Young, Gifted and Deadly

by William Stafford

  “Looks all right to me. Bit Brutalist but that’s all the rage these days. Back in fashion.”

  “Mate, it was the brutallest time of my life.”

  “That’s not what I meant. You see, there’s this school-”

  “I can see it.”

  “No, this school of architecture-”

  “Christ! I don’t want to hear it. How long’s it been since you broke up with Brough? It was him who filled your head with bollocks.”

  Pattimore grinned. “Once or twice, yes.”

  Stevens was aghast. “Hoi! I don’t want to hear that neither. This is a school. You can’t be gay here.”

  “Who says?”

  “It’s the law.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t bloody know.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “I’m only looking out for you, that’s all. I’ve got your back.”

  “Wahey!”

  “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m on about. Just keep your head down.”

  “Ha!”

  “I’m serious, Jase. A place like this can be hard for a - well, a - somebody like you.”

  Pattimore’s incredulity gave way to a different emotion. “I’m touched.”

  “Not by me you won’t be. Bring that box off the back seat. I’ll do the talking.”

  Stevens marched away. Pattimore called him back. “Where are you going?”

  “Inside!”

  “Reception’s around the front. You are allowed in the main entrance now, you know.”

  Stevens blinked. “Oh, yeah.”

  ***

  Wheeler parked beneath the supermarket; there was nothing unusual in that. In fact, everyone was doing it. The massive shop stood over a car park like a colossal mother hen guarding her eggs. A stairless escalator carried her to the shop floor, a harshly-lit hangar crammed with goods from all around the globe. If you could name it, you could find it under this roof. Or its gluten-free equivalent.

  Wheeler was blind to the smorgasbord of international fare on offer. She headed directly to a corner of the building where a café was situated, an in-store branch of Queequeg’s, rubbing elbows with a key-cutting stall, a dry cleaner’s, and a passport photography service. In front of all of these, a trestle table had been set up and an A4 sheet of paper had been taped forlornly to it, advertising ‘Deldey Pollice’. A couple of garden chairs were behind the table, both of them devoid of backsides.

  “Arseholes!” Wheeler growled. She cast a murderous look around. You didn’t have to be a chief inspector at the helm of a crack squad of detectives to figure out where the good-for-nothing hobby bobbies had sloped off to.

  The coffee bar was also serving doughnuts.

  Sure enough, the bright lemon yellow of the PCSOs’ tabards was easily discernible among the café’s brown and cream furnishings. The arseholes she sought were in a booth, laughing through gobfuls of fat and sugar. Wheeler’s blood began to percolate. She tapped her foot but managed to refrain from flipping the table over.

  Instead, she pulled out one of the chairs and sat. It was a low seat and not a good fit. Her chin could easily rest on the table top.

  She waited. Like a spider, she waited.

  A young man approached, wearing the navy blue jersey of the in-store security. His shoulders were adorned with fake leather epaulettes and his peaked cap bore the CB monogram that all of the supermarket’s employees were obliged to sport. A name tag revealed him to be Charlie West. Wheeler was singularly unimpressed.

  “Yo cor sit there, bab,” Charlie West shook his head. “That’s for the coppers. If they catch you sitting there, yo’ll be for it.”

  “Fuck off,” said Wheeler.

  The security guard was taken aback. “Now, now, chicken; there’s no need for that. Is your carer around?”

  Wheeler got to her feet. Enough of her was visible now for Charlie West to see her serge uniform with its silver buttons and other marks of rank.

  “I’m sorry, sir - er - ma’m,” he stammered. “I didn’t realise.”

  “Remember when I told you to fuck off.”

  Charlie West scrambled away. Wheeler smirked. She ran a hand over her salt-and-pepper crew cut, pleased that she had not lost her touch.

  “Aye, aye,” said a voice. The PCSOs were on their way back. “What’s all this then? Fancy dress?”

