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| Semper Vigilo, Paratus, et Fidelis; Helena Flashback | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 11 2010, 02:59 PM (255 Views) | |
| Ammy | Oct 11 2010, 02:59 PM Post #1 |
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[align=center]![]() 1) Quis separabit? Winter 12th, 11:00 p.m. [size0]February 12th[/align] “Every good cop has te go through it eventually, Helena,” Mister Rodger said, giving the young woman a smile from beneath a wiry red moustache. He looked quite cheery for a man kneeling over the body of a boy, humming to himself as he bent down to check for an I.D., the crooked bobby hat nearly falling off his head. “Neil Donaghue, ha, see? He was a bog, no need te worry yourself.” He laughed heartily, paying no mind to the English girl sat on a fence, staring blankly at the dead body. Her hands, smeared with blood, rested on her knees, twitching every so often. Her white face was flecked with drops of crimson. The blinking lights of the police car cast red and blue upon her face. Red, blue, red, blue, until Mister Rodgers at last turned them off altogether. “Bloody things,” he cursed. He turned to her, smiling brightly. “You alright, Helena? Haven’t heard a peep outta you for ten minutes, not like you at all,” he chortled, one hand laying upon a protruding belly. His expression fell, one thick eyebrow raised. “Not still shaken up over this poor sod, are you?” Rodger nudged the limp foot of the young man. It wobbled for a moment, then fell to the ground, now twisted at an odd angle. Just another morbid reminder of what she had done, as if the blood wasn’t enough. She looked up at her fellow officer with frightened eyes, lower lip trembling as she said, “A-am I going to jail, then? Rodger raised another brow, mouth wagging open before he threw back his head and laughed. “Gaol? Naaaaah. Girl, this is Northern Ireland—case’s like this every week. We arrested every young bobby who shot some juvenile whatsit, why we wouldn’t have a force to begin with!” He seemed amused by this, though why should could not say. Brummies had the oddest sense of humour. “Oh,” Helena’s iron grip on her knees relaxed. She looked away, ashamed that her first thoughts were of her own well-being, when this boy was—was... she hardly dared to think it. He was pushing up daisies, six feet under, blue in the lips, dead! Dead, he was dead. He was dead, and she had killed him. Helena gripped the evidence in her hand even now, a police baton smattered in the victim’s blood. Though there hadn’t been as much as she thought there would be. In the movies it always erupted from their bodies, spurting forth like a fountain, then pooling up beneath their corpse. No. There were traces here and there, but no pools or fountains to be seen. Then again, in the movies the police were always played by muscle-bound, machine-gun toting action stars. Not skinny English girls who would very much like to be home and in the arms of their father. And the victims, Helena took a slow breath through her nose, the victims were terrorists, murderers, rapists, people who without a doubt deserved their horrible end. And they certainly didn’t have a name, a name like Neil Donaghue. “So don’t trouble yourself with him, I’ve got this covered,” Mister Rodgers said with a sneaky wink. Helena met his eyes, not sure if she should thank him or beg him to take her in anyway. “Thank you, sir...” she said at length, dropping her gaze to see the dead boy. Neil, Neil Donaghue. Helena shut her eyes, not that it made a difference. She could still see him anyway, and the image in her head was far worse than reality. She gasped a mouthful of the biting winter air, and opening her eyes to look at Rodgers. “Do you... have any idea who he is?” she asked breathlessly, hardly daring to ask. The less she knew about this boy the better, then maybe she could pretend he was a horrible, awful person. “Mmm?” Rodgers looked over his shoulder at her. “Still on about him?” Helena nodded. “Ermm... lessee here. All’s I can tell by his wallet was he was born in Dublin, ‘bout seventeen, an’ didn’t know not te mess wit’ the f***ing RUC.” Another amused chortle from her superior officer. “Other than that, dunno a thing. We’ll see when we get back to the station, eh?” She nodded slowly, and rose. Though her legs shook and threatened to buckle from beneath her, she walked towards the body. Helena circled once around the body, bending over and gingerly opening a guitar case he had been carrying. A beat up old guitar lay inside, several silver and gold pounds glinted up at her. “He was a street musician,” she announced. A young musician named Neil Donaghue. Her hands took up his