#constable john constable

Tensions were running high. Everyone was pushing themselves too hard to bring Wellington Wells back to some kind of functional normalcy. Some were running on little sleep despite repeated warnings.

There had already been a handful of arguments and even a few physical fights. Then a transformer blew while a lineman was working on it.

The blast carried for several streets. Naturally, a crowd formed. Bobbies worked quickly to clear a path for the Joy Doctors to get through—we still weren’t quite used to dropping the “Joy” from the title.

The lineman was declared dead at the scene.

Later that day, the final call came. Several people gathered in the streets to listen.

“Attention all crews and technicians… stand by for a final call announcement… clear the airway…”

“Distribution center to Lyle Gainsborough…”

“Distribution center to Lyle Gainsborough…”

“Distribution center to Lyle Gainsborough…”

There were four to five seconds of silence between each call, the pauses stretching longer than they should have.

“This is the last and final call for Lyle Gainsborough.”

Silence.

Then the voice returned—slightly softer, almost too measured, as though carefully reading from something that could not be revised.

“Lyle Gainsborough, husband of Heather Gainsborough, and friend to many. Our brother Lyle has completed his final shift. His hooks are now hung. After his service on this island, his duty is concluded.”

A brief pause.

“He served with courage and dignity. For this, he is thanked and honored. May he rest in peace.”

Another pause—long enough to feel deliberate.

“Though he is gone from duty, he will not be forgotten.”

A final moment of silence.

“Lyle Gainsborough… you are now clear of service.”

I could hear Heather breaking into sobs. Unexpectedly, Roger and James had broken down as well. All of us were teary-eyed to some degree. I wiped my eyes. With my husband being a constable, I knew something like this could happen to him on the job.

I visited Heather later. I had prepared and brought baked goods for her. When I arrived, she started to look over her shoulder to call out—then stopped. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Allison. I don’t mean to get teary in front of you like this.”

“Don’t apologize. I understand. Lyle was a good man and a hard worker,” I said.

We talked for about half an hour. As I left, I told her to come to me if she needed anything.

The following morning, I visited Roger and James. They both looked a bit rough. I had brought baked goods.

We talked for an hour. It had hit them just as hard as it had hit Heather. Lyle had been their go-to for electrical work. A drinking partner. A brother in all but name.

Eventually, I took my leave.

That evening, John and I were both home when I found myself watching him. Our eyes met, and he seemed to understand what I was thinking without a word.

“Poppet… come here,” he said, settling onto the couch.

When I joined him, he gently pulled me onto his lap and rested his head against my chest. My arms wrapped around him lightly, and I stroked his hair before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Bobbies worked the crowd lines, keeping order as people packed the streets and rooftops alike. John was among them.

I spotted him easily and slipped into place behind him.

The irony clearly wasn’t lost on Victoria Byng, standing to my right. A faint smile tugged at her lips.

“I’m guessing you’ve got Constable Constable’s back,” she remarked, amusement threading her voice.

“Literally and metaphorically,” I replied with a grin.

A soft chuckle escaped John.

“She’s always somewhere nearby,” he admitted warmly. “Wouldn’t have my missus any other way.”

Around us, the crowd buzzed with nervous chatter. Cameras rolled from every angle, both shutdowns being recorded for later broadcast. Somewhere over in The Parade, James and Roger were overseeing the proceedings.

Then the call finally came.

A countdown from five.

The murmuring crowd gradually fell silent.

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

All eyes turned toward the Headmistress looming over Hamlyn.

The massive machine began to slow. Lights dimmed across its frame in uneven pulses.

“YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED. PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA IMMEDIATELY.”

The voice emerged deeper now, slower than before, as though the machine itself were struggling to force the words out.

“YOU ARE NOT… YOU… YOU… CLEAR… IMMEDIATELY.”

Its lights flickered violently once.

Then darkness.

The pixelated eyes and mouth vanished from the monitor serving as its face. The screen went black as the Headmistress slumped forward, mechanical arms hanging limp at its sides.

For several long moments, nobody spoke.

Thousands of us simply stood there, staring at the dead machinery, as though waiting for it to come back online.

After half a minute or so, John’s shoulders finally relaxed.

Then the crowd erupted into cheers — most of us cheering until our throats were sore.

That evening, John and I were home, having finished supper and watching the news. The Headmistresses’ shutdowns were already being broadcast across Wellington Wells.

“Sergeant Sargent, a word please,” one of the WWBC reporters called as he approached John’s superior. “How will this affect the constabulary’s work?”

