“The police rang,” she says. “We’ve had a break-in at the Menagerie.”
She coughs. “One casualty.”
When I arrive, the police are still photographing the scene, and setting up those
white tents you see on telly. Wearing paper suits and protective masks they struggle
with the tent poles – the scene resembling something between an alien invasion,
and the set-up of a local parish barbeque. I park beneath the canvas banner which
advertises the Menagerie to the motorway. It promises “EVERY VICE A MAN CAN
THINK OF (AND FOUR THAT HE CAN’ T).”
I make a mental note to update the sign. Thanks to a fruitful shopping trip in Roswell,
we now boast a full seven attractions beyond the veil of human comprehension
and a coffee machine. Although it’s nearing midnight, the sky is a sickly pale pink,
bleached by the neon which leaks from the nearby casinos. I wonder who I should
introduce myself to, when a polite cough at my shoulder reveals an officer wearing
a hat. His jacket is slightly too small, and his trousers are slightly too loose, and he
looks like he just wants a biscuit and a lie down. He must be in charge. He hands me
a business card: “DC Midhurst.” In return, I hand him one back. “Reynard’s Electric
Menagerie: Purveyors of debauchery, ecstasy, and anecdotes.”
Together, the detective and I enter the CCT V suite. There is only one chair in
front of the console, and DC Midhurst looks actively relieved when I offer it to him.
He makes an involuntary noise as he sits, and I spot a slight tremor in his hands as
I pass him the mouse. They do not allow me into the warehouse – where we keep
the attractions – and so, for me, the CCT V holds a grim anticipation. Where did the
poor unfortunate soul snuff it? It’s like a particularly grim episode of Yo u ’ v e B e e n
Framed, this. It would probably get excellent ratings. I make a mental note to pitch
THE MAN WHO BROKE THE
FETISH ENGINE
Flash fiction by Emma Levin
Illustration by Omar Morgan