wallet, despite her mind shouting for her to leave it be. What in God’s name was she doing? Your job, said a voice inside her head, no doubt the same voice that was willing her to rifle through this dead man’s things. She opened his wallet, finding mostly beaten notes and a driver’s license bearing his name. A slip of paper drifted out, landing upon the damp concrete. Helena took it between her fingers, flipping it over to reveal a worn photograph of an old, tired redheaded woman and a young girl in a Sunday dress. Her stomach tightened, and for a moment the world seemed to spin out of control. Christ, she thought, mind racing. A young musician with a mother and a sister, a young man named Neil Donaghue. Images of that tired old Irishwoman sitting and waiting for her son, cigarette perched between her lips. Of a little girl staying up, not going to sleep until she saw her dear brother again. They were probably wondering where he was, and if it wasn’t for her—she felt herself heave, but nothing came up. She was left breathless, staring in horror at the photograph. Her mind seemed to draw a flat-line, not moving for a good moment, before drawing a shaky breath and tightening her hands on the warm old photo. Jesus Christ, she thought, Jesus Christ, please forgive me. It didn’t matter, all the prayer in the world would do her no good. She was going to hell, she was going to hell and there was nothing Mister Rodger could do to save her from that. “Oh, ambulance’s here,” Rodgers said with a low whistle, flipping his notepad short and moseying off toward it. Leaving the damned girl to her own thoughts. She gripped the photograph tightly, fighting back that lump in her throat. Not now, especially when she wasn’t sure if it was tears or vomit that was wanting out. Helena gulped, forcing herself to look at that small family again. Time for face the facts: she was alive, he was dead. Best to make the most of the situation, and help however she could. |
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| Ammy | Oct 14 2010, 03:20 PM Post #2 |
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[align=center]![]() 2) Exemplo Ducemus Winter 13th, 12:00 a.m.[/align] Their ride back to the police station was silent, not a word exchanged between the two police officers. Helena was still stewing in her own thoughts, staring out the window at the passing streetlights, while Mister Rodgers hummed absently and tapped his fingers on the wheel. She had to take something from this, no good would come of her writing off the incident, forgetting it ever happened, as her superior officer asked of her. Though the thought of taking a life lesson from a murder made her stomach churn. She imagined that she would not be eating much for the next few days, if ever. The idea of doing anything at all wasn’t appealing at the moment. “Come on, Helena, get a move on,” Rodger snapped, shutting the car door with a whoosh! Helena started, surprised to see them parked at the station. She drew her coat up around her neck before leaving the warmth of the police car. Thought the distance between the car and the station was brief, her cheeks were already a rosy read when she entered the building. The Ballycastle police station was, as it always was at this hour, dead. The town was too sleepy to have much happen at this hour. If this were Belfast, perhaps it would be lively, but Ballycastle hadn’t any trouble with Nationalist terrorists since a few years prior. No use in wasting the men when they’d just be sitting around with their thumbs up their asses. “Oi, Helena!” a chipper voice cried as she was hanging up her coat. She received a clap on the back, flinching as she turned to see the source. “George,” she said, nodding to him in greeting. Her deskmate, George Kelly. From what she gathered from his long-winded stories (the man could go on for hours if you let him) he was a few years her senior, not a veteran of the police service by any means, but he knew more than her. “Ye just run a marathon, lass?” he asked with a smirk, eyes running over her features. “Yer cheeks’re redder than a right tomato.” “Hm,” Helena snorted softly, brushing his hand from her shoulder, “I’m not in the mood today, I’m afraid.” George’s expression softened, this time throwing his whole arm over her shoulder, squeezing her once. “I heard. Are ye okay? his eyes studied hers. She hesitated, breaking eye contact to look at the ground. “I’ll be fine,” she said, receiving another friendly clap on the back for her optimism. “An’, lemme guess, ol’ Rodgers made it out like it were... a trifling thing,” he said with a disgruntled snort, leading Helena to their desks. George threw his feet over the top of the test, tilting back in his chair. She