Cause And Effect

by Pete Adams

  Portsmouth Evening News

  Mother Ship Pub Brawl

  Crime reporter: Bernie Thompson.

  A police spokesman said officers were at the scene within a few minutes of receiving the call from landlord, Len Bone, but could not comment on the cause of the fight, which was the subject of an ongoing investigation. The three injured persons, taken to QA Hospital, were known members of the National Front and will be questioned by Police.

  There is no local Community Policing committee in this area, but the Chairman of citywide community policing, Captain John V. Littleman RN, said, “There is a two-tier society developing where the working-class areas get a rapid response police service, but the middle classes, those who actually pay their council taxes and are law-abiding citizens, have to put up with a reduced police cover and are at risk daily from the riff-raff.”

  Captain Littleman is tipped to be the next Conservative candidate for Portsmouth North.

  Sparrow’s fart. Jack wobbled beside his bed; he ached and deep breaths hurt. In the bathroom mirror, he thought, if seen in a prudential light, the damage to his black and blue face seemed superficial; physically a wreck, ego intact. He suppressed tears, thinking of Martin. Alice had telephoned in the night; she and Alfie had taken Martin to the animal hospital over the hill in Wickham. He was concerned, he did not trust Wickham, the slimy snake out of PP, but Alice reassured him it was an animal hospital. Alfie had found out where the vet lived, who got out of bed to deal with Martin. Jack wondered if he should inquire as to what threat or benevolence Alfie had to bestow, but Alice volunteered her uncle had given the vet five grand in cash and no other option.

  Jack was touched by Alfie’s generosity, ignored how someone can have five grand in their pocket and what else was needed to induce the vet to get up? Leave that for another day, or never, probably a horse head in his bed. Alice had gone on to say Alfie felt responsible for what had happened and would take care of any costs for Martin, who had several broken ribs and was being kept in for monitoring in case he showed signs of internal injuries. The prognosis was he would be sore, but okay in three or four weeks. Jack asked about visiting hours, and she’d laughed, "Anytime you want, even if you have to get the vet out of bed."

  Jack showered. ‘Bugger shaving, I’ll have to look trendy,’ he said to the wreck in the mirror. Binned his ruined clothes, thought about the cycle ride into work and remembered his bike had been nicked. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ Did he stamp his foot? Lucky it was the good one, the other was likely tantrum sensitive. It was Friday, he would drive into work, and in the afternoon get down to Bazaar Bikes and get himself another second-hand bike, an orange box from the greengrocers, and get Martin’s front gunner seat sorted over the weekend; shame about the Noddy blanket.

  Downstairs by 6.30, he looked like a battered cartoon character. He’d taped up his toe and put on his builder’s, steel toe cap boots he’d bought for when he went on demonstrations and people were apt to tread on his size-twelve feet that stuck out at a quarter-to-three. En route to the kitchen, he decided not to make his muesli and have a canteen fry-up. Jack always bought the ingredients for his muesli and made it up just how he liked it; Kate had pushed him to look after himself. Funnily enough, although he said often man was not born to eat bird seed, after a while, he got to like his muesli and frequently told his colleagues where he bought the ingredients and how he made it himself, describing the recipe and process. Although they gave the appearance of being bored rigid, Jack knew it was just a front, and probably they were doing the same at home.

  Having said that, and to himself, every now and then Jack would have a full-English fry-up in the police canteen, especially if he was a little down, his comfort food; and as he approached the kitchen, his mouth was already watering. He needed comfort and quickly but saw Michael had made his muesli and had left a note, “You said I could have the car today, wake me up before you go go.”

  ‘Sod it,’ and Jack called a cab, decided to let Michael know about Martin tonight, and he was in the station just after seven, having forgotten to wake Michael before he went, went and eat, eat his muesli.

  The scent of hardened arteries pervaded the halls and corridors of this ugly police station, built for utility, not aesthetics, but Jack, perversely, loved it, and he put this down to a long working relationship with the building, flickering lights, scuffed walls and dangerous stairs. Bit like his community policing room Dolly made shine, a real woman’s touch, and he thought of Mandy touching him, then Kate, Martin’s licks, and this made him crave comfort even more. The melancholic Jack Austin surfaced, but as his psychiatrist had said, if you want comfort food, you obviously need comforting. The good thing about head doctors was they gave you really good excuses, and Jack used and embellished them all.

