FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Edited and corrected by Ben243, with special help by Tai1bulger from London, England.

This story was partially inspired by the public information film The British Policeman from 1959.

"And this is my most prized possession!" his Aunt concluded, showing Rick a small figurine of a black hawk with red eyes. "The Winged Guardian of Saint Julian. An original prop from Mother's greatest film classic 'Murder at Blackwood Manor'. She was a brilliant actress, you know! She portrayed the tragic character of Lady Blackwood..."

Rick loved his aunt, but she had been rambling about her past for a good hour now, and it had slowly been getting on his nerves. He was thankful when her Uber finally arrived to take her to the hospital for her surgery. They left the study room and went to the salon to grab her bags.

"Promise me, you will take good care of the house, Ricky!" - "I will, Aunt Vera!" - "And don't forget to feed Archimedes!" - "Leave it all to me!" - "You're a good boy! What would I do without you!" She gave him a kiss on the cheek and finally left the house.

Alone, at last! Rick had waited for this opportunity for a long long time. House sitting for two weeks, all the luxury and comfort for himself. And that fat cat Archimedes of course! Things had been stressful for him the last few months, so he was glad to get some rest and relaxation. There were a couple of things to do, but nothing that he couldn't manage! Or so he thought.

Rick had just filled Archimedes' bowls with food and water, when the bell rang. Who could that be? Maybe Vera, who had forgotten something important, the keys probably. She could have just called!

Rick returned to the salon and opened the door, just to close it again as fast as he could, after seeing who's behind it: Quentin! What was he doing here? But he was too late: Quentin already had his dirty boot in the door!

"Is that the way to treat your best friend?" he asked. "It took me hours to come up here and pay you a visit, and you slam the door in my face!" - "We're not friends anymore!" Rick yelled, while pressing against the door. "Since when?" asked Quentin, seemingly shocked. "Since you slept with my girlfriend, you damn son of a bitch!" - "Can we discuss this inside? We don't want to ruin your Aunt's door now don't we!"

Rick gave up and Quentin strutted in as he was owning the place. "Thank you very much!" he grinned, much to Rick's dismay. "I'm going to give you five minutes, then you're out of here!" - "As you wish, Milord! The kitchen?" - "That way!" Rick said, pointing to a door on the left.

"Wow!" Quentin remarked, after taking a sip of Aunt Vera's famous homemade lemonade. "That stuff is..." - "Sour?" Rick prompted. "That's just how she likes it!" For a few seconds none of them said a word. Now that Quentin could see how hurt Rick felt, conversation was proving awkward.

"Listen!" Quentin began, more serious than before. "I'm really sorry for what happened! I promise I had no idea you two where still together. It was all a huge misunderstanding." - "Tiffany knew!" - "And she said nothing!" - "How can I trust you, Quentin? You lied to me!" - "I panicked!" But it was obvious Rick wasn't convinced.

"Come on, bro! We've been best friends for as long as I can remember. Who was with you that night at Summer camp when you got sick and couldn't go to the fairground?" - "You!" - "Who protected you from the bullies back at school?" - "You!" - "There you have it! Do you really think I would choose some mediocre sex with Tiffany over my Amigo numero uno?" - "Yes!" said Rick, coldly and without any hesitation.

Quentin seemed honestly hurt by this. Standing up, he said, "In that case... I should probably go." - "Maybe you should!" Rick remained stubborn, knowing Quentin well enough to guess, he would pull one last card out of his ass, to postpone his departure. And he wasn't wrong: "Okay... But before I depart this wonderful new life of yours, perhaps for all eternity... can I use your bathroom?" Rick sighed and told him where to find it.

While alone Rick put the rest of the lemonade back into the fridge, and began to question his decisions. He felt bad for how harsh he'd just been to Quentin, but it was necessary. They would reconcile sooner or later, that much was sure, but he had to learn there were consequences for his actions. That his big puppy eye routine wouldn't work on him anymore.

