by Luke Delaney
‘Someone call the police?’ he added to get everyone’s attention.
The man looked in his direction and grimaced before continuing to shout at the woman standing only inches in front of him. ‘Why did you have to go and call this fucking lot?’
‘Because you’re a drunken arsehole – that’s why,’ the woman King assumed to be Debbie Royston answered him.
‘All right,’ King said calmly as he moved towards them. ‘That’s enough. Who called us?’
‘Me,’ Royston answered, ‘and I want this fucking drunk out of my house.’
‘You Debbie Royston?’ he asked.
‘I ain’t going fucking anywhere,’ the man interrupted.
‘You,’ King pointed a finger into the man’s chest, ‘be quiet and don’t interrupt me again.’
‘Yeah, I’m Debbie Royston,’ she now answered, ‘and this is my house and I want him out of it.’
‘I’ll get to that,’ King assured her, ‘but right now we need to know if anyone else is in the house?’
‘My kids,’ she answered, still shouting everything she said. ‘Hiding upstairs scared half to fucking death because of this bastard.’
‘Shut up, you stupid slag,’ the man began again.
‘One more word,’ King warned him. ‘One more word.’ He took a breath before continuing, but suddenly paused as he felt a strong presence for the first time since entering the home. It was strangely powerful and alluring, but dangerous too. He turned his head towards the source of whatever it was that had been strong enough to distract him from the couple who’d already started screaming at each other again and saw a teenage girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. Intelligence and sexuality blazed from her almond-shaped eyes that were so brown they appeared quite black. Her strikingly angular face was covered with flawless olive skin and framed by long deep brown curls. Her tight jeans and top showed off her curved hips and full, shapely breasts. Despite the complete lack of style or subtlety in her appearance, she was undeniably beautiful.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked the screaming woman, before realizing his virtual whisper was being drowned out. ‘I said, who’s this?’ he shouted loud enough to match them as he continued to stare at the girl standing halfway up the stairs. She looked straight into his eyes, a slight smile of seduction on her lips as she seemed to ignore everything in the house but him.
The couple momentarily stopped shouting and looked in the direction he was facing. ‘That’s my eldest,’ Royston told him. ‘Kelly.’ She looked to King and then back to Kelly before bellowing at the girl. ‘I thought I told you to stay upstairs and watch your brother and sister.’ Kelly casually shrugged and began to climb the stairs, looking back over her shoulder as she did so, her eyes never leaving his as she seemed to float from step to step with the grace of an old movie star.
‘How old is she?’ he asked Royston once the girl was out of sight.
‘Why d’you want to know?’ she asked, suspicious.
‘For my report,’ he told her, not even sure if he was lying or not.
‘She’s seventeen,’ Royston finally answered. ‘Be eighteen in a couple of months.’
‘And the other children in the house?’ he asked, recovering from the distraction of Kelly.
‘Jason’s thirteen and Sharmane’s eleven,’ she told him, before re-igniting the battle with her boyfriend. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with the fact that I want him out of my house.’ She stabbed an index finger at the man’s chest.
‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ he shouted back as King and Renita got in between them, easing them further apart. ‘I paid for everything in here, so why the fuck should I go anywhere?’
‘’Cause it’s a council house and it’s registered in my name,’ she screamed back with an ugly smile.
‘All right,’ King spoke loudly enough to be heard and silence the bickering couple. ‘You,’ he talked to the man. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Chris O’Connell,’ he answered truthfully. King could smell the alcohol on his breath.
‘Is the house registered in your name?’ King continued.
‘No,’ O’Connell admitted.
‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ Royston refused to remain silent for long. ‘I told you – it’s in my name.’
‘So fucking what?’ O’Connell called to her over King’s shoulder.
‘Do you want this man to leave?’ King went through the procedural questions he needed to ask.
‘Course I want him to bloody leave,’ she confirmed loudly.
‘Then, Mr O’Connell,’ he told him, ‘you have to leave.’
‘I ain’t fucking going nowhere,’ O’Connell hissed.
‘I was hoping you were going to say that,’ King replied before moving faster than O’Connell could anticipate, spinning him around and pushing him up against the nearest wall as he twisted an arm up behind his back, making O’Connell call out in pain. ‘Chris O’Connell,’ King began, ‘I’m arresting you for causing a breach of the peace. You have the right to remain silent, blah, blah, blah,’ he continued as he pulled O’Connell’s other arm behind his back and locked quick-cuffs around his wrists.
‘Argh,’ O’Connell complained. ‘Get the fuck off me.’
‘Be quiet,’ Renita told him as she helped King restrain the struggling man.
‘Oi, what you doing to him?’ Royston tried to come to O’Connell’s aid.
‘What you wanted,’ King told her, breathing a little heavily as he battled with O’Connell, who’d been made strong by anger and alcohol. ‘We’re removing him from your house.’
‘Yeah, but,’ she argued, moving towards them, ‘there’s no need for all this.’
