by Pete Adams
Jack took a deep breath, intending to move on, put his hand up to stop Nobby from talking, looked at his hanky and planted it firmly back on his forehead, out of sight out of mind, another Jack maxim. ‘As you go through your career, you’ll meet coppers who will imitate the yank cop shows on the telly and tell you that you need to work all the hours God sends. All that will get you, old son, is a divorce, unhappy kids that resent you and the police, a shorter career than you imagined, and you’ll likely drink yourself into an early grave.’ Still with his stopping traffic hand up, ‘You’ll meet coppers who will tell you to distance yourself from what happens, not to take anything personally. You’ll witness black humour at a murder scene, but all that will get you is more of the same.’ His arm was hurting, so he swapped it, propped the new one with his other arm, this replacement hand wavering with the bloody hanky. ‘Nobby, to be a good copper, you’ve got to empathise, and when it’s shite you feel, you have to grow with that. You need a home and a family and someone you can share the good and the bad times. You’ve got to be there, because it’ll not happen otherwise, and you can’t do that working all hours. You need to understand people, what makes them tick, and, when you’ve done all that, you Nick the feckin’ bastards.’
Everyone chortled, except Dolly, who stood unnoticed at the back of the room. She walked to Jack, who stood to greet her, towering over the diminutive cleaner, and she cried into his ballooning waist; Jack had saved her son from drugs, gangsters, and the gutter. Dolly’s son was now an accountant, and if rumours were to be believed, Jack had helped fund him through college. Here ended Nobby’s lesson.
Jack collected Dolly’s sprays and, hugging the old girl, Martin following, quiet, they left the room that was Jack’s room, it sparkled and gleamed; it was loved.
Ten
Jack saw Dolly off as Sergeant Dawson was preparing to take over Sid’s fish-and-chip counter in reception. Dawson didn’t have a nickname, probably because he worked the night shift, something he professed to like, and if you knew his missus, you might be tempted into the graveyard shift yourself, even the grave. The nearest Jack got was, “Have a care, Dawkins,” from PP, but it never caught on.
The telephone rang, ‘Jack, your dad,’ Dawson called, gesturing with the phone.
‘Told you, Jane, a man saying he was your dad,’ Sid mumbled from behind his hand, getting ready to leave.
‘It’s not that I didn’t believe you, Sid, but considering my dad shuffled off his mortar-foil many moons ago, I was not in a tearing hurry to have a conversation with a bleedin’ loony. Put it through to the back office please, Dawkins.’ The phone in the back room remained silent. Jack shouted, ‘In your own time, Dawkins,’ and decided to ignore the muttered expletives as the phone was ringing, ‘Dad, feeling better?’
‘Jane, sorry about that, but I knew you received calls from the father, so I thought this would get your attention.’
Jack recognised the voice, ‘Biscuit, you dinlo, why not call and say it was Biscuit; where are you?’
‘Jane, we need to talk and not in the office. I’m not sure who we can trust.’
‘Bit minternational man of mystery, eh? I’ll be down the seafront walking Martin about 8.30, getting dark then, so will suit your clanbestine requirements?’
‘Okay,’ Biscuit said, hanging up.
Jack spoke to the dialling tone, ‘Would be useful to have your number.’
Jack returned to reception where Nobby was kicking his heels while Dawson roughhoused with Martin. Jack couldn’t resist, ‘Have a care, Dawkins.’
‘Sir, a word?’
‘Nobby, I’m running late and Michael’s cooking.’
‘Michael’s cooking?’
Nobby was not spotty, he had a fresh-faced complexion, which Jack assumed was because his mum was always scrubbing it. It was, though, a nice face, slim, his build more the athletic Dorothy than the Billy Bunter of his dad. Nicely turned out, tall, a good-looking lad, smart, polished shoes he noticed even at the end of the day. ‘Why so surprised? You need to get out from the apron strings, but not before your mum’s taught you to cook. So, what can I do for you?’ Jack’s patience was ebbing.
‘I wanted to apologise. A lot of strings were pulled for me, and I know you resisted, but Dad said you were the one to learn from. He did add I should filter out the shite, but in my view, Sir, and from the little I have seen and heard from others, this is what makes you who you are.’
