by Drew Cross
“You're going to move back out of my way now.” I don't bother to look at him as I direct the words towards him, but he does as instructed no doubt the finger helping his decision.
“What do you say, Cristal?”
The silence stretches for a long moment as she makes her decision. “I'm safe here.” She wraps her arms around Jones who is smiling in his usual unpleasant fashion.
“That's right baby, we got you covered.” He looks at me as he says it and then runs his fingers through her hair.
“If you ever change your mind … ”
“She won't.”
I am dismissed with a wave of a loose hand and the door closes firmly in front of my face, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts. What the hell just happened?
Chapter 11
The Police Force is repeat offender. Sentenced by its servants and by those that it serves to a period of scrutiny and rehabilitation without end, it strives so hard to change, running course after course on prejudice, diversity and ethnic minorities and missing the point completely.
Personally I've never met a person from any background who referred to themselves as an ethnic minority. As for trying to stamp out prejudice, you can't achieve that any more than you can braid fog; it is a multi-layered and capricious beast, ingrained long before people become 'officers'. In demonizing it and treating or challenging the clinging beliefs as being fundamentally wrong, you drive people into deception or create newer more insidious forms of bigotry with keener intelligence, sharper claws and chameleon camouflage.
I wasn't there when it happened, but I can vividly imagine the scene unfolding. Jamie Moore and Marcus alone in the locker room, partnered up for the day by virtue of the fact that they're both pulling in an extra shift, and by the fact that Strang is now on light duties with his foot. They're clocking off for the day now, Marcus relieved, looking forward to escaping the snide asides and thinly veiled antagonisms. He is unafraid of the bigger man, but aware of the consequences of he doesn't manage to keep a lid on his simmering temper. Taken separately the two men are benign elements, almost inert, that can co-exist peacefully; in combination though they are explosive. The shift has been awkward and unpleasant, interspersed with petty incidents to deal with that have needled at Marcus. Moore has learned a different style of policing to the one that his temporary partner is accustomed to, and the swaggering arrogance, implied threats and use of force that walks a fuzzy line between right and wrong sit uneasily between them. With each incident that they are forced to deal with together, the atmosphere has become more charged; even the initial reserved indifference has begun to evaporate and spill over into something bordering on contempt for the other.
Marcus prays for the clock to tick along just a fraction more swiftly. Just as it had seemed the day would pass without significant incident after all, Moore had located the correct button to press.
Detonation.
Marcus, an accomplished amateur boxer, punched Moore hard enough to crack ribs before Strang heard the commotion from the next room and started shouting to other officers.
Miraculously there'd been no arrest made yet. The Inspector might be a cantankerous old git at times, but he is reasonable and fair and he makes it his business to know his officers well. Instead Marcus had been put on indefinite suspension until the truth of what had happened could be ascertained and appropriate action taken.
I'd initially been tipped off by Sally, the pretty redheaded girl who sits on the reception desk recycling office gossip with a storyteller's flair. I'd wasted no time in finding an excuse to head out to Radford Road Police Station on an urgent errand so that I could be alone and get chance to call him. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hello mate, I guess you've already heard then?”
“You complete muppet, I've got enough going on without having to sort this crap out for you.”
“I'll sort it out myself, mate, you don't need to get involved.”
I scratch at the stubble on my chin, frustrated now.
“Yes I do, and why didn't you call me as soon as it had happened?”
“I needed to get my head around it first. Besides, there's not a great deal you can do about it now anyway.”
“You reckon? Listen to me; he won't be making a formal complaint about this little misunderstanding and he won't be bothering you again.”
“What the hell are you planning to do?”
I glance at the notices on the wall beside me. “You don't want to know.”
“Promise me you aren't going to do anything crazy.”
“I won't hurt him.”
“That's not quite the same thing, mate.”
“See you back at work soon, I'll give Moore your regards.”
