Cause And Effect

by Pete Adams

  The station conference room was on the top floor of the four-storey utilitarian building, central to the facade, and dominated by a full-width window that looked onto the front car park and entrance below. Mandy was chatting sociably with Commander Manners, casually rubbernecking to look out at her tree and wanting to see when Jack arrived, finding it hard to disguise her misgivings.

  Jamie Manners was a pleasant man who had the look of a tall Captain Mainwaring, round glasses on a round face, more chins than a Chinese phone book, and a terrible comb-over hairstyle that regularly flopped three or four lengthy, matted strands, to be immediately flicked back with a practiced hand of Bowyers’ sausages. He had a good heart, but the stresses of police seniority caused unexpected mood swings. Jack called them his PMT moments, and Jamie would laugh or rail depending on his good or bad mood, ‘Everything alright, Amanda?’

  Mandy snapped out of her daydream, ‘Fine, Sir, just wondering how long Inspector Austin will be,’ but she’d just seen him locking his bike up where he shouldn’t.

  ‘Aren’t we all,’ Manners responded, conjoined with a grunt from drugs and a scowl from the sissy who continued to draw hangmen on his notepad; had to be Jack he was drawing. The head of Sissies, (Jack’s name for Serious Crime), DCI Paul Willie, and the head of drugs, DCI Bob Appleby, sat around the table. Naturally, Jack had a nickname for Paul Willie, and that was Paolo, and this irritated DCI Willie. Jack’s mature response was "tough-titties." Jack was not vindictive, but Mandy knew he had little time for Paolo, considering him more concerned about his sartorial style and arse protection than policing, frightened to take a chance lest he be ridiculed. “Not what being a team player was about,” Jack would say, and he would know? Mandy was dreading the meeting; Paolo was prone to lording it over Jack. She stole a look and could see that in the nearly four years he’d been running Sissies, Paolo’s sharp suits were more figure hugging. Jack would say, “Been sitting on your arse too long and become a couch potato copper.” Oh my God, she thought, I’m sure he will say this.

  Jack thought he knew these people and would say, “Apart from the up their own arses, martinet wankers, everybody is redeemable,” apparently another quote from Mary Poppins, but Paolo? She had her doubts. She was put in mind of an Alan Bennett monologue where he described sitting with his mum and dad and they would sketch a random person’s character and life, all from their imagination. Jack thought Alan Bennett would have made a good copper, except, and like Jack, he would likely feel sorry for people and let them off; another worrying fault of Jack’s, especially for a copper. Amanda felt warm inside, recalling Jack’s Alan Bennett on Paolo.

  Paolo left school unfulfilled, disappointingly average, a Billy no Mates. So, he assembled an elaborate façade, the suits an integral part. His Mum stopped him going into the military, knowing if he shot someone, it would devastate her son, a minor redeemable feature.

  In the police, if you keep your head down, do well in an average way, crawl up the appropriate trouser legs, you will climb the ladder. Acknowledgement, in a way, but to reassure yourself, you are bossy to the people beneath your rank. Eventually, you rise further and have real power but not a clue how to use it and still no respect.

  Life passes you by, colleagues have families, but you have not, so you get an off-the-shelf bride, but you need to grow with these things, not parachute in. Things fall apart, and you cling onto hope, and all you want to do is have a pint with your non-existent mates to complain affectionately about the Missus and kids, but it will never happen.

  So, the system developed a police officer in a position of power who feels he needs to wield it and would not begin to know how to empathise. Had he not been steered severely by his mum, Paolo probably would have been a cycle path, by which she knew he meant psychopath, but in the event, he is a sociopath, a man to be pitied, in need of a hug.’ Mandy would feign being sick.

  She looked over to Paolo, weight going on, medium height, brown hair with flecks of grey, non-contentious styling that had probably not changed since he left school, everything medium or average. Bob Appleby, however, was a completely different type, laid back as if he’d never heard of nervous energy. Lean, tall if he didn’t slouch, alabaster skin with a permanent five o’clock shadow and a shock of unruly black hair atop a narrow face. He had a bony frame, not unlike Sid downstairs, though Bob’s had a hint of the muscular. The first thing you noticed, apart from his big feet, was his immense roman nose. Aqueduct, Jack called it, meaning aquiline, and he called Bob Cyrano. Good humoured banter, although Cyrano’s wife never liked Jack; you either love Jack or loathe him. “Just like Biggley,” Jack would say, meaning Wickham, and not Bingley, in PP (Jack was fed up with saying Pride and Prejudice; apparently all the youngsters called it PP now).

