by Pete Adams
Osama’s expansive frontage display offered all kinds of fruit and vegetables that Jack hadn’t a clue to the identity. To Jack, the Asian Emporium looked chaotic, sacks of rice here, and in another part of the shop, more sacks of rice, interspersed with sacks of rice and fragrant and the not so fragrant commodities that served the Asian community, strong in this part of town and well-integrated. No ghettos here. Jack liked the Pompey people; they got on with life, rubbed along.
Martin gave Jack an old-fashioned stare, shrank as he sensed Jack’s thoughts, and goldfish-like, forgot his concerns, attracted to a poodle tied up outside the off-licence. ‘Leave it out.’ Jack couldn’t stand poodles and made a mental note to get Martin’s eyes tested. Dickey arrived, parking the ridiculously small patrol car. Keanu exited nimbly, Mickey Splif languorous, Dickey puffed and blew invisible steam from his inflated red cheeks and pursed lips, ‘Get a bike or a trumpet, Dickey,’ Jack called out.
‘If they gave me a proper car...people will think you’re barmy talking to Martin like that, Boyo.’
Jack screwed his good eye up as he looked into the sun, ‘Dickey-old-chap, my dog is my soul mate, my muse, did you know Shakespeare had a Border Terrier, did you know Martin sniffed Mandy’s crotch this morning?’ Jack’s face beamed pride; a two-point rejoinder.
In his grumbling Welsh baritone, Dickey looked at Martin, ‘You lucky, lucky bastard.’
No mention of the Bard, I work with Philistines, Jack thought as he heard the incongruous Pompey accented voice of Osama, or as Sitting Bull would say, Mr Ali. ‘'Allo, Mr Austin, lovely day, in it.’ Jack looked down on the diminutive Osama’s joyful smile and sparkly teeth, his thin face animated, wide brown eyes contained by squinting into the bright sun that illuminated the pencil thin moustache balanced on the edge of his lip, held in place by a hooked nose. A slender man in baggy white linen garb, upside down pie-dish cloth hat, and black waistcoat, a natural born Portsmouth lad whose manner conveyed energy and goodwill, though Osama’s demeanour changed in an instant when he saw Keanu with Dickey. ‘Bloody Nora, why’s that boy not in prison, in it?’
Jack loved to hear the second and third generations of Asian people speaking, not only in the local accent but with the Asian idiosyncrasies, it was all he could do to focus on the point. “No change there, then,” he could hear Mandy saying in his head; he’d drifted off again.
‘A word in your shell-like?’ Osama appeared nervous, a normal reaction when the police call unexpectedly, Jack thought, but his eye was twitching; Jo’s caustic comments intruded, “Well, he’s obviously guilty, nick him now.” Jack would explain his non-existent eye twitches when something is not right, and the fact Jo-Jums is never around when he had got it right just meant she should get out more.
‘Mr Austin, you alright?’ a polite Osama asked, nervous, shuffling his soft-shoed feet. Maybe it’s the police car parked outside, Jack thought, Osama kept looking at it. ‘Can we talk out here, lovely day, in it?’
Irritated, Jack returned his gaze and thoughts to Osama. ‘Yes, yes, let’s go in and have a cup of tea over the rice sacks, so oriental; slow boat to India or something like that?’ Osama, thinking it should be a boat to Pakistan, went off in one direction, Jack another. ‘I meant these rice sacks,’ Jack said, rolling his eye to the ceiling that had posters of Asian scenes, women in saris. Jack’s mind flitted, should be Burkhas, he thought, falling over another stack of rice sacks.
‘Sorry, Mr Austin.’
‘Osama, what’s up?’ Jack gave him the quizzical eye, he only had the one and making it quizzical involved a momentary blurring of his vision, his explanation for the rice trip, an outspoken thought.
‘Nuffing, in it.’
‘Is it, I don’t know, in it,’ Jack, getting into the swing. ‘You look upset. Mickey Splif’s family are the good guys, what d’you say we give Keanu a break, eh?’
‘Okay, right oh, in it,’ Osama agreed, turning to go deeper into the store, conversation over.
‘Old yer camels Osama, what ‘appened to the 'aggling?’
‘Stone me, Mr Austin, it’s you what says stop ‘aggling and get on with life, in it. Yeah, he’s good kid, bye. I’m needed in the back, in it.’
Jack’s eye twitched. ‘Osama, I want you to give Keanu a Saturday job. Let him hump things for you, stack shelves, what d’you fink?’
‘Yeah, whatever, Mr Austin.’
