Confessions of a Police Constable

by Matt Delito

  ‘Oh. Sure. Well, the problem is that this is my mother’s. The woman you can hear shouting inside is my sister. Our mum recently had a stroke and can’t really communicate. I don’t know how much she understands of what’s going on. My sister decided to move into my mother’s flat, and she has turned it into a place completely unbecoming of an old lady.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She brings men home all the time,’ he hesitated. ‘I guess I may as well tell you the whole story. My sister has a long history of drug abuse, and she’s a working girl.’

  He looked from me to Pete and back.

  ‘A prostitute,’ he clarified, as if the term ‘working girl’ was alien to us.

  ‘Okay, well, that’s not good,’ Pete said. ‘How long has your sister been living here?’

  ‘About a year, I think,’ Roger replied. ‘But I couldn’t say for sure.’

  ‘A year, huh? And how long has this been going on?’

  ‘I’m … not sure. I just came out of prison, to be honest. Few weeks ago. It’s a long story, but I ended up doing some things I regret, and that’s over with now. I want to turn over a new leaf; I have a job and everything these days.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that, Roger,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I work at the DIY store down the road. Give people advice about paints and emulsions, all that. It’s not very exciting, but it pays the bills. It feels good to finally be doing the right thing, you know?’

  ‘Good on ya,’ Pete said genuinely.

  Despite the fact that we deal with shady characters every day of every week, it is relatively rare for us to run into people who seem to have genuinely pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and followed the poorly-signposted path down the straight and narrow. I realised then that Pete must have dealt with the ‘old’ Roger before. In these instances, my reaction is always the same as Pete’s – whenever I come across ‘regular customers’ who I haven’t seen in a while, I’ll have a quick chat with them to find out how they are getting on. There’s one guy in particular, who managed to tear himself loose from a gang following a long stint in prison for an armed robbery that went all shades of wrong. You get to know the regulars quite well after a while. I wouldn’t consider them friends by a long stretch, but you do eventually develop a sort of rapport with some of them – almost a fraternal thing, I think. It’s sad when we have to arrest them, and it’s great when they are doing well.

  ‘Well, when I got out, I went to visit my mum; my sister had been there for a while already. My sister hadn’t even realised our mother had had a stroke. I took her to the hospital right away, but the staff said the stroke had happened some time ago.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It really hurts me, my mother’s face looks as if it’s made out of heavy jelly, and the hospital says that most of the effects would have been avoidable if she’d been taken to see a doctor sooner.’

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Roger,’ Pete said. ‘How did she not know your mum had had a stroke? Isn’t that usually pretty obvious?’

  ‘Drugs,’ Roger shrugged. ‘A lot of drugs. She just doesn’t care about much else. It’s a shame, she used to be great, but now she’s just a wreck. I barely recognise her these days. Haven’t seen her smile since I came out of prison.’

  ‘So, what is all the shouting about now?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, I … I guess, I flushed her stash of heroin down the toilet.’

  ‘Ah. And she was angry about that?’ I asked, feeling a little silly about asking such a blatantly obvious question.

  ‘Yes, of course. More importantly, my mother wants my sister out of the house, but she refuses to leave.’

  ‘And you say this is your mother’s flat?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Does she own it?’

  ‘No, she rents.’

  ‘But it is her name on the lease?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’re completely sure about that?’

  ‘Yeah, I moved her in myself, when my dad died seven years ago.’

  ‘Right. And your mother told your sister that she wants her to leave?’

  ‘Not as such. She can’t really speak anymore, so I asked her if she wanted my sister to leave and she nodded,’ he said. ‘I think she’s tried to tell my sister before, as well, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’m going to have to talk to your mother, I think.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Pete said. ‘Can you make sure that dog is locked away?’

  ‘Rita?’ Roger laughed. ‘She’s loud, for sure, but she’s a pathetic little yappy-type dog. She won’t harm you. Couldn’t if she tried.’

  ‘I’d still rather you locked the dog away, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll go do that now,’ Roger said, and went back into the house.

  ‘Hey, I don’t care how small the dog is,’ Pete said. ‘They all have pointy teeth and an unhealthy dose of unpredictability.’

  Roger popped his head back out of the door: ‘Come on in,’ he said.

  As soon as we stepped into the flat, a young woman came careening out from another room and started shouting at Roger.

  ‘Oh, so you’re not man enough to deal with your little sister by yourself, are you?’ she screamed, before reaching deep for the worst insults she could think of: ‘You impotent fucking bastard. You absolute fucking—’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Pete interrupted, stepping forward into the eyeline of the two siblings. ‘We don’t need that kind of language.’

  ‘Gentlemen, this is Sarah,’ Roger said drily.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Sarah,’ Pete said.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she replied.

  ‘Very nice,’ Pete said.

  ‘We need to talk to your mother, if we can,’ I said, turning to Roger.

  ‘Well, that will not be possible,’ Sarah shouted sarcastically. ‘She can’t say anything!’

  ‘Does she understand stuff?’ I asked Roger, ignoring his sister.

