by TL Dyer
‘It’s yours, mate. Just show them, yeah? Let them see what PC Steven Fuller is really capable of.’
Chapter 3
My old friend’s words are still ringing in my ears when I collect my gear from the locker and meet Sacha at the car. She’s head down rummaging around in the boot when I join her, making room for my kit bag. I apologise for taking so long. She gives me a warm smile and tells me she’s completed all the checks and we’re good to go. She drove last night, so she goes to the passenger side without argument. There’s a synergy working with Sacha that’s like a breath of fresh air. I’d work with her every shift, given the chance. Little things, but they make a difference.
‘Everything alright, mate?’ she asks, when I get into the driver’s seat and pull the door closed. ‘Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I tell her I’m fine, pull on the seatbelt and we roll out. It’s 8.40 by the digital clock on the dash, and as we clear the station car park, it’s already dark. Town’s busy on most nights, even midweek, so we’ll take a recce of the main hotspots, see if we can catch trouble early before it escalates.
‘Bit of a whiff in here, isn’t it?’ my companion says, sniffing at the air and looking over her shoulder at the rear seats. ‘I had a good snoop around, but couldn’t identify it.’ Her face is a grimace when she turns back. ‘Probably some sick down under the seat. They never think to lift it and clean underneath, do they?’
I slow at the traffic lights at the front of the station and look down past the tan and red brick building towards the Pill area, wondering if Jonesy will hold his nerve. I didn’t want to tell him the chances of Boucher turning up at home tonight are rare. It won’t hurt him to stay alert.
‘They think about it,’ I say, in response to Sacha’s comments about our colleagues on the opposite shift. ‘They just can’t be arsed to do it.’
The traffic light changes to green and we move impossibly slowly through them as the Nissan in front plays cautious with the speed limit.
‘Uh-oh.’
I snap my head left to my partner, but it’s me she’s uh-ohing and nothing else.
‘I sense we’re in a cynical mood tonight,’ she adds, her lips pursing into an amused scowl. Like that, she looks harmless. Some idiots have her pinned as harmless – a five-foot-four female with soft features, dark hair and a pleasant smile. Until they step over the line and she’s forced to prove otherwise.
‘Sorry.’ So much for inspiring the team. But Sacha holds up her hands.
‘Hey. Perfectly understandable. Man of your many, many years of experience.’
‘Oy. One less many next time, thank you very much. Plenty left in me yet.’
‘Wouldn’t doubt it for a second,’ she says, gazing through the window, clocking every street and person we pass. It makes me think the better candidate for our sergeant is sitting right beside me. I might have said that to her, if not for Ange and Freddie breathing down my neck. A PC like Sacha wouldn’t waste much time making it through the ranks. I wonder if that’s what her plan is, but it’s not my place to ask. She has the young boy at home and that complicates things, perhaps. For some, maybe separating home and job is a lot more complicated. More so than it’s ever been for me, that’s for sure.
Our first call comes over the radio ten minutes later when we’ve driven over as far as St Woolo’s Hospital and are just dropping back down into the town via the Crown Court to the railway station. The call is for assistance at an RTC on Caerleon Road, about half a mile away. One unit is already in attendance from the St Julians ward, but they need more to assist with the traffic. Sacha radios that we’re on our way, and I hit the blues and twos to get us through the busiest part of the city.
Caerleon Road is a principal route into and out of Newport from the M4 motorway, and traffic can be busy day or night. Which means we’re barely over the bridge at Clarence Place and bearing left in the incident direction, when its knock-on effect is already evident. A queue of vehicles backs up as far as the kebab shop across the road from the tax offices, and our way through it is further hampered by the impatient idiots manoeuvring a three-point turn in the space we need to get through. I slam on the horn more than once, though you’d think the flashing lights and blaring siren would be enough. Even Sacha lets fly a few expletives and waves her arms when a Transit driver underestimates the logistics of executing a three-point turn with a van on a narrow road. Turns out more than three moves are required.
