by Luke Delaney
‘I’m part of a unit,’ he said without believing it.
‘You are the unit,’ she argued. ‘It’s you everyone’s scared of.’
‘Even the children, it would seem,’ he replied, remembering losing his temper outside.
‘A bollocking now and then’ll do them no harm,’ she shrugged. ‘Small price to pay for a bit of law and order round here.’
‘I suppose,’ he tentatively agreed as she handed him a mug of coffee – looking into his eyes as she did so, searching for something. ‘Thanks,’ he told her, not wanting to be the first to look away. Eventually she spun away from him, but stayed close.
‘What’s your name?’ she pried.
‘Sergeant King,’ he answered coolly. ‘Thought you’d already know that.’
‘I mean your real name,’ she insisted.
He took a few seconds before deciding to tell her. ‘Jack. It’s Jack.’
‘Jack,’ she repeated, considering it for a moment. ‘Suits you. How old are you?’ she dug further, cocking her head seductively to one side.
‘Why d’you want to know?’ he replied, removing his peaked cap and tossing it on the kitchen work surface, self-consciously smoothing his dark brown hair with his hands.
‘Just curious,’ she answered. ‘You look quite young to be doing what you’re doing.’
‘I look young?’ he questioned. ‘Even to a … how old are you?’
‘You first,’ she smiled, showing perfect, straight white teeth.
‘Fair enough,’ he played her game. ‘I’m twenty-four. Your turn.’
‘Eighteen,’ she said, as if she was teasing him somehow, ‘or at least I will be in a couple of months.’
‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I remember your mum saying you were only seventeen.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she reassured him. ‘You grow up fast round here.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ he agreed, feeling increasingly nervous about being alone with her. Kelly seemed to sense she was somehow in control and bit her bottom lip as if deep in contemplation. Without warning she opened a kitchen drawer, pulled out a ready-made joint and placed it softly between her open lips. ‘You must be joking,’ he told her, but her eyes just shone all the more with mischievous intent.
‘What?’ she smiled and shrugged. ‘It’s just a joint. Isn’t going to kill me. And besides,’ she said as she lit it and inhaled deeply, blowing out a long stream of thick white smoke as she came closer, ‘you look like someone who’s got much bigger things on their mind than one joint.’
‘All the same,’ he told her, unsure what his next move needed to be. ‘That stuff’s not good for you.’
‘Tried it, have you?’ she asked, moving close enough for him to be able to reach out and touch her shining golden skin. ‘Maybe you should. Help you chill out.’
‘No thanks,’ he told her as she held the joint out for him to take. ‘I’m all good.’
She placed the joint carefully in an ashtray, her hands moving towards his. He knew he should pull away and head for the door, but somehow he just couldn’t. He felt her soft, cool, but strong fingers take hold of his hands and turn them to better see his knuckles. A feeling of extreme pleasure shivered down his body – as if they were already making illicit love. He could neither move nor speak.
‘You should know better,’ she spoke softly. ‘Leaving evidence like this where everyone can see.’ He tried to answer but couldn’t as her thumbs gently caressed his bruised hands. ‘I wonder what your girlfriend said when she saw this. You do have a girlfriend, don’t you – good-looking fella like you? I bet she’s nice-looking. I bet she’s really pretty.’ He felt his body tremble a little, but still he couldn’t take his hands from hers. Her touch felt like warm silk in a hot breeze. ‘Is she a cop too? She is, isn’t she? You and your pretty little cop girlfriend. What a lovely couple you must make. Let me guess,’ she continued with unerring accuracy, ‘I bet she’s slim – slim and blonde – with crystal-blue eyes.’ She opened her own as wide as she could as her face, her lips, came ever closer to his – as he willed them to press against his own, but somehow a strength inside him pulled his hands away from the almost overwhelming temptation that stood in front of him and he took half a step back.
‘Wait,’ he almost pleaded, swallowing his desires deep inside. ‘I have to go.’
