Dan Taylor Is Giving Up on Women

by Neal Doran

  I can’t say I’d ever been in a police interview room before, and I was surprised how much it looked like the one they used on the telly in The Bill. I was sitting behind one of those black vinyl-covered tables with the dark wooden legs under an intermittently flickering fluorescent light. I wasn’t sure if it was the light or my nerves making the constant barely audible buzzing in the room.

  There was a large clunky double-tape recorder on the table by the wall that looked ominous — and very disapproving of me considering it was an inanimate object. Looking down, I could see that someone with a name beginning with a J had started carving their initials into the table leg, and I was shocked at the idea of actually vandalising furniture in a place where they could really get in trouble if they got caught.

  Then I realised there had probably been people sitting in my seat that would have had more to worry about than a bit of a telling off for doing some graffiti. Thinking about what it was they could have done to end up here gave me a bit of a chill — as did the question, how did they get something into here they could use to start carving into wood?

  My head still ached and my mind had been racing since I arrived at the station a few hours ago, and I’d barely been able to string two coherent words together since I’d been apprehended. It had been an unusual afternoon of lots of ‘firsts’. Back on Long Acre, people had kept glancing sideways at me and the polyester-uniformed store detective next to me. I’d found myself going out of my way to mime there was nothing to worry about, that I was fine, not dangerous in any way, and that this would all be sorted out in a minute. I looked as if I were trapped in a box, or walking against the wind.

  A bit of a crowd gathered as I was helped into the back of the police car. While a rather serious young PC guided my head under the car door frame, just as you see in the movies, some teenage boys shouted some helpful advice my way like, ‘Don’t tell the feds nothin’, bro!’ and, ‘Call your brief, man!’. I got a dirty look from the driver when I gave them a thumbs up, and then had to reassure him that I’d be cooperating fully and would tell them anything they wanted to know, anything at all. Possibly a little concussed, I’d also asked them that they please didn’t call my mum. I didn’t think they understood what I was saying though, as the PC, in a loud talking-to-foreigners voice, told me not to worry and they’d arrange a translator for me at the station.

  At the station the custody officers had been very nice really, getting me some paracetamol and giving the graze on my forehead a bit of a clean-up. They told me I’d have one hell of a shiner later and joked about ‘bloody rent-a-cops doing our jobs for us’. I’d laughed probably a bit too much at that, but not as much as I did when I realised they were winding me up again when they said I’d be sharing a cell with Big Delilah, who was in one of his amorous moods today.

  Now, with my leg jiggling nervously at two hundred beats per minute, and my brain doing about twice that, I was looking around the interview room to see if there were any mirrors that were obviously two-way, and concealing a host of detectives watching my every move. Then I scanned for any small CCTV cameras that would be unplugged while a maverick cop beat me about the head with a Yellow Pages and shouted threats in my face until I confessed to every major crime in the country back as far as the kidnap of Shergar.

  While I was considering how long I would hold out under intense violent interrogation, I jumped about a foot in the air as the door opened and a smiley young man brought me in a cup of tea and told me someone would be with me in a minute, as if I were waiting to get my hair styled. Then the door opened once again and, rather than the biscuits I was hoping for, a familiar figure entered the room.

  ‘I thought it might be you,’ said PC Hawkins as he walked up to the table, putting down his tapes and a notepad.

  I stood up awkwardly, started stretching out my hand to shake his, but realised that wasn’t quite the right etiquette here. Halfway to bringing my ignored outstretched hand up to my forehead in salute, I realised that that would not be a good idea either, so I just sat down again. Still, I was feeling a bit better already; funny how seeing a familiar face in new surroundings could just make you feel a little bit more at home.

  ‘Nice black eye you’ve got there. One of our lot?’

  ‘Store detective,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, you might be able to get some dosh out of that. Speak to a lawyer — they could do a nowin no fee. Big retail chain’d probably just pay out to make you go away.’

  ‘I thought the officer that arrested me was coming?’ I said, bringing the conversation back to my current predicament.

  ‘Steve? Well, it’s near his clocking-off time, so I’m helping out. He needed to get out ‘cos he’s got tickets for the opera. Sitting in the canteen, I heard him talking about this fella he’d nicked who was confessing to pinching one of his grandma’s cigarettes when he was thirteen and looking like he’s constantly on the verge of wetting himself. I just thought what are the chances there are two of ‘em out there…?’

  ‘They were talking about me in the canteen?’

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t breach detainees’ confidentiality in any way,’ PC Hawkins said with just the slightest hint of enormous sarcasm, ‘so I understand you’re in favour of all lifestyle choices and would usually try anything, but wouldn’t be looking for something long-term with Big Delilah. Would that be the gist of what I was hearing?’

  ‘Is that statement on my permanent record?’ I asked anxiously.

  Hawkins smiled and shook his head.

  ‘So, before I break out the C60s and we start doing this properly, what happened this time?’

  ‘It was another date.’

  ‘Blimey, you get about a bit.’

