There was a long bar to the left, with tables, chairs and low black sofas to their right. The walls and vaulted ceilings were bare brick. Judging from the number of nods and smiles they got, the two men were clearly regulars. Maguire and Farmer commandeered a table by the wall while Vicky went to the bar. Most of the drinkers were men and heads turned as she ordered the drinks. The men to her right smiled at her, the ones to the left looked away as soon as they saw the damage to her face.
The barman who served her was in his twenties with gelled hair and designer stubble. He grinned as he put two pints of lager down in front of her. ‘You with the fire brigade, darling?’
‘What was it that gave it away? The burns?’
His jaw dropped in surprise and he took half a step back. ‘What? No. Fuck, no. Shit. Sorry.’ He looked around as if searching for an escape route, then moved closer to the bar and put his hands on it as he leaned towards her. ‘I meant that you came in with Danny and Des, that’s all. I’m so sorry if it came out wrong.’
Vicky felt her cheeks flush. ‘It didn’t, it was my fault. I’m sorry. I just get so used to being … you know … stared at.’
‘I wasn’t staring,’ he said. ‘I barely noticed it.’
‘Oh, come on …’
‘Seriously.’ He held out his hand. ‘Can we start again? I’m Matt.’
She smiled. ‘Vicky,’ she said. ‘And yes, I’m with the Fire Brigade.’ They shook hands and if anything she felt even more embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I overreacted. Really.’
‘Water under the bridge.’ He grinned. ‘Now I’ve forgotten what you wanted.’
‘Lager,’ she said.
Matt laughed. ‘You really are a fireman,’ he said.
‘Firefighter,’ she corrected him.
‘Whoops. Firefighter. Another pint of lager it is.’ He went over to the pumps and poured her pint. ‘It’s on the house,’ he said as he put the glass down in front of her.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said.
‘Only yours,’ he said. ‘I’m not giving Danny and Des free drinks. That’d be the road to ruin.’
She laughed and paid him, then took the drinks over to the table.
‘So, Danny says you impressed him at the meth lab,’ said Farmer.
‘I’m still on a learning curve,’ said Vicky.
‘She’s got a good eye, Des,’ said Maguire. ‘She spotted a bit of a battery that I’d missed. And she knows her way around a fire scene.’ He grinned. ‘And all her pictures were in focus, which is more than can be said for yours.’
Farmer scowled at him and sipped his pint.
‘The world would be a safer place if they’d stick to marijuana. The worst that can happen there is an electrical fire.’
Des grinned. ‘And a lot of grinning firefighters.’
Vicky frowned, not getting the joke.
‘The fumes,’ Maguire explained. ‘If a marijuana factory goes up in flames, anyone in the area tends to get a little high.’
‘Is there much marijuana growing?’
‘Bloody hell, yeah,’ said Maguire. ‘It’s an easy business to get into. You just need lights and water and seeds. But you have to get the wiring right or things start overheating. But meth production is a whole different animal. If something goes wrong, the whole building can go up in flames and the idiots doing it get badly burnt. Or worse.’
‘It’s a bugger of a drug,’ said Farmer. He sipped his pint, then took a couple of gulps before continuing. ‘You know the history, right?’ he asked Vicky. ‘Bikers were the first to make it for recreational use in the States. They got their ephedrine from farm feed. They used to hide the drug they made in their crankcases, which is why it got called crank.’
‘Now it’s got hundreds of street names,’ said Maguire. ‘Speed, fast, cinnamon, tweak, crystal, glass, ice – seems like there’s a new name for it every week. Google it and you’ll get dozens of recipes. The powers-that-be keep making it harder to get the raw materials but you’re up against the Internet so it doesn’t take long to find a way around it.’
‘It’s a losing battle?’ said Vicky.
Farmer shrugged. ‘People take mood-altering drugs. They always have done and always will. Methamphetamine is a bitch of a drug but alcohol causes far more deaths every year.’
‘Are you saying they should be legalised?’
‘Did I say that?’ Farmer snapped. ‘Did you hear me say that?’
