pocket Notebook
by
MIKE THOMAS

A darkly humorous tale of an out-of-control policeman experiencing a spectacular breakdown. 
"Pocket Notebook stuns like a truncheon, grips like a pair of handcuffs, crackles with charge like a taser. Reading it is like being caught up in a riot: exhilarating, terrifying, and swept along by an unstoppable momentum. Either Mike Thomas has a fascinatingly jaundiced view of the Thin Blue Line, or we're all in big, big trouble." 
--Niall Griffiths, author of Runt 

WILLIAM HEINEMANN: LONDON

Published by William Heinemann 2010
2468 10 9 75 3 1
Copyright © Mike Thomas 2010

Mike Thomas has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

Pocket Notebook is a work of fiction. All characters are entirely imaginary
creations of the author. Any resemblance between these fictional characters
and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition,
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
William Heinemann
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SWlV 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk


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A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780434020089

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For my wife:
'without you I am nothing'

Mixed Sources

1

1, Police Constable 754 Jacob Smith, do solemnly and sincerely
declare and affirm that I will well and truly serve the Queen in the office
of constable, with fairness, integrity, diligence and impartiality,
upholding fundamental human rights and according equal respect to
all people; and that I will, to the best of my power, cause the peace to
be kept and preserved and prevent all offences against people and
property; and that while I continue to hold the said office I will to the
best of my skill and knowledge discharge all the duties thereof faithfully
according to law.'

The Constable's Oath

ONE

and I yank open the buckled driver's door, look down. Just
below her hotpants there's the waxy nub of her splintered
femur sticking through the flesh of her right thigh. She's
screaming, screaming and looking at me, pointlessly pushing
at the engine block that's come through the dashboard after
she decided to smash her Clio into a wall on her way home
from whatever pub or after-work office party she's been to.
Yet another one thinking she was clever enough to drive
regardless of however many vodka and Red Bulls she's had. I
know she's pissed because I can smell it on her breath, her
skin, her sweat as she shudders. People are stupid and they
never learn, but I say nothing. Now isn't the time.
I kneel on the wet tarmac, take her hands in mine, smile
and calmly tell her everything's going to be okay. Shhh,
everything's going to be okay, it's all right, more help is on its way.
But it isn't going to be okay because I've seen this so many
times before and I know this woman, girl really, about the
same age as Frank's daughter, just a few years older than my
Naomi, she could slip away from me any moment now. Here
in the dark, in the rain on this shitty side street while her
family carry on their New Year preparations, oblivious that
it'll be the last they ever plan because this is the evening their
nineteen-year-old never comes home from work. And nothing
will ever be the same again.
The girl's shivering, moaning, and I can't make out what
she's saying, but I know she's gone into shock. The splintered
end of her thigh bone is grinding against the metal jammed
up to her midriff and I'm getting her blood on my hands
trying to shove the damn thing a centimetre away from the
wound. Got to maintain the facade though. Her head has
lolled backwards and to one side, her terrified eyes on mine,
and I nod to reassure her regardless of what I'm thinking. I
turn to Frankie, see the blue strobes of our firearms truck
reflected in his glasses, mouth to him, Paramedics?
And he shrugs, shakes his head. This is ridiculous, so Frank
gets back on the radio, tells ops room to ring the bloody
ambulance control again, get an ETA. They tell us it's two
minutes away, which isn't good enough. Not nearly.
I kneel again, holding the cold and trembling hands of this
young lady, this girl I've never seen before who's becoming
quieter by the second, who knows nothing about me. I
wonder if I'll be the last person she ever sees. And I wonder
if she'll be disappointed.
I keep talking, squeeze her hands, heft my shoulder against
the dirty metal of the engine to release some of the pressure
on her thighs and pelvis. I hear the sector pandas screech to a
stop somewhere in the background, see the Trumptons'
wagon reflected in a charity-shop window as it pulls alongside
the Clio. The hose monkeys scurry out and start lugging
power tools towards us.
When the ambulance arrives I have to prise her fingers
from my hands. She sobs, breathes crimson froth, and I know
this means her guts are mangled, but still I tell her it's going to
be okay, everything's going to be fine, these people are here to help
you now. I'm lying. I see the faces of the paramedics as I stand
to let them at the girl, and know they're treating her just for
the sake of treating her. Delaying the inevitable. Going
through the motions. Showing willing, like we always do. I
walk over to Frank who's stopping traffic in the murk,
surrounded by pulsating blue lights. I look at him but don't
have to say anything. He swallows and closes his eyes for a
second.
'You tried, Jake,' he says.
'Yeah,' I say, and wish we hadn't been just around the
corner when the call came out. Wish we weren't the first at
scene. I wish we'd never been here at all.
I'm waiting and watching while the water fairies cut the
roof from the car and lift the engine block with their
pneumatic toys. The medics hunch over the girl while she's
freed from the ruined shell, then they draw her out onto a
gurney. Still I see the thigh bone poking upwards like a jagged
candle. There's something wrong with her left leg, something
I couldn't see from the driver's side door earlier. It takes me a
moment to realise the foot is missing, probably still wedged
underneath the clutch. I think of it lying there. I hold my
hands up, my fingers dark and sticky with her blood.
And I hear a drunken voice call from the pavement, some
guy shouting that all coppers are bastards and we never do
anything right and if we'd got here quicker we could've saved
her. I turn and see him looking right at me. This hundred
yard hero, this skinny little fuckstick in his tracky bots and
hoodie, a pondlife brawler from some sink estate with his
forearms inked full of prison tats, his fingers loaded with
Elizabeth Duke sovereign rings straight from the Argos
catalogue. He's leering at me, wobbling his shaved head, so I
walk towards him and he flaps his fingers and says come on,
come on then.
And tonight I've had enough of drunks and I'm completely
out of compassion or understanding, so I go right up to him,
warn him I'll arrest him for public order. He doesn't give a
toss, this Stella monster, he couldn't care less and still the
lairiness. Now all the other onlookers are starting to gather
round to listen. These onlookers, on their way home from
work or last-minute stocking-up on beers for tonight, they're
crowding me. These ordinarily passive members of the
public, these respectable businessmen and shop workers and
students, they've got that bloodlust now, their own adrenalin
dump at this toe-to-toe developing in front of them and, what
a surprise, they're turning on me, on this figure of authority,
jostling me, curling their lips and asking where I was when
their car was robbed, telling me they pay my wages, that I
couldn't catch a fuckin' cold.
And I can't have this, can't lose face, so I take the drunk's
arm, tell him he's nicked even though he probably doesn't
care or understand. He starts fighting it like they all do, flailing
his arms and growling that I ain't locking him up for New
Year's fuckin' Eve, bra. He's gone as rigid as a toddler mid
tantrum and the performance carries on. We have to use
some of the sector boys to restrain him in front of the crowd.
So we cuff and stuff him, escort him to the back of the nearest
divisional van where the cage door is open and ready, but his
feet are on the footplate, pushing backwards to stop us getting
him in there. Then his elbow smashes into my eyebrow and
it's all I can do not to kill him.
I don't know how long I've been here or how I even got
inside, but I'm in the back of the van with him, in the cage,
pummelling the fucker, watching in a detached kind of way
as my fists then the heels of my tactical boots land on his scalp
and neck and torso. He's cowering under the metal bench and
Frankie's dragging me out while someone else slams the cage
door shut.
I walk away, feel Frank's eyes on me, feel others watching
me silently.
I'm bent over, breathing hard, when one of the paramedics
jumps from the back of the ambulance. I'm nodding already
as he tells me the girl has gone into cardiac arrest, that his
colleague is working on her and they've got to go, though
she'll be a Code Blue by the time she gets to Casualty and
signed off as DOA by the worn-out junior doctor. Can the
police tell the parents, please?
The paramedic walks back to his wagon. They weave
through the emergency vehicles and the build-up of civvy
traffic and the rubberneckers, then on come the blues and
twos and they're gone. The girl's gone.
And it's another one I couldn't save.