After a while he wondered what was taking Quentin so long and decided to go and check on him. The door to the bathroom was locked. "Can't a man have some privacy here?" Quentin called, when he knocked. "Why do you take so long?" Rick shouted. "You've been in there for almost ten minutes!" - "Don't stress me, I'm... oops..." There was a splashing noise. "ARE YOU SERIOUSLY TAKING A BATH IN THERE?!!" Rick yelled. - "No!"

Rick had enough. Fetching a spare key, he opened the bathroom door to see a dripping, naked Quentin emerging from one of Aunt Vera's floral bubble baths. "QUENTIN!!!" - "You never catch me alive!" Grinning, and still butt-naked, Quentin raced down the corridor, hotly pursued by Rick, like two characters in a Benny Hill sketch, leaving puddles of soap and water all over the house.

In the end Quentin took refuge in the study, bracing his back against the door. And it was there, unfortunately, that Rick made a huge mistake! Past all patience, he charged the door, sending Quentin flying - skidding across the floor on his wet feet and knocking over the wooden pedestal on which the 'Winged Guardian of Saint Julian' stood.

The bird flew through the air for a good 5 feet. Eyes wide with horror, Rick watched as the small black figurine hit the ground, and broke into thousand little pieces. "Oh fuck!" Quentin said. "I hope you have good insurance, Ricky!" -

"IT WAS UNIQUE, YOU FUCKING MORON!!! THAT WAS AUNT VERA'S MOST PRIZED POSSESSION!!!" - "Alright, alright! Calm down... I can fix this!" - "HOW?!! HOW THE FUCK DO YOU PLAN TO FIX THIS?!!"

###

A few minutes later Rick found himself in Quentin's rusty old van, on the way to 'some guy' the latter had met on the way. The guy in question just happened to have specialize in reconstructing old movie props for major movie production companies. If anyone could help them, it was definitely him. Rick had reluctantly agreed to accompany Quentin.

They arrived at a small, slightly shabby warehouse on the coast, that hadn't been properly painted since at least the 80s. The side and back were totally overgrown with trees and bushes, from the nearby forest. The place looked almost like an old temple. Rick wasn't convinced there was really someone living there, but Quentin was about to prove him wrong by ringing the bell, that sounded as if itself was about to die.

A few seconds later, an elderly thin man with a dense white beard and bald head opened the door. "Yes?!" - "Mr. Jericho! It's me, Quentin! I gave you a ride this morning!" - "Aah yes! Come in my boy, come in! Who's your friend there?" Rick forced himself to be polite and introduced himself to the old man, who seemed harmless enough.

They sat down in Mr. Jericho's dark and gloomy living room, drank some iced tea, and spoke about the problem at hand. "The Winged Guardian of Saint Julian!" Mr. Jericho repeated in awe. "I remember it well. 'Murder at Blackwood Manor' is an absolute classic. Based on true events, by the way... well, loosely..."

"How much would it cost to make a convincing replica?" Quentin asked. Mr. Jericho told them the numbers, and Rick felt all the blood draining from his head. "So much?" - "It was made of a special stone, very hard to carve. You need a steady hand and an eye for the details."

The old man looked between his two young guests. He'd lived long enough to recognize in how much trouble they both were. "There might be another way..." he cautiously added. "But it depends." - "On what?" Quentin asked. "If you two can keep a secret. A big one!" Mr. Jericho whispered ominously. Rick and Quentin had nothing to loose: "Of course!" - "We won't tell anyone!" - "Right then!" the old man exclaimed. "Follow me!"

He led them down a staircase to a room in the basement, that looked like a small cinema, but without the chairs. Instead they found a whole bunch of props lying around, from all eras, Many were huge in size. So huge in fact, they wondered how Jericho had brought them all through the door. "I didn't!" he confessed. "They're all from the movies!" - "They were filmed down here?" - "No no! I... just wait a second!"

Mr. Jericho entered the Projection booth. After a while, he dimmed the light and projected the film he had currently prepared onto the canvas. It showed some random scene from a 1970s film classic. Rick and Quentin were not sure what to expect, as Jericho returned and began to climb onto the stage.

"You guys gonna love this bit!" he chuckled. And then something unexpected and sensational happened that made both Rick's and Quentin's jaws drop. The old man slipped his hand inside the movie, grabbed a vase that sat on a sideboard, and just pulled it out of the film like a magician. "But that is..." Rick began.

