JACK OF DIAMONDS, REDUX

Chapter 16, edited version

Photo by l a on Unsplash

Sonia checked her look in the compact’s small mirror.

One last time, she told herself, before turning the key and shutting the engine down. She pulled up on the handbrake before looking in the compact, touching the corners of her lips and wiping a small smear of lipstick she’d missed the first two times she checked. She sat back, and had to ask herself if it even mattered anymore.

Really, just who am I trying to impress? she wondered.

There were no men in her life anymore—and hadn’t been for a long time—which only made things sadder when you stood on the outside looking in, she realized. She pushed her blonde hair back into the small bun she’d hastily tied up before leaving home before picking up her hat and carefully setting it into place. She pushed a few stray strands back under the rim of her hat, then looked in the compact to make sure it was all in place. She pushed up on her breasts as well, making herself look larger, fuller, firmer, for all of one second she thought, and then laughed at herself.

She was nervous.

Admit it.

And yet, there’s no reason for me to be nervous, she told herself. I’ve been in more nerve-wracking situations than this, she reminded herself. Her father’d taught her a great many things over the course of her life—more than he would’ve taught her had her mother lived longer—and one of the most important things he’d taught her was to believe in herself. It was a trait that would get you through anything, she knew.

Like the War, for one thing.

But this is different, isn’t it?

She felt like a nervous child entering a new school for the first time, rather than the new police station she’d just been assigned to. She’d felt the same way on her wedding day, she remembered. But that was a different nervousness, she reminded herself, thinking how she’d looked forward to finally being alone with Gerald for the night. She missed him, there was no denying that, and told herself she had to move on with her life. It seemed that was the problem.

Don’t think about it now, she told herself. It’ll only make you sad.

One final check in the compact’s mirror and she pushed the Bentley’s door open, holding the door to prevent it from hitting the automobile next to her. An Austin 7, she noted. A good, dependable car, probably owned by an older man one would think—well, someone older than herself, she hoped—and next to it, a Triumph motorcycle. She’d seen plenty of those during the War. The messengers were usually young, foolish boys, willing to go anywhere, and under any circumstances. They never questioned their orders. She’d seen plenty of motorcyclists in the wards with missing arms and legs, shattered bodies as well as shattered minds.

A good, dependable machine, all the same, she thought as she stepped out onto the running board, holding the edge of the windscreen as she did. She stepped down, making a quick adjustment of her skirt before looking around to see if anyone was watching. It was just like her to do something and think about the consequences after; you’ve gotten herself into more trouble that way, she scolded herself. She looked up at the sky, deciding the threat of rain was no more than that—a threat—and picking her purse up off the front seat, made her way across the parking lot.

If it rains, I’ll come out and pull the canopy up, she told herself, hopefully before everything gets too wet.

The Chumley Grove Police Barracks was a nondescript box-shaped building three stories tall, making it one of the tallest buildings on the block. No one had told her it served as more than just the Police Barracks. It also served as the Town Hall, and the Royal Mail office. Made of red and yellow brick with narrow windows, she could see barred windows on the basement and ground floors peeking out from behind a variety of shrubs, telling herself that’s where the lock-up would be. It looked as if it might hold out against a siege should Civil War suddenly erupt.

Never scoff at the idea of another Civil war, her father once told her. The country’s seen its fair share of wars, and you know it. Civil Wars; insurrections, and rebellion are the English staples of history.