So my darling Carrie doesn't wish to see me? After everything I've done for her? After all the time and effort and HELL I've put myself through for her, the blue beauty doesn't want to see me?

I'm going to show her what happens to those who betray me.

To those who leave me out in the cold,

To those who think they're better,

To those who achieve those ends instead,

To those who have a death wish.

She's going to come crawling back to me, not because it will make me stop, but because she knows I'll protect her. My beautiful precious Carrie is going to discover what a monster the world out of my home is.

I dipped through the streets, turning where The Old Ship's familiar green bricks lined the pavement. Instead of moving on, I opened the battered white doors, entering the dimly light pub. It had a quite a few patrons. Matthew, the bartender, looked up when the bent bell rang in my arrival.

"How's Carrie?"

"Don't ask me, ask Tobias Gilbertson."

"That bad?" He laughed, taking out the chilled bottle of Muscadet wine from under the bar, withdrawing the stopper from the neck of the green bottle.

"She doesn't even want to see me, so yes, apparently it is 'that bad'. How do people ever get married? It seems to be too difficult." Matthew laughed as the white wine lapped at the sides of the glass before handing it to me.

"It could be worse, Master Frost."

"You just want to say that to get me to keep drinking." I smiled, sipping the crisp liquid. Imported straight from where my parents grew up, it never ceased to please. "In any case, have you any news?" I whispered. Matthew had been serving as a lookout of sorts. His pub was a place for undesirables as well as cops, so plans of all sorts were spoken of over a few pints or glasses of what the retired con-artist poured.

"Rabbitte got arrested, but I suppose you've already heard that. Detective Harold Lawton got a lead in his case."

"Oh really," I questioned, black bangs sweeping into azuel eyes over my wine glass, "good for him. Anything interesting about said lead?"

"You know the police, the papers never get anything specific," Matthew said, and the few with upturned ears stilled before the bartender leaned in closer to refill the empty goblet, "but there may be a rat."

Wide eyes must have reflected horror. This is the last thing I need. First Carrie runs, and now the detectives are closing in on information. How am I supposed to deal with this?

I sipped the cup when the bell interrupted my thoughts and boots on creaky floorboards could be heard.

"Interesting finding you here, Richard Frost."

"Bonne soirée , détective." I greeted as he sat next to me. Matthew shot a look in my direction as he tapped a beer for the law officer.

"You shouldn't drink by yourself. It's depressing."

"I'm not by myself," I sneered, turning towards the blonde male, "I have Matthew."

The detective chuckled, "A tankard of the Kernel Imperial Brown Stout, please," he addressed the bartender who only rolled his eyes at my suggestion. "There's a bit of irony to that, but I think we can both see that... " I saw him give me a look out of the corner of his eyes as the bronze liquid flowed into his parted lips.

"I'm 22, that's old enough to drink if that's what you're wondering."

"It's old enough to be a crime boss as well." The detective slighted, his light brown eyes piercing mine.

"What are you suggesting, detective?" A slosh filled the silence of the pub as Matthew poured more wine into my glass. I wasn't nearly sober enough for this conversation, and Matthew must have picked up on it.

"There's a lot of crime in London these days." A ring on the bottom was the only remembrance of alcohol in Lawton's mug.

"You say that as if crime is a new trend on these streets." There was laugh that fell out of his lips and landed like a book on the floor.

"It's why I became a detective after all, the crime. Did you hear we got Rabbitte?" Another tankard of bronze liquid replaced the empty one in front of the detective.

"Yes, so has everyone else in this city. In a few days, perhaps the world, or rather what's left of it, will know. Have you no other news?"

"I do, but none that I should be sharing with you." The detective fished inside the pocket of his jacket, bringing out a packet of Lambert cigarettes and a lighter.

"Wow, you're just a cliche detective out of a novel aren't you? Crime brings you to the profession, drives you to drink, you smoke. What's next, investigating any suicide that's actually a homicide?"

"Actually, I'm not wearing a trench coat and our forensic team is never late." Smoke trailed out of his lips before he continued, "and I have never worked on a homicide case."

"Oh, Organized Crime is your only thing?"

"Yes, there's something about tracing the web back to the origin that I find interesting. Anyways, what are the happenings in the life of the head of the Frost family?"

"Nothing terribly of interest..." that I would ever share with you. I finished the second glass of my wine and felt the warmth running through my veins and sharpening of my wits. Matthew held up the bottle of mind-numbing liquid, silently offering me more before putting the bottle away.

"You're done drinking? How long have you been drinking that you're already done?" Wispy grey infected the air, amber liquid being washed down his throat.

"Well, excusez-moi! I didn't intend to offend you, Détective Harold." My mind flipped over into French, the foreign words rolling off of my tongue as the few English words were spoken with an accent thick as butter.

"I'm afraid I don't speak much French, so I suppose that if you got drunk it wouldn't carry a conversation anyway." His laugh was cheery, words smoothed by beer and choked by smoke.

"C'est dommage." I pouted, pulling out a sleek wallet and dropping the pounds onto the bar, leaving ample tip for the company and information Matthew gave me. The barkeep noticed, pocketing the money.

"Prendre soin de vous, et regardez votre retour là-bas." Matthew said with a smile.

"Merci!" I replied before addressing Harold, "Keep up the good work." My accent must have made the words hard to understand, but the detective nodded a goodbye as I left the pub and made my way out. Jack Michaels, my butler, came around the corner and pulled me into the carriage, laughing at my state.

"Master Frost, you shouldn't drink that much." He chided. At only 17, the blonde haired boy could pass for as young as 15 or as old as 25 due to his looks and intellect. I would hate to take credit for everything he does, but let's just say there's a way to achieve ends, and then there's a way to achieve ends by any means necessary.

"Ne me dites pas quoi faire." I chided, pouting as he laughed before ushering the sleek white horses onward towards home.

I'll rest, and in the morning, Carpe Diem the HELL out of tomorrow.  

---

TRANSLATIONS:

Bonne soirée, détective: (French) Good evening, detective

Excusez-moi: (French)Excuse me

C'est dommage: (French)That's too bad

Prendre soin de vous, et regardez votre retour là-bas:  (French)Take care of yourself, and watch your back out there  

Merci: (French) Thank you

Ne me dites pas quoi faire: (French)Don't tell me what to do