‘He can start Saturday morning, okay?’
‘Yeah,’ and Osama made it away, stumbling past more rice sacks.
Back outside, Jack’s eye was on red alert; he had to act. ‘Mickey, get lost; Keanu, you’re off the hook, but so help me...' listened, '...I will come down on you like a ton of...’ he heard something, ‘...ton of rice, and you’ve a Saturday job, and don’t let me down.’
‘Fanks, Mr Austin, you’re a diamond geezer,’ Mickey said.
Jack felt good, did a forward defensive cricket shot, and clicked his tongue.
‘Good shot, Jane,’ Dickey said, by rote.
‘A push into the covers, a single, I think.’
Keanu didn’t look so pleased; it was a good shot as well. ‘Yeah, fanks, Mr Austin, can’t work in there, it stinks.’
Jack was pre-occupied, told them to bugger off, and called Dickey to one side. ‘Osama seemed troubled. I think he’s in the process of being robbed. You go round the back, cover the rear and call for back-up, I’m going inside. I’ll confront them when we have the support in place.’ He looked inquisitively around, and so did Dickey, mimicking the look. ‘Go on,’ Jack ordered, annoyed Dickey was copying his looks.
Six
Jack puffed out his chest, sucked in his stomach, but it hurt after a few minutes, so he deflated; only works on girls anyway, he thought, sensing an adrenaline rush. Stealthily Jack bumped around the rice sacks, edged along an aisle to another stack of rice sacks, stopped to listen; the rice was quiet, but he could hear raised voices from the rear, stressed, the level rising with shouts of “Osama!” “Oh no, please!” Unable to control his red mist, Jack charged the door to the warehouse, screaming, a fleeting thought he was berserking, but he couldn’t stop, even if he tried; a symptom the Doc had said. The door collapsed, fell askew, twisted and swayed on one hinge. He heard Osama scream, and in a blur saw Mrs Ali on a pile of rice sacks, her legs in the air. Mrs Ali’s paroxysm in tempo with the modulation of sirens, whereas Osama, his trousers warming his ankles whilst his dick cooled, was panicking, completely out of time, Jack thought.
Dickey came in through the back door as the squad car pulled up. The beached whale that was Mrs Ali moaned, and Jack noticed her thin lips, submerged in a pumpkin face, were turning blue. Jack realised what was happening, and pointing to Osama's bits and pieces, ‘Put that away and move over.’ He scrambled over the rice sacks to give Mrs Osama the kiss of life, his hands sinking into soft flesh as he adjusted her head, a sense of slow motion, reconsidered going in, saw the moustache, smelled stale onions, and in a Sam Peckinpah moment, did it.
The back-up officers burst in, weighed up the situation as trained officers, ripped Jack off and dragged him, scraping his exposed knees across the rough concrete floor and pushed his face into a box of overripe mangos, holding him down. All Jack’s struggling could merit him was increased grazing to his knees and a feeling of suffocation, except for a passing ironic thought he had recently been to a Hindu wedding and really liked the magno squash.
Dickey stepped in as Jack was being handcuffed. ‘About time, Dickey, what you been doing?’ Jack exclaimed, spluttering mango snot, coincidentally enjoying a fruity mouthful, making a mental note to take some ‘magnos’ away with him.
Dickey restraining a laugh, ‘Phoning an ambulance for Mrs Ali, though I think it’s just shock and possibly pneumonia of the arse, and its mango.’
Osama began to pull up Mrs Ali’s huge knickers. Jack watched the mainsail being hoisted and illogically thought of Mandy, when he said he liked the larger knickers he had in mind the French kind, this was
something more from Black and Edgington the tentmakers. Jack couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs Osama’s knickers, thought about the mouth-to-mouth, her moustache, the onion breath, and combined with a nose full of mango, he started to feel sick, and with a devilish grin, ‘Right, think I’ll mosey back to the ranch.’
Dickey replied, a sideways glance to Mrs Ali, whose colour was returning, ‘We should maybe debrief with Osama and his wife before we disappear?’
