Blood Ties

by JD Nixon

  I squeezed past him and entered the bathroom to shower, dressing casually myself afterwards in denim shorts and a sky-blue t-shirt, leaving my hair out long and loose. I slipped my knife holster back around my thigh, regardless of what the Sarge thought. Dad was awake by then and I introduced him to my new boss and left the two men to get to know each other while I cooked a hot breakfast for us all. Dad offered to clean up afterwards, so I let him. He liked to help out around the house as much as possible, but was growing increasingly incapable of doing certain things. Washing up was still doable for him since we’d had the dishwasher installed last year. It had cleaned out our bank account, but I thought it was worth it. Whatever Dad wanted, I was determined that Dad would have.

  “Let’s head off now, Fuller,” the Sarge demanded when I finished.

  “Why don’t you call me Tess?” I suggested, looking up at him. “We’re going to be working closely together after all.” Des had always called me Tess and I’d always called him Des. Little Town was that kind of place. I was starting to miss Des and his relaxed ways already, which surprised me.

  He blinked down at me for a moment, not encouraging my attempts at friendliness one little bit. “Can we head off now?”

  Thinking of the smelly stain on the back seat, I tried to delay. “Can you give me thirty minutes? I have to –”

  “I want to go now,” he insisted.

  “But first I just need to –”

  “I said now, Fuller.” He glared at me.

  I snatched up the keys to the patrol car and stormed out the front door. I’d learned a few things about my new boss this morning – he didn’t like to listen and he wanted things done his way. Well, he needed to learn that I liked things done my way, the right way, just as much.

  I threw myself into the driver’s seat and started the patrol car. He sat in the passenger seat and did up his seatbelt. With an evil gleam in my heart, I wound up all the windows. I reversed speedily and spun the car around to head out of the gates on to the highway. We drove twenty metres down the road when he spoke up, his nose scrunched in disgust.

  “What the fuck is that smell?”

  “Someone had an accident in the back seat last night. I was going to clean it up this morning, but I didn’t get the chance,” I explained, regarding him with innocent eyes.

  “Turn around now,” he demanded, winding down his window. Smothering my smile, I performed a speedy three-point turn and drove back up to the house, screeching to a stop next to his sports car. He jumped out before I’d even stopped properly.

  “Let me know when you’re finished,” he said, slamming the door and stalking off back to the house. Pounding up the stairs, he startled Dad who’d wheeled himself out to the verandah to see who had arrived. And I know it’s petty and wrong, but I hummed happily to myself the whole time I cleaned that revolting stain off the seat.

  Twenty minutes later, we sped off again, windows down, the unpleasant odour replaced by the slightly less unpleasant odour of disinfectant and fabric deodoriser. The Sarge seemed to be in a bad mood so I didn’t bother chatting to him as we drove. I was out of the habit of talking much while I worked anyway, either being by myself or not able to compete against Des’ endless stream of chatter on the rare occasions we had worked together.

  We drove the five kilometres north on the Coastal Range Highway into town without exchanging a word. I turned off the highway into the police station’s small gravel carpark. The station was an old rectangular timber building painted an institutional puke-green colour, with a rusting tin roof. It was set on low timber stumps with a verandah running along each of the short sides of the rectangle, accessed by a small set of stairs. As a tiny nod to modern times, a slippery metal ramp had been installed at the end of the front verandah for wheelchairs and prams, which on a wet day proved impassable for both.

  The front door of the station led to a small reception area, painted a peeling dull cream colour with a sash window at either end. A corkboard on the wall held a faded recruitment poster and old flyers about Crime Stoppers. An uncomfortable hardwood bench seat and small matching timber table slotted into the corner, both bolted to the floor. A display rack sat on the table, crammed full of unpopular and dusty pamphlets on Neighbourhood Watch, personal safety for women, and securing your home against burglary. To my knowledge, nobody had ever taken one to read. The townsfolk had no interest in being told how to keep safe – they’d been looking after themselves for generations.