  ‘I was a bit hyped up as she — this Sam — had nearly killed me three times on her motorbike, and tricked me into thinking she was an evangelical Christian. Then we were in Gap and she was looking at T-shirts and I was trying not to stare at the bras. The next thing I know we’re on the run from the law. But I’ve never done this before. I didn’t know it was happening then, but if I had, I would have tried to talk her out of it, explain to her the error of her ways. Or made a citizen’s arrest. Can you still do that?’

  ‘She wouldn’t happen to be on this page here, would she?’

  PC Hawkins handed me a photocopied sheet of mugshots. I glanced over it quickly and immediately, amid the dozen hopeless-looking women staring blankly at the police camera, there was the hint of a saucy smile and an exquisitely arched eyebrow under a shock of glossy jet-black hair.

  ‘There! She’s there! I know her!’ I said excitedly.

  ‘I’ve never met such an enthusiastic grass. Ever think about a career as an informant?’

  ‘But does this mean I get off? Can I leave?’

  ‘Hang on, son, just because your partner in crime has a record, doesn’t automatically get you off the hook as an accomplice.’

  ‘But, here, you’ve got her here,’ I said, pointing at the page. ‘Doesn’t that corroborate what I said?’

  ‘You do watch a lot of cop TV, don’t you? So this woman here was your blind date for today?’

  ‘Yes, it had been going quite well until the minor felony.’

  ‘Well, two things I can tell you. Sam Smithers here is a bloody klepto, and is in here more often than some of my colleagues. The second thing is, you were well out of your league there.’

  ‘I was holding my own,’ I insisted.

  Hawkins looked sceptical.

  ‘She’d have had you for breakfast. I’ve watched seen-it-all-before jack-the-lad CID fellas come out of interviews with her looking…well, looking like you — no offence. Getting your head bounced off the pavement by a wannabe community support officer was probably a lucky break.’

  ‘Ugh,’ I said, resting my head on the table, ‘what a week.’

  ‘Have you got any sort of record?’

  ‘The week my fiancée, well, girlfriend, left me was a really bad one, but this one is running it close
.’

  ‘I meant a criminal record,’ Hawkins clarified.

  ‘No, my nan didn’t want to press charges about the cigarette.’

  ‘Well, American multinationals and Metropolitan police officers aren’t usually quite so forgiving,’ he said, sternly.

  After what had felt like a cosy chat, the atmosphere in the room got a little hostile, and the slightest change in body language and tone from my interviewer had me in a cold sweat as he worked his own one-man ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine.

  ‘A crime’s a crime and, besides, we have clear-up rates and performance statistics to think about. You might be a nice young man, but you were seen keeping lookout while an accomplice hid items of clothing about their person, and then absconded from the scene.’

  ‘I was only trying to avoid eye contact with the thongs,’ I whined.

  ‘You’ll have your chance to explain that to a magistrate.’

  For the first time that afternoon, the thought that I might actually be in trouble really hit me. Despite my nerves, I realised up until that point, surrounded by jovial custody officers getting on with their day, and with seeing PC Hawkins in a good mood, I’d been in a bit of a dream world. I’d assumed I could explain it wasn’t me, that it was an accident, and they’d know I wasn’t the sort of boy that did that kind of thing.

  ‘This dating thing has been getting you in a lot of trouble,’ he said as he began to fiddle open the cellophane wrapping on the tapes. ‘You know that drink-spiking thing could have turned out really badly for you too.’

  My throat was going dry and swallowing was difficult as I tried to build up the nerve to ask for a solicitor without starting to cry at the same time.

  Hawkins had the tapes in the machine and his paperwork open in front of him, filling in some details about date and time.

  ‘But as I say, you seem a nice guy in the end. Let me give you some advice, before we make this all official and we get the tapes rolling and you cautioned again and you’re in the system.’

  I blinked at him expectantly, and chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to hold things together.

  ‘You’re trying too hard, son. You’re never going to get anywhere trying too hard. I remember when I was your age. Well, when I was your age I’d got married, had two kids and just spent six weeks in hospital after tackling a gang of armed robbers. But I mean, I remember when I was where you are now. The things I’d do to impress girls… But it never worked, because it never rang true.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to make an effort?’

  ‘It’s all about the right sort of effort for the right person. Know what it is you want, and be yourself, and when you find the right person the right thing to do will be easy. And won’t have you on the verge of charges under the 1968 Theft Act.’

  The sarcasm was back, and by this time I’ve got to say I was getting emotionally drained by the changes in mood. I didn’t know how it would affect a hardened drug baron, but I was about ready to crack.

  ‘This…this isn’t part of the official interview, is it?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘Let’s call this part of the Met’s efforts to reach out to the community. Now bear in mind taking my advice doesn’t mean that everything’ll be easy. You could ask my missus. But if you know what it is you really want, then you won’t be afraid of the consequences.’

  ‘I promise to be myself,’ I said solemnly.

  ‘And you won’t go around lifting blouses on the off-chance of a bunk-up.’

  ‘And I won’t go around lifting blouses on the off-chance of a bunk-up.’

  ‘Good lad. And don’t go around telling people that I told you any of this or I’ll get like Dirty Harry on your scrawny arse. Now I just need to speak to a few people, get you signed out and you can piss off home.’