‘No you don’t,’ she whispered sweetly. ‘No one will ever know. It can be our little secret and then you can run home to your pretty blonde cop girlfriend.’ She placed a hand gently on the side of his face. He covered it with his own, his stomach tight with fear and longing. ‘I bet she won’t do things for you that I would. She can’t make you feel like I can.’
‘I can’t do this,’ he told her and pulled her hand from his face – its warmth replaced by a cold reality. ‘I have to go,’ he repeated and grabbed his cap from the worktop and ceremonially fitted it so that the peak cast a long shadow over his face. ‘See you round,’ he declared and headed for the door, closing his eyes and blowing silently through pursed lips once he was sure she couldn’t see him.
‘You can be sure of that,’ she assured him, still smiling – a mermaid drawing the ship to the rocks that will wreck it.
He managed to make it to the door and into the hot, still summer air outside, walking along the footway without looking back even though his eyes burnt to look at her again – even just for a second. He’d escaped his most dangerous temptation … for now at least.
King arrived home a few hours later. He felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders when he realized the front door was still deadlocked, which meant Sara wasn’t at home. Once in the small kitchen he slumped in a chair by the table and realized he was still shaking from his close encounter with Kelly. He sprang back to his feet and headed for the fridge, eyeing the beers inside before deciding their alcohol content was too low to take away the growing pain in his back and the far more intense and worrying pain he felt spreading through his mind.
‘Damn it, Jack,’ he told himself. ‘Just relax.’
He slumped onto a kitchen chair and took deep, painful breaths to try and calm the growing anxiety he felt crushing down on his chest – his head falling into his hands as he sat rocking in his chair. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he pleaded. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He leapt to his feet and stormed across the small kitchen to the cupboard under the sink where he kept his supply taped behind the pipework. He ripped it clear before emptying the contents onto the floor in front of him, searching through the spillage looking for any cannabis resin he could find – cursing himself when he realized he’d not yet replenished his stock. ‘Fuck. Fuck.’ He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes tightly closed against the kaleidoscope of haunting, menacing images whirling around inside his dark and damaged mind before slowly looking down at the drugs on the floor – like gleaming, precious stones.
‘Fuck it,’ he cursed before half burying himself under the sink again until he’d recovered the homemade crack bong. He dropped it next to the drugs as if it was a poisonous insect. He surveyed the things that could take him far away from the pain and memories before sighing long and deeply. ‘Don’t do this,’ he told himself. ‘Get back to who you were. Be the man you used to be.’ But the images of the girl in white with the spreading crimson, mixed with those of Butler’s broken face and Kelly’s almost desperate, forbidden beauty, threatened to overwhelm him.
‘No,’ he almost shouted as he grabbed one of several plastic bags that habitually lived in the sink cupboard in one hand. With the other he scooped up the drugs and then the bong before throwing them into the bag which he tied almost ceremoniously with as tight a knot as he could pull. ‘No,’ he repeated more calmly, but with more resolve as he dragged himself to his feet, staggering slightly as he went to the front door and pulled it open – checking that no neighbours were milling about before stepping into the communal stairway and moving quickly down the stairs until he was at the front entrance. Again he checked there was no one about before moving fast across
the ground to the shared bin area. One last glance around before he chose someone else’s bin and tossed the bag of damning possessions inside. He walked back towards the block feeling like he’d won a huge victory. He’d tasted the sweet poison of crack – been temporarily seduced by its power and the magical escapism it offered – but he’d done what the likes of O’Neil could never do and pulled himself back from the brink.
He fled back up the stairs and into the sanctuary of his flat and closed the door behind him, standing with his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his back pressed flat against it, as if the bag and its contents would somehow try to force their way back into the flat.
‘Jesus,’ he said before exhaling deeply, his eyes opening again as he looked around the empty flat. ‘Fuck. Too close, Jack. Too close.’
