It began, as autumn mischiefs do, with boys and a borrowed tradition.
They brought back penny for the guy—only now it was pound for the guy. They wanted money, not history, though history had a way of turning up anyway.
The effigy appeared outside Dot’s shop. Stuffed with straw, in Reginald Smythe-Harrington’s missing gardening jacket and cap. Its head: one of Netta’s old yoga leggings, stretched tight over a balloon.
The result was recognisable.
Three boys stood guard, loud enough to pass for older. They rattled the bucket, voices chiming in turn.
“Notes accepted.”
“Contactless—if we had it.”
“Inflation, missus. Penny won’t do now.”
The youngest hung back, eyes flicking to the sign each time someone read it. The capitals were too careful for the others’ hands.
The dog barked once, then sat, watching the effigy as if waiting for it to blink.
Villagers slowed. Dot slipped a coin into the tin, the clink carrying further than it should have.
Audrey, pearls tight at her throat, examined the figure like a bylaw infraction. She said nothing, moved on.
Mr. Peale paused, peering through his glasses. “Enterprise,” he announced at last, though no coin followed. He adjusted his hat and shuffled on.
Mrs. Delaney made the sign of the cross as if warding off bad luck, then ducked inside for a Chelsea bun.
The bucket rattled louder after Audrey passed. The boys held their ground. The dog shifted and lay down again.
Netta circled once, fingers brushing the stuffed sleeve. “It’s a vessel,” she murmured. “Leggings hold energy.”
Reginald came near noon. He stopped mid-stride, the way a man does when a shape in the distance won’t resolve. His hand twitched toward his brow.
“That was my campaign jacket,” he said. “Falklands. ’82.”
“Almost—”
Reginald stepped closer. He circled the effigy as if inspecting a sentry. The boys shifted back. Even the dog’s ears pricked, then stilled.
At last, his gloved hand rested on the sleeve. Held it too long. Drew back.
“Orders never came,” he said. Then, louder: “Stand down. Disperse.”
The boys scattered. One ran. Another dragged his feet. The tin skittered to a stop at Dot’s door.
Ink bled into the gutter. Shadows lengthened; shop lights flicked on. By dusk, nothing remained. The folded face lay flat against the kerb.
Netta reclaimed her leggings. Audrey’s coin was there after all, dull among the damp paper. Dot scooped the rest—fireworks, she said. One way or another.
Reginald walked home with the jacket folded across his arm. The crease too sharp, as if order might hold back the weight of it. His stride was neat as ever, but the line of his back told another story.
November nights. Faces in firelight.
That evening, the notebook lay open on the table beside a cup of tea left to cool.
Case #24: A Pound for the Guy
Observation: Boys made a man from scraps. He sat still, collected coins, almost breathed.
Outcome: Dissolved before nightfall.
Additional note: Absence, dressed, weighs.