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Chapter Text

Heart pumping, lungs burning, he ran on and on, beyond what should have been physically possible. Faster than he had ever run in his life. Running on adrenaline and little else, his crisp suit, his hat, his swagger long gone in the flight, fleeing for his life. His heart was painfully throbbing in his chest and his breathing was almost louder than the breaking of twigs underneath his feet as he dashed and weaved past trees and underbrush. He always had to hide what he was his entire life, but this was very different from the verbal abuse and the discrimination those like him usually faced. It was a terrifying new threat. He heard the pot shots. Heard the braying of the hounds. He was being hunted. Hunted like the animal they shouted he was. The filthy animal his father had called him on that last fateful meeting. 

The part of his brain that was, and always would remain a policeman, a detective, was outraged at the illegality of this. No matter the derogatory terms people used, he was a person, and killing him was murder. It enraged him that he should have to flee like this, from the likes of these men. These men that were, he sickeningly realised, getting closer. He ducked as another shot rang out, splintering the tree by his head. He was barely far enough to not get hit by the debris. He could hear the men laugh behind him. The dogs were nearly snapping their jaws at his feet. Then he ran into a clearing. There would be nothing slowing down his running in this clearing, but he would no longer need to run now he had the space to use the ability that set him apart from most people.

Edgar unfurled his wings, ripping through his shirt. His beautiful golden, buff wings. They were as soft as down, but very powerful. Edgar had become the animal. The bird he kept inside him so often. His lung capacity expanded as his chest grew, ripping his shirt further. He felt himself becoming lighter as his body literally changed for flight. His sight and hearing increased to levels other people couldn’t even start to imagine. The sun stung his eyes a little, a sensitivity he didn’t have to deal with when he transformed at night, which was the time he usually flew at when he felt brave enough to do so. He flapped his wings once, testing them briefly. Their emergence often causing them to be ruffled. In the air he would be quicker. In the air he would be graceful. In the air he would be free. When he flew he was unhindered by the rules of human society. Rules that forced him to keep a part of him secret, less he lose the things he loves again because of it. But also rules that allowed him to make sense of the people surrounding him. A social contract that dictated behaviour. A social contract ripped to shreds one bright afternoon in the Cotswolds. Stepping off he flapped his gorgeous huge wings and rose, his stomach dropping in exhilaration. He quickly put more distance between the hunters and himself. With every life giving breath his mind settled. Flight was what he was supposed to do. Was what his body wanted. To soar high into the sky. To feel the air currents underneath his wings. To be part of nature. To be of the sky itself. Rather than the staid, boring world of humans. He was greater than them, better than them, his barn owl brain told him. Those secret thoughts that usually only came to him tossing and turning in sweat soaked dreams that flooded his brain with endorphins. He was great. He was owl. He was Anima. 

His mind brought him back to that fateful night from his childhood. That first terrifying transformation. He had barely noticed at first in the adrenaline of escape and the fear from the fall. Then he realised he was alive and free. Not really understanding what had happened, but instinctively knowing how to use his new wings to fly. His enlarged lungs filling with air for the first time. Breathing out without fear of his father for the first time. Without fear of anyone, feeling like himself for the first time. On the ground he kept himself behind the mask of the policeman, the repressed and lonely face he showed the world, but whenever he took flight, which was rare, he felt like this and part of him wanted to stay free like this forever. Edgar could only hope that the gift that saved his life all those years ago would save it again this day. Right now Edgar could not let himself get lost in the joy that was flight. The hunters were still after him and he had not yet made it to safety. He looked down to see where he was. Edgar was still above the woods, but now he could see the meadow that was the home of the only other Anima Edgar knew in Kembleford. Standing beside his ridiculous caravan was Sidney Carter. The man seemed to be looking up in Edgar’s direction, but Edgar couldn’t be sure. If Edgar could see Carter, he had to be close to home, nearly back in Kembleford. His own domain, safe. Hope was starting to rise within him.

He didn’t hear the shot, but he felt the impact. The pain shooting through him, knocking him from his flight path. A reminder of why he had taken flight during the day, when he could easily be spotted. He flapped again, but it was useless. The pain increased as he realised with horror that one of his wings was damaged. Like a sycamore seed he started to twirl to the ground. He desperately reached out with human hands to slow his descent, trying to catch branches. As he continued to fall his limbs and wings tangled. Edgar crashed through leaves and sticks in a confused, painful muddle. Branches tore at his skin and clothes and thick trunks would make his whole body rattle as he crashed into them. The world stopped spinning suddenly as he hit the ground. Edgar was winded, pained and confused. No longer a powerful creature of flight, but a scared and terrified wounded animal. Like Icarus he had flown too high, but it was not the sun burning his wings that made him fall or ocean rocks that painfully ended his descent. Instead it had been a gunshot and the forest floor.

He could hear the dogs again, and the shouting. Staying where he was was not an option if he wanted to live. He tried to stand to continue running, but agonising pain shot through every part of him when he tried. It wasn’t just his wing that was hurting and which he now could no longer retract, but his human limbs. Edgar must have broken something. As he tried to limp, his vision became blackened. He wanted to vomit from the pain. The sounds were closing in on him, but he couldn’t move any faster than the snail’s pace he was going at. The certainty that he was going to die in agony descended on him like a dark cloud. He was going to die in the woods, so close to civilisation. Edgar could almost smell the gold leaf tobacco, earth and engine oil aroma that always clung to the man that was a crook, a chauffeur and a handyman somewhere ahead of him. That smell, the sense that someone was in front of him seemed to be getting closer. Edgar knew it was an illusion. His soon to be dead brain imagining safety, someone to help him. He could almost hear the crashing of someone thundering through the forest in front of him. With a sinking feeling he realised he wasn’t imagining the sound. They must have surrounded him. How they could’ve gotten ahead of Edgar he did not know. He closed his eyes, willing the end to be quick at least.

His traitorous eyes sprang open again as someone crashed through the trees just in front of Edgar. The smell he had previously believed a figment of his imagination became overpowering. His, now addled, brain recognised Carter. Edgar could scarcely believe it. Had the man really been looking in Edgar’s direction? Or had he turned when he heard the shot and had only seen him fall? Had he come in a rush to help him? Even though he couldn’t possibly have known who had fallen out of the sky? Carter must have known it was as dangerous for him as it was for Edgar. Why had he come running in without backup, potentially risking his own life? Any relief Edgar might’ve felt when he saw Carter’s familiar face was overshadowed by worry.

“Run” Edgar stuttered out, but the man just grabbed him around the shoulders in an attempt to pick Edgar up.

“What the fuck happened?” Carter asked, concern clear on his face.

“Just run-” Edgar gasped “-they’ll… just run”. He needed to make the other man understand. Edgar was done for, but Carter still had a chance. If only the man wasn’t so stubborn.

“Come on” Carter begged “just move with me, you’re hurt, we’ll get you help”

Edgar looked desperately over his shoulder. “Hunted, they’ll come, Anima” Edgar gasped again. He was in agony. His lungs seemed too small for the air he needed even though they were still enlarged like they usually were when he was transformed. The dogs’ barks were so close. As were the shouts from their masters. Edgars arms were lifted by the crook’s, as the man started to drag Edgar away. He tried to fight. To allow Carter the chance to live. Didn’t the stupid man understand? Understand that they could easily hunt him too. Could easily kill him too. Edgar was a policeman and truly believed in the mantra ‘protect and serve’ till his dying breath. Carter may be a crook, but he’s a civilian and it was Edgars job to protect him.

“Ah, there it is.” Said a voice behind them and Carter turned to face the men that had just arrived. ‘This is it’ Edgar thought. He was going to die.

“Run” he hissed again at Carter.

“Oh now, look at that wing, it’s fucked, have to get the taxidermist to fix that.” One of the hunters cried distressed, sparing no thought to the feelings of the man in front of him. They probably didn’t think of him as a person whose feelings and emotions were something to consider. The policeman in Edgar was horrified at their casualness. Carter moved out from underneath his shoulders and Edgar realised he was on his own. But then he felt the man move to stand between Edgar and the hunters.

“Look mate, we only want the bird.” One of the hunters told Carter “Fuck off will you?”

Edgar heard a low growl and at first thought it came from one of the salivating hounds. But then he registered the timbre of the noise, it was too deep and loud for a dog. It also sounded too close. That noise surely couldn't be coming from the jovial young man in front of him. Carter was one of those rare Animas, one of only two Edgar had ever come across, who transformed happily into their animal persona in public and did so regularly. Unlike the whore he had met on the streets of London, who transformed into a sinuous exotic snake to allure men, Carter transformed partially into a badger to use his claws for digging. He was the village gravedigger and the first one people called to help with their gardens or allotments. Unlike some of his other enterprises, Carter’s Anima wasn’t an (illegal) secret, but something he proudly displayed. Edgar was used to seeing him covered in dirt, scratching away for all the world to see. Edgar could admit to some jealousy, wishing he could fly whenever he wanted.

He watched as the crook’s shirt became tighter as fur and muscle grew beneath it. He watched as Carter’s hands turned into claws. He watched as the fur traveled up his neck and the soft brown hair turned almost green and yellow as it coarsened. This was all familiar to Edgar as he had seen this man transform before. But the transformation did not stop where it usually did. What Edgar saw happening now was new. His head seemed to become elongated and fur continued to spread to his cheeks and beyond what Edgar could see as he stood behind Carter. Carter’s ears changed as well and something in the back of Edgar’s head called them adorable. Edgar suddenly had a desire to stand in front of the man so he could see Carter’s face stretched into a badger’s. To see the black and white stripes and the wet nose. Edgar thought that the face of a badger as the last image he saw wouldn’t be the worst. Perhaps he shouldn’t be at peace with dying next to a man who had gone through a full and terrifying Anima transformation. And die was what the both of them were going to do. Edgar could see the look of delight on the hunters' faces. They had gone out to hunt one Anima and now they were getting two. The hunters both raised their guns and Edgar ducked behind Carter, tucking himself into a tiny ball. He heard two shots, moments apart from one another, and felt the man in front of him stumble backwards into him. 

Edgar had a brief moment of horror and sadness to think about how this grinning young man, so loved in this village, was dead and how it was his fault. If Edgar had taken a different route to safety, Carter would not have seen him drop from the sky. Carter would not have come to help him. Carter would not have revealed himself to the two Anima hunters. Carter would not have taken two gunshots to the chest. His feelings of melancholy were interrupted when he heard the growl again. Carter had not dropped down to the forest floor, dead. The man had only stepped backwards because of the force of the blasts. Somewhere in the back of Edgar’s mind, he remembered being told that a badger's fur is so coarse, so thick, as to protect it from anything other than a full bore shotgun blast at close order. Carter would’ve known that this also applied to him when he was transformed. That those hunters could not harm him if they shot him in the chest, the area they were most likely to shoot at. The hunters had brought hunting rifles to shoot at birds, not shotguns to go after badgers. Carter’s decision to become a barrier between the hunters and Edgar suddenly didn’t seem so reckless, but instead very threatening.

The hunters obviously had the same realisation as their next shouts were panicked. Their hounds fled, unwilling to face the danger that was Carter to defend their masters. Carter moved to, presumably, pounce on the first hunter. Having lost his support, Edgar fell to the ground and landed in a painful heap. He looked up to watch in horror at what was happening in front of him with disbelieving eyes. He had read Carter’s file. It contained theft, robbery, breaking and entering and the odd drunk and disorderly. This was the gentle giant who helped little old ladies cross the road and joked with the local priest. This was the man who would stand on tables to sing in the Red Lion when drunk and comforted lost children. This was the man that was so well liked in Kembleford in spite of his criminality. Edgar watched him pick up the first hunter as if he were no more than a child’s toy and use those huge powerful claws to rip the hunter to shreds as easily as if he were made of the soft gingerbread Edgar had been told Carter made for Christmas. As blood and viscera sprayed over him, the badger dropped the hunter turned victim. The bloodied meat splattered onto the woodland floor. The butchery of it made Edgar heave dryly. 

Carter turned to the second hunter. The man was terrified, but seemingly rooted to the spot. Though the hunter had his rifle trained on Carter, he did not pull the trigger. Instead he just shakingly pointed it at the Anima that had just killed his hunting partner like it was nothing. The man didn’t even try to move away as the first claw hooked into his right arm and yanked it fully away, tearing it right off the shoulder it was connected to. As Carter discarded the limb behind the hunter, the man turned his head to follow the flight trajectory of his lost limb in disbelief. This movement opened his neck to, what Edgar now realised must be, sharp, carnivorous teeth. Edgar had not been able to clearly see how it had happened, but the hunter’s head ended up detached from his body which was ripped open from the ribs. Blood had sprayed out of the dead man and had coated Carter’s thick fur. Edgar shrank back as the other Anima turned, his wings trembling. The gentle, caring, young man long gone from the creature in front of him. Carter’s face was bloodied and only his beautiful, soulful eyes seemed to still exist from the human face Edgar knew. Edgar wondered if there was still enough humanity left for Carter to recognise that Edgar wasn’t a threat. He had heard of Animas losing their humanity before, though he luckily had never encountered such cases himself. Was Carter lost in a murderous berserker rage and was that how Edgar would die? Torn apart as if he was made of nothing but paper and dumped on the woodland floor?

Chapter Text

Breathe, just breathe. Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for eight, that’s what Father Brown had taught him. Calm down, remember who you are. As the adrenaline dropped slightly, Sid Carter came back to himself. He saw the trembling policeman lying on the floor and recognised the look on the man’s face even though Sid had never seen it on that particular face before. The Inspector was terrified, terrified of Sid. Sid tried to smile, but realised his face was still a little too elongated for that. Shit, he hadn’t had a full face transformation in years. Not since the bad old days. The calmness he had been able to gather had started to slip away again as he was reminded of those times. 

Breathe one, two, three, four. He fought the urge to dig a hole and vanish. His human side was what he needed right now, not any of the animalistic urges he was having. There was something wet all over him and he tried to wipe a hand through his hair, but claws scratched at fur. Right, still transformed. He didn’t have hair or hands while he was. As he saw his claw for the first time, he noticed it was covered in blood and something else. Something lumpy, soft and warm. Sid gagged.

Breathe, one, two, three, four. He shook his head to clear it. He needed to focus on the important bits. When he had first found the policeman he had been hurt, but Sid hadn’t had the time to really get a look at how badly. Inspector Thompson, the Kembleford Detective Inspector, was partially transformed into a beautiful owl. Sid’s best guess was that the man was a barn owl Anima. Those wings were probably stunning if one of them wasn’t hanging at an odd angle and had blood all over it. The feathers of both wings were also clearly out of place and both wings were shaking with terror. The man’s leg was twisted behind him, clearly broken, and his face was a mask of scratches and bruises. The inspector’s suit wasn’t much better off. It was dirty and the shirt was shredded to allow space for the wings. The dress-shirt was definitely beyond help, but perhaps a visit to the dry cleaners would be able to get the rest of the nice blue suit presentable again.

“Fuck me, Inspector.” Sid growled, kneeling beside the man, glad to no longer be standing between two corpses. He watched the other man scoot back in terror. His hair flapped at the movement and Sid noted that it had become a mass of sweat and torn hair. A leaf seemed to be stuck in it as well. There was no brylcreem that could fix that. “You’ve made a right mess of yourself.” He wondered how much time and money the Inspector usually spent on grooming, more than Sid did, that was sure. In an attempt to get his vocal chords to obey him, Sid coughed. Trying to sound more like he usually did in an attempt to sound less intimidating to the other man. He put a gentle, but still clawed, hand out to the fallen policeman. Touching the torn and broken leg with his soft pads. Sid wondered briefly if the pads could be persuaded to stay, they were nice to have. The gentleness with which he touched the other man belied the mess of humanity he had left on the ground behind him. “I reckon that's pretty broken.” he grinned, feeling his usual cheekbones returning as the badger melted away from his face. His body had shifted back to his usual transformed look where his face remained human. Sid thanked someone, probably God, for this return to normalcy. He wasn’t sure how he would go on the pull with the snout and the teeth. People may think badgers are cute, but going to bed with one was another story. The leg being broken would explain the limping gait the Inspector had been moving with when Sid encountered him. “Reckon I’d better carry you back to the village, don’t think you’ll get there on your own.”

“What the fuck was that!” The inspector cried with wide eyes, panic and adrenaline making his voice high and nasal. Sid clocked the unusual swearing from the normally well mannered policeman. Well, he could get shouty when he was cranky, but Sid had never heard him swear before, so it was somewhat out of the ordinary.

“Did you hit your head Inspector?” Sid asked, suddenly wondering if Inspector Thompson genuinely had. The man was very ruffled and it was a long fall. It wouldn’t be hard for him to have got a good hit on the noggin during the descent. His statement had been pretty clear, so Sid was unsure what else it could be. Better pick the man up, take him home and get Father to triage him before he went to the vet’s. He wondered if he should get the vet to look him over as well. The shot had pierced anything as far as Sid could see or feel, but you could never be too sure with those kinds of things. 

He picked up the policeman easily. Being a bird Anima probably made the man lighter, Sid thought. It was only a vague theory as this was the first time Sid had picked one up. What he did know for sure was that his own transformation made him stronger. He was surprised when the man in his arms squeaked and started to fight him. 

“Oi! calm down or I’ll drop you.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?” The Inspector demanded “Put me down!”.

“If I put you down, you're gonna die” Sid growled, squeezing the man slightly. His broken wing flopped over Sid’s back.

“Do you realise what you just did?” The Inspector asked weakly, his voice growing soft as the squeak left it.

“I was too busy saving your arse.” Sid grumbled, “Look, stop wriggling. You need a vet and you aren’t getting there on your own”.

“A VET?” Inspector Thompson cried in a tone that sounded rather indignant. If the local birds hadn’t already fled from the gunshots, they would’ve done so from the volume the words were yelled at. “I am not an animal and I don’t need a vet!” Sid looked down at the man in his arms, who was wriggling in distress and making it hard for Sid to hold him. What was he talking about? They were partly animals and animals need vets. 

“You reckon the Cottage hospital has people trained in wing damage?” he asked while shaking his head. “You need a vet.” He insisted. Why did the only other Anima in town have to be this stuck up? Perhaps there was still a third one hiding that was a little more relaxed, though Sid didn’t hold out much hope for that.

“I guess I do.” The inspector flopped. His demeanor turned weary. Sid guessed that he was in extreme pain and that his adrenaline was flagging now he was no longer running or scared for his life. Shock was probably starting to set in. “I’m… you go to the vet?” He asked Sid weakly. Sid felt the man starting to tremble. Something seemed to be seriously wrong. He remembered Father talking about shock, that you have to keep them awake and talking.

“Course I do, ever since I was a little kid.” He smirked remembering Mrs. M taking him for his shots along with Mrs. McCreedy, her cat. “Need a decent vet for my claws and stuff, don’t I? Human docs can’t deal with all that.” Silly man, had he really been seeing a regular doctor for his owl issues? He wondered what a human doctor would do if he got an owl pellet caught in his throat. “Do you just see the human quack?”

“Of course! I’ve never been injured while transformed. I don’t do it very often” The inspector slurred.

“I’ve seen ya.” Sid told him. He had stared for hours as the beautiful owl graced the airspace above his meadow. Identification had been impossible from that distance, so Sid had never known before whom he had been watching. “You… Well, it's lovely. You’ve never had a bad landing, or eaten an infected mouse?” He asked. Sid had done a lot of things both Mrs. M and the vet had confirmed were not normal.

“I don’t eat mice.” The Inspector’s voice had taken on a whiny quality.

“You know, you’ll love the vet, his name is Alfred Sinclair. There’s always dogs to pet in the waiting room, and he gives me treats. I’ve also been told he’s a lot faster than our local GP.”

“I’m human,” Inspector Thompson said weakly “I’m human”.

Edgar’s head dropped onto the other man's shoulder, the effort to keep his head up was becoming too exhausting for his meagre reserves. The fur on Carter’s shoulder and his shirt made for a surprisingly soft pillow. His military training kicked in as Edgar felt himself starting to fall asleep. He was in shock and he needed to stay awake. 

“Carter, that…” He sighed softly. “Where did you learn to fight like that?” Edgar felt the man carrying him tense. He could feel the muscles that he was held against bulging even more. They were bigger than he’d ever noticed in casual glances. The badger was powerful and he’s just witnessed quite how powerful. “I mean it.” He sighed again and tried to keep his head straight. “That was some display. It was… Well… Not like you.”

Sid closed his eyes, he couldn’t talk about it, not really. Inspector Thompson’s question brought the memories back in glorious, horrific technicolor. Explaining it to the inspector felt like a betrayal to all the time Father and Mrs. M had spent deprogramming him without him ever explaining anything. The time they spent making him human again. The time they spent calming him down. However the man in his arms deserved some explanation. Some reason to perhaps trust that Sid was doing his best for him. That Sid wasn’t going to hurt him. Sid really didn’t like the idea of Inspector Thompson remaining scared of him.

“National service,” he swallowed “had to do it somehow didn’t I?”.

Edgar felt the claws tightening on his damaged skin and realised that whatever this was, the man who was his only chance of getting back to civilization didn’t want to talk about it. 

“When I did my Medical,” Edgar wriggled against Sid trying to get him to loosen his grip slightly. A hiss passed his lips as he agitated his hurt wing. “they noted my night vision. So I got nightwatch duties constantly. Don’t think I saw the sun again till 1946.” He tried to laugh and felt something relax in the man carrying him. Edgar even heard Carter snort at his rather poor attempt at a joke. There was a slight pregnant pause. “Why didn’t you correct Lt Graham where you did your service? Why did you let him think you were a draft dodger? A shirker?” Edgar felt insulted at Lt. Graham’s words on Carter’s behalf now. How could Carter have let such an insult to his character stand?

“Father asked the same thing,” Carter sighed “I don’t know. It's easier somehow than saying what I did. It wasn’t a great time.” Edgar felt a tremble run through Carter. “I don’t care what some soldier boy thinks anyway?” 

Sid wondered why the Inspector seemed to care so much about what people thought. The fact that he did was clear to see. His dress so crisp and perfect, his hair so neat, his back was always so straight. Well, that was usually the case, even if it wasn’t at that moment. 

“Also, and I’ll let you into a secret, Inspector. I quite like pissing people off. Letting them think badly of me. Shocking Mrs. M’s gossip network -don’t tell her I called it that-. Upsetting the stiff upper lip brigade.” He laughed. Sid’s laughter petered away as he noticed that the Inspector, who looked like the next breeze would carry him off, was becoming heavy. Maybe Sid was flagging. Maybe he did get hurt and his wounds were slowly sapping at his strength. Mrs. M was going to kill him. “People are going to judge me whatever I do, why not have fun instead of trying to meet their unreasonable expectations?” The fact that Inspector Thompson was usually one of those judging people in Sid’s experience was one that he left unspoken. They had broken out of the treeline and were now walking down the road leading to Kembleford. Walking on a road while carrying another adult man was easier than doing so on the uneven ground of the forest.

Edgar flapped his damaged wing which unsettled Carter’s hold. “You make me jealous,” Edgar told him. “I wish I could fly whenever I wanted. I wish I could transform as shamelessly as you do.” He laughed “I love flying.” Edgar noted that his voice had turned wistful as his mind produced images of flying over Kembleford and landing on St. Mary’s belltower. People happily waving at him from below like they would when he passed them on the streets. He flapped a wing, pain surging again as he did so. The following words he spoke through clenched teeth. 

“Guess I’ll never do it again?” A painful knot formed in his chest. The thought of never flying again was too horrible. No matter how down he would get when he didn’t get to fly in a long time, he could always cling to the knowledge that one day he could fly again. Those moments had become less frequent since he had been stationed in Kembleford as the countryside offered more opportunities to transform in relative secrecy. It had been one of the main reasons why he accepted the position. To think that it could be like that for the rest of his life without being able to keep his mind by planning his next flight. It was unbearable.

“Nah, the vet will sort you. He once dug barbed wire I’d accidentally transformed straight into my skin from my fur. Sorted me out with barely a scar.” Sid told him while rearranging him in his arms, “You know, I might have tried to hide the badger, had I not had an audience of about 200 when I finally dug myself out of the rubble of our tenement in the Redriff.” He laughed without humour. “Direct hit on our ‘ome, I wasn’t even 12. Dug myself out. Didn’t even realise I had claws and fur, till the ARP grabbed me by the scruff of my neck” He had been pulled away before learning what had happened to his parents or any of his siblings. Had they all died? Had any of his siblings also become Anima and survived like him? All of his requests for information had been denied over the years and he had lost hope of ever finding out. “I would have spent my life as one of those exhibits they have in travelling fairs, fucking badger boy, but Father Brown, well, he took me in” Sid sighed. “Anyway, I know why you hide, I think, but you don’t have to, not here, not in Kembleford”. It would be nice, Sid thought, to see Inspector Thompson fly above Kembleford during the day and not just above the forests at night. That would also mean one more thing to look out for whenever he did something less than legal, but Sid was sure it would be worth it.

Edgar could feel and see that they were slowing down. The gentle bounce that Edgar felt as they walked was decreasing in frequency, but also getting heavier, as Carter’s steps became heavier. The speed at which the scenery passed them by was also slowing down. Edgar knew he was lighter than someone his size usually was and that Carter was stronger than the average man while transformed, but he had been carrying Edgar for quite some time. The adrenaline from the fight must have left the other man’s body by now. As Edgar looked at Carter’s face he could see him growing pale underneath the dried blood. The man looked tired, looked sick even.

“I fell-” Edgar told him “-about 40 feet, in the pitch black. I should be dead, but the owl came instead.” He stopped talking for a moment, “Are you tired?” What would happen if Carter was no longer able to carry him any further? So close to town, but yet still so far. Would anyone come if they yelled?