  “Aren’t you a bit old for dressing-up, love? What’s the matter? They run out of Cinderella frocks in your size?”

  Their laughter stopped gurgling like a swiftly plugged sink when Chief Inspector Wheeler turned the full force of her Rottweiler scowl in their direction.

  “Hello, wankers.” She smiled like an ingratiating crocodile. “Sit the fuck down and explain your-fucking-selves.”

  4.

  During break, the Monks reconvened on the concrete stairs that led to the field. Lesser mortals would rather scramble up or down the grassy embankment rather than pay the toll - with dinner money largely involving electronic transactions in this digital age, the Monks extracted payment of a different kind in the form of doling out dead arms and legs to those who wished to pass.

  But on this occasion, their minds had another focus and several bold Year 8 boys slipped by unmarked and unpunched.

  “It’s really weird,” Dogger was repeating, “All through Maths he just sat there when, usually, he’s rattling off sums and equations like nobody’s business. But he just sat there, staring at nothing. Even the teacher noticed. Well, she was bound to, wasn’t she? And she asks him if everything’s all right and he just carries on staring like he’s looking right through her and there’s a little smile at the corner of his mouth, like he knows a secret, and eventually she gives up and says as long as he does them for homework she’ll let him off, and she laughs and says it’ll give the rest of us chance to catch up.”

  “Fuck me,” said Logger.

  “Who are we talking about?” said Bonk. “Oh, hello, Callum!”

  The other two jumped; they had not seen the subject of their discussion approach. Callum Phillips grinned at them from under the hood of his new top.

  “Well met, fellows!” he slapped Bonk on the back. What was even more astonishing than this was Bonk didn’t appear to mind. Logger and Dogger exchanged glances of disbelief.

  Callum surveyed the field with evident disdain. “This place is for kids and arseholes,” he declared. “And I’m neither of those. Are you?”

  “No fucking way!” Logger asserted.

  “Not me!” Dogger asserted.

  “Who’s he calling a kid?” Bonk asked.

  “I say we clear off,” Callum stretched as though stirring himself from terminal boredom. “Go somewhere else.”

  The bell announced the end of break. Kids began to shuffle toward the entrances with a total lack of enthusiasm.

  “What, now?” said Dogger.

  “No, Bastille Day! Of course now!” snapped Callum.

  “Where to?” Logger narrowed his eyes.

  Callum returned Logger’s hard stare. “Into town,” he shrugged. “Or somewhere.”

  “Like where?”

  “We can improvise.”

  “Ooh!” Bonk perked up. “Like in Drama? We’re in a bus stop and one of us is a space alien.”

  Callum was already moving off, striding toward the fence with its well-used gap. He felt energised. Confident. And all it had taken was reeling off some bullshit about seeing the ghost of some old monk that was said to haunt the playing field. He’d read about it and those three suckers had fallen for it without question.

  The founding members of the Monks looked at each other. Behind them lay the prospect of Double Geography. Ahead was the prospect of adventure.

  “Cal! Wait up!
” Dogger loped after the new recruit.

  “Come on then, Bonk,” Logger heaved his shoulders. “Geography’s a load of wank anyway.”

  Bonk frowned in confusion as he followed the others. “Don’t you like wanking then, Log?”

  ***

  Beatrice Mooney, head of Priory High, was going to be late for her meeting. Traffic through Dedley was always a nightmare; the town could do with a ring road, she reflected - and not for the first time. Perhaps she should bring up the matter during her meeting... No, not this time. She needed to be sure what she wanted was safely in the bag before she ruffled any more feathers.

  The car behind hers sounded its horn, rousing her from her ring road reverie. She sent the driver a curt snarl via the rear-view mirror and moved on. A few yards later, she came to another standstill.

  Great. Just bloody great. How is it going to look if I can’t even show up on time? How can I hope to persuade local businessmen to invest millions?

  The horn sounded again.