  Dawson was uncomfortable as he watched Jack enter the police station. Jack was aware he would have learned of last night's fracas from the desk sergeants’ grapevine. Dawson struggled, what to say, so Jack let him off the hook, ‘Morning Dawkins, suppose you heard about last night?’

  Gripping the edge of the counter, a nervous tick in one of Dawson’s fingers Jack thought would come in handy picking his nose, the sergeant replied, ‘Sorry to hear about Martin, how is he?’

  ‘No, I meant someone nicked my bike.’ More fingers joined in, so Jack let him off again, confident he’d saved Dawkin’s nose. ‘Martin’s in a bit of a two and eight, but unless he has internal injuries, he’ll be okay, thanks for asking.’

  ‘He’s a lovely dog.’

  ‘See the Commander’s in, what's happening?’

  Dawson relaxed enough to release the counter. ‘D'you mean apart from you taking the Mother Ship and half the Nazi party down last night, not much. The Commander’s in with Nobby,’ a warm smile, and Jack felt kindness to the man who had to go home and preferred to stay at work.

  ‘I’m going to the canteen.’

  ‘Okay, Jack.’

  ‘Jane,’ Jean shouted, slipping out from behind the servery, wiping her hands on her apron and calling to the ladies of the canteen. Jack watched the sensitive animated face approach. Jean was head canteen bird, and next to Jo-Jums, was Mumsey personified, bleach-blond, frizzy hair, blue eyeliner, a wrinkled but warm face that reminded Jack of the prunes he put into his muesli, and frankly, this is what he needed this morning, Jean, not the prunes. She was not the rounded Mumsey, but the sparrow stick version, a bit like Dolly, he thought as he heard Jean’s Pompey chimes approach.

  ‘Said he’d be in for his comfort food,’ and the ladies in the canteen, all shapes and sizes, surrounded Jack, circled their matriarchal arms around him and hugged, asking after Martin and squashing him in all the wrong places. It hurt, was comforted, started to cry and couldn’t stop. Jack sensed the ladies retreat. Mandy stared from the doorway; he stared back, looked at his feet, his arms involuntarily wind-milling. He put his head to one side in a, I cry, so what can I tell you? She opened her arms; message received and understood.

  ‘Come here, you big lummox.’ He ever so slowly walked to her open arms, comforted he was her lummox, and Mandy embraced, hugged, and cried with him. ‘I’m so sorry, I phoned the vet, Martin will be okay.’

  ‘You phoned the vet?’ muffled, he had his head on her shoulder and was thinking about seeing if he could snuggle into her breasts.

  ‘Yes, I was concerned.’

  Postponing his mammary mission, ‘How d’you get the number?’

  ‘Alice phoned.’

  ‘Didn’t ring to see how I was.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Well... I hurt,’ so she hugged him, he winced, but nobody appreciated good wincing.

  After a period of sobs, ouches and mumbles, a resounding clap of hands made Jack jump, and it irritated as he had his head resting on Mandy’s bosoms.

  ‘Jack, full-English?’ Jean took control. Mandy put a finger up to indicate, for her too, and they went to a far corner table, sat and stared out of the window, across the room
, the floor, ceiling, anywhere but into each other’s eyes, or his one. They ate their breakfast in companionable silence; Jack finished off Mandy’s spare sausage and hash brown. She said nothing, which was a bleedin’ miracle in itself, he thought. Mandy shooed people away, eventually whispering they should go upstairs.

  ‘Ooh err matron.’

  ‘You’re better,’ she responded, standing.

  He placed his hand gently on the top of hers, and she sat, engaged his eye. ‘You think I’m a loose cannon.’

  ‘Think!’ Things were certainly returning to normal.

  ‘I need your help, Amanda,’ she knew it was serious, he had used her full name, ‘you think I blagged the investigation that I know nothing about what’s going on. Not true.’

  Leaving the table was no longer an option; she also liked the feel of his hand, and the look as his eye held hers. ‘What is it, Jack?’

  He took a deep breath, ‘I asked Biscuit to join our team, and now I’m worried, he’s on the missing list.’

  ‘You suggesting Community Policing can be a danger to your health?’ her gentle laugh stifled; he was serious.

  ‘Depends, what you knew?’

  ‘Jack, how do you know all this?’ Her turn to be serious.

  He thought she looked beautiful, wanted to kiss her. ‘Can’t say, but I want you to run with my calls this morning. Paolo’s going to want to lead, and I’m going to let him.’

