The cab dropped Reginald off at the edge of Eggot Harbor. Noticing how conspicuous his police uniform would be, he rushed into a tailor shop. The shop was everything you'd expect from a subpar tailor.
The tailor shop was a narrow, dimly lit space cluttered with bolts of faded fabric stacked like weary soldiers and scraps of lace spilling onto the creaky wooden floor. Half-finished coats hung limply from crooked mannequins, some draped in measuring tape like forgotten patients. The air smelled faintly of chalk, dust, and old perfume, mingled with the musk of unwashed wool. Behind a counter buried in buttons, dull scissors, and tea-stained sketches, sat a stout woman in her forties. Her cheeks sagged slightly, eyes glazed with disinterest as she half-heartedly stitched a hem. Thread clung to her sleeves, and every movement of her needle seemed like a burden she'd long grown tired of carrying.
The woman behind the counter lifted a gaze to look at him.
"Ally," she said lazily with an accent. "What do you want, Mr. Policeman?"
"I need a coat."
Ally looked at Reginald with a side eye, as if she was used to situations like this.
"Of course you do, something to hide all that fancy police uniform, eh?"
"Yes," Reginald replied.
"Six pounds," she retorted.
"What?!" Reginald raised his voice for the first time since he came into the shop. As a decorated inspector, he made three to four pounds per week, and this woman was asking for six pounds for used coats? What a ripoff.
"I could get two new coats for six pounds! Are you trying to extort a police officer?" Reginald continued in a raised voice.
"You can't get them now, can you?"
She must have smelled his desperation when he walked through that door. What a shrew.
"But your shiny cufflinks would do."
As an officer that dealt with supernatural affairs, he wore gold cufflinks. He had just two pairs. That was what this shrew of a woman was after.
"A piece of an old outfit for a new one."
Reginald took off the cufflinks, slamming them on the table to express his frustration.
"I get the coat and four pounds change."
"One pound."
"Four pounds!"
"Three pounds."
Reginald reluctantly agreed.
Ally finally got off the chair she was sitting on and walked to a hanger. She selected one of the coats she thought was Reginald's size while the hanger creaked and threw it to him.
No respect for the customer, Reginald thought as he put on the coat. It was a few sizes bigger than him but covered his police uniform completely.
Ally was done counting his money and handed it to him, with a hat.
"Compliment of the store. Come back another time, Inspector," she said with a cheeky grin.
------------------------
'I really am not cut out for this type of life,' Reginald thought as he walked on. Carrying his box, he soon plunged deep into Eggot Harbor. His baggy coat completely buried all he wore underneath and made him appear bigger. He wore a hat that was just as old and used as the coat itself.
Eggot Harbor reeked of salt, rot, and unwashed bodies, its narrow alleys packed with crumbling buildings leaning over one another like drunks. The air was thick with smoke, sewage, and something worse than desperation—hopelessness.
Children with hollow eyes and runny noses loitered barefoot, their skin pale and their limbs too thin. Some moved to beg, but all he had to give were the pounds from Ally, the shrew – too big a denomination for a child.
Reginald was certain he witnessed two muggings before he'd even crossed the main lane. He subconsciously moved his hand closer to his gun.
A drunk, caked in grime and piss, staggered toward him with a grin missing half its teeth, slurring something unintelligible through swollen gums. He stopped before him.
"What you want?"
"What?" Reginald strained to hear him.
"What you want? What you want, I... I give you."
He slurred over his speech.
This man looked as unreliable as they come, but he couldn't go around the harbor asking for a room, right?
"I'm in need of lodgings," Reginald said.
"House? Easy. I get you house," the drunk said with a smile. "Follow me."
Reginald followed the drunk through twisting alleys that grew narrower and darker with every turn, the stench worsening until it clogged his nostrils.
The drunk moved with the grace of a stumbling elephant, occasionally glancing back to make sure Reginald kept up, grinning like they were old friends.
They passed rusted barrels, stray dogs gnawing bones he was sure they wouldn't release at gunpoint, and shuttered stalls with broken signs swinging in the breeze.
Finally, the man stopped before a leaning structure with a collapsed steeple—a church, or what remained of one. Inside, the pews were gone, the stained glass shattered, and the altar stripped bare.
Only dust, mold, and the hollow echo of lost prayers remained. The drunk turned to Reginald, grinning wide, arms spread as if unveiling a palace, clearly proud of the real estate service he'd just rendered.
"Good, good...." The drunk kept repeating.
Reginald was shown into the inner rooms of the church. And while the main hall was too open, the inner rooms definitely suited his agenda.
"How much?" Reginald queried.
"Ten pounds per year," the man replied, simultaneously spreading his fingers to show the price.
Reginald put a single pound from his pocket, holding it right before the man's face. He was done negotiating for today.
The man reached out for the money.
"You want?" Reginald asked in the same style as the man.
"Yes, yes, yes... Enough."
"Is there anything I should know? Anyone to look out for?"
"They come, you shoot. You have gun?"
Reginald pulled his coat to the side to show him his holster, hinting he had dangerous thoughts.
Reginald threw him the money and was shocked by the speed in which he grabbed it and fled from the church. He stumbled three times before he got to the gate.
"What a nice fellow."
Today had been nothing short of exhausting for Reginald—between tense conversations at the station, bargaining with the smug receptionist at Acquisitions, enduring the clutter and sharp-tongued tailor in the shrew's store, and now following a drunk through the filth and chaos of Eggot Harbor. He finally lowered himself onto a crumbling stone chair inside the gutted church, its brittle legs creaking dangerously beneath his weight.
The dim, mold-scented space offered little comfort, but it was still. He needed rest—clear focus and calm nerves would be essential for what came next.