No Further Action

by TL Dyer

  It’s possible I’m reading too much into it. That I’m thinking like an arrogant, presumptuous idiot just because she’s barely said two words to me since we got the inevitable questions about my head injury out of the way. Which weren’t even her questions, they were everyone else’s. Though in fairness, she may have sensed this was something I wouldn’t want pored over in public, hence why she turned up the music as a subtle reminder of what we’re here for – the real reason our odd-bod bunch is meeting above a Chinese takeaway in the centre of Usk on a Friday evening. Or maybe it wasn’t a diversionary tactic by Tricia at all, just that she was watching the clock – she has a class to run and rent for the room to pay.

  Margaret sucks in a sharp breath and expels it in an expletive through her teeth, her smile a painful grimace.

  ‘God, sorry.’

  I yank my feet back a few inches, returning my attention to my flush-cheeked and thin-lipped partner. But it’s not long before my gaze drifts over the black sequins on her cardigan to where Tricia twists and turns to Albert’s lead, the tassels of her shimmering turquoise dress whipping around her knees in a blur. When I catch sight of her face, her beaming smile is more effective at lighting up the room than the glitter ball dangling above her head. I re-focus on the woman in my incapable arms and tell myself I’ll make this the last class.

  But half an hour later when we’re sat on the floor in a circle like school children, listening to The Lightning’s anecdotes of travelling the competition circuit with the Silver Heels Dance Company, I can’t help thinking again that our teacher’s mind is elsewhere. Her smile slips when she thinks no one’s looking, returning with a jolt each time Albert raises his voice or blurts out a laugh. And that haunted sadness is almost impossible for her to hide tonight.

  Once the room clears and Tricia takes the water jug and glasses out to the kitchen, I hang back, retrieving the brush from the cupboard to sweep up the wayward sequins.

  ‘Oh Steve, you don’t have to do that,’ she says, telling me off when she sees me. ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘Not at all. I never abandon a crime scene until it’s cleared.’

  Her giggle is muffled as she reaches under the chair for her bag. ‘Poor Mags. But you did well tonight. A definite improvement.’

  ‘I did well not to get my face slapped.’

  ‘I’ve got to get changed. Leave that.’ She bats her hand in the air. ‘Go on, go home. Leave it. I’ll see you next week.’

  She goes down the hall and I go back to the sweeping, tipping dust and sequins and a couple of tassels into the bin. I’ve done all this and still wait another minute in the empty room before Tricia comes back. I see her first in the window’s reflection, where I stand with my arms folded; see her hesitate before she says, ‘You still here?’

  Turning from the window, I drop my hands into my trouser pockets, casually say, ‘Thought you might fancy a drink.’

  Her mouth twists to the side. And that she’s having to mull it over is enough for me to realise I shouldn’t have asked. That trip to the pub after class we had last week was probably what she does with every new member of the group. Customer service. I press my lips into a gentle smile and pull my keys from my pocket.

  I’m halfway across the room when she says, ‘Do you know what? Sod it. Go on then. Just the one.’

  *

  I tell Tricia to grab a seat while I shout our drinks. The place is already packed, a hen party making up the extra numbers. It’ll be a good hour or two before they move on to the town where more of the action is. Which means there’s a jostle at the bar, followed by a bit of a slalom that includes squeezing my way past a dozen hens and an inflatable cock and balls to get to Tricia at the table. She’s laughing at me when I finally make it, her hand coming up to cover her mouth, her features the most animated I’ve seen them all night.

  ‘What?’ I say, sliding onto the bench opposite her, pleased to have made it with most of my pride still intact.

  ‘I thought you handled that very well. Like a proper gentleman.’

  ‘Glad I amused you.’ I take hold of my shirt collar and pull it from my throat. ‘See something new every day.’

  ‘What, you’ve never been hit over the head with a four-foot penis before?’

  ‘I think that might be the first. You?’

  She chuckles as she raises the bottle to her lips. ‘A lady never kisses and tells, Officer.’

  ‘Of course. How rude of me to ask.’

  I take a few swigs of the cold ale to cool the warmth creeping up my throat. But when she returns her drink to the table, she gives me a look that’s so tender she might just as well be tucking a duvet around my shoulders. One I hadn’t realised I needed.

  ‘Thanks, Steve.’

  ‘For what?’

  I glance to the hens who are waving the hollow phallus in the air to the beat of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive. A mixed message, if ever there was one.

  ‘I don’t know. Getting me out, instead of just going home to...’

  I tilt my head when she doesn’t finish, letting her know whatever it is I’m listening, I can help. That’s what I do. I help people. Or I try to.

  And maybe that’s exactly what she sees – Steve Fuller the copper, not Steve Fuller the friend she might consider confiding in – because the smile breaks out, more subtle than before, but enough to push just the smallest glimpse of vulnerability right back into its box.

  ‘To sitting on my arse watching bad cop shows with my head in a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.’

  I look down to my beer, disappointed and annoyed that here again is someone who sees what I do for a living before anything else. Someone else who doesn’t understand that the job is separable from the person. At least to me it is.

