by Marc Horn
He turns into Pearscroft Road. Is he going home or is he going to... Pineapple Park?! I leap out of position and stride up to the same junction. I turn right. He’s not there, but he wouldn’t be – Pearscroft Court leading to Pineapple Park is just a stone’s throw away on the left. And Pineapple Park is just a stone’s throw from there...
Sweating, I dig my hands deep into my top’s pockets and head for the park, painfully conscious of my footing which sounds like a marching army beneath me.
As the park comes into view, I can hear giggling, but The Poet’s disappeared. The park’s popular with youths and in the past has been used for gang fights. At this time of the night you might find the odd kid or two smoking weed. That seems to be the case now. I avoid the park entrance in front of me and instead follow the perimeter railings around the left side of the small recreation area, which is now hidden from view by a collection of tall trees and thick bushes. Quietly, I scale the rails and lower myself into the undergrowth. It’s not the loud giggling but my Hell Bell that inspired me to do this.
I separate a couple of branches next to my face and see the two girls sitting on a bumpy piece of grass, twenty metres and ten o’clock of my position. They’re smoking a single spliff, passing it back and forth every few seconds. I carefully attach the item from my left pocket onto the one in my right. The girls are fourteen or fifteen, both blonde, one wearing dungarees and the other denim shorts and a jumper with a big collar. The Poet approaches them from the left, walks in a wide, unsteady line. He stops four feet from them and sways on the spot in a disturbing attempt to appear drunk or drugged up, his hands hidden in a heavy, khaki overcoat.
‘Can I have some?’ he asks, his soft, affable voice forced and sarcastic.
Unshaken, they turn in a leisurely manner and face him. ‘We’re stoned,’ one of them drawls and they both giggle.
‘Can I get stoned with you?’
The girl who had just spoken eyes him suspiciously, then says, ‘We don’t know... we don’t know who you are... or your name... is... You could be a peado... or a porn star...’ The girls erupt into high-pitched laughter.
‘I’ll swap you your drugs for this gun.’ He slowly pulls out his pistol, the silencer pointed downwards as he shows it to the girls.
They both stare at it, leaning closer and squinting as if it’s too small to see.
‘Fi, that’s a... that’s a fucking gun.’
‘Yes it is and guess what? You’re going to watch Fi’s head burst open!’
He cups the gun in both hands, raises it and then hurtles backwards onto the ground. I exit the bushes, run up to him, my Glock fixed on his limp body. His torn chest is submerged in thick dark blood. I listen to him choke for air and feel released, invigorated, avenged...
‘I’ve got one for you,’ I whisper as I meet his terrified, vacant eyes. I press the silencer underneath his chin. ‘Bad luck on third crime...’ I smile coldly as I recite my poetry. I spent a long time perfecting it. It had to be perfect, because it could only be recited at a very, very special time. I love this feeling of power, of changing fate. I found him and I ended him. He will die because of me. I have the power to terminate his life. And nothing less than death is appropriate. ‘Bad luck on third crime... I’ll finish the rhyme...’ I pull the trigger and then he becomes The Poet with Half a Head.
I look up and suck in all the air I can. I have done it. No one other than me could have done this. I saved these girls. Special Branch failed. I was right. I took a chance, but I was right. My instincts are always right.
I can hear the girls cautiously crawl towards me. I snap out of my trance, turn The Poet over and break his right arm. Then I press his fingers all over my Glock. Since he has no face left I don’t punch it. I leave my Glock on the ground beside him, slip on some gloves and place The Poet’s weapon in my pocket. In his pockets I find a driving licence, bank cards, the infamous fountain pen, and newspaper clippings that…that are about me! I hiss ‘Fuck!’ and stuff the clippings in my free pocket.
The girls start to scream as they join me. ‘He’s-he’s-he’s-oh God-oh God-oh–’
I turn and face them. Both are clasping their chests. ‘Yeah, he’s dead, girls. About fucking time. I just saved your arses, so do me a favour and shut up.’
Fi starts to cry. ‘Are you-going-going-going to kill... us?’