12
Marino was standing in the CID office in Newham Police Station handing out advice to a young detective constable when he spotted Inspector Johnston walking by. He made a hurried apology to the constable and headed off after Johnston – intercepting her in the corridor that led towards the backyard of the station.
‘Inspector.’
Johnston turned to see who was calling after her. She stopped walking when she saw it was Marino and waited for him to catch up.
‘Frank,’ Johnston greeted him. ‘Something I can do for you?’
‘I was just hoping we could have a chat about something,’ Marino told her.
Johnston seemed to consider him for a few seconds before answering. ‘Fine, but I don’t have time to stand around. We’ll have to talk as we walk.’ She headed off at a fair pace as Marino walked fast to keep up alongside her. ‘Well?’ Johnston asked impatiently. ‘What is it?’
‘The Unit,’ Marino began, ‘on the Grove Wood Estate.’
‘What about it?’ Johnston tried to hurry him.
‘I wondered if you had any concerns?’
‘Concerns?’ Johnston pulled a face of confusion. ‘Such as?’
‘About the Unit’s leadership?’
‘I am the Unit’s leadership,’ Johnston reminded him.
‘I know that,’ Marino tried not to upset her, aware of the Pixie’s reputation. ‘I was talking about the day-to-day, on-the-ground leadership. I was talking about Sergeant King.’
The mention of King was enough to bring Johnston to a halt.
‘Sergeant King?’ Johnston asked. ‘I have no concerns about Sergeant King.’ She started walking again. ‘Why are you asking, anyway? The Unit’s got nothing to do with the CID and as far as I know Sergeant King’s got nothing to do with you.’
‘Sergeants’ Union,’ Marino reminded her of the unwritten code of mutual support that existed between all sergeants in the Met. ‘I’m just a little worried that giving him the Unit was a bit too much a bit too soon.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Johnston dismissed it. ‘Sergeant King’s doing a tremendous job. The figures speak for themselves.’
‘Figures can be misleading,’ Marino tried to warn her.
‘So the CID keep trying to tell me,’ Johnston answered, squinting her eyes.
‘What I mean is,’ Marino tried again, ‘I understand it looks like they’re doing a good job, but are you sure this is the right position for Jack at this moment in time? He doesn’t exactly have a lot of experience.’
‘He’s on accelerated promotion, remember,’ Johnston reminded him, as if that gave King a shield of infallibility. ‘Better people than us have decided he’s a more than capable leader, destined for senior management. Who are we to disagree? If it’s been decided one day he could be running an entire borough or possibly even the entire police service, then I’m sure he can handle three constables and a housing estate.’
‘Two constables,’ Marino corrected her.
‘Uhh?’ Johnston questioned.
‘There’s only two constables now. Since PC Mahajan was assaulted.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ Johnston replied, avoiding eye contact. ‘A terrible thing.’
‘And perhaps a sign things aren’t as under control on the Grove Wood as they may first appear.’
‘An attack like that could have happened anywhere,’ Johnston argued.
‘But it didn’t,’ Marino argued, lowering his voice as they passed a group of uniformed officers coming the other way. ‘It happened on the Grove Wood and it happened on Jack’s watch.’
‘Frank,’ Johnston advised him, ‘let it go. The SMT have no concerns regarding either Sergeant King or the Grove Wood Estate and neither should you.’
‘But I do,’ Marino told her more forcefully. ‘If you ask me—’
‘Which I’m not,’ Johnston interrupted him.
‘If you ask me,’ he continued unperturbed, ‘he returned to full duty too soon. He suffered serious injuries saving that girl.’
‘Injuries which healed,’ Johnston waved it away.
‘It was a horrific incident he walked into,’ Marino reminded her. ‘Even for a seasoned cop it was a real bad one.’
‘Comes with the territory,’ Johnston replied unhelpfully.
‘I think it could have scarred him psychologically.’ Marino put his cards on the table.