Jack yawned, it had been a strange day. ‘Nobby, six-thirty tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir,’ excitement scrawled on his cherub face.
‘Come in and set up the crime wall.’
‘Thank you, but...’ he looked nervous, ‘...I’ve never set one up before.’
Jack put his arm around the lad’s shoulder, felt his eye getting heavy, his energy had been sapped, and he still had to overthrow the government. ‘Go home and sit with your dad, talk to him about what you’ve heard so far, and listen to what he says. Your dad, before he became a twat, was a good copper, and for the record, I resisted like mad taking you on, but now I’m glad. So, feck off, I’ll see you early tomorrow.’
‘Will you be in, sir?’
Jack groaned, ‘I’ve got to finish Dolly’s cleaning of the Sissy room.’
Jack watched Nobby disappear up the stairs he had fallen down this morning, admiring the sure-footedness of the young, but inwardly, knew he still had it.
‘You’re a softy, Jack.’
‘Yeah, Dawkins, but don’t tell anyone.’ Jack peeped a discordant whistle, and Martin leapt off the counter, scampered through the entrance door, to be lifted into the front gunner’s seat. It was chilly, so he put on his bright red eejits anorak with hi-viz vest. Kate used to say he looked like an eejit in it; he missed her. Daylight fading, he switched on his flashing front and rear lights, screwed up the note from the commander, and cycled off whistling, singing, and talking to himself; just what he needed, a good chat and a sing-song on the way home, and he sensed his anger rise as he thought about the Coalition Government; his mind turned from The Sound of Music to sedition.
Eleven
Jack locked his bike in the forecourt garden of his semi-detached Southsea house. This had been the family home, and since Kate died, it had become his pain and his comfort, an old house of classic proportions, cream painted render and expansive Georgian sash windows. Jack thought it was like a happy face, comfortably familiar when you got to the big brass door knocker, Kate’s insistence. He used to say how he liked her knockers; she laughed! He certainly knew how to amuse women.
Michael opened the door before Jack could get to his keys; Martin rushed in having had a wee and a smell in the bushes. ‘Leaving your bike outside, Dad?’
Taking off his coat, ‘C&A’s later,’ Jack’s term for the Crown and Anchor pub, and bending and oomphing, his shoes not complying, he squeezed out an unnecessary explanation, ‘to plot the overthrow of the government.’
‘Hello, Mr Austin,’ it was Michael’s girlfriend, Colleen, from Irish parents, so Jack’s Cod Irish was really appreciated; don’t ask, Jack just knew these things. ‘Hallooooo, Martin,’ and Martin was at the crouching Colleen’s crotch; they got on well, and why not, it was a lovely crotch.
‘Colleen, call me Jack, or Jane, please.’
Colleen took in the picture of her boyfriend’s dad, a composition of eejit shorts, mango, toilet paper and sellotape, and focusing, was that bogeys in drying blood on his forehead? She was off to medical school with Michael soon, so Jack assumed she was interested in bogeys. ‘Okay, ah, Jack,’ but she could not stop looking at him. Jack noticed but was also aware he was good looking. ‘You are good looking, Jack. I see where Michael gets it from.’
‘Did I just...?’
Colleen smiled. Michael was back having tidied his dad’s shoes after he’d thrown them, intending for them to learn a lesson and not to be stubborn in the future. ‘Michael’s cooked a beautiful dinner, err Jack.’
‘Cosmic, darl
ing. I’ll just change; had the piss taken out of me all day for some reason.’
Colleen ventured a mention of the preponderance of toilet paper and sellotape that preoccupied her vision, ‘What happened?’
‘You went out like that this morning, didn’t you, Dad?’ Michael answered.
‘Yeah, minus the magno,’ Jack replied, proud his son had inherited his own powers of diluted observation, ‘time for an Eiffel Tower, son, wash the day off?’
‘If you hurry, Dad.’
