Jayden sighed heavily. “…Okay. Okay. Four weeks,” he said.
“Love you,” Darren said.
“You too,” Jayden whispered.
Darren hung up, and stayed outside for several minutes, staring up into an inky sky and looking for stars obscured by streetlights.
Why did he feel so alone?
Chapter 7
Less than a week before Christmas, Darren’s shoddy luck hit a new low. Specifically, the training centre floor.
Self-defence training was mandatory for all frontline officers and staff, the instructors had boomed at them from day one. The chances of any of them getting hurt, as scenes of crime officers, were very low, they trumpeted, but those chances existed, and therefore, they needed to be trained.
It was a case of swings and roundabouts, really. Self-defence training meant gym kit instead of the starchy uniform. Darren couldn’t see the sense in it, because if he was attacked at work he’d be wearing his uniform and not a comfortable pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt he’d nicked from Jayden last summer. But the trade-off for not having to check his trousers were ironed all the way up to his arse and his jaw was shaved to within an inch of his jugular was that self-defence training was meant to take all day, and started at eight in the morning.
Darren couldn’t even remember driving to work, just the minute that one of the other trainees, a pretty woman in her early thirties called Amy, pressed a plastic cup of strong coffee into his hand and offered him a free bagel.
“I love you,” he said, and she laughed.
“I love you too, Darren, but I think your boyfriend might hurt me if we start having an illicit affair.”
“Think your husband might hurt me,” Darren pointed out, inhaling the coffee and promptly pouring himself another one. “It’s too early for this shit.”
“Oh, God, tell me about it,” Amy said, grimacing. “I was up before the baby, for goodness’ sake.”
The canteen slowly filled with sleepy-eyed officers. It was the first time they’d seen each other in civvies, and some people looked completely different. Darren imagined he did as well, especially when the first of the instructors turned up, eyed him, grunted, and said, “Scruffy as I imagined. Hope you’re better at dodging a punch than combing your hair.”
Amy sniggered; Darren rolled his eyes and poured another cup.
Police self-defence training was…poor at best. It was offered one weekend a year, nowhere near the required amount to ingrain the techniques in anyone’s brain. Part of Darren thought that they may as well not bother and rely on the officers’ natural instincts. But on the other hand, an alarming number of his would-be colleagues didn’t have any instincts. Or, apparently, older brothers who had spent their formative years introducing them rudely to various household flooring types. He made a mental note to thank Scott at some point for that.
The hardest part, in Darren’s opinion, was the shit they wanted them to learn about incapacitating people by twisting their fingers or thumbs. He’d done a brief stint in Aikido as a kid, before Father had decided it was a waste of time, and it took ages to learn those fiddly techniques perfectly. Today, focusing on them, was supposed to teach them in eight hours. Right.
Thanks to Darren’s shoulder, he was paired with Amy today, the logic being she probably couldn’t wrench it badly anyway. Which was right, he supposed, Amy being about five-foot-two, but the height difference meant she’d be dragging his arm downwards anyway. “This is stupid,” she complained after the first thumb-twisting technique was shown. “And your hands don’t help.”
“Something to grab hold of,” Darren said, watching her attempting to twist his thumb in a painful way. “Try pushing down while you twist, pop the joint out of line or something.” She did, and a jolt of pain shot up his arm, his back and knees buckling reflexively to relieve the pressure. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“This is stupid, I could just kick you in the balls,” she muttered crossly.
“Yeah, well, don’t.”
The general feeling in the gym was that this was ‘stupid.’ Most of them—Darren included—couldn’t see the point of this. Any scene with the scenes of crime officers in attendance would also have policemen in attendance, who (one hoped) would jump on any random attackers fairly quickly. To top it off, Darren rather expected to have, well, a kit. Some of the examination kit was for picking up and examining very tiny fragments of crap, and he imagined would be incredibly painful to have jammed in your eye. That was his plan if he was ever attacked on a crime scene. Or just go for gold and punch them in the face. (Although apparently, that wasn’t a Home Office approved method of self-defence.)