Johnston shook her head and even smiled her famous smile. ‘Come on, Frank. You don’t think we let him go back on full duties without having a psychological assessment? He passed with flying colours. He’s fine.’
‘If he has post traumatic stress disorder,’ Marino wouldn’t give up, ‘he could be a danger to himself and others.’
‘Post traumatic stress,’ Johnston scoffed at the idea. ‘This is East London – not Helmand Province.’
‘I don’t see how it matters where it happens,’ Marino told her as they entered the station yard – the warmth of the bright sunshine unnoticed by both of them. ‘It’s what happens that matters.’
Johnston held her hand up and came to a standstill. ‘This discussion is over,’ she insisted. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Sergeant King and there’s nothing wrong with the Unit. Everything is fine – better than fine. If only everyone else had such good results as they do. We’d all be much happier. And just in case you don’t already know, the new policing model they’re deploying is my idea. No one has more interest in its success than me. If I thought King was a risk to it I’d not hesitate to replace him.’
Marino knew he needed to try something else if he was to get through to Johnston. ‘I take it you’re aware we arrested Ronnie Butler,’ he asked, ‘for the assault on PC Mahajan?’
‘Of course,’ Johnston answered, sounding affronted.
‘And you’re aware of his injuries?’
‘I know someone got to him before we did and gave him a bit of a going-over.’
‘Not just “a bit of a going-over”,’ Marino told her. ‘Beat him half to death.’
‘If it bothers you that much,’ Johnston replied, ‘then I suggest you double your efforts to find the vigilantes who did it and bring them to book.’
‘Vigilantes?’ Marino asked quietly. ‘That seems to be a very popular assumption round here.’
Johnston’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you trying to say, Frank?’
‘I’m saying I think we should keep an open mind on this one,’ he explained. ‘Don’t close the book on it just yet.’
‘Has this Butler character said anything?’ Johnston asked with suspicion.
‘Not as such,’ Marino answered.
‘Has he made any,’ Johnston looked around to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard, ‘allegations?’
‘No,’ Marino admitted. ‘Says he got jumped by some men in ski masks – probably a rival gang.’
‘There we are then,’ Johnston nodded with satisfaction and started to walk to her car, but Marino followed her anyway.
‘All the same – perhaps I should keep an eye on the Unit,’ he offered. ‘Make sure everything’s OK.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Johnston dismissed him. ‘Everything is fine. Now if you’ll excuse me.’
Johnston looked hard into his eyes. ‘If he fucks up, he’ll be treated like anyone else. I don’t make exceptions,’ she warned him, climbing into the waiting patrol car and closing the door before being sped away while Marino looked on.
‘Bitch,’ he said loud enough for anyone who cared to hear. No matter what Johnston and her SMT cronies said, he’d be keeping an eye on King and the Unit – if for no other reason than to save them from themselves … if it wasn’t already too late.
King and Williams knocked on Dougie O’Neil’s battered front door as loudly as they dared without attracting too much attention. After the fourth time of asking, O’Neil’s voice finally came from the other side.
‘Who is it?’ he asked, sounding pissed off as usual.
‘Sergeant King, Dougie,’ he answered. ‘Open the fucking door.’
A second later the door opened to reveal the typically ravaged figure of O’Neil. ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’
‘Christ’s sake,’ King shook his head and pushed past him into the hovel of a flat, with Williams close behind. Once they were all inside O’Neil closed the door and followed them into his rancid-smelling front room.
‘I assume you brought something for me,’ O’Neil said.
‘And why would I do that?’ King asked as he checked they were alone in the small abode.
‘The information on Butler,’ he reminded them. ‘It was good, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it was good,’ King agreed, still searching the flat.
‘Then I get a reward, right?’
‘You’ll get your reward,’ King assured him, ‘but first there’s something else I need you to do.’
‘Hey,’ O’Neil complained. ‘I’m well overdue a payment here.’