by R. Jay
Lucy Lever deigned to turn her full attention back onto this old fool, a combative edge cutting into her cultured tone. "He got retired, couldn't cut the mustard anymore. Papers need new blood, young blood. I've replaced him."
"Oh dear. I must say you do look young, you could hardly have left school."
"I am twenty-three and have a first-class honours Degree in Media Studies and Sociology if you must know." She snapped, peering ever closer at him.
"First class? Well, congratulations! Norman I believe was a grammar school boy, started at the Chronical when he was just sixteen as a tea boy nigh on fifty years ago must be. Worked his way up to lead journalist by the age of thirty. I always thought that he'd die in the job, not get shunted aside like unwanted furniture."
"Okay yeah. Well daddy knows the proprietors personally, a business thing you wouldn't understand. He explained how I could represent a new face of the Chronical while Norman was a rather sad old dinosaur with outdated attitudes and viewpoints. It is a different world out there now, new priorities."
"Oh, like what?"
"Sensibilities, multiculturism. We all have to adhere to current reality in this country now."
"Well the only culture I've ever known in England is English. Has that changed then?"
"That is a rather jingoistic, racist comment may I say?" She sneered stiffly, attempting to stare him down with a condemning glare and failing badly.
Henry Carter was just getting into his stride. "You may say what you wish, this is a free country after all. But I tell you that I served for over thirty years in the armed forces of this country ever prepared to wage war on foreign cultures that threaten our way of life. That is not racism, that is self defence."
"Well I'd call that Imperialism." She bridled, stepping back from him quickly as if frightened of contamination. This interview was not going well. "This country of 'yours' Mr. Carter, promoted slavery and world-wide oppression. You were a working tool of evil!"
"On the contrary young lady. Go back and consult your history books. Not those selected and foisted upon you by left wing, loony university lecturers. I think that you'll find Portugal was the first European country to actively embrace slavery, a practise thousands of years old in Africa and the Middle East. Granted we did engage in the terrible trade for a couple of hundred years, but eventually it was the British Empire that spread the 'new reality' around the world in the nineteenth century and outlawed slavery long before Abraham Lincoln jumped onto the bandwagon, which was vigorously enforced by the Royal Navy.
"Education is a wonderful thing Ms. Lever."
She bristled with haughty anger, a suffusion of pink staining her delicate complexion from her face and neck all the way down under the collar of her smart blouse.
"My family are well read thank you Mr. Carter; educated men of letters, steeped in the craft of the pen. I am a product of that gene pool."
"Well I can only be humbly impressed young Ms. Lever. Now, 'Lever', should that name be familiar to an old pleb like myself?" He feigned a thoughtful pause. "Ah yes, Algernon Lever. Wasn't he that local boy made bad went to Cambridge?" He snapped still strong fingers expressively, enjoying himself now. "Yes, that poet chap turned conscientious objector during the last war. Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke would have been spinning in their untimely graves. Got himself banged up in Wormwood Scrubs in 1940 for refusing the draft until the Peace Pledge Union got him released through family connections.
"Lilly Levered Lever' he was known as, hereabouts."
Lucy Lever's high heeled boots all but levitated off of the floor. "My Great Uncle Algernon was a man of principle Mr. 'common soldier'. He had the courage to stand up for what he believed in and not become a butcher's apprentice for the state."
"Oh aye? Let's not confuse principles with self preservation? 'Conchies' simply didn't have the courage to stand up on a battle-field."
Real anger began to laser from the old man's eyes as he pointed a trembling finger at the worn old flag on the table. "My own father and his pals didn't get such luxury as principles. Half a generation of this town's young men were wiped out on the Somme. That is courage.
"Nothing poetic about that. Fine lads mown down so people like your Algernon could stand by his 'principles' without fear of a firing squad and self serving young bloods like yourself can shoot them down all over again with your 'sensibilities'." He paused, reigning in his ire, she was after all a silly young woman.
