Playing James

by Sarah Mason

  “Well, I realize this may be a bit of an inconvenience for you but . . .”

  “A bit of an inconvenience? Having to wet-nurse some opportunistic reporter who’s anxious to cut her teeth on me? No, no. It’s not an inconvenience at all. IT’S A BLOODY MAJOR PISS-TAKE, THAT’S WHAT IT IS!” This last bit is shouted at about two million decibels and pretty much brings the canteen to a standstill. People stare and I slip down in my seat but James Sabine doesn’t take his piercing green, serpent eyes from my red, cringing face. “Don’t you think I have enough to do without having to hump you around with me as well?”

  I bristle at this, especially at the use of the word “hump.” It implies weight issues.

  I try again. “But James . . .”

  “It’s Detective Sergeant Sabine to you,” he growls.

  “Detective Sergeant Sabine. It’s a major PR opportunity. Imagine what it will do for the reputation of the local force.”

  “You mean our reputation will be gutter level, the same as the press’, by the time you’ve finished with it?”

  I suspect he doesn’t like the press very much. I am tempted to ask him if he has had some sort of bad childhood experience with reporters. Perhaps one took his mint humbugs away from him or something. “No, I mean that it will create good PR. It will show people what wonderful work you do here.”

  “I am sure the criminals of Bristol will sleep safer in their beds knowing you will be on the scene.” And he gets up with such force that his chair falls over backward, and then he strides off. Ignoring the chair, I get up and scurry after him because, to be honest, I’m getting annoyed now. If he thinks he can bully me, he can forget it. I have got my chance of a lifetime, one that might land me my dream career, and there is no way that he or anyone else is going to mess it up. Watch out James Sabine, you have a bona fide shadow for the next six weeks.

  I follow him back into the office. As he wends his way through the maze of desks, I can see that the rest of his colleagues are finding all this extremely amusing. Every single one either grins or winks at him as he passes them by. The fact that he seems to be in a filthy mood delights them even more. I avoid eye contact with any of them, anxious not to exacerbate the situation. He sits down at his desk. The one opposite to him has been cleared, presumably for me, so I sit down there. I say, in a really low voice so the rest of the department can’t hear, “Listen. I am really sorry you feel this way. I can assure you that I will do the best PR job I can.”

  He looks extremely cynical at this.

  “Have you asked if someone else in the department can take me on?” I add hopefully.

  “It was my first question.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “What do you think? Why don’t you ask if someone else will take you on?”

  “Oh no. I only get one chance at this and if you’re it, I’ll have you.”

  “Well, don’t expect an easy ride,” he snarls.

  I continue regardless. “We are stuck with each other for the next six weeks. If it would make you feel happier, why don’t you lay down a few rules?”

  We sit in silence for a few seconds as he considers this. Then he says slowly, “OK, rule one. You are not to interfere in any of my work. I do not want to hear a peep out of you. You are here to observe only.”

  “Understood.” I make a zipping motion with my hand over my mouth. His eyes flicker.

  Warming up, he starts to speak more quickly. “Rule number two. You consult me if you want to use any detail of my cases in your newspaper. Do you hear me? Any detail whatsoever. You could ruin an entire case by giving out information. And rule three”—he leans over his desk—“you will do the best PR job you have ever done, Ms. Colshannon.”

  “I fully intend to.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  There is a pause. I add, “Good. Well, I think we understand each other. I am due to start tomorrow morning. What time do you come in?”

  “Eight o’clock sharp.”

  “I will see you then, Detective Sergeant Sabine.”

  And with that I get up and a great cheer breaks out from the rest of the department. I can’t help but smile and nod as I make my way through the throng. In fact, it almost completely restores my humor. I may never get on with James Sabine but I can tell that I’m going to like the rest of the department.

  five

  “So what is he like, this Detective Sergeant Sabine?”

  I’m on the phone to Lizzie. I take another huge slug of my vodka and lemonade, sit cross-legged on the floor, lean my head back against the wall and settle down.

  “What do you mean? I’ve told you what he’s like. Mean, moody . . .”