Jack went upstairs, shaped to go to the front room he shared with Kate, but he had given this to Michael to use as a bed / sitting room to entertain his mates, which these days was more often than not just Colleen. Shortly after Kate had died, he moved to the back bedroom. It wasn’t bad, close to the bathrooms, and if there were people staying he could generally make a dash for the toilet in the middle of the night without having to put his dressing gown on, but truthfully, the other room had too many memories. Jack stripped, appreciating his vision of loveliness in the full-length mirror as he pulled himself to his full six-foot-four, contracted his stomach, patted, ‘Jacko, you’ve still got it.’ He checked, no toilet paper sticking out his bum, ‘Jo-Jums is good’, and dashed to the wet room, ducked under the shower, screamed as the hot water hit his head wounds, his knees, and his toe.
Scrubbed up, Jack put on a frayed denim shirt, his favourite, a pair of tired cream chinos and fun socks, penguins and dogs, which he didn’t like, but Colleen had got them for him at Christmas. He grabbed his tan, brogue, dealer boots to protect his toe and make him look roughty-toughty, and carried them downstairs. Colleen spotted the socks, smiled, said nothing. And who said Jack Austin knew nothing about women? Michael brought the fish out, the vegetables already steaming in their serving dishes. Michael was a good cook. Kate and Jack had always cooked properly, and it was a rare day they did not sit around the table. Jack looked at his son, the dopey teenager, disappeared, and from his chrysalis, a new man was born; welcome back Michael, a pity Kate was not here to see.
‘How was your day, Jane?’ Colleen asked, embarrassed using the nickname.
‘Not much to report. Mandy Lifeboats had a flea up her arris this morning, brandishing last night’s evening news. Present company expected, Colleen, never sure I’ve understood women.’
Smiling at the malacopperism, Colleen replied, ‘There was an article by your mate Bernie about a fight in East Cosham, and he quoted an anonymous police source that basically said tough shite the police were late, I didn’t vote for the government. I’m not paraphrasing well, but Mandy may have thought the quote came from you?’
Jack chortled as he savoured the last of the fish. ‘That was good, son,’ and making a smacking noise with his lips, apparently like his Dad used to do, Jack got up. ‘I’m gonna walk Martin,’ and Jack slipped on his red eejits anorak, removing the hi-viz vest; he didn’t want to look an eejit. Said his goodbyes and headed out the door with Martin going bonkers.
‘Martin excited?’ A neighbour. Jack liked his neighbours, apart from the local snooty Duchess, who thought she ran the street as a mediaeval feudal manor, and occasionally Colonel Blimp. ‘God save me from arseycrats and military types,’ Jack said, agreeing with himself; he was an agreeable chap, he thought as Martin pulled for all he was worth. They headed to the seafront, Jack whistling, singing and talking to himself, Martin making hoarse choking sounds, not unlike Jack’s singing.
As he crossed the expansive common before the seafront, Jack reflected on the events of the day. He now knew what was bugging Mandy, and Bernie will likely be in C&A’s tonight. He’ll see Biscuit in a minute, but something bothered him about Osama’s. Paolo was antsy, and Jack smiled; he’d robbed the case for the hell of it, but it could be convenient, and didn’t law and order begin and end with community policing? The Government may be saying involve ordinary people, but you can’t fool Jack Austin, and he checked to see if his nose grew. ‘Come the resolution, brothers,’ Jack said, punching the air, causing Martin to stop and look. Martin knew Jack had been distraught at the election of a Tory Prime Minister, enabled by a Lib Dem Muppet, and he worried for his master.
Feck, I need a bit of sedition tonight, Jack thought, noticing he was walking briskly when he’d promised himself a saunter, part of his anger management. Oh well, start that tomorrow. Biscuit would be just around the bend of the promenade.
Twelve
It was cloudy, the full moon obscured, but the diffused light was enough for the flat sea to give off that shifting sheen Jack loved, leaning on the promenade railings, looking out to the Solent, while Martin sniffed every blade of grass, crook and granny. After a while he realised his vacant gazing at the shipping, their lights moving slowly across the water, the twinkling from the Isle of Wight, some lights from the nearby Spitbank fort, had allowed time to pass on. He whistled discordantly for Martin, ‘Where the hell is that dog?’ Looking for the flashing collar light in the near darkness, Jack began to get angry, so Martin nudged Jack’s leg as if to say, “I’ve been here all the time numpty.”