Mr. Jericho ended his sentence: "Impossible, I know! There seems to be a rift in reality itself. Invisible, but right where the canvas is placed... some complicated Quantum shenanigans from what I could gather. It makes everything I project onto it accessible, and everything inside ready for me to pick."

Rick tried to make sense of what the old man was saying. "You mean," he began, "you can enter any movie and just take the props you need?" - "Of course not, that would be silly!!" - "But you just said..." - "Every building needs a foundation. But these are rarely filmed. So how could I possibly project and enter a building, without it coming crashing down on me? Let alone take something from it?"

Rick and Quentin exchanged confused looks. Jericho continued: "When I say 'projecting' I don't mean just the film. The film is the core, but the foundation is everything else. Elements from OUR reality, OUR history projected into this world, filling the gaps. This isn't just some magic fantasy bullshit, my friends! What I'm creating is a whole universe!" He paused, as if to wait for some dramatic lightning effects.

"Well... pocket universe... a temporary one! But I can do this over and over again, the process resets every time I stop the projector! Has something to do with the flow of time, I guess..." - "What about the people inside that universe?" Quentin asked, but Rick interrupted him: "Who cares, they're not real!" And adressing Mr. Jericho: "You don't happen to have a copy of 'Murder at Blackwood Manor' lying around?"

Mr. Jericho smiled and nodded. Rick exhaled in relief and Quentin was glad, he had the chance to get things right after all. Jericho sprang off the stage and returned to the Projection booth. While he prepared the projector, he sent the boys to the wardrobe. "Second row, right in the back!"

"Wait wait wait... what do you need us for?" asked Quentin. Jericho remembered that his guests hadn't done this before. "To take the place of some of the characters, and distract the others, while I steal the figurine!" he explained. "And before you ask: Yes, you can replace certain characters, as long as they are not dead or vital to the scene! And you have to play your part, so dress up."

"Is this really necessary?" Rick asked a little worried. Jericho continued: "There's only one scene where the Winged Guardian is accessible for me, and that's at the beginning of the film. The rest of the time it's either observed or out of reach. Quentin, I need you as a Constable..."

"A what!" - "That's what cops are called in England! I need you to distract the Detective Inspector that investigates the murder of the old Lord Blackwood." - "But... but I don't know how to talk like a compostable..." - "CONSTABLE! Don't you worry, once you're in the role you'll know exactly what to say, and the film corrects all inconsistencies by itself. More or less!" - "But..." - "Razor's in the bathroom next door. And do us a favor: Comb you hair! You look like a scarecrow."

While Quentin left for the wardrobe, Rick asked: "What am I supposed to do?" - "You're gonna be Wilbur Shepherd, the fiancé of young Lady Blackwood." - "Wait a second! If I have to kiss my Great aunt..." - "She's NOT your Great aunt, don't you worry! She's portrayed by a much younger actress in this scene." - "Oh, right!"

When Rick had followed Quentin to the costumes, the latter had already put on a Bobby's helmet, and was joking around. Rick wasn't having any of it: "Stop that! I need you focussed!" - "Come on, Rick! You want me to play a cop... me of all people!! I would give a more convincing Lady Whatshername! Why can't you do it?" - "He asked you, just do as you're told! This whole mess is your fault, after all!" - "Hold on, just a second..."

He got no further. Rick gave him a look that made it clear, he was fed up with him. So he grabbed his costume and moved to the bathroom instead, without saying another word. Quentin wasn't sure he could fix their friendship anymore. But he owed it to Rick, at least to try!

###

Soon after they were fully dressed and returned to the theater. Jericho had started the film. The opening credits were running and the old man repeated what each of them had to do. Together they climbed up to the stage and awaited the scene change after the body of poor old Lord Blackwood was discovered, and the police would arrive at the building.

"NOW!" Jericho yelled and pushed Quentin into the canvas, who for a second lost orientation, before he was called over to the entrance, by his supposed superior: "Bowker! On the double!" - "Yes sir! Sorry sir!" Quentin heard himself say, in an unexpected British accent, following the other uniformed men into the manor.

