by TL Dyer
Dan comes into the room in joggers and a hoody. His eyes follow an invisible line across the floor to the table, his hair gravitates to all points of the compass.
‘Alright?’ I say, as he drops into the chair opposite and drags the cereal box and bowl towards him. Ange must have left them out for him.
He responds with something similar, his deepening voice lost to the rattle of the Chocolate Squares hitting the bowl. He fills it to the top, looks around the table, then gets up to fetch the milk carton from the fridge, the one I’d put back earlier; Ange must have left that out for him too. He brings it to the table and I check my watch.
11.39am.
Thursday.
Not holidays. Not yet.
‘Why aren’t you in school?’ I ask, when my brain fails to find the answer by itself.
‘You were supposed to take me,’ he says without looking up, and shovels a spoonful of squares into his mouth. Crunches.
The conversation I had with Ange last night before shift comes back to me. ‘Shit. You should have woken me.’
He shrugs one shoulder and goes on eating.
‘Eat your breakfast and we’ll go.’
Eyes as green as his mother’s come up to meet mine and he stops chewing, swallows hard. ‘Too late now.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ll have you there for the afternoon session.’
The spoon clatters to the bowl when he drops his hand. Milk droplets rain over the table. ‘Great. I’ll look like a right tit.’
‘No you won’t. Tell them your father forgot to wake you.’
He puffs out an unamused laugh that sprays cereal on his chin. He brushes it away with a swipe of his fist.
‘Yeah right,’ he mumbles, and goes back to eating. After each mouthful, the spoon returns to the bowl with a little more force. I feel myself getting riled, but bite my tongue. At his age I was making my own way to school, then returning to an empty house and fixing a hot meal, too.
I sip at the coffee. I should have remembered I was meant to take him, though. I think of the twelve-year-old we nicked last week. For all his moods, Dan’s nothing like that kid.
I watch him scowl as he eats, notice the breakout of red spots on his pale right cheek, fine hairs sprouting in no particular order over his upper lip. He’s just a teenager, that’s all. One with good grades and an excellent attendance record. One that’s never been in trouble.
‘Alright. But tell your mother you weren’t well,’ I say.
He slows in his eating to peer up through his fringe. Check if he heard right, or if I mean it. He almost smiles. ‘You’re asking me to lie?’
‘I’m asking you to be economical with the truth.’
‘To save your arse?’
Cheeky sod. I hold back my own smile, thinking about telling him to quit while he’s ahead. ‘That’s what kids your age do, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not a kid,’ he says, poking at the Chocolate Squares with his spoon. ‘Did you?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Lie when you were a kid.’
The longer I take to respond, the more the smirk curls his lips up to one side. But I’m only taking this long over it because I’m trying to find the right answer. To say no would be dishonest. We all lie at some point or another, and usually there’s no harm in it. But I might just as well hand him a stick to beat me with than say yes.
‘Eat your food, big man,’ I tell him, and flick my chin towards his cereal bowl.
*
They’re working on Anna in the operating theatre. I’m the only one in the corridor. Sacha or someone else will be along soon, I won’t be alone for long. I stare at the blue glove I hold in my hands within which is Anna’s mobile, and every possible scenario runs through my head.
It’s switched on, I’ve already checked.
If I do as Anna asks, there’ll be a record of the messages being deleted at precisely this time and date. If I even look at them, there’ll be a record somewhere. Someone at the crash site will recall it was me who retrieved the phone, and everyone will know it couldn’t possibly be Anna who accessed the messages and therefore it must be me. In my favour, I’m an officer, I might be looking for evidence, assessing timelines. However, there’s categorically no plausible explanation why I would delete anything.
But what is the likelihood this investigation will go as far as requiring a forensic examination of her mobile phone data? A single car collision. No one else involved, no one else injured. More likely, the phone will just be returned to her family with the rest of her belongings. And while I can’t be absolutely sure of that, I know I can be sure that there’s something on there that Anna doesn’t want anyone to see. Her insistence on that, given the state she was in, is unquestionable. If nothing else, I’m curious.