  Sat around the table, Paolo showed off his numerical prowess counting fingers. ‘One, I cannot see why we’re waiting, and two, why we are waiting for Bozo Austin?’

  Commander Manners looked up. ‘Amanda, where is he again?’

  With an undisguised expression that said, “I’ve told you a million times,” exacerbated, having to deal with men, ‘I’m not fully briefed, Sir, but Inspector Austin has just foiled an armed raid on a local supermarket. I’ve just noticed him cycle in.’

  ‘What, single-handed?’ the Commander asked.

  ‘Well, he has Martin in the front gunner’s seat, but yes, he cycles it on his own,’ Mandy replied, chuckling.

  ‘No, I meant the raid.’

  ‘Sorry,’ a mocking curtsey, ‘I understand so. George Dixon called for backup, but the perpetrators escaped, I think?’

  ‘Typical wooden top, he go in gung-ho with Spotty Dog?’ A smug Paolo remarked, making a reference to The Woodentops, an old children’s television programme oft referred to by Jack in his Watch with Mother moments; a term also used for dopey constables, wooden tops. Spotty dog was a woodentop Jack would imitate, and everyone would laugh, not because it was a good impression, most people had not even heard of Watch with Mother let alone seen The Woodentops; it was just the way he did it. He was a clown, and Mandy felt a warm sensation inside of her.

  She looked sternly at the Sissy. ‘I understand the situation escalated, and he had to go in. So, Sir, I’m a bit light on the details, and as much as I enjoy humiliating Inspector Austin, I am rather impressed, and furthermore, I hear he saved the wife of the proprietor with mouth-to-mouth before the paramedics got there,’ and Mandy applied her schoolgirl, told you so look and sent it to Paolo with brass knobs on.

  A loud jeer resounded, and the Commander knee-jerk jumped and looked out of the window. ‘Our hero returns, and the bastard’s locked his bike up by my car again, how many times do I have to tell him. I even left a note on his bike this morning.’

  ‘You left him a note?’ Mandy could not disguise her look of horror.

  ‘Yes, it clearly says my parking bay.’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ Mandy made a mental note to check Jack hadn’t left a note back.

  The Commander conjured a sneer. Mandy thought, Jack would say, “It’s Bad Manners,” recalling his maxim, “he can go from good Manners to bad Manners without the wind changing direction.” Mary Poppins, he said, but with Jack, you never knew. It was Jack who insisted Mary Poppins gets PMT, his reasoning being she only reluctantly joined the people on the ceiling for a laugh. Mandy was snapped back to reality by an even bigger jeer. The Commander stared in the direction of the CP room, his lower jaw sagging. Mandy was tempted with “Close your mouth, we are not a codfish,” but thought better of it. After all, Mary Poppins was only in her head. ‘I’ll make sure Jane comes straight away, Sir,’ and she dashed off. Spit spot, giggling, as she stepped in time down the stairs to the CP room to be confronted by a Roman orgy; couples in suggestive poses, and Jack, hands on his hips.

  ‘Droll, very droll,’ he said and played an imaginary cricket shot.

  ‘Good shot.’ The Superintendent was there, which brought the room and Martin to attention, a couple of barks, la
rgely doggy Tourette’s. She thought about Martin, anything out of the ordinary and he would launch into multi-directional running and simultaneous barking. Last Christmas after a tipple of the Commander’s sherry, she gave Jack a hug and a kiss, which excluded Martin, naturally, as he had dog breath. Martin proceeded to bark and hump her leg. Mandy had been embarrassed at the jeering, and Jack’s comment to a room full of half-pissed coppers, “Martin’s only doing what I would like to do.” Mandy blushed just thinking about it, but boy did she recover. “You only want to fuck my leg?” she’d responded, and he’d whispered into her ear, “Nice save, love your perfume, is it Opium?” How did he know these things? He was your average dipstick bloke, but at times, he impressed.

  The scene in the CP room righted itself. ‘I won’t ask what you are doing, but will ask what you are all doing here?’ Mandy announced.

