by Marc Horn
‘You’re asking me to account for something. You’ve accosted me for that purpose. What possible justifiable reason could there be for requiring such information?’
I stare at her for a second. I’d like to punch her. Instead I smile. ‘Believe me, it’s a big reason.’
‘This is an abuse of power.’ She looks up at the light, now green. ‘I shan’t wait here any longer than I need to.’ She slips the gear stick into first and waits for the traffic to move.
I suck in a lungful of air. ‘What’s wrong with your fucking stereo?’ I shout, glaring at the bitch, who jumps back and pulls a face so shocked and terrified it amuses me.
‘It’s broken,’ she cries, her eyes flitting between me and the road ahead. The car in front pulls away and the bitch’s tyres screech as she accelerates.
Broken radios in two cars next to each other. I stick out my hand and stop the next car, an Escort, as it rolls forward. I move round to the passenger window and again identify myself. This driver’s a white lad, very young. ‘Why no music, son?’
‘I forgot my CDs,’ he laughs.
I step back onto the pavement and the traffic gradually picks up speed. No way. I’m not having that. I don’t believe that shit. What the fuck am I involved in? All these people, all this information, all needing fabrication!
My head starts to ache. I press my palms against my temples, massage for while, which fails to help, so instead I run all the way home, clearing my mind, thinking only of sleep.
When I arrive home, I decide to first write a letter. I want to get it done, want to get things rolling, start unravelling my fate...
Dear Mr Gigglegang,
Earlier today I think I came across a mushroom-flavoured ice lolly. To satisfy me that I didn’t imagine the product, please can you confirm its existence?
Yours sincerely,
Razors
I stick this in an envelope, post it, then jump into a very inviting bed, closing my eyes to the pleasing image of Cassandra discovering a steaming turd in her lounge.
14
Tuesday morning, and I feel a little less annoyed about this appointment with the OH bird. The Poet’s dead, so she’s not impeding me in that respect, but I’ve still got important stuff to work out.
The duty inspector called me on Sunday and told me I had to take Sunday and Monday off, and see this bird first thing on Tuesday.
‘This was supposed to take place on Wednesday,’ I complain.
She stares at me for a few seconds, a faint, fake smile on her face. ‘Remarkable...’
She leaves it at that, continues to study me. Remaining relaxed, I let my eyes wander around the room. It’s a clean office, cluttered with drawers and shelves that are crammed with files. A click pencil on her desk catches my eye. It’s a Parker. I use the same one. Then I wonder when Cassandra’s gonna call.
‘Do you know what an exhibitionist is?’
I return to her. ‘Yeah, I know what an exhibitionist is. Someone who whips out his cock and balls in public.’
‘That’s one definition. Another is a person who behaves in a way designed to attract attention. You do this subtly.’
I lock my fingers behind my head. ‘And this is another pointless excursion.’
She clicks her pen closed and sets it down on the pad on her desk. ‘No regrets that you took a human life?’
No regrets? Is she taking the piss? I feel great! ‘No. Just relief that I saved two.’
‘I’m just surprised that you can be so blasé about it. This person may have been valued by someone–'
‘They’re better off without him.’
‘He may have had an illness–’
‘We’re better off without him.’
She nods in slow motion. ‘I can tell you feel strongly about this, Razors.’
I’m not gonna back down to this bitch. I’m not going to play the welfare card, questioning what I did and bursting out in tears. It was a blinding job, one I’m proud of, and I’ll defend it to anyone, no matter what the cost. ‘And genuinely...’
‘Not exhibitionism. That’s what you’re saying?’
‘I don’t do insecurity. I don’t influence opinions of me.’
‘Well, surely you can appreciate why I would feel that way? The first thing you said when you entered the room was that the appointment should have taken place later in the week.’
‘Well it should have.’
‘Yes, if you hadn’t just shot dead a suspect in a high-profile case.’
‘Just go through the process, love. I’m a cop and he was a bad guy. I stopped him. That’s my take on it.’
She shakes her head. ‘And let’s forget the grief aspect, the nightmares, flashbacks, the investigation, amongst other things, shall we? Some of these things can last for a lifetime, unless they’re correctly dealt with.’
‘And yet it causes you concern that I have none of these symptoms. Why is that?’
‘Because, Razors, I think you bury them. I think you disregard negative experiences and instantly send them to your “recycle bin”.’
I laugh. ‘Well, I am a PC.’
She doesn’t share the humour. Waits for me to settle down. I want to poke her golf ball, double chin.
‘Unlike a computer, humans can’t empty their “recycle bin”. Everything stored in it remains there.’ She pauses, ensures I’m listening. ‘And it’s either stable or unstable.’
‘I bet it took you ages to come up with that. Your own unique metaphor. Something original, something that makes you marketable. You got a radio spot, Lorna? I bet you have, love.’
Straight face. Clears her throat. ‘Stable memories are those that have been dealt with, be it through therapy, support from friends and family, confronting personal demons, meeting people affected by the memory, or religion.’
I’m expected to respond. Out of politeness I nod, nonchalantly of course.
‘Unstable memories are those memories that have merely been pushed aside, and subsequently ignored each and every time they resurface.’
