Early shift

On duty: DC John Callihan and DC Yannick Clarke

London.

1972. July.

The sweat soaked into Callihan's collar as he stood in line. He loosened his tie, just a fraction. The waitress gave him a toothy smile, the styrofoam cups already melting into the tea. He slid the change across the counter.

Nodding his thanks, he pushed the Cup & Saucer's door open with his shoulder. The street roared, the air thick and stinking. London: the Kingdom of Great Britain’s shining jewel, as long as you didn’t think about the fumes or the crime or the filth.

A tram rattled past, packed with commuters on their way to work. Somewhere beneath his feet the trains would be running on their endless circuits. Between the concrete and marble and brass walls, high above, an airship blocked his view of the sky as it drifted slowly on its moorings. Dodging a steam vent he crossed the street to where Yannick waited in the car. One of the many perks of being in the force: your own automobile. Callihan couldn’t deny that it had been one of the reasons he’d joined the police: only the super rich and the authorities had cars, and he wasn’t going to be super rich. Not in this life.

Yannick pushed the passenger door open from the inside. Callihan lowered himself into the seat carefully and passed one of the cups to the older detective.

“You’re a life saver,” Yannick said, blowing gently on the tea.

“Shift doesn’t start until the tea goes down.” Callihan always admired Yannick’s ability to drink painfully hot liquid. Maybe it was a skill that came with age.

“Only nine hours left, John.” Yannick took a sip, assessed it like it was a fine wine, and sighed contentedly.

Callihan brought the cup to his lips and immediately burned himself. “Shit,” he said, spilling some onto his lap. He grinned at Yannick. “Heard this the other day. A koth, an aen’fa and a robot walk into a bar. The barman asks them what they want. The koth eats the barman, the aen’fa hides in the rafters and the robot falls over and its battery falls out.”

They sipped their teas. Another tram went past, in the opposite direction to the earlier one. A couple of rickshaws trundled past, Callihan catching a glimpse of their drivers peddling furiously. The city was already wide awake, on its way to work. The usual haze hovered above the street, lingering between the buildings. He could smell it.

Yannick grunted. “It’s not funny.”

“No, I know. Heard it off Holland.”

“Well, that explains it.”

They sat quietly, observing the street, sipping their drinks. There was the blast of a horn somewhere in the distance, from the direction of the river, pulling Callihan back to the moment. “Zara was telling me about the east end slums last night,” he said. He liked relaying information from his fiancé to Yannick in the mornings; her activism made him feel like a better person by proxy.

“Did you know it’s something like forty per cent Palinese occupancy now? Mostly aen’fa.”

Yannick snorted and looked out of the car window. “Why would they want to come here?”

“Persecution? Not sure. Zara knows more about it than me, but sounds like Palinor isn’t all its cracked up to be.”

“They’ve certainly got their issues,” Yannick said, his soft laugh turning into a cough. “Haven’t we all?”

“Imagine having actual magic, though. All the good you could do. Click your fingers and fix the world.”

Yannick laughed more and clapped Callihan on the shoulder with amusement, spilling yet more of his drink. “You’re a dreamer, Callihan, and I like that. But you got a lot to learn. They got their magic, the Max-Earthers got their spaceships and we got…” He waved his hand vaguely at the street beyond the windscreen. “We got a smog-filled shit-hole.”

Callihan said nothing, observing only Yannick’s unfailing ability to turn any discussion into a lament for the state of the world. The man was in his fifties, had been in the force for his whole life and was on the cusp of retiring with only six months left until he’d get his full pension. He underestimated himself, but nothing Callihan said could break through the cynicism.

As if realising he’d torpedoed the conversation before it got started, Yannick cleared his throat. “How is Zara doing, anyhow? She still with the local council?”

“Fighting the good fight,” Callihan nodded. “Feels to me like she’s trying to turn back the ocean, but it makes her happy. Trying to help people.”

“That’s because you’re both in your twenties,” Yannick said. “You’ll get over it.” He finished the tea, crushed the cup and stuffed it into the door’s compartment alongside the previous month’s supply.

The radio crackled, drawing both their attention. “Control to all units. Domestic disturbance reported at 344 Sterling Court, E13, Over.”

Callihan glanced sideways at Yannick. “What do you say? Shall we?”

“Not really our remit, Callihan.”

“It’s just round the corner, we’ll be there in two minutes. Not going to be anyone else closer. What do you say, for old time’s sake?”

Turning the keys in the ignition, Yannick shrugged. “Ah, sod it, let’s go. Can pretend we’re back in my glory days.”

Pouring his half-drunk tea out of the window, Callihan grinned. “Thought you didn’t have any of those.”

The car jerked away from the pavement, belching smoke from the exhaust on its roof. Callihan gripped onto the arm rest as Yannick pushed them up through the gears, the engine thrumming away in the back.

Yannick picked up the radio transmitter with one hand, the cord unwinding from the centre console. “Control, Control receiving Sierra-Delta-Charlie Three, over.”

