Chapter 24: The Peelers

“Hah… hah… huuh…” My lungs burned, each gasp for air a searing agony. My vision swam. Jared had only pulled me along for a short distance before my legs gave out completely, turning to useless jelly. He ended up carrying me for the rest of the frantic escape. And yet, even after running through the labyrinthine, gaslit streets with my dead weight in his arms, his own breathing remained steady and even. Was the gap between our physical abilities truly this vast? Was he even human?

Behind us, the factory district had descended into utter chaos. It seemed the murdered factory owner was an important man after all. The shrill, piercing blast of police whistles echoed through the smoggy air as the peelers, the city's brutish constabulary, began their "investigation." Jared carried me to an old, grand tenement building, the kind with stone gargoyles and intricate ironwork that screamed of a bygone, more elegant era. He found his way to the roof, a surprisingly peaceful, hidden refuge five stories above the grimy, teeming streets. There were wicker chairs here, a wooden trellis heavy with grapevines, a child's swing swaying gently in the breeze, a hammock, and pots of blooming flowers. It was clear the residents of this building enjoyed a level of comfort, of civilization, that was utterly, painfully alien to us.

“The peelers won’t leave the factory district for a while,” Jared said, gently setting me down on the swing. “And even when they do, they won’t bother searching a respectable building like this first. We should be safe here, for now.”

I took a few deep, ragged breaths to steady myself, then stood and walked to the edge of the rooftop. From this vantage point, I could see the chaos unfolding in the workers’ district below, a scene from a nightmare. I wanted to see the constables, the peelers. I wanted to understand why a city with a police force could be so lawless. I had just witnessed a murder in broad daylight, in front of a crowd, and the first reaction of the public was not to help, not to cry for justice, but to loot the corpse like a pack of starving wolves.

It was daytime, so thankfully my night blindness wasn't an issue. I could see them clearly now: a group of men in smart, dark green uniforms, tailored and immaculate. Over their uniforms, they wore matching green greatcoats, and their leather boots were polished to a mirror shine. Seeing them, I understood instantly why Jared had said they wouldn't bother investigating the slums properly. They were dressed like gentlemen on their way to a society ball, not like constables prepared to do the dirty, bloody work of policing a city's grimy, festering underbelly. The style of their uniform was classic, but there was something about their rigid posture, their cold, mechanical efficiency, that reminded me of the secret police from my old world's history books. They each carried a long, black truncheon, and I could see the menacing holsters of pistols at their waists.

I watched as they moved through the slum, their methods as brutal as they were inefficient. They kicked in the flimsy doors of the tin shanties, dragging out anyone they could find—men who had nothing to do with the murder. They barked questions, their voices harsh and accusing, and a sharp crack from a truncheon was the only answer to any sign of defiance. The real looters, the ones who had descended on the body like vultures, had vanished at the first sound of the whistle. The people the peelers were rounding up now were just the slow, the unlucky, the innocent. It was just as Jared had said: they didn't care about finding the right person. They just needed a few scapegoats to close the case, to show their superiors that "justice" had been served. With a police force like this, it was no wonder the city was a cesspool of crime and violence.

“Parula, come see what I got!” Jared’s voice, filled with a feverish, almost manic excitement, broke through my grim thoughts. He sounded completely untroubled, as if he hadn't just played a part, however indirectly, in a man's violent death. I wasn't mourning the black-hearted factory owner; the man had likely deserved a far worse fate. But I didn't want anyone I knew, anyone I depended on, to be tangled up in his death. And Jared's attitude… it was not the reaction of a normal child who had just witnessed such horror. It was the reaction of a predator, pleased with its kill. He had pulled the murder weapon from a dying man’s chest without a flicker of hesitation. And now, he was holding the short, blood-stained knife in his hand, admiring it, turning it over and over in the pale sunlight as if it were a magnificent, precious jewel.

“Aren’t you going to get rid of that foul thing?” I asked, a note of disgust, of horror, creeping into my voice. “It’s covered in blood.”