Tirran dashed across the muddy yard towards the gate. He realised he didn’t have that long before the man he left on the floor in the hut raised the alarm, so a quick escape was the best option. Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed nine, meaning Scovie should have had just enough time to get back from Inche Street. It was just a matter of not getting killed before reinforcements arrived now. It seemed that every member of the gang was now involved in breaking into whatever sewer ran underneath the yard, leaving an almost clear run for the gate. Even so Tirran tried to keep out of the dull light cast by the braziers, skidding in the mud back around to the side of the cart. The home stretch was in sight, it was just a short sprint and he would have been free. Tirran almost reached the edge of the yard when someone grabbed him from behind and threw him into the mud.

The day dragged slowly towards evening. Tirran and Scovie had settled into the motions of a stake out, one constantly sat by the window while the other tried to keep an eye on the door just in case and remain sane. A round of half eaten bacon baps comprised of mostly gristle sat on a bed side table. Food was clearly not the pub’s strong point. Scovie had produced a deck of cards from somewhere and they had been useful to pass the time for a while, but Tirran was convinced either the young Constable was a very accomplished cheat or the deck had a few too many primes for his liking. Either way, the dimming light put an end to it, Tirran had decided quite early on that they couldn’t let it look like someone was watching the street and so decided to forgo any form of lighting that could be seen through the windows. Beyond a sliver of light seeping under the door, the entire room was lit only from the window, which now silhouetted Scovie as he sat on watch. Despite being there all afternoon, neither one of them had seen anything untoward out in the street, and the lack of activity was starting to take its toll.

Tirran dragged his suspect back to the Inche Street Station House in handcuffs. One of the old Coach Houses out the back had been converted into a set of holding cells long ago, its rough iron cages keeping suspects and drunks alike in one place until they were charged and taken along the Gibbetgate Road to the dark, foreboding gaol just beyond the city walls. As he forced the Murid into a cell, Tirran couldn’t help but note the atmosphere of despair the building was soaked in. This simply added to the man’s already visible panic, which was already making it painfully obvious that he hadn’t anticipated quite how much trouble he had gotten himself in. Rather than leave him in the main holding cell alongside the other pick ups from that morning, Tirran directed him into a separate empty cell with solid walls. Even with only a single occupant, the room was cramped… oppressive, lit only by a small barred window out into the yard. As he was pushed into the room, he began to whimper audibly. Tirran ignored him as he undid the handcuffs and left the Murid to stew in his own guilt, slamming the iron cell door behind him.