A time travel wuxia urban fantasy for Writing Exercise 2:
DI Carter walked into the charnel house that was inadequately described as the scene of the crime and knew that he’d seen it all before. Unfortunately, this being his first case with the Metaphysical Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, he also knew that he hadn’t really seen it before. It was a clear case of pre-ja vu; that eerie feeling that one day you’re going to have deja vu about exactly this situation.
The house was known to him, of course, from his time in Serious & Organised. Triad middlemen too clever to get caught, too canny to be snuck up on or entrapped, too cagey to rumbled by the competition. And yet here they were, their brain matter smeared across the walls, their viscera tainting the uncut heroin in washing-up bowls.
‘Alright Harry – what’s the deal?’ Carter asked the jaded crime scene manager from Forensic Operations.
‘Well, it’s a bit early to tell for sure, but it looks like these… gentlemen, were beaten with fists and feet.’
Carter struggled to maintain the surly demeanour that he had decided would be his trademark. ‘They were… beaten up in a fight? A fist fight? With… fists?’
‘And feet, yes. Also probably elbows, knees, at least one solid headbutt…’
‘All of them?!’
‘Yes, probably one guy, judging by the foot prints and scuff marks. And from the positioning of what’s left of the bodies, they never saw it coming.’
‘Harry… There’s eight corpses in this room.’
‘Yup. Welcome to the MID, Carter.’
Eight years later Carter, now a DCI, was back at that same house. Everything had been cleaned down, replastered, repainted and resold. It was now a nice suburban home, for a nice middle-class family that had been sent on a nice vacation for a few days. Carter, now somewhat heavier set, wore a surly expression and weighed a leaden cosh in his hand. In the end, it was just a matter of time.
The air shimmered in front of him and, before it could fully coalesce, he swung his cosh hard at the half-formed shape. With a grunt, a man slumped semi-conscious at his feet; groggy, surprised and covered in the gruesome evidence of a case eight years cold. Calmly Carter cuffed the man, hand and foot and soul, before sitting in on a stool, waiting for his suspect to fully come to.
‘You’re nicked, mate.’
‘For killing Triads? I did you a favour!’
‘No mate, not my beat, I couldn’t give a shit about the murder.’
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you are. You can strike before you were ever there, before anyone even has a chance to react. You can end someone’s life with their own stillbirth by nutting them as a pensioner. You, my son, are a practitioner of Deja Fu, the martial arts of time and space.’
‘So? You can’t prove I killed those Triads and you can’t arrest me for things I haven’t done yet!’
‘I don’t have to. Eric Ling, I’m arresting you for breach of the Control of Metaphysics Act.’
‘There’s no such law!’
‘No,’ said Carter. ‘But there will be. And I don’t reckon time’s on your side any more.’