“We’ll be there soon. Look, I can see St Mary’s!” Seeing the familiar sanctuary that was St. Mary’s gave Sid a little spark of energy that allowed him to move a little faster again. “We’ll get you to the vet and get you all sorted”

“Stop saying that, I’m not an animal,” Inspector Thompson sniffed, wriggling alarmingly again in Sid’s arms. The grumbling and whining was a bit annoying, but at least it meant the man was awake and aware. “People will see”.

“See what?” Sid asked, confused. There had been no real preamble to the inspector’s statement.

“Me,” the Inspector spat out. “Me transformed.”

“Ah,” Sid laughed. “I’ve got a hanky in my pocket you could drape it over your face like a celebrity going to court.” This was probably not something Sid should find funny, but given the circumstances it was an odd thing to worry about.

“Don’t.” Yes, it really was something Sid shouldn’t have found funny if the annoyed lilt of Inspector Thompson’s voice was anything to go by. “I’ll be ruined, my whole life will be over.”

“Look, it won’t be. You’ll be surprised by how accepting people can be. I’ll take you to the Presbytery, Father Brown will be there and we’ll get him to look. He dealt with Anima injuries during both wars. He knows what he’s doing.” Sid remembered every time those soft, gentle hands had held his damaged paws or carefully worked on his snout back in the bad old days. “Father Brown will see you right.”

“Wait, How do you know he’ll be there?” Inspector Thompson asked, slightly panicked. “How do you know where he is?”

“Ah, yeah, Mrs. M told me roundly not to come back this afternoon. She’s going over the receipt box with Father and apparently I am distracting. Father finds it boring, can’t blame him for that,” Sid laughed. “You been overeating, Inspector? You're getting pretty heavy”.

“Are you alright?” The inspector asked instead of answering the question about any sudden recent weight gain. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“Nah,” Sid lied. “I’m just… Look, nearly home.” Sid winced as he could feel his energy sap away with every step. “I don’t think that hanky is gonna cut it, you know. Them posh shoes and that suit,-” he stopped talking for a moment while his feet carried on heavily “-well what's left of that suit, will give you away if we’re spotted. Also, it’ll probably be best if you don’t retract that wing while you heal. You planning on hiding the entire time?”

Sid crossed the river Kemble at the wagon bridge on Lower Lane. He wasn’t worried about being spotted in Kembleford transformed, but he was well aware of the dried blood on his face and he was fairly sure that there was something fleshy caught under his right index claw. The dried blood had started to get really itchy and he didn’t think Inspector Thompson would take well to being asked to scratch at it for Sid. The Inspector’s previous complaints had made Sid well aware of his fear of discovery. When he had panicked about it earlier, Sid had nearly dropped him and he couldn’t afford it to happen again. Sid’s exhaustion made carrying the other man hard enough as it was without him moving around. The end of the path that led to the churchyard, an indicator that they were only yards away from home, had entered Sid’s line of sight when the first person spotted them.

Carter seemed to be barely aware, probably too focussed on getting to their destination, but Edgars hearing was attuned, sharp and clear. A groan passed his lips as the preconceived surety that he was ruined became reality. It was impossible for him to retract his wings as the damage was too great. He sagged in Sid’s arms again, nothing for it but to allow himself to be pathetically carried, nothing but an animal. The urge to cry was violently suppressed. If he was going through the life altering humiliation of being carried through town, he wasn’t going to add to that humiliation by crying. There was little he could control besides that. Nothing else from his lost dignity that he could save. The next person to see them was an older lady Edgar recognised from the wool shop. She stopped and stared. Her shocked stare made Edgar hide his head with his arm, a reflex, pathetic and childish, something his father beat from him, coming back to the surface. 

“Quit it,” Carter told him. “I’ll drop you and I don’t actually want to.”

At the edge of the graveyard Sid’s exhaustion was becoming a problem. Muscle acidification was starting to set in, making every step more and more painful. It also affected his arms, but not as much as they were still badgerfied. However, between them and their destination stood the gathering of the mothers’ union. A glance at St. Mary’s clock tower told Sid the time. School had just finished. Sid swore quietly. One of the mothers turned, dropping her bag, potatoes spilling down the hill. Another stared at Sid for a beat before hurrying off up the hill towards the police station. Sid suddenly hoped Edgar wasn’t too damaged or he was likely to face a murder charge at this rate. That horrific thought made him stumble as he got to the graveyard gate. It seemed that only sheer force of will kept them upright. They were so close. Only just past the church now, a walk he literally crawled most weeks after a fun night at The Red Lion. He took a steadying breath. Not far ahead of them he could see the back gate of the presbytery. The welcoming feel of St Mary’s churchyard, home, rolled over him. They were nearly home. If he dropped Inspector Thompson here they’d still be safe. Sid would normally have used the little gate, but he wasn’t sure he could manage it with the Inspector in his arms. Inspector Thompson groaned as Sid shifted him in his arms again. It wasn’t a loud groan and Sid feared that the man was losing consciousness. Should he have gone to the vet directly? No, that would have been even further away. They wouldn’t have made it. He shook that thought away. Through the main gate then and onto the gravel he walked. He wouldn’t make the back door, it would have to be the front.

Bridgette McCarthy had been sitting, explaining once more to Father Brown that receipts should all be kept, not just the ones he remembered. She also had to remind him again that keeping them in his pockets before they went for a wash would cause them to be lost, which created gaps in the accounts, which then would have to be explained. The front door banged, making her look up in irritation. It was not a knock. No, it was a kick and there was only one person brazen enough to kick against the front door of the presbytery. Hadn’t she told him to make himself scarce this afternoon?

“And what has that silly boy done now?” she asked Father Brown who gave her an amused shrug in response. It was clear that the Father was quite pleased with the interruption. With indignation Bridgette rose from her seat to hurry to the front door. It was better that she opened the door instead of Father Brown as he would indulge whatever Sidney had planned.

“SIDNEY CARTER, learn to knock with your hands!” she called while still in the corridor. “And furthermore, I told you not to come back….” As she opened the door she heard another voice, Inspector Thompson’s. Just what they needed. The Inspector’s presence either meant that Sidney got himself in trouble again or that someone got murdered. She groaned. “Sidney Carter, if you’ve been arrested again….” The next words she had wanted to stay got stuck in her throat as she took in the sight in front of her. Blood, torn clothes, wings. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish on land as she struggled to sort her thoughts.

“Alright, Mrs. M. I’m hoping Father is in,” Sidney panted, almost falling into her.

“FATHER,” she shrieked, trying to hold the two men up without success.

Chapter Text

Father Brown sat at the kitchen table, his hands tented in front of him. Unlike Mrs. McCarthy, he did not believe that Sid’s untimely arrival at the front door heralded bad behaviour, mockery or mischief. If Sid had returned when specifically told not to, the Father pondered, it probably meant he required something. Though Sid enjoyed getting Mrs. McCarthy worked up, the young man knew where the important boundaries were and church finances was one of them. An additional concern was that Sid had kicked the door and not just opened it himself. The Presbytery doors were rarely locked and Sid was well aware of that fact. Although the young man could be something of a rogue and this was certainly not the first time he had kicked instead of knocked, he would not do so without reason. In the past it had been because he had his hands full, with the exception of the times his hands had been bound behind his back. The sound of claws knocking against a door was one Father Brown was also familiar with thanks to Sid, but those sounded a lot different from a kick. With the expectation that something was wrong, Father Brown was ready to act when Mrs McCarthy shrieked his name. 

With hurried feet he moved to the small hallway leading to the front door. Knowing ahead that something was wrong did not really prepare Father Brown for the sight in front of him. The Father’s eye was drawn to Sid first due to his height and physical size. He was covered in blood and was dripping gore on the hall mat. The next thing he noticed was that Mrs. McCarthy was being pushed back by Sid’s bulk, obviously too heavy for her much smaller frame to bear. It was fatherly instinct that made the Priest act and put a hand out to touch the young man. He knew Sid’s Anima side could be triggered to turn terrifyingly violent under certain circumstances, circumstances that might have already occurred. The hope was that the Father’s hand would have a calming effect on Sid, would keep him in the present. 

It was then that he finally spotted the man in Sid’s arms, the reason why the young man had kicked the door instead of knocked. Huge owl wings sprouted from the man’s back. One  shredded, bloody and ruffled wing was draped over Sid’s back. Father Brown recognised the Kembleford Detective Inspector, Inspector Thompson. Usually he could work it out when someone was an Anima, but the Inspector being one had come as a surprise. Inspector Thompson had been in Kembleford for a year and the Father had not suspected anything while he had figured Flambeau out during their first meeting. How the man had been able to hide it so well and whether there had been any clues to it that the Father had missed were questions to ponder about later. What was important was that Inspector Thompson clearly worked very hard to conceal it. The two men couldn’t have gotten to the Presbytery without going through town and thus something truly awful must have happened for the Inspector to allow that to happen while his wings were on full display. The secrecy he had worked so hard to maintain would have been broken. Injury was the most likely culprit. The Inspector was clearly badly hurt, Father Brown could see his leg twisted oddly in Sid’s arms and the wing that was draped over Sid’s shoulder was probably too hurt to be retracted. Underneath all the blood and gore Sid had remained partially transformed. The young man gained muscle mass as he transformed, so it would make sense to remain so while carrying something heavy like a person. However, Father Brown could see how exhausted Sid seemed to be. He was struggling to stay upright even though the Father had seen him carry things heavier than the Inspector probably was from Montague Manor all the way to the Church on multiple occasions without signs of this much exhaustion. They couldn’t have come from much further than that as Sid had been at the Presbytery during breakfast. It wasn’t possible for Sid to have travelled that far and back since then. There was something damaged under all that gore and Father Brown needed to know what.

Sid was panting with his mouth open which allowed the Father to see the young man’s blood covered teeth. There were two ways the blood could’ve gotten there that Father Brown could think of. One was that Sid had gotten a wound inside his mouth and the other was that Sid had attacked something or someone with his teeth. The second would only happen if he had transformed fully, something he hadn’t done in company for years. Father Brown wouldn’t be surprised if he were the only one who had seen Sid with the face of a badger in that time. He had seen it emerge from a burrow a couple of times when he would visit Sid in the morning and no one other than Father Brown had a habit of going to Sid’s meadow that early in the day. The idea that Sid had possibly fully transformed in front of someone else, in front of someone whom he wasn’t close with at all, shook Father Brown. Most Anima weren’t actually able to do such a full transformation at will, only having it happen in extreme circumstances. Sid was actually the only one who could that the Father had ever heard of. This ability was something Sid would freely use in public around other people when he was younger, but these days Sid no longer did. It would’ve taken an extreme event for Sid to do so again.

The Inspector was asking weakly to be put down, begging Sid to put him down before he dropped him. If Sid had attacked the Inspector while fully transformed, the man would be incapable of talking and he certainly wouldn’t be so seemingly docile in the badger's arms. Which meant that other people had been present when whatever happened happened. 

Father Brown put his shoulder against Sid to manoeuvre him back to standing straight. This allowed Mrs. McCarthy to free herself. With his arm around Sid they created a human stretcher between them to carry the wounded inspector into the kitchen, a hold Father Brown had done during both wars. The Parish Secretary had hurried into said kitchen ahead of them and was fussing with a seat.

This chair was the one they dropped their burden in. Now that Sid was no longer partially obscured by the body of Inspector Thompson, Father Brown could see two ragged burn holes in Sid’s shirt. They were unequal and offset. It was not hard to recognise them as bullet holes. Rifles, not shotguns. If Sid had been shot without his thick and coarse badger fur he wouldn’t be walking and talking at all. Gunshot wounds in those places would’ve killed him on the spot. Which meant that the transformation must’ve happened before the shots were fired. 

Sid was shaking and pale, but he was still standing upright. However, the Inspector was slumped in the chair. With her hand to the Inspector’s head, Mrs. McCarthy tutted and sighed. No matter how much his heart ached to look after Sid first, Father Brown knew that Inspector Thompson had to be his priority. The man was clearly in a worse state than Sid.

“Sid, sit down” he said gently “tell us what happened”.

There was no verbal response from either man, but Sid’s body collapsed on itself after the words were spoken. Sid shrunk as he slid down against the twin tub. A smear of blood was left in his wake. Eventually he tucked himself by the sink, his arms hugging his knees against his chest. Allowing the two men their moment of silence, Father Brown bent down to carefully pick up the Inspector’s broken leg which made him squeak in protest. With an apologetic smile Father Brown rested the leg on the chair next to Inspector Thompson.

“That's a very bad break, Inspector.” Father Brown told him “The cottage hospital should be able to set it, I’m sure”. He walked behind the inspector and put a hand on the Inspector’s back where a double scapula was evident to assist with flight. When he pressed on the spot with a firm, but gentle, hand both wings fluttered, including the torn one. Inspector Thompson gulped in response. “But I’m afraid your wing will need a vet”

“That’s what I told him. No human Quack’s gonna know how to treat a wing with a gunshot wound” came a weary voice from the floor.

“I’ve seen similar injuries. If the wing had just been out of place, I could’ve reset it, but you will need someone who understands the physiology of flight to remove the bullet, I’m afraid” Father Brown consoled. “Do you have a specialist you see?” 

“I..I…” Stuttered the inspector in response, close to sobbing.

“He doesn’t see a vet Father” Sid explained. “He’s too human.” Something of the young man’s irreverent humor seemed to have survived despite his exhaustion.

During the initial triage, Mrs. McCarthy had bustled to the pantry to retrieve a jar. A jar which Father Brown and Sid recognised as the one containing her homemade soup. It was a creation which bore some similarity to Brown Windsor, but as far as Father Brown knew, nobody had ever actually asked what she put in it.

“Do I get some, Mrs. M?” Sid asked hopefully as she emptied some of the jar into a pan on the hob and lit the tiny stove. Another knock sounded from the front door at the same time as Mrs. McCarthy turned to scold him, cutting her off before she could even start. The knock was firm and most likely done with a hand instead of a foot. Father Brown turned his head to look at Sid whose head had shot up. “Police” Sid said quietly with fear and a slight note of resignation. Someone had probably gone down the station when they had seen Sid carry a winged Anima to the Presbytery while covered in blood. It was a rather understandable action. Whether this person had been able to identify Inspector Thompson remained to be seen.

“I’ll go,” Mrs McCarthy said as she looked between the three men in the kitchen. Father Brown watched her go, his mind a whirr. He looked at Sid, the young man he thought of as his own, who was slumped, bloody and exhausted, in the same spot he would hide as a small child. These days Sid could no longer fit his entire body underneath the sink. Sometimes it was hard to imagine how short he used to be. Father Brown wanted to tell him to run or to go to the bathroom to clean up before the authorities saw him, but there was no way Sid, with all his skill at disappearing, would be fast enough to leave the kitchen without being seen. Even if it were possible, Father Brown didn’t know enough about what happened to be sure of what was actually the smartest thing to do. The only time that Sid had been violent was years ago, when he had been recovering from his National Service. The idea that he might snap seemed ludicrous to anyone who knew him. However, the bullet holes in his shirt and the blood on his teeth implied that this was a possibility. The punishment Animas received when they harmed someone while snapped and fully transformed, no matter the circumstances, was not a kind one.

Underneath his hands, Father Brown could feel Inspector Thompson tense up as they heard Mrs. McCarthy open the door and Sergeant Goodfellow’s voice came down the hall. It was understandable that the man would be worried about his colleagues, the men he worked with every day, seeing him and passing judgement on him for being an Anima. It was a relief that Sgt. Goodfellow had come to investigate, because at least he could always be relied on to be friendly, concerned, professional and gentle. That he would lend an ear first before doing anything else. There would be a chance to explain the situation with Sgt. Goodfellow in charge. Unlike, Father Brown thought idly, the man in front of him who was usually more arrest first and ask questions later. If Inspector Thompson had come into the kitchen and found Sid covered in blood, the handcuffs would be on before he’d said “hello”. Sgt. Goodfellow entered the kitchen with a slight intake of breath. Behind him a Constable gasped much louder and quickly covered his mouth with his hand.

“Ah,” said the policeman almost casually “well, what's been happening here then?”

“Would it be possible for the Constable there to run up to Dr. Sinclair’s and tell him there will be an Anima with a gunshot to their wing and a broken human leg? Both on the left side of his body and the bullet entered the wing from behind, no exit wound.” Father Brown asked with a similar affection to casualness.

“Constable Anders,” Sgt. Goodfellow turned, “go and warn the vet, tell him the Inspector is A+”. They all watched as the young man turned tail and left, closing the front door behind him. Multiple people in the room could be heard releasing their breath.

“Thank you Sergeant, I think on balance we might be better off keeping the salient facts between us for the time being?” Father Brown sighed. “Sid?”

“The vet,” Inspector Thompson sobbed weakly. “I don’t need a vet, I’m human.” His eyes met those of his concerned Sergeant “I’m human”

“With respect Sir,” Sgt. Goodfellow smiled “you’re much more than human, and” a cough “I’ve seen you flying about at night, it’s, well, let's hope we can get that wing sorted”.

“Did everyone watch me fly?” Inspector Thompson sobbed “I thought I was careful?” with closed his eyes he rested his head in his hands.

“I haven’t, Inspector. You had me fooled.” Were the words with which Father Brown tried to console the Inspector.

“Mr Carter, are you alright?” Sgt. Goodfellow asked as he walked towards the young man. In response to the policeman’s approach, Sid shrank back further beneath the sink. It was clear to Father Brown that there was no ill intent behind the Sergeant’s action and thus he tried to encourage Sid to allow Sgt. Goodfellow to come closer. 

“Sid, let the Sergeant check you for any potential wounds.” 

“I’m fine, none of this” Sid waved a weary hand, now with fingers instead of claws, but still with pads and chunkier than it should be, over his body “none of this blood is mine”.

“You’re clearly hurt though” Father Brown insisted as behind him Mrs McCarthy fussed with her soup.

“I’ve had worse” Came Sid’s groaned response as the policeman put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m just tired” he said, trying to be reassuring, which could perhaps have worked if Father Brown hadn’t known him as well as he did and if he hadn’t been wincing.

“Right,” A steaming bowl of soup appeared in front of the Inspector as Mrs. McCarthy took charge. She tutted at the man’s scratched face and ripped clothes. On a normal day she would’ve told the man to clean up first if he wanted any soup, but this was not a normal day. Her hand hovered over him for a moment before she aborted the movement to pet him. Instead she turned to the young man sitting on the floor. “Sidney, sit at the table please. I’ve told you before you can’t eat down there. It’s not hygienic” Mrs. McCarthy might’ve let the ‘clean up before food’ rule slide, but it seemed that there were still limits.

“Yes, Mrs. M” Clearly Sid was aware of those limits as he rose gingerly and sat on the chair Sgt. Goodfellow had pulled out for him. A bowl of soup was placed underneath his nose and it was clear to Father Brown that he was fighting the instinct to swallow it down straight from the bowl. Remembering the manners Mrs. McCarthy had drummed into him, Sid picked up the spoon gently in his oversized hand. 

Mrs McCarthy sat down herself while Father Brown pulled up the chair to sit beside her and Sgt. Goodfellow stood by Sid, continuing to give him a once over. All three of them watched the two men eat their soup and waited for one of them to start explaining the situation.

“Well, is nobody going to answer the Father, and tell him what's been going on?” Mrs McCarthy scolded, much to Father Brown’s amusement. She was clearly no longer satisfied with waiting in silence for them to start on their own.

“Actually” Sid slurred through a mouthful of hot soup “I’d like to know that as well?” The curious glances from the others in the room were answered as he continued, “I came in at the end. Got no idea what was happening before I got there?”

Everyone in the room turned to look at the Inspector who had closed his eyes in resignation. Realising that the Inspector was about to start talking, Father Brown gently, oh so gently, rose from his seat and walked behind him. Timing it for when the man started talking, he carefully touched those beautiful, soft feathers and placed them straight in an attempt to access the wound without injuring him further.

“It had been such a lovely day today…”

Edgar walked through Kembleford enjoying the late spring sunshine. After a long, cold winter it seemed like the earth was awakening. The smell of soft mulchy earth and greenery wafted from overspilling gardens and the freshly cut lawn of the bowls club. Everything was coming back to life and everywhere he turned were blossoms and blooms. Looking up into the trees where the new leaves and buds were starting their summer canopy, he could feel a desire hit his stomach. The desire to be above those trees, to see the spring greenery growing beneath him and to feel that spring breeze that was tugging at his stiff collar under his outspread wings. A wistful sigh passed his lips. But even though he could not give into his desires, he still felt elated, light and good as the sun shone down on his upturned face. His flight the night before had been exhilarating; he had glided high above the village, all the way to Hambleston and back. He still retained the feel of that flight, feeling freer than normal. Tiredness hadn’t even come for him today like it usually did after a night of flying. A small smile graced his lips. This really was a lovely day.

Edgar walked through the small High Street and up towards St Mary’s. Its ever-present clock tower informed him he had some time before he should be back at the Police Station to attend to the afternoon reports. He shared a smile with two pram-pushing women as he passed them and waved at the lady from the wool shop who had sold him a lovely thick wool to send to his mother just the week before while commenting it was the colour of his eyes. Edgar could cope with flirting from the slightly more matronly paragons of the village, it was the younger ones he tried to avoid. Thoughts of flirting made his mind wander to the topic of the Countess of Montague and her smirking chauffeur, both as bad as the other when it came to flirting. He didn’t have long to ponder the two while he walked down towards the weir, where the pleasant tinkle of the River Kemble falling often soothed his soul, before he was accosted by two men. They weren’t local. The Kembleford area was small enough that Edgar knew most of the local faces, if not their names, but he had never seen the two before. A couple of dogs accompanied them and they were dressed in the tweed of a country hunter. Both men smiled pleasantly as Edgar stopped at their call. One of the friendly hounds approached and Edgar was more than happy to pet it. 

“Are you the Detective?” one of the hunters asked. He was slightly shorter than his companion and had brown hair that only barely peeked out underneath the flat cap he wore.

“Erm Yes, Detective Inspector Thompson, that’s me” Edgar responded, his smile still gracing his face. “How can I help?”

“We’s see something in the wood, just over there” the second man told him, his London accent was obvious, as he pointed towards the forest. With a scratch at his own head, the man dislodged his own cap and revealed the patchy dark blond hair underneath it. “Didn’t we, bruv?”

“Weird, definitely,” the better-spoken hunter agreed, “we were on our way to find you, but it seems you found us first?”

“What is it that's wrong?” Edgar asked, still patting the dog.

“It's weird, hard to explain, we’ll show you” the taller man smiled at his brother as he spoke, “it's not far”. With a smile, Edgar rose to stand upright. The dog he had been petting was clearly not happy that he stopped. He removed his jacket. It was a lovely day and a walk in the woods could be pleasant. Because his mind was in the clouds, he missed any and all signs that things were not as they seemed.

With his soup and Sgt. Goodfellows examination finished, Sid took himself back to his corner. He flopped onto his back. His 6ft2 of very human distress spread on the cool floor. The chill probably helped to calm him, Father Brown thought. Sid closed his eyes as the Inspector continued to talk, his own soup barely touched. Mildly encouraging nudges had come from Mrs. McCarthy which Sid and Father Brown wouldn’t have dared to ignore, but Inspector Thompson was clearly distracted. 

“I feel so stupid” The Inspector’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’d never met these men before, how would they even know I was the local DI?” There was a snort from the floor. “Because you smell like a copper”.

“Go on Inspector,” Mrs McCarthy soothed, “ignore Sidney”.

“It's all my own fault, I’m a policeman I shouldn’t be so easy to trap” he swallowed.

“Inspector-” Father Brown started and stopped. What could he say if he still had no idea what had actually happened? For Father Brown to give the Inspector any true words of comfort he really needed to know more, needed Inspector Thompson to continue his tale, no matter how much self approach it cost. Though two hunters approaching the Inspector did create some implications to who was behind the two holes in Sid’s shirt and the bullet lodged in the Inspector’s wing.

“Stupid” The Inspector said again. “They train us for this sort of scam”.

“Look,” the voice from the floor chimed in again, “even if you clocked it was dodgy, no way could you know how fucked up them pricks were.” Sid sat up, “fucking sickos”. A chill ran down the Father’s spine as he listened to Sid spit out those words. He would not have used those words lightly and Father Brown didn’t like the implications they brought to the motives of the hunters. Mrs. McCarthy’s admonishments of Sid’s use of swearwords were a good distraction however and Father Brown took it to explore the location where the bullet was lodged in the Inspector's wing. The man shrieked in alarm at the sudden pressure, a squawk that was certainly more bird-like than human.

“My apologies Inspector” Father Brown said mildly. “Do go on with your tale.”

“We were quite far into the woods. I could no longer see St Mary’s for the trees and the sound of the river had died completely when they stopped. I knew something was wrong, but still I hadn’t grasped what they were doing…..”

There was nothing there, not even a clearing. He walked ahead a little as he tried to see what was so weird about the place the hunters had stopped at, “So what did you have to show me?” Edgar asked, peering through the trees in front of him. Had the hunters misremembered where they had seen this odd thing? His heart missed a beat as he heard two heavy clunks and rattles behind him. It was a noise he had come to recognise in the year he had lived in Kembleford. It was the sound of bolts in rifles being drawn forward for firing. He was proven correct in his identification of the noises when he turned sharply and saw two rifles levelled at him. “What?” he murmured, his mouth too dry to speak properly.

“Fuck me, that was easy” the taller of the two hunters laughed. “Piece of piss, fucking dumb shit animals”. Edgar’s eyebrows furrowed, he wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t an animal. Oh, no, they couldn’t know right? How could they possibly?

“Go on boy, take a good heavy sniff of him” the shorter hunter addressed the dog Edgar had been petting minutes earlier. “Gonna get some tasty meat out of this later”. Meat? What in the world were they planning? Edgar’s heart had started beating a little faster when he saw the rifles pointed at him, but now panic was starting to set in.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I am a serving police officer” Edgar started. That must mean something, right? Criminals tended to be more careful with policemen, aware that their law enforcement colleagues did not take kindly to one of their fellows being harmed.