Everything was so weird! There was no color, everything was monochrome and a bit blurry, yet he felt as if it had always been that way. Rick and Jericho in the meantime waited for another scene inside the manor to enter. That would make it easier for Rick to distract the young woman who had just lost her father, while Jericho snuck in and fetched the Winged Guardian.

Once they'd entered Rick turned around to see, where their entrance had gone. But all he could make out was the interior of Blackwood Manor, in all of it's posh, grainy glory. "Where is the exit?" he asked. Mr. Jericho laughed and replied: "Behind the fourth wall, of course!" - "And how do we find that?" Jericho showed him his watch: "With the right timing, at the right scene! Don't you worry, I'll get us out!"

They split up, and Rick immediately ran into a young, pale woman who was obviously in much distress. "Anne, my dear!" he shouted, strangely invested and british all of a sudden. "Oh Wilbur! It's so horrible!" - "I know, I know!" He took her in his arms and gave her a shoulder to cry on. "Who could have done this?" - "An absolute monster, no doubt! Come my dear, let's head to the garden to calm your nerves!"

While all that happened Quentin aka. PC Bowker did his best to keep the other policemen as far away from Jericho as he could, going even so far to claim he'd seen a suspect running outside, which forced everyone to chase after him. Even Quentin was forced to run, which he'd always hated. He wasn't the sporty type, never had been.

Jericho cautiously entered the Trophy room. A giant lion head above the mantel startled him momentarily, and nearly made him scream. After taking a deep breath, he took down a portrait of the old Lord, to reveal a hidden safe.

He did not know it's combination of course, but had a good ear for those things and, as this wasn't his first rodeo, some experience. This thing would be open in no time! Or so he thought. It took him indeed a bit longer than he'd expected. Well, as long as nothing else went wrong, he would have no reason to worry!

Rick and Anne had a heart-to-heart in the garden. Rick wasn't all too invested, yet gave his best attempt to appear at least somewhat concerned. He knew, nothing of this was real. Lady Anne's backstory was a tragic one, yes, but it was just a movie and her suffering would end with it. His own problems were much more substantial, if he couldn't get this damn figurine back.

Anne wasn't dumb, though! She noticed he wasn't paying attention and snapped at him. He apologized, saying the murder had taken its toll on him too. He suddenly noticed Jericho waving at him from behind a window, the Winged Guardian in his hand. "Would you excuse me for a minute, my dear?" - "Of course, Wilbur!"

Back in the Manor the old man received a big hug from Rick. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!" - "Alright, alright! No time to dawdle, we have to go. Where is Quentin?" - "No idea, I haven't seen him!" - "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP AN EYE ON HIM!" - "I WASN'T AWARE OF THAT! YOU NEVER..." - "Shhh!" Jericho interrupted him, listening if someone was nearby. "We have to find him!" he whispered. "Quick, or we're in big trouble!" - "What do you mean, Jericho?"

As it turned out there was a big Time jump coming up. If that happened and they were still in the film, they got stuck in it for the next 20 years. Rick was shocked: "And you're just telling me this now?" - "I hadn't planned for us to be here this long!" Jericho defended himself. "Can we discuss this later? We have to find your friend, ASAP!"

They quickly began to search the manor, which was still a bit tricky because of the policemen and the staff. There was simply no trace of Quentin. They had no idea he and the others were still chasing after some phantom he'd made up. Rick and Jericho met up in front of the trophy room, empty handed.

"Can't we just rewind the film," Rick suggested, "and try again?" - "I've told you, as soon as we stop the film everything resets. We won't be able to..." Jericho was interrupted by the sudden beeping of his wrist watch. "Oh no!" - "What's wrong?" - "We have to go, it's now or never!" - "Not without Quentin!"

He grabbed the old man by the collar, who in his panic hit him in the ribs, fleeing. Rick ran after him as fast as he could, right into the living room, where Lady Anne was reminiscing about her father. She was baffled to see an old man in strange clothes being chased by her fiancé. 'Wilbur' tackled the old one, and both men vanished into the wall, just like that.