Twelve hundred hours.
I'm in trouble. I sense it immediately. Karen's stomping
around the bedroom in her slippers, refolding already neat
clothes. Picking up the jeans I wore last night. Kicking my
shoes under the bed. Cleaning. Arranging. She does this when
she's angry. After an argument she can sterilise the entire
kitchen in an hour.
I don't really have to speak to her to gauge her mood
nowadays: the I-can't-even-bring-myself-to-look-at-you face
she pulls ever more frequently is present and correct, so I say
nothing and close my eyes again, drifting. My right hand cups
my sweaty, shrunken balls and I contemplate stroking myself
under the duvet while she clomps about; the sheer cheek of
it would be delicious. But no. Instead I think of the old days,
when I'd wake and find her lying alongside me. Those times
when we'd hangover-fuck, when we'd sweat out the alcohol.
Afternoons spent beneath the quilt. Lazy, easy times.
I will her to slip into bed with me now. To stop what she's
doing, undress, take the slippers off, ease in alongside me.
Painted toenails brushing against my calves. Come on, Karen.
Come in.
She knows I'm awake and watching her but says nothing.
I wonder what heinous crime I've committed. Last night.
Frank's house. I vaguely recall his faux grandmother clock
chiming from the hallway at midnight, group hugs all round,
hollow promises of fresh starts and better times, tumblers of
Jack clacking together. The Frankster crashing and burning
like he always does, grabbing an emergency kip while the
party went on around him. The fifteenth miniature cigar in
my mouth, all thoughts of tomorrow batted away because
in the moment nothing else matters.
Then Karen's face looking up at mine as we stood in
Frank's kitchen, eyes sad yet not a little angry, her mouth
moving, talking at me, and I can't remember what she said
but after that. .. everything was vague, to say the least.
The party was a stormer, though. Frankie's can be a little
hit and miss because of his wife, but even Mel's glacial
presence didn't spoil the event this time. I tuned her out
anyway, despite the aggravation it's likely to cause me at work
tonight.
Karen gives me a strange look, like she's confused or
expecting me to say something, but I don't so she huffs, slams
the bedroom door on her way out.
'Happy New Year,' I croak after her. 'I love you.'
I listen for any reply, for Ah loov ya too in that groovy Mane
accent of hers that made me fall for her in the first place. But
there's nothing, just footsteps on stairs. I roll over, the left side
of my head pressing into the pillow. Feel pain above my eye,
curse the countless JD and Cokes I went through at Frank's,
because this is getting harder every time. I'm not nineteen any
more. Christ, very soon I'll be twice that.
Then I remember yesterday afternoon. That muppet
shouting from the sidelines . . . The cut just above my eyebrow.
I finger the wound. See nicks and grazes on my
knuckles. Dwayne Cooper. Already on the fast track to
Magistrates' Court. See you in a few days, Dwayne.
New Year's Day grinds on: repeats of repeats of sickeningly
cheerful family films, crass reality shows, That-Was-The-Year
That-Was programmes. I glaze over, think about the money
I'm wasting on my Sky subscription, lose an hour staring at
the pretty lights on the Christmas tree while Naomi argues
with her kid brother over the remote control. Karen and I take
turns avoiding each other, use the children to pass messages,
ask questions, give replies. Neither of them notices their
parents aren't talking and, even if they did, I doubt they'd care.
I'm swallowing bile all afternoon. Spend a little time getting
my gear ready, then waste an hour on Vietnam Encounter on
the PlayStation, finally managing to clear the bunker of
Vietcong. It's cathartic. Really it's just me stabbing buttons so
my on-screen M16 blazes, but seeing those digital gooks go
down after the day I've had makes me feel lighter, somehow.
At eighteen hundred hours I prepare a shake: one pint of
skimmed, three scoops of whey protein. Neck it. Eat a large
apple. Wait. Give it fifteen for the pre-workout snack to settle.
Shut myself in the spare bedroom. It's day two of a high
frequency, low-intensity week. Mass building. Chest, arms,
calves and abs. I rack a couple of twenty-kilo plates onto the
EZ Bar, start some standing curls. Work those biceps, twelve
reps per arm. Veins bulging. Forearms on fire. More plates,
another set of reps. Get that light-headed feeling. Switch to
the dumb-bells, blast out three sets of lateral raises. Must
remember to get a mirror fixed in here so I can watch myself.
My mobile rings. I drop the dumbers, scoop it off the
windowsill. It's Sinclair.
'Sorted?' I ask, mindful that anyone could be listening in
nowadays. I nod as he craps on in my ear. 'Okay, I'll collect
them in work tonight. Later, bra.'
I end the call before he starts nagging me about money.
Drop the phone back on the sill. Pick up my leather case,
unzip it. Might as well fill up the tank now supplies are on
the way. I lock the bedroom door, drop my joggers, sit on the
edge of the single bed. Take a clean needle, screw it onto
the hypo. Jam the pin into the rubber seal of my last vial of
Testosterone Enanthate, suck out five hundred mils. Pinch
the skin above my left hip. Inject.
When I've finished my workout I clean up, rub my left arse
cheek where it's gone numb from the gear. I unlock the door,
step out onto the landing. Listen to Karen wittering away to
Naomi and Ben but can't hear what they're saying because
MTV is polluting the lounge. Happy New Year, eh? Happy
families. Which reminds me ...
I'm hungover and shagged from the weights but just thinking
about ringing my mother is enough to tip me over the edge.
Got to do it, though. Deep breaths. I step into my bedroom,
close the door. Bring up the number on my moby. Dial.
'Room eleven east, if you could,' I say when a woman

