Several Wellies had gathered in The Parade and throughout Hamlyn Village. The two Headmistresses were finally being shut down and dismantled.
Bobbies worked the crowd lines, keeping order as people packed the streets and rooftops alike. John was among them.
I spotted him easily and slipped into place behind him.
The irony clearly wasn’t lost on Victoria Byng, standing to my right. A faint smile tugged at her lips.
“I’m guessing you’ve got Constable Constable’s back,” she remarked, amusement threading her voice.
“Literally and metaphorically,” I replied with a grin.
A soft chuckle escaped John.
“She’s always somewhere nearby,” he admitted warmly. “Wouldn’t have my missus any other way.”
Around us, the crowd buzzed with nervous chatter. Cameras rolled from every angle, both shutdowns being recorded for later broadcast. Somewhere over in The Parade, James and Roger were overseeing the proceedings.
Then the call finally came.
A countdown from five.
The murmuring crowd gradually fell silent.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…
All eyes turned toward the Headmistress looming over Hamlyn.
The massive machine began to slow. Lights dimmed across its frame in uneven pulses.
“YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED. PLEASE CLEAR THE AREA IMMEDIATELY.”
The voice emerged deeper now, slower than before, as though the machine itself were struggling to force the words out.
“YOU ARE NOT… YOU… YOU… CLEAR… IMMEDIATELY.”
Its lights flickered violently once.
Then darkness.
The pixelated eyes and mouth vanished from the monitor serving as its face. The screen went black as the Headmistress slumped forward, mechanical arms hanging limp at its sides.
For several long moments, nobody spoke.
Thousands of us simply stood there, staring at the dead machinery, as though waiting for it to come back online.
After half a minute or so, John’s shoulders finally relaxed.
Then the crowd erupted into cheers — most of us cheering until our throats were sore.
That evening, John and I were home, having finished supper and watching the news. The Headmistresses’ shutdowns were already being broadcast across Wellington Wells.
“Sergeant Sargent, a word please,” one of the WWBC reporters called as he approached John’s superior. “How will this affect the constabulary’s work?”
“I imagine it’ll make things a bit easier for my lads,” Sergeant Sargent replied. “Patrols should be quicker and more effective, and we’ll be better able to serve the public.”
On screen, the camera caught John and me in the background. We had been speaking quietly; then he turned, and we shared a brief hug and kiss.
“It seems one of your men is already celebrating,” the reporter added with a chuckle.
Sergeant Sargent followed his gaze and laughed.
“Yes, that’s Sonny Constable, our Sergeant Baker,” he said. “Constable Constable’s wife. She’s been involved in all sorts of efforts to help get things sorted out.”
Sitting together in our living room, John and I chuckled at the broadcast. Eventually, John and I turn in and got to bed.
Everything might not be "right as rain" yet but it's getting there.
