In the rear cargo bay of his white Ford Transit van, parked in the gravel turnaround behind the Harrowby share gardens, Imran Bell worked with the careful, unrushed discipline of a craftsman who had spent twenty years handling volatile substances in confined spaces. Rain drummed a steady, rhythmic tattoo against the corrugated steel roof of the van, the autumn drizzle misting the rear windows and blurring the red brick chimneys of the railway engine sheds down the hill. On the timber shelves lining the inside of the van sat dozens of sealed plastic carboys of permethrin, commercial rodenticides, and organophosphate sprays, each labeled with hazard diamonds and strict COSHH safety documentation.
Imran didn’t touch a single chemical bottle. For this crossing, toxic formulations were not merely illegal under the Courtesy Bridge charter. They were functionally useless. When dealing with an insect escape in an active food commissary, poison was the weapon of an unfit. He reached into the upper steel locker and withdrew a battered, olive-green canvas satchel with heavy brass buckles. His approved check and sample recovery kit. He set the bag upon the fold-down plywood workbench, unbuckled the straps. Then he began selecting his instruments one by one.
First came the physical sampling vessels. Twelve wide-mouthed glass sample jars fitted with fine brass-mesh air-flow lids, each cushioned in a custom-slotted compartment of dense horsehair felt. Beside them, he placed six collapsible heavy-gauge cardboard transport boxes, lined with waxed paper to prevent moisture absorption. Next, he selected his manual manipulation tools. Three soft camel-hair artist’s brushes of varying widths, a pair of curved, broad-tipped featherweight tweezers designed for handling delicate insect pupae without crushing their hard-shelled back shells. A five-inch polished steel spatula with rounded edges.
He paused, looking at his digital infrared heat gauge sitting in its molded plastic holster on the dashboard. He remembered Ada’s strict warning: semiconductor electronics didn’t survive passage through the Courtesy Arch. The microchips scrambled, the liquid crystal displays bled into black pools of dead ink. The lithium batteries overheated within three seconds of transit. He returned the digital gun to its drawer and reached instead for a vintage analog bimetallic stem heat gauge—an eight-inch stainless steel probe with a three-inch circular dial under stone glass, tuned from minus-ten to one-hundred-and-twenty degrees via clockwork spring spreading. It possessed zero circuitry, zero batteries, and total physical reliability.
To the kit he added a brass-cased jeweler’s hand lens with ten-power sight zoom, a small pocket notebook bound in black oilcloth, two sharpened graphite pencils. A cake of yellow beeswax for lubricating timber slides. He closed the canvas flap, cinched the heavy brass straps. Then he lifted the satchel by its webbed shoulder strap. He walked to the rear doors of the van, hooked the bag to the spring-loaded brass luggage scale hanging from the roof rib. Then he waited for the needle to settle.
The pointer stopped exactly at five point two pounds. Well within the seven-two-pound payload ceiling mandated by the Courtesy Arch.
Satisfied with his gear, Imran checked his glow in the wing mirror. He wore his standard company uniform: sturdy dark-green canvas work trousers with heavy knees, a heavy flannel work shirt under a water-resistant olive field jacket, and six-inch steel-toed leather boots with oil-resistant rubber lug soles. From his glove compartment, he retrieved a clean white cotton handkerchief, a roll of spark tape, and his lawful ten-minute travel voucher. He locked the Transit’s rear doors with a solid turn of the key, crossed the wet gravel of the share path. Then he stepped into the potting shed where the private transit threshold was anchored.
The Courtesy Arch in the Harrowby potting shed was small, discreet. Then it framed in aged oak timber that blended seamlessly with the gardening benches and seed trays. As Imran approached, the brass threshold plate was already glowing with a soft, warm amber soft glow that smelled faintly of dry straw and rain on hot brick. The single brass bell on the top door beam chimed once—pure, sweet, and low. Imran stepped up to the plate, held out his right wrist. Then he watched the glowing ring of pale silver light flare to life around his skin: the thirty-second sovereign return guarantee.
He drew his black oilcloth notebook from his pocket, logged his departure timestamp—twelve-fourteen PM—and stepped calmly forward into the shimmering threshold. For a split second, the cool, damp Yorkshire air dissolved into a weightless, silent mid-air where the sound of the share rain faded into a deep, sound hum of forty-four shakes per second. There was no dizziness, no violent gaining speed, and no tearing pull upon his senses. It felt like stepping through a heavy woolen curtain hanging across a warm hallway.