answers.
'Hold please,' she says, her voice flat, uninterested. 'I think

it's feed time.'
Feed time. Like my mother's an animal. There's a click and

the line rings again.
'Eleven E,' says some guy. Another staff member I've never
met. I can hear raised voices in the background.
'It's Jacob Smith,' I tell him. 'I'd like to speak to my mother.'
'She's feeding.'
I squeeze the mobile, press it hard against my ear. 'I know.'
There's a pause. Then: 'Fine,' he mutters, and I assume he's
handed her the phone because all I can hear now is breathing
down the line and still the angry voices from somewhere and
the guy's telling my mother, 'It's Jacob, Bernadette. Your son.
Remember?'
Fucker. And I recognise the noise now. The shouting.
They've got her television switched to Jeremy Bastard Kyle. I /
picture my mother sitting next to the window with drool on
her chin, medicated and rambling to herself after a day spent
catching and eating flies.
'Mum?' I say.
She says nothing. Just the TV down the phone line, the
rattle of her chest faintly audible when the background
screeching stops.
'Mum, I just wanted to . . . wanted to wish you a Happy
New Year.'
Still Jeremy. Still the breathing.
'Mum?' I ask. Are you okay?'
Then: 'Keith?'
Who? 'No, Mum. It's me, Jake.'
'Oh, Keith,' she sighs, and I have no idea who the fruitbat
is on about, probably the staff guy who's waiting to finish
spoonfeeding her whatever glop they've prepared.
This is going nowhere fast. I kill the call. Lower my head
into my hands.
I shower before work, spend half an hour washing away
the fug. I think of Jessica as water pulses against my shaved
head. She was there last night. Young and unsullied. Clueless
about the effect she has on me. It was an effort not to stare.
Every time I see her I'm gripped with the urge to tell Karen
I'm leaving her and the kids.
I prepare my work bag, start to wonder. Perhaps I was that
transparent. Karen must've sensed something. Seen something.
Jesus, I was so pissed I could've told her I was in love
with the girl.
Point is, I really can't remember anything after Karen
speaking to me in the kitchen.
I just hope I didn't tell Frankie I desperately want to fuck
his nineteen-year-old daughter.

