It tends to be a safe (and therefore infrequently placed) bet that out of Concord Square's nightly clientele there'll be at least a half-dozen of the inebriated sort; and these in turn composed of a reasonably mixed sample from the general classification of Spirited Behaviours, ranging from the excessively jolly to the tiresomely melodramatic, with a liberal helping of belligerence to top things off.
So the one shuffling in between two burly members of the night patrol is a bit of an oddity, given his silence and apparent docility. Though it's not difficult to read what he's in for; there's the sway in his step, the reek of cheaper vintages on his breath. And the impressive shiner his remaining eye's become.
"Another one for tonight's lodgings, Constable," one of the officers calls out wearily.
"Aye... and thanks for th' carriage." A low murmur from the man, before peering up at his captor with a hint of a grin. "Shame y'can't stay the night. 'll be a sight lonely without yer comp'ny, sirs."
Verity nods and takes down the keys again. It's going to be a busy night by the looks of things- she hopes the cells don't fill with drunkards too quickly. At least before some of the earlier admissions can sober up.
"I'll take you to the cells." She stands up and leads the way. "A name wouldn't be too much to ask, would it? Providing he still remembers his."
"Hasn't said a word since we picked him up," the second officer mutters, shoving their charge forward-- who staggers briefly before catching himself and shuffling on, unaided. "And the man whose jaw he broke wasn't in a state to answer, as you might expect."
The drunk eyes Verity for a few moments, as though fascinated by the patterns of that rather prim bun attached to the rest of her head.
"Bern'rd Shanks, 'squire." Another murmur in the same bemused tone. "An' it weren't me who broke it, miss, so much as 'im who smashed it into m'hands."
"I'm sure." Verity's lips press together disapprovingly. "And I suppose all that beer just tipped itself into your mouth as well. How terrible to be such a victim of circumstance."
She steps out of the cell briskly and locks the door behind her.
"I'd advise you sleep the effects off and I'll let you out in the morning, provided the injured party doesn't press charges. Goodnight, Mister Shanks."
"Aye, innit?" Staring at the flagstones, a queer smile on his face. "S'mite cruel mistress, Lady Circumstance..."
Their charge safely stowed within the cell, the two officers cast one last disapproving glance at him before leaving, bootsteps echoing down the hallway. Bernard watches the key turn before looking up, studying her features in the dim. The smile fades.
Verity had been about to leave, but the man's quiet question unsettles her enough to make her stay. She begins to think that Bernard's what the Constables call a 'funny one'- not amusing, but different in the way that would make lesser coppers try to make his stay as bad as they could.
She shouldn't answer the question. She does anyway.
"Everyone dreams." Verity says, flatly. It's a blatant dodge, and both of them know it. "I don't see how it's any of your business."
"S'everyone's business, 'f everyone dreams." He chuckles, though there's little humor in it. There's the scuff of worn boots on stone, a clink of restraints as he makes himself comfortable on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
"Y'can put a man away in th' crib, when he's a sight disord'ly for this fair city... an' it'll be quieter fer it." Reaching up to prod gingerly at his swollen eye. "Where d'you put a disord'ly dream, y'reckon?"
It's a fair question, though one a bit outside of Verity's purview.
"They're just dreams." she says, repeating what she's told herself many a long and frightening night. "Nothing your conscious mind cannot conquer, if properly utilized."
Verity is feeling profoundly uncomfortable now. Decent people don't ask other people about their dreams. Or say 'Constable' in that sneering tone of voice. But what did she expect? He's a drunk in a cell. Hardly a bastion of respectability.
"Someone will check on you later." she replies shortly, her steps clattering on the stone floor as she retreats to the reception desk. Verity shakes her head to clear it. Talking to a drunk about dreams. Honestly. What was she coming to these days?
So the one shuffling in between two burly members of the night patrol is a bit of an oddity, given his silence and apparent docility. Though it's not difficult to read what he's in for; there's the sway in his step, the reek of cheaper vintages on his breath. And the impressive shiner his remaining eye's become.
"Another one for tonight's lodgings, Constable," one of the officers calls out wearily.
"Aye... and thanks for th' carriage." A low murmur from the man, before peering up at his captor with a hint of a grin. "Shame y'can't stay the night. 'll be a sight lonely without yer comp'ny, sirs."
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"I'll take you to the cells." She stands up and leads the way. "A name wouldn't be too much to ask, would it? Providing he still remembers his."
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The drunk eyes Verity for a few moments, as though fascinated by the patterns of that rather prim bun attached to the rest of her head.
"Bern'rd Shanks, 'squire." Another murmur in the same bemused tone. "An' it weren't me who broke it, miss, so much as 'im who smashed it into m'hands."
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She steps out of the cell briskly and locks the door behind her.
"I'd advise you sleep the effects off and I'll let you out in the morning, provided the injured party doesn't press charges. Goodnight, Mister Shanks."
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Their charge safely stowed within the cell, the two officers cast one last disapproving glance at him before leaving, bootsteps echoing down the hallway. Bernard watches the key turn before looking up, studying her features in the dim. The smile fades.
Then, quietly, "Do y'dream, miss?"
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She shouldn't answer the question. She does anyway.
"Everyone dreams." Verity says, flatly. It's a blatant dodge, and both of them know it. "I don't see how it's any of your business."
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"Y'can put a man away in th' crib, when he's a sight disord'ly for this fair city... an' it'll be quieter fer it." Reaching up to prod gingerly at his swollen eye. "Where d'you put a disord'ly dream, y'reckon?"
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"They're just dreams." she says, repeating what she's told herself many a long and frightening night. "Nothing your conscious mind cannot conquer, if properly utilized."
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He stretches his hands up, examining the restraints with interest.
"But a body's only awake so long, innit? Leastways fer folk like you an' me." Another quiet laugh. "Wouldn't vouch fer th'devils, say."
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"If you have persistent bad dreams I suggest laudanum, or maybe a walk in the mushroom gardens. Is this all? Only I must get back to the front desk."
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A soft snort in the darkness, and he lowers his hands.
"Run 'long then... Const'ble. Wouldn't wanna keep th' gents waitin'."
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"Someone will check on you later." she replies shortly, her steps clattering on the stone floor as she retreats to the reception desk. Verity shakes her head to clear it. Talking to a drunk about dreams. Honestly. What was she coming to these days?
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