Every Move You Make

by Deborah Bee

  ‘I thought we’d banned paper in our new office environment,’ says DI Langlands, rattling the filing cabinet in the corner of DS Clarke’s office.

  ‘You can ban whatever you like, sir, but as long as I’m here, I’ll need paper and an office to read it in. I’ve got forty-seven thousand domestic violence cases on my books from the past twenty-three years, sir. If you want to digitise them, please, be my guest.’

  ‘What about the rainforests, Sue? Think of the indigenous populations.’

  She never could stand him in this kind of mood. Trying to impress the youngsters.

  She bustles past him.

  ‘Livvy, call down to reception and tell Joanna to tell Sally-Ann Parton to give me five minutes while I call Liverpool nick. And tell her to make us both a cup of tea.’

  ‘Will do.’

  *

  Five minutes was not enough time. DS Clarke is still on hold. The hold music is Elmer Bernstein’s original soundtrack for The Great Escape. Someone has a sense of humour.

  Thinking about it, she could have realised that this was Liverpool nick she was talking about, and getting any sense out of anyone there was like getting blood out of a stone. Herding feral cats. Nailing jelly to a wall . . .

  ‘Did Joanna make me that tea?’ says DS Clarke through the open door of her office, as Livvy picks up the internal phone.

  ‘She said “In a second”,’ she mouths. ‘And this is her now, on the phone. She says there’s someone here to see you.’

  ‘I know,’ says DS Clarke, rolling her eyes.

  ‘No, it’s another woman.’

  There’s a pause. The Great Escape theme starts over.

  ‘Why does she need to see me?’

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ says Livvy, and does. Then, ‘Joanna says AAOD or DV.’

  DS Clarke clamps her hand over her forehead.

  ‘Tell her not to use those acronyms in front of people. In fact, tell her that as a receptionist we don’t need her opinions. It’s not her job to have opinions. If she uses those words again she’ll be disciplined. Tell her, Olivia. Tell her that now. And tell her to get a name and I’ll be down there as soon as I can.’

  Four

  Coco

  ‘Do you think anyone might be coming yet?’ I whisper to the man, to the one called Barney.

  I’m so tired now.

  And so hot.

  ‘Did anyone say they are coming for her yet?’ says Barney, in his accent that isn’t down-and-out. Wonder where he’s from. Sounds London.

  ‘Fuck off,’ the woman behind the counter mouths at Barney.

  ‘I thought fuck was swearing,’ says Barney, without smiling. ‘I need clarity here, Joanna. Is fuck swearing or not? Are we allowed to say fuck, after all?’

  He nudges me. Like he’s trying to make me laugh. He turns his head and nods at the lady in the anorak.

  ‘Any chance you’re related to Dolly Parton?’ he says, leaning in towards her.

  He nudges me again.

  But I’m tired.

  So tired.

  Babe.

  Let’s get married.

  Let’s have babies.

  Four babies.

  Let’s go live by the sea.

  Babe?

  Wake up.

  C’mon wake up!

  I blink awake.

  The woman behind the counter has her headset on again. She’s speaking quietly into it.

  She looks up.

  At me.

  ‘Name?’ she says, out of nowhere.

  What?

  ‘What’s your naaaame?’ she says again

  Sounding bored.

  Rolling her eyes.

  Shaking her head.

  ‘Coco,’ I say. ‘Coco James,’ I say again and cough.

  ‘Coco James,’ she says into the phone. Then, ‘Do you mean Cocoa like the hot drink?’ she says to me.

  Flatly.

  Staring.

  ‘Cocoa. Like the hot drink?’ she repeats as if I’m an idiot.

  ‘C-O-C-O,’ I spell it out.

  ‘Yeah, like the hot drink,’ she says into the phone.

  ‘That ain’t like the hot drink,’ says Barney from the inside of his coat. ‘Cocoa’s got an A on the end. Don’t it?’

  ‘That would make it coco-a,’ says Ryan.

  ‘Yeah, sure, yeah,’ says Joanna, sounding bored again. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Like I said. AAOD. Or DV,’ she says.