Wobbling his grinning head, a finger to his lips as though indicating a discreet titter, Jack said, ‘Not sure debrief is an appropriate, Dickey,’ looked to Osama, ‘call it quits, eh? And don’t forget Keanu Saturday morning.’ Osama looked fit to explode, hopping foot-to-foot in his fetching ankle warmers, which only served to broaden Jack’s smile, seemingly not appreciated. There’s no pleasing some people, Jack thought, irritated by this, and before Osama could gather himself for a verbal repost, Mr Darcy headed him off at the pass. ‘Mr and Mrs Ali, may I ask if this is a reglear event in the Asian Hemporium...' Jack was speaking posh, '...and was this the distraction what allowed Keanu, a self-confessed crap tea leaf, the opportunity to half-inch the bag of Mumbai Mix?’ He thought about raising his one eyebrow, and they say he can’t multi-task. ‘If you get my grift?’ Jack prevented a reply with his hand up in the classic police, traffic control manner. He looked in front of him, thought his hand looked good, and said to the confused company, ‘I’d have made a good point duty cop, eh, Dickey?’
The patrolmen were clearly itching to get back to the station to begin spreading the word of coitus-interruptus Jane, and Dickey pressed, ‘Mr Darcy, you were about to say something?’
‘Oh yes,’ Jack replied, ‘Mr and Mrs Ali, I caution that if you partake of conrural, conjag...’ he paused, ‘...shagging during trading hours, can I recommend you get some more staff so a mince pie can be kept on the place, and it would help if you were up for a bit of nooky with the Missus the form would be to give a little knowing look next time?’ Jack demonstrated the knowing look, a tilt of the head, a nod and a fingertip touch of the nose. The patrolmen and Dickey acknowledged this was how you should do it. Jack was pleased; he was good at looks.
Mrs Ali was tearful, but Jack thought, all things considered, this was better than expiring on the sacks of rice and getting her carted off to the mortuary. Jack hated mortuaries; the smell made him feel sick and not a little scared; shed load of ghosts there, stands to reason. Mrs Ali took control, the patrolmen made their excuses and left, while Jack, Dickey, and a cowering Osama faced the short, moustachioed fat woman who commanded attention, exhaling the essence of an onion patch, hands firmly planted on her expansive hips. How do they do it? Jack thought, I could outrun her any day of the week, but stood fixed to the spot. ‘So,’ she said. So, Jack thought, she’s going to get going in a minute. ‘So, why d’you break our door down and come in screaming bloody blue murder, in it?’
Jack mused, other pictures in his mind, then, blimey she’s expecting an answer. ‘Mrs Ali, I thought you were being robbed, heard you screaming and thought I’d better do something, quick. Can I take some magnos please?’
Mrs Ali switched on the waterworks. Jack looked at Dickey, edging out of the line of fire to another stack of rice sacks. ‘Oh, you lovely man, in it,’ Mrs Ali sobbed, ‘you did that for us, did you hear that Osama?’ With a look of despairing hope on his face, Osama shuffled to join Dickey. Mrs Ali whispered in Jack’s ear, ‘Help us, Mr Austin?’ Bugger that, Jack thought, ‘Oh, Mr Austin, how can we thank you?’ A bag of magnos would be nice, he reflected. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
Realisation dawned, Jack’s adrenaline levels plummeted, pain shot to his legs as he observed two substantially grazed knees and a steady flow of blood washing his shins, and combined with the mango perfume, his nausea reach critical. Jack had often thought he could have been a doctor if he could overcome his fear of blood; add to that essence of mango. ‘Let me deal with that, Mr Austin, I don’t have any plasters, but I could put some toilet paper and sellotape on until you get back to your police station, in it,’ Nightingale Ali said.
Jack thought, does nobody have plasters? Cutbacks, he supposed, instantly recalling he’d said that to Mandy and she’d gone ballistic. Bet she wants to talk about redundancies, bringing in Big-Society volunteers. How bloody ironic, the Big Society, big only for those who had a job, Jack was thinking, which helped distract him from Mrs Ali’s unintelligible whispering and energetic medical ministrations. ‘Kin hell, Mrs Ali, Ow!’
Mrs Ali mouthed, ‘Stop moaning, you baby,’ then, ‘Please help us,’ she cooed, as maternal instincts took over the kneeling, plump woman, but Jack couldn’t help noticing she could see up the leg of his khaki shorts and was not shy at letting him know, or was she saying something else, maybe he should get deaf aids? Is there anybody in Portsmouth not had a gander at me privates today? Which brought him back to Mandy and the cutbacks, early retirement for you, Austin, he thought and felt his face tighten into a barely concealed grin. Jack was one of those rare coppers who had lasted the distance. “Never let the grass grow under your feet, embrace change and move on,” was his maxim, not appreciated by his colleagues who viewed him as a dinosaur, an amusing one, granted, but a dinosaur nevertheless.
