The clerk glanced at the society’s official seal and signature on the award certificate:
"You didn’t transfer from the Imperial Capital, did you?"
"I’ve always gone to school in Brighton."
"That’s impressive. It’s rare for a student from Brighton to win an award from the Imperial Capital."
The clerk wrote the address on the envelope with a ballpoint pen, muttering something under his breath—probably along the lines of "not easy."
After he finished writing and sealed it, he placed the letter in the outgoing mail tray.
"The request from the Dawn family came through their eldest daughter. Her name is..."
He checked his records again. "Charlotte Dawn. Twenty-two years old. Came back after finishing university in the Imperial Capital."
"I hear she’s the one managing this whole tutoring business. The Mother just signs the papers and pays.
Mr. Dawn works in shipping and is away all year; he’s rarely home."
Richard understood.
’The eldest daughter is the real decision-maker, the Mother is the client in name only, and the father is almost completely out of the picture.’
’The student himself is twelve, has already gone through three tutors, and is uncooperative.’
’He was already sketching a portrait of the family in his mind. The outline was clear.’
By the time Richard finished the paperwork for the tutoring job and left the office, the sun had not yet dipped behind the chimneys.
Richard checked his watch. There were still two or three hours until nightfall.
He stood on the stone steps outside the office building, thought for a moment, and decided to go check out the shooting range.
The chief inspector’s words from yesterday were still ringing in his ears.
’The range is open all day, and no one uses it on the weekends. Just bring the papers.’
’Now that he was legally authorized to use a firearm, the sooner he got familiar with it, the better.’
He walked north along Grafton Street, crossing Central Avenue.
As he passed the pie stall from before, he couldn’t help but glance over.
As expected, the unlucky person’s vomit and the grease spilled by the stall owner had been cleaned up without a trace.
Even the paving stone kicked loose by the man in the jacket had been repaired.
’No wonder they’re called Sanitation Inspectors. Their work really is clean and efficient.’
He passed the outer wall of the freight yard beside Central Avenue and found the building the chief inspector had mentioned in the northeast corner.
It was a three-story brick building, its outer walls coated with yellowing plaster. There weren’t many windows, and each one was fitted with iron bars.
A rust-spotted brass plaque hung by the door: "Brighton Municipal Environmental Monitoring Station · North District Branch".
Nailed below the brass plaque was an even smaller tin one, engraved with small letters:
"Unauthorized Personnel Prohibited · For Environmental Complaints, Please Proceed to Window 3 at the Municipal Hall".
’Who would come all the way out behind a freight yard to complain about environmental problems?’
’The sign’s only real purpose was probably to turn curious passersby away.’
Richard pushed open the main door. A middle-aged man in a uniform sat behind the duty desk.
The man on duty had his head down, looking at a pictorial. On the cover, a soccer player was heading the ball for a goal.
"Trainee Inspector Richard Williams, here to use the shooting range." He handed over his letter of appointment.
The attendant took it, glanced over the administrative seal and serial number on the document, and then looked up at Richard.
His gaze lingered on Richard’s face for about two seconds, and he likely thought to himself, ’He’s so young.’
"The shooting range is in the basement. Stairs are at the end of the hall to your right.
The ammunition room is to the left of the range entrance. Log the amount you use yourself."
The attendant fished a key out of a drawer and tossed it onto the desk:
"Practice guns are in the iron locker in the ammo room. Webley Revolver. The serial numbers are already registered.
Return it when you’re done. Don’t take it out of the building."
After saying this, the attendant buried his head back in his pictorial.
’The entire check-in process was at least ten times more efficient than at the bank.’
Richard picked up the key and headed down the corridor to his right.
The ammunition room was to the left of the range entrance, its iron door half-open.
Stepping inside, he saw the four walls were stacked with ammo boxes of various sizes.
The iron locker was in the corner. He opened it with the key the attendant had given him and found two Webley Revolvers lying inside, just as he’d been told.
Richard picked up the one that looked newer and weighed it in his hand.
The Webley Revolver seemed a bit large for his current, adolescent hands.
It was heavy, but not unmanageably so. Holding the gun in his hand, a sense of confidence bloomed within him.
After signing the logbook, he carried his gear into the shooting range.
The range wasn’t large, about twenty-five yards long, with four shooting lanes separated by iron plates. At the far end was a thick backstop wall of sand and dirt.
Iron frames stood in front of the backstop, holding humanoid paper targets.
The paper surfaces were riddled with holes. Some were clustered around the head and chest, while others were sprayed all over.
Richard placed the gun and ammunition on the partition of the shooting lane. Just as he was about to figure out how to load it himself, he heard footsteps from the entrance.
An older man appeared at the entrance to the range.
He had a large belly, the hair at his temples was mostly gray but still thick, and the toolbox he was carrying clanked.
"Hey, you the trainee the Chief was talking about?"
"Yes."
"What’s your name?"
"Richard Williams."
"How old?"
"Sixteen."
The man’s round face broke into an exaggerated expression.
"Sixteen? You’re handling guns at sixteen?"
He set his bag on the ground:
"The Chief and his men finish their practice on weekdays and take off. This place is as dead as a morgue on the weekends.
Ah, and I work in the morgue, so that’s a pretty apt comparison."
The man introduced himself:
"William Bigelow, public health coroner for the Brighton North District. Everyone calls me Old Big."
Richard recalled what the chief inspector had said yesterday—that there was a helpful fellow named Old Big at the range. This had to be him.
"You’re a coroner?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"Yep. The one and only official coroner for the Brighton North District."
Old Big stuck a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in wax paper:
"Pork and mustard. Want some?"
"No, thanks. I’ve had lunch."
Old Big didn’t seem to mind the rejection. He mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich:
"Knew you were coming to practice. We can’t just let a beginner handle a gun on his own. The wrong grip can blow your fingers off.
The Chief told me about your situation over the phone. Asked me to help you practice when I had a chance."
He took a couple of bites, swallowed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don’t be in such a hurry to load up."
As he said this, he produced his own gun from the toolbox.
The gun was a size smaller than the one in Richard’s hand, with a shorter body and a narrower grip.
It was a Webley-Pryse RIC model revolver.
It was one size smaller than the standard military Webley, from an older design, and was now out of production.
"This gun was passed down in my trade."
Old Big opened the Bullet Nest and loaded it, taking cartridges one by one from a small leather pouch on his belt next to his toolbox.
"In my trade, we have a lot of rules. One is that when you complete your apprenticeship, your master gives you a tool. Could be a knife, could be a hammer, could be a gun.
It doesn’t matter what you get. What’s important is that you learn to treat it as an extension of your own arm."

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