nodded, and he shook his head in disbelief. “Christ, he did it ta me when I shot that lad just las’ year—made it out like I’d ran over a squirrel.” He played with a rubix cube on her desk, turning it over in his fingers a few times before looking right at her. “Look, lass, he’ll be thinking about this bout a lot for the next few months. Seein’ a lot o’ him in yer dreams an’ whatnot—don’t let it get ta ye. Ye’re too good a bobby to lose yer head over something like this.” Helena bowed her head in thanks. “It’s hard not to think about it... quitting, that is.” George nodded, scratching the back of his hand with his stubble. “It’s hard, I know,” he admitted, keeping his gaze trained on her. “This isn’t like... an ordinary war, y’know? Out there, they kill an Afghan or an Iraqi or what have ye, and bam—they’re dead, they’re gone. Ye move on an’ kill the next b*****d who comes yer way. No face, no name, nuthin’.” As he spoke, he took out a cigarette and handed it to Helena, who took it gladly. She never smoked as a girl, and in fact had never smoked in her entire life until she joined the service. Hanging around a load of lower-class blokes who all smoked like mad had seen that changed. There was enough of a difference between her and her fellow officers as it was. Helena lit the cigarette, and looked back to George. The Irishman took a drag of his cigarette, puffing out a cloud of smoke before continuing. “When we kill someone, we practically learn their entire f***ing life. Certainly a name, a face, ye might learn that they had a dog back home or a wife an’ little one’s. It’s enough ta make ye feel like the worst b*****d whoever walked the face o’ the Earth.” George laughed darkly, shuddering before he took another drag of his cigarette. “Ye see what I mean?” Helena balanced the cigarette between her lips, hands relaxed in her lap. “Yes...” she said, staring at the wall across from her desk. “I know precisely what you mean.” Her mind flashed to that photo of the old woman and that little girl, and she suddenly felt sick to her stomach. George smiled briefly at her, bringing his cigarette down in the ashtray. “Good lass, ye’ll be okay...” he said, leaning back again in his chair, “ye’ll be okay.” She forced a smile, extinguishing her own cigarette. A moment of silence passed between them, before George put his hands on his knees and heaved himself up with a grunt. “Now, don’t we have some work ta finish?” “... Paper work on that robbery case, review the connections between it and some other burglaries, conduct a line-up.” she sighed, wondering if it was okay to talk so casually after the events of tonight. George’s talk still wound up inside her, leaving her feeling tense and raw. Could she talk about something so normal at a time like this? A grin spread over his features. “Sounds like a party, I’ll get the tea,” he said, giving a small salute and retreating to the station’s kitchen. Helena sighed as he left, resting her head in her hands a moment. She felt... calmer, now. By no means at ease, but her gut wasn’t wrenching painfully anymore. A door opened, and she looked up, expecting to see a George waltzing towards her, tea in hand. Instead she was greeted with the sight of a woman with greying hair entering the station. She was wide-eyed, hands fidgeting with a warm woollen hat. Her gaze fell upon Helena, and they locked eyes. Her stomach squirmed, and she went cold, it took everything Helena had not to throw herself underneath the desk and hope it would go unnoticed. S***e, she thought, ducking her head and avoiding the woman’s gaze. It was her, Neil’s mother. “I got yer cream and sugar, just the way ye like it,” George chirped, sitting the tea on the desk with a clack. He looked at her, blinking over the rim of his own cup. “... Ye okay?” Following her gaze, a look of realisation dawned upon him. “Ah... that the lad’s family?” Helena could only nod mutely. George sighed, and sipped his tea, making no response. She was content to let the tea sit and cool, as Mrs. Donaghue was led around the station, talking to the different officers and being asked question after question. Helena watched out of the corner of her eye, idly filling out the reports. “Ye don’t wanna talk ta her.” Helena looked to George. “Why not?” “Because it won’t go the way ye want it ta, and ye’ll end up feelin’ worse than before. Believe me, I tried.” The Irishman nodded seriously, crossing his legs over one another. Helena recalled his story, the one about the man he had killed. She hadn't heard it from him, but another officer had whispered the story to her in hushed words on the anniversary of the event. Oh how she wished she could just ask now, feeling like she could empathise, but she held her tongue. She frowned, and looked over to that withered middle-aged woman speaking with Mister Rodger’s. Without another word, she got up and strode over. George grunted at her to stop, but she kept going. Helena nodded to the woman, standing before her. “Good evening...” she began, not waiting for a reply before she continued. “I am Helena Tuddenham, and... I am the one responsible for killing your son.” The woman didn’t reply, only blinked at her. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, and if there is anything I can do to help, just let me—” “Helena, what was the name of that one Aussie bloke in Les Miserables?” George’s voice shook her from her daydream, Helena closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath before she looked at her deskmate. “You mean the one who played Javert, I believe it’s Geoffrey Rush.” Mrs. Donaghue was nowhere in sight. She’d lost her chance, whether this was good or bad she hadn’t yet decided. “Yeaaah, that’s the one. This guy right here looks just like ‘im.” He held up a drawing of one of the local burglars, which did indeed look like Mister Rush. She smiled and turned her head, and tried to keep thoughts of that tired old Irishwoman out of her head. |
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| Ammy | Dec 5 2010, 06:13 PM Post #3 |
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[align=center]![]() 3) Video et Taceo August 24th, 9:00 a.m.[/align] “You’re daft,” Helena laughed, “if Ireland makes the World Cup this year I’ll eat my hat.” She kicked back in her seat, knees resting up on the dashboard of their rundown old police car. The air around her ears suddenly became cold as her hat was plucked off her head and pushed up to her lips. “Well ye better start eatin’, then, cuz ye’ll see ol’ Greg Cunningham’s face upon the big screen before ye know it,” George quipped, then, sighing almost dreamily, added, “Now there’s a man.” Helena smirked, tugging her bobby hat from him and placing it back on her head where it belonged. "You bender," she muttered affectionately. “Besides, might do ye good. Put some meat on yer bones.” Both their eyes travelled to her thin figure; she quickly stiffened and fell back in her seat, her eyes focused upon the road. For once the streets of Ballycastle, Northern Ireland were crowded and lively. Ould Lammas Fair, the one time a year Ballycastle came to life. And, of course, Helena was working. The past few months had been busy for every member of the Northern Irish police force. Troubles in Belfast, people shot in the street on their way to church, sometimes for even talking to someone who was Irish-Catholic or Anglican-Protestant. Now, sitting here next to George, could be seen as a sin in the eyes of her fellow Anglicans, worse than if she took her gun to his head. The whole of the force had been trained and issued firearms. She had spent a whole month taking lessons in how to spot and kill a member of the IRA, before they got her. How she was expected to tell in a crowd this thick, she couldn’t say. Helena felt a soft snuffling in her ear, followed by a wet tongue pressed against her bare skin. “Augh!” She recoiled back against the passenger’s window of the car. “Jack, what did I tell you about licking my face?” She inclined her head to look at the dog. He was still young, not yet full grown and with giant paws that scrambled to be in her lap. His eyes were big and baleful, but sparkled when she said his name. “Awww, c’mon. Let the dog give ye a kiss.” George teased, reaching back to scratch Jack behind a floppy ear. “Not in my lifetime,” she said, regarding the dog carefully. Helena liked the dog well enough, he was another precaution taken in the Troubles. Not yet fully trained, but they had to drag him around on patrol nonetheless. A soft tapping on the window drew their attention from Jack, and to a young face peering into their car. “I think your son wants something, George.” She waved, the face on the other side of the window beamed and waved back animatedly. Helena snorted, rolling down her window. “Hullo, Nick.” “Hullo Officer Tudden’am!” Nick was not his father’s son, it didn’t take a genius to see that. His skin was dark, eyes set wide apart and large like a deer’s. He had been adopted by George several months ago. What had happened to his parents, she didn’t know. George had never told her, she wasn’t even sure if he knew. “Howya?” A small smile played over her features, there was something about his gap-toothed smile that brightened her day. “I’m doing wonderfully. Want to see your father?” He nodded, looking across at George. “Ye ready yet?” George tilted his head to one side, brow raised quizzically. “Fer what?” “Fer Ould Lammas!” A