“Yeah right, tweety bird” the taller hunter laughed. “Jobs are for humans, not animals like yourself. You might have others fooled, but not us. Now, we don’t want to hurt you, we just want your pretty arse for our wall”. Edgar wanted to tell them that he worked hard for his position, but he knew that it wouldn’t matter a jot.

“We do want the sport though, Bob” the shorter hunter clarified.

“Oh yes, good sport on a tweety bird I reckon. It looks like it keeps fit, well trimmed”. Were they.. Were they discussing hunting him for sport?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I think you’ve made a terrible mistake. I am a police Detective” Edgar tried again. Panic surged through his body, cold sweat accumulated on the back of his neck and his knees felt weak. The whole scenario felt like a nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from. 

“Oh we know all about you, Tweety, your good buddy Max Greeves told us all about you. Told us where to find you and everything. Told us about the marks on your back. How they implied you had pretty little wings” the taller hunter smiled, his ghastly grin fixed in Edgar’s vision. Max, he thought, Max had sent these men, surely not. He shook his head against the idea. Max might’ve expressed great disgust for Anima when they parted, but this kind of cruelty seemed far beyond what Edgar felt possible for the man he had once known so well.

“Now we want your pretty wings. So, Inspector,” the shorter one used the word sarcastically, “you have a chance to run”. Edgar didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped his jacket and ran, the laughter that followed him spurring him on.

“Wait,” the heckler from the floor interrupted the Inspectors monologue, “who the fuck is Max Greeves?”

“Language, Sidney” came the admonishing voice of Mrs. McCarthy. Some things never changed no matter the circumstances.

The inspector coughed “he was friend”. The way that the Inspector said those words and the look that crossed his face were things that Father Brown took note of. He knew of the type of friendship the Inspector actually meant, but couldn’t talk about. “During my service” he swallowed. “He found out what I was.” A bitter laugh. “Obviously, our friendship, it ended badly. Didn’t like animals masquerading as humans.”

Father Brown’s eyes rested briefly on the young man on the floor, who had a few friendships of that sort over the years, and knew there was definitely more that the Inspector wasn’t, couldn’t say. His heart went out to the man. To be rejected for something you can’t control by someone so close. There was one situation which the Father could think of during which this Max Greeves, a special ‘friend’, could have seen the tattoo-like markings all Anima had without having seen the wings. The pain of being dehumanised in such a vulnerable position. Though Father Brown believed it to be an important subject to explore, an important subject to make sure Inspector Thompson knew he wouldn’t be judged for by the Father, it didn’t take priority right now. 

“I know the rest,” Sid said suddenly, sitting up while wincing. “I smell like a butcher’s and” his fingers brushed lightly together “I really need to wash my paws”. Most of his weight seemed to be on the twin tub as he hoisted himself up. A moment passed as he got his balance, swaying slightly as he did so. “Fuck me.” The whisper was not quite silent enough for Sid to not get admonished by Mrs. McCarthy for a third time.

“Mr. Carter” Sgt. Goodfellow moved to catch him, concern clear on his face. He was probably one of the few people large enough to take the young man’s full weight.

“It’s alright, Sergeant” Sid nodded. “Mrs. M’s magic soup has done its work.” His smile was a little stiff. Considering that he really did look a fright, Father Brown decided it was best to let him do as he wished.

“Alright, go and sort yourself out,” he said with a kind smile.

Sid climbed the familiar stairs out of sight from the kitchen. It was not an easy trip as his legs and arms were heavy and didn’t want to obey him. A steadying breath made pain shoot through him. His chest hurt from where the bullets had hit him and it was painful to breathe. He was in a mess and he knew it. Finally, he got to the bathroom and closed the door firmly behind him. His first course of action was to walk to the mirror to assess the situation for himself. Back in the kitchen he had tried to put a hand through his hair, but it had gotten stuck where dried blood had clotted his hair together. When he stared at himself in the mirror, he almost stepped back. It was honestly surprising that none of the witnesses had screamed when they saw him. Sid had known that there was blood on him, but the extent of it was not what he expected. His face was covered in dried blackish blood, much darker than he had imagined based on how itchy it was. From his hair to his neck not an inch was clean. Sid pulled the scarf from his neck, revealing the scar there that he usually covered at all times, but the ragged material was soaked in gore and he would have to do without it for now. To avoid agitating his chest any further, he tried to undo his shirt as gently as possible. Once he had pulled it off, hissing as the movement pulled at his chest, Sid inspected the holes. He’d been shot as a badger before, but never from such a close distance. Those previous times happened when hunters had been too far away from Sid to see his human parts while Sid had forgotten it was hunting season and he should probably steer clear. It had definitely hurt more than those previous times. The vest that he was still wearing was also horrifyingly covered in blood. The blood had obviously soaked through both layers. Who would’ve thought two hunters could contain so much blood? A pained whine passed his lips as he pulled his vest over his head. All three pieces of clothing were tossed into a corner. He’d bin them later. Even Mrs. M wouldn’t be able to do anything with them, not even turn them for rags. Bending over to remove his trousers and shorts was more painful and took longer than he’d hoped. At least they seemed to be salvageable after a good clean, not nearly as drenched as his shirt, vest and scarf had been. Sid was glad that he hadn’t been wearing socks or shoes as he didn’t know if he would have managed to get up again after removing them. Now naked, Sid stood in the bathtub. With the jug that usually sat on the edge of the tub he poured water over himself. As the water dripped down his body it turned red. Mesmerised, he watched the crimson tide swirling down the plughole. Sid wondered if he would ever get all the blood from him or if it would permanently stick to him as a reminder of the sin that he had committed. The blood continued to run down his body, down his legs like bloody rain. 

Father had read Sid the Homeric Poems when he was a child and his bloody bath reminded him of Agamemnon’s death. Murdered while taking a bath by his wife. But Sid had no wife who could cheat on him. Sid did not leave for war for ten years and return with a woman as a prize. Sid had not killed a daughter he did not have, to get the winds to favour him. No, he killed two hunters. It was not his own blood that filled the bathtub, but the blood of his victims. Agamemnon had been the victim in the bathtub, Sid wasn’t. The plagues of Egypt came to the forefront of his mind, when all this blood washed down the drain would the River Kemble itself turn dark claret? He was already marked by his Anima mark, the obscure image on the skin which showed his animal characteristics. Had he marked the village out now? Would the whole village become cursed by his action? An action he couldn’t truly remember. It had all become a blur in the animalistic haze that had descended upon him. An image of a terrorised face and the feeling of being threatened were the only clear things he could recall of the whole event. Sid closed his eyes. In a way it was worse, he thought, that he could not remember what happened. It made it seem like it had been done by someone else, an animal, a creature of violence. Heaven knew what he had done, heaven and Inspector Thompson. Inspector Thompson was probably telling the others about it just one floor below Sid. How long before someone came to put handcuffs on him?

He opened his eyes again and saw that the blood ran red from him still. Blood was all he could see now. It was everywhere, including his mouth. Sid spat in an attempt to get rid of the taste. In the mirror across from him, he could see huge black bruises starting to form underneath the rivulets of blood that were still flowing down his chest. Those bruises did explain why his chest hurt so much. At least, he thought, the bullets hadn’t pierced his skin. He was in enough pain as it was. 

Did any of the murderers Father managed to track down stand in their family bathrooms with never ending pools of blood around their ankles? Knowing that what had been done could not be undone? That those who they killed would never rise again? Because that’s what Sid was doing and he was, like them, a murderer. He may not have done so in cold blood, but he had done it and he had done it viciously.

The water that he poured over his head finally seemed to drain off him more pink than red. He could definitely still feel blood on him. Gritty, slimy, cloying blood. The smell of death dripped from him in droplets of burgundy and blush. Was there any perfume that could sweeten the air around him again? Or would he never be clean again? The part of his mind that sounded very much like Father told him that it was clearing up. That one day he would again smell more like earth than blood. That he killed those men in self defence. That he wasn’t a monster. That the hunters were. Sid knew Father had killed people in WW1. The older man had told him about it while trying to bring him home after his National Service. An attempt to comfort Sid with an example of a good man killing while under orders. Following orders may be unpalatable, you may want to confess, to clear yourself of the crime, but your conscience once you do so should be mollified. You were following orders, taught to do so without question, controlled by powerful people. Your guilt is the proof that you aren’t a monster, but that guilt should be with those who gave the order. 

However this time Sid had not been ordered to attack. Sid had done this himself. Yes, the training from his time in service had kicked in, but no monster had stood over him telling him to do what he had done. He shook his head, it had been self defence. They had been planning to kill him and the Inspector. The blood running down his body suddenly turned red again. Would he never be free? Free from that place? Free from that dark hole? He choked back a sob. He was a good man, Father always told him he was.

Sid finally stepped from the tub, concerned about wasting water on what may only be in his mind. His spare toothbrush, one of the many spare items Sid had at the Presbytery, was easy to find on top of the cabinet. His teeth felt gritty and despite spitting and rinsing water from his mouth, he still tasted blood, blood and raw meat. 

Occasionally, more often than he ever admitted to Father, let alone Mrs. M, some of the rabbits he routinely bagged to sell around Kembleford didn’t make it to his clients, didn’t even make it home. He’d get peckish and start snacking on bits of raw meat he would cut off with his knife. By the time he reached his caravan, he would discover that most of the rabbit’s meat was gone. Back in the days when he would transform fully at will, before his National Service, he’d eat it straight and warm from the kill. He had first done so when he had come to Kembleford during WW2, before Father had taken him in. Vague memories of digging around and finding a rabbit burrow. Sticking his snout in and scoffing the young rabbits he found inside to silence his growling, permanently-starving stomach. He had been ashamed, but for the first time in his life, he felt full. Mrs. M and Father knew of his habit of occasionally eating raw meat, Mrs. M had even slapped his hands in the past when he had tried to sneak some from her while she was cooking. But he had never told anyone about the underlying urge that compelled him to do so.

The feeling he had in his mouth now was worse than the fur and bone that would get caught in his teeth back when he killed rabbits with his mouth. The feeling was heavier, stickier. His toothbrush came out of his mouth bloody and he rinsed his mouth again. He opened the bathroom cabinet and found the little box of toothpicks Father Brown kept in there. The toothpick he used to work at his back molar, which was holding something fast. Sid hurt his jaw trying to get at it. When he finally freed it and spat it out into the sink, he saw that it was meat with a greenish material. It took a few moments for Sid to remember the hunting jackets the men he had attacked had been wearing and he realised that he had just spat out a part of one of them. This was human flesh, still clothed, from a victim he had partially devoured. Sid stood panting, looking at his bloody features in the bathroom mirror, and then rushed to the toilet, vomiting blood and flesh. Would he ever sleep again? Or had he murdered his own sleep like he had murdered those two men?

Edgar had nearly finished his tale. He told them about the mothers’ meeting, their stares and comments, and the woman who had run off and the spilled potatoes. His life was effectively over and he felt like he could cry. There was no way that everyone wouldn’t know he was Anima by tomorrow, if not sooner. Nobody wanted an Anima looking over their town. They would want him to leave, believing he was a freak and a danger.

“Now, that's just rubbish” Mrs McCarthy interrupted him, slapping the table in front of Edgar which made him jump. “I have lived in this village for nearly 30 years, and not once has any Anima been drummed out of it. I know that's the sort of thing that happens in some small places like Kembleford, but not here.” A laugh, “I mean, for goodness sake, you’ve seen Sidney parading around all claws and fur. If the people of Kembleford can cope with that, a very handsome pair of wings shouldn’t be much of a shock, should it?” Her indignation at the suggestion that their town could be so unwelcoming was clear from the way she huffed. “You’re just full of self pity and I don’t blame you. These horrible people must have given you a right scare and you’re all beaten up like this, but I tell you something Inspector; had you just told us of your special skills, we would have been proud to have you as our Inspector and these hunters wouldn’t have had a chance to get at you”. Speech done, she sat down opposite him. Edgar stared at her. That couldn’t be really true, could it? Sid was a special case, he had grown up in Kembleford, everyone had known him since he was small. There was also a difference between being okay with an Anima fixing your leaky tap and one being in charge of law and order in your town.

“Mrs McCarthy” he started.

“She’s right, Sir. I rockons when old Alf Sinclair had a look at that wing, you should keep them out. Dead useful for catching criminals I bet.” Sgt. Goodfellow made a swooping motion with his hand as he spoke. Oh, how many times had Edgar dreamed of catching criminals from above, swooping in silently to apprehend them? More times than he could ever hope to count. 

The last person in the room, Father Brown, was nodding in agreement. “I completely-” The ringing of the phone in the study interrupted the Father as he was about to voice this. The Priest smiled and rose to his feet, leaving Edgar with Sgt. Goodfellow and Mrs. McCarthy. They were still looking at him with parental gazes as if at any minute they were prepared to go through their speeches again.

As Father Brown answered the phone Edgar could hear one end of the conversation,

“Oh Dr Sinclair, yes..... Yes, he’s conscious…. A broken leg, no longer aligned, but no broken skin, and a bullet lodged in his wing, other than that scratches and bruises, mild shock….. Yes, Mrs McCarthy’s Special soup….. Well yes, as it happens Sid had some too…. Oh yes, of course I’ll send him as well”.

Edgar groaned “I don’t need the vet”. Where was Carter? The man had been all for going to the vet and now he had not returned from upstairs. “Why hasn’t Carter returned yet? What is keeping him so long?”

“Probably fallen asleep somewhere,” came the response from Mrs. McCarthy as she shook her head. She said it as if this was a regular occurrence and Edgar wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Falling asleep at random moments seemed to fit the type of person Edgar understood Carter to be, weird. “I really do need to take him to the vet as well,” she hummed lightly.

“We aren’t pets” Why did she talk like that? She just did this whole speech about being accepting! A frown formed on his face as he felt defensive on Carter’s behalf. 

“No, of course not,” her words interrupted by a chuckle. “It's just… I still see him as a little boy sometimes and, well, he does make a fuss sometimes”. Edgar looked up at the woman surprised. He had known Carter for a while now, a rogue, a thief and a chancer; it hadn't really occurred to him that to Father Brown and Mrs McCarthy, he was just their child. It wasn’t that she was talking about him like a pet, but that she was talking about him like a child. Edgar’s own mother did that with him sometimes as well and he had aged past being annoyed by it now. Before Edgar could apologise for his assumption, Father Brown reentered the kitchen.

“Right, Inspector, Dr Sinclair is ready for you.” Father Brown looked around the room, “where's Sid? I said we’d bring him up as well.”

“Still upstairs” Mrs. McCarthy patted the priest. “You and the Sergeant take Inspector Thomspon up to the vets. He really should be seen as a priority.” Turning to the two policemen with a smile, she continued, “I’ll bring Sidney along shortly. I’m sure he has just dozed off somewhere”.

Chapter Text

“Right we are then, Inspector.” Sgt. Goodfellow was talking to him, but Edgar was finding it hard to concentrate on what the man was saying. The pain was somehow worse now. Like red hot shots going through every part of him. The soup in his stomach had awakened something. Awakened his ability to feel pain. It had been snoozing, his body numb, and now it was rearing and ready to go. In an attempt to distract himself from the pain he tried to focus on what Sgt. Goodfellow was doing. He watched, still somewhat detached, as the Sergeant bent over. His body stiffened in response, expecting to be lifted again. Going against expectations, the Sergeant carefully manoeuvred Edgar onto his one good leg and allowed him to lean his weight on him. Of course, Edgar thought, this was  just a human man. Sgt. Goodfellow may be tall and broad shouldered, but he was no Anima. Nothing like the badger Anima with muscles enhanced through transformation that had held him before. “Lean on me, Sir,” Sgt. Goodfellow told him. His words brought Edgar back to the painful present again in which he was jostled into a half walk.

A little in front of the two, Father Brown walked, leading them down the corridor to the front door of the Presbytery. His head was hanging and Edgar wondered what the Father was looking at. A glance down revealed spots of blood along the tiled floor. Edgar realised with a grimace that those spots most likely came from him. The blood on Carter had pretty much dried when they arrived, but Edgar had probably still been actively bleeding. Bright sunlight entered the corridor as Father Brown opened the front door. His eyes closed in protest when Edgar lifted his head. During his time in the military, Edgar had quickly learnt how to deploy his owl eyes without also unfurling his wings, but he had never practiced the opposite. He regretted this as his owl eyes were much more sensitive to sunlight. What if his wings never retracted again and he also never managed to figure out how to have normal eyes with his wings out? Would he be unable to stand sunlight for the rest of his life or would his eyes adjust? Would he need the biggest reading glasses known to man to compensate for his extreme farsightedness? Would he ever be able to go out in daylight anyway? Would the looks and judgemental stares keep him bound to the night?

As they left the sanctuary of the Presbytery, Edgar could see people on Bell Lane to the church through squinted eyes. Bell Lane was an odd meeting place when no service is due. Where have all these people come from? he thought. What were they all doing here? Then Edgar saw Father Brown's face, which expressed both determination and disappointment. It was a scolding look. The Father was clearly unhappy that these people were there. Then it hit him, they had come to see him. People had seen Carter carry him through town and those people must have told others. These others must’ve wanted to know if what they heard was true, but had not been able to find an excuse to actually visit the Presbytery itself. They wanted to know if the Inspector really was an Anima, if he really was injured and the answer to the question even the initial witnesses wouldn’t have known, what had happened to him. Surely enough gossip already existed in this accursed village without them descending on him like a swarm of blow flies on the corpse of his life as it used to be. Did he really have to be the most interesting thing going on that day? Edgar sighed, in a way he knew it was. This wasn’t London where big things happened all the time and even in London the scene he and Carter caused would have raised some eyebrows. It was just that he didn’t like the attention, no matter how human it was to be curious. 

His reverie was broken by the appearance of a black, fluttering wing. It blocked the sun and allowed him to blink in relief. Had another Anima revealed themself to help him? When his eyes had properly adjusted he realised that of course no further Anima had appeared, but that the good Father had opened his umbrella. Edgar also realised that the umbrella did not just shield him from the sun, but also from curious unlookers.

“Did you know, Inspector,” Father Brown told him cheerfully, “when out in the world on my travels, I have often occasioned to use my trusty brolly to shield my own eyes from the sun and it occurred to me that if my own eyes were better suited to night, the afternoon sun of Kembleford might be a little sharp.” A light chuckle followed the Father’s statement and Edgar gave him a curious look. The Father often spoke of his travels in a sort of distracted way, never dwelling on them for long. Although Edgar had heard him mention cities across Europe, the far and near east and even the Americas, it had never occurred to the detective how well travelled the little priest must be. The man was so perfectly at home in Kembleford that it seemed suddenly incongruous that he must have stood on desert sand and under burning suns. Edgars own travels must pale in comparison to what the Father had experienced. Edgar suddenly wanted to talk to him, to sit down with this man who had always seemed like an irritation and learn his secrets. What had he learnt about human nature by observing it through so many different cultural lenses?

With Father Brown diplomatically defending Edgar from the stares of curious villagers with his body and umbrella, Edgar’s mind wandered back to what Sgt. Goodfellow and Mrs. McCarthy had insisted upon in the Presbytery kitchen. They had insisted that the nature of the Kembleford residents was an accepting one. Were they right that his secret being revealed might not be life and career ending? That they would perhaps accept an Anima policeman? Edgar had not heard anyone shriek as the three of them passed. Nor did he hear any titters or other scornful sounds. In fact, all he’d heard was a gasp. A gasp could be of concern, concern for their Inspector, or perhaps fear of what had attacked him. The tiniest sparkle of hope lifted his fragile heart. Hope that perhaps he could be happy, free and accepted. A dream he had never even dared to dream of before. If Edgar was going to remain their inspector, he should say something to assure the town’s folk. His mind whirred to his desk. Perhaps he could prepare a statement, a reminder that strangers in the area may not always have their best interests at heart or a careful reminder to children not to speak to strangers. Edgar felt the ground change underneath him. It changed from the uneven path of Bell Lane to the smoother main road. Beside them Edgar could see the priest keeping pace, ready to help Goodfellow with his burden like Simon of Cyrene in this Mummery.

“I must admit to some jealousy, Inspector,” The Father said in his jovial way. “I have often dreamt of the power of flight, to take wing on a summers day and feel the thermals under soft wings.” A chortle “I should imagine the feeling of freedom is unparalleled to the human experience”.

“Yes,” Edgar agreed quietly. “I… It's… It's the only time I feel… me”. Silence returned for a moment and Edgar felt small and defeated.

“It’s important to have an outlet. Today I thought that with the weather so nice, I would have liked to go over church finances in the garden, but Mrs. McCarthy quite rightly pointed out I would get too distracted. You see,” he dropped his voice as if imparting great wisdom, “I think my own, my real freedom is being curious. I need to know, need to solve the puzzle. May that puzzle be,” a short laugh, “a murder or just where a particular ant might be going with a leaf. I feel the need to follow till I have the answer”. 

Edgar smiled, he knew this of course. No matter how much he bemoaned the priests meddling, he saw the same spark of curiosity that drove his own investigations. It was clear that Father Brown was trying to bond with him. Was trying to distract him with a crumb of friendship. Policemen are taught to create bonds with suspects in a similar fashion. That way you can get them to trust you and then you’ll have the edge. Edgar was fairly certain the Father’s motivations were of a kinder nature than that. 

“Ah, here we are now.” Edgar’s head shot up at Father Brown’s exclamation. He had walked past the vet’s a multitude of times and never really bore it any thought. To be brought here as a patient made him want to weep, but the burning pain was becoming unbearable and the slight clinical smell that greeted them when the Father opened the door did offer the hope of relief.

Sgt. Goodfellow helped Edgar through the door as Father Brown stepped back and closed his umbrella securely and removed his hat. The waiting room was empty of any other patients and Edgar felt some sort of panic rise within him. This was it. He was truly admitting to he animal part of him. Was he betraying his mother by going to the vet? Her words that he was human, no matter his father’s words? That he shouldn’t let anyone tell him he was anything other than human? The friendly vet in his white coat and his younger assistant smiling with an efficient air beside the stern looking Constable Anders did help settle Edgar’s nerves a bit. Edgar had met the assistant, James Olsen, at a fete before. He was young, slim, tall and fair. The man had impressed him with his quiet professionalism and clear way of speaking. Mr. Olsen had spoken highly of his employer, how inspiring it was to work for someone so knowledgable and dedicated. The first impression Edgar got of Dr. Sinclair himself was that this was the most English looking man he had ever seen. If he had been asked to describe the average Englishman, he couldn’t have described anyone better than Alfred Sinclair RCVS. The man was of average height and build, his back was ramrod straight and his hands were clasped in front of him as if he was ready to spring to catch his patient at any moment. His hair was cut short and was mostly chestnut in colour with some greying around the temples. A pair of blue-grey eyes covered by thin square spectacles tracked Edgar with professional curiosity. This man would look instantly at home at any spot in Kembleford if it weren’t for the spotless scrubs and coat he wore, which showed the business he was currently engaged in. Edgar knew he had seen Dr. Sinclair before around the cricket pitch and at the shops, but they had never been properly introduced. With a brief nod from his superior, Mr. Olsen took Edgar’s weight from Sgt. Goodfellow. It was clear from how effortlessly he did this that Mr. Olsen was used to carrying heavy burdens. The carrying of patients was probably often left for him to do. But no matter how experienced Mr. Olsen was, Edgar could not help but feel bereft when the solid and reliable presence of Sgt. Goodfellow left his side.

“Well, Inspector,” Dr. Sinclair smiled. “We hope we are all prepared for you.”

“I’ll be off then, sir,” Sgt. Goodfellow nodded. “I’d better secure the scene and,” a look at Father Brown and a sigh, “well, you're in the best hands”. There was a reluctant air around Sgt. Goodfellow that implied that he didn’t really want to leave Edgar’s side and while Edgar didn’t really want him to leave either, they both knew that work had to take priority.

“Thank you, Sergeant”. Hopefully Sgt. Goodfellow, a very preceptive man when it came to emotions, caught Edgar’s full appreciation even though the words were short and clipped as Edgar hissed them through gritted teeth. The nod Sgt. Goodfellow gave him in return didn’t clarify wether the man got it or not. Well, at least to Edgar and Edgar was selfaware enough to admit that he wasn’t nearly as emotionally perceptive as his Sergeant. In an attempt to speak to Constable Anders privately, Sgt. Goodfellow took the man to one side. He must not have thought that Edgar being an owl Anima would’ve impacted his hearing as Edgar could still pick out the words clearly. “You’ll need to wait for the bullet. It’ll need to come to the station to be logged as soon as it's removed”. Even though Edgar could understand the professional need of those words, he was still unhappy to be framed as the victim in this way. 

Tuning his hearing to the conversation Father Brown was having with the pretty young woman behind the reception desk, he could hear that it had, surprisingly, nothing to do with the current situation. Father Brown was complimenting her on her recent floral display in the church and how innovative it was. Perhaps, Edgar thought, there was some truth in his Sergeant’s insistence that Kembleford was an accepting place. Perhaps things could remain normal even with him being a known Anima.

As Edgar was brought through to the examination room Constable Anders followed. The door to the waiting room was closed firmly behind them.

“Now,” Dr. Sinclair patted his examination table, “if you’d like to pop yourself up on here”. With Mr. Olsen’s help, Edgar gently, gingerly took a seat. Beside the examination table stood another smaller table that reminded him a little of a tall hostess trolley.

“What's this?” Edgar asked, pointing to it.

“Ah, well, yes, quite proud of this. Jim and I made this after Father Brown called” he patted the table which wobbled slightly. “You see, unlike the majority of my patients, you are both tall and wide, which means my usual examination space won’t quite fit you. So I’ve taken my instrument tray, extended it slightly, and screwed the top of my calf measure to the top, to support your wing while I work on it.” There was a professional pride present in the way Dr. Sinclair spoke and it gave Edgar the impression that Mr. Olsen had been right when he called the man dedicated.

