Shots fired: Part 5

All's well that ends well

Mar 01, 2024

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The Triverse is
Mid-Earth, an alternate 1970s London
Max-Earth, a vision of the 26th century
Palinor, where magic is real

Previously: Constable Max Jones shot dead an unarmed koth. Riots followed on the streets of London. The inquest has come to its conclusion.

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Previous chapter

London.
1974. December.

Condensation settled on the inside of the windows of The White Horse, a speckled film that blocked a clear view to the street. An old song played quietly in the background, soulful and probably from the thirties. It was the usual Friday night crowd, half the SDC off in one corner, officers from the nearby station in another, each group carefully ignoring the other. It was further to get to the pub from the Joint Council tower than it had been from the corner of Stamford and Coin, but they kept on coming.

Constable Max Jones had never known the old office, having only joined the team after the big move. He’d been quite happy in the Flying Squad, a name so compelling that it had made the leap from Max-Earth historical records into Mid-Earth, but he’d been assured that the SDC posting was the right career move. The days of the Specialist Dimensional Command being a joke, of being the Commissioner’s abandoned pet project, were gone, he’d been told. New funding, direct Joint Council support: the SDC was going to be the most high profile squad in the Met, in the whole of London.

That’s how it had felt for most of the year. Showing up, saving the day. The SDC’s standing was going up, and it was taking everyone with it. As the trendy new additions, the new armed response unit was getting even more attention. Jones had welcomed it. He felt like a hero, like he was doing what he’d joined the police to do in the first place.

That was until the night in November, only a few weeks prior, when Jones had shot a koth dead in the street. It was still a blurry memory, not quite making sense. Maybe he didn’t want to remember, or perhaps it had all happened too quickly. Jones had been along for the ride, at the tail end of his shift. Scarra was driving, with Pensthorpe in the passenger seat and Jones stuck in the back. He’d not even known where they were, not really. He’d got out of the car, had heard Scarra’s warnings, and had seen a koth coming at them from across the street belching fire. So he’d taken the shot.

Except the testimonies from those present had claimed otherwise. That the koth was celebrating. That they had been expressing excitement, rather than threatening anyone. But breathing fire, or any other koth vocal power, was illegal in public. Strictly speaking, they had been breaking the law. And so soon after the attack on the West End, when the koth had rampaged down a busy restaurant street and killed scores of innocent people. It had been a stupid thing to do. What had they expected would happen? The alternative was for Jones to have not taken the shot, and then seen the neighbourhood go up in flames. Hypothetically.

He’d pulled the trigger, and the koth had dropped. Under other circumstances he’d have been the hero, again. Instead he found himself under investigation.

Jones finished his glass, asked the bartender for another pint.

Being in the police sometimes meant having to make split second decisions. Making the wrong call could be the difference between life and death. They had to be able to make those difficult decisions, because nobody else would. They didn’t have time for a second opinion, not when public safety was at stake.

He nodded a thanks to the bartender, took a swig of his beer. Of course, koth were part of ‘the public’. But they didn’t make it easy. The koth’s name was Qu’dan. He’d found that out during the inquest. Every tiny moment of the incident was combed through by a specially appointed panel, working out who was at fault and what punishment was required. Much evidence was presented, by both the police, Jones himself, his SDC colleagues and representatives from the koth community.

At the end of the two weeks the panel decided that what was required was…absolutely nothing.

No action would be taken against Jones, other than requiring him to complete additional training in Mid-Earth-Palinor relations.

He should have been relieved. He’d got away with it. And that was the problem. Rather than feeling vindicated, he had an altogether different reaction. The lack of disciplinary action made him question the order of events all over again. Something clearly had gone wrong that night, and yet there would be no real consequences, not for him or for Scarra or Pensthorpe.

And still, there was a dead koth called Qu’dan.

He’d wanted to blurt out, in front of everyone: I did it! I killed the poor sod. I fucked up.

But he hadn’t. He’d kept quiet, and the Met had closed ranks, and his colleagues had spoken very highly of him. They’d wheeled out survivors of the West End massacre to testify on his behalf.

Jones sat in The White Horse with his pint, while Qu’dan lay in the ground. Or cremated, or whatever koth did to their dead. It felt off. Like he’d got away with a lie, but would be found out at any moment. He hadn’t slept a solid night since the verdict.