  I drop back against the bench, resting the bottle on my thigh. ‘Bad cop shows?’

  ‘Yeah, you know the ones. Dodgy haircuts, raving drink issues, beautiful but problematic women who need saving, ruthless bosses, criminals who dodge every bullet and are always just out of reach.’

  I touch my hair. ‘Sounds about accurate.’

  She laughs, natural enough to break the tension and keep the conversation that follows light. We talk about the better cop shows, and what we used to watch as kids. Her devotion to Airwolf and even The Fall Guy gets my approval, despite her shallow confession that it was a devotion borne out of her crush on the male characters. But we wrangle for a while over MacGyver, and there’s no selling her on Magnum P.I. Hitting an impasse, we move on to toys, games we played, how we played – out in the streets, in the fields, never indoors. She asks about Mum and Dad and I keep it brief, brushing off her fascination that I followed Dad into the Force. I ask about her family, learn she’s the youngest of three girls and that she was the one that gave them the most grief. Always questioning, ignoring the boundaries, doing her own thing and in her own time.

  ‘I never would have thought,’ I say, getting up from the bench to avoid her comeback. At the bar, I get us another round of soft drinks, sensing neither of us are ready to leave yet, because then there are movies to talk about, and music. And we find that it’s in this latter we have the most in common, her transition from child pop fanatic to grungy teenager matching mine, so that by the time we’re done chewing over the merits of Nirvana versus Pearl Jam, the table around us have almost emptied and it’s last orders. I hadn’t even noticed at what point the hens left.

  I take our empties to the bar and we leave, stepping outside into a light rain that hangs in the air, not enough to get soaked but enough to cool our cheeks. There’s been a lot of laughing in the last few hours, and I hope that’s made her more at ease with me than she was before, because there’s something I need to know before we go our separate ways.

  We reach my car first and I go to the passenger door and open it. She eyes me with caution, her lips pulled into a wary smirk.

  ‘Just two minutes,’ I explain. ‘Please.’ I back up a step and hold up my hands. ‘A gentleman, reme
mber.’

  The teasing smirk turns to a scowl. ‘I don’t doubt that, PC Fuller.’

  Still, she thinks about it, before sighing and dropping her bag from her shoulder to get in. I close the door behind her and come round to the driver’s side.

  We’ve been talking like old friends in the bar, as comfortable as if we’ve known each other for years. But now that we’re in the silence of the car and with no table for a barrier between us, it feels awkward. Gentleman or not, she’ll be wondering what my intentions are, so I need to get to the point. I turn in the seat to face her, my left shoulder resting against the chair back.

  ‘How much contact do you have with the lecturers at the college?’

  She flexes her lips into a frown as she thinks about that. Not that it’s a hard question, just one she hasn’t expected.

  ‘Minimal. Why?’

  ‘You don’t speak with them about the students?’

  ‘Not really. Most of the communication is with the admin staff. Regarding which students we take on when, etcetera.’

  ‘What about evaluations, discussion about how a student is doing?’

  ‘It’s all done online. I submit the hours the student has worked, and my assessment of them, at periodic intervals. And at certain points in the year, an external examiner comes in to observe them at work. They get graded on the task we observe them completing.’

  ‘So you don’t confer with the lecturers at all?’

  ‘Rarely. Unless it’s to discuss a student who’s struggling, or an issue of any other kind. Or if there’s a major change in the curriculum, an area they would like the student to have experience in at the practice.’

  ‘But that’s not often? Once a year? Less? More?’

  ‘Like I said, most of the communication is online or via the admin team. But conversations with the lecturers themselves, in person or by phone? Once a year, if that.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Can I ask where this is going? Whether I need to instruct a solicitor?’

  I take advantage of her humour to get to the point. ‘How well do you know Doctor Simons?’

  ‘Adrian?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ve known him for years, but how well do I know him? In what context?’

  ‘Any context. Have you had a lot of contact with him?’

  She sighs and looks out of the windscreen to consider her answer. It’s hard to tell if she’s concentrating or just not happy with this conversation.

  ‘We’ve spoken occasionally over the years, but I wouldn’t say I know him all that well, not on a personal level.’

  ‘What’s your impression of him?’

  She turns to look at me, and I’d guess by her expression that I’m running close to empty. I need to give her something if I want her to keep talking.

  ‘This is strictly off the record, Tricia. I’m only asking for your opinion, nothing that will get you or anyone else in trouble. I understand he was a lecturer of Anna’s, and I’m curious about a couple of things.’

  ‘This is about Anna? I thought the investigation was closed.’

  ‘It is. Like I said, I’m just curious.’

  ‘About what exactly?’

  That’s a good question. But not one I can answer. When she realises this, she tugs at the straps of her bag and reaches for the door handle. ‘I think I should go.’

  ‘Tricia, wait.’

  She does, though it’s clear this particular discussion is going no further, not if I want to hold on to the modicum of trust I might have established with her up to this point.

  ‘Something’s bothering you,’ I say instead, hoping to Christ I’m right or this could be embarrassing. But this seems to surprise her more than the Simons questions did.