THREE

I step into the locker room, let the door click shut behind me.
There's no one getting changed to go home, no bleary-eyed
afternooners swapping utility harnesses for FCUK belts, or
black fatigues for comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt - the
off-duty-copper casual look any villain can spot a mile away.
No banter, no talk of that imminent first cold pint.
There's nobody else in here because, as usual nowadays,
we are it. The 'shift'. Me. Frank. Our old stripy, Tommy Hall,
waiting for us in the parade room upstairs. Two hungover
plods facing a ten-hour stretch, and probably in no fit state to
handle any part of the small arsenal we'll be carrying in the
rear of the wagon. It'll be replicated right across the force
area. Main stations with four tired young cops to cover a city.
Shitty outstations with a lone probationer who hasn't done
the driving course yet, so can't go anywhere in a patrol
vehicle. None of them with enough service to warrant being
left to look after themselves, never mind over a million
members of the public. It ain't The Bill, that's for sure.
Frank hasn't looked up since I entered. I'm starting to fear
the worst.
'Oi, oi, Frankster,' I smile. I can't stop picking at the scabs
on my knuckles.
He's bent forward, clipping his thigh holster in place. His
wiry arms work at the clasps, fingers pulling hard on the
Velcro strapping; he's taking his time, avoiding eye contact. It
reminds me of Karen with her angry cleaning. I feel myself
start to bristle, so stare at the top of his head and count the
pale pinkbald patches he's tried to disguise by spiking his hair
up with gel.
He straightens, eyes blinking behind those awful square
glasses he wears, but doesn't look at me. AH right, Jake?'
I wait a beat.
'Yeah, mate,' I say. We are Lemmon and Matthau. The Odd

Couple.
He closes his locker. 'I'll make a brew,' he says, leaving the
room. I can't remember him ever being like this. The only
thing that takes the edge off it is that he's making the tea.
Surely if I'd really pissed him off, he wouldn't have offered?
In the parade room we sit in silence across the table from
each other, intelligence reports from the afternoon team
spread before us. There's that awkwardness. That looking
occupied when in reality all we're doing is pretending to be
engrossed in some boring briefing sheet. Swap the paperwork
for the Sunday red-tops and you'd have a picture of domestic
bliss. The stripy sensed the mood and left, probably to resume
surfing for holidays on the office computer.
Frank continues to ignore me. I know I've done something
very wrong but the not-knowing what is killing me. I try to
distract myself and pull out my mobile, check the pics I downloaded
last week. Flip through shot after shot of painted toenails,
ankle tattoos, toe rings. It doesn't work. Doesn't calm me down.
'Look,' I say, and having to break the ice first hurts even
more. About the party .. . about what I said ...'
Just what did I say? 'C'mon Frankie... juzzt half an hour with
yer daughter... pleeeazze, mate?' Surely not. He'd have ripped
my spine out by now.
I stop talking when Frank looks at me for the first time
tonight. He's angry. Barely containing it. I've seen it when he's
about to put the arm on a performing prisoner. Frank's about
average height - probably five ten to my six five - but a real
hardbody. Can bench over a hundred kilos without breaking
a sweat. I lean back in my chair. I know how fast he is across
short distances.
'I'm sorry' I say, then like the best public order prisoner
whingeing to the bench in court, 'but I was really fucking
drunk.'
Frank eyes me for a second. He knows the drink is no
excuse. Knows I'm being a hypocrite. We've talked so many
times about how we hate those tossers in the dock who point
accusatory fingers at the twelve cans of Spar Super-strength
Wifebeater lager they'd necked before shattering their
girlfriend's jawbone in six places. And yet, it's true. I was really
drunk. I can't remember what I did.
'You bloody demolished my kitchen door, you donut,' he
says. 'Mel's not speaking to me.'
I blink several times, quickly. Glance down at my knackered
hands. 'I. . . what?'
Frank shakes his head. 'You can't wind your neck in for a
minute, can you? I don't know what went on between you
and Karen, but you just went off on one. Punching holes in
the bloody door? What were you thinking?'
I have no idea what he's talking about, but at least it
explains the scabs. And it's hard not to break into a fit of
giggles. Suddenly, now I know I'm in the clear, all I can think
about is Jessica. 'Look,' I say, swallowing a snigger. 'I'll pay for
any dam--'
'It's not fucking funny, Jake,' he says to me. 'You know I
don't like any aggro
And then I do laugh. 'You? No aggro?'
At least not at home, no. And you calling Mel Frosty
Bollock all night didn't help.'
Fantastic. I can't remember calling her that but file it away
for future use. 'Okay' I say. 'Sorry droog. I really am.'

'You're getting out of hand,' he says. Then I see his face
relax, his shoulders loosen.
I ignore the comment. 'If it's any consolation, Karen's been
blanking me all day'
Frank sighs. CI wonder why' he mutters.
I'm wondering why too, but before I can gather my
thoughts or reply to Frankie's little remark, the stripy appears
in the doorway, gut straining at the buttons of his uniform
shirt, his white hair coiffed into a candyfloss frizz. 'You girls
kissed an' made up now?'
'Yeah, Tom,' I say, looking him up and down. "Whatever.'
'There's a reason I've got these stripes on my shoulders,
boy,' he says for maybe the twelve-thousandth time, watching
as I neck the cold dregs of my tea.
I hoist my rig from the floor and gesture to Frank. We
make our way to the doorway where Tommy stands, not
moving. 'Saucer of milk, Tom?' I ask, looking down at the old
guy. His piggy little eyes are sunk into the slick dough of his
cheeks; I can see blackhead scars and thread veins across the
bulb of his nose, smell stale coffee on his breath.
He steps aside. 'What you mean?'
I say nothing. The keys to the wagon tinkle in my hand as
I head for the stairs. Tommy's calling behind me: 'What you
mean, Smithy? Saucer of milk?'
I hear Frank following. I grin as he speaks to the old fellow.
'He means for you, Sarge. The station cat, you know?'