  “No. What does he look like?”

  “Look like?”

  “Yes Holly,” says Lizzie patiently, “look like. Any warts? A squint? Buck teeth? You know, HIS APPEARANCE.”

  “Didn’t you see him down at the hospital?”

  “Well, yes,” she admits, “but only the back of his head.”

  “Oh! Oh.” I shrug to myself. “Well, I suppose he’s quite average-looking. You know, boy-next-door.” I use Robin’s phrase.

  “Boy-next-door? You mean he looks like Warren Mitchell? YUK! How gross! How . . .”

  Lizzie and I have had much the same experience of boys-next-door. Not very talented. In fact, couldn’t shake a bum cheek at a Levi’s ad between them.

  “No, Lizzie. Not literally. Not Warren Mitchell.”

  “Then who?”

  “He’s just nice-looking. Well, we know he’s not NICE, but he’s nice-looking. Green eyes. Dark blond hair. Tall. Well-built. Usual stuff, usual stuff.”

  Now it’s not like me to describe a good-looking man and then say, “Usual stuff, usual stuff” afterward. But James Sabine really isn’t making me very enthusiastic. You see, a man’s personality matters a lot to me. He needs to be amusing without being too sarcastic. Detective Sergeant Sabine has certainly failed on that score as he is just plain sarcastic. He needs to be warm and friendly. Again, nil points. And kind. I like kindness best. And is it kind to be unpleasant to a girl on her first day on the job? NO, IT IS NOT.

  “He sounds quite nice to me,” says Lizzie dreamily.

  “He isn’t nice. He makes me feel about ten years old and he really doesn’t want me around,” I grumble.

  “He must be quite fit, being a police officer.”

  “Where’s Alastair tonight?” I say pointedly.

  “In Scotland for some meeting.”

  “How is he?”

  “I think he’s fine. I haven’t really seen him since the weekend.”

  Lizzie and I say our respective goodbyes and I put the phone down. I quickly turn my thoughts to weightier issues. What is a reporter on her new assignment shadowing a detective supposed to wear? What would Cagney and Lacey wear? No, too eighties. I think a touch of glamour may be needed. I put on some Aretha Franklin to inspire me, and clasping a new refill, I toddle through to my bedroom, fling open the doors of my wardrobe and survey the contents. Hmmm. I start emptying the clothes on to my bed in search of that elusive je ne sais quoi. Eventually I settle on a pair of black suede trousers, a little lilac jumper and a pair of high black boots. Which, to be honest, are the first items I took out.

  “. . . no, I am sure cream will be fine . . . chocolate ink? What’s that? . . . Oh. OK, it sounds nice . . . no, it does. Look. I have to go . . . that reporter’s here . . . what? Cream ink on chocolate? Are we talking about the same thing? I’m sure whatever you choose will be fine. I really have to go.”

  James Sabine has been on the phone since I arrived, the latest call presumably with his fiancée. Or at least I hope it is. It is a conversation I have unashamedly been trying to listen in on; it’s enlightening to hear Detective Sergeant Sabine being pleasant for a change.

  I have surprised myself this morning. With the assistance of a radio, two alarms and a wake-up call from the talking clock I have made it down to t
he police station for eight A.M. Rather like a kid at a new school, I have pilfered the contents of the generous stationery cupboard at the Gazette and armed myself with new notepads, pencils and several blank tapes for my Dictaphone. I have to say I wondered briefly whether to sew my name into my pants.

  I have been putting my time to good use while James Sabine has been on the phone by making friends with the rest of the department. Or rather I have been made friends with. No effort has been required on my part. Various bods have just come up to me and introduced themselves. All rather jolly. And they seem to be really nice. Why I have got stuck with the Mr. Grumpy out of all the Mr. Men available I will never know.

  I am happily swiveling in my swivel chair while James Sabine continues his phone conversation when a backside parks itself on my desk and a voice says, “Hi, I’m Callum. You must be Holly.” He grins cheekily at me.

  I grin back at him. Sometimes there is just something about people that makes you know you are going to like them. And I am going to like Callum.