  I don’t know what that means. The row of coats grumble to themselves.

  You fancy that guy don’t you?

  I saw you looking at him.

  YOU FANCY HIM!

  You’re planning to meet him!

  AREN’T YOU!

  YOU’RE PLANNING TO MEET HIM IN SECRET.

  The one called Barney heaves himself up, shuffles over to the water cooler in the corner, pulls a cup off the top of the pile, shakily puts it on the plastic tray underneath the tap.

  It looks like he regrets starting all this.

  Too much involved.

  The bending.

  The balancing.

  The pouring.

  All at the same time.

  Giant bubbles glug noisily through the upturned blue bottle.

  As he lifts it, the white plastic cup bends out of shape and his hands start to shake.

  The water leaks over the rim onto the carpet tiles.

  By the time Barney hands me the cup, it’s half-full.

  Or half-empty.

  As it comes to rest in my hand, more water slops over the rim, onto my dressing gown.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. Stupid of me,’ he says.

  He sits down.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ I say.

  The dented side of the plastic cup pops out with a crack and the lady in the anorak is holding out a box of tissues she’s got from one of the rooms off the reception area.

  ‘All right, love?’ she says, putting her arm around my shoulders. ‘Can I get you anything, some socks maybe? D’ya have any socks back there?’ she asks Joanna.

  ‘We’d like some socks too,’ says Ryan, hauling himself out of his chair and shuffling over to the counter. ‘Wouldn’t we, lads? Wouldn’t we all like some socks?’

  More sniggers from the row of coats.

  ‘Can you get someone down to help this girl?’ he hisses at Joanna, under his breath. He thinks I can’t hear him.

  ‘D’ya have a sweater as well, do you, maybe?’ says the lady in the anorak.

  Hopefully.

  Joanna disappears out of the back door of her office.

  ‘Just get that police lady in here!’ Barney shouts after her, before slouching back down into the seat next to me, out of breath himself. ‘Fuck’s sake . . .’ he breathes, then turns to the lady in the anorak. ‘Honour among thieves, eh?’

  ‘Smells like you spilt some paraffin, there,’ he says quietly to me. ‘Was it on yourself, was it?’

  Keep your head still, bitch.

  I can’t speak.

  ‘Must have been,’ he says.

  My mouth won’t open.

  ‘You all right, girl?’ he says.

  I nod.

  I said, KEEP YOUR HEAD STILL!

  Eyes open!

  Bitch.

  Joanna returns to her seat behind the desk with a pair of socks, picks up her headset and stabs some numbers into the keypad.

  ‘You got a jumper for her ’n’ all?’ says one of the coats. ‘She’s only got a dressing gown on, for feck’s sake.’

  Joanna starts chatting on the phone. About her coffee break. About what time she’s on lunch.

  It’s not a dressing gown, it’s a bathrobe.

  Only a total moron says dressing gown.

  ‘Bathrobe,’ I say.

  The words get stuck.

  I cough.

  ‘It’s called a bathrobe,’ I repeat.

  I’m going to be sick.

  ‘IT’S CALLED A FUCKING BATHROBE,’ I scream.

  My throat hurts.

>   Hot tears are running down my face, under my nose, into my mouth.

  I wipe them with my sleeve.

  My sleeve stinks.

  Fucking loser bitch.

  Mental fucking loser bitch.

  One of the coats is standing next to me – his face is red and sweating.

  His lips move.

  I can’t hear what he’s saying.

  The rest of the coats go quiet.

  Five

  Sally

  Bloody hell, that girl’s really upsetting herself now about her dressing gown or bathrobe, or whatever it is you call it these days. Seems an awful lot of fuss to make about a dressing gown, but who am I to criticise? Who am I to judge, eh? None of us is perfect, right? She’s drinking water like it’s going out of fashion now, which can only do her good, so we can’t do too much more till Sue gets down here which, knowing Sue, will be as soon as she can. She’s good, Sue. Proper policewoman. Proper integrity, that’s Sue. But I can’t help thinking an ambulance should be on its way. I can’t help looking at the girl’s arms. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help it, can I?