  Jo-Jums assumed the role of spokesperson, a role as a mother of four she was used to, a strong presence and people listened to her. ‘We were called back, can you tell us what’s happening, Ma'am?’

  Jack was alerted. ‘Who called you back? It wasn’t me.’

  ‘No, Jane, I think you were otherwise engaged,’ Jo-Jums fired back. An immediate chorus of “Ooh err Matron” ensued.

  Mandy took back control. ‘Right, get on with something, and you, Jane, the conference room now, pretty please with red injuns on top.’

  ‘Be right with you, Ma'am,’ Jack smarmed back.

  Mandy was halfway up the stairs when she thought, bugger, I’ve just mixed my things, and that note of respect from Jack, trying also to bring an image to mind; toilet paper and sellotape on both knees, as well as his big toe and forehead, were Jack’s shorts that filthy this morning, and what was that orange stuff around his neck, a scent of mango? Not unpleasant, maybe Dolly was using a different polish?

  Dolly was the pensioner cleaner. Jack insisted only Dolly clean his CP room and the floor be polished, the only place in the station that received this loving attention. Mandy wondered, even old girls, smelling ever so slightly of urine, fall in with what he wants. Mind, I don’t suppose it would be long before he’s smelling of his own wee, and she made a note to save that one up. Holding that thought and the giggle that went with it, Mandy re-entered the conference room.

  ‘What larks, Pip.’

  Mandy looked at the Commander askance. ‘You like Dickens, Sir?’ thinking Jack is getting through to the Commander, and this will stop Billy Bunter minus the school cap.

  ‘Don’t know, never been to one,’ at which Manners rolled up laughing, joined by the sycophant Paolo.

  Mandy looked at Cyrano, a despairing visage, ‘Nuff said.’ Cyrano, a man of few words, and Mandy thought, I’d take that right now.

  Eight

  Clutching his family-sized Tupperware lunch container, and a smaller one for Martin, who was not keen on salad, Jack clumsily opened the conference room door. Martin passed by, intent on Mandy’s crotch, while an affronted Lord Snooty Paolo injected into the disturbed atmosphere, ‘What’s that dog doing here?’

  Jack, distracted, looking for somewhere nice to eat his lunch, opined, ‘I’d say he was investigating the Venus areas of my beloved Superintendent.'

  Oh Christ, Mr Turnip head, Mandy thought, pushing Martin away, giving his scruffy head an affectionate scratch, heaven help us.

  Commander Manners stepped in to deflect the inevitable altercation. ‘Jack has his dog as a recommendation from the police psychiatrist, so roll with it, please.’

  Mandy rolled with her eyes to the ceiling, here we go, except there was a knock at the door, and bone-man, red-lipped, gobshite Hissing Sid, poked his head round the door. ‘Sorry, Sir, message for Jane...’ He paused, waiting for the nod from the Commander; Jack was still considering his seating options. ‘Your dad rang, again, will try to get you this evening; urgent. Michael’s home from school, he’s got dinner...’ Sid referred to his notes, ‘...Loch Etive trout from Waitroses, timed for....’ notes, ‘....6.30, he’s having a break then will get on with his homework, which he’s doing with Colleen.’

  Mandy thought, what does it say about this man, his teenage son, nearly eighteen, was reporting in, doing his homework and cooking dinner. Jack, but mainly Kate, she suspected, had done a good job.

  ‘Cheers, Sid, now feck-off,’ and still deciding on his seat, Jack looked at DCI Willie and, in a florid, overly mannered deckachairo Italian, ‘Eh, Paolo, whattsamattawivyou, you isa startin’ to lookalika my Mama,’ and reverting to his natural cockney, ‘put on a bit of weight, my cowson, comes from sitting on yer arris all day. Still got that Thai bride? Get Ting Tong to let the seams out.’

  Mandy, still processing someone telephoned saying he was Jack’s dad, knowing his dad had died six or seven years ago, recalling how upset he’d been, was shocked back to reality when she heard him say more or less what she had predicted, and her eyes hit the ceiling, again. Jack pulled up a seat for Martin, arranged a seat for himself so that he had to squash against Mandy’s leg. She gave him, in return, her old-fashioned look before shuffling her chair away, giving Cyrano the same look. ‘Move up, big nose, I don’t fancy your legs.’

  With hardly any discernible movement, Cyrano responded, ‘Leave that for Martin?’