“That's quite some work considering you hadn’t seen my wing.”

“Well, I do like a challenge,” Sinclair smiled and moved to stand behind Edgar. Expecting pain, Edgar stiffened, but it didn’t come. Turning his head slightly, Edgar could see that Dr. Sinclair had stopped and was staring at Constable Anders. “What are you doing here, young man?” he asked.

“Erm…” The Constable looked like a rabbit caught in headlights. Vaguely Edward remembered that Constable Anders had grown up on a farm and the Constable was probably used to watching the vet work on his animals.

“Sam, I don’t think the Inspector needs his hand holding and unlike with Daisy,” wasn’t that the name of the Constable’s prize heifer? “I do not require you to hold his halter while I draw off some milk”.

“I was told to wait for the bullet,” Constable Anders looked down and scratched behind his ear. 

“Sam, go and wait outside” Dr. Sinclair scolded. “I will call you when I have removed it” a pause, “Make an appointment with Miss Harlow for Daisy as well, it’s fly strike season”.

“Yes, Dr. Sinclair”. With those words he filed out and after a moment of calm with the door firmly closed, the vet finally put his hand gently on Edgars wing.

“Thank you for that,” Edgar said genuinely. “I… I didn’t need… I mean…”

“Not a problem Inspector, you don’t need someone you have to give orders to standing around watching you at your most vulnerable. On top of that, I go to my GP on my own and I don’t think you, an adult man, need any supervision either. Now, before I forget, the Hospital sent some pajamas and a gown for you along with the blood,” a sigh, “I’m not sure how we can put the shirt on, but fear not, I shall think of something”. He patted Edgar slightly. 

“First things first, Inspector. We will need to undress you at least partially,” said Mr. Olsen gently.

“It’s necessary for us to be able to take a good look, make sure we don’t miss anything,” Sinclair clarified. “But Jim here has suggested that rather than cut off your clothes, we just undo the seams, so you can get them sewn back together for you later”. A smile was sent in Edgar’s direction when Dr. Sinclair had moved in front of him again. “Would you like that?”

“Y-yes,” Edgar stuttered, looking down at his ruined suit. “That would be nice. I like this suit.” Frowning, Edgar picked at his waistcoat. “It would be good to salvage something”. Something heavy settled in Edgar’s chest. Something painful that wasn’t entirely physical. Even if his life as he knew it was ruined, though Sgt. Goodfellow and Mrs. McCarthy had insisted it wouldn’t be, perhaps his suit would still be salvageable. While Edgar had been talking, Dr. Sinclair had given Mr. Olsen the sign to carefully start undoing the seams of Edgar’s waistcoat with a stitch cutter. At the same time, Dr. Sinclair gave the wing a thorough examination.

“You’ll have to excuse me and the Heath Robinson approach. Not many of my patients come in wearing clothes,” Dr. Sinclair chuckled.

Edgar suddenly remembered the other Anima Dr. Sinclair treated. “Oh, yes, of course I must be your second.”

“Hmm, yes, Mrs. Tolliver has a very dapper Percheron who wears a waistcoat very similar to yours, but I haven’t had the need to remove it. Luckily.” Wait what? Did Dr. Sinclair just mention a waistcoat wearing horse instead of Carter? An unwelcome image of Carter stripping off before hopping on the examination table entered Edgar’s mind. He was already in physical pain, he didn’t need mental pain on top of that. 

His thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Sinclair pulled on his wing and made him hiss in pain. A wave of nausea hit Edgar and he shivered. Dr. Sinclair and Mr. Olsen exchanged looks. 

“Inspector, are you feeling a little light headed?”

“Yeah,” Edgar nodded, his whole body feeling shaky.

“Jim, ready with the IV,” came the quiet instruction from Dr. Sinclair. His previously jovial tone had turned serious, which probably had something to do with the blood pressure Edgar could feel falling. Edgar’s chest was now bare. Where had his dresshirt suddenly gone?

Dr. Sinclair carefully explained: “I need to X-Ray the leg, Inspector. Then I’ll remove the bullet. By the time we’re done with your wing the images should be done developing and we’ll know how to set your leg. Once we get your leg sorted, we’ll tidy up these other cuts and bruises. Does that sound like a plan?”

“Why not set my leg at the Cottage Hospital?” Edgar asked weakly. There was not much fight left in him, but he still felt the need to cling to what he believed to be his humanity. 

“Well, we could if you insist,” the vet told him kindly, “but you're already here and I’m very good with plantigrade mammals”.

“Planti-what?”

“Plantigrade or flat footed.” Dr. Sinclair placed his hand flat on the surface of the examination table. “It’s the way humans and animals like mice, bears and hedgehogs walk on their feet. Dogs and cats are digitigrade,” the palm of his hand left the surface while his fingers stayed flat, “and walk on their toes. Then there are ungulates like cows and horses who walk on their nails.” Finally only the tips of his fingers were still in contact with the examination tables, though his nails were clipped too short to touch it as well. “The bones shift around a bit, but it mostly stays the same, though horses’ knees are in their torsos basically.” Huh, that was pretty interesting. 

“What about birds? I’m not one, but.. Well.. You can understand my curiosity.”

“Oh, birds are extreme digitigrades.” There was a moment of silence before Dr. Sinclair continued, “Are you in a lot of pain Inspector?”

“No, it hurts,” he shrugged. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” the vet gave Edgar an odd look. “Only one of my other patients talk and thus give me verbal feedback on how they feel,” a pause, “Well two if you count Lady Greensleeve’s parrot. Houdini talks less than Sid of course”. 

It was getting really hard for Edgar to stay upright and he was slumping more and more, his usual straight back nowhere to be seen. Supported appeared in the form of Mr. Olsen. Gingerly he was moved back to a semi-stanting position, which allowed them to remove his trousers. Then they sat him back down. Mr Olsen remained where he was, supporting Edgar, as Dr. Sinclair grabbed a tapemeasure. Which was somewhat confusing, what did they need to measure?

“What?” the Inspector asked.

“We’re just looking at your wing. We don’t want it to trail on the ground painfully when we sit you in the wheelchair,” Dr. Sinclair told him. “We didn’t quite know how the wings would sit on your back, so we’re just trying to make sure you’re comfortable,” a smile, “The wheelchair has come over from the Cottage Hospital as well”. The non-physical chest pain from before returned. Dr. Sinclair and Mr. Olsen had thought of everything. All things that were outside of their usual. Going the extra mile for someone they didn’t really know and without being asked.

“Forgive me,” Edgar’s mouth felt dry and his voice was soft. “I wasn’t… Well, considering most of your patients don’t have feelings, I didn’t expect you to be so considerate.”

“Most of my patients may not be able to talk back, Inspector, but, I assure you, they all have feelings.” The tone with which Dr. Sinclair spoke made his words sound like an admonishment. Clearly the vet didn’t like people talking about animals in that way. The slightly tense air was broken when Dr. Sinclair smiled. “Now, Inspector, one of the reasons you’re feeling unwell is the blood you’ve lost. So we’re going to lie you on your front and set up some blood for you”.

“Thank you” Edgar sighed woozily as he was helped into a comfortable position on the examination table. Both his neck and broken leg were supported in what must be, Edgar realised, another improvised measure from Dr. Sinclair and Mr. Olsen. A sharp sting indicated that he was now also attached to an IV.

“You look like the sort of man who can be trusted to lie still for an X-Ray. I don’t suppose I’ll have to hold you down or sedate you, will I?” Edgar said nothing, wondering again about Carter's trips to the vet’s. It seemed that Dr. Sinclair took Edgar’s silence as agreement and continued talking, “I am hoping I won’t need to operate on your leg, you see, and if I can get a nice clear picture it will help a lot going forward.”

The way Dr. Sinclair spoke to him was something Edgar had come to appreciate. Being used to doctors who knew about him being an Anima talking down to him, it was quite refreshing. There was a quiet efficiency to it all and at no point did it make Edgar feel like he was seen as stupid. Perhaps Carter wasn’t so daft after all. Though it would take Edgar feeling extremely generous for him to ever admit this to anyone, let alone Carter himself.

Once the X-Ray was set up, Edgar was left alone as the Vet and his assistant hid away behind a wall.

“Nothing to worry about, Inspector. There's more radiation in my wife's jewellery, but it doesn’t do to get too many hits of it.”

Dr. Sinclair came back and Edgar thought of something. “How many Anima patients do you have?” he asked.

“Well, just Sid, and now yourself” he chuckled lightly. “What a thing to specialise in though. It’s sad people don’t find it fascinating. I’ve had some adventures with Sid. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you. Endlessly fascinating, but your wings they really are magnificent… Well, while the X-Ray is developing, shall we make a start?” 

With great care, Dr. Sinclair laid Edgar’s wing out on his auxiliary table. The wing didn’t actually really hurt anymore, Edgar was just hyperaware it felt wrong. The operating site was arranged in such a way that Dr. Sinclair could sit at wing height when necessary, which limited the need to actually handle the limb.

“Now, I think you’ve been pretty lucky here, Inspector. The bullet doesn’t appear to be close to anything that would delay healing. No major nerve or blood vessel involvement. I think once we’ve removed this nasty bullet and you can preen yourself properly, the healing will be straightforward.”

“Preen,” Edgar sighed. It always felt uncomfortable when his feathers were not in proper alignment. This discomfort had been pushed to the background by the pain Edgar had been feeling, but now it had returned. He really wanted to put all his feathers right, but he knew he couldn’t do that now and probably wouldn’t be able to for quite some time. It was a part of healing Edgar had not given any consideration previously and he already knew it was going to be very annoying.

“Preen,” Sinclair nodded. “If you’re in any pain or discomfort tell me. Jim will have the anaesthetics ready and we want you to remain still,” he looked up. “Ah, there he is now. Piccies ready Jim?” Huh? When had Mr. Olsen left the room? Edgar had not noticed it at all.

“Yes, sir. Clean break,” a smile, “and I have the new Lidocaine?”

“Oh, yes, Inspector, I think we’ll give you a healthy mix of good old fall-back pethidine and this new wonder drug we’re all excited for Lidocaine. Some Swedish chap has come up with it. Supposed to make you feel nothing at all. So you’ll have to let me know how that goes. I rarely get feedback in English,” Dr. Sinclair chatted happily as Edgar realised he was incredibly tired and sore and just wanted to sleep. Edgar’s arm was moved and Edgar felt several sharp scratches. Those scratches probably indicated drug administration sites, his logical mind extrapolated. However, it was a little hard to think too much about it, because if he didn’t concentrate on the inside of his eyelids, he was going to vomit. A slight tilt with his head allowed Edgar to see Dr. Sinclair working on his wing when he opened his eyes. Edgar felt somewhat detached from it all. At the same time he couldn’t feel what Sinclair was doing, but also he could. The whole room spinned when he shook his head.

“What are you doing now?” Edgar asked quietly.

“Well, I’m going to remove the bullet, but first I’m laying your feathers straight, so I don’t damage anything by accident, and because as soon as I do, I’ll need to pack the tissue, because wing has started to heal around the flesh already and I need to be fast and gently. I’ll make a very tiny nick with the scalpel here, and then, yes see the bullet popped right out very well done. Now I need to pack the wound. Jim, if you would, that's right, and now I’m going to clean, disinfect and stitch, surprisingly little blood, but I suppose that's a good thing. Then we can dress it nicely and we’ll see about this strap.” Dr. Sinclair looked up at caught Edgars eye. “Are you OK?” he asked.

“I think so?”

“You’re looking at me?”

“You keep talking,” Edgar shook his head. “What else would I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suspect Sid falls asleep or at least zones out?” he hummed slightly. “I’ve never had such an interested patient?” Did Dr. Sinclair usually just talk to himself? Or did he pretend his animal patients understood him? Was this for Mr. Olsen’s benefit?

“You keep talking to me. It seems rude not to listen,” Edgar murmured slightly embarrassed. He wasn’t sure what was even embarrassing about the situation. Dr. Sinclair had been talking and he had been listening. There was no social rule Edgar could think of that he broke.

“Oh, well, as long as you’re comfortable.” Dr. Sinclair continued to work for a moment in silence and then said: “Would you like a little snack?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have dried apricots and some biltong?”

“I am not a pet,” Edgar reminded him, sounding hurt. “I do not need treats to sit still.” Again his brain thought of Carter, sitting naked on the examination table while chewing on his treats, oblivious to the world around him. How human was the man's brain actually? Edgar wondered.

“I never said you were a pet. I might fancy an apricot. Jim?” The assistant went and got the jar, carefully removed an apricot slice and put it in his boss' mouth. Edgar watched the jar. The apricots did seem less pet like than dried meat, he thought, and his mouth did feel horrible and cottony

“I’ll have an apricot, please,” he said quietly. Another apricot got placed into his mouth as Dr. Sinclair started on the stitches. The second apricot had come as a surprise as Edgar hadn’t asked for it. When the tugging and pulling started, Edgar realised why snacks were such an important part of the Vet’s tool kit. It wasn’t painful, but it was certainly uncomfortable. If Edgar had had nothing to munch on to distract him, he probably wouldn’t have been able to remain still. His mind went to the badger man once more and Edgar wondered if he snacked on biltong and zoned out to remain still for Dr. Sinclair. 

When the stitches were finished, Sinclair kept the area sterile with a clean bandage and Mr. Olsen finished it off with a bright blue, over bandage which made Edgar stare.

“Sorry, this is the dullest colour we have,” Mr Olsen smiled apologetically. “Sid gets upset if we don’t let him have the lime green.”

“Chartreuse,” Sinclair corrected as he helped Mr. Olsen sit Edgar back up. “I think I’ve worked out this shirt.”

“You have?” How? Dr. Sinclair had been talking the entire time? When did he have the time to think about the shirt? “When?”

“Just now while I’ve been working. It’s been going round my mind,” a smile, “I think we can cut the shirt up the sides, drape the sides over you and then we can tie them loosely for you. However, we will need to that before we wrap the sling. So we’ll deal with your secondary injuries and abrasions first. Then we will set your leg.”

“Alright,” Edgar said with a nod.

Dr. Sinclair looked at his instruments. “Hang on, Jim, get this bullet to young Sam, will you.” With his finger Dr. Sinclair pointed at the bullet. As the door opened Egdar looked out into the waiting room and realised he must be woozier than he felt as he was sure he could see Constable Anders standing with a large flowery carpet bag. The door closed again, removing Constable Anders and what couldn’t possibly actually be a large flowery carpet bag from his line of sight, and Edgar found Dr. Sinclair in front of him cleaning his chest wounds with something Edgar assumed was iodine. The expected sting wasn’t there. Why wasn’t it there? Edgar was curious, but not nearly as curious as he normally would’ve been.

“The drugs?” he said quietly while moving his arm.

“Oh, yes, we’ll keep you nicely comfortable for a bit yet, Inspector,” Sinclair smiled. The vet was just finishing up with a rather nasty abrasion across Edgars pectoral muscle when he stared at the Inspectors left hand. “Does that wrist hurt?” he asked.

“It did.” The pain had disappeared a little bit after the drugs had been administered.

“I think you’ve sprained that, look at that bruise, lovely colour. I’ll bandage that up after the leg, I think we’ve got some nice blue bandage left,” a humm, “We can roll up these sleeves”.

Edgar watched as the shirt was sliced. He was starting to feel rather detached, like all of it was happening to someone else. Like he was watching a big screen flick. It was a rather odd feeling, but Edgar made no effort to make it go away. The shirt was draped over his body and Mr. Olsen secured it with a bright coloured tie that Edgar thought could’ve come from his mother’s dressing gown. It probably looked rather ridiculous, Edgar realised. His sliced shirt and bright bandages, sling, once he had one, and dressing-gown cord. A giggle passed his lips. He didn’t normally giggle. Was giggling a thing he did now? 

“Now this sling,” Dr. Sinclair told him, “is going to be very similar to a standard wing sling. It's going to imobilise the wing whilst supporting it. This means that your muscles aren’t doing all the hard work. It is, however, going to be much bigger than the normal wing sling. Even bigger than I thought, as I hadn’t been sure how big your wing would be.” Edgar felt the calm words slip off him a bit more now. A rather pleasant haze had descended upon him. The need to preen, his free wing had become somewhat impossible to ignore. Twisting his neck and arm, he started to pull his feathers straight. Everything else became background noise as he concentrated on his new task. 

Alfie momentarily stopped what he was doing and watched his patient preen in amazement. The Inspector had been so insistent that he was human when he’d been half carried into his waiting room. So indignant at any perceived insinuation that he was a pet, an animal. And here he was preening himself as carefully as any chicken Sid had brought in or fancy bird the upper-class ladies carried in gilded cages. This was the first time Alfie had seen a bird Anima up close and he marvelled at how Inspector Thompson’s neck moved. It was elongated and he would never have noticed the additional give had he not watched it up close. Was this something all bird Anima shared or was it related to being an owl Anima specifically? Would he ever meet another bird Anima and find out? The inspector’s shoulders seemed to separate to allow him access to his lower feathers. It was rather odd to watch something happening to the more human parts of his patient that would be considered cause for concern in a non-Anima. Being aware of owl anatomy, Alfie looked away from the wing to the Inspector’s ears. He noticed that much like owls, he had a larger difference in height placement between his ears than regular people. His hearing must be extraordinary. Turning his eyes back to the wing, he saw how Inspector Thomson brought his wing higher to reach the lower flight feathers. With great care, the Inspector pulled a small feather free and put it gently next to himself on the examination table. This is not just a human man in front of him any longer. This was most definitely an avian addition.

“You’ll need to come back and have those stitches removed,” Alfie told his patient. “By then I’ll have a plan to get you back flying.”

“Flying?” the Inspector asked while turning his head back. “Flying.” A dopy smile formed on his face. The drugs were really affecting him.

“You like flying?”

“Flying is everything,” a nod, “I.. it’s me, I have to fly.”

“We will get you flying.” At some point Sid had told Alfie about his instinctual need to dig and Alfie thought it was probably similar to how Inspector Thompson felt about flying.

“Now people know… I want… I think I want to fly during the day. Can you imagine Doctor? The colours? The breeze? The flying in bright sunlight? I could see the whole valley! It would be so wonderful.”

“Its sounds lovely, Inspector. I took a balloon flight once with Mrs. Sinclair. She was terrified of course, but all I could do was look and imagine being a bird. To think you can actually fly, really fly, it’s amazing.”

“Anytime I want,” Edgar said quietly and Alfie shared a look with Jim.

“Now, Inspector, we’re going to lay you down again and look at that leg of yours.”

“Be careful of my wings.”

“We will be very careful, Inspector. Don’t worry. We’re going to up the sedation and you can just concentrate on flying.” Alfie laid him gently on his front with Jim’s help and watched his free wing vibrate slightly. “That's the stuff, Inspector. Flying high above the valley.”

Edgar was enjoying this lovely wheelchair. It moved when he did, which was like having a very tiny car. How he had gotten into the tiny car, he couldn’t quite remember. Probably meant it wasn’t important. The enjoyment of sitting in the tiny car was real though. He especially enjoyed how fluffy his bum felt. It was almost like the time he’d produced tail feathers and had been so happy preening them that he hadn’t noticed his father coming to check on him. Those thoughts weren’t nice to dwell on, but he had loved having tail feathers and this was like it. Edgar’s current situation was like having tail feathers and a tiny car. The more morose thoughts he was having were pushed from his mind when he realised he was holding an apricot. He was pretty sure he ate the one he had and now he somehow had another apricot. It was nice to have another one, but he wasn’t sure where they were coming from. Had he regurgitated it? No, that wasn’t something he did. Someone must have given him one and then another one after Edgar ate the first one. The memory of who had given him that first apricot was escaping him. 

There were bandages all over him. They felt weird. Edgar would occasionally try and pick at them, try and preen the strange feeling away, but something kept stopping him. It was all very odd. After another failed attempt, Edgar looked up and saw Dr. Sinclair. The man was definitely saying something, but Edgar struggled to understand. It was something about his chest pocket? Edgar looked at his chest and saw that the shirt he was wearing had a chest pocket. That was neat.

“Right, Jim, can you prepare the shots?” What? That was not what Edgar had come here for.

“Shots?” Edgar asked, indignant. “I don’t need shots, I’m not a pet.”

“Not for you, Inspector” Dr. Sinclair called over his shoulder. Oh, that’s alright then. They must be for another patient. Were they for Carter? Any thoughts of shots left Edgar’s head as, to his delight, the little car moved again. Vroom vroom. The little car moved Edgar into another room where he saw another Constable, not Anders. What was his name again? The guy was relatively new. Something like bread, bread, beardsley, Beardsley “590 Beardsley Constable, H” Edgar smiled as he waved at 590 Beardsley Constable, H.

“Are you feeling better, Sir?” 590 Beardsley Constable, H stood and came over. His face was very high up. Which meant that 590 Beardsley Constable, H must be very tall.

“I have a very comfortable little car here, 590 Beardsley Constable, H. Where is my apricot?” It had been in his hands moments ago. How had it disappeared so fast?

“Sergeant Goodfellow sent me to pick you up sir.” Oh, that was nice of him. Sgt. Goodfellow was always so nice. He was really a good man, a good fellow. Goodfellow the good fellow. That was funny.

“Very good, very good,” Edgar responded. 590 Constable Beardsley, H nodded and walked around Edgar. Behind Edgar was Dr. Sinclair. Perhaps Edgar should listen to what they talked about, it was probably going to be him. His head turned and turned and turned to follow 590 Beardsley Constable, H, until his view was obscured by his own wing. It was really pretty as it wasn’t the bandaged one. 

Suddenly there was something making Edgar’s hand wet. It turned out to be a dog. Edgar loves dogs and was thus very happy to give this one lots of pets. Sid had told him that there were dogs to pet at the vet’s and he had been truthful! How delightful. However, this particular dog, Edgar knew. His name was Robbie! Robbie was clearly happy to see him too as his tail was wagging like there was no tomorrow. Maybe Robbie was a little too happy to see him, because he tried to climb into Edgar’s lap. “Hello, Robbie, don’t climb into my car. It’s very small. Do you like my little car? Also, there is already something in my lap?” There was a light bag in Edgar’s lap and he had no idea when and how it had gotten there. 

“Pant” said Robbie the Maxwell terrier.

“Inspector Thompson”, one of the small people in the waiting room addressed Edgar. Oh, he recognised these small people. Or was there only one and was Edgar seeing them three times? No, Robbie had three little people accompanying it. Edgar greeted the small person in response, it was the polite thing to do. 

“Inspector Thompson, are you alright?” The small person looked worried. Edgar didn’t understand why.

“Yes, I had an apricot. Actually, I’d like another apricot. Could you find where the apricots come from?” Small people should be good at finding small things and apricots were very small.

“Doctor Sinclair has the apricots,” one of the small people said. Oh, that was fast. Good job. He had been right, small people are good at finding small things. Edgar turned and turned and turned his head again, this time managing not to get distracted by his own wing. Dr. Sinclair was talking to 590 Beardsley Constable, H. After a few moments Edgar wondered why 590 Beardsley Constable, H had snacks and how he had been giving them to Edgar while he had been elsewhere.

“We all got snacks,” Something something, “Inspector Thompson,” came a voice from Edgar’s left. Edgar turned his head to where the voice had come from and saw Father Brown sitting on the waiting room bench with Carter’s head on his lap. They also had snacks. The voice had been too high pitched to come from either of them. 

“Carter, you have snacks. Also, you’re shaking.”

“Biltong, Thompson.” Biltong sounded nice. Why didn’t he have any Biltong? Would he like some? Yeah.. Oh, wait, he already had some. Huh, odd, how had he not noticed before? His reverie was broken by one of the small people thanking him. Edgar wasn’t entirely sure what he had done, but his mother had raised him to be polite so he responded with “You’re welcome”. 

One of the small people was looking at Edgar’s right wing. They couldn’t possibly be seeing the appendage at its best with how it was folded up so Edgar flapped his free wing and stretched it. There were oohs and ahs and the smallest person started to run around while flapping their arms. It was like they were pretending to be a bird. A bit like Edgar. But Edgar didn’t have to flap his arms, his arms remained human. He had extra limbs, like ants.

“Inspector Thompson, what's flying like?” one of the small people asked.

“Amazing, better than being in this tiny car with tail feathers,” he said. “I love it.” His mind was pulled to memories of flying which made him smile. But these small people couldn’t fly like him. So what were they doing here? “Why are you here? You aren’t really birds?”

“Robbie, needs his shots,” one of the small people told Edgar. “Do you get shots at the vet’s, Inspector Thompson?” Something cloudy kept Edgar from getting annoyed at the insinuation that the small person was making. Instead he decided to explain it to them calmly.

“No, pets need shots. I’m not a pet. I’m a policeman,” he insisted while shaking his wing. “I go to a Doctor just like you.”

“Mr. Sid,” one of the children asked, “why don’t you go to the regular doctors for your shots?”

“Yeah Mr. Sid,” Edgar giggled, “why don’t you?” Mr. Sid was a funny thing to call Carter. Your surname was supposed to go after mister, not your first name. Sid was not even really Carter’s first name, that was Sidney. 

“Can’t be bothered.” Carter’s wavy hair bounced as he spoke. It looked so soft and fluffy without any products in it. Would it feel just as soft as it looked if he touched it? Would he like to touch it? Yes.

“Robbie,” Dr. Iqbal called.

“Oh, bye, Inspector Thompson,” the small people chorussed. “Bye, Mr. Sid”.

And with those words the small people left. Edgar had liked them, they were nice. His mother suddenly came to the forefront of his mind. She was in London. His mother coming to Kembleford. Oh, wouldn’t that be nice? Robbie was also nice. Robbie was no longer demanding pets from Edgar.

“Oh, Robbie is gone?” Edgar felt bereft. “Can’t Robbie stay with me?”