I brush my hand over my mouth and wonder why I’m even having this debate with myself. I’m an officer. I’ve been an officer for twenty years. I know my job and its boundaries, and I’ve never overstepped them. Not once. I’ve seen those who have and watched their careers disintegrate piece by piece as they convince themselves they’re in the right. It’s bollocks. There’s no place for rebels in the job. There’s only room enough for commitment and integrity. You do the best you can, you do it fairly, and you hold your head up high. Your position is a worthy one.
Good and bad.
Right and wrong.
Black and white...
I tap on the messages app to open it.
*
‘Are you alright, Steve?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, holding the phone to my ear with my left hand and sliding the patio door closed with the right. Rumpole’s claws tap over the laminate floor and he pauses to shake the outside air from his fur in a Mexican wave that starts at his head and ends at his tail.
‘Is it the one on the news?’ Ange asks. It’s lunchtime and she’s on her break.
‘That’s the one,’ I answer, following Rumpole to the kitchen, running the cold tap and reaching down for his water bowl.
‘I’m so sorry, Steve. It’s tragic, it really is. So young.’
I fill the bowl and put it back on the floor. It spills, but Rumpole doesn’t care. He sticks his head in the centre and spills it some more.
‘Will you have to go in tonight?’ she asks.
‘Course. Why wouldn’t I?’
She softly tuts, but I know it’s not me it’s aimed at. ‘Well, I’ll try and see you before you leave. I shouldn’t be too late.’
‘Actually I might head in early. Lots to catch up on. Paperwork and stuff.’
Now she sighs, and this time it is for me. Rumpole pauses in his drinking to gaze up at me, tongue still lapping the air and water drooling from his chin to the floor.
‘Alright, love,’ she says in my ear. ‘Anyway, last one tonight at least.’
We say our goodbyes and I press my thumb to the screen to end the call, while the finger of my other hand runs down the calendar on the wall to see what shift I’ve got after this one and what my chances might be of snagging some overtime. With hours yet until I book on, I’m itching to put on the uniform. It’s not always like this, I can be as reluctant to get up off my backside and go to work as the next person. But having been given more hours off than expected for a normal shift, I’ve no idea what to do with it.
I unmute the volume on the TV in time for the next local news bulletin.
Chapter 8
There are a couple of teenagers on the bridge, so I wait. One girl, one boy. The boy has his arm around the shoulders of the girl, and the girl leans into him, holding a tissue close to her face. Anna’s college friends, I imagine. They’re barely out of school, barely out of childhood.
It’s a dry day, but breezy up here over the busy motorway. I zip my black jacket up to my throat. Like this, I could be a call centre worker or BT engineer. No one sees the insignia on the polo shirt beneath. No one knows I was here last night, talking to Anna, holding her hand while her eyes silently pleaded for something ne
ither of us could put into words.
Her last breaths. The feet in her shoes under my searching fingers...
The girl keeps her eyes to the floor as we pass on the bridge, but the boy thins his lips into a weak acknowledgment of sadness, the tulips wrapped in plastic in my hand offering a brief shared moment of connection. Then the pair pass by and are gone, still huddled together. There are more bouquets now than there were on the news footage earlier. I crouch and, keeping my grip on the tulips, look up the road to where it happened. Traffic flows down all three lanes of the carriageway, cars and vans and lorries rattling past the spot in less than a second. I can still see the indentation in the ditch from where she went in, but other than that, nothing. How did she end up there? That’s the question everyone will want the answer to. Her parents, her friends... How? Why?
‘Rest in peace, Anna,’ I say, as I tuck the flowers in amongst the others. On the tip of my tongue is sorry. It always is in situations like this, those where the outcome isn’t favourable. But I hold it back. Sorry implies fault or failure to act accordingly, and it’s a slippery slope to somewhere you can’t afford to go. Some things I just can’t fix, and that’s a weight I have to bear.