  A battered and scarred hardwood timber counter ran the length of the tiny room, effectively cutting it in two. I unlocked and lifted up its hatch and ushered the Sarge behind the counter.

  “This is the front counter and waiting area,” I explained, rather unnecessarily.

  “There’s no safety screen installed?”

  I glanced at him in surprise. “No.”

  “What do you do if someone threatens you with a weapon?”

  “Duck?” I suggested, shrugging my shoulders.

  He cut me a hard look and said flatly, “I’m being serious, Fuller.”

  I was beginning to think he’d have trouble being anything but serious. Hurriedly, I pressed on with the tour.

  “Underneath the counter here are all our forms,” I pointed out and also brought the counter bell to his notice. “The counter is never staffed because when I’m here, I’m usually out the back, so we need the bell to let us know when we have a customer.”

  That’s all there was to see in the front room, so I took him through the doorway to the back room, which was painted the same faded cream colour.

  “That’s my desk.” I waved my hand in the general direction of my workstation, engulfed in a sea of paperwork that was spilling over on to the floor. “And that one will be yours,” I added, pointing to the pristinely clean desk situated next to it.

  Both desks were covered in the graffiti of generations of bored officers, some of the drawings X-rated, all carved into the varnished timber. I was the first female officer to serve in Little Town and one long hot summer afternoon last year, I’d added my own initials, a cheesy loveheart, and the date, using my manicure scissors. It tickled me being part of that kind of history. I glanced at the Sarge before deciding that he definitely wasn’t the graffiti kind of guy. I doubt he’d leave his mark behind.

  The desks had a light and airy position with a nice view out the back of the station of the rising mountain range. Each was situated underneath a sash window, neither of which I could get to open, despite all my efforts. An ancient computer sat on top of each desk and an equally antiquated telephone and printer/fax rested between them. A row of rusty and decrepit filing cabinets filled the opposite wall between the windows, some of the more elderly ones leaning alarmingly to the side. A tiny kitchenette was at the far end of the room. I showed him where the tea, coffee, sugar and milk were kept. Then I unlocked the back door and led him out to the back verandah where the bathroom took up one end.

  “And that’s pretty much it,” I concluded. I was right – the whole tour had taken less than five minutes.

  “Where’s the watch house?” he asked, looking around him without much enthusiasm.

  “We don’t have one. We only have a lockup.” Hmm, this was going to be awkward, I thought. “It’s, um, out the back.”

  “Show me.”

  Reluctantly, my heart sinking, I led him up a cement path to a small, freestanding timber building on low stumps with a tiny verandah, also painted puke-green. It had two cells, both with barred windows and sturdy barred iron doors, currently standing open. He stood for a moment taking in the scene before turning to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a chicken.”

  “Yes, I know it’s a chicken, Fuller. I’m not completely ignorant about the country. I mean, what is the chicken doing in the lockup? In fact, what are all these . . . two, four . . . What are all these five chickens doing in the lockup?”

  I didn’t want to answer him. I rubbed the back o
f my neck. I glanced up at the sky hoping to find inspiration for a believable story, then I glanced down at the ground, scuffing my feet. There was nothing for it but the truth. “Well, they kind of live here.”

  “You’ve turned the lockup into a chicken coop?” His eyes burned into me, but his voice was insultingly slow and patient.

  “Yes,” I admitted, grabbing a handful of feed from the nearby bin and scattering it on the ground for my girls. I refilled their water container and collected five eggs, holding out three of them to him. “Des and I usually split them.”

  He stared down at the eggs, but didn’t take them. “The chickens have to go.”

  “But we never use the lockup.”

  Incredulous, he asked, “What do you do when you arrest someone?”

  “I try not to arrest people here much,” I confessed.

  He blew out an angry stream of air. “Explain yourself.”

  “It’s complicated,” I mumbled, turning back to the chickens, hoping that he’d accept that as a response. He wouldn’t.

  “I’m perfectly capable of understanding complicated situations, Fuller.” I almost got a brain freeze from the iciness of his voice.