“No, Sir,” 590 Beardsley Constable, H said. “We need to go and the dog needs its shots.”

“I want a dog,” Edgar said quietly. “Policemen can have dogs, some are police dogs, I could get Kembleford a police dog and he could sleep in front of my living room fire and have snacks.”

“Yes, sir.” 590 Beardsley Constable, H had a nice smile. Edgar laughed as his little car started to move again and waved at Father Brown, Carter and Constable Whittley as he passed them.

“Oh look it's still daylight, that's nice. I like the sun. I want to fly in the sun. Can you fly? I love to fly….” Edgar continued down the road towards the police cottage, oblivious to the Kembleford residents staring at his huge flapping wing and stoned ramblings.

Chapter Text

Bridgette stomped up the stairs of the Presbytery irritated. She had seen how tired Sidney was, but this really wasn’t the time for one of his inconvenient naps. Clinging to irritation like a drowning man clings to a buoy was all she could do to keep herself from thinking of the alternatives. That Sid couldn’t come downstairs. That Sgt. Goodfellow had missed something major during his examination. That he had been poorlier than he had looked. The blood wasn’t his, he had insisted on it, but she had seen his pale skin underneath and the hiss that had escaped him when he tried to stand up. She prayed he wasn’t seriously hurt and hung on to her annoyance. Sid was a devil for falling asleep before dinner or having little naps in odd places at odd times. If asked, Bridgette would blame his lifestyle: half tomcat, half firecracker. He was always on his way somewhere to do something at all hours of the day or night. Privately, she would sometimes wonder if it was just that the Presbytery was one of the few places he allowed himself to relax. That he would arrive home and rest. Even these days Bridgette had found him curled up in the strangest of locations like the adorable child he once was. One time she had even found him in a pile of towels in the bottom of the airing cupboard. Therefore, Sid taking a nap would be something ordinary in this whirlwind of an unexpected situation. A glimmer of normalcy.

Once Bridgette reached the bathroom door after walking down the corridor, she knocked gently on it. There was a possibility the boy was just having some time to himself, without necessarily being asleep. “Sidney?” she called lightly. Instead of the silence she expected, or his voice replying something verging on the inappropriate, she heard light sobbing. Surely he can’t be that injured. What on earth could make him cry like that? Alarm bells rang in her head and she felt her heartbeat picking up.  

“Sid?” she called again while she tried the door. Finding it unlocked, she pushed it gently. What Bridgette saw made her gasp. The bathroom looked like one of the more gruesome crime scenes Father Brown investigated. However, she barely noticed this. Her eyes were caught by the wet, rouged, naked man on the floor who was shaking and hugging the toilet bowl. Quiet tears were running down his face. “Sidney?” She rushed over and saw the toilet was gory, filled with black and red blood. Her initial fear was that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Had her boy been bleeding internally? Had she allowed herself to become distracted and not see that he needed her more? “Sidney? Sweetheart?” she queried, hand to his clammy head.

“Not mine,” he cried. “I… I ate…” Sobs wracked his body, making it impossible for him to continue speaking. But he had said enough. It was now clear to Bridgette that the contents of the toilet were not from some ghastly internal injury, this wasn’t his blood. This was evidence of what he’d ingested when he had defended himself and the Inspector from those horrible men. The truth was both better and worse than Bridgette’s initial fear. No matter how much Bridgette loved Sid, she wasn’t blind to his bad habits. Bad habits that included snacking on raw meat. When he was younger it was even worse, he would eat animals moments after he killed them. Him consuming some flesh from the men he had just killed while not entirely in his right mind, wasn’t such a large leap of logic when one knew about that particular bad habit. But it was different from what he had done in the past. This was cannibalism.

Bridgette took him into her arms. She didn’t care about how bloody or wet he was and whether her blouse would get ruined. She didn’t care that he was naked. The only thing she cared about was the comfort she could give her boy. This man who people saw as a rogue, a thief, a rake and a spiv, was at heart just the same vulnerable little boy who had come to the Presbytery all those years ago. Even Bridgette herself sometimes forgot about all the hurt and pain that lay in Sid’s past. The bright clothing and cheeky smirk distracting from the times when he hadn’t been like that. But now, as he sat naked and sobbing on the floor it was plain to see. That little boy who just wanted to be happy and loved, his fragile heart carried on his sleeve.

“Come here.” His head she held against her chest with one hand and she stroked his back with the other. “I know, I know, it’s alright.” Sobs continued to wreck his body as he grabbed the back of her blouse with fists. He wailed like a child. With a lump in her throat she remembered the way he had clung to her when they had first met. When he had sobbed and cried in the night for his mother, the woman Bridgette later discovered was probably dead, but whose role she had taken on instinctively when Sid had needed it from her. She had never seen herself as maternal before that day. In fact she had believed that God had intended for her to never be a mother in any way, intended for her to care for others in different roles than motherhood. God had never made her a mother in the traditional sense, but Bridgette felt He intended for her and Sid to meet. She wasn’t his mother, as she occasionally reminded him, but that night she had promised herself, Sid’s late mother and Him that she would provide all the maternal love, care and support Sid needed anyway. Holding him, whispering comforting nonsense, she wondered if she had succeeded being what he needed. Had she been able to keep the promise she made? Did he know he was loved? Loved unconditionally? She hadn’t been able to stop him misbehaving, and frankly he exasperated her with his exploits, but he was kind and considerate and gentle. 

Her eyes closed. When Sid had returned from National Service he never told her what he had done, but she had some suspicions. This time she knew some of what he had done. The violence he was capable of. Seen the blood he had been covered in and the gore in the toilet. It didn’t matter, she realised. He was still her little boy and she could never be scared of him.

Inspector Thompson had only given the briefest of accounts of what had happened in the woodland. He had been quiet and clinical, only giving details that were strictly necessary. No gory step-by-step recount of the kills, just: ‘The corpse without the head was the second to die.’ Words he had spoken directly to his Sergeant, the man who would have to deal with the crime scene. This had been enough for Bridgette. This boy, her boy, had killed two men in brutal fashion. Their blood had soaked him and she now had a horrific understanding of what had happened. She had seen Sid’s beautiful badger face turn snarling after he’d returned broken from his National Service. The sweet snout and wet nose that she had once cleaned gently as a cub, turned into a terrifying vision of violence. Unlike what those two men probably experienced, no show of sharp teeth from him had ever stirred feelings of fear within her. Sid was incapable of hurting her. Incapable of harming her. This she whispered to him, to counteract the fears he managed to murmur between sobs. 

“Darling boy, those men were trying to kill you. They shot you and hurt you. Shot the Inspector. You were reacting instinctively.” She gave him a little squeeze. “Those horrible men will have to face eternal Judgement, Sid. They will get their just desserts. We know you wouldn’t hurt anyone when you are in your right mind and Sid, you sending those men to Hell? Well, perhaps that was what God wanted.”

“Will I go to hell?” Sid’s small, broken voice trembled. He looked up at her with watery eyes, bloodshot and pleading. “Will I, Mrs. M?” 

“No, of course not.” Her heartbroke a little. No soul as kind and caring as his belonged there. No matter how many petty crimes or sins he committed. “I tell you something Sidney, do you think for one moment Father Brown isn’t going to spend eternity with our Lord and Saviour?”

Sid looked at her and sniffed, a confused little frown on his face. “No?”

“Do you think Heaven would be paradise for either of us, if you weren’t there?” His head returned to rest against her shoulder. “Now, I do think you need to confess if you’re feeling this bad. Remember God will always listen and He will forgive a contrite heart.” She thought perhaps the vet wasn’t the most pressing care. Her child needed divine help more than a physician’s. “Perhaps we should spend some time making you look a bit more.. Well, making you a bit more comfortable? Dr. Sinclair will be spending a lot of time with our Inspector, won’t he? And before we can wash your soul with reconciliation, we can wash your outside.” Memories of when he was smaller and came home covered in mud from football, playing or making burrows in the woods came to the forefront of Bridgette’s mind. Those had been happy occasions. This was not. “Cleanliness is next to Godliness, remember?” 

Gently Bridgette guided Sid back to the bath. It was clear that he was taking care to not lean on her and it made her want to sob. Even while he was traumatised, sick and scared, he was still so thoughtful and considerate. Her sweet, poor boy.

Bridgette McCarthy was not a gossip, but it was useful to stay abreast of what was being said around town. Therefore she had heard the things they said about Sid. How they discussed his feral ways. That he changed girlfriends more often than he changed his socks. That he’d take girls out and take them to bed. However much it scandalised her, she had never heard a complaint about how he wasn’t a gentleman. In fact, Bridgette knew from some of the most salacious gossip that he was sweet and romantic, sang love songs and pitched woo. Now his arm was trembling in her hand and she thought of how sad it was that all he really wanted was to be loved. That what he really craved was affection.

“Sit down, dear,” she told him gently. Then she took the wooden stool from under the sink and sat herself down beside him. When he had been a little boy, he had caught a viral infection and had been unable to care for himself. Sid had been old enough when he’d first come to them to wash himself, but during that fever he could barely lift his arms. It had come down to her to make sure he didn’t get even sicker from soaking in his own sweat. Now it came down to her again to bathe him. Bridgette wanted to cry. There was no illness that would be gone in a week now. Healing from this would take much, much longer.

It was clear from the pinkish droplets on the outside of the jug that Sid had used it when he had attempted to clean himself and now Bridgette filled it with warm water again to wet his hair. She watched the liquid run over his shoulders and down his chest. Her boy’s eyes instinctively closed to prevent the shampoo she was pooling into her palm from getting into them. Her first touch was gentle and Sid leant into the touch, seeking out the comfort the touch provided. Her second hand joined the first as she started to work the shampoo in. She lathered his hair carefully, teasing out the knots where the dried blood had made the hair stiff and hard. Another jug of warm water became reddish as she poured it over him.

Hunched in the bath, slight sniffles still audible, Sid reminded Bridgette of the little boy he used to be, the little boy he still was to her. Sid, her boy, the boy she loved, was barely a man really. So used to him being confident and strong, she had lost track of his real age. He was only 23, no age really. His National Service had aged him. He’d left the kitchen of the Presbytery aged 18, a terrified boy, and returned something else, not terrified but terrorized. As she soaped and rinsed his hair again, she wished she could rinse away his pain as well. Untangle all the knots of hurt and fear with soapy fingers. Her boy, her poor boy.

When the water from his hair finally came back clear, Bridgette took a face cloth and added soap liberally, damping it under the tap. She held Sid’s face in her hands and carefully wiped his tear tracked cheeks. Like he always did when she washed his face, Sid squirmed, which brought a small smile to Bridgette’s face. At age 11, he should’ve been more than capable of washing his own face, but she’d been doing it regularly for 12 years. Often mud, dirt, grime or just food covered his face and he would always squirm when she would wipe it off. However, no word of complaint was ever voiced. Bridgette would’ve never heard the end of it if Sid actually minded her doing it. This was a little thing between them. A little thing that showed his trust in her. Showed that no matter how big he was, he trusted her to take care of him. 

More tears were swallowed by tutting. “You really shouldn’t squirm so much, Sidney,” she scolded lightly, catching a smile for her pains. The tears could fall freely when she was on her own, when she was done taking care of her boy. The smile grew a little wider as she scrubbed his cheeks a little too hard. His face turning red from friction rather than blood drew a shaky smile from her own lips. That face. The face she loved so dearly. She rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow as if removing soap, but really just to touch above those beautiful soulful eyes that looked at her so trustingly so lovingly. “Oh, Sid.”

Gently Bridgette continued her ministrations. “Did I tell you Mrs. Hamilton’s son, John, has signed up for the regular army now that he’s finished his National Service? She is very proud, but I think it’s because of that business with the Watkins boy.” The ugly, red scar around Sid’s throat that he normally covered with scarves was revealed to her when she carefully lifted his chin. “I’ll be gentle,” she reassured him as he started to pull away from her. The anger she felt towards the people that had done such an awful thing to him was probably rather unchristian. One was supposed to forgive, but as they hadn’t come to her to beg for it yet, she hadn’t. How could anyone perform such horrific cruelty on her boy. On the young man who was always so sweet, so calm and so gentle. A special place in hell was what the men who had imposed that scar all those years ago deserved according to Bridgette.

Finishing with his neck, she moved to carefully soap his shoulders where his Anima marks showed on his skin. On each shoulder he had a stylised claw whose tails pointed to his clavicles in a manner reminiscent of the facial markings of a badger. The moment she touched one of them his breath hitched and his sobs returned.

“Oh, Sidney,” she told him gently. Her shirt was already soaked, so Sid returning into her hold did not make her any wetter. “Oh, Sid.” Her words did not help and he just continued to sob against her. The pain in Bridgette’s heart started to become unbearable. Then something came to her. 

“ Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin,” she sang. “Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúiniúil.” It took her a while to get the tune right, words nearly forgotten. Not being one of God's natural sopranos, she started too high. It didn’t matter, though. Sid had once told her how much he enjoyed hearing her sing and when he was little it always seemed to calm him. She’d taught him the words and he’d enjoyed the idea of the girl who would sell her all to run off with her lover. When he came back from National Service and she’d reminded him the lover was escaping military service, he’d insisted on learning the whole song in English and Gaelic. Sitting behind the Presbytery piano he would sing the heartbreaking tune.

She knew he could, and did play other instruments. This was a fact he hid from people in an attitude of secrecy he rarely held to any other part of his life. Once, during one of the more quiet days at the Presbytery, he had told her his mother had been a musician. It was tragic that he kept that part of himself hidden away. None of her attempts to get him to sing in church or offered music lessons had succeeded. Every time he had refused. Whatever had happened to his family, something neither of them knew, had damaged his love for music. His soul still seemed to cry out for it. He would sing when drunk. He would play any instrument he got his hands on if he thought people weren’t looking. Her poor, poor boy.

The sobbing had stopped and a slow heavy breathing had replaced it. Then, as Bridgette repeated the chorus again, Sid joined her. His voice was soft, deep and clear like it always was. If she hadn’t known better, Bridgette would’ve believed he never smoked a cigarette or drunk whiskey in his life. In the tiny bathroom it sounded like a bell.

“I wish I was on yonder hill
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill
And every tear would turn a mill
I'll sell my rod, I'll sell my reel,” Sid sang.

Bridgette carefully started to wash his chest where the hair was also matted from the blood. The bruises from where the bullets struck were dark and painful and when she caught the edge Sid stopped singing and hissed in agony. Her ministrations stopped when she heard that noise, more animal than human.

“Oh, darling boy, I’m sorry.” She put her hand to his shoulder. Anger sizzled underneath her skin. Anger at those horrible evil men that had dared to hurt him like this. Had her boy felt anger like this when he killed them? This feral anger that demanded physical retribution, not a vocal one? Bridgette wouldn’t have an argument with them if they had still been alive, she would’ve given them a walloping.

“Sid, some of my arnica will do wonders there. It’ll draw those bruises right out.” She stopped. “And some of my magic cream as well.” The tiniest smile appeared on his face, but Bridgette still caught it. Her magic cream was made of daisy root and comfrey, but anything she made that was perhaps not a common home remedy Sid called magic, from her soup to her scones. She loved him for it everytime. It made everything just that little bit more extra special.

He started to sing again, taking a breath and starting back in Gaelic: “Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán, Siúil, siúil, siúil a rúin.”

It was time to clean his hands and Bridgette took them into her own. With a little bit more water and soap, she started to work. His voice wavered slightly. They both knew what the gore underneath those nails were, human flesh. A sad smile graced her lips when she saw the dark hair caught in them. This was her boy. She could help him with this. His gaze was on her as she gently cleaned his human nails. As she dislodged the rankness with her own fingers. As she carefully washed him of his sin. All the while he sang of the overpowering pull of love in the language she barely remembered from her own land.

“Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom
Is go dté tu, mo mhuirnín slán.”

“Right, my darling,” Bridgette told him. “If you stand up, I’ll rinse you off. Can you do that?” The cheeky response she expected never came. Instead he carefully got up and poured water over his own body, washing away the grimy soap. He had realised something that Bridgette hadn’t when she said she would rinse him off, that he was too tall for her to reach when he was standing. She had forgotten how tall he actually was, he had seemed so small when she had been cleaning him. 

“There. Isn’t that better?” Her smile dropped a little when she realised he’d stopped singing. With his hand in hers, he stepped out of the bath. Just like before he did not put any weight on her. “Come on, let's get you dry,” she said. His hand was so much bigger than hers. She looked at it and again she struggled to keep herself from crying. “My poor boy.” 

On the stool Bridgette had been sitting when she washed Sid, she put a towel. “Come and sit down Sid,” she said gently. Wrapping a towel around his shoulders, she continued: “There there, much better. Now, you go and get yourself dry and I’ll get some clean clothes.” Hopefully her tone had been soothing like she intended, not scolding.

Leaving the bathroom she looked down at her shirt, blood red and soaking wet. Need a new shirt for myself as well, she thought. The little box room was where all of Sid’s belongings at the Presbytery were kept. It had been his bedroom when he was little and in a way it still was. His teddy bear was on the dresser along with his tattered school cap. Bridgette smiled at them. The bed she would make every time he spent the night, which he did most Sundays. He would come home and share a meal with them. Usually it would be just the three of them, their little family dinner. Then once dinner was done, she would leave for her own home, but only after she had seen him tucked up in front of the fire reading or fiddling with some machinery. She would leave knowing that her boy was at home safe. The clothes he kept here changed weekly depending on what he came and what he left in. On occasion he would come home from the Red Lion, too drunk to make it to his caravan. Bridgette would find more clothes in her laundry pile after those nights. Each piece of his clothing would be carefully laundered and put into these drawers. New socks, shorts, vests and cardigans she’d slip in whenever she had a chance. She hoped he noticed, but even if he didn’t, she would still do it. 

When she returned to the bathroom with his clothes, Sid was towel drying himself. His hair stuck up in all directions when he pulled the towel away from his head and face to look at her. The desire to neaten up his hair was suppressed for now, she would do that once he was dressed. A small, sad smile was sent in her direction which she returned.

“I’ll put this on the radiator,” she told him while thinking about how she was going to have to clean the whole bathroom thoroughly. Smiling down at him she kissed the top of his head, her nose burying into the soft, fluffy hair. Just like when he was a little boy. Bridgette loved that soft hair, how it bounced when he ran, how it fell around his ears. In the years before he discovered brylcreem, she had always brushed his hair before he went out to play. To run her fingers through the baby softness. Oh, how she wished he’d never discovered brylcreem. 

“I’ve put a clean scarf there too Sid, but, well…” Her eyes spotted something green and red in the sink. It took a moment for Bridgette to realise what it was. The red was flesh and the green was clothing. A shiver ran down her spine. Had her boy pulled that from his teeth before he had gone to the toilet to puke? The toilet… Grabbing the horrific piece of clothed meat in the sink, she swallowed. Between two of her fingers, careful to touch it as little as possible, she carried it to the toilet and tossed it in. Then she quickly rinsed her hands with soap. Sid was staring at her wide eyed when she turned.

“Sidney the Police don’t need to know about that,” she sighed. “And Father Brown does not need physical evidence for confession, does he?” A small amused noise fell from Sid’s lips as he smirked at her. It almost made it look as if everything was normal, but it wasn’t. Not really. Would it ever be again? It must, Bridgette couldn’t bear to think otherwise. Her mind became oddly silent when she flushed the toilet and watched the gore drain away. The only thing on her mind, the wish that she could flush away Sid’s misery and guilt as easily. Not just today’s, but all his guilt, every stain on his beautiful soul. He was a good boy, gentle, kind, considerate, but his National Service and the loss of his first family had left him damaged. He was a sweet boy, despite a slight tendency to criminality. It would’ve been understandable if he’d become downtrodden, bitter or reclusive with what he’d been through, but he’d never given up hope. Always continued to try to do the right thing with kindness in his heart. Always continued to try to be considerate and helpful.

It hurt her, what Sid had been through. She didn’t even know half of it. Father Brown knew more, but because of the seal of confession, Bridgette wasn’t sure if he knew everything. But she didn’t need to know to hold him and sing to him. To dress his wound and sit patiently as he growled and transformed back and forth in fear and distress. The crimes Sid had ever committed, even the ones he’d escaped justice for, didn't amount to the hell he’d been through. No malice that needed to be taught a devine lesson. Bridgette swallowed down the lump in her throat and blinked away the burning in her eyes, there was no time for that right now. 

Another kiss in his hair and then she started to tidy the bathroom around him, collecting the clothes he’d tossed around, the towels and flannels. His shorts and trousers could go into soak with some vanish along with her blouse and the flannels. His shirt and vest? Hmmm, those obvious bullet wounds would serve well to prove self-defence, they’d need to go to the police for evidence. The scarf was a lost cause and she’d have to bin it. I’ll make him some more, she thought. She bustled around while Sid was drying himself, explaining to him her thoughts about his washing. He hummed under his breath which made him sound more like his usual self.

“Mrs. M,” Sid said quietly after a while. “I can’t reach my feet?” His voice sounded completely puzzled by this. Unable to comprehend what Bridgette instantly understood, the stiffness in his muscles from having to carry Inspector Thompson and from the developing bruises made it impossible for him to stretch far enough to get to his own feet.

“That’s alright sweetheart, they can air dry, just get dressed.” A kiss on his head. “I’m going to change my shirt.”

“Mrs. M, I can’t reach my feet?”

“I know dear, we can work on it later,” she told him.

When Bridgette returned to the bathroom after changing her own shirt, Sid was dressed from the waist up and his hair was brushed. His face was flushed with pain and effort. He looked distressed and she bit her lip to push down her own feelings.

“Are you alright Sid?”

“I still can’t reach my feet. It hurts so much.” With his head tilted down and his lip quivering, it was clear Bridgette what kind of mental fight he was having. Stuck between being the strong independent grown-up he was and the little boy she had been nursing for the half an hour. It hurt to watch him struggle with something that should be so simple. In an attempt to allow for some normalcy, Bridgette fell back to the old Sidney standard of scolding.

“Holy Mary Mother of God, give me patience. Sidney Carter, you are a grown man. Surely you can put on your own underwear?” A little grin crossed his face, success. Whenever Bridgette had the time to scold him it meant that everything was alright really. Something Sid was well aware of. She knew he was feeling a bit more normal if his reaction to a telling off was to grin. 

“Come on then. I’ll help you if you really are so pathetic.” After she grabbed his shorts, she knelt by his feet with creaking knees of her own, grumbling all the while he stepped into them and while she pulled them to his knees from where he could do the rest. They repeated the same action for his trousers.

“Thanks, Mrs. M” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered back, patting his arm. “Now sit down and we’ll do these socks.”

“They’re warm Mrs. M.” A genuine smile was shared between the two.

“They’ve been on the radiator, Sidney. If you keep your clothes dry and put them on the radiator, they become warm and toasty, unlike whatever it is you have going on in your caravan,” she tutted. “Do you want to tighten your belt up?” Her question made Sid look down.

“Oh, thanks, Mrs. M.” The smirk returned to his face as he stood and buckled it. “You know, I only have one and I can never find it?”

“I know, I’ve seen you wear twine under your braces.” The only reason why his caravan wasn’t an absolute pigsty was because there wasn’t enough space for it. “Brush your teeth”

“I have.”

“Do it again, Sidney.” If his attempt at brushing his teeth was anything like he would do it as a child, then it wouldn’t have been a proper brush. “With toothpaste this time.” When Sid went back to the sink and picked up his toothbrush, Bridgette continued: “Rinse your mouth first, and clean between your teeth before the brush.” The times he’d got bits of rabbit stuck in his human teeth, she paused, best not to dwell on that.

Sid dropped his toothbrush, still gory and blood covered. Usually Mrs. M wouldn’t let him run the tap while he brushed his teeth, but today normality had gone down the drain with the flesh of the men he’d eaten. He really hoped the toothpicks wouldn’t dislodge anymore of them. Something within him told him that if he found more, the cleanliness Mrs. M’s care had brought him would be gone. That they would have to go through the whole process again, even though there was no more blood on him. His hand shook as he picked at his teeth. Hands that were usually so steady. To his eternal relief, no more bits of human were discovered. As he ran water over his brush, hoping to rinse away the blood, he heard Mrs. M starting to clean the bathroom around him.

Bridgette looked at the handprints on the tiled walls, the bloody wet footprints on the floor and the claret runs of watery blood on the outside of the bath, the sink and toilet. Considering that when Sid had come home most of the blood had been dried, he had managed to create a lot of mess. He couldn’t have made more of a mess if he had killed those men in the bathroom, she thought. There wouldn’t be enough time to clean it all before Sid would be ready to go to Dr. Sinclair, Bridgette would have to return later.

When Sid looked much more his normal self, bloodless teeth and clean clothes, they made their way back to the kitchen. There Mrs. M made Sid sit at the kitchen table so he could have his shoes put on. He felt foolish, pathetic, sore and tired. Maybe he should have had a little nap, safe in his room at the Presbytery. Nobody would have minded. Part of him knew that at some point he was going to get arrested. It didn’t matter how many times he’d slept in the Kembleford cells, they never got any cosier. There was another niggling thought: He’d murdered two men. This might well be the last time in his life he saw the inside of the Presbytery. He should have slept in his childhood bedroom one last night. 

Her boy had already been able to tie his own shoes when he had first come to Kembleford. Kneeling by his feet, Bridgette realised she’d missed doing this for him. One of the little things she would’ve done if he’d really been hers. She tied his shoes, tutting at all the scrapes and scuffs on his shoes. He really did need looking after. He was never any good at doing so himself. Once she finished tying his shoes, Bridgette stood up and walked to the pantry.

“What are you doing Mrs. M, food?” Sid asked hopefully.

“I’m getting a large bag, dear.” From the pantry she retrieved a large carpet bag that she used to take bedding to the laundrette. “For your clothes, the police need to see the holes,” she swallowed. “It will help.” A brief pause. “And I don’t want to carry your ruined clothes through the village. Can you imagine the gossip?”