“Sierra-Delta-Charlie Three, go ahead, over.”

“En route to E13, transit two minutes, over.”

“Sierra-Delta-Charlie Three, acknowledge that 999 caller reported sounds of physical distress. Exercise caution, over.”

“All received, Control. Ninety seconds. Out.”

Reaching into his jacket’s inside pocket, Callihan took out his badge and looped it around his neck. The feel of it, the metal of the Specialist Dimensional Command emblem, the leather of the mount, gave him power. It filled him with confidence, reminding him of everything he’d done to reach Detective Constable. Everything he was going to do next. “After we wrap this up, what do you say we get back on that missing person case?”

“Whatever you say, partner,” Yannick said, swerving the car between two trams, “though I still don’t see a way forward with it.”

“We’ll find something.” Callihan was a dog chasing trams once he had a case. Unsolved wasn’t in his vocabulary.

They turned the corner into Sterling Road, part of a larger estate that mixed small, two-storey terraced housing with incongruous council tower blocks. The grass on the roadside was unkempt, overgrown and strewn with litter. A children’s play park sat rusted and empty. Yannick parked the car and they climbed out. The city mumbled in the distance, the twisting pipes of downtown lifting above the rooftops like a metal leviathan, but Sterling Road was quiet. The sound of a door slamming shut echoed across the street.

“Friendly neighbourhood,” Yannick murmured. “Where is everyone?”

“Guess they knew the fuzz was incoming.” Callihan straightened his tie. “Let’s go find 344 Sterling Court.” He pointed at a tower block sat incongruously halfway along the street, sandwiched awkwardly between much shorter terraces. “I’ll bet you fifty quid it’s up there.”

“That’s a bet I’d be losing,” Yannick said, fixing his truncheon to his belt. “Not worn this for a while.”

“Like riding a bike.” Callihan smiled. “Let’s go.”

Sterling Road gave the impression of being from another time, like wandering the ruined walls of a Roman town - except people still lived here. London surrounded it, but Sterling Road was its own little pocket universe. Callihan and Yannick walked the cracked pavement until they reached the tower, an anonymous, off-white concrete slab affair. The entrance door was broken on its hinges so they ignored the buzzer and headed straight for the stairwell. “Never use the lifts in these places,” Yannick said.

“Trust me.”

Piss and vomit were the overriding sensations as Callihan climbed the steps, wrinkling his nose against the odour. The stairwell wrapped around on itself, emerging each time onto a long outer balcony from which each of the flats could be accessed. The third floor was as deserted as the street, the edges of the walkways decorated with discarded cans and food wrappers and used condoms. Glancing out across the city, Callihan could see all the way to the Isle of Dogs and its spread of hugely tall buildings, each topped with an air dock. Somewhere further south was the river and the portal station, but the view was blocked by a mix of smog and construction cranes.

“Here it is,” Callihan said. Flat 344. He raised his eyebrows at Yannick, who nodded confirmation. “Anyone there?” Callihan called, knocking twice. “This is the police.”

There was no response. He knocked again.

“Seems pretty quiet,” Yannick said, watching the walkway. “Maybe this is the wrong place?”

“Control said ‘physical distress’. I think we need to go in and check it out.” Callihan peered into the flat’s two small windows but the curtains were drawn.

“I’ll go first,” Yannick said, one hand on his truncheon and the other on the doorknob.

“Come on,” Callihan said, “you’re six months off retirement, that’s just asking for trouble.” He gently pushed Yannick aside. “Watch my back. On three.

“One.

“Two.

“Three.”

Throwing his shoulder against the door, Callihan felt it give under his weight, though it didn’t quite open. He backed up a step and went again, harder, convinced it would break at either the hinges or the lock.

He was right, and the battered, tired door fell into the flat. Callihan almost tumbled in with it but was able to adjust his footing in time, moving into a low stance as he surveyed the dim, yellowed room, his own baton in his hand. There was an odd stench he didn’t recognise. He barely had time to notice the upturned and smashed furniture, the dents in the walls and the torn carpet before something long and black and sharp whipped out and seized him around the ankle. With a cry he was yanked into the room and thrown against the far wall. He felt it as a couple of ribs snapped under the impact. Before he hit the floor he was flung again into the opposite wall, the back of his head colliding with a door frame. A huge figure, bigger than it seemed could reasonably fit into the small flat, pinned him there, its body obsidian black, glassy and sharp, glinting in the light from the doorway, two horns atop its head and a long, protruding snout on its face. Its eyes were red. It roared with a senseless fury, then decapitated John Callihan and threw his head at the window, smashing the glass. With another roar, it followed suit and leaped through, cracking the frame and parts of the wall.

Detective Constable Yannick Clarke, six months from retirement, watched the koth leap off the balcony. He heard it crunch to the tarmac below. Heard its booming footsteps as it ran. He breathed in, breathed out. In. Out. His hand was still on his truncheon.

The lifeless eyes of Callihan stared up at him, from where his head nestled amongst the piss and vomit.