  ‘You are?’

  He looked at her as if to say, Yeah, Yeah. Mandy made to interrupt, but he put his hand on hers again. She felt a jolt of electricity. Jack noticed it as well and warmth bathed through him; for a moment, he didn’t feel so alone. ‘Paolo will lead off with strategies, blah, blah, I’m going to ask for Alice and Nobby, and two squad cars on alert, just in case.’

  Putting her other hand on top of his and gently gripping, ‘Jack, I will back you because something is going on. I also know it generally revolves around you, and I don’t want you hurt. So yes. By the way, did you know the Commander is in this morning? Is that also something to do with you?’

  He nodded.

  Fifteen

  In what looked like a new shiny suit, Paolo had installed himself in front of the crime wall and arranged the chairs to face him, nervy. The Commander had stayed, and he braced for a confrontation as Jack, and when this did not happen, he was palpably disconcerted.

  ‘Eh, whattsamattawivyou, why you no makatha starta?’ Mandy said with a chuckle.

  Jack loved Mandy’s sense of humour; the Commander was also tickled. Paolo enjoined the exuberance, and his team followed. Confucius was wary. Frankie patted her hand and whispered something; Frankie had moved in, was moving in.

  Paolo kicked off, smarmily, ‘I see someone’s got the crime wall going, nice attempt. We’ll sort that, show you how it’s done.’

  Mandy interrupted, ‘Commander, d‘you want to stay behind, find out where you went wrong?’ Paolo choked, and it dawned on Mandy, Jack had set this up the previous evening, bringing the Commander together with his son. She stole a glance, Jack was smiling, she liked his smile. Shite teeth, she thought, knocked about he always said, but a lovely smile if you screwed your eyes up. Paolo stammered excuses, Mandy listened and imagined, in the same position Jack would have gone to PP, quoted some extended bastardised text about meeting Wickham in Mereton, he called Worthington, or something equally stupid, and by the time he’d finished, he would have defused the situation; the difference between the two men. Mandy was proud of Jack, although her gut instinct informed her, trouble was brewing on Cherry Tree Lane, but where from? She looked around with her, wary head on.

  Paolo restarted, ‘There’s a new drugs outfit in town, which is why I have invited Cyrano to assist...’ Cyrano flinched, but let it go. Paolo unaware. ‘...How is the stuff getting in and where’s it going, Cyrano anything to add?’ Cyrano shrugged, Paolo gathered himself. ‘My team will work strategies, any questions?’

  Jack resisted, left it to Mandy. ‘That’s it, is it?’

  A ripple of laughter, and Paolo realised what seemed like a punchy and succinct briefing to him when he rehearsed it in front of the bathroom mirror this morning, despite being hurried up by Ting Tong, was in reality, lacking. ‘Well, early days, I expect we will start to build a picture as the investigation gains momentum.’

  Mandy pressed, ‘What about Community Policing?’

  Paolo responded sheepishly, ‘Ma’am, I expect Jane to organise his team into basic ground research. Intel from the street, any ideas here, Jane, apart from smashing up pubs, Nazis and coitus interruptus, your contribution, I am sure, will be valued.’ Paolo sneered, it came naturally to him; a ripple of laughter confined to the sissies, supporting their man.

  You patronising gobshite is what Jack wanted to say, but instead, in a polite and civilised manner, worrying Mandy and everyone else. ‘Ma’am, I would like Alice Springs and Nobby with me this morning. Springs is briefed,’ he looked at Alice, ‘can you bring Nobby up to speed?’ Alice nodded. ‘Jo-Jums, I’d like two squad cars at the ready, then if you could head up a team to look out for Biscuit, please. He didn’t show last night. He was worried about something, what were his enquiries? Biscuit is missing, and I fear for his safety...’ he paused, allowing Paolo to steam, ‘....I’m not convinced this is about drugs, although drugs are certainly involved, maybe funding something. My gut instinct? It’s about power. On the streets? Who knows? The key question will be who and what are they intending to do with this power? So listen up for shifts, anyone uncomfortable, has anyone new surfaced?’ Jack allowed a little time for this to settle while Mandy confirmed he could have all that he wanted. ‘Cyrano, you okay teaming up with Jo?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘If I might make a suggestion,' Jack followed on, 'sound out known drug barons, suppliers and street infrastructure because you can be sure they’re looking for these guys just as much as we are. Sit in on the interrogation of the East Cosham gang members, please, although this doesn’t gel, there’s something else there, religion, radical Christians? What the hell?’