The moment they stepped outside they heard someone rise from the outside bench. It was Constable Whittley. Constable Whittley was one of the more experienced Constable. He was reasonably smart, relaxed and competent while having absolutely no desire to climb the ranks. Sid got along pretty well with him, but also knew the most likely reason for Constable Whittley to have been waiting outside the Presbytery for. With a grimace on his face Sid spoke: “Alright, Whittley, you here to arrest me?” What was the point? Sid held his wrists out in front of him.

“No, no, no, Mr. Carter. The Sarge said that I had to make sure you went to Dr Sinclair’s.”

“And then arrest me once I’ve been treated?” Sid laughed without humour. Constable Whittley shrugged.

“Can’t deny that. Sorry, mate.”

“Not a problem Whittley, it's not your fault, is it?” Another humourless laugh. The awkward moment of silence that followed their little conversation was interrupted by Mrs. M pushing the carpet bag into the Constable’s hands.

“You might as well make yourself useful, Constable. As if we were planning on going anywhere else,” Bridgette tutted. “That's evidence for you.” With her hand on Sid’s arm she led him up Bell Lane, Constable Whittley trailing behind them. The few people they passed on their way seemed to make her boy unsettled. Their stares making him shake and whine. Bridgette held her head high and said: “They’ll remember who you are when all this blows over.”

Sid hadn’t really considered making a run for it, being a wanted man for murder seemed a lot more terrifying than being arrested for it right now. Although the thought of disappearing into the woods and going full badger for a few years till the heat died off had crossed his mind more than once in the last couple of hours. Maybe he could move out of the area. Perhaps go to Lord Montague’s cousin’s woodland in Lanarkshire, where he had once spent an entire weekend surrounded by trees after her Ladyship told him he could ‘explore the area’. He’d been lucky not to get shot, but the earth had smelt nice. Out there in nature, it was nigh impossible to keep track of himself and he only remembered to come back and collect her Ladyship when he was disturbed by bagpipes. 

It was only once they walked into the waiting area of the Vet’s that Sid looked up again. The place was less crowded than usual. Dr. Sinclair probably cancelled quite the number of appointments to have time for both Sid and Inspector Thompson. The people still there probably had appointments with Dr. Sinclair’s junior partner, Dr. Iqbal. Sid was not one of Dr. Iqbal’s patients, but the man seemed friendly enough. At this moment Sid wished Dr. Sinclair didn’t have a partner, then there wouldn’t have been any people in the waiting room. 

There were two more coppers in the waiting room, making Sid grimace. Well three, but Contable Elmer was obviously off duty if his civilian clothes and pet iguana, Gregory, were anything to go by. Why were there two more on-duty officers there? Regardless of what people thought, he wasn’t really violent or a danger. Sgt. Goodfellow was well aware of that, so why so many coppers?

Sid gave Father Brown a wary look. Father was sitting chatting to Constable Beardsley, who was playing with his helmet. Constable Whittley leaned over to Sid and said softly: “Beardsley is here to collect the Inspector once Dr. Sinclair is finished with him and take him home and Anders is here to collect the bullet and take it to the station. On that note, I am going to give this bag to him as he’s already taking evidence back.” Ah, so they weren’t there for him. Sgt. Goodfellow did still trust him then. Well, to a degree. The Sergeant trusted that one Constable would be enough. Sid swallowed as he watched Constable Whittley pass off the flowery bag to Constable Anders. Pass on evidence of his crime. It was only made slightly more bearable by how ridiculous the two of them looked with the bag.

Father Brown must’ve sensed his distress, because while Sid had been watching Constables Anders and Whittley, he had made his way over to Sid and placed a warm, solid hand on his shoulder.

“Feeling any better, Sid?” he said with a compassionate smile.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded emotionless even to himself.

“Come here.” Father opened his arms and pulled Sid into a hug. Sid soaked in the warmth of the hug. Then he moved them both down onto the waiting room bench. “I know.” The words were said in a whisper. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, Father.” Was what Sid whispered in response, resting his body against the older man. “Mrs M says I need confession”

“In time, Sid. It doesn’t need to be here. It doesn’t need to be now. You know I’ll always listen.” A warm, gentle arm was wrapped around Sid’s shoulders. It made Sid feel secure. Made him feel like there would be a future where they could talk in private.

“The Father will take care of you now, Sidney” Bridgette bustled, interrupting the moment between Father Brown and Sid. She hated to do it, but she couldn’t stay and she wasn’t going to leave without explaining or saying goodbye. “I’m going to need to make a phone call.” Her mothering duties could be passed over to Sid’s paternal carer, happy that Father Brown would look after him well. That’s what they were, she supposed, his parental figures. With his parents most likely dead and nobody else claiming him besides them. He was their boy as surely as if they had birthed him.

“Who do you need to call Mrs. McCarthy?” Father Brown asked.

“Well, I’m sure the Inspector’s mother would like an update, and I’m sure the Sergeant is too busy at the moment to do it, and well, I would want to know.” Bridgette also had a bathroom to clean, but that was not something to be discussed with so many listening ears nearby.

Sid looked up at her and they exchanged a smile. The initial instinct that Grace Thompson would want to know what had happened to her son was confirmed in that moment.

As Mrs. M said her goodbyes and left, Sid looked up to see a vision in light pink. This vision had a name, Avril Harlow. Her heels and knee length skirt, a shimmy that could make a man sin and her curled blond hair falling level with a pair of breasts Sid could close his eyes and remember in very great detail. Memories of her head thrown back into his pillows, his lips at that neck and his hands roaming over them came flooding back to Sid. He shifted a little uncomfortably.

“Sam,” she smiled, “you can go and collect the bullet.” The Constable’s face went red when she winked at him. Constable Anders didn’t go far before he was handed the bullet by Jimmy after which he left the clinic to, presumably, bring all the evidence to the station. Sid didn't react much when she turned to smile at him. “You look like you need a treat, Sid?”

“Thanks, Avril,” he laughed as she held out a piece of biltong. 

“Or would my brave hero prefer an apricot slice?” Her tone was a teasing one and Sid tried to return it, but his heart wasn’t really into flirting.

“You know me, happy either way.” A hero she’d called him. What kind of tale was being spun around him? Sid wondered. Certainly not that he’d eaten two men. He doubted the vivacious Miss Harlow would be giving him the eye if that particular piece of intelligence was widely known. Closing his eyes to prevent torturing himself by watching her sashay across to her desk and bend over to get the treats, he wondered why he should even bother with flirting. The nick was where he was going, not out on the town with Avril. He’d be lucky if he ever saw her again, let alone have the opportunity to lie her down on his divan and find her appendix scar. Wait… Hadn’t Dr. Sinclair told her off for sleeping with one of the patients when he had discovered what the two of them had been up to? Yeah, Avril had said it had been pretty intimidating at first, but that it had turned funny when the doctor had disturbed himself with the thought that anyone would sleep with any of his patients other than Sid.

Eventually Sid curled up so his head was resting on Father Brown’s lap. The Priest just shifted to let him get comfortable and settled back, his hand lightly resting on Sid’s head. Stress was thrumming through his boy’s body, he could feel it. Hopefully Father Brown could provide silent comfort by sitting with him and cradling his fingers through his hair. The situation was peaceful for now, but he was aware this could go south very quickly. The penalty for Animas who fatally attacked another person was cruel and swift. Though Sid had been able to avoid punishment for the majority of his crimes, it was unlikely that his luck would hold this time. Kembleford had been a safe space for him, but outside the area he got unduly punished for being a little too feral, for being a little too cheeky, a little too flirty, a little too confident. 

Sid couldn’t help who he was, but the Father knew that he was a good boy, kind, sweet and happy to help anyway. A Saint in devils’ clothing.

After what seemed like waiting an age, during which Sid could feel himself floating between wakefulness and sleep, a gaggle of small children and an enthusiastic terrier, piled through the door. Their arrival caused instant chaos and noise. Now back to being fully awake, Sid watched as Avril stood to get their attention as the kids shouted over each other to give the name of their pet.

“Yes, take Robbie and sit down. There are other patients ahead of you,” she said in her best receptionist voice, which made Sid lift his head in a pavlovian response.

“MR. SID!” the youngest of the children, Maggie, squeaked when she spotted him. All three of them ran over. 

“Robbie is here for his shots, are you?” “Have you got sweets?” “Can you do magic?” Three high pitched voices bombarded him with questions. Sid loved the three Milligan children, but they were a bit much right now.

“Not up for magic today, kids, and Miss Harlow has the sweets.” With a sad smile he petted Robbie’s ears. As Sid’s head was in reach for once, the dog returned his affections by licking it. Gently Sid pushed the dog away from his face before he continued to speak. “Not shots. I got hurt in the woods.” 

“Oh, we know! You saved Inspector Thompson! Jim Burgess told us, said you was all covered in blood, but you aren’t,” said Ben, the middle child, sounding disappointed.

“Is the Inspector very hurt? And is it true he’s an Anima, like you?” asked the eldest of Robbie’s guardians, Judy.

“Yeah, he got hurt, but Dr. Sinclair is seeing him now. He’s an owl Anima, big massive wings he got.” Perhaps Sid should lighten the mood a little. All three kids were less than ten years old. Sid looked up at Father, but the older man just smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. Those kids were asking Sid questions, not him. “He’d be useless in my burrows.” It was weak for a joke, but it would move the conversation away from people being hurt and would hopefully distract the kids from asking about what had happened exactly.

“Some owls burrow,” was what Judy told him. “Got it from a book.” Huh, you learn something every day. 

“Do they?” Sid grinned. “Maybe I’d better show him my holes then.” The idea of the Inspector in his posh suits and hats in one of Sid's cosy burows made him smile, but he wasn’t sure why. It was unlikely that Inspector Thompson would ever willingly crawl into one of Sid’s burrows unless he believed there to be some vital evidence. Some of Sid’s burrows did actually contain things the Inspector would be very interested in, but Sid would never show him those.

Some time later, during which Father and the two remaining constables also got their hands on biltong and Sid got a second piece, the doors of the examination room opened and Inspector Thompson was wheeled out in a wheelchair with a pillow which made it so that his wings didn’t touch the floor. Sid must’ve imagined him making car sounds, but he definitely did not look his usual put together self. There was a dopey smile on his face and his eyes were drooping, a look Sid knew very well from certain places in the bigger cities. At least it no longer looked like death was encircling him with his scythe. Sid looked up at the hair now sans brylcreem, but neat as if someone had run a careful comb over him. His free wing was shiny and glossy, making the word ‘preened’ spring to the front of Sid’s mind. The other was in a sling while his leg was in a cast, his arm banged and various plasters covered the cuts on his face and body. The way his pajamas were wrapped around the man was rather odd, but they probably had to make do with those massive wings. There was also a bag in his lap, but Sid had no idea what could be in it.

Sid watched the man with amusement as he snacked on an apricot and fluffed himself up like one of Sid’s chickens. Understanding birds, chickens especially, had always come natural to Sid. The way they preened and pulled at themselves, always trying to look like they were fine regardless of what was going on below those feathers. He liked the way his chickens were brave and confident even when he knew them to be injured. How they would puff themselves up to look bigger and stronger, to keep themselves together. That when you finally got them to relax they’d fold themselves almost flat to let you hold them and stroke them. His chickens really could be demanding and sweet at the same time. Yes, he liked birds in all their ridiculous forms. And now with the Inspector temporarily grounded, he really was a chicken with ideas of grandeur.

“Bread, bread, beardsley, Beardsley… 590 Beardsley Constable, H,” said the Inspector around his apricot. It seemed like he had spotted the Constable. Constable Beardsley made his way to his superior, being told he was very tall along the way, while Constable Whittley leant over to speak to Sid and Father. “That’s how our names appear on our paychecks.” Sid nearly choked on his own spit and only just stopped coughing in time to hear Inspector Thompson make a joke to himself about Sgt. Goodfellow’s name, one that could only have been made by someone high on drugs.

“Oh, they’ve given you the good stuff, have they, Inspector,” Sid called out while munching on his biltong. It didn’t seem like the man had heard him. “This should be fun.” 

“I have a very comfortable little car here, 590 Beardsley Constable, H. Where is my apricot?” Car? Huh, perhaps Sid had not imagined the car noises. The Inspector was staring at his empty hand like he hadn’t just used it to put the apricot in his mouth ten seconds earlier.

When Constable Beardsley walked around his boss to talk to Dr. Sinclair, Inspector Thompson muttered something about the conversation probably being about him. Sid agreed, Dr. Sinclair was definitely saying something about instructions in the Inspector’s front pocket. However, Sid wasn’t really interested in all that boring stuff. No, he was having far more fun watching the stoned Inspector try and preen his bandages and having his hands moved away. Or to see how far the Inspector’s head was turned around. That was definitely an owl thing, his chickens couldn’t turn their heads that far. It was fascinating. Wait, hold on, what was the man doing now?  Sid wriggled for a better look. Yes, he was definitely trying to preen his good wing with his nose. Much like Sid’s chicken Betty when she tried to eat her feet. It wasn’t very effective as the man didn’t have a beak. Constable Whittley concentrated diplomatically on the biltong he had.

When he transformed fully Sid knew he was more badger than human. For years before his National Service, being a badger made him forget homework, fear, his family, music everything. Being the badger was like being an animal, free of burdens beyond eating, sleeping and surviving. Inspector Thompson had not undergone a full transformation, but his mannerisms had become much more birdlike. Sid wanted to study him, watch him. It was fascinating. 

Robbie seemed to have noticed the Inspector as well. Sid had seen Inspector Thompson pet the dog on numerous occasions, so it wasn’t too surprising that the dog would go to him.

“Nice dog, I know this dog!” The Milligan children followed their dog to the Inspector while it tried to climb in the man’s lap. This was going to be good. Four sources of chaos and a stoned Inspector Thompson. “Hello, Robbie, don’t climb into my car. It’s very small. Do you like my little car? Also, there is already something in my lap?” Had… Had the Inspector not noticed that bag before? Or had he forgotten about it like he had forgotten he ate the apricot?

“Inspector Thompson,” greeted the three children in some discordant harmony. The Inspector looked up from Robbie and blinked at the kids in a way that Sid could only describe as owlishly. 

“Huh… Are you three people or one?” What? How foggy was his vision, the three Milligan children didn’t look that similar to one another? It seemed like they were as confused as Sid, but Judy managed to give the man an answer: “There are three of us?”

“Hullo, small person” Sid’s lip trembled with suppressed laughter. It was entirely possible that Inspector Thompson was so far gone that he had forgotten about the concept of children.

“Inspector Thompson, are you alright?” asked Ben worriedly.

“Yes, I had an apricot. Actually, I’d like another apricot. Could you find where the apricots come from?” 

“Doctor Sinclair has the apricots-” The Inspector didn’t seem to be listening to the second part of Judy’s sentence as he spoke at the same time as her “-or you could ask Miss Harlow.” 

“Oh, that was fast. Good job!” Inspector Thompson turned his neck way too far again, but this time he didn’t seem to get distracted by his own wing. Dr. Sinclair was still talking to Constable Beardsley. Sid heard something about vomit and quickly tuned them out again.

“My Constable has snacks?” Oh, he might not have gotten distracted by his own wing, but he had by the biltong Constable Beardsley was holding.

“We all got snacks while you were being treated, Inspector Thompson.” Sid’s voice had gone up an octave as he tried to not laugh. The Inspector snapped his head in Father and Sid’s direction with a speed Sid hadn’t expected with how stoned he was.

“Carter, you have snacks. Also, you’re shaking.” Sid thought he might break something in his chest if he kept laughing like this. Laughing out loud would be too cruel, but he couldn’t hold back the tears in his eyes as he gasped with suppressed laughter. It also hurt his already bruised ribs a lot. 

“Biltong, Thompson.” Perhaps if Sid kept his sentences short, Inspector Thompson might actually follow along.

“Why don’t I have Biltong?” His voice sounded so sad and small. As if him, not having Biltong was the saddest thing in the world. Perhaps it was in his stoned world.

“Would you like some?” asked Father.

“Yeah.” In his endless kindness, Father Brown tore off the bit of Biltong he had chewed on and gave the rest to Inspector Thompson. It was fascinating to see the Inspector’s eyes glaze over as he seemed to immediately forget where the thing in his hand had come from. He really was as high as a bloody kite.

“You should say ‘thank you’ to the Father, Inspector,” said Maggie, clearly quoting something her parents had said to her many times in one form or another. 

The only way Inspector Thompson responded to the admonishment was by saying: “You’re welcome.” Sid could see Constable Whittley shaking in a similar fashion as him in the corner of his eyes. Father was able to keep better composure and told the kids it was alright as the Inspector wasn’t in his right mind due to his medications.

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, Inspector Thompson stretched out his right wing and almost slapped Miss Jones, who was there with her cat, in the face. Though, going by her amazed face, Sid wasn’t entirely sure if she minded. The Milligan children were clearly appreciative. Maggie even started running around the Inspector while flapping her arms.

“Ha, you’re a bird! Are you pretending to be me? I still got my arms though. I get extra limbs… Like ants.” 

It was kinda hard to focus on what Inspector Thompson was saying and doing because Father had started to talk to Dr. Sinclair and Constable Beardsley. He was telling them that Mrs. M had gone to phone the Inspector’s mother and that it was likely that she would come over to check on her son. While Dr. Sinclair seemed to take comfort from knowing the Inspector’s mother was a retired doctor and that the woman would likely take charge of the man’s recovery, the Inspector and the Milligan children talked about flying and why they were there, which eventually led to Sid being asked by a judgy Judy why he didn’t go to a regular doctor to get his shots.

“Yeah Mr. Sid,” Inspector Thompson giggled. “Why don’t you?” The man laughed before adding: “Your name is Sidney.” Who knew what was going on in the Inspector’s mind. Sid decided to not pay the comment any mind. It was likely that if he asked about it, the Inspector would’ve forgotten about it already. It would just confuse the man probably.

“Can’t be bothered.” Regular doctors took forever with everything and they were usually condescending as well. Dr. Sinclair was fast and nice. It really was a no brainer. 

The look the Inspector was giving Sid was somewhat odd. Sid didn’t have long to wonder what it was about. “Your hair looks soft. Does it feel soft?” Alright, unexpected, but Mrs. M often said his hair was incredibly soft without brylcreem in it, so it wasn’t too weird that other people would think so as well.

“You want to touch it?” said Sid. Why not humour the man? It was unlikely that he would even remember doing it anyhow once he had sobered up.

“Yes” Sid bent over so the Inspector could pat his hair if he really wanted. After a little shuffle, Inspector Thompson reached out for him. His eyes were wide and he had a look of pure wonder on his face. Suddenly Sid very much wanted those long fingers in his hair.

“Robbie,” Dr. Iqbal called and the hand that had only been inches from Sid’s hair was pulled away. Feelings of annoyance were carefully hidden away while Sid returned the Milligan children’s goodbyes.

“Inspector,-” Inspector Thompson hummed vaguely in response to Father’s voice. “-did you hear that Mrs. McCarthy called your mother?”

“She’s in London.”

“Don’t you think she’ll come visit you when she hears what happens?”

“That would be nice…” Another humm. A look was shared between Sid and Father, both fairly sure that the Inspector had not internalised any of that. Well, his mother appearing on his doorstep would be a nice surprise then.

It was unlikely that the Inspector noticed Constable Beardsley picking up the antibiotics as he was distracted by the ‘sudden’ disappearance of Robbie the terrier. He was seriously disappointed by this lack of dog.

All conversation immediately turned to his desire for a dog. A smile spread on Sid’s face as he could understand the Inspector’s desire. As long as he could remember, he had also wanted a dog. It was a pain in his chest sometimes that he would have trouble keeping a dog with his lifestyle. Inspector Thompson described the dog lying in front of his living room fire, and Sid thought it sounded nice, to lie on a mat curled up in front of the fire with a doggy friend. If he had the opportunity, he’d have to see if he could find Thompson a dog. Maybe Sid could get Avril to help him.

Constable Beardsley started to wheel his superior away after the man had complimented his smile. It was only as they left to start Inspector Thompson’s recovery at home that the Inspector acknowledged Constable Whittley had been there the entire time by giving him, and everyone else, a cheery wave.

Sid’s thoughts had remained with the idea of gifting Inspector Thompson a dog. The Hambleston Hunt had bitches so wiley that they were almost constantly trying to give away puppies. They would probably be delighted with the idea of the local Inspector having the offspring of one of their Beagles. Then he realised he might never get the opportunity to walk in Hambleston woods again, let alone have a crafty drink and smoke with the gamekeepers. He might never dig another hole. Terror started to dig his claws into him. 

Sid had seen an Anima in prison who’d been classed as violent. The man had been blinded in one eye and collared. His fingers automatically found their way underneath his scarf and touched the scar on his own neck. Tremors shook his body. How would he be able to handle the treatment from the guards and the avoidance from other criminals who didn’t want the guards to associate them with him? That’s what Sid had seen happen. Beatings for the Anima for any perceived misbehaviour which would be extended to anyone who dared to even wave at him. His rising panic hadn’t gone unnoticed by Father as the man pulled Sid into a hug. Sid breathed into his shoulder, free breaths, innocent breaths.

Sid left Dr. Sinclairs examination room with Father beside him, feeling like a dead man walking. There hadn’t really been anything wrong with him other than the bruises and a massive adrenaline drop. His blood pressure was too high, which was understandable, and his heart was beating like a samba. All he really needed to do was calm down. Little chance of that.

Holding the cream for his bruises and promising to be careful of his chest as he healed, he looked up to see Constable Whittley and the cuffs. Only rapid blinking and the solid weight of Father’s hand on his shoulder kept tears from forming in his eyes. This was it.

“It’s alright, I’ll come quietly. You don’t need to cuff me.” Sid smiled, trying for a bit of his usual self, but he knew that was pointless. This was happening and he had to face it. If he fought and ran, he’d get caught like an animal. Better go along and pretend he was a civil person. Both scenarios would end with him in a cage anyway. “Probably not a good idea to pinion me anyway. My chest is fucked, Doctors orders.”

“Alright,” said the Constable while he looked up and Sid saw the wariness and fear on the man’s face as he gave him the usual arrest shpiel. Even someone as experienced as easy going as Constable Whittley seemed nervous around him now. Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of Sid’s life? A hand placed on his shoulder that wasn’t Father’s as he got marched out of the office into the street. There was no way he was getting out of this. Sid’s head dropped and he suddenly wanted to vomit. Father went with them, remaining as Sid’s only buoy.

Chapter Text

For the most recent of many many times, Sid was led into one of the cells of Kembleford Police Station. The bench in cell 2 had over the years become as familiar as any other bed Sid could claim. This time, however, he felt sick to his stomach and, unlike his usual stays, he was actually scared. With Father Brown beside him, he felt like a condemned man being led to the scaffold. The room was dark, cold and scary now, not just boring and uncomfortable. Constable Whittley stood just outside the cell and asked if the Father was staying with him to take confession. 

“Yes,” Sid told him quietly. He wasn’t ready yet to be alone, for that door to be slammed, for his life to be over. While the father was with him, his life continued. The moment he left… Well, Sid couldn’t see a future after that. 

The door closed gently and they sat on the cold bench. Sid’s shoulders dropped and his head fell into his hands. 

“Sid, you don’t need to have the Sacrament of Reconciliation right now if you’re not ready yet. I am here for you as long as you need me,” Father told him gently, his hand squeezing the younger man's shoulder. Sid twisted his neck and gave him a half smile. He allowed himself to fall into the warm comforting presence beside him. The scratchy wool of the Father’s cassock drawing him in like a moth was drawn to a flame. As he pressed himself into it, the Father dropped his arms around him once again.

“I feel rotten,” Sid whispered, barely audible. “I wish I could go back in time, I want to erase it all.” A lump was caught in his throat. It was rare for Sid to regret any of his crimes. His nature wasn’t a cruel one where he would deliberately go out of his way to hurt anyone. Most crimes he’d committed had no real victims. Maybe someone got cheated at cards or overpaid for junk. Perhaps a business lost a couple of quid or some posh bloke would discover that his new motor had gone for a Burton. Never did he pick a target he believed couldn’t take a hit. In fact, he once returned some stolen items when he had learnt that his target hadn’t been as comfortable as he’d assumed. It was even less likely for him to regret the sins that weren’t crimes by the law or that he believed shouldn’t even be crimes. Why should he regret a fun night with someone who was enjoying it just as much as him and is it really stealing if the original owner didn’t take good care of the chicken? Therefore actual regret never really entered the equation. Even during his brief prison spells, Sid had only regretted getting caught. This gnawing of regret at his insides was horrific and new. 

“I want to confess,” he said while nodding. Then he released a small sob. “I need something to cleanse my soul.” His eyes followed Father’s movements as he unwrapped his purple stole. The act was familiar to Sid, though he had rarely seen Father do it for him. He rarely went to confess. To seek reconciliation with God, you need to regret what you have done. Otherwise it is of no use and as Sid did not regret most of the sins he committed, he would just be wasting Father’s time. There was something about this all that seemed so implausible, like a bad dream. But this wasn’t a nightmare he could wake up from. This was real. It made him want to laugh.

“Whenever you're ready, Sid,” Father Brown told him, draping the stole around his own neck.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 3 years since my last confession…”

Sid was feeling a bit put out that he wasn’t able to spend the day at the Presbytery. With no jobs on, hanging around with Father and snacking on whatever delights Mrs. M had in the fridge was his default afternoon. The long hours before the Red Lion would open for Evening Service spread out in front of him without any clear direction of what he should do with them. Even when drinking hours started, he would be reliant on Alf allowing him to extend his tab as he had no money in his pocket. 