‘I was inferring from what you were saying, that’s all. If meth is less dangerous than alcohol, why make it a criminal offence to have it?’
Farmer sighed and looked across at Maguire. ‘See what I’m up against? See what they’ve sent me?’ He looked back at Vicky and sighed again. ‘The point I was trying – and obviously failing – to make is that alcohol kills a lot more people each year than methamphetamine. More than eight thousand, every year. That’s disease, not accidents. Drug-related deaths? About a third of that, and they’re mainly heroin deaths. But far more people drink than take drugs.’ He raised his glass. ‘And it’s possible to drink socially for decades with no ill effects. You start taking methamphetamine and you’ll be dead within three years. There’s a world of a difference between the two. And legalisation would be a disaster for the country. So don’t start misquoting me, sweetheart.’
‘Point taken,’ said Vicky.
‘So how are you enjoying investigations?’ asked Maguire. ‘Other than the public bollockings.’
‘Like I said, I’m on a learning curve.’
‘And a bloody steep one it is,’ said Farmer.
‘Think you’ll stick at it?’ asked Maguire.
‘I don’t have any choice.’
Maguire frowned. ‘You didn’t ask for the job?’
‘Fuck no!’ said Vicky quickly. Then she held up her hand. ‘No offence.’
Maguire laughed. ‘None taken. So if you didn’t ask for the job, what are you doing here?’
‘They sent her, under duress,’ said Farmer. ‘She wants to be out fighting fires. But the powers-that-be want rid of her, so they sent her to me.’ He gulped down more lager.
‘Is that true?’ Maguire asked Vicky. ‘You didn’t go through the selection process?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘I don’t follow their logic,’ said Maguire, looking at Farmer. ‘How does she go from firefighter to investigator without any training?’
‘Basically they hope she’ll get so pissed off with me that she’ll quit.’
Maguire grinned. ‘Who could possibly not love working with you, Des?’ he said. ‘Misogynistic, sexist, bad hygiene, what’s not to like?’
‘They’re bastards,’ said Farmer. ‘They’re too lily-livered to do their own dirty work so they expect me to do it for them.’
‘I’m still sitting here, guv,’ said Vicky.
‘Don’t be coy, sweetheart,’ said Farmer. ‘You know as well as I do what they’re up to. I didn’t want an assistant, you didn’t want to work in fire investigation. But here we are.’
‘And how’s it working out for you both?’ asked Maguire, who was clearly enjoying winding them up.
‘So far, so good,’ said Vicky while Farmer sipped his drink.
Farmer put down his glass and sniffed. Maguire looked at him expectantly. Eventually Farmer shrugged. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘So far so good.’
Vicky couldn’t help but smile. It was the closest he’d got to paying her a compliment.
‘But it’s early days yet,’ added Farmer. He took out his pack of tobacco. ‘I need a smoke.’
‘I’ll join you,’ said Maguire, taking out a pack of Rothmans and a lighter.
‘Don’t you get enough smoke on the job?’ asked Vicky.
The two men stood up. ‘It’s not about the smoke, it’s the nicotine,’ said Maguire. ‘I’ve been a pack-a-day man for years.’
Farmer shook his head. ‘It’s the smoke I like.’
‘It’s about control, guv,’ said Vicky. ‘
You’ve got fire in your hand and you’re in control of it.’
Farmer threw her a withering look. ‘The last thing you want to be doing is psychoanalysing me,’ he said, jabbing his finger at her. He looked as if he wanted to say more but he just glared at her and followed Maguire out of the bar.
23
When Farmer came back after his smoke, he seemed in a better mood. Maguire left after just one pint. Vicky looked at Farmer expectantly, wondering if he was about to call it a night. He hadn’t mentioned her driving him home, but she assumed that’s what he’d want. ‘Are you in a rush?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine,’ said Vicky. She nodded at his empty glass. Hers was half full, she was still planning to drive home. ‘You want another?’
Farmer got to his feet. ‘The newbie buys the first round, you don’t have to keep buying my drinks,’ he said gruffly, and headed over to the bar.