‘No. I’m a cop.’ I take the bag off my shoulder, drop it on the grass and open it. Then I take off my top and put on my full uniform. The girls are hyperventilating, making high-pitched noises. ‘Go over there,’ I order them, pointing away from the crime scene, worried that they’ll slip into shock. Hurriedly they follow my directions, whimpering, their high now not quite so magical.
I lay on top of The Poet until I am satisfied that my body armour is covered in his blood. Then I transmit on my PR and inform control that The Poet is dead.
12
I have no time to relax or wallow in my glory. Before it was all about preserving life, now it’s all about self-preservation. Sign of the times, I’m afraid. I have to save my own arse.
After the crime scene’s set up, I rush back to the nick, place The Poet’s property – minus my Glock which had to be left in situ so CO19 could make it safe and exhibit it – and my own bloody uniform in evidence bags and dump them in my locker. Then I take a quick shower, slip into civvies and jump into an unmarked police vehicle.
Minutes later, with gloved hands, I take out The Poet’s door keys and let myself into his home.
‘Jesus Christ!’
I expected the house to be a homage towards me, but I’m everywhere − on the walls and ceilings; newspaper headlines, articles and photos the sick fuck must have taken himself. Scorning myself for my hesitation, I hastily remove all of them, peeling the Blu Tack from the corners, fighting the urge to pause a second and relive the documented events.
After this, I set down The Poet’s weapon in his bedside cabinet drawer and then leave his house as quietly as I entered...
*****
‘Congratulations,’ Noah says flatly when he joins me in the canteen a couple of hours later. He sits down opposite me. Other than us two, the canteen’s empty.
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, flashing him a quick smile and then continuing to write my evidence.
‘You lied to me.’
‘Yep.’
‘That’s it? No explanation? No apology?’
I meet his eyes. ‘I had to get you off my case so I could find him. You were holding me back.’
He breaks eye contact, looks at the table. ‘You put me in a position where I had to withhold information. I’ve been on team less than two weeks and already I’ve breached both the Met code of conduct and–’
I raise my hand and exhale. ‘Noah, I made a decision. It worked out. I knew it’d work out. I wouldn’t have made it if there was a chance it wouldn’t. It meant I had to lie to you. You followed my advice.’ I look at him seriously, but with a touch of warmth. ‘You did the right thing. This piss flap’s dead. No more kid slaughters. It’s the best possible result.’
He shakes his head. ‘I feel... drained.’
‘It’s a good learning curve, son, remember that.’
‘And what about the future? Do you really expect me to trust you?’
I can’t be doing with this shit. Not now. My head’s got a million things going on. This one’s surplus − I have no room for it. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think of me. If you wanna work with someone else, do it. Work with me and I’ll make you a good cop. This was a unique case and I dealt with it my unique way. You had to be excluded. That’s the end of the fucking matter.’ I bury my head in my notes again. Noah sluggishly stands up and leaves the canteen.
I’ve almost finished, literally about to sign my notes, when he returns. He sits down in the same seat, thin-lipped and surprisingly hard-eyed. ‘You were lucky, that’s all it was.’ He locks onto my stare and holds it. ‘There was a chance you could fail, a big chance. You risked
a death. You risked a death for your own inflated ego!’ I drop my pen and join my hands. ‘And this self-defence story is just as flawed. The Poet was a first-rate killer, a perfectionist, and most definitely not someone who could be disarmed by an unarmed police officer!’
I feel my anger rising. My face is hot. ‘You sound like a fucking defence barrister. You’d probably be good at that – whinging and whining, driven by a desire to increase earnings at any cost.’
‘How dare you say that!’ he snaps, his voice breaking. ‘I joined this job because I’m honest. I want to fulfil my duties like I’m supposed to, with integrity and professionalism. I want to feel at ease knowing that I can be accountable for everything I do!’
I shake my head. ‘Get your head out the clouds. You do that, nothing would ever get done.’
‘So who’s next, Razors? I suppose you’re going to take out Al-Qaeda!’
‘Don’t patronise me, piss flap!’ I hiss, rising to my feet.