In an attempt to distract himself from his hunger and loneliness and to get some stimulation, Sid started to spin in slow circles in his meadow. There was a rusted hinge on one of his chicken coops. The milk crate he used as a step had rotted through, he really needed to build himself something more permanent. Those spring greens really needed to get planted soon if he was going to keep himself and his chickens healthy in the long back of winter. Sid sighed deeply, it was time to work on some of the jobs around his meadow he had been putting off. 

He had just finished planting the spring greens and had started working on his step when he heard the first gunshot. It was a bit early for hunting season, but he recognised it as a rifle shot. Perhaps someone was off bagging rabbits, Sid thought. It was probably nothing. Then he heard the second shot and he turned and stood up straight to look towards the woods that bordered his meadow where the gunshot had originated from. If anyone was out bagging bunnies, they would usually pop by and let him know on the down low. Nobody really wanted to accidentally shoot him.

Sid’s eyes were drawn to the sky where something had risen above the treeline, seemingly away from the noise. At first he thought it was a murmuration of small birds, startled from their rest by the gunshot, but as he watched he realised it was a solid mass. The shape was far too big for a bird, but it was definitely winged. After a moment of confusion he recognised it as the winged Anima he had seen some nights. 

Sid’s sleep schedule was not particularly settled. His work for Lady Felicia kept him out late nights and up early mornings and his own proclivities, both nefarious and animalistic, kept him awake at all hours. In the dark he would watch over his little domain and sleepy Kembleford while its more innocent residents were safely in bed. 

During one of those nights he had noted that another Anima had joined him in the area, forming a dubious kinship. Even though they had never really met, it still made Sid less alone. It was a thing he rarely acknowledged; the loneliness from being different from everyone else, no matter how much the people around him loved and cared for him. Additionally it seemed like they also felt the pull of the night in their soul like Sid did. They only appeared when it was dark after all.

For over a year Sid had watched the other Anima fly with genuine pleasure on the nights the both of them were up at the small hours. He would marvel at the grace with which they took flight. Based on their attraction to the night, the shape of their wings and the soundlessness with which they flew, Sid guessed they were an owl Anima.

It was therefore a bit of a surprise to see his secret twin appear during the day. He wondered what had made them decide to show themself when the sun was out. Then he heard a further gunshot. The Anima seemed to stumble midflight at first before twirling down. In horrified shock he watched them disappear between the trees.

“Fucking hell?” Sid swore. Did someone just shoot his nighttime companion out of the sky? Moving instinctively towards the area where he saw the Anima drop, he continued to ask questions that no one could answer in an expletive confusion. “What in Christ’s name is happening? Why the fucking hell is it happening?” His feet sped up, swear words falling from his lips with every heavy step.

Sid knows his woods as well as he knows his meadow, as well as he knows the priest holes of Montague and the cellars of the Red Lion. Therefore he didn’t need to look where he was going as he crashed through the dense woodland. Following his own senses was enough. He stopped suddenly to listen and took a sharp left turn. The sound of a pained yelp made him speed up again. Sid broke through the underbush and saw the fallen Anima.

Sid's brain rebelled for a moment when he saw who his nocturnal friend was. It was hard to make sense of. The fallen man was instantly recognisable, but simultaneously a stranger. Inspector Thompson was the beautiful Anima Sid had been gazing at for those long months. Whom he had watched glide underneath the stars in admiration for hours. The silent ally who seemed to always circle a little too long above Sid’s meadow. The being he had felt deep kinship to. That person was the detective who seemed to haunt his daytimes, looking for any pathetic excuse to lock him up. Who seemed antagonistic of him even in repose. Whom Sid had assumed to hate him so much due to his Anima nature, was afterall just like him. It was an unexpected turn that brought briefly into sharp focus some of their more intense interactions. Had the Inspector something against Sid for different reasons or did he hate himself just as much? Sid shook those tumbling thoughts away, now was not time to dwell. The man in front of him was badly injured and needed immediate help.

“Run,” the Inspector stuttered and Sid shook his head, thinking how such a simple clear instruction sounded so utterly insane at that moment. They couldn’t just run. The other man was bleeding and clearly in no condition to move fast on his own. Inspector Thompson would be unable to escape from whatever was in pursuit of him without help. Therefore Sid decided to grab the Inspector around the shoulders to attempt to lift him. He had realised that if they really were going to follow the Inspectors instructions, he would need to do the running for the both of them.

“What the fuck happened?” Sid asked the man while trying to pick him up. Despite the unusually high murder rate of the Kembleford area, Sid could think of no logical reason why anyone would be shooting at the Inspector with bolt action rifles in broad daylight.

“Just run. They’ll… Just run” the Inspector panted, fingers grasping into Sid painfully before pushing him away. Realisation struck Sid, these were not the actions of a logical mind. The Inspector must be functioning on pure shock, adrenaline and panic. Therefore his best course of action was to take the lead. It was very unlikely that another soul would come to their aid and certainly not someone who knew these woods better than Sid. If there even was anyone who did. 

It took less than a second for him to determine the quickest way to get help from where they were once he had figured out where in the woods they were exactly. This was his home, he knew every branch and every leaf. The fastest path would be to go downhill towards the river Kemble beyond which Kembleford lay. However, knowing which way to go was a different story from actually moving in that direction.

“Come on,” Sid begged and within his own mind he added ‘you stubborn fucking bastard’. “Just move with me, you’re hurt, we’ll get you help.” If the man would just get a move on and stop stalling, they’d be back to Kembleford in minutes. 

The Inspector was still fighting Sid, pushing at Sid’s encircling arms, when he looked over his shoulder and spoke while panting in distress: “Hunted, they'll come, Anima.” Sid couldn’t understand why Inspector Thompson was so desperate to tell him those words. It was obvious that they were being hunted, that something in the woods was coming after the other man. What wasn’t clear was what that had to do with them being Anima. It was baffling. He decided to not try to figure out what that was all about and instead focused on dragging the fighting man away, back to safety. 

The Inspector stiffened and gasped in pain. Sid looked from the torn wing hanging uselessly, to the twisted leg and realised the man must be in excruciating agony. It made some sense that he was rambling incoherently. Pain really shut down the part of one's mind that structured one's thoughts. Which was pretty stupid in Sid’s opinion. Wouldn’t it be extra important to think clearly in those kinds of moments. If Sid ever made it into heaven he could ask some being who might know why. But that time had not yet arrived. At this moment Sid had to deal with Inspector Thompson being irrational. If the man would just get a move on, or stop struggling Sid thought it would all be a bloody sight easier. 

He was starting to panic himself, lost in the frustration of the situation, when he realised he was hearing dogs barking and loud human conversation. Sid realised they were whomever was chasing the Inspector and started to make a more concise effort to shift the stubborn idiot. After a few more faltering steps, he thought: ‘fuck it’ and started the dragging the fucker. Lifting Inspector Thompson’s arms, he started dragging him in earnest. No part of Sid wanted to be found by whomever was chasing them. To be found by those who had sent dogs and carried guns into the woods on a sunny summer’s day to hunt another human person.

The Inspector’s struggles seemed to rise in intensity as the voices got louder and Sid wanted to cry with frustration. Why was the man being so difficult? It must be causing him immense and unnecessary pain to fight against Sid. Sid’s own adrenaline was starting to rise into a dangerous place. His flight or fight response was on the verge of crashing over him as the situation seemed to become more dire by the second. There was no more time to be gentle. He could feel a change starting inside him as his aggression rose within him to help him move the stubborn bastard he was dragging.

Sid swore to himself as he heard the first of the hunters behind him: “Ah there it is.” No more time for running, he was going to have to fight to get them out of this. 

An angel on his right shoulder that sounded like Father told him there was always the chance to deescalate with only the use of words. They were other humans with minds and souls, reasonable men who could be talked to. On his other shoulder sat a demon who always sounded a little like Mrs. M. This shoulder demon told Sid that shooting wasn’t very reasonable, so saying that these people could have their minds changed was rather debatable. And anyway, Sid was much better with his hands than with his words when push came to shove. Then his dodgy moral compass disintegrated with a single thought: ‘Did that cunt say “it”?’

Sid turned warily to see two men in traditional hunting garb with two dogs by their sides. They both carried hunting rifles. Some evil part of his brain allowed him to smile when he noticed this. They had rifles, not shotguns. Everything is still shit but it would be so much worse if they had shotguns. The lack of shotguns was an advantage Sid could push.

“Run,” the Inspector in his arms hissed and Sid looked down. Suddenly he realised what all the fighting and stalling had been about. The stupid man wanted Sid to leave him behind. To run away without him. To let him face certain death on his own. Sid felt incredulous, he may not exactly class Thompson among his friends or favoured acquaintances, but he wasn’t going to leave him to die. Did the prick really think he was such a cowardly bastard?

“Oh now, look at that wing, it’s fucked, have to get the taxidermist to fix that,” the second hunter cried in anguish. The man’s words startled Sid from his reverie concerning Inspector Thompson’s idiocy. Did that fuck really say ‘taxidermist’? Christ of bike these cunts were nutters, off their fucking rockers. They wanted to stuff a police inspector? If Sid had still been thinking of trying to deescalate the situation by talking to these hunters, he would no longer be now. They definitely weren’t reasonable people if they thought stuffing human people was something you should or could do. Sid may not like the fuzz, but he wasn’t going to stand about and let nutters who stuff them go about free. They were going to survive this and Inspector Thompson was going to arrest them. Yeah, that was what was going to happen. Those nutters were going to get sent down. Maybe they would even get to enjoy a long stretch at the end of a short rope. Or something, Sid didn’t know what the punishment for planning to get a human taxidermised was.

The first hunter caught Sid’s eye. “Look mate, we only want the bird,” the man told Sid. “Fuck off, will you?” Sid scoffed. Like fuck was he leaving. He was perfectly aware of what was right or wrong, even if his moral compass was a little skewiff from most. These bastards didn’t seem to have a functioning qualm between them.

All ability to hold back his adrenaline fell away. Sid allowed a growl to escape his lips as he started to transform. Something inside his core let go and the animal part of him emerged. He remained in control by taking even breaths. During his National Service he had learnt to be intimidating without losing his mind. It was something he hated doing, because he couldn’t stand the idea that he was a few breaths away from being dangerous. It was now a must though. Even if it made him feel like he was pretending to be someone else. Sid had to do it if the Inspector was going to live. If the Inspector was going to survive. That’s what Anima were, survivors. He didn’t know what had happened to the other man to trigger the mutation, but he himself would always be that scared, damaged evacuee deep inside.

He had fled in those days. Ran away from those who intended to harm him or when it all became too much. He had run into the woods to hide away from the world that had become too heavy for him on occasion. Those hunters had given him a chance to flee now. Given him a window to get out with his own life. Something that Inspector Thompson had already tried to get him to do. But that wasn’t who he was. It was one thing to run and hide when it was only you who was in danger, but it wasn’t just Sid now and the Inspector wouldn’t survive if left on his own. He tried to follow Father Brown’s example to protect, to save, to look after those who needed it and to do that he needed to stay.

Sid stared at the guns. Any experienced hunter would surely know that they didn’t have the right equipment to kill a badger. His claws were huge enough to terrify most people usually. It worked with a regularity that Sid would never confess to with poachers he came across when earning some extra dosh as a parttime gamekeeper and it had worked more than once at closing time when he worked behind the bar of the Red Lion. They’ll see what kind of Anima he was and bolt, he thought. No way they’ll want to have a face off with someone who growled and had massive claws, right?

Shock took hold of Sid for a moment when instead of looking terrified, the hunters turned to each other with delighted looks and raised their guns. A part of Sid wanted to laugh, did they really think they could just shoot him with rifles? Behind him he could sense Inspector Thompson shrinking back, trying to make himself small. The action reminded Sid of Suzie hiding from Kalon’s rage behind him. 

He was still staring at the Hunters unbelieving when the rifles discharged. Sid was so shocked he was barely aware as he stumbled back into the policeman behind him. While still reeling from the double impact, he looked down at his chest for a moment and growled again, deeper this time. Pain and anger mixed with fear. The control he had of his human mind slipped and a red mist descended.

Just before it all slipped away he could almost see the small Polish woman behind him. His protectiveness hit something else, some hidden memory. These hunters were threats, the memory told him. We eliminate threats. We eliminate threats to us, to our Country, to National Security, to all that is good. Sid was vaguely aware of the dogs whining and running, but he pitched forward, no longer a man.

Sid was sobbing, his breath coming out in painful hitches. “I’m sorry Father, I just don’t remember much at all after that. I don’t remember anything but a haze of anger and fear.” He looked up with wet eyes, scrubbing at his face. “When I came back from National Service, you asked me about it. You gave me the space to explain. You were there for me. Still I couldn’t tell you much. Not because I didn’t want to, I really wasn’t holding back. It’s just that I can’t remember.” The sound of swallowing could be heard in the otherwise silent cell. “It’s the scariest thing, Father, because I don’t know what I did. I don’t know what I could do and it terrifies me.”

Father Brown nodded, he didn’t need to speak. He was there to listen and to offer what comfort where he could. Where would he even begin if he were to talk? he thought. What could he say, even if he wanted to?

“Towards the end, I don’t remember anything, nothing at all. I was so deeply lost in that haze, it seems to me that I must have lost all of me somewhere in that red haze. I didn’t exist anymore. There was just the violence,” Sid said with a tremble in his voice. When the young man looked up at him, Father Brown saw nothing but fear in those beautiful eyes. “I remember feelings, little snapshots of my National Service.” A bitter laugh passed his lips. “What a joke! My duty, my National Service, my debt to society, and because I can’t say what I did, they call me a coward and a draft dodger.” Silence fell between them for a moment before Sid shook his head. “I often wish they were right.”

With careful eyes the Father noticed Sid running his nails over the back of his hands. It was a tick from his childhood that Father Brown remembered well. If there had been any doubt about Sid’s distress, there wouldn’t be now. “I remember the face of one of those hunters. I remember the wide eyes and facial features contracted in terror, terror of me, but I don’t remember what I did.” Those teary eyes that had been looking up at Father Brown turned their gaze down to stare at his own shoes. “How am I supposed to confess to something I don’t remember? How is it that I feel this guilty for something I can’t remember I did?”

Father Brown let out a heavy sigh. “Sid, you know what the end result was and as a man with a kind heart and a good soul, you regret this. You don’t have the inclination, the heart of a killer, so you regret that their deaths are on your hands”.

Sid swallowed and nodded. He could hear the sense in what Father was saying, but he wasn’t done yet. There was something else he needed to confess to. Perhaps it was the worst bit of it all. 

“Father, there's more…” If Mrs. M could rationalise this, then Father should too, Sid’s brain reasoned. He should be able to confess without irrevocably damaging their relationship, right? “When I was back at home, at the Presbytery, I was covered in blood and I could feel…” It was a struggle to continue and Sid scrubbed at his face, hoping it would help him confess. “I could feel…” The words were refusing to leave his mouth. It was as if something was blocking his tongue from moving the way it should. As if the devil did not want him to find reconciliation with God. All he could do was take a sharp breath of air.

“Sid, take your time, I’m here to listen,” Father Brown told him. It was clear to Sid that Father was disturbed by this shell of his former self that he had become. Even someone like Father couldn’t remain completely neutral when he worried about someone he loved. 

“I needed to clean my teeth. I could taste the blood. Caught between my teeth, stuck in my human teeth was-” Bile rising in his throat interrupted him. It threatened to overwhelm him. White hot guilt crawled up his neck, making his ears thrum. He swallowed around the lump before continuing: “I found some, wrapped in green tweed still, meat, you know. I ate, I ate their flesh.” His vision went blurry as he swallowed again. There were no more tears to fall, just the white heat and painful thrumming. It seemed like Father knew that there was more as he made no move and uttered no sound, giving Sid the space to continue. Continue, was what Sid had to do if he wanted to confess to the paralysing fear that he felt. “I didn’t know I was capable of that. I didn’t know I would do that, could do that. I don’t remember, Father, but because of that, because I don’t remember-” Sid retched, but nothing came up. “-I am utterly terrified I’ve done it before.”

Father Brown breathed in, he was very aware of how traumatised Sid was by the things he was made to do during his National Service. Sid’s eyes would become haunted every time he was reminded of the things he was taught during his training. It was clear that being forced to put all humanity aside meant that his boy could no longer find comfort in his Anima persona like he used to. His National Service had turned him afraid of his own nature, scared of what once caused him joy.  

When Father Brown had first encountered Sid, he was a tiny straggly human child who became a large, but passable, badger when transformed. The boy had managed to survive all on his own since the loss of his family by spending more time fully transformed as an animal than as a child. 

To the good Father it seemed like Sid was far more animal than human when transformed, more so than any other Anima he encountered over the years. Sid was the only Anima he knew of who could do a full transformation without losing his humanity entirely. It was an odd balance. Father Brown had met many Anima in his life and all retained more humanity than Sid. One could say that Sid was feral compared to them.

He had an inkling that when most Anima emerge they are still bound by the rules of their previous life. The Anima mutation is usually caused by a temporary need or short extremis. Afterwards they return to the fold of their regular life where they are bound by the rules of civilization. Sid had transformed for the first time and shortly after run off on his own into the world. There had been no family to remind him of who he once was, no peers to bring him back to society. The young boy had been left to his own devices, free to indulge in his more animalistic nature. 

When Sid had first come to them, Father Brown and Mrs. McCarthy had spent time in the Kembleford Library reading historical accounts and folk tales of those who had become entirely lost in their animal nature. They had read tales of children raised as wolves, bear Animas who had lost their minds in battle and many more. Even the good book contained creatures that were part animal and part human who had lost their souls to the ‘demon’ inside. None of the stories had clear explanations as to how one could help those lost find their way back, if the people in the story even did return. The two of them had tried to bring some humanity back into their boy's life, but ultimately knew that when he fully transformed, he was more badger than boy.

It was therefore not hard for Father Brown to understand what had happened when Sid’s human mind had fled. It was harder to figure out how best to comfort him. With a final steadying breath, the Father spoke: “Sid, have you watched a badger attack?” The question caused Sid’s head to snap up. “As a man, without being transformed, have you ever observed badgers in the wild?”

“I am a badger,” Sid told him. It was a clear and simple statement. It still made Father Brown look at him, really look at him for the first time in a while. The realisation that that really was what Sid believed hit him. Sid never said that he was an animal, but Father Brown had never considered that Sid may not equate being a badger to being an animal. It was an interesting psychological conundrum that Father Brown would probably think about more when he wasn’t in the middle of a confession.

“Can you tell me what it's like when you transform, fully transform?”

“What?” Sid laughed. “You’re going to have to be more specific if you want a clear answer. Are we talking the emotions of the process or the physicality of it?” The young man seemed a bit befuddled by the turn in questioning.

“Ah, yes, my fault, I should have been clearer. I didn’t mean the transformation itself. I was aiming for when you’re already transformed, when you are in a burrow or when you were a boy and you’d go out into the woods and play. What do you remember of your thoughts and feelings? Do you remember interacting with other badgers?” The Father had never thought to ask these questions before, because it had never occurred to him that Sid might not remember those things.

“Erm…” There was a bit of a silence before Sid continued: “No?” He shook his head. “Yes? I am not sure how to explain? I know I meet them, I can smell them on me. I know the difference between the feel of soil and mulch underneath my paws. What it is like to have my snout in fur, but…” His eyes roamed around the cell as he tried to find the words he needed. “I can’t, I don’t know? Like how my badger brain doesn’t understand chores and homework, my human mind doesn’t understand badger things? Does that make sense?”

A whole cascade of questions about Sid’s interactions with wild badgers crashed through Father Brown’s mind. He could only thank Mrs. McCarthy for insisting that Sid got various animal shots. Perhaps it had been divine inspiration or perhaps Mrs. McCarthy had intuited this about Sid far earlier than the Father himself had. However, a deep dive into Sid’s interactions when transformed was, like his views on himself and his humanity, was not the purpose of this line of questioning. Sid had given him enough information to continue though.

“Sid, I once watched a badger and a dog fight,” Father Brown told him quietly. “I’ve never told you this because it was brutal and distressing, but now you need to know.” It was far from a happy memory that he was recalling and he hoped it would dissipate quickly when he was done telling it. “A badger attacks with its claws first with its head up to show dominance. It barks and growls. Then when the prey is caught, or at least distracted, it will lunge with its teeth and shake its prey once it has it between them.” A small silence fell and Father Brown hoped it allowed Sid to take in the information. “In the fight I saw the badger dislocate a bullmastiff's leg.” 

Sid’s head shaked slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but the Father had been watching him closely. Was he shaking from disgust or had a memory come to the surface? Father Brown couldn’t tell. It was clear that Sid didn’t like the story and the Father could only hope that the final message was one that brought Sid comfort or at least some closure.

“When you are fully transformed, Sid, you are taller than when you’re not. You’re not only much bigger, but also much stronger. If you grabbed a normal human man with your teeth, I don't think you would have much choice but to ingest some of the remains.” When Sid looked terrified and confused, Father Brown took his hand. “If you had meat in your mouth and needed to regrip, I think the natural response would be to swallow.”

Sid dropped his head to his hands. “You don’t think-” He looked up “-it’s cannibalism?” 

“I think it was instinct, self preservation,” the Father nodded. “And seeking reconciliation for failing to resist your instincts… Sid, human or badger, resisting your natural instinct is the hardest thing you can do. We pray, we say mea culpa, because we all need to resist our baser instincts. But the reason God allows us the sacrament is because we are all fallible.”

“Bless me Father.” Sid’s eyes were wet again. 

“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

Father Brown re-wrapped his stole and looked at the young man next to him. “Sid, I’m here for you as more than a Priest, you understand that?” he asked, opening his arms and letting Sid rest in them. The sobbing came back in guilty waves that seemed to crash over Sid. They seemed to drag his mind somewhere the Father couldn’t follow. 

The priest's heart broke for him. Broke for the genuine fear he saw in him. It was a fear that the Father couldn’t possibly truly understand. The fear of not knowing where his mind went. The fear that one day he might truly lose himself and never be able to return. The idea that he might be doing things he couldn’t remember, driven by an urge he couldn’t control. 

The body in his arms got warmer and heavier as the sobs became small snuffing snores. Sid had cried himself to sleep. Both the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day must’ve caught up with him, Father Brown realised. He was loathed to wake him. Waking Sid would deprive him of what comfort he could from the anaesthetic of sleep. Another thought came to the Priest as he sat in that dark claustrophobic cell, he can’t leave without saying goodbye, can’t leave Sid to wake alone in that place without the comfort of some last words of love and support.  There may be a time when they were forced to say goodbye, and he would stay by Sid’s side that horrific day, but that was not today. Hopefully that day would never come. Now, he could afford to hold him and offer what shelter he could through the long night of the soul.

Sid awoke to the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the cell door opening. Over the years he had woken to that sound, either real or imagined, more times than was probably healthy. He braced for pain, adrenaline flooding his mouth with the metallic taste of fear. It took a moment before he remembered that he really was in a cell, but that the arms that held him weren’t threatening. Instead they were the comforting arms of Father. With calming breaths he tried to suppress the fear welling up that threatened to overcome his humanity once more. He had to breathe, he had to remain human.

“I’m really sorry to disturb, but the Medical Examiner is here for Mr Carter,” Sergeant Goodfellow apologised while entering the cell. “You really will need to leave now, Father.”

Sid and Father exchanged a worried look. “Why is there a Medical Examiner here?” Father asked. Even though he seemed just as confused as Sid as to why the man was there, Father still smiled at his friend Jock Hamilton who had entered the cell with the Sergeant.

“I am here-” the examiner stepped into the cell. His shirt was untucked and the overpowering smell of cheap whisky came off in waves from him. “-to find if I agree with the Vet’s findings. We can’t have a Vet making a professional assessment for a Capital Murder case, can we?” His smile was a clear indicator that he was unaware of the stiff intake of breath from the other men.

“Mr. Carter hasn’t been charged with anything yet, doctor,” Sgt. Goodfellow reminded him with a grimace.

“What?” The doctor swayed slightly. “Oh, right, yes of course.” To Sid it didn’t seem like the man took Sgt. Goodfellow’s statement particularly seriously. The man also completely ignored Sid as he walked over to greet Father who had stood up.

“Father Brown, sorry about all this nasty business.”

“Not your fault Jock, and we trust your professionalism.” They shook hands while Sid stared at them silently. It reminded of him of when he had been small and Doctor Hamilton had come to visit Father at the presbytery. Something about the man made Sid want to go away and crawl into a burrow. Father had noticed Sid’s discomfort and, after the first time, had always allowed Sid to go out and play before Doctor Hamilton would visit.

“I’m sure Dr. Sinclair is a perfectly reasonable vet, and it's not like Anima are in fact entirely human, but it's better to have a look at myself isn’t it?” Jock smiled. The man would always say things like that and it made Sid’s skin crawl. He couldn’t explain why, it just did.

Father wrapped Sid in a hug. “Remember who you are,” he whispered to him and Sid nodded. Then they let each other go and with sighing regret Sid faced Dr. Hamilton while the cell door closed behind Father and Sgt. Goodfellow. 

“I seem to remember that you’re a badger, Mr. Carter?” No matter how long Father and Dr. Hamilton were friends, Sid was never Sid to the man. “Capable of full transformation?”

“Er, yeah,” Sid said quietly. The man must’ve seen Sid run around town when he was younger, right? Why was he asking this? It was common knowledge to anyone who had lived in Kembleford since before Sid had done his National Service.

“Shirt off then. Lets have a look” Jock ordered, and Sid gingerly undid his buttons. There was no offer of help from Dr. Hamilton as the man watched him struggle to undress. “Shot at close range while fully transformed, it says here,” Dr. Hamilton recited from a folder he was holding. Sid felt absurdly cold and alone. It seemed like this was being said to a third person instead of him. Like his humanity had already been stripped from him. He’d had similar feelings before, in prison and during National Service. Did anyone ever really see him as a real person outside of Father and Mrs. M? he wondered. 