How wrong they were, only last week Jack said he needed a computer specialist, had in mind WPC Way Lin, had already spoken to her and she’d readily agreed, even done three evening classes, probably four by now. When asked if she was up to it, Jack proudly responded he’d asked her to Google the football results and let him know how Millwall had got on, and in thirty minutes, like a flash, she was there. The smugness lasted some time.
Squatting, Mrs Ali continued to cause knee havoc whilst playing I-spy bits and pieces, all the time mouthing something. Jack was oblivious, thinking if cutbacks were the problem, why had Mandy told him to take on Dave Manners, a raw detective constable? Not a polite request as he was the son of the Commander, but the kid showed promise, though as there were already so many Dave’s in the force, Jack called him Nobby.
‘There, Mr Austin,’ Mrs Ali had finished and struggled to stand.
Jack thought he may need to ditch the shorts and wear long trousers, or he may become the laughing stock of the police station, and in his frontier gibberish that only a few aficionados understood, he thanked Mrs Osama. Mrs Ali didn’t understand, smiled, winked, and tilted her head, gave him a bag of mangos and kissed him. Her moustache tickled, onions again as she whispered something bordering on his gibberish, which he respected, even if he didn’t understand, assuming it was the Pakistan border, and that seemed like a good time to make his move back to the station, his deckchair, a smoked mackerel and mussel salad beckoned, as did the mangos.
Outside the sunshine lightened Jack’s mood. He unlocked his bike, freed Martin, and planted him in the front gunner’s seat. His mobile gave out a strangled summons. Jack struggled with technology, and once mastered did not consider it necessary to be forever changing, and as a consequence of age and poor stewardship, his mobile phone was a sight to behold. He argued it was a study in duct tape and elastic bands and will likely find its way into the Tate Modern that he pretended to hate but actually loved. “Pretentious, tow-rag artists” he would say, jealous he’d not done this. Jack considered himself a frustrated artist to which Mandy would say, “Piss Artist,” but then she was a Philistine, a beautiful one, no doubt, but no sense for the arts. ‘Why change it if it still worked,’ his spoken thoughts to a bored Martin who grumbled a suggestion to answer the phone.
Settling on his saddle, which involved major bottom jiggling, revolting cheek adjustments, and giving Martin a sideways look, he squashed a finger through the sellotape onto the answer button. Jack noticed Mandy’s name on the cracked display. ‘Babes, before you say anything, all’s sorted; Keanu’s got a Saturday job, and I’m up for the Queens Gallantry Medal,’ he chortled nervously, mainly to reassure Mandy. He knew girls needed a man to reassure them every now and then, liked a joke a
s well, and they say Jack Austin doesn’t know women?
Mandy replied, ‘What’re you talking about, and I certainly do need reassuring. The Commander, Serious Crime, and Cyrano are here, and the balloon's gone up.’ She paused, and the timbre of her voice modulated. ‘What have you done, and please, do not let me down.’ No attempt in disguising her dread.
‘I was going to have my smoked mackerel and mussel salad,’ Jack answered, ‘some fresh magnos, a ziz in my deckchair. tart without me, I can catch up, maybe over a drink tonight?’ Just before she hung up, he could hear some ripe expletives, thinking this was the only woman who could hold a candle to his Kate.
Seven
Despite Mandy’s call, or perhaps because of it, Jack cycled slowly. Something not right at Osama’s? Grinning, Mary Poppins, ‘Storm brewing over Cherry Tree Lane,’ he said to himself, ‘Spit spot,’ chortling as he pulled up at traffic lights, wiggled on his saddle to save scratching his bum with people looking, and waited for the lights to change, old-fashioned looks from a driver and passenger in an adjacent car, spotty youths with their music up loud. To Jack, all youths were spotty, even if they had perfectly clear skin. Balancing on his pedals, Jack leaned across and rested his forearm on the car roof, and leaning in, ‘Turn it up, son, I’m a bit Mutt and Jeff.’
The passenger intimidated, Jack's eye in his face, the driver not so much. ‘Some Vera Lynn, Granddad?’ The lights changed, and the car drove off. Jack, pushing himself upright, was left chuckling and feeling there was hope for the younger generation, he peddled off.
Just after 2 pm, Jack locked his bike beside the Commander’s car; mussels, mackerel, and his deckchair beckoned. Jack regularly took naps, input from the police psychiatrist, “Eat properly and, if you can, have a siesta. The Italians know what they’re doing, Jane.” So now, Jack’s “deckachairo” moments are heralded by, “Just one Cornetto or wotsamatterwivyou” and he certainly felt better; the trick cyclist may not be an ignorant tart after all?