  Beatrice Mooney scowled. She caught her own eye. Her mascara could do with a brush-up before the meeting. It wouldn’t do to turn up late and looking like a raccoon who’d been watching chick flicks.

  She was approaching the broad intersection that linked the town to Tipton to the left, Smethwick straight ahead and also, seven or eight miles to the right, Birmingham, city of her birth. Beatrice Mooney’s voice betrayed no hint of her native accent - not unless she’d had more than a couple of Malibu-and-cokes.

  She waited at the lights, tapping her fingers on the rim of the steering wheel not quite in time with the radio. At her left was the humungous supermarket that was leaching business out of the town centre shops. It was a shame, really. But, oh well, times change.

  She resolved to tamp down her objection to the supermarket and attempt to forget it forever. One of the men she was due to meet was the CEO of CostBusters. Dennis - something. Shit. I’d better bone up on my notes while I’m touching up my mascara.

  More angry honking. From several cars this time.

  Four hooded youths were ambling across the carriageway with no apparent respect for the Green Cross Code. Bloody kids. Beatrice Mooney’s slightly smudged eyes followed the miscreants as they passed in front of her bonnet on their way to the supermarket. With their jackets zipped to their chins and their hoods shading their faces she couldn’t tell if they were Priory High kids or not. Had the lights remained red, she would have wound a window down and challenged them about not being in school - any school. But amber changed to green and rather than risk the wrath of that wanker behind, she continued her journey, taking a right toward Birmingham.

  Forget it, she told herself. Those little shits are most probably from Hangham High.

  ***

  “They’m out as well.” Miller trudged from the front door of the latest house she’d tried. Brough was waiting at the end of the path, busy with his smartphone.

  “Of course they’re out, Miller. How do you think they can afford houses like this?”

  “I suppose. How are we supposed to dispense crime prevention advice if nobody’s bloody in?”

  “You left the appointment card.”

  “I did.”

  “I know you did. I can see it protruding from the letterbox. Honestly, Miller.” Brough strode up the path and pushed the leaflet through until it dropped out of sight on the other side of the door. “Post sticking out is a sure sign no one’s home. You might as well send out invitations to every burglar in Dedley.”

  Miller scowled.

  “So, you’d better go back along the street and make sure there’s nothing else poking out.”

  Disgruntled, Miller stomped back the way they had come. She turned, thinking she’d show him something else poking out but Brough was preoccupied with his phone again and so the brief appearance of Miller’s tongue went unnoticed.

  When she returned, Brough held up his hand in that imperious manner people have when they’re making a call. Miller had to wait until he’d finished. The call seemed to consist almost entirely of laughter. At long last, he disconnected and pocketed the device.

  “Oscar?” ventured Miller.

  “No. If you must know, Miller, it was your Darren.”

  “Why were you phoning my Darren?” Miller knew why; what she really wanted to know was why were they both laughing so much.

  “I said I’d phone him. So I did.”

  Miller pouted.

  “Oh, don’t get into a strop, Miller. It was purely a business call.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ve booked your Darren for some training sessions in the park. He was glad of it. The business, I mean.”

  Miller grunted. Ever since Darren had been laid off from the leisure centre - thanks to more swingeing cuts to the council budget - and had gone freelance, money was tight. Miller supposed she ought to be grateful to Brough for not opting for Dedley’s gay gym, The Muscle Hustle. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t trust Darren. He was a hundred per cent straight, she was sure of it. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t trust Brough, who had integrity and was hooked up with one of the hottest film stars on the planet. It was just - well - when two people you know from different contexts get together and you’re not there - well - you’re bound to feel a bit insecure, aren’t you? They’re bound to talk about you, aren’t they? You’re their common ground.

  “We’re having our first session later,” added Brough as they headed back to Miller’s car. “He said he’ll have me sweating in seconds and every inch of me groaning in agony in half an hour.”

  Not helping, thought Miller.