By the time we make it through, assistance has already arrived from elsewhere, but we stay to help reroute the tailback the quickest way possible around the side roads. With a system of one-way streets complicating things further, what turns out to be a non-life-threatening collision between a Ford Focus and a Newport City Council bus could have caused more difficulties had we not kept the flow of traffic running. In less than forty-five minutes, the incident site is cleared and road reopened.
‘Nice to work traffic for a change,’ Sacha says, as she rubs her hands to warm them, now that we’re in the car again. She’s being sarcastic, but not with the bitterness some of the others would have lumped on top.
‘Who are we to question?’ I say, swinging the car around to return to the ward we’re meant to be patrolling. ‘Do as we’re told and say nothing is best.’
When I glance over, she’s beaming from ear to ear. ‘I bloody love working with you, I do.’
Her Welsh valleys accent comes out unfiltered when she lets her guard down, and it makes me laugh as we drive over the bridge and across the roundabout in the direction of the railway station. ‘Likewise,’ I say, thinking how much different the night would be going if I were on shift with Peghead or Russell, or even jumpy Jonesy.
‘Cuppa?’ she asks, pulling a slim gold flask from the side pocket on the door.
‘Love one.’
She rests the flask on her thigh until I’ve negotiated the one-way system and brought us into the railway’s car park. I choose a spot near the end where we can see everything but still be easily seen ourselves. Nothing like an occupied cop car to lower the crime rate of an evening. Sacha wastes no time unscrewing the cap of the flask, because there’s also nothing like having a cup of tea ruined by a call-out. Talk about living on your nerves.
‘All a copper wants is to get through his brew in peace,’ I say, taking the plastic cup from her. She retrieves the second one she’s brought from the side pocket. That’s the other thing about Sacha, she always brings enough sustenance for everyone, never just for herself. Not like those other miserly sods.
‘I’ll split mine with you on the next break. Coffee, though. That alright?’
‘Crucial as the night goes on.’ She screws the top back on the flask and taps her cup against mine.
It’s coming up to ten o’clock and small groups loiter around the pubs before heading to the clubs later. From here we have a bird’s-eye view of the popular hangouts, and by popular I mean notorious. Flashes of colour light up and then disappear behind frosted windows, and the steady muffled thumping of a drumbeat comes from inside each time the traffic eases enough to hear it, or when the front doors open and drinkers spill in or stumble out.
‘That your kind of thing, then?’ I ask Sacha, nodding over the street.
She makes a noise, something like a strangulated sheep, then follows it up with, ‘Sometimes. I mean, I don’t go out so often any more, not like I used to. Take it or leave it. Though we did have a mate’s birthday last weekend.’ She stares over the street, lips snagging lazily up to one side. ‘S’alright, I suppose. We had Sex on the Beach, that was pretty good.’
‘What beach?’
She laughs and looks over. ‘Newport Beach, of course. Bloody hell, Steve, you don’t get out much either, do you? It’s a cocktail.’
‘Oh right. What’s in that, then?’
‘Don’t really know, but it was orange. Vodka, I think. Schnapps. That sort of thing. Sweet, but really nice.’ Something outside the passenger window catches her e
ye and all I can see is the back of her head. I lean forward to see what she might have spotted, but then she turns back. ‘You should tell your Ange. She’d love it.’
‘What, sex on the beach? I dunno.’ I lower the plastic cup of tea to my thigh. ‘We’re getting a bit old for that kind of adventure now.’
‘Boom boom. PC Fuller makes a funny.’
‘Think I’ll stick to John Smith’s, thanks.’
‘Ah, come on. My ninety-four-year-old great aunt swears by trying something new at least once a month.’
‘Don’t tell Smithy that, he’ll be asking for her number.’
‘Nah, he’s way too old for her. She likes them young.’
‘Christ, how young we talking? Smithy’s just a baby.’
‘He’s at least my age. Got to be. Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.’
‘Exactly. A baby. Best you don’t tell me any more about your great aunt, Sacha.’