‘Back up,’ Renita warned her, ‘or you’ll be getting nicked too.’ Royston stopped in her tracks as Renita pinched her radio and called for a van to transport their prisoner. At the same time King looked over his shoulder to check any danger Royston could be to them, but he found himself looking past her to the figure that now stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs, looking down on him with the same smile of unknown intentions. For a moment it felt as if he and Kelly were the only people in the room before she gave a silent giggle and disappeared into the upstairs darkness.
‘You all right?’ Renita asked without being heard. ‘Sarge. You all right?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered as her words cut through the intoxicating effects of Kelly. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Good,’ she told him. ‘Van’s on the way.’
5
King had keys, but still he knocked on the front door then took a step back. He wrung the neck of a bottle of wine while he waited next to Sara, who was holding an elaborate bunch of flowers and a box of expensive chocolates.
They listened as heavy, military-sounding footsteps approached followed by the sound of at least two locks being freed. The door swung ceremonially open, revealing the tall, straight-backed figure of a man in his sixties standing unsmiling in the entrance, his hair cut short and neat, his clothes as clean and pressed as his uniform had been before he retired as a full colonel from the army.
‘Made it here at last then,’ he greeted them.
‘Dad,’ said King.
‘And how are you, Sara?’ his father asked, ignoring his son as he stepped aside to allow them to enter.
‘I’m fine thank you, Mr King,’ she answered through a nervous smile.
‘No need to stand on ceremonies,’ he told her. ‘I keep reminding you to call me Graham. Everyone else does these days.’
‘Sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I keep forgetting. I’m fine thank you, Graham.’
‘You’d better come and say hello to your mother,’ he told King. ‘Let her know you’re still alive. For some reason she still worries about you. Can’t think why.’
‘No,’ King rolled his eyes at Sara when he was sure his father couldn’t see. ‘Nor can I.’
The two couples began to eat their way through the meal that King’s mother, Emily, had taken hours prepa
ring. King couldn’t help but think what a pointless exercise it had been – taking so much time to make something that would disappear in minutes and probably not be appreciated by anyone. He became increasingly aware of the growing pain in his shoulder and back as he watched his mother picking at her food as she’d done all her life – ensuring she remained slim for the Colonel. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back into a permanent ponytail and she spoke with a heavily clipped accent – on the rare occasions her husband allowed her to get a word in edgeways. Even now, King felt he hardly knew her. He had been sent to boarding school at seven years old and then on to university and finally the police. This was their home, not his. As far as he was concerned, they’d never shared a home.
‘You still haven’t asked about Scott,’ Graham reprimanded him, with no attempt to conceal his annoyance at King’s apparent lack of interest in his own brother.
‘I was going to,’ he replied, ‘when Mum wasn’t around.’
‘What’s your mother’s presence got to do with anything?’ Graham demanded.
‘Well, I didn’t know if she wanted to talk about it,’ he explained. ‘She gets upset.’
‘Nonsense,’ Graham insisted. ‘Your mother’s fine. It’s not like he’s not going to make a full recovery. It’s not like he’s lost any limbs or been disfigured. Many have, you know. If you ask me he’s been bloody lucky.’
‘Funny idea of luck,’ King argued, ‘being shot.’
‘Could have stood on an IED,’ Sara added awkwardly before realizing she wasn’t helping – drawing stony looks from both King and his father.
‘He’s going to be fine,’ Emily tried to end it. ‘That’s all that matters.’
‘Quite,’ Graham huffed as they settled into silent eating until Sara tried once more to break the tension.
‘How long has Scott been back from Afghanistan now?’ she asked.
‘Six months or so,’ Graham answered.
‘Weren’t we supposed to have left there more than a year ago?’ she asked naïvely.
Graham cleared his throat to answer, but King spoke before he could. ‘Not everyone,’ he explained. ‘The army left some military advisors behind.’
‘Shot by the very people he was supposed to be helping train,’ Graham spat the words out like bile. ‘Let the whole lot of them go to hell in a handcart,’ he added.
‘Where is he now?’ Sara asked, making King move uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Still in hospital,’ Emily quickly told her, as if only she had the right to answer the question.
‘But he’s getting out very soon,’ Graham took over again, ‘as Jack would have known if he ever bothered to visit him.’
‘I did know he was being released soon,’ King surprised them.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Sara smiled uncomfortably.
‘That’s because Scott doesn’t like me talking about him to other people,’ he explained.
‘He didn’t tell me you’d visited him,’ Graham said, suspicion thick in his voice.
‘What Scott and I do is no one else’s business.’
‘Christ,’ Graham laughed. ‘You’re not schoolboys any more keeping silly secrets. For God’s sake, it’s not bad enough Scott got himself shot in Afghanistan – you manage to get yourself stabbed in the police. What sort of an idiot almost gets himself killed walking the beat?’
‘It can be a difficult job, Mr King.’ Sara had forgotten his father’s instructions to call him by his Christian name. ‘Policing London is dangerous. You can never be sure what you’ll walk into round the next corner.’