“I imagine it’ll make things a bit easier for my lads,” Sergeant Sargent replied. “Patrols should be quicker and more effective, and we’ll be better able to serve the public.”

On screen, the camera caught John and me in the background. We had been speaking quietly; then he turned, and we shared a brief hug and kiss.

“It seems one of your men is already celebrating,” the reporter added with a chuckle.

Sergeant Sargent followed his gaze and laughed.

“Yes, that’s Sonny Constable, our Sergeant Baker,” he said. “Constable Constable’s wife. She’s been involved in all sorts of efforts to help get things sorted out.”

Sitting together in our living room, John and I chuckled at the broadcast. Eventually, John and I turn in and got to bed.

John’s arm is heavy and warm around my waist, his chest pressed to my back. I can feel the slow, even rhythm of his breathing against my hair, but I know he’s not fully asleep yet. His thumb traces lazy little circles over the thin fabric of my nightgown, right where my hip curves.

“You were quiet on the walk home,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with tiredness.

I shift slightly so I can look at him over my shoulder. The faint glow from the streetlamp outside just barely catches the side of his face. “It was a lot to take in,” I admit. “The mainland… it’s not what I expected. Louder. Messier. But not cruel. Just… real.”

He hums thoughtfully, pressing a slow kiss to the back of my neck that makes my skin tingle. “And that little girl?”

My chest warms at the memory. “She waved like it was the most natural thing in the world. No mask. No pretending.” I let out a small breath. “Made me miss the old days less, somehow.”

John’s hold tightens gently. For a moment he’s quiet, then: “I didn’t like you being over there without me. Even with James.” His voice drops even lower. “Kept thinking about what could go wrong. Parts be damned.”

I turn in his arms until we’re facing each other, our noses nearly brushing. “I know. But I’m here now. Safe and sound, just like I promised.” I reach up to brush my fingers along his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there.

“You can stop worrying, Mr. Constable Constable.”

A tired but genuine smile tugs at his mouth. He leans in and kisses me properly this time — slow, lingering, the kind that says I missed you more than words ever could. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

“Still going to worry, Mrs. Constable Constable. Comes with the territory.” His hand slides down my side, warm and possessive. “But I suppose I can thank you properly for bringing those parts back in one piece…”

I laugh softly, the sound half-muffled against his shoulder as I press closer, letting the rain and his warmth chase away the last of the day’s tension. For the first time since stepping off that train, I feel properly home.

Tomorrow there will be more paperwork, more machines to fix, more cautious steps forward for Wellington Wells.

I’m helping with cleanup work. The streets are busy in that familiar way—half instruction, half idle chatter drifting between people as they move through their tasks.

Constables pass through in steady rhythm. Usually alone, sometimes in pairs, always just present enough to remind everyone how things are supposed to stay orderly.

“Mrs. Constable… does your husband know you’re out?” a voice calls from behind me.

I turn quickly.

It’s John.

We both grin before I can quite stop myself from blushing. I step in, and we share a soft, quick kiss—brief enough to stay proper, long enough to matter.

“I made sure he knows. Can’t have you worrying,” I tease. “How’s patrol going?”

“Right as rain, poppet,” he says with that easy grin.

“Good,” I smile.

We linger just long enough for one more quiet kiss before we part again, each returning to our duties like nothing has shifted at all.

Lunch passes in a blur of friendly conversation and practical talk—what’s been finished, what still needs attention, what can wait until tomorrow. Afterward, we return to work.

Little do we know how quickly the day will turn.

—

A familiar hydraulic hiss cuts through the street—one of the nearby Bobby Poppers cycling through its routine pressure build.

Then it changes.

A high, uneven whine rises from within the unit, followed by a grinding mechanical stutter, like gears slipping where they shouldn’t. The rhythm of the machine breaks—pressure building too fast, releasing too late, then failing to release at all.

Someone inside starts hammering on the internal release controls.

“Open it!” a voice shouts.

Three people rush the external mechanism. It resists at first—locked, then half-releasing, then locking again as the system fights itself. The casing vibrates under strain, bolts audibly stressing under internal pressure.

Finally, the seal gives.

The door swings open—

—and a burst of superheated air and smoke vents immediately from within, followed by a sharp electrical crack as a damaged internal coupling shorts against the frame.

The system drops into emergency shutdown. Power cuts hard, leaving only the hiss of steam and the faint smell of burned insulation.

The Bobby inside stumbles out at once, coughing violently, disoriented but upright.

He’s conscious.

