What Went Wrong with Mrs Milliard’s Mech?
An Inspector Ambrose Story.
By I H Laking
Cover Design by Jorge Silvadoray
Copyright 2014 I H Laking
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Inspector Ambrose Aramis stared deep into the bathroom mirror. He was rather concerned about something, something he couldn’t ignore. It was early in the morning, and the sound of rain dancing on the roof echoed through the halls of his two storied terrace house. As the rain pounded on the thick clay tiles, he continued to stare at his reflection. He couldn’t understand it. No, this was definitely not good enough. Finally, after another moment of contemplation, he reached across, drew his comb out from its neatly arranged position on the nearby bench, and tried to part his hair once again. It was now the seventh time he had attempted a perfect partition in his dark hair, and this morning it simply wouldn’t stay – a hair was always left sticking up, seemingly mocking him. He gently smoothed one side down, wet the comb a touch more, and slowly pulled the other side into position. Once again, the offending hair refused to stay down. Ambrose considered the situation. If he continued this battle with the foolish follicle, he would undoubtedly be late for work – but if he did not fix this unacceptable hair situation, he would arrive at work looking less than perfect, something that gnawed at him just as much. He attempted the part one final time, but to no avail. Exasperated, he let out a loud groan, and resigned himself to the reality of wearing his Inspector’s hat all day.
Ambrose hadn’t always intended to be this neat. Something about his upbringing, however, had hammered into him the importance of all things being proper and in their place. His house reflected his dedication to order, just as much as his chosen career did. He would always insist on cleaning his house every time he had a spare moment, and would only accept minor help from his housekeeper, except in the matter of cooking (the mess that one makes whilst chopping onions and bubbling tomatoes always caused him great duress). Yes, Inspector Ambrose Aramis was a fastidious perfectionist who was dedicated to his work, and determined to always maintain order and dignity wherever and whenever possible. This had made his selection as an Inspector logical and easy, and he was proud to be a man with an important title and responsibility. But for now, he had to hurry.
With a certain speed, Ambrose twirled on his heel, and marched down the dark corridor. He was a tall man, lanky and wiry in appearance, with a shot of black hair that usually stayed in place, unlike the situation he was currently facing. He entered his bedroom and pulled his coat off the hanger. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, he finished his usual routine. Looking himself up and down, he checked for any signs of an out of place uniform: his black shoes were shined to perfection, his black pants and crisply ironed shirt both modelled fashion and precision. He allowed himself a small smile, but began frowning again as he remembered his hair situation.
The final part of Inspector Ambrose’s morning ritual now began. He held up his coat to look for lint. It was a standard-issue Civilian Protection Force coat, a deep blood red colour with black trim around the cuffs and collar. On the left breast was the symbol of The Order: a black wheel with eight spokes leading out from a white circle in the middle. The Inspector flicked a piece of fluff from the emblem – it wouldn’t do to have anything covering The Wheel – people had been dismissed for less, and worse. He quickly moved his eyes over the rest of the coat, and then carefully pulled it on, zipping it up in the usual fashion, from his left hip up to just below the middle of his neck. He adjusted his cuffs and collar to ensure all was straight and proper. Excepting his hair, everything was in perfect order. He pulled on his flat-topped Inspector’s hat, which was the final pièce de résistance to his outfit: White, with a double red line running across the front above the brim, signifying his rank, and underlining The Wheel that seemed to float in the centre of the hat. With a final glance in the mirror, he headed down the corridor, grabbed his black umbrella, and stepped out the door to face the day.