Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Prometheus grabbed the door handle, and was just about to open it when he heard the heavy pounding of footsteps coming in his direction. Looking around, he spied a low-lying fence, and leapt over, landing on his backside in the dirt. Pushing through the fence into a wall of large conifer trees, he tried his best to hide himself, aware that if there was one thing a seven-foot-tall man is no good at-it was hiding. His heart pumped like a jackhammer at the sudden flurry of activity, and he pressed his head tight to the wall, praying the enclosing trees would shield him. After a time, Prometheus heard the station door closing, and all was quiet in the main street once again.

Once Prometheus was confident that the officers had gone, he was just about to dart out into the street again when he heard raised voices behind him. He dove back into the branches of the trees as stealthily as he could considering his size, and moved cautiously towards the sounds of the conversation.

He soon reached another fence, and the voices were mere feet away. Something like the inevitable pull of a magnet dragged him towards the chatter. There were two voices, clearly heard. One was a broad Scottish accent, and the other, a far younger, local voice that Prometheus recognised instantly as belonging to one of the constables who had briefly visited him in his cell at the station. He couldn't remember the name, but he knew that the Scot was the young constable's superior officer. Prometheus held his breath, and his nerve, and concentrated on the two policemen's conversation.

'I thought you said this Reynolds beggar would be here at two o'clock, Jennings?' questioned Commissioner Dray, standing at the rear entrance to Crawditch police station. 'It's now getting on for three, and if he doesn't show up in five minutes, the deal's off and I walk, you get me?'

Constable Jennings shifted on his feet nervously. 'He'll be here, sir. He came to me, remember? He has to turn up!'

As if on cue, Jennings and Dray heard the scuffing of feet, and soon, dressed in a long overcoat and sporting a flat cap pulled down low to hide his scarred face, Mr Reynolds clambered over the station's yard gate, landing gracefully like a cat on the other side. As if he were another person entirely from the man who had graced the Bishop's lush apartment in Westminster Abbey, Reynolds seemed to carry himself differently now. The same cocksure attitude was still there, but his back was less hunched, he seemed wirier, and the fire that danced within his pale eyes made him look far more dangerous than Constable Jennings had previously seen. Reynolds approached Dray and held out his hand.

'Bonjour, Oliver, it's been a long time,' he said. The Cockney drawl was suddenly gone, and there was a new, melodic accent to his voice.

'You!' Commissioner Dray was stunned at the image of the man before him, and he strode over to Reynolds, pacing around him silently, as if he were a phantom. He took Reynolds's hand and shook it limply. 'My God…it…it really is you!' Dray said, as if all his strength had been sapped by the image of the man, like Samson after Delilah had sheared his hair. He blinked hard; clamping his eyes shut tight, and then opened them quickly -expecting the mirage to disappear. But, to his dread, it remained. 'But…but I thought…you were dead!'

'I got better,' said Reynolds.

Jennings scowled at the man. 'Boss? What d'you mean dead? This 'ere chap's my Mr Reynolds…d'you know 'im or somethin'? I thought you said you'd never met him?' the young constable asked.

'Oh, I know him all right, lad,' the Scotsman replied. 'Does Quaint know that you are still alive, that is the question?'

'Not yet, Oliver,' grinned Reynolds, 'but he soon will.'

AT THAT EXACT moment, Cornelius Quaint returned to Hyde Park. The white sky was beginning to turn pale grey, as the invisible sun prepared for the long, chilly night to come. Quaint turned up the collar on his coat, and strode briskly across the park, catching sight of the circus in the distance, now taking on even more shape, practically completed. Quaint made a mental note to congratulate his team.

As he approached Madame Destine's tent he whistled the national anthem, the tent having no door upon which to knock and announce himself.

'It's me, Madame. I have returned, and I'm exhausted. Tell Butter to boil some water, will you…I need a brew. On second thoughts, crack open that cognac I know you've got stashed in your tent.'

Destine pulled the tent entrance to once side, and swiftly dragged Quaint inside. Ruby Marstrand was seated at a round table set for two, a crystal ball in the centre of the table. There was an uncomfortable silence tangible in the tent, and Quaint's curiosity was immediately piqued.

'Madame?' he gasped. 'Oh, sorry Ruby, I didn't realise you were busy. Shall I come back later?'

'Oh, Cornelius-it is you!' Destine said, her veiled face unable to hide her anguish. Her voice faltered as she saw him.

'Well, of course it's me, Madame,' he said, gripping hold of the Frenchwoman's shoulders firmly, as she fell into his embrace. 'You look scared to death, woman. Who were you expecting it to be?'

Ruby stood from the table and joined Destine's side. 'Ah, well, we thought that maybe it was…Prometheus coming back, you see.'

'Coming back? Coming back from where?' asked Quaint.

Ruby looked towards Destine for assistance.

'Back from where?' repeated Quaint. 'Where is he? One of you must know.'

'Um, have you asked Butter?' Ruby said, resting her hand on Destine's shoulder. 'Maybe he'll know. We saw him talking to Prometheus earlier, didn't we, Destine.'

Quaint stared at Ruby's expression. Her toffee-coloured eyes were wide, and her swathe of thick hair was entwined around her fingers, the very image of someone trying their hardest to look innocent. Madame Destine was no different, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him.

'Very well, ladies,' Quaint said sternly, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him. His bold black eyes zeroed in on Destine and Ruby with an uncompromising glare. 'Tell me everything…'

HOW IN GOD'S name did you survive?' yelled Commissioner Dray.

'God had nothing to do with it,' replied the man called Reynolds, a native French accent suddenly rising to the fore.

'Yeah, but…but Quaint shot you right through the heart!'

'Serves me right for not having one, then doesn't it?' smiled Reynolds.

'First Cornelius Quaint turns up out of the blue, and now this? What is it-the week for skeletons in my wardrobe? I knew someone was pulling my strings, man, but I had no idea it was you,' Dray said, and was forced to steady himself against the wall. 'My God…all this time…you've been alive? Why didn't you tell anyone? Why did you let people believe it?'

'Oh, come, Oliver, what would you have done if you had known the truth?' Reynolds challenged, his thick, European accent showing itself more freely now that the faeade he had used as a mask was no longer needed. 'Would you really have been pleased to see me? Would you have said: "It has been fifteen years since you murdered for my father, Antoine, how's tricks?" Don't make me laugh!'

Jennings removed his helmet, and mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. 'Hang on a mo, boss,' he said. 'I'm gettin' a bit out've me depth here. How do you know Mr Reynolds?'

'Reynolds is merely a nom de plume, Constable,' said Reynold, 'as dear Oliver knows very well. But I did not come here for formal introductions; I came to pass on a friendly warning.'

Dray responded with a guttural growl. 'So, you've been masquerading as this "Reynolds" character all along? Right under my nose? Using my own constables to do your dirty work? Blackmailing me with my father?' He clawed at his thin strands of hair. 'I just can't understand it…but why go to all that bother? Not just for Cornelius Quaint's benefit, is it? Wouldn't you prefer to see the look on his face when you turn up alive and well after all this time?'