Imran Bell’s steel-toed work boots came down with a firm, solid crunch upon the damp limestone flat stone slabs of Sister Merrow’s washhouse back kitchen. The shift was instant. The scent of English autumn rain vanished, replaced right away by the rich, complex smell mix of Lowbank. The sharp, sour tang of pickling vinegar, the grassy warmth of boiled marsh reed, the dusty aroma of milled wheat flour, and the underlying rotten-egg humidity of the underground river.
On the wall beside the Courtesy Arch, the iron-framed quartz slate clicked, refreshing its glowing display in sharp, clean lines:
The duration clock locked into its active countdown: 20m 00s. Imran didn’t waste a split second admiring the stonework. He adjusted his canvas satchel on his shoulder, tapped the silver ring on his wrist to confirm the return protocol was active. Then he turned his dark, evaluating eyes upon the three figures standing in the back kitchen.
Sister Merrow stood by the long pine bread bench, holding a clay pot mug of hot chicory tea. Beside her, Eren Tal leaned on his iron pry-bar, his broad shoulders bare beneath his work apron. And Pella Rook stood with her brass measuring tongs in hand, her face tense with working focus. Sitting on a low stool by the water tank was young Tavi, his forehead glistening with elderflower salve. He stared at the newcomer with wide, awe-struck eyes.
‘Afternoon, everyone,’ Imran said, his Yorkshire voice entirely level and practical. He stepped clear of the bronze threshold. ‘I’m Imran Bell from Bell and Cousin. Pella, good to see you again. Eren, Sister Merrow. I have nineteen minutes and forty seconds on my clock before the arch pulls me back to Harrowby, so let’s get straight to work. Where are those six clay pot flowerpots I asked for?’
Sister Merrow pointed toward the corner of the bread table. There, six heavy, unglazed terracotta pots sat neatly in a row, with a wooden tub filled with cool, dripping green river moss scooped from the tidal water gate gates. ‘Pots are scrubbed, Mr. Bell,’ Merrow said, her keen eyes inspecting the exterminator with unrushed trade respect. ‘Clean river clay, never fired with glaze. The moss was pulled twenty minutes ago from the low weir. It’s as cold as a spring well.’
‘Spot on, Sister,’ Imran said. She set his canvas satchel on the clean end of the table and unbuckled the brass straps. He drew out his bimetallic dial heat gauge, his camel-hair brushes, and his glass sample jars. He turned toward the barred oak larder door. He listened to the wild tic-tic shaking through the timber with skilled satisfaction. ‘Right then. Four thousand mothers waiting for an orderly escape. Eren, pull that pine wedge and slide the bolt. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.’
Eren stepped forward, his heavy hand taking the iron bar of the larder door. Pella raised her hardened carbon-iron lamp, its white beam cutting through the gloom, while young Tavi leaned forward from his stool. She held his breath. The first scientific pest escape in the history of Lathmere was officially underway.
Imran walked over to the six terracotta pots lined up on the scrubbed bench. He rolled up his green field jacket sleeves, reached into the wooden tub. Then he lifted a handful of the dripping green river moss. He held it to his nose, sniffing the cool, earthy scent of river silt and clean algae. Then pressed the bimetallic probe of his heat gauge into the center of the clump. The black needle on the dial swept smoothly backward, settling exactly at fourteen degrees. ‘Brilliant,’ Imran remarked, a warm nod of trade appreciation directed toward Sister Merrow. ‘Clean bryophyte moss, excellent moisture retention, and perfectly chilled. When an insect has been sitting on forty-five-degree stone, fourteen degrees feels like heaven. They won’t just crawl into these pots. They’ll sprint.’
He turned to young Tavi, who was still holding his breath by the water barrel. ‘Right, lad. What’s your name? Tavi? Listen to me, Tavi. When we open that door, you stay behind my left shoulder. No running, no stomping, and no loud shouting. Insects don’t have ears like you and me. They feel sound shakes through their leg joints. If you stomp your boots on the stone, they think a cave roof is collapsing and they freeze. We move smooth, we breathe quiet, and we let the heat do the work. Are you ready?’ Tavi nodded solemnly, his chest puffing out with newfound pride. ‘Ready, Mr. Bell.’ ‘Then let’s open the door.’