Still, it was a nice change from sitting in fake crime scenes being told you were useless, or sitting in classrooms being told how to make sure your bootlaces were tied so you didn’t trip over them, and the hundred and one reasons racism was bad. Darren had nearly walked out of the session on ‘the treatment of non-heterosexual members of the public’ because, really, he needed to be told how to treat gays? Seriously? So despite the uselessness of this session, it was actually a kind of nice distraction. Amy was funny, and kind of fit, and it took his mind off everything else going on at the minute.
That was, until they proceeded to takedowns. “Mostly,” the instructor boomed (the acoustics in the room made it a boom if he whispered, so everyone was hoping he didn’t shout). “Mostly, you won’t ‘ave to take someone to the floor. But every now an’ then it takes a few people to do it, so you might ‘ave to ‘elp out the bobbies.”
A grumble went round.
“Nah,” the instructor said. “Pair up—Amy, switch with Trev, you need to be similar ‘eights for this one—and someone volunteer to go dahn.”
Trev grinned; Darren shrugged and offered his arm.
“It’s a basic move,” the instructor trumpeted. “Take your partner’s arm, ‘old it at the wrist and one ‘and be-yind the shoulder, and pull forward and dahn nice an’ sharp. You need to end up wi’ your knees beside ‘em, and them face-dahn on the floor. Nah!”
Darren saw his mistake half a second after he made it. He’d offered the wrong arm. As Trev’s yank barrelled up through his elbow, the drag down created a twinge. The snap forward of his shoulder caused a minor nuclear explosion to go off in his nerves, and suddenly there was the strangest sensation of his fingers being completely and utterly numb. Then he hit the floor, shoulder first, and there was a sickening crunch.
“FUCK!” he bellowed, pain consuming his shoulder like it had been beaten with a red-hot poker. He faintly heard Trev echoing him, and curled his arm painfully into his chest, rolling onto his side to relieve some of the pressure.
“Oh, shit!” Trev said. “Fucking ‘ell, Daz, sorry, mate!”
“Oh, fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck,” Darren chanted. His hand was numb, his fingers twitching spastically against his stomach, and everything between his elbow and his collarbone hurt. There was a faint pain in his face as well where he’d hit the crash mat, but he couldn’t give a fuck about that.
“All right, Darren, just ‘ang on a minute, son,” the instructor said, his knees plonking themselves into view on the lino. “I’m guessing that’s the dodgy one?”
“It is now,” someone said.
“Oh, my fucking God, Trev, I’m going to fucking kill you,” Darren ground out between gritted teeth. “Fuuuuck.” A nervous laugh sounded somewhere above his head.
“Reckon you can sit up?” the instructor asked. Darren took a deep breath, forcing his lungs open against the crushing agony. He rolled onto his back, groaning through it, and then there were arms under his back and he was being levered into a sitting position. “Right. Let’s get you run dahn the ‘ospital, shall we?”
“Might be worth thinking about,” Darren snarled. He ducked his head over his chest and hissed.
“Amy, leg it dahn to the main office and get the first aid kit, we’ll ‘ave to strap ‘is arm to ‘is chest. Trev, you and me are going to get ‘im dahns
tairs. Kelly, get my radio and point-to-point Jenny in the office, tell her we’ve got someone needs a run dahn to the A&E. Daz? You’ve gone right white, son, you gonna pass aht on me?”
“No,” Darren muttered, swallowing. “Think I’m gonna be sick, though.”
“Nah worries,” the instructor said and he was rudely hefted to his feet. His stomach rolled. “Ah don’t clean the floor.”
“Good,” Darren said and promptly threw up all over his own boots.
* * * *
“Dislocated,” the doctor said briskly and slapped an X-ray up onto the viewer. “Nice and neat. Back in nice and neat too, but I doubt you remember that.”
“Nope,” Darren said. He’d passed out when Jenny, the training centre receptionist, had gone over a speed bump. He didn’t even remember arriving. He’d just woken up in a ward off A&E with his arm in a stiff, rubbery type of sling and his hand strapped to his collarbone, and a shame-faced Trev Buxton sitting by the bed.