An empty pint glass was clunked onto the bar and Clarke swivelled onto the stool next to Jones. “Evening, Jones,” the old man said, waving at the barman. “Another of the same, please, Paul.” He pushed the empty glass down the bar in an attempt to be helpful, then reluctantly turned towards Jones. “How you holding up, kid?”

Bristling at the use of ‘kid’, Jones looked into his beer. “Feeling pretty shitty, actually.”

Clarke nodded. “Yeah. Surviving can do that to you.” He accepted a fresh pint and sipped at it, sighing with satisfaction.

“Surviving?” Jones didn’t know what the old fart was talking about.

“That’s right. Still being here when you feel like you shouldn’t be.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter the circumstances,” Clarke continued. “Can happen for all sorts of reasons, in all sorts of ways. Point is, you’re still here, and that koth is not.”

Jones sat up a little straighter. “I was cleared of misconduct.”

“I couldn’t give a toss.” Clarke took a big gulp, then tapped the side of his head. “And neither do you, I’m guessing.” He turned on the stool to look straight towards Jones. “You seem like a good kid. Good police. What happened was bad. But it happened. You pulled that trigger. Somehow, you’ve got to find a way to live with yourself. Choose your company wisely. It can make a difference.”

Jones thought of half a dozen things he could say. “I don’t really want lectures from has-beens who should have retired years ago.” He didn’t look Clarke in the eye. As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t.

There was a chuckle from Clarke, who picked up his beer and got to his feet. “Whatever you say, guv,” he said, patting Jones on the back as he wandered back to his table and the other detectives.

All he wanted was to sit by himself with his drink, but the evening clearly had something else in mind, as the pub door banged open and Philip Scarra swaggered in. “Jones! I was going to buy you a drink but looks like you beat me to it.” He grabbed Jones’ hair and ruffled it, a little painfully. “Do you know what never came out in the inquest? That you never got credit for?” He leaned in closer. “That was a damned fine fucking shot, Jones.”

Constable Max Jones’ index finger twitched. He could feel the metal of the trigger. Could hear the firing of the gun. The anguished cries from the other koth. He saw the damage in the streets from the rioting. The dead and injured from the fights outside Buckingham Palace. He’d made the wrong call. He’d done the wrong thing. It had been wrong. There had been consequences. It had been against everything he’d joined the force to do. All the dreams he’d had when he’d been a kid, wanting to grow up to be a cop like his dad. Every one of them shot down with the same bullet.

But he’d got away with it.

That’s what really mattered.

He grinned at Scarra. “Want a beer?”

Next chapter

Author notes

In this wrap-up of the ‘Shots fired’ story, I wasn’t expecting to do it from Jones’ POV. It made sense to return to him, given that he was there at the beginning, and it was an opportunity to explore his entirely conflicted mental state. Jones is a good but weak man: put him in with good people and he’d be a hero; surround him with morally dubious folk and he’ll be dragged down to their level. He doesn’t have a strong enough moral compass of his own.

Jones has only been a background player, but all through the year he’s had choices about where to focus his efforts and allegiances. Especially in this storyline, he had numerous points of departure. Does he close ranks to protect his own skin, or admit the truth? Does he follow the dubious lead of Scarra (who you can bet is closely associated with Miller), or lean towards some of the other SDC team?

This scene in the pub is the final moment where Jones can make an active decision. For my money, he makes the wrong one. Clarke gives him an out. Offers him support. It’s not that Jones has no choice, which is probably how he would frame it in his head.

Structurally, Triverse has always been more about setting up questions and difficult situations, and less about the solutions and answers. Often because there aren’t convenient answers. Hence the slight time jump from the riots kicking off in part 4 to post-inquest in today’s chapter. Often the resolution to a storyline is less about “we caught the bad guys!” and more towards a half-solution, in which the SDC managed some small victory at the cost of something else. The general theme being that nothing is every simple.

The interesting thing for me at the moment is how that applies to the larger Triverse story as a whole. In 2024 we’re going to be reaching towards to the conclusion of this entire crazy adventure, which means finding a way to have ‘an ending’ without betraying the themes of the book. I know where the book is going, so in broad strokes already understand the conclusion of the whole thing, but whether that ending works will be in the specifics and the details, rather than the grand picture.

It’s going to be a fun year to be writing and reading Triverse!

Photo by GoodEats YQR on Unsplash

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