silence passed between them, Helena shifted in her seat and avoided both their eyes. “Ye know, ye promised to get off work an’ take me.” No answer. “... Said ye’d be off by three?” The boy stuck up his arm and for one moment she thought he was going to give them both the old V-sign, only to reveal a shiny leather watch. “See? It’s three o’ clock.” George cleared his throat, when he spoke again his voice was quite high. “Pardon us fer a minute, will ye, boy?” He reached over her and rolled up the window, facing Helena with wide eyes. “I fergot te ask off fer work.” “I fail to see how this is of my concern.” He leaned back in his chair, hand dragging through his hair as he huffed out a sigh. “Ye heartless witch. I’m just asking ye for one evening off, cover me arse on this one, Helena.” She examined her nails for dirt, face remaining completely neutral. “Oh? Just one evening? What about last month when you went to that football match? Or when you and John went out to the cinema?” She turned her head to look at him. “What about when you decided to go to Belfast for the weekend? Or when you took Nick to the petting zoo? And whe—” “Alright, alright! Ye made yer point—break the poor boy’s heart, why don’t ye.” He folded his arms over his chest, frowning for a moment. When she didn’t say anything else, he looked up, bright green eyes studying her face. “Ye’re serious?” Helena met his gaze, calm and steady, and held it for a moment. “No. Of course I’m not, go and get your arse out there, I’ll keep watch.” George brightened. “I owe ye one.” He grinned at her, clambering out of the front seat of the car for Helena to take his place. The moment she lifted herself off the passenger seat Jack bounded to the front seat of the car, hoping to greet her with his boundless energy and slobbery wet tongue. He bounded into her lap, poised to strike when he stiffened and stopped in his tracks, the fur along the backs of his spine standing straight up. Jack barked, his baleful woofs drawing some attention from passer-bys. “What does he want now?” Helena asked, frowning. “Probably wants a piss. Ah well, see ye, Helena.” George hit the roof of the car with the tips of his fingers, giving a cheery little wave before he set off down the street with Nick. Helena settled into the car seat, glaring at Jack, but the dog persisted. Scratching at the window and wagging his tail at a mile a minute. At last she sighed, taking up a leash in hand and moving from her seat. “Fine, I’ll take you out.” she said, looping the leash through the dog’s collar and pushing open the door. Jack leaped out over her knees before she had the chance to so much as move, near yanking Helena from the car altogether. “Steady, boy.” If anything, this was probably an indicator that she needed to do some more training with him. The streets had cleared out quickly, though Helena could still hear the crowd from down the street singing Hannigan’s Hooley at the top of their lungs. Jack tugged at the leash, desperately trying to get to a fire hydrant across the way. Helena pulled him back, but it only seemed to make him go faster. She had to give the dog one thing, he was persistent. Jack barked, running clear past the fire hydrant and onto the sidewalk. At this point Helena yanked him back, growling, “What the hell do you think you are do—” She felt the air swell behind her and push her flat onto the pavement, as the festive August morning erupted in flames. Her back seared, she could hear screams in the distance and Jack’s barks over an intense ringing in her ear. She pushed herself off her stomach, rolling around to see the car up in flames. Smoke rose into the clear blue sky and unfurled over the ruins of the car. It took a moment for Helena to realise what had happened. Her back felt like it had been roasted, she threw off her jacket and saw it in flames. Christ, what... is this... Before she knew it, someone had taken a hold of the front of her shirt and pulling her to face them. The face of George swam before her, she could see his mouth moving but no words... no words were coming out. All she heard was ringing. Jesus Christ, I’ve gone deaf. I’ve gone deaf and I’ll never hear anything but this dreadful ringing ever again. A sob trapped in her throat, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “George! George, I can’t hear anything you’re saying!” she cried. But he kept talking, the ringing in her ears did not cease for a second. Helena shook her head harder, blinking back tears. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you!” George pulled her into a tight embrace, her nose smashed into his shoulder as they both shook with sobs. |
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12:13 AM Jul 11