We both watch two lads come out of the pub wearing thin t-shirts that flap around their skinny midriffs in the breeze like yachts floundering in a squall. One rummages in the pocket of his jeans, the other bounces from one foot to the other and hurries his mate along. Sacha reaches for her copper’s lid on the dash, but then the boy pulls free a packet of cigarettes and they both take one out and light up. She relaxes into the seat.
‘Suppose you’ve got to let your hair down once in a while, haven’t you?’ she says, backing it up with a less than encouraging sigh.
When her words sink in, I look over to see if she’s serious. I think she is.
‘Well, if you can, I mean,’ she says, with a pathetic attempt to hide the smirk and spare my feelings.
‘Cheeky so and so.’
Out of instinct, I crane my neck to glance in the rear-view mirror, touch my hand to my receding hairline. I’m one of the lucky ones, at least I still have hair; and it’s the proper colour. There’s just not as much of it as there used to be. Certainly the fringe that had dangled over my eyes as a teenager has long since gone. I don’t think I’ll ever manage a fringe again. To avoid knowing for sure though, I never try. Aside from SEWP’s guidelines on acceptable appearance, I prefer it neat and trimmed. Less to worry about. Less to fuss with. I’ll be forty this year, for Christ’s sake, what would I want to be faffing about with hair for, anyway? It’s not like there’s anyone to impress.
‘Would you say I’m passionate?’ I ask, forgetting about the hair and swirling the last drop of tea in the bottom of the cup before knocking it back.
Sacha pulls a face that’s hard to interpret, other than it’s not reassuring. ‘Am I the right person to answer that? Maybe you should ask your missus.’
I tut as I hand her the empty cup. ‘Not like that, you drip. In the job, I mean.’
She shifts in her seat to evaluate me properly, eyebrows caving in and lips edging to one side while she chews on the inside of her mouth.
‘Well, if you have to take so long about it...’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Suppose?’
‘Yeah. No, yeah, I’d say you were. Yeah.’
I run my tongue over the outside of my teeth. She’s backtracking, but we both know it’s too late. I, instead, am wondering how to tell Ange I don’t think sergeant is right for me after all.
‘What about me?’ she asks, with an amused smile and a tilt of the chin as if she’s trying for a modelling job.
‘You’re not going for sergeant though, are you?’ I say. But what I mean is, You have more passion and diligence in your right earlobe than all of us put together.
‘Not good enough for you any more are we, us lowly beat coppers?’ she teases.
‘Not that. Not at all. Just... I mean...’ I don’t know. I’ve no idea what I mean. ‘It’s what we do, isn’t it? Aim higher, better?’
‘Well,’ she says, light-hearted. ‘Higher’s not always better though, is it? I prefer it where I am for now, thanks very much.’
She drops the empty flask back into the side pocket and straightens herself in the seat. No immediate plans for promotion for her, then. I’m not as disappointed about that as I thought I would be. If anything, I admire her even more. Her dedication. That’s what I had. Dedication to the dregs of the job, the one on the street. I still have it. Most of the time.
‘Yeah. Not bad, is it?’ I say, just as a call comes over the radio.
Two minutes later and we’re doing fifty back through the scene of the incident we attended earlier, heading for the motorway. With the blues on, we make it through a lot quicker this time, and I put my foot down to get us to the M4 and another RTC. It’s a busy night in the neighbourhoods, meaning we’re the first to arrive after cutting through the traffic that’s already building on the westbound carriageway. It’s chaotic, cars not knowing whether to stop or go. An articulated lorry has taken the initiative and angled itself across two lanes to prevent any further collisions. Which means it’s only when we edge around the HGV that we see what we’re dealing with.
‘Shit!’
Sacha’s expletive hangs in the air between us before she radios in that we’ve arrived on scene. And that more assistance is required urgently.
Chapter 4
I stop the car in the last lane of the carriageway, leaving the blues on. Another unit comes in behind us and there are more sirens echoing in the distance.
‘Traffic,’ I tell Sacha, pulling my reflective jacket from my kit bag in the boot. I shrug it on over my utility vest and zip it up. Sacha does the same with hers, then conveys the message to those arriving that they need to stop any more traffic from getting through. There’s plenty of room to keep the one lane moving, but not while debris and tyre marks are spread over all three lanes and we need to find out what happened.