"Now I'm very busy Ms. Lever as you can see, preparing this lot for Sunday's parade. I need to clear it away so us old dinosaurs who can no longer cut the mustard in this different world can open up the bar later and drink ourselves into oblivion."
Her face sparking fury like a high voltage cable break down, Lucy Lever spun precariously on her high heels and stalked from the hall muttering, "Nuremberg Rally more like!" As she surreptitiously switched off a digital Dictaphone nestling covertly in her opened handbag.
Benny Mann would be most amused with all of that saintly garbage!
******
FIVE
Squires Court had been built primarily for occupation by the aging denizens of the town who still retained a degree of capability and a will for some independence. It was a small development of twenty-one units sited on the outskirts of flat earth Holtingham, convenient to fall off of the edge of existence without too much disruption. The town cemetery was just a short drive up the lane.
A grumpy warden had directed Chris Carter to the end unit of a block of seven opposite her own. He noted the newly constructed ramp and handrails fitted at the front entrance as he approached. Preparing to knock he noticed that the door itself was ajar and a note pinned to the frame invited visitors to 'Let yourself - probably won't hear you'.
Feeling like an intruder nevertheless, he stepped into the hallway and followed the sound of an overloud television set booming from a room at the far end. Handrails had been fitted along there as well. The lounge was in semi-darkness, the heavy curtains pulled to, a wide screen TV blurting out the news. A three seater settee angled to his right and a vaguely discernible figure was draped across it.
"Hello 'Sandwich'!" He shouted loud enough to overcome the television.
"Greetings 'white-boy', heard you were on the loose, been a long time. Did you bring me anything?"
"Nope. You're not in hospital now are you?"
"Technically I am. Well I'm still an outpatient, but lately I'm more out than patient." He suddenly pointed accusingly at the screen on which the Prime Minister Dennis Campbell was pledging his one hundred percent support for 'our lads on the front line'. "That lying cunt given us about as much support as a worn out jock-strap!"
Chris stepped over to the window pulling the curtains wide open, flooding the room with grey light. Turning back to face his old friend Sydique Sahni a bolt of shock ran through him.
"Christ!" Was the most delicate thing that he could say.
'Sid Sandwich' smiled thinly back at him, teeth a brilliant white in that dark face, crinkling the burn scars on the left side of his face. The lower part of his left arm was missing and the whole of his left leg. He held his right arm aloft, waving his hand about.
"I've still got this one. Always carry a spare that's what I say."
Chris recovered his composure, buoyed up by the other's brave show of flippancy. "That the one you wipe your arse with is it? Friendship only goes so far you know?"
'Sid' struggled upright, stretched out his good hand to shake Carter's. Then Chris reached down and squeezed his shoulder gently. Ex-cons and Royal Marines don't do man-hugs. "I was gutted to hear what's happened to you mate, a real bummer."
"And I couldn't believe what happened to you back then Chris, I really couldn't. Still don't. And you refused to let your chums visit you. Especially me and Barry; we were the Three Musketeers weren't we? You miserable bastard."
"Needed a bit of time to think, adjust, you know?"
"Fifteen bleeding years! I know you're a bit conges
ted between the ears, but come on."
Chris shrugged. "I'm here now ain't I? So why don't you just sit back comfortably peg-leg while I go and fetch some glasses." He produced a half bottle of whisky from under his jacket. "I take it you can drink?"
"Have you forgotten, I'm a non-conformist rag-head. Pour away and don't be shy with it."
"Medication I meant you knob! Can you mix it with alcohol?"
"Let's not worry about that? My eyesight is a bit wobbly too, can't read the small print on the label, so let's just find out shall we? I'll either end up hopping up and down on the table or underneath it."
Chris returned from the small galley kitchen with two dainty tea-cups he hoped had been left by a previous tenant to find Sydique Sahni suddenly morose.