I hang up smiling, starting to pull together the component parts of the plan that has been quietly formulating since I first heard about the whole thing. I'd had to discount my initial thoughts; the sibilant reptilian hisses that surface on the initial swell of rage when I come into contact with injustice and ignorance. Those thoughts have sharp steel edges and the aroma of rot and rust; when they leave they're replaced by something colder, only then do I begin to pay attention and decide on a more calculated course of action.
“Shane?”
The voice is vaguely familiar, coming from somewhere behind me out in the corridor as I'm motioning to leave.
“Lee Barnes! How have you been, fella?”
“Not bad at all, thanks. I've just been accepted onto response recently, done all my driver training and I was about to head out for a spin when I spotted you. Fancy a ride and a catch up?”
“If you don't mind dropping me back at Central afterwards then yes, absolutely.”
“No problem, follow me.”
Lee did his initial training with me and Marcus, firstly in the antiquated and closing down facility at Epperstone Village in Nottinghamshire, and then sixteen weeks residential at Ryton-on-Dunsmore near Coventry. He's a restless dynamo of a man, with two older brothers in the force too, one in North Nottingham the other with the Met down in London, and a father who served his time with distinction and is now retired from active duty.
Lee was born to uphold the law, proud to wear the uniform and quick to help others on or off duty. I have a vivid mental image of marching in formation next to him at the passing out parade, effectively graduation from the police training school. As we turned and saluted the Chief Inspector of Her majesties Constabularies in perfect unison, Lee's dad had proudly returned the gesture from his prime vantage point away from the crowd on the grassy hill in our direct line of vision.
Later after the parade when everybody else was joined by their nearest and dearest, I'd been standing alone at the side watching the proud embraces. Lee's father, a man who'd never met me before had tapped me on the shoulder and then took my hand and shook it firmly, congratulating me on my successful passage through training. I'd returned to the image on occasion since.
Out in the car Lee talks as incessantly as I'd remembered, firing off updates on the intricacies of Carl and Richard, his two brother's lives, and inviting me to a barbecue at his parents house in a couple of weeks time. He advises me that declining the invite is not an option. I am quietly amazed at this ability to easily and naturally converse with someone who he knows only in passing, and that he hasn't seen in the best part of a year.
Overwhelmed by the contact and smiling; for people like Lee the whole world is full of friends.
I feel a wave of something hollow and ugly in my stomach, suddenly pleased that his attention is on the road ahead again. I don't want him to see the escaped feeling passing across behind my eyes, it cloaks the world in shadow for an instant and then is gone.
“Control to Tango Papa Three Five.”
Lee picks up the handset from its compartment between us. “Go ahead.”
“Reports of a disturbance at Bella Pasta restaurant on Angel Row, can you attend?”
“Traveling now from Radford Road area, be there in five.�
� He turns to me eyes shining with an adrenaline sheen. “Show time.”
As it transpires, the choice of words could scarcely be more apt, he handles the supercharged Volvo like a natural, weaving in and out of slow moving and stationary city traffic at high speed, heading for the center of town.
Angel Row runs along the side of the market square – slab square – a vast expanse of expensive gray marble with a raised water feature at one end, a black bottomed pool overflowing into a shallower trough and endlessly re-circulating.
I remember when the water feature was underground public toilets, the fetid waft of stale urine assaulting your nose if you passed by too close to the entrance, and there were twin fountains in the middle of this vacant expanse. On hot summer nights the fountains foamed with white froth where students had emptied in bottles of bubble-bath. The young and reckless danced up to their waists in cold water and soap lather, trying not to slip on the slick tiles. Now the city's heart is a cold marble slab, a place to lay out the dead and dead drunk under the gaze of stone lions. At least the blood washes easily off the dappled surface.
Angel Row itself is flanked by an array of cafés, restaurants and bars, with plenty of people seated under parasols at the sectioned off areas out in front to watch our arrival. Predictably we're greeted by sarcastic cheers and the sound of grunting as we exit the car and head for Bella Pasta; I glare in the direction of the noises but Lee just looks amused and winks at me as he opens the doors and heads inside.