Vicky looked around the bar. It was clearly the station’s local as there were half a dozen off-duty firefighters at the far end of the bar. As she’d been chatting to Maguire and Farmer she’d noticed them glancing over in her direction and she was pretty sure they were talking about her.
Farmer returned with his pint and sat down. ‘Checking out the talent?’ he asked, nodding at the firefighters.
‘There don’t seem to be many females at Dowgate,’ she said.
‘There’s a few,’ he said. ‘More’s the pity.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Vicky.
‘You know what I mean, sweetheart. Don’t go goading me.’
‘So it’s not just me you have a problem with? You’re against women firefighters in general?’
‘The plain fact is that women aren’t cut out to be firemen,’ said Farmer, folding his arms. ‘And the clue is in the name. Firemen.’
Vicky grinned. ‘The correct term since the seventies has been firefighters.’
Farmer shook his head. ‘It’s a man’s job, and you can’t say otherwise.’
‘Girton Ladies College had an all-women’s fire brigade from 1878 to the 1930s,’ said Vicky.
‘It’s sad that you would know that,’ said Farmer.
‘And during the Second World War there were seven thousand women in the National Fire Service.’
‘Yeah, well all the men were away fighting the bloody war,’ said Farmer. ‘What do you expect?’
‘There have been women firefighters in the London Fire Brigade since 1982.’
‘And you know how many have actually put in thirty years’ service? Five. They leave because they can’t hack it, or because they want kids.’
‘Is that any surprise when you see how they’re treated?’
‘Sweetheart, they’re treated exactly the same as the men, which is how it should be. And answer me this. If you were in a smoke-filled room on the top floor of a house, who would you want kicking down the door and dragging you out? A strapping six-foot rugby player or a five-foot-two blond with painted nails?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I’m serious. The LFB had to cut back the fitness and strength tests so that women can be allowed in. That’s an admission that women just aren’t as strong or as fit as men. And dropping standards puts lives at risk. How is a slip of a girl going to pull a fully grown man from a burning building? Answer me that?’
Vicky didn’t say anything, but slowly turned her scarred cheek towards him. He grimaced. ‘Okay, I apologise, no offence,’ he said. ‘I’m not talking about you here. You’re clearly as fit as a butcher’s dog but a lot aren’t.’
‘I’ve never come across a female firefighter yet who was less capable than a male officer,’ said Vicky. ‘But I’ve met a hell of a lot of overweight and unfit men who couldn’t keep up with me.’ She leaned across the table towards him. ‘I tell you what, guv. How about this? I’ll throw you over my shoulder and run a hundred yards down the street and back. Then you do the same with me. Quickest time wins.’
Farmer chuckled. ‘You think you could lift me? I’m what, sixteen stone?’
‘I’d say closer to eighteen. But yes, I can lift you. And run with you. And carry you out of a burning building if I had to.’
Farmer settled back in his seat. ‘This isn’t me saying you’re not cut out to be a fireman.’ He smiled and corrected himself. ‘Firefighter. I’m just staying that standards are standards and lowering them is never a good idea. Look at what happened to the police. They lowered their fitness and height standards to allow in more women and guys from ethnic minorities. You only have to look at the cops on the beat these days to see how that’s worked out. Some of them couldn’t run to save their life. And I swear last week I saw a midget in uniform and even with the pointy hat I don’t think he came up to my shoulders. Now they want to do that with the brigade. Lowering fitness standards in the LFB is the thin end of the wedge.’
‘You’re saying that the LFB should allow in women but only if they’re built like brick shithouses?’
Farmer picked up his glass and drank slowly. Vicky figured he was playing for time so she picked up her own glass and followed suit. Eventually he put down his glass and shrugged. ‘I guess I am, yes. Doesn’t mean they can’t be pretty shithouses and wear make-up, but yes, I’d want them as strong as men. Or stronger.’
‘Yeah, well, my bet stands. Happy to throw you over my shoulder whenever you want.’