  What a motley crew we have in here today, I mean, what’s the world come to, really?

  I want you to know right from the start that I don’t ‘frequent’ these places all the time. I’m not common or anything, you know. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever actually come here before. Apart from last week. That was my first time, in here. I do pass by, occasionally. Well, it is right there on the High Street and you can hardly help but pass by, can you, if you’re going up to the shops and everything. But up until last week, I can honestly say that I don’t think I have seen the inside of a police station in, what, twenty years? Not until last week. These lads on the other hand, I see these lads all the time. Can’t get away from them, can I? See them in doorways, see them sitting on park benches, messing up the parks for the normal folks, see them sitting on the steps of the United Reformed on Holloway Road, see them in them queues, 8.30 a.m., every single day. I mean it! Every. Single. Day. Ghosts, some of them. Zombies, all the way down Winchmore Road, all the way around the corner into the High Street, some mornings; same at the pharmacy in Parkway, queues and queues of ’em. Sometimes the queue comes all the way past my front door.

  I don’t mind telling you, I’ve not seen anything quite like her, though, that girl with the bare feet, that Coco, unless I count myself, back in the day, before you go saying anything! The first I saw of her I thought, well, there’s a slip of a thing who’s going to keel over if we’re all not careful – and considering the company in here, it’s not just bad luck that she’s nearer death than they are, that’s what I think. It’s worse than bad luck, I’d say. Well, she looks so to me. I’m no expert, mind; I don’t mind admitting I’m no expert.

  She’s not an addict or anything, you understand, at least I don’t think she is. Not AAOD – which is what that cow behind the counter thinks. Another Arsehole on Drugs, that’s what that means. I mean, you might think she is, just by looking at her, cos anybody’d think she is, just by looking at her. She acts like she’s a proper junkie: strung out on nerves, tapping her foot, drumming her nails – well, she would drum her nails if she could, but since she hasn’t any nails . . . Never seen such chewed fingers, not in all my life!

  And there she goes sighing, heavy sighing, as if it’s her last breath, and rubbing her arms cos she’s freezing, checking the front door, then checking the front door again, then rubbing her arms again. I mean, I know it’s April, but surely she should have a coat on, and shoes for that matter? Heaven’s sake. All she’s got is a dressing gown, or bathrobe, whatever, and jeans and they won’t be doing much. She’s got some socks now. That’ll help I reckon.

  And the way that she came in, that was another thing! It was as if she was blown in, caught in a tornado or something. As if someone kicked her from the bottom of the steps on Camden Road, right through the double doors, right up to the reception desk. Bang! she was breathing so hard.

  I’m not here with this lot, either, because if that’s what you think, you’re quite wrong. Should’ve made it clear from the start that I’m not here with them! I’m not a junkie. I don’t look like a junkie, do I? Say I don’t look like one of them junkies.

  We’re not meant to call them junkies anymore, that’s what Sue says. Political correctness gone up the Swanee if you ask me. Not when they’re on the Drug Interventions Programme. No, they’re ‘drug misusers’ who may ‘benefit from further assessment, treatment or other support’. That’s what Sue said last week. It sounded like she’d learnt it off by heart.

  ‘Benefit from support,’ I said to Sue, ‘. . . you’re right, most of them need help standing up.’

  Sue is Detective Sergeant Sue Clarke, she’s my Support Advisor, although she’s been my friend for twenty years. I’ve got a support advisor, at my age! Bleedin’ ’ell.

  This is how I see it. I say . . . treating these ‘drug misusers’ with the ‘ support’ of methadone is like putting out a fire with petrol, if you ask me, and I said that to Sue, last week. I did! I said to her, ‘I don’t care what anyone says, they’ve gone and spent all that government money on it, all the taxpayers’ money on it, and it’s never gonna work. I said to her, even some bloke in the paper, who’s a lot cleverer than I am, even he said that it was like ‘fighting for peace, or fucking for virginity’.