Smoke has caught in his lungs, leaving him rasping and blinking hard against the air. The lower edges of his uniform are scorched where heat vented closest to the seals, and his cuffs are singed and darkened. He keeps trying to straighten himself, as if insisting it’s already under control.

It isn’t.

Constables arrive within moments. John is among them.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. But something in him has already shifted the instant he saw the scene.

“Give him air,” he says, sharp but controlled. “Back everyone off.”

Another constable moves in beside him, and together they guide the Bobby away from the crowd—steady hands at his elbow and shoulder, not dragging, just directing him out of the noise.

A transport cart arrives quickly, its frame humming softly as it settles into place.

The Bobby is helped aboard. He’s still coughing, trying to speak between breaths that don’t quite cooperate.

“Medical station,” John says to the driver. “Keep him upright.”

The cart rolls away.

Only then does the street seem to remember how to breathe.

—

Work resumes, but it doesn’t feel the same.

People speak more quietly. Some stop speaking altogether. Even those who continue avoid standing too close to the Popper’s edge, as if proximity alone might invite attention.

John continues his rounds as though nothing has changed.

But I notice the differences.

He checks each remaining unit twice. He pauses longer than necessary at inspection points. He asks fewer casual questions and more precise ones—maintenance schedules, recent faults, servicing records.

When someone tries to dismiss it as “just a valve issue,” he doesn’t respond to the humor. He simply notes it and moves on.

Not angry.

Just attentive in a way he wasn’t before.

He finishes his shift as required. No earlier. No later. Like someone holding a line steady against pressure.

—

By evening, he comes home.

The uniform is gone, replaced by something quieter. The tension doesn’t disappear so much as lose its purpose.

He closes the door and looks at me for a long moment.

Not as a constable.

Just as John.

“Everyone’s fine,” he says first—automatic, practiced. Then, after a pause, more honestly: “It shook people up.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.

“They got him out fast. He’ll recover.”

There’s a silence that settles between us, heavy but not unwelcome.

“I kept thinking,” he says finally, voice lower, “how quickly it turned.”

He doesn’t expand on it. He doesn’t need to.

—

Later, the house is quiet.

No uniforms. No street noise. No machinery in the distance.

Just the two of us.

John sits close without meaning to, like his body has decided proximity is simpler than thought. Eventually, he lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, but doesn’t quite make it.

“Still right as rain, poppet,” he says.

It sounds less like reassurance now, and more like something he’s choosing to believe out loud.

And we stay there, letting the day finally lose its shape.

—

The next morning comes quietly.

Breakfast, routine, soft conversation. A couple of gentle kisses before we leave for work, like punctuation marks on something fragile but intact.

Later, I bake muffins.

I take them to the medical station.

Rodney is already sitting up when I arrive.

“Mrs. Constable… lovely day for it,” he says with a tired grin.

“Rodney, please,” I reply softly, setting the basket down. “You can call me Sonny.”

I offer him one of the muffins. He takes it carefully, thanking me under his breath.

We talk quietly while he eats—nothing important, just enough to make the room feel less like recovery and more like time passing.

When I leave, I tell him to call if he needs anything. Me or John.

—

Afterward, I return to work—cleanup, distribution, paperwork—moving through Wellington Wells as if the day is already trying to behave normally again.

Now they’re out during the day.

Before, we’d only ever seen them from our windows, lit by streetlamps and their own pale lights as they drifted through the fog. Up close, in full daylight, they’re almost nightmare fuel.

Their cheerful little song plays constantly. Beneath it comes the loud whirring of their vacuums sucking up piles of debris, followed by the heavy thunk-thunk of rubbish rattling through the machinery.

Then there are the Headmistresses.

Gargantuan robotic supervisors still stationed in Hamlyn Village and the Parade District. Most of us trigger them now that Joy is gone from our systems. People avoid the centers whenever possible, at least until the things can be fully disarmed and dismantled.

Unfortunately, I have to go through Hamlyn Village to get to Cutty’s shop. With better food finally starting to come in, business has begun picking back up for him.

To reach the shop, I have to pass the Headmistress in the center square.

I stop several meters short of the plaza and stare at it, swallowing hard.

The Headmistress slowly scans the empty streets, its massive head turning with mechanical precision. Then its gaze lands on me.

It slows.

The machine turns fully toward me and stops.

The white-blue light at its center begins to shift.

Orange.

My eyes widen.

Quickly, I move along the edge of the circular plaza, staying tight to the buildings as I walk briskly past. Behind me, the glow deepens from orange into red.

An alarm blares.

“YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED. PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA IMMEDIATELY.”

The robotic voice sends a spike of dread through me.

I move faster.

Behind me, the zapper begins to charge.

I turn down the next street and don’t stop until I’ve cleared the edge of its patrol radius.

Only then do I stop.

I collapse onto a nearby bench, panting hard. My hands tremble, and my heart hammers against my ribs.

I glance back toward the center of Hamlyn Village. The Headmistress has already returned to its calm white-blue state, scanning the streets with cold precision.

I flinch when its gaze sweeps down the street I’m sitting on.

I’m just beyond its radius.

After a few minutes, my breathing finally steadies. I stand, dust off my coat, and continue toward Cutty’s shop.

The bell above the door chimes softly when I step inside.

The shop once belonged to Reg. After a series of questionable business decisions, his son Johnny cautiously agreed to return and help run it while Wellington Wells tries to get back on its feet.

“Mrs. Constable,” Johnny says with a grin. “How’s things?”

“Getting better, thankfully,” I reply. “How are you and your mum?”

“Right as rain, love. Right as rain.” He chuckles softly. “Ma’s been helping one of the sewing groups mend clothes and volunteering with the baking groups—well, food distribution groups now, I suppose.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say, smiling.

“I’ve been helping distribute meat and whatever else comes in,” he continues. “Feels good to actually be useful.”

“It does,” I admit quietly.

“So then,” Johnny says, rubbing his hands together, “what can I get you today?”

“Could I get a five-pound chuck roast, please?”

“Course you can.”

He grins and gets to work.

Watching Johnny work behind the butcher counter is almost an art form. His movements are easy and precise, everything done with practiced confidence. We talk while he prepares the order—neighborhood repairs, food shipments, the slow, awkward work of rebuilding daily life.

Eventually, he wraps the roast neatly in paper and slides it across the counter.

I pay, thank him, and head home.

By the time I return to the flat, the tension from the Headmistress has mostly faded.

About five hours before supper, I begin preparing the pot roast.

Soon, the rich scent of simmering vegetables, broth, and beef fills the flat.

There should be enough to feed myself, John, and the bottom two floors of the apartment building.

I’m sitting across from Victoria Byng. She’s brought me in to help her get things under control. We’re going through supply lists. Lists of things that have been asked for and that’s already been delivered, things that have been asked for, agreed to be given or bought and have yet to come in, and items that have been asked for and declined.

So far, the houses in the Garden District have been torn down. The piles of debris have been went through to find and retrieve parts that can be used. Houses are being rebuilt. Houses in the middle and upper class areas are left alone save for repairs and cleaning.

Basic food staples have been sent in and have been distributed as evenly as possible. There’s two large food gardens that are being tilled and planted. Motilene lines have been patched up and fixed.

By the end of the day, we’re both bleary eyed. She thanks me for the day. I smile and thank her for letting me help. I bundle up before I step outside. The wind whips around. There’s a bone numbing chill in the air. It’s almost 7 and already dark. The curfew has been done away with. Most people are inside now partly because of habit and, two, it’s too chilly to be out and about unless it’s a necessity. I make my way along the streets. There are a few people still out. There’s a bobby or two that I pass. We nod to each other.

When I get in, I’m greeted by the warmth of a fire in the fireplace. John’s in the process of polishing up and putting away his work shoes. He’s already changed out of uniform. We grin upon seeing each other as I take my coat and scarf off.

“Mrs. Constable Constable,” He says.

Eight years of marriage and he still loves calling me that.

“Mr. Constable Constable,” I grin. I take my shoes off and put them aside neatly. 

“How was work?”

“Same ol’, same ol’,” He admits. There’s a pause as I come over and we share a kiss. “Roger and James got the last Peeper taken apart. It’s been a bit weird not having the Peepers patrolling with us.”

“I can imagine. Thankfully they can be used for spare parts to help fix up Wellington Wells,” I say.

“That’s true,” He admits. “What all did you and Ms. Byng get into?”

“Tons of paperwork on what’s come in and has been delivered, what’s coming in and going to be arriving, and what’s been denied,” I admit.

We continue to chat as I go to the kitchen to prepare supper. There’s various jokes and smart remarks that John tells me about that’s been told or said between him and the other bobbies. They’ve managed to keep their spirits up during all of this. Laughter is the best medicine as Chief Peters would say.

Some of the Wellies are struggling to keep their spirits high and to keep going. They miss being able to block out their bad memories. I can’t blame them but it’s also cathartic to learn from the past and learn from one’s mistakes.