It's a boring shift.
We drive from call to call, backing up the sector lads, and
every one turns out to be dross. It's the stuff of heart attacks.
I'm adrenalised then flatlining, over and over. That thrill of
anticipation. The bitter disappointment that follows. Nothing
of any substance, nobody wanting to play.
Street brawls, office dos, family rucks, useless gifts and
turkey. It drains people. To fight thy neighbour, to bitch-slap
one's wife of a Boxing Day eve - it takes energy to start
performing. By New Year's Day, everyone's worn out. I thank
Christ for the double-bubble pay cheque I'll be pocketing at
the end of the month. Makes the night seem a little more
worthwhile. Means I can clear some of my tab, too.
The city centre is like a scene from a Romero zombie film.
I keep thinking someone's vacuumed up all the people.
There's the odd cluster of hardy lager-merchants staggering
along the high street like the undead, but you can only derive
so much pleasure from watching lonely crab-walking
pissheads as they attempt to traverse that tricky four-inch drop
from kerb to roadside.
We stop-check anyone who's about, make sure their
mobile phones aren't recording then try to wind them up.
None of them bites and by midnight I'm clenching my
tattered fists with frustration. There's no firearm calls
anywhere across the force. Frank decides on a game of
snooker so we waste an hour pulling cars: red first, then any
colour from yellow to black, then a red, then a colour ... We
give up when neither of us can find a passing motor in any
shade of pink.
At oh-three hundred hours I drift across to JoBlo's as
arranged. Sinclair is the lone doorman. He shuffles across,
hands thrust into the pockets of his black overcoat, ribbons
of breath drifting up in front of his face. Frank turns away as
Sinclair leans down and slips his gloved hand into mine
through the window I've lowered.
I am the friendly copper doing the rounds, pressing the
flesh of the other night-workers. I feel cylinders of cold glass
against my palm.
'Jake,' Sinclair says, giving the slightest hint of a nod.
'Happy New Year.'
'I'm awake at stupid o'clock in the morning,' I say. 'There's
nothing happy about it. Busy?'
Sinclair laughs, withdraws his hand and waves it at the
empty street: 'Dead, bra.'
I see the old ragged scar, his war wound, running from his
left ear to the side of his nose, a mottled pink fissure on the
black of his skin. It puckers and wrinkles as he smiles, like a
second mouth. I think of the gypo teenager who gave it to
him all those years ago, drawing a smashed beer bottle across
his face when he refused the boy entry on his birthday. I
remember dealing with them both, putting the kid over the
wall for three years - he was released on tag for good
behaviour after six months, of course - and how my
acquaintance with Sinclair developed. How it became what it
is now.
'That should see you right,' Sinclair says, straightening up.
'And about the money--'
'I'll sort it,' I tell him, and pocket the vials. Four DecaDurabolin,
four Testosterone Cypionate. Ten days' worth if

I use them sparingly.
Sinclair hovers at the window, mouth slightly open, eyes

on me. He sighs.
'You need to sort it, Jake,' he says. 'Truly'
He walks back to the club door, yawns, and resumes
waiting for nobody in the cold.
Frank is looking at me.
'What?' I ask.
'I don't know why you keep using that crap,' he says.
'Because it make me strong like bull!'
Frank shakes his head.
I light a miniature cigar. 'Let's go see the girls.'
He checks the clock on the dash. 'It's ten past three in the
morning and colder than a witch's tit. There won't be any.'
I blow smoke out the window, throw the wagon into gear
and drive in the direction of the docks.
Frank slumps in his seat, tired. I hear him mumble into his
collar: 'Clearly you think differently'

None of the usual faces on the main drag.
No faces at all, bar a solitary figure meandering along the
pavement outside one of the industrial units on Radcliffe
Street.
'Told you we were too late,' says Frank.
'What about her?' I ask, and point across to the streetlight
the girl has wandered under. She's wearing the classic prozzie
ensemble: fur-lined hooded red jacket, short black skirt, tights
and Fuck-Me Boots. Her tiny frame is swathed in a cone of
amber. The sound of our petrol engine has thrown her, made
her think we're punters on the fish. Sector bobbies drive
clapped-out diesel panda cars that the old pros can hear from
the next county. They're normally melting into the shadows
while plod is still ten minutes away.
'Must be new,' Frank says.
'Or desperate,' I say. 'Out on her own, in this weather.'
I pull closer. The girl realises who we are, begins to walk
quickly away, her FMBs scuffing the pavement. I smirk, gun
the engine. When she realises it's pointless, she stops and faces
the passenger window with her hands on her hips. I can't see
her face, her upper body, but can hazard a reasonably accurate
guess at her expression and what's coming next.
'What you lot fuckin' want?' I hear her say when Frank
lowers the window. That accent. She's from up in the sticks
somewhere. I can see a patch of red jacket at her midriff, her
trembling fingers where they hold a cigarette. She must be
freezing. Or petrified.
I lean forward to get a better look at her while she talks to
Frank, momentarily tune out their conversation. Because I'm
thrown. I sit back, shake my head. This can't be right. I lean
over again, look up at her.
'What?' she says, screwing up her face. 'This a staring
competition or somethin'?'
I'm thinking of the RTC. The car into that wall in the
pissing-down rain. Did you make it after all, girl? But it can't
be you. It can't be.
I bat the thoughts away because Frank's looking at me
oddly. The girl's lost interest, is picking at her bottom lip with
chipped red fingernails. Black hair is piled on top of her head,
a single curl hanging down like a dark hook across the left side
of her face. I guess she must be eighteen, nineteen at most.

