The Shadow of Great Britain

23: Chapter 20: The Taste of Betrayal 23: Chapter 20: The Taste of Betrayal Arthur followed Officer Dennis’ footsteps as they made their way through the streets of the Greenwich District and the noisy, boisterous crowds.

As time passed, Arthur noticed there were fewer and fewer pedestrians on the road, and the streets in front of him became narrower and narrower.

The sky above began to be obscured by low, crowded shanties; the damp tiles underfoot were littered with household sewage and excrement, which flowed down the gradient behind Arthur all the way until it poured into the already overwhelmed Thames River.

The world was very quiet, so quiet that Arthur could even hear the sound of the steam whistles on the Thames.

The world was also very noisy, so noisy that Arthur’s blood rushed to his head, making him dizzy and blurring his ability to distinguish the truth of this world.

He even wanted to raise his fist to punch Dennis standing beside him.

He stopped in front of a narrow alley that barely allowed two people to walk side by side.

“Arthur, why, why have you stopped walking?”

Officer Dennis tried to appear calm, but the sweat on his forehead had already betrayed him.

Arthur took out his newly bought pipe from his pocket and put it in his mouth, but he did not light it.

He did not say anything, only looked at Dennis with his eyes.

His gaze was complex, with some anger, some desolation, but mostly an extreme cold indifference that came from deep heartache.

Dennis dared not meet his gaze and simply stood there with his head bowed and his back hunched over.

He looked nothing like an upright officer, but more like a criminal caught in the act.

The weather today was overcast, but it did not rain.

Yet, something still dripped down from Dennis’ chin to the ground.

Clear droplets fell from his jaw onto the puddle on the tile, mingling with the filth of the mortal world, making their original color indistinguishable.

Officer Dennis breathed in sips, as if someone had punctured his lung with a knife.

“I don’t want to look for reasons, nor do I deserve to look for any reasons.

Yes, that’s right, I am a coward by nature.

I am nothing compared to Tony and Tom, and I will never be able to catch up to you.”

Dennis took a deep breath: “Arthur, give me two punches.

That way you’ll feel better and so will I.

Come on!

Two punches!”

The Red Devil perched near Arthur’s ear and laughed with a heh heh, the laughter making Arthur irritated and annoyed.

“Arthur, what are you waiting for?

This bastard betrayed you, skin him and hang it on the roof of Scotland Yard.

Only this way will others know to fear you and understand the price of betraying you.”

Arthur was silent for a good while before he took out a box of matches from his pocket and held it out in front of Dennis.

Dennis, with tearful eyes, looked up in surprise at Arthur.

Arthur still did not speak but simply gestured to the pipe in his mouth with a nod to Dennis.

Dennis seemed to understand.

His trembling hands took the matchbox and, shaking, tried to light a match over and over again.

His hands were clumsy, and it was not until his fifth attempt that he finally managed to ignite a flame.

In no time at all, a slender wisp of smoke rose in the alleyway.

Arthur took a deep drag.

The tobacco was still as bitter, astringent, and throat-burning as ever, but fortunately, he was beginning to grow accustomed to this taste.

He finally began to understand why people enjoyed this unique habit.

Arthur blew out a ring of smoke, looking at the shanty rooftops on either side of the narrow alley that almost touched his face, and exclaimed sincerely in his heart.

“The feeling of smoking, it’s really good…”

He looked at Dennis’ familiar yet unfamiliar face and said, “Your child, he’s almost a year old now, isn’t he?”

Dennis was startled, then nodded gently.

Arthur pushed him heavily against the wall of the alley, and with a sudden force, his hat was shaken off and fell to the ground.

Dennis stared blankly at Arthur’s gloomy face, and just when he thought he was definitely going to be thrashed, Arthur’s voice rang in his ears.

“You are the worst colleague.”

Dennis closed his eyes, nodded with a smile, and felt somewhat relieved in his heart, “That’s right.”

“But that doesn’t stop you from being a great father.”

In an instant, Dennis’s heart felt as though it were being torn apart.

Arthur bent down to pick up the hat that had fallen to the ground and put it back on his head, the brim hiding his face, making it hard to discern his expression.

“You should go back, go back and take care of your family.

I can walk the road ahead on my own.

It’s quite dangerous, and not suitable for a man with a family like you to appear.”

Arthur, hands in pockets, cast a long and lonely shadow in the alley, which also seemed somewhat desolate and forlorn.

“Arthur!!!”

Dennis’s voice pierced the entire alley, “Don’t go, he’s waiting for you just ahead.”

Arthur’s footsteps paused for just a moment, but soon the sound of footsteps echoed through the alley again.

“If you must go, then take this with you!”

Dennis was practically using all his strength to roar, as he took off the police cutlass from his waist and threw it forcefully on the ground.

“Take it!

At least you deserve to use it more than I do!”

Arthur stopped in his tracks, turning his head to look at the police cutlass thrown on the ground.

This time, Arthur did not refuse.

He bent over to pick up the police cutlass, his fingertips lightly flicking the guard.

With a clang, the sword unsheathed.

The blade was bright and snow-white, evidently well-maintained, just like the one he had owned before.

It was so clean it could serve as a mirror, reflecting both Arthur’s and Dennis’s faces as well as the myriad human conditions and the coldness of the world.

Arthur accepted the police cutlass and turned, stepping towards the deepest part of the alley.

Sergeant Dennis watched his figure, his body slowly sliding down the dirty wall.

The few sentences just spoken had nearly drained all the strength from his body, his legs weakened, and even his lips trembled uncontrollably.

Seated in the filthy water, he gasped for air and muttered to himself, “God, Dennis, what have you done?”

…

At the end of the alley, there was also a man leaning against the wall.

Like Arthur, his hat brim was pulled low, the plain clothes doing little to hide his strong and fierce muscles, or the faint scar on his neck.

He leaned his head back, continually and gently knocking it against the wall.

Thud!

Thud!

Thud!

All the officers in the Greenwich District knew that it was best to steer clear of him at this time, as this was a sign of his impatience.

And all the soldiers who had once served in the 15th Royal Cavalry Squadron understood what this meant too.

But they held a different opinion from the officers, for the soldiers believed it was a sign he was ready to kill.

Wilcox had not brought the police cutlass with him today; on his waist hung a cavalry saber he had cherished for many years.

On the saber’s round pommel was engraved his identity—Sergeant Squad Leader Wilcox Roberts of the Third Squadron, 15th Royal Cavalry Squadron.