  That made me laugh, but he’s right, damn right.

  She told me to wash my mouth out. I said at the time, it’s a quote, for heaven’s sake. You can’t blame me for swearing if I’m quoting someone else, right?

  I have to have these weekly meetings now, with Sue, Detective Sergeant Clarke. I have to call her, from now until Terry gets out. Planning meetings, clarifying-the-situation-meetings, she calls them. That’s what they always do when a prisoner comes out after a long stretch.

  Six

  DS Clarke

  DS Clarke is used to summing up a situation quickly and efficiently. She doesn’t see the superfluous. She has developed an eye that quickly dismisses the spilt water on the floor, the line of grey-skinned regulars, there for their Repeat Prescription assessment session, the woman in the purple anorak – not the type of anorak worn by those intent on criminal activity – plus it’s Sal. She’ll catch up with her later. There are wet footprints on the floor leading to the reception desk. The girl next to Sal. Focus on the girl in the dressing gown.

  The girl looks to have wet hair, yet the way it’s sticking to her head suggests that there is some kind of chemical in it, rather than that it’s greasy and unwashed. DS Clarke notices there is also a chemical smell. She breathes in slowly. She can’t pinpoint what it is. Something to do with the RP boys? Did the cleaners spill something? She needs to get closer. The door behind her clicks shut. The girl looks up.

  She looks to be in her early twenties – give or take, DS Clarke thinks; younger considering her body language; older considering the skin around her eyes and the frown line between her eyebrows. No makeup. No trace of yesterday’s makeup either. Unusual for a young woman.

  Sal has her arm around the girl, suggesting she is either cold or traumatised, or both. She has an empty plastic cup at her feet, carefully positioned beside her chair, and she is nursing another, so possibly dehydrated. There is evidence of bruising on her wrists and on her neck, small bruises on her neck that could match a handprint. DS Clarke makes a mental note to check the other side of her neck for a thumb print. Usually, the bruising there will be a little bigger, a little darker. The girl has cuts and grazes around her ankles, and the clean socks are out of the office supply and suggest that she arrived at the station without shoes. She has tear stains running down her cheeks and dark rings under her eyes. Drugs or sleep deprivation? DS Clarke can’t make a judgement call. Not yet.

  She has bruising on the left side of her cheek. Her lips are dry and there are cracks at the corners of her mouth that suggest further dehydration and possibly malnourishment Her figure
is obscured by her jeans and dressing gown, but it is clear that the girl is underweight because her head appears oversized compared to her frame but there is no sign of downy facial hair and her teeth look in reasonable condition, so less likely to be an eating disorder. There are reddish- purplish sores on her hands and fingers that suggest chemical burns, and some scarring on the wrists, possibly self-inflicted. The girl is wearing clothing inappropriate for the season – either she left in a hurry, or perhaps she is a runaway. Too old to be a runaway? Possibly.

  The girl’s twitching and nail-biting are consistent with someone in a high state of fear. When she looks up and meets DS Clarke’s eyes, she looks more relieved than afraid.

  DS Clarke’s modus operandi for Domestic Violence situations is respectful command. Be courteous, be kind but take control. That’s what they want and that’s what they need.

  ‘Miss James,’ she says, nodding. ‘Come this way, why don’t you?’

  Seven

  Coco

  I feel sick.

  I wonder how far away the toilet is.

  I wish I hadn’t come.

  This woman, holding a bunch of files and a laptop, finally buzzes through a heavy glass door.

  Detective Sergeant Clarke she says.

  The door clicks behind her.

  She’s watching us, surveying the line of coats stuck to the wall of the waiting room with a bit of a wry smile.

  She must know them all.

  Eventually her eyes come to rest on me.

  ‘Miss James?’ she says.

  I nod.

  No one calls me Miss James.

  No one has ever called me Miss anything.

  She’s helping me to get up. She frowns at my feet.

  She looks over to Joanna who is behind the counter, busy filing her nails.

  Just for a few seconds she looks at her and then she flinches, blinks, as though she’s thought something, then dismissed it.