  “You know my name?” I say in surprise.

  “The whole department has been talking about nothing else. It’s caused quite a stir! The Chief and Robin have given us all a long lecture about this project.” He looks extremely grave.

  “What about him? I don’t think they lectured him.”

  “Don’t mind James.” He gestures with his head toward James Sabine. “He’s just being a grouchy bugger.” I grin widely at this.

  “It’s because he’s getting married next month,” Callum says cheerfully and draws his finger across his throat, just as a ball of paper hits him squarely on the back of the head. “Which newspaper do you work for?”

  “The Gazette.”

  Callum lowers his voice to an exaggerated whisper and leans toward me. “He doesn’t really like reporters, you know.”

  I lean forward and whisper back, “I know. Any suggestions?”

  “Get on the nearest plane with me to Greece?”

  I eye James Sabine. “Tempting, but unfortunately not possible.”

  “Oh well, I’ll ask you again in a week’s time. You’ll probably jump at the chance.” He gets up and says, “Have a good day, Holly, see you later.”

  As soon as James puts the phone down he gets up.

  “Come on, we have to go. There’s been a drug theft at the local hospital.”

  Oooooh. My first piece of action. Detective Sergeant Sabine is already walking off as I scramble after him.

  We descend into the bowels of the building. Well, I say “we.” James Sabine is marching a good ten steps ahead of me and I’m scrabbling after him like a disabled spider. Pesky black boots. Just as I think we’re going to the canteen again in some bizarre quirk of fate, we take a quick left and emerge into what is an underground car park. James marches over to a little booth, claims some keys off the man inside and then walks over to a discreet gray saloon car. He has already started the engine and fastened his seatbelt as I climb into the passenger side.

  “You’re going to have to move faster than that, Ms. Colshannon, if you don’t want to miss anything. I will have no hesitation in leaving without you.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was missing anything and it’s Miss Colshannon. I am not ashamed to be single,” I reply haughtily.

  He raises his eyebrows and says, “Ah,” in a tone that suggests my statement explains it all. I hunch my shoulders huffily, furious with myself for walking straight into that one. “May I suggest a more appropriate form of footwear?” he says, looking at my beautiful, to-die-for but admittedly high black boots.

  “I will make a point of digging out my trainers as soon as I get through my door this evening,” I say through gritted teeth.

  The car emerges from the subterranean car park and into bright sunshine. I give Tristan a mournful look as we pass him in his space on the way out.

  I look determinedly out of the window until it occurs to me that that’s exactly what the marrow wants. So I get out my notebook, clear my throat pointedly, try to ensure my tone is at least civil and ask, “So, what do detectives do? I mean specifically.”

  “Anything, from rape to burglary to murder. Anything that needs detecting, as opposed to something uniform can take care of.”

  “Uniform?”

  “Yeah, the boys in blue, Miss Colshannon. As opposed to this.” He points down to his trousers. He is wearing a pair of beige chinos. My eyes rove up and take in the Ralph Lauren shirt and subtle tie. I quickly start writing his last comment down in my notepad lest he think I’m looking at him. “So, how long have you been in the police force, Detective Sergeant?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Did you join from school?”

  “University.”

  “Which one?”

  “Durham.” I stop scribbling and raise my eyebrows in surprise. He glances over at me. “Does that astonish you, Miss Colshannon? That I’m qualified? Or were you expecting me just to have a GCSE in woodwork?”

  “Well, if you had, you might have been able to chisel that chip off your shoulder,” I reply acidly. He’s starting to rattle my cage.

  “Touché,” he murmurs. The rest of the journey is completed in silence.

  As soon as we enter the doors of the hospital, the strong, familiar smell of disinfectant assaults us. I wrinkle my nose as cringe-making memories of the condom incident last week hit me. I look around me warily, hoping not to be recognized, and then give myself a shake as logic asserts itself. They must see hundreds of people here every day, so it’s not likely they’ll remember me. I follow James Sabine more confidently up to the front desk. He flashes his ID at the lady on reception.