‘And what if they don’t resurface?’
‘Impossible.’ She says this with certainty, and a little condescendingly. ‘Fear will create distractions, but the sufferer will eventually realise that fear and survival do not combine.’
‘So I’m scared, that’s what you’re saying?’
‘That is what I’m saying.’
‘Of what, please?’
‘Of emotion.’
She sits back, satisfied, thinks she’s making headway.
‘Love, I don’t believe in God. I don’t have family, my friends know I don’t need support, and I don’t give a shit about the fucker’s relatives.’
‘Not a very fitting attitude for a police officer–’
‘A fake one, you mean. Your modern day copper who’s forced to lie his bollocks off to keep his job.’
She dismisses this important point. ‘Prior to that incident, your irrational behaviour brought you to my attention. I think this will increase the frequency and severity of such behaviour.’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Definitely.’
‘So what happened on Hammersmith Road yesterday?’
Smugness washes over her ugly face. That yuppie slut in the Merc... ‘I told her to wear her seat belt,’ I lie.
She picks up a piece of paper and reads for a few seconds. ‘“The officer was aggressive, threatening, intimidating, and had no power to stop me in my vehicle”.’ She meets my eyes. ‘Why did you stop her vehicle out of uniform? A good police officer like you should surely have known that’s an abuse of power?’
‘For her own safety.’
‘Mrs Fromme makes no mention of any seatbelt advice given.’
‘That’s ’cause she broke the law.’
‘And this occurred on Sunday, not long after your very busy shift ended?’
‘Yep.’
‘Why weren’t you in bed?’
/>
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I tease. ‘Nightmares etc.’ I smile.
‘You booked off duty at eleven a.m. Mrs Fromme says that the incident occurred at one-fifty p.m. Why weren’t you sleeping after such a long and eventful night duty?’
‘I had some stuff to sort out. I’m very busy.’
‘And yet you had time to deal with a driver not wearing her seatbelt whilst off duty?’
‘I’m never off duty, love. I see crime all the time.’
She’s started to make notes. I ignore her scribbles. I don’t care what they say.
‘Let’s return to your recycle bin.’
‘Okay.’
‘Let me be as direct and blunt as you are.’
‘Please go ahead.’
‘Do you think a prolonged spell of silence is an effective way to deal with loss?’
I smirk, shake my head, then take a deep breath. ‘No, but I’ve learnt a bit since then.’
‘You became a mute. People, highly qualified therapists, tried to help you, but you would not cooperate.’
‘How times have changed, eh?’
I’ve decided that nothing will amuse her. She’s humourless. Ugly, old, stubborn and humourless. And she’s trying to change me!
‘That, Razors, is the first and most important example of unstable material in your recycle bin. And it’s still there.’
‘Yeah? And look where I am. Look what I’ve done. Because of me, and me alone, thousands and thousands of crimes have been prevented. Thousands of people will not become victims. Thousands of scumbags, who contribute nothing, have been punished. And yet you have the nerve to sit there and criticise. So The Poet’s nephew, if he fucking has one, is gonna grow up and miss out on his uncle’s influence. He’s gonna miss out on the teachings of a kid murderer. Only ignorant, blind piss flaps like yourself would think that’s a bad thing!’ I stand up. Lorna wheels her chair back.
‘I’ve not finished, Razors.’
‘You’ve got the time it takes me to walk out this door.’
‘I’m relieving you of frontline duties for two weeks. You will be given special leave.’
15
When I sit down on my sofa, Cassandra dumps a newspaper on my lap.
‘Once again I feel unworthy.’ She flashes a warm smile at me, her blue eyes confidently meeting mine. Strangely, I find that her presence doesn’t anger me. Instead, it makes me want gob sex. ‘They’ve used that photo before,’ she says. ‘You didn’t want to pose for a new one?’
Sunday’s front page of The Times has my mug on it beneath the headline – HERO PC SAVES GIRLS.
‘I’ve grown out of ego boosts,’ I say.
‘The price of repetition. What an unfortunate position to be in.’
I smile as she sits next to me.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘Outstanding.’
‘It smells foul in here. Something’s died in here − a cat or something.’
‘I can’t smell anything.’
‘You’ve got used to it, that’s why. When are you next at work?’
‘Two weeks’ time. I’ve been given special leave because I’m unstable.’
‘What?’ Her voice is concerned. ‘Who said that?’
‘The OH bitch.’
‘Did you tell her you feel fine?’
I sigh. ‘She’s just a conformist. The world’s full of ’em. She doesn’t have the balls to enforce any other resolution.’
Her eyes don’t leave mine. Mine are watching Liverpool v Notts County.
‘So do you have anything planned for your time off?’
I turn and face her. ‘Yeah I have. I want some gob sex.’
‘Oh, Razors, please don’t call it that. It makes it sound so unimportant.’
I laugh. ‘Unimportant? How the fuck is hoodshining important?’
‘It’s intimacy, togetherness, kindness–’
‘To me it’s just a good sperm pumper.’
She shakes her head. ‘How on earth did I get involved with you?’
‘I’ve always said you could do better, but you prefer to stick around.’