  ***

  To say that Stevens’s presentation had gone badly would be an understatement, like saying the Titanic had had one or two teething problems. Pattimore stood, arms folded, in the car park while Stevens backed out of the door, shedding paraphernalia from the box he was cradling and hurling invective, even when the door had closed.

  “Yeah, well, you can stick your Health and Safety up your arse!” he jeered. He pressed the box against Pattimore’s chest. The detective constable was forced to take it or drop the lot, and he would rather not prolong their visit to Hangham High by another second. In fact, he would rather it had never happened at all.

  Stevens strode briskly to his Capri, swearing through his moustache. “Fucking idiots! You try to tell them something that will save their shitty lives.”

  “You’re not supposed to show them how to shoot up.”

  The remark earned Pattimore a steely-eyed glare. Stevens yanked open the door, got in and started the engine. Pattimore had to scramble to get in the passenger side in order to avoid being left behind. Stevens spun the wheels and then peeled out, tyres screeching, before Pattimore had chance to buckle himself in.

  Out in Dedley traffic, Stevens was forced to slow down and calm down. “A misunderstanding,” he growled. “A fucking misunderstanding. All I said was if you’m going to inject smack, make sure there’s no air bubbles in the syringe. And they try to tell me about Health and fucking Safety!” He laughed once, a bitter, hollow sound.

  “Ben, you tied a length of rubber tubing around a kid’s arm.”

  “He volunteered! He was well up for it.”

  “His hand was turning blue!”

  “I couldn’t find a vein, could I? Fat bastard. There’s child obesity for you right there.”

  “I think the point is we’re supposed to deter them from using drugs, not show them how to do it.”

  “I did! I bloody did! I said, didn’t I, don’t piss around with all this shit. Booze is cheaper and widely available.”

  “That didn’t help.”

  “It was a joke, for fuck’s sake. Do you honestly think any of those Year 7s could get served? Not even at the dodgiest off-licence. They’d get laughed right
out of Cigs, Figs and Wigs.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “And I hadn’t even made a start on the glue-sniffing.”

  “Thank God for that! It was supposed to be Road Safety with the Year 7s and Drug Awareness with Year 10. I kept trying to signal to you from the back.”

  “Did you? I thought you were just arsing about, trying to put me off. Threatening to cut my throat; I don’t bloody know, do I?”

  “Well, I just hope that deputy head doesn’t complain to Wheeler.”

  Stevens paled and wailed. “Fuck me.” He turned the car around. “Pub?” he suggested.”

  “Pub,” Pattimore sighed.

  ***

  “So, let me get this straight,” Wheeler wiped latte foam from her upper lip. “You have to sit in the café because the Wi-Fi signal’s better in here.”

  Across the booth, the PCSOs nodded rapidly. One of them pushed a plate piled high with doughnuts closer to the chief inspector.

  “For your tablet?”

  “Yes.” The other PCSO held up the device in question, as though modelling a prize in a game show.

  “And you expect me to swallow that?”

  The PCSOs smiles faltered. They exchanged nervous looks. Wheeler laughed.

  “I’m only pulling your penises, lads. For fuck’s sake! Tablet, swallow it. Don’t you fucking get it?”

  The PCSOs laughed, more from fear than amusement.

  As part of an initiative to cut down on paperwork as much as expenditure, the PCSOs had been issued with a single tablet between them.

  “It’s a paperless office,” said the first PCSO.

  “It’s a fucking officeless office,” Wheeler retorted. “But I’m not convinced feeding your faces in here all day conveys the right image.”

  “Oh, it ain’t all day,” they were keen to point out. “We only get refreshments when it’s our breaks.”

  “On the house!” the other added, smugly.

  Wheeler stared at her milky coffee. “So, this isn’t paid for?”

  “No!” the PCSOs laughed.

  “Ain’t it brilliant?”

  Wheeler narrowed her eyes. “So, you’m telling me you’m accepting bribes from this establishment.”