“Give it a couple of weeks, take it easy, no getting jerked about by the arm,” the doctor said, and Trev reddened. “It should stay back in. The damage from your previous injury makes the joint susceptible generally, mind, so I’d keep it in the sling for a few days.”
“Okay,” Darren said. That was fine. They had classroom lessons for the rest of the week until they broke for Christmas, he could do those in a sling.
“I’ll issue some mild codeine-based painkillers,” the doctor said, scribbling, “because you’ll turn on it in the night and wake up swearing. Who do we call?”
“Huh?”
“Family, girlfriend, missus?” the doctor prompted. “You’re going to be wrapped up like a Christmas turkey for a couple of weeks, minimum.”
Darren opened his mouth, then closed it. What would be the point in telling Jayden? He’d not be able to come down anyway, and he’d have a go over the phone about Darren’s job for the nth time, and it would be unpleasant, and…
“Housemate,” he said instead. “Rachel Yates. She’ll be at work until four, though…”
“Nobody else?” the doctor prompted, looking sceptical. “Siblings?”
“Dunno if you’ve noticed the accent, but I’m not a local,” Darren said dryly. “I’m not even from Hampshire. And I’m gay. I don’t have a ‘missus.’”
The doctor frowned, and Trev jumped in. “I’ll drive him home,” he offered.
“Trev…”
“Nah, mate, it’s fine,” he said. “Robertson said I had to come with until you were admitted or sent home anyway. We’ll be down to do the SD training some other time.”
“I have to do this again with you?” Darren asked disbelievingly, and Trev grinned.
“I’ll do the other arm, even you up a bit.”
“Is that settled, then?” the doctor asked, still frowning. “You will take Mr. Peace home?” His tone was suddenly more formal, and Trev frowned back.
“Yeah, sure, if you’re kicking him out now.”
“I’ll get this prescription filled. Once the nurse brings it to you, you’re free to go,” he said in a clipped of manner, and swept out, the curtain flapping when he pushed through it.
“I think he doesn’t like poufs,” Trev said genially.
“Mm.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” Darren said. “Hurts like hell, but I’ve had worse.”
“What’s up with it?” Trev asked bluntly. “I saw ’em take your shirt off to have a look. You got maps on there, mate.”
“I got stabbed,” Darren said, easing himself into a sitting position. Thankfully, he’d been wearing a stretchy T-shirt, so they hadn’t cut it off him, though it was a bit misshapen now. “When I was fifteen.”
“Jesus,” Trev said. “They get him?”
“Nope,” Darren said. “Mugging. Gone wrong, he didn’t get my phone he was after. Jammed a knife in the joint and fucked it up, hence you popped it out easily. Busted ligaments and tendons and shit.”
“Ouch,” Trev said.
“Er,” Darren said. “Hate to ask, but…can you help me with my boots?”
Trev sniggered. “Sure.”
“Tell people and die.”
“It’s cool, mate, I have a kid,” Trev said. “You really a pouf, then? Amy said you was, but we thought she was winding us up.”
“Bisexual,” Darren said.
“Yeah? So who’s fit in our group, then?”
“Amy,” Darren said promptly, and Trev guffawed, lacing his boots for him.
“Can’t argue with that,” he said. “Got a bloke, then? You said no missus.”
“Boyfriend,” Darren said. “He’s at university, though. Cambridge.”
“Bloody fuck.”
“Mm.”
“So no offence, mate, but if he’s some Oxbridge toff, what’s he doing with you?”
“Fuck knows,” Darren said, sliding down off the bed once his boots were laced. His shoulder ached, but the fuzzy edges of drugs were still blunting it. He wanted to be home when this wore off. “Let’s get these drugs and go. I’m going to pop the pills and go to fucking bed.”
“Good plan. You gonna make it in tomorrow?”
“Oh, fuck,” Darren grimaced. “I can’t drive.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Trev said. “I’ll pass your address round the group and sound out someone to pick you up. ‘Ow long does it take to get to the centre from yours?”
“Half an hour,” Darren said. “I owe you one.”
“I owe you, for busting your shoulder,” Trev said. “You gonna be all right home on your own?”