  “I’m here to investigate the thefts.” The lady picks up a phone, speaks to someone briefly and then replaces the receiver.

  “You’ll need to speak to Dr. Kirkpatrick. He is in the Munroe wing, ask at the desk there.” And with these words we are instantly dismissed as she turns her attention back to the magazine lying open in front of her.

  I freeze. Dr. Kirkpatrick? DR. KIRKPATRICK? Oh no. This cannot be happening to me. James Sabine strides off at a breakneck pace, throwing doors open as he makes his way relentlessly toward the Munroe wing. I am lagging behind in an attempt to give my brain time to think. He shouts over his shoulder, “Keep up!”

  On the way there I consider the various options open to me, including getting lost, catching chicken pox between the reception and the Munroe wing and various other extreme case scenarios. The problem with all of them is that I really need to be present at my first case, otherwise James Sabine will think he’s got the better of me somehow.

  Right. Only one thing I can do and that is brazen this out.

  We reach the Munroe wing in Olympic record time and James Sabine asks for Dr. Kirkpatrick. The great man himself appears and there is much ceremonious hand-shaking as Detective Sergeant Sabine introduces himself. I surreptitiously scrape some hair over my face and wonder if I could squeeze between the bin and the vending machine. James Sabine then turns to me and says, “This is Miss Holly Colshannon. She is here for observation only.” He says this to Dr. Kirkpatrick but the emphasis is really directed at me as a reminder of rule number one. As if I could forget. Dr. Kirkpatrick is staring at me.

  “My word! There’s a name I can’t get away from! They should give you your own parking space!” Oh bum. This is going to be worse than I thought. Many curses upon his pedantic memory. I look through several strands of hair and smile weakly. Detective Sergeant Sabine has his eyebrows raised so high I think they’re going to pop off the top of his head.

  “Ha, ha! Hello again,” I say in a pathetically weak voice.

  “You were here last week, weren’t you? Interesting, er, scenario.” Now they are both staring at me.

  “Yes, yes, I was,” I say, maniacally twiddling my hair around my finger and going bright red. Goodness, do we have to spend so much time on the subject? Surely there are more important things to chat about? The Euro? Global warmi
ng? Third World debt?

  “How’s your friend? Is she OK now?”

  “Yes, fine, thank you. Never better.” For a rash moment I consider shouting, “Quick! Look over there!” and then making a run for it, but I uncomfortably hold my ground.

  “You’ll laugh about that in years to come!” Really? I think we’ll probably smile awkwardly and change the subject. But I say in an unnaturally high voice, “Yes! I’m sure we will.” Now James Sabine’s mouth is almost open. To indicate my part in the conversation is over, I take out my notebook, open it up, lick my pencil (which I have never, ever done before) and wait. They still stare and finally the penny drops that I’m so terribly sorry, boys, but this particular freak show is now most definitely over. The detective manages to drag his eyes, which are out on stalks, away from me and turns back toward the fair physician. I think he’s almost forgotten what we came for.

  “Er, right,” he says dazedly. “Er, where were we? So, Doctor. Could you tell us a bit more about the thefts?”

  And we’re off! At quite a pace too. It’s James Sabine’s turn to get a notepad out. Firstly the doctor shows us the cupboard where the drugs were taken from. We ascertain there is no sign of forced entry. James says, “I take it this cupboard is usually locked?”

  “Absolutely. We’re very strict about it. There are only four key-holders on this wing, myself included.”

  “What exactly was taken?”

  The doctor reels off a list of ten ten-syllable drugs. Detective Sergeant Sabine does a better job than yours truly of getting them all down. He asks, “Do they have any street value?”

  “Some of them, not all of them.”

  “Do you or does anyone else remember when the cupboard was last locked?”

  “Well, all of the other key-holders were in there yesterday but we didn’t discover the drugs were missing until first thing this morning.”

  “How often is the cupboard used? Say, on a busy day like yesterday?”

  “About once every hour; sometimes more, sometimes less.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious?”

  “I didn’t, but you’ll have to ask the rest of the staff on the ward if they did.”