n'all?'

'If I am to come, then when the boss ask why I did not stop you, he will know that I force myself to accompany you for own good.'

'Ye might find this hard t'believe, Butter, but Cornelius ain't right all of the time! We don't all see him with rose tinted specs like ye do.' Prometheus spun on his heels and set off down the slope of the lawns. 'Stay here with the Madame…that's where ye can do all the helpin', lad.'

Butter watched silently as Prometheus's voluminous silhouette walked off into the distance. 'That man is almost as stubborn as the boss,' he muttered under his breath. The Inuit chewed on his lip, considering his options, but within a few minutes, the Irish giant had disappeared completely from view. 'Now Prometheus is able to talk again properly, no doubt he gets himself in even more trouble.'

'Indeed he will, Butter,' whispered Destine, spying unseen and unheard from her tent. 'Prometheus should have heeded Cornelius's warning…for the only thing waiting in Crawditch is death.'

AS FAR AS THE Crawditch police were concerned, Prometheus was still number one suspect for the series of murders that had recently taken place, and as the man himself rounded a corner on the outskirts of the district, not far from The Black Sheep tavern, he smiled at a roughly sketched picture of himself-all beard and bald head-tacked to a wooden support beam of a grocery store. The word 'WANTED' was written in bold letters underneath. Various people ghosted past him, and around him, a few looking over their shoulders at the vastness of the man, but no one stuck around long enough to pay him much mind.

It was mid-afternoon, and the Irishman was idly strolling down the centre of Merchant Street, with his concentration focused upon reaching the police station as quickly as he could. For his plan to work, and his name to be cleared, he needed to enter the station willingly, for no one would believe his story if he were captured and brought in. He saw the unmistakable blue-painted double doors of the station up ahead, closed tight against the November wind, and a large pang of uncertainty suddenly formed inside his stomach. He knew he was feet away from freedom, but a part of him also knew that despite what he had said to Butter earlier, one of the most annoying qualities of Cornelius Quaint was that he was seldom wrong.