Marionette Strings: A We Happy Few Story

The Jerry Wright

The urge to scratch. This mask is so itchy, I haven't the faintest clue why we wear them; makes criminals so hard to ID. I do my job well, but when you throw these dreadful masks into the mix of downers, it makes it so difficult to be able to say: "Yes, Constable, that's the man who's done it!" I suppose the government may be right, it's to make sure we're all happy. Speaking of; I grab my Joy, popping one of the brown pills. The pill melts in my mouth, although it's beneficial, as it tastes like chocolate.

"Constable Wright," a surly voice floats into my office.

I turn around quickly, facing the Constable in my doorway. He's leaning against the doorframe holding a baton in his hand, not just any baton... The Tickler. I smirk a bit beneath my mask, before returning to my papers.

"Constable Ofello," I respond simply.

Footsteps begin as the Constable walks closer to me, shutting the door behind him. He slaps The Tickler against his open, gloved, palm. He places a firm hand on my shoulder and it sends shivers down my spine. Good shivers...

"I've heard you've been a downer," he whispers in my ear.

My joints liquify, but I stand firm. I don't have time for this. For, you see, in front of me is yet another murder case from the notorious Foggy Jack. I need to work, not play cop and criminal. I shrug him off.

"I'm sorry, but not right now," I state.

He falls back, "Jerry, what's wrong?"

His voice is so velvety, and his accent of our home nation makes me feel so safe. He walks around and sits across from me, leaning on my desk, causing my papers to fall askew. I bend over, beginning to pick them up.

"I'm sorry, Vince, but it's this Foggy Jack case," I say simply, wishing I were able to wear my glasses so I could see better.

"Did they put you on that again?" He asks, picking up one of my papers, "I thought you told them you didn't want to work those cases any longer."

I grab the paper out of his hand quickly, stacking it on the others as I begin to sort the mess I have.

"I did," I start, "But they took their Joy and forgot."

Vince lets out a sigh, folding like a chair in his seat. His eyes are sad and I wish I could make him feel better.

"I just never get to see you anymore," he whines.

I gather my papers, walking to a filing cabinet. I begin to put the papers in their respective files as I look over my shoulder at Vince who's focusing on the floor.

"Tell you what," I begin, "Whence I'm done with this case, I'll take leave and we'll go to Maidenholm together."

Vince perks up a bit at the thought, he looks over at me. His green eyes are wide with excitement.

"Do you mean it?" He asks, eagerly.

"Of course I mean it," I walk back to my desk, his eyes following me, "In the meantime, what case do you have?"

Vince shrugs, uninterested.

"Just a rotten downer," he says simply, "Been running around the whole of Wellington Wells, wreaking havoc everywhere. I'm supposed to catch the bugger and bring 'im in."

"Got a picture of the wanker?" I inquire, slipping my Joy into my desk.

"Not a very good one." Vince reaches in his pocket, pulling out a flier.

I take it and examine the face on it. It's the face of a man. He's got thick glasses and short brown hair that, if one was not attuned to colours, would appear black. His suit is different from most others, plain black with white accents. I stare at it a moment, he appears slightly familiar, but I'm not sure where I've seen him before, if I have seen him before. I hand the flier back to him and he places it in his pocket again. He shrugs his shoulders and walks to the door, retracting The Tickler as he leaves.

"Do you want to come over to my place tonight?" I offer.

Vince shrugs, "I'm supposed to have night duty all week, besides, I'm sure your neighbors wouldn't like a Constable showing up."

"Yes... That's a bit of a doozy, isn't it?" I nod slightly, "No matter, we shall meet some other time."

Vince smiles in response, leaving my office entirely. I turn back to the open file I have, that of the recently deceased Mr. Pollux. He was a good man, never did anything wrong, but someone must've thought otherwise to kill him. I examine his file: Married for three years; no other family; and his wife went on holiday a month ago. I sigh heavily, the body is in the ME's office in the basement and I fear that the butcher will be making his rounds soon before we've gathered all the evidence off the body. For reference, the butcher often shows up for the deceased bodies, taking them to God knows where to do God knows what to them. I like to think he gives them a proper burial, but there's no evidence of such.

But there's something underneath the surface. The doctor's report, which was written by Doctor Frets (A good guy who went missing a few days after writing his report), has a strange documentation. I'm no medical professional, nor do I advertise as such, but something about "rotten organs" sounds plain odd. Organs don't decompose often if at all and this is just what gets me: Sure, the body was sitting after death, but that was for a few mere hours. No extreme rate of decomposition would take place within that time period. Cause of death? Unknown. Every other Constable claims it was Foggy Jack; the trademark slash across the abdomen, the fact he was hung on a flagpole, the tip piercing his heart, the fact that his mask was stolen. Everything pointed to Foggy Jack, except the fact he didn't bleed out (that was documented in the report, the wounds were post mortem).

This case, a case I wasn't even supposed to be assigned, is giving me a headache. I remove my mask, rubbing the bridge of my nose in an attempt to alleviate the pounding pain. I sigh, placing the mask (which is perfectly molded for my face) back on its perch. Something about this is awry, completely and wholly. I'm supposed to sign off on this being a Foggy Jack victim, but I don't know if I can. This lack of information is making my head spin and if I give the wrong verdict, the real killer can't be tracked down. Is that my problem? Possibly. But I'm not a person to sign things away all willy nilly, I need more proof. Which is exactly what I'm going to try to attain.