“Yeah, housemate’ll be back by half four at the latest, and it’s her turn to cook tonight anyway,” Darren said. He was suddenly struck by how different this would have been if he’d still been in school, and a little twinge opened up in his chest that was nothing to do with the injury.
“Good,” Trev said. “Suggestion? Cold water, your face. You look like I beat you up.”
Darren scowled. “How bad is it?”
“We-ell,” Trev said. “Given I thought I’d broke your cheekbone, it’s not half bad, actually.”
Chapter 8
“Oh, my God, your face!” Rachel shrieked the minute she let herself in.
Trev had insisted on walking Darren up into his flat and leaving a message for Rachel on her mobile. “Just in case you doze off or whatever,” he’d insisted. He’d left after that, promising to text Darren with details of a pick-up. And Darren had been allowed an hour of relative peace to examine his bruised face in the bathroom mirror and take a couple of painkillers before there’d been boots on the stairs and Rachel had barrelled in.
“That looks epic,” she pronounced and grinned. “Did you not put your hand out?”
“Well, Trev had one hand, and I was a bit preoccupied with the searing pain,” Darren said.
“Bummer,” she said. “Still up for chilli con carne, though?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Good,” she said, settling herself on the sofa and flicking Darren’s small telly on. “What happened, then?”
Darren told her. He’d managed to gingerly shower after Trev had left, and replaced the sling equally carefully. He felt clean, tired, and ready to eat and sleep, preferably in that order. The flat was warm (the landlady had been cooking up a storm downstairs when they’d come home) and there was just something about sitting around in a dressing gown that made a man feel better.
“I want to hug you,” Rachel said once he was done.
“Don’t.”
“What if I hug your other arm?”
“No. I’m not moving, and you aren’t moving me, and…”
The phone rang, and Darren groaned, dropping his head back. “It’ll be work,” he predicted. “Leave it!” he added hastily as Rachel bounced up, but she answered it anyway.
“Rachel speaking!” she trilled. “Darren’s kind of tied up at the minute, can I—oh, hi Jayden!”
“Oh, you’re kidding me,” Darren
muttered. Jayden hadn’t called in a week, and now he decided to? Awesome. “Rachel, give it here! Rachel!”
“Jesus, grumpy,” she muttered, putting it on speakerphone and dropping the handset in his lap. “Jayden, your boyfriend is a grumpy bitch!”
“What’s new?” Jayden asked. “Hi, Darren.”
“Hey. Rachel, get out. Scream when dinner explodes.”
“Gotcha,” she said, noisily kissed the top of his head, and slammed her way out.
“Sorry,” Darren said.
“S’okay,” Jayden replied, his voice low. It sounded very quiet. “Um, what’s going on?”
“What d’you mean?”
“You got tagged on Facebook.”
“Stalker. What’s it say?”
“Someone called Amy Chang? Um, ‘training was…’—I think she means wicked? ‘Training was wicked, except for Trevor trying to rip Darren’s arm off. Oops!’ What does she mean, Trevor tried to rip your arm off?”
“We were doing takedowns and Trev got a bit enthusiastic with the whole smack-my-face-into-the-floor thing,” Darren said.
“…But you’re okay, right?”
“Yeah,” Darren lied promptly. There was no point in telling Jayden about this, not really. He couldn’t come down anyway, and it was just a dislocated shoulder. It wasn’t like Trev had actually torn his arm off. “Bruised my face a bit, mind. I’m not pretty.”
“You weren’t pretty to start with,” Jayden retorted tartly, then softened. “I got worried.”
Darren curled his toes where he had his feet propped up on the coffee table. “Don’t,” he said simply.
“Couldn’t help it,” Jayden said. “Why couldn’t you have picked a nice desk job? Or a degree, you know, where people don’t try and throw you around?”
Darren rolled his eyes. “Boring.”
“Mm,” Jayden said, and there was a rustling sound. “You’re sure you’re okay, though? Your, um, your colleagues seem to find it quite entertaining.”
“Well, yeah. He nearly broke my nose. That’s pretty funny if it doesn’t happen to you.”
“He didn’t, though?”
The Devil's Trill Sonata Page 6