  I sighed. “I usually give people a warning or a penalty notice for minor infringements, and for major infringements, I take them to Big Town to be processed.” I suddenly wished I was anywhere in the world but here having this conversation with him.

  He clenched his jaw and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Big Town?”

  “That’s what we locals call Wattling Bay, the nearest regional centre. It’s about a ninety minute drive north-east to the coast. They’ve a proper watch house there and the personnel to staff it twenty-four hours a day. It’s not practical for us to keep people here. We don’t have the resources.” A squabble among the chickens for the feed drew his attention back to them. I pleaded with him. “The chickens are used to living in the lockup, Sarge. They’ve lived here their whole lives. It would be traumatic for them to move.”

  “The chickens are going,” he repeated, making it quite clear by his tone of voice that he wouldn’t take any nonsense from me today, or any other day for that matter. “Either you move them or I will eat them. One by one.”

  I stared at him rebelliously. “You wouldn’t do that.” It was a barbaric threat – they were my pets.

  “I have a whole cookbook full of delicious chicken recipes, Fuller.” His dark blue eyes blazed with intent.

  Fury robbed me of speech.

  “Hmm,” he pretended to ponder, “that one will be the first, I think. Maybe even tonight. I have a sudden desire for coq au vin for dinner.” He’d pointed right at my favourite hen, Miss Chooky. She was the prettiest, the best layer, and had the strongest personality.

  “I’ll move them,” I spat out, burning up with incredible anger at the thought of him eating my little Miss Chooky in a wine and mushroom sauce. “I’ll need a few days to organise things.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, placid now that he had his own way. I loathed him intensely at that moment and spun around to stalk back to the station. I was going to walk home. He could find out about the town by himself. I had better things to do with my Saturday than hang around with him – like cleaning the toilet, for example. He grabbed me by the arm and spun me back around. I shook off his arm angrily. I couldn’t stand people I didn’t know touching me.

  “Now you need to show me the town,” he said in a cool voice. I struggled for self-control, wanting desperately to slog him one – he had threatened my precious girls. Expressionless himself, he watched the emotions flying across my face in quick succession, my hands clenching and unclenching by my side. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and willed myself to calm down.

  When I opened them, I was tranquil again. “I want to make sure Des pulled up all right this morning first,” was what I finally said and detoured off up the cement path leading to the police house at double pace, leaving him in my dust.

  Chapter 3

  I ran up the front stairs, impatiently fended off Mr Sparkles’ impertinent nose, and knocked politely on the door. Maureen opened it and gave me her ‘friendly’ smile, which was faker than a counterfeit Mona Lisa finger-painted by preschoolers.

  “Tess, my dear, thank you so much for bringing Des home last night,” she gushed and clutching my arm, dragged me inside the house. She shut the door behind her, but wasn’t able to fully close it, an obstacle in the way. Confused, she let go of me and again slammed the door shut hard. A shout of pain sounded from the other side. Cautiously, Maureen opened the door to the Sarge, his foot jammed in the doorway, agony imprinted on his face, Mr Sparkles’ nose buried in his private parts.

  “Jesus! Get this bloody animal away from me!” he shouted and pushed Mr Sparkles away roughly before shouldering the door. He shoved it open until it slammed against the wall and forced himself inside.

  “We do not take the Lord’s name in vain in this house!” Maureen shrieked in fury, and commenced swatting him on the arm with both hands. Mr Sparkles barked loudly in sympathy. “And we certainly do not use curse words in this house either!”

  Des gave immediate lie to that statement by staggering out of the bedroom, still in his stained pants, his grey hair a frizzy halo around his head, his face as wrinkled as an elephant’s butt. “What the fuck is going on out here? Can’t a man get some sleep around this place without all this fucking noise?”

  Maureen shrieked again and abandoned the Sarge to start on her husband who was in no shape to defend himself. Sparkles upped the ante on the barking a couple of notches.

  “Oi!” I shouted into the melee. Nobody listened.

  “Everybody, shut up!” bellowed the Sarge. There was immediate silence, Des and Maureen as still as statues. Even Mr Sparkles cooperated. He had a really loud voice. I was impressed, despite myself.