He had known Father's friend Jock since he was a child, but the man was treating him like a stranger. As Sid held his shirt in his arm, Dr. Hamilton looked closely at his chest and hummed. When he poked the first violet bruise, Sid hissed in pain and when he poked the second one, a wave of nausea and pain made Sid’s vision swim. Yet there wasn’t even a suggestion of him asking after Sid’s wellbeing.

“Shot twice?” Dr. Hamilton said more to himself than anyone else. “Well, I can sign off on that. High velocity at close quarters, two distinct shots. I’ll sign off on the Vet’s findings.” Without another word he rapped sharply on the cell door. “Finished,” he yelled and without a backwards glance he marched out of the cell and left Sid alone.

Sgt. Goodfellow came back a few moments later and sat beside Sid on the bunk. The man did not offer any help while Sid tried to do up his shirt, every movement agony, either. However, Sgt. Goodfellow knew him well enough to know that he wouldn’t want any help, unlike Dr. Hamilton. 

“I hope you know, Sid, how grateful we are to you for looking after the Inspector. How proud we are of you round here.” Sgt. Goodfellow smiled. Sid could see that the man was being sincere, but he found it hard to believe that many at the station would agree with their Sergeant. “You’re still the same to us. Still the little scamp that got into the King’s Anderson shelter and ate all their tinned ham.” That memory made Sid smirk. Which was perhaps the closest thing he had come to smiling since he had left Dr. Sinclair’s clinic. “Any jury is going to see that what you did was justified, self defence.”

“Thanks, I still can’t see it though,” Sid sighed and Sgt. Goodfellow put a hand to his shoulder.

“I’ll be a character witness. Any help I can give, you just need to ask. You’re one of us, Sid Carter. It’ll be alright.” The man patted Sid. “I’ll bring you some tea.”

“Thanks, Dan.” Sid looked up and smiled. Normally, he was strict about calling Dan by his rank while he was in uniform, but today it just felt wrong. He needed all the friends he could get.

Sid had finished his tray and licked the plates clean. Mrs. M had brought him the meal and it had made him want to cry with gratitude. He had been starving when she had come in briefly with the food and comfort, his mother in all sorts of ways. She had come when he had needed her, but she wasn’t able to stay long. Apparently she had arranged for farmer Tom to collect Sid’s chickens and bring them to the Presbytery where Sid had once built a ‘holiday coop’ for them. Mrs. M had to be there to receive them when the man arrived with the chickens. The fact that Mrs. M and Father would be looking after his girls gave him one less thing to worry about.

That had been a while ago and now all he had were his morose thoughts and a pile of empty plates on a tray. The cell door opened once more and he was surprised that it wasn’t Sgt. Goodfellow. Instead it was one of the Constables.

“Here for the tray?” Sid asked. “Tell Mrs. M she won’t have to spend time washing that, I’ve done it for her.” His joke fell rather flat as the Constable didn’t even crack a smile.

“Visitor,” the Constable told him and then he crouched and picked up the tray anyway. The man had barely gotten back through the door when Lady Felicia marched past him and wrapped Sid in her arms. There hadn’t even been any time for him to rise to meet her. Her soft, high-end clothes brushed against his cheek. 

“Oh, Sidney,” she sobbed. “How rotten of them! You do something good and honourable and they lock you in here.” Sid didn’t think he could call what he did honourable in any sort of way. The good part of his deed was also up for debate, was murder ever good?

“It's alright.” The cell door closed with a clang. “It's alright, Fliss,” he whispered the pet name. It wouldn’t do if people heard him use it as it would give people the wrong idea of what their relationship was like, but he was desperate to press their intimacy. Hopefully it’ll stop her sobbing and would prevent him from starting.

“Darling.” She held his face in her hands and he was enveloped in a cloud of French perfume. For a brief moment her soft lips almost chastely pressed against his. Both of them had their eyes closed as they felt each other’s breaths. Then she moved to sit beside him on the concrete bench and removed her hands from his face to hold his hands instead. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Mrs. McCarthy said you were hurt. Are you truly alright?” 

“I’ve had worse. I’m just sore. It takes more than a couple of rounds to the chest to take me out.” He grinned, but the smile didn’t make his eyes. 

“You know darling we’re all with you; the staff at Montague, Monty and I.” A gentle kiss was placed on his cheek.

“You know what they do to Anima’s that are deemed violent, Fliss?” he asked. “Even if they don’t convict me of murder?”

“Darling don’t think of it”

“They blind us, Fliss. Take out one of our eyes so we can’t transform fully anymore, so we can be controlled.” Bile rose up into his mouth and he struggled to swallow it back down. It was a horrible punishment and his handler during National Service took glee from explaining its history and how it was done to Sid. “They discovered in the Middle Ages that a blinded Anima can be controlled in this manner and that's what the bastards do.” Like many things concerning Anima, science hadn’t been able to explain why or how it worked. Tremors started to shake his body and he knew they must be visible to Lady F. “You still going to employ me with one mangled eye?”

“Oh, Sid, stop.” She shook her head, clearly dismissing the possibility that she wouldn’t employ Sid. Then a bubble of hysteria seemed to come out as she barked a laugh. A crooked, but genuine, smile spread on Sid’s face while he tried to figure out what she was laughing about. 

“What?” 

“Well, you can still drive with one eye. It might even make you concentrate more?” Felicia giggled. “You’ll have to keep your eye on the road, so no more staring at girls at the bus stop or flirting with the other drivers.”

“I won’t be able to keep an eye on you when you’re wrestling human octopuses in the back of the Rolls.” He dropped his head to hers, pressing a kiss to her hair. 

“When I drive you about London, they’d think you were some mobster’s Moll and I some dangerous crim you employ as a bodyguard.” 

“Oh yes, I can see you as a hardened gangster. Sid, you are the epitome of a hood, from your fluffy hair to your bass voice.” Another giggle escaped from her lips, but when Sid didn’t join in, Felicia looked across. “What?”

“Fliss, I am a criminal. It’s hard enough to get a job with a record, but it's almost impossible for blinded Anima to get straight work. The scar is so distinctive, it marks you. I love Kembleford, you know I do, but I’d be a prisoner here. I would never be able to leave, no future elsewhere, stuck living on the Earl’s charity, and we know how thin I’ve pushed that over the years.” Sid looked down at where their hands intertwined. “It might be better if they hang me.”

“Nonsense, I won’t let you dwell in this misery, Sidney. I’ve already hired you a solicitor and left a message with my brother to see if we can’t get this dismissed before it gets any further.” His hand stung as she slapped it in further admonishment. “I know you have a great future ahead, Sid. I just know it. You are so alive. There are big things coming for you, good things. You have to believe it.” He wanted to follow her thoughts. Wanted to believe he had a future like she did, but sitting there in that cell, he couldn’t see it himself. Even without his current predicament, he didn’t quite get it. His sphere of influence was miniscule compared to hers. How could he possibly do anything big even without being blinded?

Sid loved Fliss as purely as any love he’d ever felt. She was an Angel in his life, someone so instantly amazing who seemed to understand him intuitively. He never needed to explain himself to her. If he believed in soulmates, he would think that's what they were. People often put romantic love on a pedestal, but what he felt for her wasn’t romantic and yet it felt all encompassing sometimes. At times it was like they read each other’s thoughts.

Lady Felicia didn’t fit as neatly in his found family tree as Father did as his Dad or Mrs. M did as his mother, but she was there in his heart nonetheless. The whole of the Montague staff felt like a family of sorts. They worked together to keep the Montague estate running and when they looked at him, they didn’t see him as a thief or even as just the driver. No, to them he was part of the furniture. If there was ever a problem, from the kitchen flooding to Lady F catching a cold, they would all come and find him. The idea that he might never see them again made him want to cry.

Felicia sighed, knowing Sid was dwelling on the worst case scenario. It was clear to her that he needed a distraction. “Darling, I need you to tell me something.” She took his hands in hers again and rested them on her own lap.

“Anything?” Finally he looked at her again.

“Tell me about Inspector Thompson's wings,” she said with a smile. “I didn’t get to see. All I know is he is a bird Anima? What sort of bird does he take after?”

“Oh.” Her smile was returned with one of Sid’s own, a good sign. “How did you know?”

“Mrs. McCarthy, she was most definitely in a tizz and making very little sense. I had to ask the poor Constable for the salient facts. If I’d left with only Mrs. McCarthy’s description, I’d have thought you’d gone and deliberately got the Inspector shot. Her thoughts on your bathroom habits I could have done without as well.” A barked laughter from the man next to her indicated that Sid could imagine exactly how that conversation had gone. It might not be right to poke fun of Mrs. McCarthy while she was clearly distressed, but Felicia believed she would be forgiven if the other woman knew it was done with the intention to cheer up Sid. Her wandering mind had caused the conversation to become paused. “So what sort of bird is he? Imagine poor Thompson hiding being an Anima, no wonder he’s so repressed?” Her niece, Bunty, had told her that it could get pretty agitating if she couldn’t transform for extended periods of time. 

“He’s a barn owl. His wings are gorgeous, Fliss. I’ve been watching him fly around at night for months and I never knew it was him.” Sid shook his head and Felicia just knew he was shaking away an image of those wings in beautiful starry skies.

Felicia cooed: “Oh, Barn Owl wings are so soft. Just simply gorgeous as well. I held one once, it was like sable.” One of her hands was extracted from the pile and she ran it through his hair. An aborted purr had Felicia stifle a laugh of her own. “I’ve always loved your hair without product,” she told him.

“I did touch his wings. Didn’t give it much thought at the time, but they were as soft as fuck. Nice, you know. Gorgeous in fact. As gorgeous as you Fliss,” he responded with a smirk.

“Do you remember what I said when you asked what I would want to be if I were an Anima?”

“I do. You want to fly, you wanted to be a bird Anima.” His response had come swiftly. There had been no time needed to think.

“I wouldn’t mind flying with the Inspector. He could take me on a flight anytime.” She bit her lip and he nudged her with his nose. Clearly Sid knew what she meant with that and clearly he didn’t judge her either. Felicia was pretty sure Sid wouldn’t mind a ‘flight’ with the inspector either if it wasn’t for their clashing personalities.

“He’d be a very lucky man, Fliss.” Sid closed his eyes and just breathed in the scent of her.

They had sat quietly together for a while when they heard the sound of raised voices outside the cell. Sid immediately went on the defensive by putting his body as much in front of hers as he could. The two of them shared a look, unable to hear the words that were being said, but hearing that one of the raised voices was Sgt. Goodfellow’s. The Sergeant was always so calm. The idea that something could make him angry enough to shout, made them worry. It must be terrible and thus wasn't something they wanted to face. 

As the voices got louder, they started to be able to pick out words and that the other voice belonged to a stranger. Sid stood in front of his Countess as he heard the other voice shout: “Well, on your head be it. You do it yourself.”

The cell opened and Sid stood back as Sgt. Goodfellow stepped inside the cell. The Sergeant looked apologetic and stressed. With curiosity Sid noted that the man was holding something behind his back. All three people inside jumped when the cell door slammed shut. Then the barrel of a gun appeared from the hatchway. It was a tranquiliser gun, Sid was familiar with what they looked like. Sid stepped closer to Felicia and gave Sgt. Goodfellow a desperate and confused look. What he got in return was a grimace before the Sergeant turned to the door.

“I have told you that isn’t necessary,” Sgt. Goodfellow shouted angrily, his voice harsher than Sid had ever heard it.

“Can’t in good conscience not give you cover,” the voice outside the cell responded. Sid dropped his head and a shiver ran through him as he started to get a suspicion of what Sgt. Goodfellow was holding behind his back. 

“What on Earth is going on?” Felicia asked, her voice full of confusion.

“It’s alright, Lady F,” Sid said quietly.

“Why is there someone else in that cell?” There was a frantic note behind the demanding question from the other side of the door. “What are you playing at here?”

“I am Mr. Carter’s employer and I demand to know who you are.” Felicia rose to her feet while still holding Sid's hand. From her new position she could see the gun barrel and the thing Sgt. Goodfellow was trying to hide. “I don’t understand what is happening here?” Her voice was loud. “I demand an explanation.”

“It’s alright, Milady,” Sid said quietly, staring at the device Sgt. Goodfellow was now failing to hide. The world around Sid was falling away as the thing pulled his focus. “You’re safe, it’s fine.”

Sid’s mind was completely taken up on the Anima Bridle in Sgt. Goodfellow's hands, the conversation around him turning to nothing. The device was the subject to some of his worst flashback nightmares. He would wake panting and sweating in his caravan, fighting his bunk as he felt the bridle coming down, blinding him. His mind would be thrown back to his cell from National Service where they would come for him. Where he would be unable to fight back. 

The evil device would be bound around his head, unable to be removed, and would blind one of his eyes. This allowed them to control his transformations as far as an outsider ever could. The thing was supposed to aid him in keeping his humanity, but the experience was degrading and terrifying. For something with the purpose of promoting humanity, it felt extremely dehumanising. Sid was sure it made him lose some of his humanity every time he was encased in it. 

He had been strong, had been willing to protect Felicia from any danger, but now he was unable to. All his thoughts were consumed by the Bridle. This particular Bridle had a loop on the back and Sid realised its purpose was to add chains, to hold him down like the animal they thought he was. The one he had during National Service hadn’t had that, because they kept a stiff metal collar around his neck at all times for that purpose. His hand went automatically to his throat, to the scar that was there. He was shaking and his stomach felt full of gas.

“Sidney, darling, are you alright?” Felicia asked while placing her fingers on his arm, bringing him back from the nightmarish corner his mind had gone to.

“I’m fine, Milady. Don’t worry,” he lied. “You can leave, I’m alright.”

“Are you sure, darling?” she asked, looking between the men and the gun. No matter how much Sid wanted her comforting presence near him, he didn’t want her to have to see him like this. Therefore he gave her a shaky nod instead of sticking himself to her like a limpet.

“I’m fine, Milady,” Sid repeated quietly. “Thank you.” She kissed his arm and, with clear regret, walked towards the cell door. Before she could even knock, the man opened it. The door slammed shut again as Sid turned to Sgt. Goodfellow. “Just do it, Dan.” Sgt. Goodfellow stopped his poor attempts at hiding the Bridle and in some ways it was better to see the horrific thing in full. Sid closed his eyes and swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. 

“I’m so sorry, Sid.” It was easy to imagine the disapproving shake of his head with which Sgt. Goodfellow would illustrate what he thought of it all. “They are insisting and I don’t have the authority to contradict them.” The sound of the Sergeant fiddling with the catch could be heard. “I don’t know what to say?” Sid reopened his eyes to look at Sgt. Goodfellow. He was clearly distressed by what he had to do.

“It’s not your fault, Sergeant.” No longer could Sid think of the man in front of him as his drinking buddy, as the man who helped out at the Presbytery, as the trusted cricket team member, as the kind man whose wife was the stalwart of the WI and played on the Red Lion darts team while her husband relaxed at home. There had to be a distinction now. Sgt. Goodfellow was the law, the enemy, the opposition to Sid. Sid was the criminal, the animal, the victim. 

The urge to struggle as the Bridle neared had to be suppressed. It welled up inside of him. Inside where the badger lived. The badger had become part of his nature when he had been in a desperate need to escape. The desperation had returned, but now he wanted to escape from the Bridle and not a destroyed building. He nearly vomited from the stress and he felt hot sweat prickle his forehead. Only vaguely was he aware of Sgt. Goodfellow talking, but the words weren’t making any sense. Nothing made sense. Would anything ever again?

“I argued,” Sgt. Goodfellow told him. “I said Mr. Carter isn’t violent. In fact his badger abilities are a Godsend in a village like this. The soil is mostly stone here, quarried earth I said they call it, but these aren’t local men. They don’t understand how we work. I hate this bloody thing, barbaric it is.” The words continued to come, but to Sid they slid off him like water from a duck.

Sid’s mind was stuck thinking of his National Service. Thinking of the hours he spent collared, Bridled and drugged. They would drug him, because they needed him to transform back before the Bridle could be put on. The damn thing didn’t fit on a badger’s snout. They put him through it again and again just because they wanted the ferocious animal that Sid could become. His whole body shook with fear as the horrific cycle was brought back to the present.

“I said our Sid doesn’t need tranquilising. He’s as gentle as a lamb,” Sgt. Goodfellow continued. “I told them he babysits for the Mrs. and I. Do you think for a second we would consider that if he were a threat? But they say they have procedures. It all seems a bit Medieval to me.” The helmet-like Bridle was placed over Sid's unresisting head.

Sid remembered waking with this horrid thing on his head. At no point had he ever really understood why they wouldn’t let him be, let him be the human boy he was. It had been early on when they learnt that Sid could fully transform on command. Yet, even though they had realised that he wouldn’t transform fully unless asked, drugged or provoked, they still treated him like a mindless beast. Treated him like something that had to be controlled and overpowered, chained to the wall by his neck with the Bridle in place. He would wish for the haze of drugs, so he could forget where he was or at least so the chill of the metal faded away and cold hard stone walls wouldn’t be closing in on him. 

During those days he would often wonder if he would ever see the Presbytery again. Wonder if they would ever release him, if he’d ever be allowed home. On paper there was supposedly no-one who would miss him and he wouldn’t have been surprised if they would’ve abused this fact. Now, in the cold cell, he thought there was a real chance he wouldn’t make it back. Was this going to be his reality for the rest of his life? A world in which all softness would be ripped away from him.

As Sgt. Goodfellow locked the bridle in place, he spoke once again. Perhaps it was an apology. Sid couldn’t find energy within himself to listen. Tremors ran through Sid’s body and hot, wet tears fell from his eyes.

Sgt. Goodfellow had only just stepped back when the cell door opened again. Sid’s whole body went rigid expecting pain, but instead the careful, soft arms and French perfume belonging to Felicia embraced him as she rushed into the tiny space. It turned out that she hadn’t left like Sid had believed and now he could feel her trembling in sympathetic terror.

“Sidney,” she sobbed into his chest. Sid closed the eye that hadn’t already been forced shut by the Bridle. He hadn’t wanted her to see him like this and he couldn’t make himself look at her. Still he encircled her in his arms, because she was scared and sobbing and he couldn’t just do nothing to comfort her.

“It’s alright, Milady. It’s still me,” he told her, biting back his own tears and swallowing his fears. Later he could collapse, but for now he needed to be strong for her. To make sure his Countess was safe was what he was meant to do, his role in life.

“Oh, Sid,” she managed between sobs. “We’ll get you out of this and it will be alright. I shall make sure Monty has somebody's head for this.” The cold look of Aristocratic disapproval was thrown in Sgt. Goodfellow’s direction. The Sergeant stepped back, clearly unused to being glared at in this manner.

The voice of someone Sid didn’t recognise shouted from the cell doorway: “Look, love, what do you think you’re doing? You’ve got a violent, dangerous criminal here. You can’t be in the cell with him, regardless of who you think you are.” Sid opened his eye and looked in the direction from which the shout had come from. There were two men, one was wearing a dark grey suit and the other a khaki coloured one. If Sid cared to distinguish them any further than that, he could probably have observed their eye colours and other discernible features. But he didn’t care. The only important bit, he realised, was that these strangers must be from the feared Anima division of Special Branch. None of Sid’s previous offences had warranted their attention, but it made sense for them to be called this time ‘round.

With his arms around her, it was impossible for Sid to not feel Felicia stiffen and bristle. A smile almost made it onto his face, she never reacted well to being talked down to. The look she must have on her face was one he’d seen multiple times before. No need to see it to know what it looked like anymore. Lady Felicia stepped out of Sid’s arms and he felt her turn.

“I am the Countess of Montague, my husband is the Lord Air Marshall, a personal friend of her Majesty, my brother is Viscount Windermere, the head of the police judicial conference, and I own the land this parochial police station sits on. I would thank you to speak to me with respect if you wish to keep your disgusting and pathetic little job past tomorrow morning.” There had been no need for her to raise her voice, which she therefore hadn’t. It was rather impressive how she could be so commanding with ease, Sid thought. “I am comforting one of my employees, who, I will remind you, is by the law of this land innocent until proven guilty and entitled to a free and balanced trial in front of his peers.” There was a beat where everyone waited for some reply, but it never came. Instead the two men seemed to ignore the Countess. It was a bit awkward.

“I’ve got to congratulate you, Sergeant,” one of them addressed Sgt. Goodfellow. “Never seen a Bridle be put on without tranquilisers.” It was clear that Sgt. Goodfellow didn’t take this as the compliment it was probably meant to be. Instead he made a slightly huffing noise as the two strangers made their way into the now cramped cell. “I’m Officer Nicholas Trudu, and this is my colleague Officer Kaleb Smith. We’re with the Anima Division of Special Branch.” 

The first officer introduced his colleague who was still holding the tranquiliser gun and stood slightly behind him. Felicia tutted, obviously unimpressed with their lack of decorum. “Mr. Carter, as you haven’t been tranquilised and sober, we’d like to start questioning you immediately-”

“No you won’t,” Felicia interrupted. “Mr. Carter will not be answering any questions until his solicitor is present.”

“That’s not really-” Trudu started.

“I’m afraid it is just the way it is, Officer. You will not question Mr. Carter until he has conferred with legal counsel.”

“What legal counsel? Anima’s don’t get lawyers, especially not one with previous,” Smith scoffed.

“The Solicitor I hired the moment I heard of Mr. Carter’s arrest,” Felicia told them. “Who told me, quite vociferously, that Mr. Carter was not to submit to any questioning until he was present.” A wave of gratitude for the Countess washed over Sid. Not only did she offer words and touches of comfort, but she was also actively defending him where he couldn’t do so for himself. There didn’t seem to be any energy left for Sid to do anything other than collapse. He felt emotionally and physically drained and he could barely keep his mind together as it was. If he had to talk to these fuckers, he wasn’t going to be able to.

“I have to agree with Mr. Carter’s Solicitor, Officers.” Sgt. Goodfellow nodded in agreement. “You can’t question a prisoner until he has had access to legal counsel. Would be more than my jobsworth to allow you to.” The Sergeant sighed heavily. “So, may I suggest we go and wait elsewhere for Mr. Carter's solicitor? We can have a cup of tea in the meantime.”

As the two officers left the cell, Trudu turned back to Felicia. “You might want to hurry up your Solicitor, Milady.  Animas… They, well, I wouldn’t leave it too long,” he scoffed again, leaving Sid and Felicia in the cell and Sgt. Goodfellow by the door.

“SIdney, it will be alright. I will not leave you here a moment longer than I have to,” she told him before she hugged him again. “I’m with you” With a final squeeze of her and Sid’s hands, Felicia and Sgt. Goodfellow left.

The metal door clanged shut again, leaving Sid alone with only his thoughts. His mind started to spiral immediately and he desperately wanted Felicia to return. He couldn’t breath properly and everything about this that was uncomfortable could no longer be ignored. The metal of the Bridle was digging into his skin. It pushed and pulled painfully at it. The device was not made with different headshapes in mind. Making any kind of facial movement was hard. The eye that was forced shut was already starting to get irritated from the pressure. The cold metal was digging into his neck and temples. His nose was getting flattened, which made breathing through it near impossible. The urge to vomit was becoming overwhelming, but the way the Bridle closed around his neck made it impossible for anything to come up. 

On top of all of that he couldn’t see through it well enough with the eye that wasn’t forced closed to steady himself by staring at the wall. Sitting down did nothing at all either. His whole head felt heavy and wrong. 

He wants it off, needs it off. His fingers scratch at the metal. The urge to vomit is replaced by the urge to cry. But he is empty. His world shrinks to just the Bridle and his wants. The thoughts in his head become more and more jumbled. No matter how many times he wore a Bridle during his National Service, he never got used to it. It was always like this, beyond any resilience he could hope to build. 

Sid partially transformed without thinking, claws out in the hope that his badger fur would dampen the painful digging feeling. It never had before, but he tried it again, with the same pointless result. Everything became tighter and more uncomfortable. This was even worse. 

If he had fingers, Sid thought, he could probably pick the lock. Even though the lock was behind head, it should be doable. He was a lockpick, pick locks was what he did. But he didn’t have fingers. He couldn’t have fingers, because badgers don’t have fingers. Fingers would be useful, if he could only have any. Badgers are strong, he thought. If I transform fully, I break Bridle. He could feel the badger trying to emerge from within himself, but it gets blocked. The Bridle stops him, so he claws. Claws break things, he thinks. Surely, claws strong? Sid opens his mouth and screams and screams.

Outside the cell Felicia jumped when she heard the first scream coming from the cell. It was clearly a scream of distress and Felicia felt overwhelmed by the need to help him. 

“Sid?” she called and Sgt. Goodfellow reached for his keys. The Sergeant was stopped from reopening the cell by Anima Officer Smith putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking his head. “He’s obviously a strong man, held out longer than others, but all Anima’s do that eventually,” Smith laughed. Felicia looked at him horrified, what on Earth was the man talking about? This was Sid, gentle, calm, loving Sidney Carter. Mrs. McCarthy had told her that he had been a bit wild after he returned from national service, but she couldn’t believe the scratching and banging that she heard from inside the cell came from the chicken loving Chauffeur she knew. Her heart was being torn to pieces as she was made to listen without being allowed to act.

“Good job we did wait to interview him,” Trudu added with a laugh of his own. “Wouldn’t like to be stuck in an interview room with that.”

“Yeah, It was stupid to think an Anima could remain calm.” Smith shook his head. “We’re better off waiting till he tires himself out, they all do eventually.” The horror Felicia felt only deepened as the two men spoke. The way they talked about Sid made her shiver.

Both Mrs. McCarthy and Father Brown had mentioned how exhausted Sid was. What was it about that horrific bridle that triggered such a visceral response? That gave him the energy he previously didn’t have to start screaming and thrashing about the cell? She had realised what the Bridle was while she watched Sgt. Goodfellow put it on Sid’s head. Previously she had only heard of its existence, never having had the misfortune to see one. It had to be the Bridle, she thought, it couldn’t possibly be Sid.