It was the first proper job he had after he changed his identity, but it suited his structured thoughts. He was an architect now, and the town he had moved to was in desperate need of a jail. Two pocket-thieves were being held in cellars and they had already escaped on multiple occasions.
He presented them with the building a month after he took the job. Forcing his men to work through most nights, he had wanted to build himself a reputation. He had to be good at this. It was his only second chance at a proper life. No one would ever escape this jail that he had so carefully sketched in his book over night.
It was the top constable who came to shake his hands. And put hand-cuffs on them. Grinning broadly, the officer said: “I hope the jail you have built will suit your needs.”
His change of identity had not been thorough enough, the architect thought, cursing himself.
Friday Fictioneers, 15 April 2016
Photo prompt provided by Kent Bonham