  “Christ!” he shook his head and said unwisely into the silence, because he instantly set Maureen off again and she flew at him, her hands flapping away, slapping him everywhere she could reach.

  “You’re a heathen! You take the Lord’s name in vain and you knocked over four of my Jesus figurines last night when you tried to burgle us. You broke the head and one of the arms off my favourite figurine. You broke Jesus! You’ll burn in hell for all eternity for that!”

  Mr Sparkles started barking again.

  “For God’s sake . . .” he tried, but that only threw petrol on to the fire of Maureen’s religious rage.

  Des and I exchanged glances. He sneaked off to the bathroom, away from the fray, and I thought about heading for the front door. However, I felt a reluctant obligation to look after my new boss on his first day in town even though he was pig-headed and unfriendly, and he’d threatened to eat my favourite pet, and deserved everything he got as far as I was concerned.

  “I’m going to arrest you if you don’t stop hitting me right now!” he threatened Maureen, struggling against her furious onslaught.

  “Oh yeah? You just try!” she screamed at him, slapping him across the face and aiming to knee him in the groin. Maureen had a real temper on her – she was truly God’s little warrior. Unfortunately at that point, Mr Sparkles became over-aroused by all of the excitement and reared up to start humping the Sarge’s leg, clutching him around the hips with his paws, barking excitedly all the while.

  “Jesus Christ!” he shouted as he tried to push the amorous dog away, which propelled Maureen into an increased frenzy of anger.

  I didn’t intend to, but it was so funny that I started laughing and once I started I couldn’t stop. The Sarge shot me a poisonous look that promised me a slow and painful immolation if I didn’t do something and do it soon. I wanted to help him, but I hadn’t laughed like that for years and it took a while to control myself. Finally though, with only a few renegade snorts of laughter remaining, I threw myself into the melee. I grabbed Maureen gently around the neck with the crook of my arm and dragged her off the Sarge, pushing her down into one of the lounge chairs.<
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  I pointed my finger at her. “Stay there and quieten down or I’ll tell Des about the bottle of gin at the back of the pantry, behind the tinned tomatoes.” She paled, her eyes widened and she shrunk back into the chair, suddenly afraid and instantly silent. She relied heavily on her piety for superiority in her relationship with Des. Being discovered as a secret soak would cast a very long shadow over that, in her mind.

  I moved over to Sparkles and glared him in the eye. “Let him go now, dog,” I demanded in a low, mean voice. He ignored me, his face filled with ecstasy as he kept rutting, lips wide in a happy grin, tongue lolling, eyes rolling back in his head. I reached down and grabbed Mr Sparkles by his testicles and squeezed them tightly. I immediately had his attention. He yelped in pain.

  “Back away, Sparkles, or I’ll get my knife out and cut them off right now,” I threatened and squeezed them even harder. He stared at me and I stared at him, and then he let go of the Sarge, fell back on four paws, whined pitifully and limped back to his bed. I turned around, breathing heavily, wiping my doggy-ball hands on my shorts and screeched with ear-splitting shrillness, “Des?” The Sarge jumped in fright beside me.

  A sheepish Des emerged from the bathroom, cleanly bathed, wrapped in a bathrobe but worse for wear, obviously carrying a massive hangover and terrified of me. “Yes, Tessie love?” he asked in a placating voice.

  “Get packing! This poor man,” and I nodded my head over my shoulder at the Sarge, “wants to move in. You have to be out tomorrow. Understand?”

  “Yes, Tessie,” he agreed immediately.

  I turned to his wife. “Maureen? Is that doable?”

  “Yes, Tessie,” she said, scared stiff.

  I relaxed and smiled, my good humour restored. “Excellent. Everybody’s happy. Could you both please excuse me? Now I know that you’re okay, Des, I have to show the Sarge around the town. See you later.” I walked to the door and turned. “By the way Maureen, you owe the Sarge an apology. It was Des who broke your Jesus figurine.”