"What happened to us C.C.?" He seemed to have slumped back down even further into the cushions, glaring venomously at the TV on which the Prime Minister was still being overly earnest in pledging his 'covenant' with those on active service. "Can you grab the remote there and turn this prick off before I put my non existent foot through the screen?"
"Hey your long lost buddy shows up with fire-water and all you can do is throw a moody like a hormonal schoolgirl."
Sydique made a visible effort to smile which came out more like a grimace. "Sorry mate. It isn't just the physical injury you know. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a recognised problem. The doctors warned me not to sit here all day and mope. Depression lurks not far away if you follow that road. So what do I do? Sit here and mope all day that's what! Get depressed as hell all right watching all that crap!" vehemently he jabbed a walking stick that had miraculously materialised in his hand at the TV.
Chris hastily complied with the remote control and turned the prick off.
"It's understandable Sid, you getting down and all that considering, you know…"
"No, there's no excuse for it really Chris. I've had the best treatment you could ever hope for and all the encouragement needed to put me back on my feet. After getting injured I was three days in critical care at the field hospital in Afghanistan before I was stable enough to be flown home to the new Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. The place is amazing, built specifically for injured military personnel. The wards are even organised in military fashion so you're not too disoriented being whipped away from the rest of your mates and routines. You're amongst other squaddies who have suffered the same or even worse injuries
"After four months I was getting about, a bit in the wheelchair and my strap-on leg. Then I got moved to the military rehabilitation centre at Headley Court in Surrey for a further four months. Another amazing place. They specialise in up to date prosthetics, actually made to your own specification. Like having a new suit made. Unfortunately my limb was shorn off close to the hip which is more difficult to master than one below the knee. Luckily my arm still has its elbow which makes a world of difference. So C.C. I can wipe my own arse with either hand thank you very much."
"Okay that's a relief then. So now what, the army got a desk job lined up for you?"
Sid's stare of incredulity was all the answer needed. "There is great emphasis on getting you fit for duty, or certainly an active life. But I found suddenly that I needed my own space for a while, away from disciplined existence, requested that I move into civilian accommodation for a while, get my head on straight. The nut doctors said that was the last thing I should be doing, but I did anyway. Promised I go back to the QEH in Birmingham for regular assessments but I've been a bit lax in that department lately, starting to feel a bit guilty what with all the bloody marvellous treatment they've given me. But not for long, think I'll go and chuck myself at the army's mercies, they're pretty good at finding amputee personnel something to do and keep them off the streets. Meanwhile I've been going a bit stir-crazy sitting here with that bloody thing switched on all day"
Chris drained his whisky, starting to feel a little depressed himself. Homecomings weren't all they were cracked up to be he was finding. "Perhaps you should get out a bit more then Sid, mix with us ordinary mortals in civvy street."
"Don’t get on too well with Joe Public anymore. I can't fit in with their narrow lives. I've seen too much, done things they couldn't even begin to comprehend."
"Oh excuse me for being one of the boring old masses."
"No not you Chris. In a way we have travelled a similar road. Yeah, I miss the military life again, institutionalised I suppose."
Chris's eyes lit up with a sudden thought. "Well get yourself down to the Legion Hall. The members ain't all old codgers from World War Two and Korea. Blokes your age get there too, had similar experiences; Ireland, Falklands, Iraq, Afghanistan. One thing Britain will never be short of is old soldiers."
"By the time that prat at number ten is finished we will be."
"Look, I'll have a word with grandpa, get you signed in as a member, then you can all bore the pants off each other with tales of derring-do and cheap booze."
"Talking of cheap booze where's that bottle you cheap-skate. Here, fill this bugger up." Sydique tossed the empty glass into Chris's lap, mild surprise on his face. "Your grandpa still er, with us then? He must be ninety if he's a day."