Jericho had fallen from the stage, while Rick was still lying up there, watching Anne's puzzled face vanishing behind the changing scenery. "Nooo!!!" Rick yelled. He got back up to his feet and rushed to Jericho, turning him around, screaming: "You dumb asshole, do something!"

But the old man couldn't help him any longer. He'd accidentally fallen onto the figurine. One of its wings had pierced his throat, damaging the carodit artery. There was a lot of blood. Mr. Jericho was dead!

###

When Quentin returned to Blackwood Manor there was no trace of either Rick nor Jericho. And after the real Wilbur Shepherd reappeared, he was absolutely positive he'd been abandoned for good. Reluctantly he joined the other constables in their car.

The ride to the station was filled with them babbling about the murder, their daily routines and private stuff. Quentin tried to mainly stare outside at the colorless english countryside and think, but was constantly dragged into the conversation.

Once they'd reached their destination, he had to report to the Chief Inspector for his strange behavior at the crime scene, which he sheepishly explained by claiming he'd accidentally mistaken a reflection in the window for a person. Somehow the chief actually seemed to buy it.

Upon being dismissed, he hid in the bathroom, and tried to finally clear his head. What was he supposed to do now? There was no way back, clearly! And he had no interest to live out his life, pretending to be a fucking copper! He had to get out of here, back to the States if possible. Just how?

Even if he had the money, which he doubted, there was nothing and nobody waiting for him or anyone who even knew he existed. And thinking about it, he vaguely remembered some stuff from History class that could break his neck further down the line. The Red Scare, McCarthy and stuff like that.

Maybe he could go somewhere else, but even then, what were his prospects? As a former Policeman?! All this Bowker character knew was how to be a man of the law. That's all he ever wanted to be, since he was a little boy: A peeler, like his father and his father's father and so forth. People Quentin hadn't even met and yet, knew like the back of his hand.

Quentin's own job experience wasn't helping either, as he'd been working in a Cellphone repair shop. If he were clever, he could 'invent' that stuff and make a lot of money. But he wasn't! And even if he were, that technology was still decades ahead of this time!

A colleague came banging against the door, reminding him of some paperwork they still had to do. Quentin took a deep breath and decided to keep up appearances for the moment. At least until he'd found a solid Exit strategy.

It soon got late, his shift ended, and he couldn't wait to get home. Maybe there was something he could sell to finance his new life. He could at least take off this dumb uniform, get some rest, and let go of his PC Bowker persona for a while. Even call in sick, maybe! Get time to contemplate, regenerate, relax... No chance he would find a Playstation though, or a six pack. Some crisps... CHIPS!!! Damn, this world was messing with his head. This was hopefully not getting any worse!

Finally home! He locked the door behind him and, leaning against it, closed his eyes to enjoy the solitude. Only there wasn't any! He was startled to hear some clanky noises coming from, what he rightfully assumed was the kitchen. 'Oh no!' he thought. 'Don't tell me, that guy is married!'

He cautiously approached the room and there she was: Young, blond, pretty, a bright smile on her face and dressed like his Grandma on one of her old photos. This was indeed Mrs. Martha Bowker - his wife. "Good evening, Mister Bowker!" she trilled. "Good evening, Mrs. Bowker!" he answered, out of a strange reflex. "How was your day, Darling?" she asked. "Long and hard!" he sighed, bitting his tongue for the accidental innuendo, of which she seemed blissfully unaware.

She took his helmet, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and helped him out of his uniform jacket. It happened all so quick and naturally, Quentin couldn't help but let it happen. She still noticed the look on his face though: "What's wrong, Harold?" she asked, a bit worried. He forced himself to smile reassuringly and said: "Nothing! I'm just tired, that's all." This seemed to satisfy her.

They shared a good warm dinner, and talked about their respective days. Martha had not only spend the day cleaning the house, and buying groceries, she'd found time to catch the latest gossip from around the neighborhood. Silvia's flowers had been trampled by a careless handyman, and the Rutherfords were awaiting their second baby after Maggie. They thought about naming him Richard, if it was a boy. Something 'Harold' seemed to object to for some reason.