The petrified looking head waiter is up in our faces before we've even crossed the threshold, anxious for the situation to be over with. “He's sitting over in the corner still.”
“What exactly is the issue with him?” Lee asks.
“He came in and started ordering food and drink, over a hundred quid's worth in all, before I stopped the staff from serving him anymore and asked how he would like to settle his bill. He just laughed in my face and told me that I should call the police since he wasn't planning on paying for anything.”
“Okay.” Lee turns and heads over to the guy, keeping his posture relaxed and open, the man is swirling the remains of a good quality brandy around the bowl shaped glass like a connoisseur. “Come on then, mate, let's take you to the custody suite and sort this out.”
“I'm not going anywhere until I finish my drink.”
The man is average height from what I can estimate, but powerfully built, with tattoos visible above the collar of his shirt and on both hands. They don't look professionally done. He has odd close-set eyes that flit around; the pupils are widely dilated - spelling trouble. He starts to raise the glass to his lips again, but Lee takes a firm hold on his wrist. “I'd rather that we do this the easy way here, but it's your call.”
The man erupts at the uninvited contact, violently pushing the table over and grabbing Lee by the throat. He is growling like an angry dog, and the clatter and crash chaos of falling plates and glasses is stark in this enclosed environment. The other diners are falling over each other in their efforts to get away, more glasses falling and breaking, pan-pipe notes on the carpeted areas.
The enraged man has his back to me now, pressing Lee up against the wall and digging his thumbs into the windpipe trying to crush it. With a disgusted grunt I cup my hands and immediately pound them hard over each of his ears. The man screams as the delicate membranes of his ear-drums rupture, the sharp agonizing pain forces him to let go of Lee and grab the sides of his head.
Angrily I lunge my knee into the man's lower ribs as he buckles, gabbing his arms and slamming handcuffs on hard enough to cut into his skin. Lee is gasping and choking now, but pulling in lungs full of precious air as the sensation begins to subside; I haul the stocky guy to his feet.
“Couldn't you have done that with less damage and disruption? I'll be billing the police and making a complaint about this.” The fidgety head-waiter is back from cowering behind the bar, observing the smashed crockery and glassware with unconcealed annoyance.
“Don't worry, next time we won't bother to turn up and you can sort him out for yourself with less fuss and hassle.”
I don't wait for a reply, shoving our captive through the doorway.
“You'd do well to bear in mind that my taxes pay your wages,” comes the call after us anyway.
“If he's paying all of my wages then his taxes are far too high.”
Lee grins weakly at the joke, opening the car door so I can push the guy's head down and shove him in. I am careful to keep my fingers away from his mouth, it's not a mistake that many officers make on more than one occasion.
The tattooed man spends the short journey to the Bridewell Custody Suite dividing his energies between groaning and growling beside me in the back seat. I ignore him, talking to the back of Lee's head as he drives.
“If I close my eyes, our noisy friend back here reminds me of one or two of the ladies that I've known.”
“I wouldn't suggest trying to slip him the tongue though.”
Lee laughs and rubs at his neck, some of his good humor returning, flicking an indicator and moving over to take the exit between the canal and the train-tracks. The Bridewell nestles down alongside the Magistrates Court, a short escorted stroll in the morning for those who will be spending a cold night here sobering up on hard waterproof mattresses.
“Get out of the car and don't give me any shit, there's no audience for you to play up to here and you won't be doing any throttling with those cuffs on.”
He stares at me, but gets out as instructed, wincing at the pain in his ears or at the bite of the steel around his wrist. I feel nothing for his discomfort, but Lee looks concerned at his pained expression as we maneuver him in through the side door and along corridors lit by flickering fluorescent diffusers. Eventually they open up into the custody reception, where nonchalance is elevated to an art form as Custody Sergeants, Detention Officer's – D.O's – and the newly arrested compete to look the most disinterested in the whole thing.
