In the Fog

I reach for my scotch glass. Empty. I slam it down and check my pockets. My hand fumbles with my pack of Woodbines. Damn. I need a ciggy, bad. I shake a smoke out and put it to my lips. I strike a match, light, and inhale. Ah, that’s the ticket. Nothing better than a few drags to calm the nerves. I’d pour myself a drink too. I wouldn’t mind some Vat 69, but I’m fresh out.

I look at the photograph again from the case file. It looks like someone I used to know a long time ago. A person who is now long dead, murdered in the same way—a stab and gunshot wound to the stomach. Memories flood my mind of a time that was forgotten. A time briefly filled with hope before being abruptly crushed. A time now best left buried. Long-gone and bygone. No, after looking at this image, no longer bygone.

Damn it all. I crush my cigarette into the ashtray on my desk. A ciggy won’t be enough. I am thirsty now, and not just for some Vat 69. My thirst will not be quenched until that bastard is brought down. No way I’m going to let this go. Not this time. I was given this case on purpose. This is my second chance. My chance for redemption. My chance to finally put this godforsaken story to rest.

No doubt about it: the Bayonet is back.