He told her about what happened at Blackwood Manor, leaving out some crucial parts for obvious reasons, "That's horrible!" Martha said. "No wonder you're not well. Your first murder case!" - "I haven't even seen the body actually! I've just made a fool out of myself..." He explained the trouble he'd gotten himself into with his superiors.

Martha was very understanding and cheered him up: "You had a bad day, Harold! That happens to the best of us. I'm convinced, even your father had his fair share of mishaps back in the day. And now look at him: Superintendent at Scotland Yard!" - "Not shabby!" Quentin admitted. Martha's words put a smile back on his face.

He began to really like her. Sure, she wasn't nearly as hot as Tiffany, but she possessed a natural beauty. She was charming, kind hearted, funny, had a positive attitude that gave even the grimmest workday a good dose of sunshine. And that smell! He'd never smelled anything like it. It had something venerable, yet youthful. Maybe this wasn't that bad after all.

It should have felt awkward, lying in bed next to her that night. Wearing a stranger's pyjamas, feeling the warmth of her body beside him, her arms around his shoulders. But her presence calmed him down, let him forget his worries for a bit, and sent him straight into the arms of Morpheus.

It wasn't until the next morning his anxieties began to act up again. He woke up and was immediately disoriented. Where was he? What was this place, all vintage and yet almost new? And since when was he colorblind? Then he remembered. He went through his new possessions, thinking which one of these things he could bring to a pawn shop. Some of these pieces would be considered antiques in his time. But here and now? Not so much!

After breakfast Martha decided to give him a proper haircut. She'd noticed how chaotic his hair had become and tried to fix it, making him look 'presentable' again, as she said. With each fallen hair Quentin felt like he'd lost a piece of himself. He knew he had to adjust to his new life for the time being. It was just, this PC Bowker character was becoming more dominant by the minute, while Quentin Jackson was slowly fading away. 'No!' he promised himself. 'I can do this! I will find a way out of here!'

###

Although Quentin felt like an imposter most of the time, he knew what he had to do. He was familiar with all the protocols and procedures, knew how to address everyone, how to talk, move, and handle things. Additionally he had all this old school British stuff in his head. Words and phrases, rituals, things they ate and drank, he wouldn't have tried before, even when his life depended on it. He actually hated Tea with milk in real life. Now he had developed quite the taste for it.

He was surprised to learn how different the British police was from the cops back in the US. These guys here were surprisingly well respected, and maintained a relatively positive relationship with the public. They don't even carried guns, just some wooden sticks (truncheons), and handcuffs.

Most of the day he was 'on the beat'. Patrolling the area, by foot and by car, assisting people, taking care of the traffic, keeping things in order. The civilians were thankful, friendly, supportive even! But there were also the obligatory black sheep, he had to take care of.

His lack of a proper gun wasn't so much a problem, as he'd expected it to be. He knew exactly how to handle and overpower these criminals, swiftly and efficient. Bad children were no match for him either. It was just odd, as HE had always been the troublemaker in the past. But never like this! He refused to believe he'd been ever so rude, so cheeky, and cowardly.

Quentin developed a good chemistry with most of his colleagues. With PC Williams for instance, who enlisted the same day as Harold, and was a close friend ever since. PC Milligan, a great sport enthusiast, who's wife made the most delicious biscuits he'd ever tried. PC Lumley, who had a great sense of humour and was very popular, especially with children. And Sergeant Barnes, who had always some interesting stories to tell from his many years of service.

Some shifts were better than others. Some could get rather bleak, which was to expect in their line of work. But it helped that they had each other! There was this sense of camaraderie Quentin had never known. He could trust these men with his life, even in the most stickiest of situations. And they knew, they could trust him the same way. That gave him great confidence, satisfaction, and pride.

His marriage with Martha blossomed too, every day a bit more. They lacked the comfort and the technical progress of the 21st century. No internet, no smartphones, they don't even had a Television set yet. So most of their entertainment came from listening to the BBC Home Service, playing cards, reading books, strolling through the park, picnicking, talking. And the occasional sex, of course!