  ‘Okay, Jane,’ Cyrano moved, settled, probably exhausted.

  Jack moved on, ‘Frankie and Confucius, money movements. Port Authority, check on ferry traffic, anything odd? I've a feeling this is small. If we can crack this, we might just find out what’s really brewing, but my bet is this will be only the start.’ He called out to the ether, ‘Frankie, can you get me a new idiot proof phone, please. Mine, for some inexplicable reason, gave up the ghost last night.’ Frankie gave Jack a knowing glance, an American rolled salute, and this surprised Mandy; it was familiar?

  Paolo grudgingly admired the way Jack had taken control, but needing to get the knife in, swung his arms around to enlist everyone in his question, ‘Jane, enlighten us, what do you think is going on?’

  Jack rubbed his stubbly chin, thought he must look like one of those male models. He noticed Mandy giggling and realised he’d spoken his thoughts but ploughed on, ‘Happening? Don’t know, but let’s be clear,’ he panned his one eye, ‘not a word outside this team, something is not right in our State of Denmark. I believe Biscuit found something and has been nobbled before he could tell me last night. So the investigation stays here. Are we right on that?’ A healthy chorus of agreement flattered Jack, but he already knew he was good at rallying the troops. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Just one, Jane,’ the Commander, ‘is the wall okay?’

  ‘Yep, exactly how we want it, thanks, Jamie, and you, of course, Nobby. Oh and, Commander, I don’t want any volunteers in the chain of communication, please.’

  The Commander looked shamefaced. ‘Noted, heard about last night. God save us from do-gooders.’

  ‘It’s not the do-gooders, Jamie, it’s the government cutting costs and at the same time passing responsibility to the people, and making us feel grateful for the opportunity; don’t play cards with Mackeroon or Blogg. Okay, let’s get to it. Jo-Jums my back up; Alice, brief Nobby; and stab ve
sts.’ The Commander blanched, ‘I’ll look after him,’ and patted the Commander on his shoulder.

  ‘I know you will, Jack, I know.’

  Jack mouthed a thank you to Mandy, touched her shoulder, and got a warm smile in return as he telephoned the vet.

  ‘Martin is pretty knocked about, but thankfully he may not have anything seriously wrong internally. We operated last night to manipulate his ribs and dislocated jaw, stitched the knife wound on his back leg. I will keep him for about a week, let me have your mobile number, and I will call if anything changes,’ the vet said.

  Jack gave the vet Mandy’s number. ‘When can I see him?’

  ‘I believe the gentleman who arranged for Martin’s care arranged flexible visiting. I will give you the out of hours number.’ Jack noted this down, thanked the vet. ‘Mr Austin, I would like to say you should not take a pet on a police operation.’

  Miffed, Jack replied, ‘Martin is a police officer, and if you would tell him I've bought some PAL, please, it’ll brighten him up.’

  The vet was unfazed, ‘I do not think tin food is good for Martin. We recommend the Science diet; it is a dry pellet food that will give Martin all the nutrients he needs.’

  ‘Yeah, Doc, don’t mention that,’ and Jack hung up, did a wheelie on his imaginary motorbike, screeched the tyres, and went out to meet Keanu’s mum. He stopped in reception, kept his engine idling as partial reality dawned, his bike had been nicked, how could he have forgotten that? Revved and carried on into the rear car park, trusting in fate, looked around and there was a beat bike used by cycling patrol coppers, that’ll do. The beat bike was fantastic, working gears, oiled, so no squeaking. Jack pedalled and felt okay.

  Portsea was flat, and cycling was easy, but as you left the island, so the land rose sharply, but what was the odd incline to Olympic cyclist, Bradley Biggins? Up the hill, not bad, Jack thought as he pushed the bike. Nobody watching is the most important bit, did you ever see Biggins pushing his bike up a hill? Of course not. Some flat bits that were the approach to Keanu’s house, one among many in this council house estate. A spurt of speed and a sharp braking manoeuvre outside the Splif residence, just to show anyone watching he was not to be messed with. He dismounted, realised he had no lock and this was bandit territory; they probably had his old bike. He walked the bike to the front door, rang the bell, it didn’t work, tried the knocker, it fell off in his hands, and he was about to bash the door with his fist when Gail appeared. ‘Hallo, Gail,’ she took the knocker from him, ‘stone me, you’re gigantic.’