I get to my feet, stand for a second more with my head dipped, then leave for work, putting another tragic case behind me.
*
‘I want to thank you for the way you handled last night’s RTC.’
There’s another hour until shift starts, but Freddie has called me into the briefing room for a quiet word. He’s only this minute come in, half an hour after me, and when we sit he keeps his jacket on, muttering about cost-cutting and freezing his nuts off.
‘It was Sacha who coordinated,’ I say. ‘She did a superb job. Above and beyond.’
‘I know, I’ll speak to her too. I just wanted you to know, Steve, it doesn’t go unnoticed.’ He leans his arms on the table between us and clasps his hands together. His eyes are bright, clear. He’s the only cop I know who can hop between shifts and not lose more than a minute of sleep. For the rest of us, it’s a constant battle of readjustment.
‘It’ll all have a bearing on your promotion, mate.’
‘Anything from CIU?’
‘No other vehicle involved is all I’ve heard so far. They’ll be running diagnostics on the car’s ECU to account for any fault. But I’d bet my packed lunch they’ll conclude driver error. You didn’t smell anything on her?’
‘Nothing.’
I fold my arms across my chest. Young driver, alone, single car collision, probably driving erratically – I shouldn’t be annoyed at the conclusion easily drawn, I’ve seen it time and time again for myself.
‘She wasn’t over the limit, Fred.’
His eyebrows lift. ‘You tested her at the scene?’
‘Course not. She was in a bit of a state.’
‘Well, guess we’ll find out before the end of the day. You know what these kids are like. If not under the influence, it’ll be her sodding phone or something. Where’d you find it?’
Gloved fingers touching metal, something warm, wet. Wrist brushing against ankle.
‘It was in the footwell.’
‘There you go then. Shit, what a fucking waste.’
‘What do you mean, there you go then? That doesn’t tell you anything.’
‘Come on, Steve—’
‘Maybe some prick cut her up and drove off, or an animal startled her, or they’ll find mechanical failure.’
Grey-blue eyes glower at me. ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll address every possibility.’
‘Or take one look at her and draw their own conclusions. Sign off on the paperwork, condemn her death to one of youthful stupidity.’
My words echo around the room in the silence that follows, and as they repeat in my head, I realise how ridiculous they sound. Fred’s glowering turns to a raised eyebrow. He’s not impressed. I sigh and hold my hands up in apology.
‘Have her effects been returned to her parents?’ I ask, thinking of her necklace, thinking of her phone. But the sarge is still looking at me like there’s something he hasn’t worked out yet.
‘This is their investigation now, Steve. Our part is done unless they require our cooperation further.’
I shouldn’t have snapped. Now the cogs of his mind are turning. If anyone can see right through me, it’s Freddie. And friend or no friend, he’s still my sergeant, and I’m pretty sure his loyalty in that regard won’t stretch as far as sympathising with the dilemma Anna put me in last night.
‘You need some support with this one?’ he asks.
‘Don’t be daft.’ I laugh, but I’m the only one who does, and my colleague’s silent evaluation stretches out longer than it should. ‘You’re not serious, Fred?’
He leans closer over the table, though there’s no one in the room but us and the door is closed. ‘There’s nothing wrong in asking for help, mate.’
I’m not sure whether to laugh again or take offence, but seems he really is bloody serious. How many times have I done this? How many fatal RTCs? How many stabbings? How many bodies, burned, beaten and dead have I looked at? How many domestics, street fights, industrial accidents, fires, suicides? How much brutal rage, blind drunkenness, terror, hurt, indignity and desperation? Twenty years. And he asks me this now? Because of one dead girl?
The restlessness from earlier bubbles through my veins so that just sitting here in this chair becomes uncomfortable. I unfold my arms and splay my hands on my knees.