  ‘And if it was, why does that bother you?’

  ‘Because we’re friends.’

  ‘We hardly know each other.’

  Her reply is quick and the words repeat in the small airless space inside the car, putting me in my place, warning me I’ve overstepped the mark.

  ‘You’re right. Of course. It’s none of my business, Tricia, I’m sorry.’

  Her gaze is on her lap where she still grips the strap of her bag between her fingers. ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s just something I have to do that I don’t want to. Nothing more than that.’

  I twist in the seat to face her, and when she realises I’m waiting, she heaves a heavy sigh and mirrors me by turning to lean her back against the door. Her expression is one of mild irritation, but I’m beginning to think it’s more at herself than me.

  ‘Before I came here, about a year ago, I was living in Redditch. I rented a house there with somebody. It didn’t work out, shall we say. When I left I took what I could carry, but I didn’t get all of it. Now the landlord’s selling and I need to go back and pick it up. That’s it.’ She flaps her hand against her bag, which I take to mean that’s far from it.

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as I can.’

  I hear the swallow she takes, see the movement in her throat, the muscles strain around her jaw.

  ‘Your ex is still living there?’

  She nods.

  ‘And who’s asking for you to collect your stuff? He is or the landlord?’

  ‘He is. And, yes. I’ve spoken to the landlord and confirmed he’s selling up.’

  ‘Good, okay.’

  I glance out of the windscreen to where a couple stumble out of the pub arm in arm, the man lifting his jacket to cover the woman from the rain. They teeter in an odd formation down the road, a dance of their own making.

  ‘So when do we go?’ I ask.

  Her eyes flash up to mine, irritation turning to anger before she flinches and looks away. I want to tell her I’ve seen more fear-gripped women than she’s had hot dinners, but that’s not what she wants to hear, not when that simmering fury is so close to spilling over.

  ‘It’s not your problem, Steve.’

  ‘When’s he expecting you?’

  ‘I said it’s not your problem.’

  ‘I’m off until next Tuesday. I can come with you any time between now and then. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.’

  She shakes her head, shifting in the seat and brushing at eyes damp with frustration. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Tricia, please.’

  She stops with her fingers on the door handle.

  ‘Look. With these classes of yours...’ I begin, then hesitate, not sure where I mean to go with this but trying above all else to be honest. ‘I mean, lately I’ve been... I’ve kind of been...’ All over the place.

  She’s looking at me, waiting for the rest of the sentence, but now the words are gone.

  ‘What I mean is, you’ve really got me out of a funk. Let me return the favour. That’s all this is.’

  Her reply is a long time coming. ‘A funk? Sounds nasty.’

  I drop my chin to my chest, closing my eyes and sighing in mock exhaustion.

  ‘But won’t this make me the problematic woman who needs saving?’

  ‘God forbid.’ I peer over to where her smile is teasing. ‘Though, I do have a dodgy haircut and a ruthless boss. Running low on beer in the fridge too, I think that could be classified as a drink problem.’

  ‘But is it a raving drink problem?’

  ‘Suppose I’m pretty bloody furious about it.’

  She laughs, but it’s brief, restrained, the real issue still there beneath our attempts to hide it with humour.

  ‘Just let me know what day and I’m all yours,’ I say, as she opens the door, letting in the damp night air. But before she leaves, she ducks her head to peer in.

  ‘He’s always seemed like a nice enough man to me. Simons.’

  She’s gone before I can ask anything else.

  *

  I wake this time with the night of Anna’s death on my mind.

  Ange sleeps soundlessly with her back to me, and I’m grateful that my pounding heart and sudden waking haven’t got her atte
ntion. I peel away the sheets and get up. It’s still dark, and the house is silent when I go downstairs and take a beer from the fridge. By the time I get to the sitting room and retrieve my phone from the mantelpiece, I’m feeling calmer, and try to remember what was happening in the dream. Anna was angry with me – I know that much, I can still feel it. But about what, I’m struggling to recall.

  Holding the phone’s power button with my thumb, I down the beer, reminding myself it’s only a dream. Anna wasn’t angry with me that night when she begged me to help her, and she wouldn’t be annoyed that I couldn’t do what she asked. Anna would understand that my job didn’t allow me to do that, not when those messages could have held the answers to what had happened to her. She would understand that it wasn’t for me to take those answers away from her family. She was desperate, that’s all. She didn’t know she was about to die, she just thought she was about to get roasted by her folks.

  I rest the bottle on the arm of the chair as the phone vibrates and Tricia’s name flashes up on the screen.

  How does Sunday work for you?

  And then her second message, sent ten minutes after the first.

  Or if you’ve changed your mind, that’s fine. Honestly.

  I silently curse Ange for her rules about not taking mobile phones into the bedroom. And though it’s gone three in the morning, and Tricia’s messages were sent two and a half hours ago, I tap out my reply.

  Sunday’s great. I’ll drive if you like, pick you up on the way through.

  Pressing send, I drop back into the armchair, surprised when a moment later her response comes.

  Perfect. I have to call at the practice first thing. Maybe you could pick me up from there. About 11am?