by Cameron Bell
Continuing to a basin of open sand freckled with iron ore and rutted by off road motorbikes. I flit a long diagonal line over the final dune skipping and scrabbling over the tumps to the final stretch. My feet sink deep in crusty sand as I jog past driftwood and the detritus of industry: a tangle of frayed rope, a broken bucket, and empty tub of paint, a lonely shoe. The last yards to the blue metal lamp post; one of several sentinels lining the banks of the estuary guiding the cargo ships to the Briton Ferry Dock.
I look across to Jersey Marine and a vacant shore. The M4 motorway and Briton Ferry bridge to my right, a grey, unsettled sea to my left with a tanker on the horizon, and behind the long expanse of Aberavon Beach. Beyond it the immense cranes of the steel works; three titans bearing the load of a town. The theme of Knight Rider plays from the phone holder velcroed to my bicep – I couldn't listen to Get Carter any longer without a flood of unhealthy emotion. If I had felt fitter I would have ignored it and carried on running. Instead I answer on the fifth ring.
“Hello,” I manage to get out.
“Will is that you?” the voice familiar though not enough to recognize who it belonged to.
“Yes,” I reply keeping the answers necessarily brief.
“It's Pete Drummond; how are you doing?”
“Oh … hi Super, I'm feeling better, I think I'm finally turning a corner.”
Pete Drummond is a Superintendent and an old colleague of mine. He had been my Inspector for a couple of years, and we had got on – he had time for thief takers and no time for scrotes. In the last five years he had really knuckled down, played the game and climbed two ranks. But he wasn't one of those Corporate Cats – at least he hadn't been. He had a rugby player's mentality, forged on the field, the bar and the tour bus. Pete could rub shoulders with high and low alike – I just hope he hadn't lost it going up the ladder.
“I've some good news for you Will. The Larkin complaint's been dealt with. I've wrote it off and the I.P.O.C. agrees with me. It should have never got this far, ought to have been put to bed months ago.”
I suddenly feel relieved of a weight I'd been carrying. Like someone had taken the load and thrown it into the wind.
“So how long have you been on P.S.D.?” I ask.
“Nearly two months. I've been reviewing all the cases and this one should have been binned as soon as Larkin got potted on the assault police charge. I've got some views on this type of thing, which I think you know. Larkin is a thug, and if you live by the sword then you can't complain when you get cut.”
Drummond hadn't changed.
“I couldn't agree more, thank you for putting it right.”
“We got to hear about your escapades in Iceland,” and my heart plunges.
“I've been forwarded an email from a Detective Superintendent Hermannsson. It is most complimentary; seems you foiled an International plot to smuggle stolen Viking gold out of the country. That is not a sentence I have said often,” he jokes.
It informs us that you are required to return to Iceland in May to give evidence in the trial. You're hell of a boy Will, you haven't changed have you?”
And I imagine him on the other side of the phone shaking his head.
“No unfortunately for me I haven't.”
“One more piece of good news: the transfer is back on and I've pulled some strings. It isn't official so keep it under your hat, but it is looking good for Team 2 Response Port Talbot. I've had a chat with Glyn Jones the Super of Western Operations, and they've got a Sergeant's vacancy there they need to fill. I've put in a good word. Now get back to work because they won't transfer you sick.”
“Yes, boss I will; thanks again,” and a smile came like a great big rip across my face.
Port Talbot, Port Tablet, Port Toilet – San Portablo as the crews I had worked with called it. I could be coming home to my dirty steel town of spit and venom. A town of shame and glory, upbringing and belonging. You’ve found your way back, are no longer lost, when you come home.
* * *