‘Thanks for your concern, Sarge. But save the expense for some probie’s overtime this month.’
I get up and leave the room before he can follow up with any more suggestions. The break room’s quiet. I punch a button on the drinks machine and wander over to the window while I wait for it to trickle diluted coffee into a plastic cup. Jonesy’s missus has parked on the kerb outside the entrance to the car park. I can just make out their smiles through the windscreen as they giggle over something he’s saying. Jonesy points towards her face, but she bats him away. He tries again and this time she grabs his hand. Playfully, he pulls her to him for a kiss.
Newlyweds. Poor sods.
*
17.04.19 22:07
Anna: When can I see you?
Brad: I’ll be on campus Monday.
Anna: That’s too long. How about tonight?
Brad: I can’t, Anna. I’ll see you Monday.
Anna: I think we should talk.
Brad: You’re right. But now’s not the time.
Anna: I realise I screwed up before and I’m really sorry. I miss you.
Brad: We’ll talk next week, okay? I promise.
Anna: I’m already on my way. I just need to see you. Please.
Brad: Alright. Usual place. But we’ll have to be quick. Ellen’s on her way home.
Chapter 9
Thursday night, 10pm. The town’s picking up with drinkers and we’re on foot. I’m partnered with Sacha again. Not too much trouble for us yet, only some verbal warnings issued and some community engagement with those tipsy enough to want to talk, but not so much that they say or do anything that tomorrow they’ll wish they hadn’t. Sacha gets the rough end of a few comments from a bunch of lads and I bite my tongue, knowing the last thing she needs is me sticking my neck out. She puts them in their place, getting their faces on her body cam at the same time. Young scrotes tanked up. Not so gobby when they see the light on the cam flashing and the cuffs in Sacha’s hands. She only lets them go on their way once they’ve apologised. They do, slinking off, suitably scolded. A big deal out of nothing, some might suggest, but this is how change happens. One idiot at a time.
‘Do you know what I really fancy?’ my partner says, when we’ve been out for an hour. We’re strolling through the High Street towards the top of town and the thick end of the pubs and clubs. ‘A quarter-pounder with bacon double cheese. Large fries. Full sugar Coke.’
‘Going in the right direction,’ I say, tucking my hands under my utility
vest to warm them. It’s a dry night, but there’s a bite to the air.
‘I can’t. Jake would kill me.’
I peer sideways at her. A mother’s guilt knows no bounds. ‘How will he know? Go on, treat yourself.’
She smirks, eyes glimmering beneath her copper’s lid. ‘But I’ll know, Fuller. Which means I’ll have to take him to McDonald’s at the weekend just to live with myself.’ She puffs out a sigh big enough to rattle through her lips.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we have one of their coffees instead? Compromise.’
‘Yeah, alright,’ she says with a grin. And a second later adds, ‘Fuck it. I’ll go for a 99p cheeseburger too.’
‘How quick the mighty fall. Sure you can stretch to that, mind?’
‘Only bloody just.’ She laughs, unlike the others who would have jumped on the chance to have a gripe about a copper’s lot. She’s a refreshing change, I hope she realises that. And I would hope the job never changes her, if it wasn’t so much to ask.
We hover for a while at the crossroads between High Street and Stow Hill, settling a disgruntlement between work colleagues on a night out, which threatens to turn physical until we single out the lit fuse and one of the party agrees to take him home before he has any more to drink.
Jared, a community support officer, turns up as the workmates go their separate ways, but he hasn’t come alone. He’s trailing a pair of volunteers along with him, nattering away and waving his hand like they’re on an exclusive night-time tour of the town’s haunts and flaunts. First impressions of his students are that the duo are both interested and afraid, simultaneously.
‘Great timing again, Jarhead,’ Sacha teases.
As far as I know, she’s the only one who calls him that. He doesn’t seem to mind. Probably wouldn’t mind whatever she called him. He scratches the back of his neck and grins.