‘Nonsense,’ Graham dismissed her. ‘Joining the army in this day and age was always going to present certain risks. Scott knew that and so did your mother and I, but almost getting yourself killed walking around East bloody London. I mean …’
‘Which is exactly why I didn’t join the army,’ King fought back. ‘What’s the point of doing a job where you’ve got a good chance of being blown up or shot? Sounds like a pretty stupid thing to want to do to me.’
‘Which is probably why you got injured in the first place,’ Graham accused him. ‘A touch of karma, I think. You spent so much time avoiding joining the army because you were afraid of being injured, you got injured anyway.’
‘I don’t think so,’ King replied, just about holding it together.
‘The police,’ Graham held his arms out dramatically. ‘There’s no future in it.’
‘He’s on accelerated promotion,’ Sara reminded him.
‘Accelerated promotion,’ Graham scoffed. ‘He’s a sergeant. Now if he’d joined the army he would have started at lieutenant – the equivalent rank of inspector. None of this playing around in the other ranks nonsense. It’s not too late, you know,’ he continued down a familiar track. ‘I could still pull some strings and get you into Sandhurst. You’re still young enough, just.’
‘It’s not for me,’ King insisted. ‘I’m not like you or Scott.’
‘And what exactly is wrong with being like me or Scott?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ King looked for a way to escape the conversation.
‘Then at least think about it.’
‘No,’ he answered bluntly.
‘Why not?’ his father demanded.
‘Because the army’s for fools,’ he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out.
His father breathed in deeply, preparing to attack before his wife finally stepped in to bring matters to an end. ‘That’s enough, you two,’ she insisted with a smile, as if the argument had been nothing more than friendly jousting. ‘We’re just glad that both you and Scott have fully recovered. You gave us quite a scare.’
‘Indeed,’ her husband forced himself to agree – the redness in his face and his slight trembling betraying the anger he still harboured.
‘It wasn’t intentional,’ King told them, happy to continue with the fight until he felt Sara kick him under the table. ‘But at the end of the day Scott’s going to recover and that’s all that matters.’
‘Good,’ his mother finished it for this occasion at least. ‘Now eat your dinner. You’re getting too skinny.’
Kelly Royston walked to Susie Ubana’s maisonette and reached through the metal grid to knock on the front door. After a few seconds the door opened slightly and Ubana peered through the gap, relaxing when she saw it was only Kelly – someone she’d known for years, having watched her growing up on the estate. She opened the door fully, but kept the metal grid firmly closed. Their meeting looked like a prison visit in an American jail.
‘You gonna open this … barricade?’ Kelly asked.
‘No,’ Ubana answered bluntly. ‘D’you want something?’
Kelly sighed and opened her clenched fist, revealing a crumpled five-pound note and a handful of loose change. ‘I need an eighth of Lebanese red,’ she told her. ‘It’s all there,’ she assured Ubana as they both looked at the mess of cash in her palm. Kelly saw the look of distaste on Ubana’s face at her offering. ‘What d’you expect?’ she asked. ‘Brand new tenners out the cash machine?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ Ubana answered, awkwardly holding out both her hands through the grid and cupping them as if she was holding water. Kelly tipped the banknote and coins into her hands and watched them retreat back beyond the grid. ‘Wait there,’ Ubana told her and disappeared inside.
Kelly leaned against the wall and looked out over the estate as the night grew ever darker, its silence punctuated by the occasional scream of a child, shout of a drunk or bark of a dog. Her mind wandered to the young cop who’d arrested her mother’s boyfriend earlier in the day. She knew she’d affected him in a way she could affect pretty much any man she chose to, but he was different. Very different. He was a policeman. The men and boys on the estate were largely desperate fools she could manipulate like putty, taking whatever she liked from them with just the promise of intimacy with her at some distant, unspecified point in the future. At seventeen she already knew that to the
m she promised the chance of escape to a better world where they could have something wonderful and beautiful. Even if it only lasted for a few minutes, it would be the best thing that would ever happen to most of them. But would the young policeman be so easily enthralled by the drug of her beauty?
After a couple of minutes Ubana returned and ended her daydreaming.
‘Here,’ she told Kelly, easing her clenched fist through the grid. Kelly pushed herself off the wall and took hold of Ubana’s fist as if they were shaking hands in a slightly strange way until she felt Ubana’s well-practised fingers push the small parcel wrapped in clingfilm into the palm of her hand. Quickly she slipped it down the front of her skintight jeans and nestled it in her public hair, but she didn’t then scamper away as Ubana had expected. ‘Don’t wait around here long,’ Ubana warned her. ‘Not with that on you. One of them new coppers might be hanging around.’
‘Think they’ll want to search me?’ Kelly smiled mischievously, but her charms were wasted on Ubana.
‘They’ll want to arrest you,’ Ubana told her grimly. ‘And me.’
‘I wouldn’t mind being searched by one of them,’ Kelly ignored her.
‘Oh yeah,’ Ubana looked her up and down. ‘And which one would that be?’
‘The one in charge,’ Kelly answered, moving from hip to hip.
‘That’ll be the sergeant then,’ Ubana said sarcastically.
‘Yeah. Him,’ Kelly agreed. ‘The one with the stripes. The good-looking one – well, good-looking for a cop.’