  Oh my God, the Christmas story has got around the whole force, and after what seemed like half-an-hour, they were all seated, including Martin not so patiently waiting for his lunch.

  Jack politely acknowledged DCI Appleby with a nod and a mutter, ‘Cyrano’ and an equally muttered “Jane” from Bob Appleby.

  ‘Austin,’ the commander said.

  ‘Commander,’ Jack said.

  ‘Austin.’

  ‘Commander.’

  ‘For God’s sake, please,’ Mandy interjected, thinking the chuckling Commander was as bad as Jack.

  Unmoved, Jack plonked his and Martin’s lunch on the table, retrieved a spoon from his back pocket, which revolted Mandy as Jack was known for the occasional ripe fart, blaming Martin of course. ‘Commander, don’t mind if we eat our lunch, only we were somewhat preoccupied this morning?’

  Paolo was about to object when the Commander replied, ‘Not at all, Jane, I think we would be rather churlish to refuse after this morning’s heroics.’

  Martin had already snaffled his mackerel and, along with Mandy, was eying Jack’s salad with disgust. Noting it was Good Manners, Jack mumbled his Godfather impression, ‘Eh, Paolo, you wanna getta me a glassa water?’

  ‘Fuck-you,’ Paolo replied, not a hint of Italian.

  ‘Get him some water, Paolo,’ the Commander ordered sharply, and the Sissy shuffled to the water tower while Mandy mimicked Martin and sniffed the air, only she did it with a little more decorum; fish, she expected, mango again, not unpleasant. ‘Paolo, tell us why we’re here, please?’ the commander requested.

  Paolo smarmed, and in his fatally flawed way, paused too long, allowing Jack with a mouthful of mackerel and mussels to interject, ‘I know why we’re here,’ studying his pot to see what he might select next.

  ‘You do? Then why didn’t you tell me when I phoned just now?’ Mandy rounded on him, and Jack chewed, while Martin chased his box around the table top with his tongue and farted, only a bit, but discernible because Martin turned to look at his bum, shocked a police dog could do such a thing, and in a meeting?

  Jack, still with a partial mouthful, ‘My dearest Governor, I recall our telephone conversation was rather one-sided.’ Mandy, diverted by Jack’s food-stuffed grin, leaned back in her chair and called it a draw.

  ‘Okay, clever Dick, why are we here?’ Paolo spluttered, his face reddening.

  ‘Keep your girdle on, Paolo,’ Jack reacted, taking another mouthful and turning to Mandy, ‘many a true word, eh?’ This time Mandy got full on mackerel, mussels, red onion, and mango, and something else that made her feel sick. Jack noticed, ‘Sorry darlin’, Martin just let one go, better make a run for it, eh?’ and Martin snickered.

  Focused on mackerel and m
ussel edging in his teeth, Mandy still registered Jack’s aside about Paolo’s increasing weight. Pots and kettles, she thought, but annoyingly, he had that Jack Nicholson effect; some men grow old, run to fat, and still look good, but women! She thought affectionately of Jack's compliments, the way she looked, that he had always liked older women; well, you can’t have everything. She was aging, saw it in the mirror every morning, but Jack looked good, if you got past the ugly, not that she would tell him. She’d once told him he sang and whistled beautifully, obviously a mad moment, as he sang and whistled all the time and people frequently told him to shut up, and he would say, “Detective Superintendent Amanda Bruce says I have a lovely voice and whistle beautifully,” so the last thing she was going to say was Jack carried his weight well, whereas Paolo’s weight was definitely going to put Ting Tong and her sewing machine to the test sooner rather than later.

  ‘Well?’ Paolo asked.

  ‘Well,’ Jack said.

  ‘Jack!’ Mandy reacted, accompanied by a stare that could tear the skin of yer.

  ‘Sissies and Cyrano?’ Jack, obliging, ‘A new drugs firm on the block. Two gangland skirmishes, drugs related? I don’t think so.’ He ran his tongue around his mouth. ‘The sissies have been rattling cages in the badlands to no avail. Hardly surprising, this is too sophisticated for the gangland Herberts.’ He paused, combining dramatic effect with the opportunity to pop a couple of mussels into his mouth with his fingers, savoured them, but unluckily for Mandy, he turned to her. ‘Got my taste for mussels from my dad. He was from the East End of London and every Sunday morning he would...’