Jessica's age.
'Are we done here,' the girl's saying, 'or what, piggies?'
It's freaky though. Uncanny. She's the spitting image of the
one from the Clio. And like Jessica, she's a very pretty thing.
Delicate. Fragile, almost. Beneath the makeup, applied to
make her look older, I can see her features are still soft. It'll
take a few years walking these pavements before she hardens,
before the inevitable smack habit browns her teeth and sucks
at the flesh of her face. But for now, she's Little Red Riding

Hood.
I wonder what her feet look like. And I wonder who's

pimping her out.
'What's your name, sweetheart?' I say. There must be a
better life for her than this. She doesn't seem capable of
looking after herself.
She glances around, then squats down at the open window,
as if she wants to confide in me. Her forearms rest on the
doorframe. She has beautiful eyes, like dark marbles. I can see
she needs help. I want to help.
She smiles, says: 'You pay me enough, you can call me
whatever you want when you're fucking me. Sweetheart.'
I open my mouth. For some reason nothing comes out.
Frank has turned to me, eyes wide. I swear he's about to
laugh.
'That's ...' I say, still a little stunned. 'That's not really what
I was expecting to hear. You're a dirty little cow, aren't you?'
Red Riding Hood pushes herself up from the car. She
draws on her cigarette, pitches it onto the bonnet, watches
the sparks fly up over the windscreen in the breeze. Exhaling
blue smoke she says: 'And you, honey, are a cunt.'
She walks away. I watch her strut around the front of the
wagon, sashay across the road, then disappear behind the
hedges of an MOT centre.
'She obviously knows you well,' says Frank, tucking his face
into his jacket collar.
I can see by his eyes that he's smiling.

It's oh-six fifty-five hours, and in the locker room I slap Frank
on the shoulder. 'C'mon. The Elite should be open. You can
spot me for an hour on the bench before the stuffed shirts
arrive for their pre-office aerobics.'
At the gym I blast my pecs and delts, watching the grey
men of nine-to-five land traipse in. The cubicle gimps, they
pump meagre amounts of iron before disappearing to their
first pointless meeting of the day where they'll talk for hours
yet say nothing.
I'm well and truly chinstrapped by oh-eight hundred and
sneak back into the house to find Karen and the kids still
asleep. I slip into my side of the bed, onto the cold mattress.
I'm gone in seconds.
Karen has left for the day when I wake. No note. No food.
She's on afternoons at A and E tonight and I'll be on my way
to work before she arrives home. I try to engage the kids for
a while but fail to divert their attention from the crotch
grabbing rappers blaring on the widescreen in the corner.
Naomi occupies one settee, thumb blurring over the keypad
of her mobile as she texts whichever new boy's sniffing
around her. Ben lies on the other, staring catatonically at the
forty-inch screen with his right hand jammed down the front
of his baggy black jeans, fumbling with the contents. My film
collection - four hundred DVDs, everything from Kurosawa
to the Coen Brothers, a cineaste's dream - sits ignored and
untouched in the cupboard behind the television.
Children. That gulf. That chasm between you and them.
I think of my own father. Then I try not to.
'You want to watch a movie?' I ask Ben. 'Something decent
instead of this rubbish?'
Ben moves his head a little, just enough so he can look me
in the eye and make sure I catch the curl of his top lip. I see
myself in him, albeit twenty-five years ago and minus the
floppy, dyed, jet-black emo haircut. 'Nnnaaah,' he drawls after
a few seconds, like a stoner. Then he shifts his head three
inches, back to the position it was moments before. Oh, the
effort. I'm so thankful.
Naomi gives me one of her I-may-only-be-fifteen-but-I'm
way-cooler-than-you looks, mentally reeling off a list of
horrid teenage Americanisms as she rolls her eyes at me. Yeah,
Dad. You loser. Whatever. She resumes texting, one eye on the
whiteboy hip-hop star squeaking out his latest track on
the Sony Bravia I'm still paying for but never get to watch.
I can't remember the last time I held a decent, prolonged
conversation with my kids. My lack of enthusiasm soon
matches their own so I abandon them to their mindless music

video channel.
When I ring Rachael her mobile goes to voicemail. I leave
another short message, tell her what a fantastic time we had,
ask if she wants to try again because, you know, that night at
her flat was just a blip. I try her landline, get the same, do the
same. And she leaves for her ski trip tomorrow. Gone for two

weeks. ..
I slip up to the master bedroom with a good handful of
toilet tissue, lock the door, switch the television on. The DVD
tray closes and I silently offer thanks to the CID lad who gave
me one of the discs he recovered on a warrant. I lose time
watching top-quality Italian foot porn, skipping from one
money-shot to the next, hand working my cock, alternating
between thoughts of Rachael on her back with her deliriously
long toes in the air, and fucking Jessica in a Little Red Riding
Hood costume.
Annoyingly, unusually, my mind wanders. I keep seeing the
severed foot on the floor of the Clio. Think of the young pro
walking the street alone. Then Karen enters my head and
ruins everything. We're in Frank's kitchen again, she's talking
at me and her face is twisted, is distraught but vicious and I
still can't recall what she said to me but whatever it was, now
I've got to pay for bloody repairs to Frankie's kitchen door.
It's my birthday soon. I wonder if she'll start speaking to
me before then?