So far, I can only see one vehicle. It’s the right way up, but all the panels, from the doors to the roof to the boot, are caved in, which tells me it’s rolled. In the place where it’s come to a stop, the front nearside wheel has landed in the ditch off the side of the road so the whole thing tilts up a few inches at an awkward angle. The debris is everywhere. I’m walking towards the wreckage, knowing what I’ll find. No one could survive that.
I radio in that CIU is required on scene, and Control confirms the Collision Investigation Unit have been informed and are already preparing to despatch. ETA imminent.
It’s a Fiat, the badge in the road tells me, though hard to tell which. Bigger than a 500. Perhaps a Punto. There’s no reg plate on the back, it’s gone, so has the boot lid, but ridiculously the rear lamps are immaculate; not even a crack. Chaos unfolds behind me. Sirens and engines and shouted orders. But the closer I get to the car, the further away that chaos recedes, until the only sound is that of my boots on the tarmac. It’s like someone’s turning down the volume. Or maybe I’m just tuning it out.
The instructions from the radio go in – units attending to divert traffic from the slipway; fire, ambulance, CIU on route – but even that comes from down a long tunnel somewhere and gets filtered along the way so I only catch what I need to. I glance once down the carriageway ahead of me, eerily silent at that end of the motorway, empty of vehicles and anything or anyone else.
I’m just a few steps from the wreckage now. No time to think or brace or hesitate. I reach inside my jacket for the flashlight on my vest and shine it onto the rear seats. No baby or child seat this time, thank god. Only glass and bits of trim, the seat cushion torn, like a blade has sliced right through it, its stuffing spewing out. The passenger door is inverted, but I’m looking past that to the figure behind the wheel. All I see is hair. Thick, dark, long. No movement. A strong smell of fuel.
I turn and call Sacha, who comes running over. ‘Check the area,’ I say before she gets to me. ‘Just in case.’
She agrees and waves to another officer to help. She knows what I mean. The windscreen is out and there’s a chance any passengers might have gone through it. It’s quite something, how far an object can travel when propelled at speed.
>
I retreat again into the silence as I come around the wreck to the driver’s side. The window has gone here too, but it’s left a lethally jagged edge close to the front door trim. The woman isn’t moving. Her chin is tipped to her chest, seatbelt on and locking her in place. The deployed airbag has deflated and a thin mist of powder hangs in the air, though most of it will have been sucked out through the windows. I reach in and pull her hair aside, touch my fingers to her neck. I still myself to differentiate her pulse from my own, detect instead the faint rise and fall of her chest. She’s breathing.
The noise of the chaos comes back in a rush as I look over the top of the car’s roof for a paramedic. But all that’s there are the blues of our own cars and more lights further down amid the waiting traffic. Into the radio I stress the urgency for medical assistance, one female casualty. I try the door.
‘Hello?’ I call to the woman. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’
The door won’t budge, it’s jammed. Something under the crushed bonnet hisses, though the engine is off. There’s no point trying the rear doors, there’s not much left of them, but the passenger door opens once I put my boot to it. I drop one knee onto the broken glass on the passenger seat, the metal shell groaning beneath me.
‘Hey. Can you hear me?’
The woman’s head tilts my way with the movement of the car, and also because she’s trying to lift it.
‘It’s okay. Take your time. You’re alright.’
I avoid shining the torchlight directly at her while I try to assess her injuries. I don’t want her to panic at what she might see.
‘How you doing there?’ My voice is calm, like this is somewhere we meet every Wednesday night.
She groans, eyelids flutter. Blood seeps from her forehead into a thin streak down the side of her face. Spots of it have landed on the dress she wears, but not in any significant amount. She stirs some more, so I run the torch quickly over the space between our two seats to shed some light on the lower half of her body. But I see nothing, only that the impact has pushed the steering column over her knees. There’s only an inch or two of her thighs before the rest disappears under metal and plastic.