  ‘She understands just fine – I think,’ Roger replied. ‘She nods, shakes her head, communicates with her fingers, writes stuff down. I’m not sure if she really cannot speak, or if she’s too shy to because she slurs her words.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Pete said. ‘Where is she?’

  Roger pointed to a closed door at the end of the narrow, sticky-floored hallway. We walked over, knocked on the door and went inside.

  In the room we found a woman, aged around 60. When she spotted our uniforms, she did a little wave with her left hand, before placing it under her cheek. She tried to make it look as if she was just leaning on her hand, but the way she did it made me realise that Roger might have been on to something: she was shy about what the stroke had done to her, and wanted to hide the visual clues from us by covering the affected side of her face.

  ‘Mrs Samson?’ I asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Hi. Your son Roger called us. Is it okay if we come in and talk to you for a mom—’ The end of my sentence was drowned out by more shouting and screaming from Roger and Sarah.

  Pete nudged me forward, and pointed behind him with his thumb. His sign language was clear: I deal with the silent mum; he deals with the shouting offspring.

  I took a quick look around. The room was clearly a bedroom. It was simply but tastefully decorated. There was a small green sofa – more like a large chair, really – a coffee table and another chair. On the far wall, there was a small old-fashioned writing desk. Mrs Samson was sitting in front of it, in what looked like a cheap, but rather comfortable, office chair. A single bed was in the corner of the room; there was a curtain drawn around it, perhaps to turn the room into a small sitting room, by hiding the presence of the sleeping furniture. The room was similarly furnished to the rest of the flat but unlike the other areas, it was immaculately clean.

  Mrs Samson beckoned and pointed at the sofa-cum-easy-chair. I sat down and faced her. She smiled slightly, and nodded, which I took
to be encouragement for me to get comfortable.

  She turned to the writing desk. When she turned back, she held up a small piece of paper that read ‘Tea?’ in neat cursive lettering.

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Samson, I’ve just come from my lunch break,’ I lied. I would not at all have minded a cup of tea, but I really didn’t fancy putting her in a situation where she had to brave her descendants to brew me a cuppa.

  She turned away again and came back with a new message. ‘How may I help, Officer?’ it read.

  ‘Roger says he is your son – is that right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Great. And Sarah – is she your daughter?’

  She nodded again, but with a little less enthusiasm this time.

  ‘Do they both live here?’

  Shake.

  ‘Just Sarah?’

  Nod.

  ‘Have you asked Sarah to leave?’

  Nod.

  ‘How long ago did you ask her to leave, Mrs Samson?’

  She held up four fingers.

  ‘Four days?’

  Shake.

  ‘Weeks?’

  Shake.

  ‘Months?’

  Nod.

  ‘So, you asked her to leave here about four months ago. Did you ask her again later?’

  Nod.

  ‘How many times?’

  She removed her left hand from her face, and wiggled all her fingers at me for a while.

  ‘Many times?’

  She nodded again, and nestled the left side of her face back onto her hand.

  ‘More than ten times?’

  She nodded with great enthusiasm and made a sound. It sounded like she said ‘Many’.

  ‘Many more than ten times?’

  Nod.

  ‘Right. And it is correct that it is your name on the lease of this flat?’

  Nod.

  ‘How long have you been living here, Mrs Samson?’

  She held up three fingers, then four more.

  ‘Thirty-four years?’

  Shake.

  Not thirty-four years.

  I had to think for a few seconds what three fingers, then four fingers might mean. Suddenly, I understood; she didn’t want to remove her hand from her face again.

  ‘Seven years?’

  Nod.

  ‘And your daughter, how long has she been here?’

  Three fingers, then three again.

  ‘Six,’ I said. ‘Months?’

  Nod.

  ‘Okay, so your daughter has been here for six months, but you’ve been wanting her to move out for about four, is that right?’

  Nod.

  ‘Did you invite her to come live here?’

  Shake.

  ‘So she just moved in?’

  Nod.

  ‘Did you give her a key?’

  She turned her head at an angle.

  ‘Did you lend her a key, and she made a copy of it?’

  Nod.

  ‘Without asking you first?’

  Nod-nod.

  ‘Okay. What about your son, does he live here?’

  Shake.

  ‘When your daughter moves out, will your son move in?’

  Nod.

  ‘Is that okay with you? Do you want your son here?’

  She nodded for a long time, before moving away to her writing desk and starting to write something down for me. When she turned back, she showed me another scrap of paper.

  She had written: ‘He is a good boy. He looks after me. I cannot live like this.’

  ‘I understand, Mrs Samson,’ I said.

  I felt quite bad; we’re often called to situations like this. A mother’s love for her children never completely fades away, but eventually even the most patient of parents realises that there are situations that just simply don’t go away. It’s incredibly painful for everybody concerned, and at much personal sacrifice many parents keep giving their children ‘just one more chance’. It seemed as if Mrs Samson had reached her limit, however.

  ‘My colleague and I are going to remove her from the flat for you. If she comes back, and you don’t want her here, you have to promise me you’ll call 999 immediately. Even if you can’t say anything, please call 999. They will send somebody over to come and help you right away, do you understand?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Right. Well, thank you very much for talking with me,’ I said. My heart went out to her; she was clearly perfectly lucid and truly frustrated by not being able to speak directly.