There were also the obvious callbacks, that kept things interesting for Quentin. Like when people talked about colors, although there weren't any. How did they know about them? Or the first time he encountered one of those Police Boxes, which got famous for that one Sci-Fi show, that hadn't even come out yet. One time he needlessly worried about the asbestos in the walls, only to be calmed down by his patient wife.

###

One evening, at the dinner table, Martha made a big announcement: She was pregnant. Quentin, who only occasionally thought of escape anymore, had an immediate relapse and left the house in sheer panic, running down the streets, aimlessly. He never wanted kids, they were loud and noisy, and he had already so many responsibilities at work. Heck, this wasn't even him anymore! What was he doing here? Playing cops and robbers? This was insane!

After running for a good hour he reached a park, with a big pond. Completely exhausted he sat down on a bench and began to stare into the grey water, unsure what to do now. It was autumn, the wind getting cold. It was at times like these he missed seeing colors the most. The blue of the pond, the red in the trees, the yellow in the cornfields.

An old lady appeared, who took place beside him without asking. She began to feed the ducks with some dry bread. Quentin tried to ignore her, as he felt being ignored by here at first. But then she began to tell him about the war, how it had taken everything from her. Her husband, her only son, her house. It took him a while before it dawned on him, what she was really after. He gave her some money and she skedaddled.

Quentin looked after her and realized what he was doing to Martha. He was about to abandon her and their child. This weren't the 2020s where a single mother could cope with such things much easier. This was Postwar Britain! And she, the wife of a Police constable who ran away - like a coward! Her social life would lay in ruins, people would talk behind her back and that of the poor kid.

He couldn't leave her like that, especially not after everything she'd done for him, and the feelings he'd developed for her. Dammit, he loved that wonderful woman! So he went home, with a rose in his hand, and a sincere apology. She had cried! He'd really hurt her feelings and it nearly broke his heart to see her like that. Of course she forgave him. She was a Saint! They hugged, kissed each other. He promised to stay with her, whatever happened. For better, for worse!

Quentin was ready to sacrifice his freedom for Martha and their kid. It was only when he held his newborn son Henry in his arms for the first time, that he not only accepted his fate, but fully embraced it. He was so proud and full of love, there was no chance he would even think of ever running again.

###

Harold got promoted to Sergeant, and with the prospect of a pay raise in mind, bought a brandnew Photo camera. One of their first snapshots was a Family portrait with Harold in uniform, Martha wearing her best dress, and Baby Henry sitting in-between them on her lap. PC Williams assisted them.

Ever since they added many more to their album. Photos of Henry playing in the sandbox, and opening his first Christmas presents. Of Martha, laughing as she tried to take sheets off the line on a stormy day. Of her dancing at the Policeman's ball with Chief Inspector Bailey.

Photos of their holiday in Brighton. Small Henry at the fairground, eating a popsicle, playing at the beach. His first kiss on the cheek by a gorgeous little girl. A group shot of Harold and his colleagues. Newspaper clippings with articles about them, catching thieves, helping people, being awarded... having died...

They also lived through some historical milestones. Served as reinforcement during the Coronation festivities of her majesty Queen Elizabeth II in London. One stressful, but glorious day! He'd even caught a glimpse of her, passing him, in her famous Gold State coach. It was almost as had he been blessed by her smile that moment. Cause shortly after, Martha got pregnant again, with a girl they naturally called Elizabeth too.

Harold had gained some considerable weight over the years. He grew a firm mustache, like his father had at his age. He found it bestowed some distinctive elegance on him. Martha loved it! His once rough teenager voice had developed into a solid baritone, so he joined the Police choir that gave concerts on various charitable occasions.

Martha, encouraged by her husband, began to write short stories and poems, for which they found a small publisher. And Henry declared to keep up the family tradition and follow in his father's footsteps. Harold was very proud!

More family photos were made: Henry's first school day. His father teaching him how to ride a bike. Elizabeth's birth and first steps. Preparing biscuits with her mother. Martha reading her poems in front of an audience at Mr. Anderson's bookshop. Holiday at Blackpool beach. Christmas. Birthdays. School plays. Weddings. Funerals. Parades. Concerts. More newspaper clippings. Letters. Postcards. Paintings the children had made...