  Twenty minutes later, I walked out of the light of the police station into the fresh clean air of central London. A free man again at last, I couldn’t believe how much had changed in the six hours I’d been inside; it felt as if it was going to take a while to adjust to decent society again. The world had changed and moved on without me. Well, it had been daylight when I went in, and it was full-on dark now, so that was different at least, and I had that slightly bewildered feeling you got when you went to the cinema in the afternoon and came out in the evening. It was getting close to ten, and, rather than face the tube, I decided I’d try and get a lift, and called the Harrisons at home.

  ‘Hello? Rob?’ Hannah answered the phone before it had time to even ring at my end.

  ‘No, it’s me, Dan. You will not believe the afternoon I have had. I’ve just this second got out of the nick after being arrested for shoplifting!’

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, sounding a bit as if she must have just woken up.

  ‘Oh, boy, all right? I’ve never had so much fun with my shoelaces removed,’ I said breezily, still elated to be free. ‘I may have cried at one point, but is that one of those times when women think it’s cute that guys blub, or one of the creepy and sad ones like sex? I tell you though, after taking a ride in an ambulance and a cop car this week on your handpicked dates all you need to do is set me up with an arsonist who’ll set fire to my sofa and I’ll have completed the full set for emergency services.’

  The other end of the line was silent, when I had expected Hannah to jump in to continue my day of interrogation.

  ‘You there? Think it’s a bad line — can you hear me?’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said in a detached, flat voice. ‘I don’t know where Rob is. But he’s definitely having an affair.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  I jumped in a cab as soon as I hung up from the call, and headed for South Wimbledon. On the way I tried to get hold of Rob on his mobile, half dreading his picking up, half hoping just a quick chat would completely resolve the situation and I could tell Hannah she had nothing to worry about. The phone went straight to answer machine, and I didn’t leave a message, so I was on my own for this one. Deep down I wasn’t too sure speaking to him would have helped anyway.

  At their front door Hannah wordlessly buzzed me into their apartment, and I headed up the stairs to find her sitting on the couch nursing a large, overly full glass of wine. I had thought I’d go in and give her a big hug and tell her everything was going to be all right, but every angle of her body was giving out the message to not go anywhere too near her.

  ‘So your date didn’t go well, then,’ she said.

  ‘My date? Don’t worry about my date! How are you? What’s going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter,’ she said, slowly getting up to get me a glass of wine, before slumping back into the sofa.

  ‘It must be a mix-up,’ I said. ‘He’s been working a lot lately. He sounds like he’s under a lot of pressure. And you know what he’s like — the more tense he is, the more outrageously he flirts. He’s probably dying to get home, and will be able to make everything make sense.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said blankly.

  ‘I mean, what made you think this?’

  ‘There’s things that have been different. You get to know when something isn’t right.’

  ‘Is it about the row yesterday? ‘Cos it could just be he went a bit over the top on a night out but that doesn’t mean anything more serious than that…’

  ‘It’s not just yesterday.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there you are!’ I said.

  I became conscious I was bouncing around the room and looming, while Hannah was sitting low on the couch, so I dumped my overcoat on the floor and dropped down into the oversized beanbag by the TV to try and get some eye contact. The beanbag was a little more giving than I’d thought, but I struggled to sit upright and looked at Hannah, trying to look concerned and reassuring at the same time.

  ‘It’s a communication thing. You see it all the time. You don’t talk about something you’re worried about and it starts growing into some
thing bigger than it is,’ I said.

  Hannah was finally looking straight at me, but not in a way I might have hoped, as the unnerving cold blankness on her face started giving way to something narrow-eyed and hotter.

  ‘You need to let him know what you’re feeling,’ I babbled. ‘Couples all the time let things bothering them slide for the sake of an easy life, but the tension builds up, like a pimple on the side of your forehead, just waiting for the merest bit of pressure to splat red and yellow all over the bathroom mirror.’

  The beanbag seemed to be giving way from underneath me and I slid further and further down towards the floor.

  ‘You need to get this out in the open, and maybe it won’t seem so bad.’

  Obviously I was aware that Hannah got angry, and obviously this was an appropriate time for her to be angry. But it was really rather scary to have her angry at me…

  ‘Oh, so it’s easy. Why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘I’m not saying that, but things always seem better when you confront them head-on. Sure it’ll be no fun to do it, but it’ll pay to talk to him about what you feel.’

  ‘Talk to him? Like you do when you guys are all out and he spends half the night using you as a punchline? Talk about it? Like you and him have ever talked about anything directly in your lives, when you could just sweep it away, pretend it never happened. I know, when he gets home we’ll make it all better by watching the first series of thirtyfuckingsomething together, eh?’

  Hannah was up and pacing now, and I was left stuck in the beanbag squinting up at her, blinded by the blaring light of the floor lamp shining behind her, and blindsided by what she said.

  ‘And it’s not about what I feel, it’s about who he’s feeling, the cheating bastard.’

  ‘But how can you be sure something’s going on?

  ‘Oh, I forgot, you’re the one that lives with him every day. Who’d know if he’s lying, or not talking because he’s feeling guilty about being an arsehole. You’re the one sat at home in a damp flat pretending to know where he is when his mother calls.’