  She reached out one hand to me, palm down. She kept looking at her hand, rather than at me. I wasn’t really sure what she wanted, but I leaned forward and took her hand. When I did, she looked up, eyes meeting mine.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. The words were slurred to the point of being unrecognisable, but the message was perfectly clear.

  ‘It’s my pleasure, Mrs Samson. Really,’ I said, and she let go of my hand.

  I got up and walked out of the room, where Pete had the two siblings sitting down at opposite ends of the tiny living room. They had chosen seats as far away from each other as was humanly possible, which, in such a small room, wasn’t far, so they were sitting at the far edges of their respective seats in an effort to be even further away from each other.

  ‘Sarah, your mother wants you to leave the house,’ I said.

  ‘You can’t do that! I live here!’ she protested immediately.

  ‘Get out, Sarah,’ Roger said.

  ‘Would you mind,’ Pete snapped. ‘Let my colleague deal with this.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Roger said, and with it he got up and left the room. He started rummaging around somewhere else in the flat.

  ‘You’ve been told to leave many times over the past few months,’ I said to Sarah. ‘And today, you’re going.’

  ‘You can’t throw me out of here; my toothbrush is here! I live here!’

  Between her flawed logic, her twitching, and the fact that she seemed to have problems focusing on us or really comprehending what was going on in the room, I figured she was on drugs.

  ‘Have you taken something?’ I asked her.

  ‘I’m not a thief,’ she replied.

  ‘You know what he meant,’ Pete said.

  ‘None of your business,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, it kind of is my business,’ Pete said. ‘Either way, you’re going to leave this house in the next three minutes. Grab your stuff, let’s go.’

  ‘But I’m making a sandwich!’ she said, and started chewing on the right side of her lower lip.

  ‘Sarah, you’re sitting on a sofa, talking to a police officer,’ I interjected. ‘You are quite obviously not making a sandwich, and you’re not going to either. You’re going to get your stuff, and leave.’

  Right on cue, Roger re-entered the room with a bin liner.

  ‘Here’s your stuff,’ he said. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Is that all of her stuff?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ Roger replied.

  Sarah leapt up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Sandwich,’ she said by way of reply.

  ‘No sandwich,’ Pete said. ‘Leaving.’

  ‘Sandwich,’ she said again, and started walking out of the living room. Pete stepped out into her path, blocking her.

  ‘Do you have anything that is yours in the kitchen?’ he asked.

  ‘Tea bags?’ she said.

  ‘Anything else?’ Pete asked.

  ‘Yeah. Bread.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A corkscrew.’

  ‘Your fucking corkscrew is already in the bag here,’ Roger said, shaking the bin liner so it made a clunking and rattling sound.

  ‘What else do you have here?’ Pete said, drawing her attention from Roger back to himself.

  She began clutching at straws, latching on to any excuse she could think of to be able to stay in the house just a little bit longer.

  ‘Clothes,’ Sarah said.


  ‘Got them,’ Roger replied.

  ‘Hairbrush.’

  ‘Yup,’ he said.

  ‘Toothbrush?’

  Roger just shook the bag in reply.

  ‘Anything else?’ Pete asked.

  ‘My money!’ Sarah remembered suddenly.

  ‘There was a twenty and some change on the kitchen counter, and another tenner in your room. It’s in your jewellery box, in the bag,’ Roger said.

  Sarah started crying.

  ‘All I want is a fucking sandwich,’ she wailed. ‘You’re not going to send me away hungry, are you?!’

  ‘Look,’ Pete said. ‘You’ve got all your stuff, and we’ve run out of time. You’re going to leave.’

  ‘You said five minutes!’ she screamed, suddenly very angry.

  ‘I said three minutes,’ Pete corrected her. ‘Not five. And anyway, we’ve been here for nearly seven, so your time is up. You’re going. Now.’

  ‘What about my—’

  ‘Look, you’re just wasting everybody’s time now. Either you take your stuff and get the hell out of here, or we’re going to remove you.’

  ‘You can’t make me!’ she shouted before throwing herself back into the seat she had just got up from. With her right hand she grabbed a handful of the throw that was covering the sofa, and with her left she took hold of the armrest on the other side.

  ‘Sarah, have you ever been arrested before?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, so what?’ she snapped in return.

  ‘Well, then you probably know there’s an easy way and a hard way of doing this,’ I said. ‘I don’t really care which one we take, but it’s going to happen now.’

  ‘MY SANDWICH!’ she wailed, sobbing and tightening her grip on the armrest and throw.

  ‘You have some money,’ I said. ‘You can buy stuff to make a sandwich. But now – leaving. Come on.’

  I feared we were going to have to drag her out of there in handcuffs, but suddenly she seemed to deflate right in front of us as she simply gave up.

  ‘Whatever. You’re fucking pigs, you know that,’ she muttered quietly, and got up, slowly, like a teenager that had been told to go to her room, wanting to drag out the inevitable for as long as she could.

  She shuffled over to Roger, and snatched the bin liner, giving him an angry look. She took a step back, before dropping the bag and lunging at her brother.