FOUR

I run the gauntlet of the Magistrates' Court corridors.
It's an animal pen. They wait for you, clumped in groups
on stairwells, near the toilets, outside the very court they're
about to appear in. They bring their friends, their families.
Despite the draconian ban, the air is thick with smoke. Soggy
roll-ups, or if they're flush it's Lambert and Butler, the
underclass's pre-rolled cigarette of choice. It's a blur of
hoodies and cheap Asda trainers on cream tiles. These
Burberry fools. These walking abortions. The aroma is fags,
sweat and stale lager-breath from their pre-court piss-up. You
walk past, uniform pressed, eyes fixed on somewhere ahead
but not really looking, pretending to ignore them when they
tell you what they plan to do to your wife and children. How
they hope your father dies of cancer, you fuckin' truffle
snuffler. That they're going to rape your mother as soon as
they're finished in this joke shop of a building.
This zoo. This kennel stuffed with stinking, yapping dogs.
They don't care. They have no fear. It's a social event for

them.
I hate coming here. Wish my Glock was strapped to my
thigh. How many of them would goad me to fight with the
threat of a nine-millimetre hollow-point drilling through their
sternum? No wonder ordinary, decent folk don't want to
appear in court to give evidence.
In the police room I nod at Frankie, at the two plods I don't
recognise but who were apparently there the night I took an
elbow off Dwayne Cooper. One sits reading a three-day-old
copy of the Sun, light from the overhead fluorescent gleaming
off his bald scalp. The second gazes out through the window,
playing with the wiry ends of his moustache like a hamster
with mange.
The Crown Prosecution Service solicitor is a short and
nervy fifty-something, his lank blond hair swept awkwardly
across his forehead like a Hitler Youth swish. The suit he
wears is three sizes too big and hangs from his skinny frame
like a shire horse's empty feedbag. The sight of him hardly
fills me with confidence.
He thrusts out a hand. 'Greg Cadwallader,' he says.
I'm worried Greg's arm may snap as I shake it. His palm is
soft against the calloused skin of my own, as if he moisturises
regularly. I look at Frank, see his eyes flick between me and
this weedy runt of a solicitor. He knows what I'm thinking is
thinking exactly the same.
Crown Prosecution Service. The GPS. Crap Police Solicitors.
Can't Prosecute, Sorry. Criminal Protection Service. My stomach
knots as I listen to this GPS drone give his opinion of our case
and in doing so demonstrate how little he knows of it, how
he's probably just picked up the file this morning and given it
a perfunctory going-over.
'So,' I say. 'What about job and finish?'
Greg looks at me. He doesn't understand.
Frank steps forward. 'Y'know, get Cooper to duck his nut?
If he pleads guilty we can all go home. Two hours in work,
rest of the day on the Queen.'
I'm nodding away, thinking if this is put to bed sharpish I
can scoot across to Rachael's, spend the afternoon while
Karen thinks I'm still in work. But Greg, he pulls a face, like
someone's offered him a turd 'n' onion baguette for lunch.
'There are complications with this case,' he says, fingertips
flicking at that fringe.

POCKET NOTEBOOK 25



MIKE THOMAS



The case is airtight. I can't believe I have to be in court for

it. 'Such as?'
'There's been a complaint of assault,' Greg says.
I laugh. 'That all?' I remember what my old tutor constable
told me all those years ago: if the public don't complain about
you, you're not doing the job right. . . 'Goes with the territory,
mate.'
He looks up at me. There's something in his eyes, like
they're shining as he stares. It's bizarre but I think he might be
attracted to me. I check his left hand, wrapped around the
case file: no wedding ring. Hmm. Do you sit at home

endlessly watching the DVD of West Side Story, Greg?
Wrestling over whether those Jets do it for you, or those
Latino Sharks? Or is it Philadelphia on loop? Weeping while
counting the lesions on Tom Hanks's chest, then cooing over
Antonio Banderas as you imagine comforting him in his time