Biscuit was late. Jack hurried off the common, rummaged for his phone, cursing he didn’t have Biscuit’s number. Stood under a streetlight, the light on his phone didn’t work anymore; probably needed a new bulb. The elastic bands and duct tape meant it was a delicate to use, but he was able to call Kingston Police Station, and the night deteriorated.
‘Kingston police.’
Jack thought he knew everyone at Kingston. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘I asked first,’ Jack said. She hung. He dialled again, his phone flagging, and he made a mental note to get some more duct tape as well as a bulb.
‘Kingston police.’
‘This is Detective Inspector Austin, I need to get hold of Biscuit, I mean Detective Sergeant Brian Smith. Can you give me his mobile number please.’
‘Are you the funny guy that called just now?’
Jack was irritated. ‘I am, and you should not hang up on calls, it might appear odd to you, but it could be important—’ She hung up.
He rang again. ‘Kingston police.’
‘This is DI Austin, do not hang up.’
The telephonist got her retaliation in first.
‘Listen, I don’t know who you are, but I’m volunteering for this work. That means I am not getting paid. I am giving up my free time to pitch in and help this country due to the dire straits the Labour Government left us in.’
Jack could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the feckin’ Big Society had reached his Nick. The bile in his stomach bubbled; this was his Labour Party she was talking about, not that he was a member, wasn’t even sure they would want him, and in his view, it was the greedy Tory bastard bankers who got the country in this mess. His eye was giving him gyp. ‘I’ll say again, this is DI Austin, and I need to get hold of Detective Sergeant Smith. It’s urgent; I need you to give me his number.’
‘I cannot give out numbers, how do I know who you are?’
‘Put me through to Dawkins on the front desk.’
‘Aha, if you worked here, you would know his name was Dawson,’ and she hung up. This used to be easier, he thought as he rung back.
‘Kingston police.’
‘Listen, darlin’, phone Sergeant Smith and tell him to ring DI Austin, take down my number, and if you can’t get hold of him ring me back, comprendeh!’ He thought, nice touch that, Mexican, sure the telephonist had not detected he’d incorrectly used his Gestapo accent.
‘You, sir, are not a pleasant man,’ must have picked up on the Gestapo, ‘why do you not phone his wife?’
‘What?’
‘Sergeant Smith’s wife has been calling saying he was expected home.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told her he was likely in the pub with his colleagues, like they do on the telly.’
Jack sighed. ‘This, lady, is real life, and believe it or not, coppers are not always down the pu
b,’ but she’d hung up again just as he realised he was about to go to the pub. ‘The Big Society. Help!’ he shouted to the black sky, and Jack thought he saw the couple crossing the zebra crossing nod in agreement, but if they walked that fast in the dark, they could trip.
Jack locked his bike to his regular lamppost outside C&A’s and made a call to Mandy while Martin cocked his leg. ‘Christ’s tits, you’ve wee’d your way around the seafront, surely you can’t have any left.’
‘Jack, I’ve just got into the bath, and the last thing I need is you winding me up about weeing around Portsmouth. You were bang out of order today, and I’ve just heard that rather than being a hero at an armed robbery, you interrupted Osama and his wife shagging on the rice.’
‘To be fair, Mandy love, I never said that.’
‘Yes, but you never said, “oh, I just interrupted some shagging, and there were no armed bandits.” ’
‘No, you got me there, Amanda.’
She noted with a catch in her breath he had called her Amanda. Jack could hear the gentle lapping of her bath water, and his mind went a bit haywire. ‘What is it, Jack? I don’t like it when you go quiet on me; it’s unnatural.’
‘I was imagining you in your bath, and me in with you. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me have the end with the taps.’
He heard her sigh, it echoed, ‘If I wanted you to have the taps, you would have the taps, but as it happens, my taps are on the side, and before you say you’ll be right up, I’m picturing you in the bath with your sellotaped toilet tissue toe hanging over the edge because you don’t want to get it wet, two bony scrawny knees also with bog roll and sellotape, varicose-veined skinny legs folded double so they would fit in, and a head that must have been bashed around about a dozen times today and, unfortunately, not one of those times was me.’