Copper Script

by K.J. Charles

IT FELT A BIT OF AN anticlimax that he then had to wait over a week to hear anything more. It was fine. He worked hard on the writing, and found he was adjusting to the drag and weight and inflexibility of the hook to the point where his handwriting was looking almost respectable. He did a lot of arm exercises, and he saw a fair few clients. His bank balance ticked gently upwards. Not fast enough—it might be two or three years yet—but if he became more widely known he could perhaps increase his rates. Or even get a steady income. Consultant to the Metropolitan Police drifted across his mind a couple of times. And then Fowler finally sent him a note, making a three-hour appointment, and Joel tried very hard not to feel excited. There would be eight papers to look through. Fowler would attend and write down his impressions, which he guaranteed would not be shown to anyone until the case was concluded, or used for any purpose but the test. It was a very professional note, written by hand. Joel read it about six times, sinking into the black letters, feeling the maelstrom of Fowler’s tensions and wants, and then gave up, rolled onto his bed, and put his right hand to urgent use. It still didn’t feel as good as the left had, but if anyone did a prosthetic for that specific function, Joel hadn’t heard about it.