“Room for one please, Sarge.”
The Sergeant nods us a greeting but addresses our captive directly, evidently recognizing a regular. “Hello again, Peter.”
“What's Mr Johnston in for this time, gents?”
Lee speaks up first. “Obtaining goods and services by deception and assaulting a police officer.”
The Sergeant looks back at Peter. “Assaulting one of these fine officers?”
Peter nods in my direction. “He burst my ears.”
“And why do you think he did that to you, Peter?”
“Cos I was strangling the other one.”
“Ah. Okay then, room coming up. If I take these cuffs off you are you going to behave?”
“Probably not.”
“Well thanks for your honesty anyway, Peter. Gents, we'll take care of him from here if you'd like to go and sort out your paperwork? I'll get these cuffs back to you shortly.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
Time passes more slowly when it belongs to others. We are incarcerated here just as surely as those that are waiting in their cells beneath us; filling in forms that say the same thing three different ways, updating our pocket-books and writing out our statements. We are silent and concentrating, sat on hard plastic chairs in a cold windowless room, trying not to look at the clock and trying not to make a mistake in the paperwork that would render the whole thing an exercise in futility. The only difference between us and the prisoners is that we have no choice but to keep on coming back here again and again, counting out the passing hours of our lives in used tea- bags and black biro ink that always reads the same.
* * *
It's still too early to think about stopping in on Jamie Moore, and I'm restless with nervous energy and hungry at the end of my shift. I dither in the car while trying to decide whether to head home and cook or not, then decide to head for the road out towards West Bridgford instead, flipping on a CD to keep me company.
The album is Aenima by the American band Tool. Complex multi-texture
d soundscapes that build until everything else fades away, with lyrics and vocals so savagely beautiful, occasionally humorous and intelligent that they take the breath away. Each track is a separate puzzle to unravel, littered with clues and references. I am too cognitive to slip away, fade away, taste the way I still feel you touching me, changing me. The song feels like confession, with barely contained rage pulsing underneath, ending with the mournful lament, considering killing me.
I turn the volume up, accelerating over Trent Bridge, the ornate railings shining with a recently applied coat of pristine paint. The river underneath is anything but pristine, muddy brown in color with the rainbow swirl sheen of oil on the surface. There are murderous weeds lurking beneath, waiting to drag the 'jumpers' down until they're leached of color and swollen with gases, cruelly able to float in death where they couldn't in life. West Bridgford sits just across the river. It is Nottingham's premier suburb, exuding savory sanitized affluence; a self-contained oasis of up-market cafes, bar-restaurants, deli's and boutiques. The parks are neat and well maintained; the streetlights intact, graffiti and damage a rarity. The houses here look the same as the imposing double-bay fronted Victorian beauties in Mapperley Park. I pull into one of the public car parks and pay for the privilege, locking the doors and setting off past the attractive library building towards Central Avenue – the main thoroughfare. Although the afternoon is slipping away, the breeze is warm breath on exposed flesh.
'Yummy mummies' are everywhere, pushing bright abstract buggies with complete disregard for anybody in the way and conversing loudly into tiny phones, over-sized gaudy jewelry encircling their sun-kissed arms.
I draw the occasional attentions of curious eyes. I'm wearing a tight black t-shirt and black fatigues and police boots, out of the ordinary for this place where everybody else is a riot of summer color. I wish I'd worn eyeliner and brought the fangs along now.
Moving away from the main stretch I cross over the road and round the corner onto Gordon Road. A couple of doors down is my chosen destination, Number Eight, the best deli in the city. Minutes later I exit eating salami, sun-dried tomatoes, Jarlsberg cheese and jalapenos on fresh ciabatta with a dash of Tabasco sauce. I wrap the sandwich back up for a moment as I head into a small hardware shop and purchase a hand-axe and a bradawl – a small sharp tool like an ice-pick. I pay in cash, making polite conversation with the stooped elderly man with milky blue eyes behind the counter.