‘You’re nuts!’ he says, too furious for nerves. ‘You’ve lost all your marbles.’
I lean in so that I’m breathing in his face. ‘You try and find a better cop. Take a look at my file. See what I’ve done, and then decide if I’m unsuitable.’
‘This isn’t the seventies. The ends do not justify the means!’
I leap over the table, grab him by the throat and drag him out of the canteen. He chokes for breath as I hurl him down the stairs. His momentum comes to an end on the platform ten steps down. ‘Get the fuck out of my face, you spineless backstabber!’
*****
I don’t get out the nick till eleven a.m. It’s a scorcher outside, but the fresh air feels good in my lungs. I decide against taking public transport and start to walk the two miles home. I take out the folded wad of clippings, open them and read the top one.
‘TOP COP FOILS ARMED ROBBERY SINGLE-HANDEDLY’. Three years ago, that one. It was satisfying. One of my hunches again. Took it upon myself to follow a security van in an unmarked car. These are the vans that collect bank money and other high-value goods. Occasionally they get ambushed. Two masked gunmen pistol-whipped the driver as he exited a bank with the steel box chained to his wrist, and then bundled him in the back of their van. I followed them to a lonely lay-by where they ditched their van behind an empty Merc. While one of them took a piss at the roadside, I crept up behind the other one as he stood the other side of the Merc and whacked his head with my baton, knocking him clean out. I grabbed his pistol, but the other robber ran off across the wasteland. India 99 (police chopper) soon flew over, having been summoned by me on my PR, and directed armed officers to the outstanding robber’s location.
Know what I got for that? Fuck all. They would have given me a reprimand if it wasn’t a high-profile case that would have sparked media fury. See, I was reckless. Subjected myself to unnecessary danger, a serious breach of health and safety.
I flick through more headlines – SUPERCOP BUSTS DRUG RING; NO.1 COP BANGS UP PROLIFIC BURGLAR FOR 14; FEARLESS PC SAVES VICTIM FROM KNIFE MADMAN...
Some of these I already own. After a while, the thrill of seeing myself in print waned, became routine, and I stopped buying the papers. Not The Poet though; the sick fuck acquired all of them.
All of these articles appear quite new. They must have been purchased from archives online. An article written in 1985 catches my eye. ‘CHILD, 5, WATCHES FATHER DIE’... ‘Yesterday a five-year old boy watched his father die while he was apprehending a burglar. Mr–’
I refold the articles and pocket them. I don’t need to read that shit. I go into a paper shop, thinking how much I deserve an ice lolly. This is my best job. Because the piss flap took me on and I killed him. There won’t be any despair over his sentence, or his easy life inside. He’s dead...
I squint my eyes at a product in the freezer. No way... I pick it up. Indeed it is a mushroom lolly. A lolly that tastes of fucking mushroom! This can’t be real, it can’t be! This is me, it’s got to be me! I take out a pen and write down the manufacturer’s address. If I created this minging concoction, then I’m gonna have to damn well make it believable. Disgusted, I toss it back in the freezer. What a waste of my resources!
When I get home, my front door’s ajar. No one else has keys to my place. Livid, I shove the door open and search all the rooms. Empty. The burglar’s fucking lucky he got out in time.
13
Fuck, I need sleep, but it’s gonna have to wait. Someone had the balls to make me a victim. That position of power will be very short-lived. And soon they’ll realise those balls really aren’t big enough.
My spare keys were missing from my bedside cabinet. The piss flap used them to get in.
No delicate entry this time, I boot Cassandra’s door in. Slim chance someone in another flat will investigate – these days people are outrageously self-absorbed. So many slags get off major crimes because witnesses are reluctant to assist. They can be forced to give evidence, but often they’ll water it down, become infuriatingly ambiguous, uncertain, known to us as either an unfavourable witness or, if they lie, a hostile one. I’m not talking about intimidated witnesses. I can understand that some witnesses feel a genuine fear of repercussions, despite the safety measures available to protect their identities. I’m singling out the many witnesses who don’t assist because they can’t be arsed, don’t have time, are too busy, etc. It’s those fuckers who don’t give a shit about anyone else that I can’t forgive.