Chris stood up to go replenish their drinks. "Eighty nine actually, still secretly dreaming of invading Buenos Aires. He's right busy as usual, organising the Remembrance Sunday service and march past the War Memorial." Another thought occurred. "Here, you've just got to take part in that mate. Wounded hero and all. You can totter along the High Street on your new leg like the Tin Man on Yellow Brick road."
A new enthusiasm glowed in Sydique's dark eyes. "Okay Chris, I'll give it all a go. How cheap is this booze there?"
***
Chief Officer Oliver Beaumont of Her Majesty's Police, was a man going places, almost certainly a post in the Home Office in due course, according to his personnel file.. 'Going broke' was his private assessment whenever he glanced at the artfully angled photograph on his desk in the solid silver frame.
Wife Sarah was upwardly mobile, at a rate that would put NASA's efforts to shame, with her big eyes fixed firmly on the county set. She had not got the big country house in Buckinghamshire yet, but had an extensive and expensive wardrobe and a glimmering Lexus on the shared drive which was progress of a sorts.
His twin daughters, standing competitively close to either side of her grinned out at him with matching aspirations. Their tuition fees at that private academy for young ladies combined with their mother's great expectations fuelled a permanent run on the pounds at the bank of dad.
At forty-two he was young for a Chief Officer, especially as he had been a late entrant into the police service; having delayed his undoubted brilliant career to first obtain absolutely essential degrees in sociology and economics, before presenting himself with grand largess to the world of crime fighting; a leader in waiting.
By nature a politician at heart, he had prissily side-stepped much of the irksome facets of policing on his March on Rome. Walking the beat in the rain and being vomited on by celebrating week-end drunkards, was not a shining path to the hallowed gates of the Citadel of ambition.
There were any number of deskbound footholds up to the promotion heights, well away from those nasty cold streets, that could be weaselled into with close access to the right ears to whisper into personal sweet nothings and the occasional drop of poison. And with each hike in his pay scale dearest Sarah upped her social budget.
His targets had been set firmly and unequivocally; Chief Constable before the age of forty-five. Done that, along with the chauffer driven Daimler to ferry the special ones to never ending social functions and ceremonies. So a dress allowance and quality hairdresser had been a must.
But Oliver's wife's driving ambitions drove recklessly through his comfort zone clocking up a high mileage of stress and anxiety. He was beginning to wonder if coming off duty reeking of vomit was just preferable to going home to endless dinner-parties with people he had never met and asked stupid
questions about his job. What did he know about bank robbers and murderers? He saw his role in the force as primarily an administrator, co-ordinator and accountant.
Fact, Oliver Beaumont, for all his smart made to measure uniform hung with chrome like a twinkling Christmas tree, was quite a disappointment in the visual and personality stakes. Prone to erratic stuttering under duress, which seemed to be a permanent condition these days, his voice was thin and nasally. He was a bit on the short side and blessed with a thin frame , narrow features and worst of all, ginger hair and a small moustache.
Yasir Davi on the other hand, had broad, dark, handsome Asian features and an athletic build that would have incited interest from Bollywood had he passed by on that road. His strong, blunt fingers drum-rolled on Beaumont's shiny desk top to enforce an argument he had been pressing non-stop for a full twenty minutes. Had the Chief Officer not been so permanently strung out himself he might have detected a degree of underlying nervous agitation in the Honourable Member for Parliament himself. Instead he vaguely pondered on why Davi, no youngster himself, had never married.
"Chief Constable, I have to impress upon you the utmost folly of allowing this display of Imperial arrogance to proceed on Sunday morning."
"But Yasir," Beaumont whined, fearful of uttering anything remotely politically incorrect. "The ceremony is to honour our fallen servicemen. You know that as well as I do, being ah, British yourself."
The drum-roll intensified, building up to the signal to charge. "There was a time it may have been quite acceptable to honour foreign adventures, a celebration on Omdurman as much as Flanders. But this is 2012, the 'fallen' you mourn are killing my Muslim Brothers in Iraq and Afghanistan. My constituents view them as criminals, murderers."