Harold received the Long Service and Good Conduct Medal, for 20 years of hard work and service to the public. The helmet covered his hair loss, but his slowly greying mustache gave it away: He was getting old! He had still many years left, of course, and a lot to do. For his family. For the community. For Queen and Country.

###

Harold returned to Blackwood Manor a year later. There'd been another murder. The victim this time: Sir Wilbur. The constables were searching the property for clues again, Harold and Detective Inspector Simmons in the meantime interviewed the staff and family members, including a now older, but nevertheless breathtakingly good looking Lady Anne Blackwood.

They'd just finished their interviews and Harold was heading towards the exit at the east wing of the building, to meet up with the search party. When he got surprised by a young stranger in the shadow. "Excuse me?!" he said. "I'm searching for one of your colleagues. Bowler or Poker..." - "Sergeant Bowker, at your service! And may I ask who you are, Sir?"

"Oh my god... Quentin?! Is that really you?! You have changed... so much..." - "I'm sorry, Sir, but there seems to be a misunderstanding. My name is HAROLD Bowker! I don't even think we have a man named Quentin." This appeared to unsettle the stranger. "Your name is Quentin Jackson." he yelled. "You're my oldest... my best friend!"

Something inside of Harold, in the depths of his subconscious, seemed to react to these words. There was a strange glimpse of hope, of salvation. A tiny fragment of Quentin was indeed still present, holding on. Always waiting for Rick to return one day, and rescue him. But now that it finally happened, he wasn't so sure about the next bit:

They would leave this world and it would just end. All that happened over the last 20 years, all the memories, his family, friends, neighbors, colleagues... it would all be gone. No past, no present, no future! He would survive at least, yes... but was it fair? No! And what place had an old daft british Policeman anyway, in this crazy modern world?

Quentin made his choice: If this reality was coming to an end, he would stay with his loved ones. For better, for worse! And Rick... well, Rick was probably better off without him.

And just like that... he let go...

Harold felt for a moment as if he'd lost something, but shook it off and said: "Sir, I have to ask you to calm down!" - "Stop that shit!!! This isn't real! You're not even British!" - "I beg your pardon?" - "Time ran out... you weren't there... the movie jumped ahead 20 years..."

The man stepped out of the shadow, and just now Harold could see the blood on his hands and jacket. He'd obviously just found the murderer! In no time he'd pulled out his whistle and called for reinforcement. The suspect tried to escape, but Harold was faster and pinned him against the wall, arresting him.

"NO!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!! IT'S ME, RICK! YOUR BEST FRIEND!" - "I'm no friend with murderers! And neither is the judge. Or the executioner for that matter." The man screamed other nonsense at him and pleaded his innocence, but the case was clear as day.

On their way out they passed Lady Anne, who for a moment seemed to recognize this maniac. Rick was hoping she would vouch for him. But when asked, she denied to have ever seen him. Sergeant Bowker apologized to the poor widow, and left with a totally devastated Rick.

###

Harold wasn't present the day Rick was hanged. He and Martha attended their son's first day as a cadet at the Hendon Police Training School. They were so proud! He would soon serve as a Police constable like his father and his father's father and his father before.

Harold was promoted to Inspector for solving the case in Blackwood Manor, and would go on to serve as Chief Inspector in London for a few years, before his retirement. In his last month of service he was awarded with the Queen's Police Medal.

He lived a long and joyful life, still singing in a choir with other retired Policemen, and died shortly after his wife. The funeral was attended by Harold's closest friends and former colleagues, his son Sergeant Henry Bowker, wife Lucy, and grandsons PC Nigel Bowker, PC Martin Bowker and PC Harold Bowker II.

As well as his daughter Elizabeth, who had followed in her mothers footsteps as an author, but with much more success. She would later write a book about her family, using material from their old photo albums, and only find words of praise for her father.

The film had ended a long time ago at this point, but the world of 'Murder at Blackwood Manor' kept going anyway, cause the plot had never been properly resolved. The police was supposed to find the real murderer, which they never did. Ironically due to Rick's unfortunate interference. And her excellent acting skills, of course. As she was, after all, portrayed by a brilliant actress!