‘It must be black magic.’
Sturridge knocks the ball in and Anfield erupts. ‘Why didn’t you come over sooner?’ I ask.
‘I was too busy.’ A telling pause. … ‘Someone broke into my flat.’
‘You’re joking? Obviously they don’t know you’re my fuck buddy.’
‘It’s not a light-hearted topic, Razors. My jewellery was stolen.’
Liverpool are still celebrating. ‘They always nick jewellery. Fits in pockets and good for resale.’
‘Well, thank you for your concern.’
‘How’d they get in?’
Another telling pause. ‘The front door was kicked.’
‘Did you get police down there?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘Ah well, hopefully SOCO might find something.’ I wonder how long it’ll be before she mentions the turd. She has to mention it if she wants to keep playing. Because she knows it was me that broke in.
‘They’ve got his DNA. The animal excreted in my living room.’ Her voice is flat, disgusted, angry.
‘That’s obscene! It happens though. There’s a code for it on the system... GG – Suspect excreted other than in WC.’
Silence for a couple of minutes. Henderson’s one on one with the keeper, and slots it in. It’s four-two to Liverpool.
‘Razors, where is my jewellery?’
‘I’ll tell you after gob sex.’
‘Fine, if you want me to bite your knob off.’
I continue to watch the match, but my mind is assigned to this development. ‘Why are you fucking with my head? I’m gonna stay calm for a bit, gonna let you explain yourself.’
‘Don’t threaten me.’
‘You made me a victim. And you left my property insecure. You’re not leaving this flat until I get answers. And I mean the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying.’
‘You’re not going to like the answers.’
‘You’re not gonna like being interrogated.’ Liverpool are dominating. Won’t be long before they get a fifth.
‘I-I wanted to stop you recording your thoughts and experiences in your journal–’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re... dangerous; not dangerous, but they could, probably would have unfavourable consequences.’
‘Like what?’ I turn away from the footie and look straight at her. She inches away.
‘Like... with regards to your job. You’ve always said that some of the senior managers wanted you out. You said firing you would be good for promotion, remember? A box ticker, you said. Displaying the resilience to rise above the criticism and force out a brilliant police officer. Your journal will give them the evidence they need to justify that decision.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re saying you did all this to save my career?’
‘Yes, because I care about you.’ She reaches for my hand but I move it away.
‘If that’s true, you’re a fucking psycho!’
‘I’m not psychopathic, Razors! Don’t be absurd. I just care about you. I know how much you enjoy your job.’
I bury my face in my hands. ‘This is... unreal. I don’t believe this shit. You’re fucking with me, you’ve got to be.’
‘I’m not, I promise.’
I stare at her again. ‘You haven’t even read my journal. You can’t have done. I keep it with me at all times!’
‘I know what you do, and what you see and think. I know that those things go in it. It will satisfy them that you’re having a mental breakdown.’
‘And yet all you want is a relationship with this genuine nutcase?’
‘I’m attracted to you. I don’t think you need help, but they will.’
Looks like this is gonna finish four-two. ‘I don’t believe this shit. I don’t fucking believe it.’ I laugh emptily. ‘You thought sending me a message and a voicemail would stop me wri
ting it?’
‘You wouldn’t have listened to me.’
‘Well I didn’t listen to any of that shit, either. It just took up a lot of my time. Who broke in?’
‘I’ll never reveal the identity.’
‘I’ll find out.’
‘No you won’t.’
I lean in closer, clench my fists, feel my nails hurt. ‘Listen, bitch, no one makes me a victim.’
‘It wasn’t personal; they did it for me.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll find him and let him know the real cost.’
‘That would be foolish. You know why it was done.’
I inhale until my chest balloons, and then exhale just as hard. ‘Where’re my keys?’
‘I don’t have them with me.’
I stand up, loom over her. ‘This is so fucked up. It’s meaningless. It was all meaningless... Fucking love. All this was about was love!’
She stands up too; surprisingly squares up to me. ‘What d’you mean, “all this was about was love”? Love is more important than anything else!’
‘Love has no place in my life. You’re just a fuck!’
‘You don’t believe that.’ Her voice is shaky. I’ve never seen her unhinged before.
‘I do believe that.’ I fetch her jewellery and camera and throw it on the chair. ‘Take your shit and fuck off!’
She gathers her stuff and sticks it in her handbag. Then she walks up to me and strokes my nuts. The shock, the audacity of it excites me and I get hard. She rubs her fingers over me in slow circular motions. ‘Before I go...’ she whispers and then pulls me onto the chair, undoes me and lowers her face into my lap.
I gasp, take a deep breath. ‘I–I lose my knob or get bitten, I will break your neck.’
‘Ssshhh...’
16
I can’t shrug off the fact that White ignored my instructions. I knew he would, of course, that’s why I’d left him there in World’s End. Had he still been there when I’d returned, I would have had to nick him. In hindsight it probably wouldn’t have jeopardised my hunt of The Poet, as I’d just felt his presence at the bottom of the steps, but I couldn’t have foreseen that at the time I abandoned White. Still, he’s a piss flap for defying me, so now I’ve got eyes on his flat.