I’ve only been in here a couple of times. See, I’m all too aware that too much gets read into visiting a bird’s flat. It’s very tidy, smells of Turkish Delight sweets, lemon and bleach. Sunlight floods the place, making me squint, even with shades on. I move into the lounge, acknowledge the bitch’s expensive taste. Cream leather sofas with mahogany edging, wooden flooring, recessed lighting and several digital photo frames on the brilliant white walls. Nothing is out of place, even the magazines in a wooden rack on the floor have been shuffled neatly together. A wicked plasma, must be at least fifty inches, is stuck against a wall. I close my eyes and focus. No time to dribble. There’s one thing I’m looking for, and I find it in the computer room. My fucking computer. I should nick the bitch for this. That would teach her a fucking lesson, see how the posh slut likes sitting on a pukey, piss-stained cell mattress.
No way, of course not. This is part of something much bigger, possibly something to do with the answers I’m looking for, answers I can’t afford to share with colleagues.
A scrappy, torn piece of lined paper, fixed to the wall in a glass frame catches my eye. It stands out in a room, well, an entire flat, otherwise so perfectly and strikingly designed. First time I’ve been in this room; that’s why I’ve not seen it before. This ‘eyesore’ is a story or message or something, written in green felt pen, the simple words obviously crafted by a child’s hand. I remove my shades...
There was a litte boy cold Fire and a litte gril cold Rien. Fire and Rien lived a log wey upart. Fire and rien loved there dadeys. riens Dady did a bad thing. Fires Dady trad to stop Riens Dady. Riens Dady got scerd and hret Fires Dady. Ples toke Riens Dady away Rien was sad. Fire was agre with Riens Dady. Fires flemes got biger and biger and brind evrething. But then Rien Riened on Fire and stoped all the flems.
Some punctuation would be helpful. A thrill surges through me when I realise I need to poo. Sniggering, I dash to the lounge, drop my kegs and curl one out on Cassandra’s pristine, three-seat, leather sofa. After, I turn and laugh at the hilarious shite sitting proudly on the middle seat. I shuffle over to the bog, and wipe my arse with toilet paper, noticing that she uses the same hand soap and toothpaste I do. Don’t think I’ve ever wiped with evidence gloves on before. I flush, and then carry my computer, a few pieces of jewellery and a camera out to the unmarked police car. I leave her front door open, my dirty boot print clear on the door. SOCO will take a sample of it, but they’ll be nothing to match it too. Same score with the log – they’ll get DNA off it, but my DNA’s not on the databas
e.
*****
After dropping the stuff off to my flat and returning the car to the yard, I walk home, too tired to risk taking public transport. If I miss my stop, I end up so far away I might as well get a plane home.
Something unusual, or typical, comes to my attention as I walk alongside a row of cars waiting at a red light. A blazing hot day, all the car windows are open, but there’s no music. Not one of the fifteen or so drivers here have their radios on. Some people don’t play the radio, some occasionally enjoy silence, but the chances of each of these drivers declining to tune into a station is too slim. It’s unrealistic. I shake my head. This fucked up shit is getting to me. I walk into the road, up to a black Golf with a black driver, and lean against the passenger door.
‘Why aren’t you playing music, son?’
The dude, around twenty, with an afro, sucks his teeth. ‘Get the fuck away from my car, man! Don’t touch my fuckin’ paintwork!’
I flash my badge, take off my shades and meet his eyes. ‘Unless you want me to find your crack, either on you, in your car, or at your house, piss flap, you better answer my fucking question.’
‘The ting’s fucking broke, man. What’s the deal, man? Why you fucking hassling me?’
I push myself away from the car and move to the Merc behind it, driven by a middle-aged, white lady. ‘Ma’am, I’m a police officer.’ I hold out my badge briefly. ‘Quick question. Why aren’t you playing your car stereo?’
She frowns at me, peers over her half-moon glasses. ‘I don’t think you’re authorised to ask me such a question.’
I rub my eyes. Old trout. ‘It’s a harmless request, love–’