‘I’ll pass,’ said Farmer. ‘Look, I’m not saying you’re not up to the job. You clearly are, and when the chips were down you proved that you’re as good as any man and probably better than a lot of them. I’m talking about your sex in general and when push comes to shove men are always going to be stronger than women – on average.’
‘Everyone knows that women are tougher than men, when it matters,’ said Vicky. ‘Maybe not physically, but mentally, and that’s where it counts.’
Farmer sipped his drink again and didn’t say anything.
‘A while back MI6 were looking to recruit assassins, to do all the dirty work the government needed doing,’ said Vicky.
Farmer looked at her over the top of his glass. ‘This is a joke, right?’
‘Just let me tell my story, will you? Okay, so they have narrowed their selection process down to three. Two men and a woman. And they set up a final test to see if they’ve got what it takes to be an assassin. They get the first applicant and they give him a gun. Now he doesn’t know it but they’ve put blanks in the gun. They tell him to open a door and kill the person who is sitting in the next room. So the guy opens the door and sees his wife, sitting on a chair. “I can’t do it,” he says, and gives them back the gun. He’s sent on his way. They do the same thing with the second guy. They give him the gun and send him into the room. He comes out a couple of minutes later, tears in his eyes, and says he can’t kill his wife. They send him on his way. So then it’s the turn of the third applicant. The woman. They give her the gun and tell her what to do. She opens the door and sees her husband. She goes inside and closes the door. For the next two minutes all they hear are screams and shouts and banging and crashing and more screams. Eventually the door opens. It’s the woman, covered in blood. “There were blanks in the gun,” she says. “I had to beat him to death with the chair.” She got the job, obviously.’ Vicky grinned, raised her glass and then drained it.
Farmer smiled. ‘So what are you saying? That you’d beat me to death with a chair if you were told to?’
Vicky grinned. ‘Without a second thought,’ she said. She stood up and held out her hand for his glass. ‘Another drink?’
24
Farmer was on his third pint when he mentioned Vicky’s father for the first time. ‘I knew your dad. He was a good guy.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ She smiled. ‘I mean, I know he was a good guy. I didn’t know you knew him.’
Farmer nodded. ‘I met him on a training course, not long after I joined. How to fight fires on the Tube. He came to talk to us about King’s Cross. He was a real hero, your dad.’
‘I know.’
Farmer continued as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘He was on the fourth pump to arrive and they went straight down, just before the flashover in the ticket office. If they’d got there five minutes earlier …’ He shrugged. ‘He was lucky.’
‘He always said that,’ said Vicky.
Farmer was in full flow. ‘He led five commuters to safety then went down again. Came back with three more and by then the smoke was so thick they couldn’t see their hands in front of their faces. But he went back down a third time. He was a brave man, all right.’
Vicky nodded. ‘They all were. There were a hundred and fifty firefighters attending. All because of one match. One stupid match.’
‘That’s all it takes, sometimes,’ said Farmer. ‘They’d never had a fatal fire on the Tube system, so the staff weren’t trained for it. And who the hell thought wooden escalators were a good idea? And because of that thirty people died.’ He drained his glass. ‘But it would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for your dad and the rest of them.’ He tried to get to his feet but it was too much of an effort and he sagged back into his chair. ‘Get me another drink, sweetheart.’
‘What is it with you and “sweetheart”? Do you call all women that, or just me?’
Farmer sighed. ‘Don’t get all PC on me, darling. It’s a term of endearment, not sexual harassment. Not that I’m capable of sexually harassing anyone at the moment.’ He sat back in his seat and burped loudly.
‘That’s what my dad used to call me. Sweetheart.’
‘Really? I didn’t know.’
‘How could you have known?’
‘God, I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s okay. It’s not that.’
‘Not what?’
She sighed. ‘It might be nice if you called me by my name sometimes, that’s all.’
‘You don’t use my name. It’s “guv” this and “guv” that.’
‘That’s a sign of respect. Calling me “sweetheart” is … well, it’s sexist.’
‘Was it sexist when your dad did it?’
The Sh0ut Page 14