of loss? Do you?
'There's an allegation of . . .' he says, neatly polished
fingernails picking through the case file. He looks up
quizzically. 'Ah .. . There's an allegation of . . . black-doggingT Black-dogging. Damn right.
I think of the red mist that descended after Cooper
smacked me with his elbow. Close my eyes, try once again to
fit the pieces together, to fill in the gaps from the point where
I was clouted to finding myself standing over a squealing
Cooper, chest heaving, Frank hauling me out of the van by
my body armour. There's nothing. A void. A blue cinema
screen with a title card: we apologise for the temporary interruption
to the main feature.
And then the paramedic telling me the girl was going to
snuff it, Frank groaning, me snatching the van keys from an
anonymous open-mouthed sector bobby and climbing into
the driver's seat. After that . . . after that it was foot on the
accelerator as I drove towards the custody suite, listening to
Cooper call me from my hole to my pole through the
segregation wire, Frank following in the firearms wagon
while Cooper screamed and I screamed back, my throat
burning, spittle on my chin, blaming him for the accident, for
the girl dying, for making me have to arrest him and fill in
seventy stupid fucking forms when I should be getting ready
for Frankie's party, blaming him for what happened with my
parents and what this shitty job's made me become, for 9/11, 7/7, SARS, Aids, Bird Flu, Swine Flu, blaming him for not
finding any damn WMDs in Iraq, for all those grunts who lost
their lives in 'Nam, blaming him for pretty much everything
ever. ..
And then there it was, that old black dog, that mythical
beast, running right across the road in front of the police van.
I remember checking the speedometer: nudging sixty, rev
counter redlining, diesel engine straining.
Perfect.
I slammed on the brakes, like I always do when I see that
old dog. Like every copper out there has done at one time or
another, prick of a prisoner in the cage, no witnesses about,
usually under cover of darkness.
Cooper carried on moving at sixty. Right into the segregation
wire.
He didn't make a sound for the rest of the journey.
And that old black dog was gone once again.
All that was left to do was get our heads together back at
the nick and make sure everyone's pocket notebook entries
tallied. Credit to Cooper, he can't have been completely out of
it while Frank prisoner-surfed him on the floor of the custody
suite. He must've heard us laughing about doing it as he was
booked in. About black-dogging him. How else would he
complain about it, or even know the police-only phrase?
'Not guilty, m'lud,' I say, and grin. Frank raises a hand to his

mouth.
Greg sighs. Clearly we are not on the same page, humour
wise. 'So would you care to explain what the term means?'

he asks.
'I have no clue,' I say.
'Well, the defendant would have his solicitor believe

otherwise.'
I place a hand on Greg's upper arm. It's like a bamboo pole
wrapped in chicken fillets. Sinewy, knotted. Weak. 'I know
nothing about it, simple as.'
Greg narrows his eyes at me. 'So you weren't involved in
this "black-dogging"?'
'No.'
'Sounds like something sexual to me.'
I bet it does, sweetie. 'Sorry to disappoint you.'
Greg flushes. He riffles through the file again, embarrassed.
'And you know nothing about any assault?'
My face is expressionless. 'He can complain as much as he
likes, but we all know how much he was thrashing about in
that van. It's bollocks. Any injuries were self-inflicted and the
four of us here will testify to it.'
Greg waits a moment, studies me. He turns to Frank, to
the bald cop, to the bobby with the moustache who's still leaning
against the windowsill. 'Okay' he says, finally convinced.
'So be it.'
Another fine performance. Ladies and gentlemen of the

Academy ...
'So anyway,' I say. 'The guilty plea?'
Greg chews his bottom lip. 'I can speak to his solicitor, if it
makes you happy' he says, obviously not happy about it at all.
'Do it then,' I say. Test his mettle, right?
Greg's upset at being spoken to in this way, and for a second
I think he might have a hissy fit. Then he gives a little
shoulder-shimmy and slides out of the room.
'How to lose friends and irritate people,' Frank says.
Ah, he'll get over it,' I shrug, and drop into one of the
orange plastic chairs lining the walls of the police room. I
reach into the chest pocket of my shirt. Pull out my notebook,
flick through it, an idea forming. I'm chuckling to myself as
Greg stomps back in.
'So?' I say, standing up to look down at him.
'No,' he says, and offers an I-told-you-so smirk. 'He wants
a trial.'
I look at Frank. 'Game on,' I say with a smile.

I'm last on.
Officer in the case. The OIC. Everyone else has given their
evidence, been cross-examined. They're sitting at the back of
court number three when I enter. Frankie throws me a look,
rolls his eyes in an amused, you're-not-gonna-believe-what
just-happened kind of way, and I've worked with him long
enough to get it: Cooper's already fucked. Convicted. Tucked
up before I even walked into the room.
Might as well enjoy myself, then.
There's nobody else at the back of the court other than a
guy in his mid-twenties. His bespectacled eyes watch me over
silver frames, the tips of his bleached blond hair artfully teased
skywards. He holds a spiral-bound pad in his hands, pen
jammed into the rings. I peg him straight away: journalist. Or
at the very least a trainee solicitor, as if the world needs any
more of those. But it doesn't matter if this non-event case
makes the papers. Clearly all that remains is for me to add the
icing and the Cooper-cake is well and truly done.
'Your worships,' I say, bowing in the doorway as I'm
supposed to.
The court is pathetic. Striplights clipped to polystyrene
ceiling tiles. Bland cream carpet. Bench and witness box
constructed of MDF and screened with fake beech like a B&Q
kitchen. All that's missing is a range cooker. The black-caped
clerk hunches over the statute books on his desk, pulling at
the skin on his neck and mumbling to himself. Above him
there's the magistrates lined on the bench: two tubby guys in
cheap polyester suits, a frumpy female in her early sixties.
Three wise monkeys. Laypersons with no knowledge of law
and relying on the AlzheimerVaddled clerk to steer them to
a verdict. I would have preferred a stipe, a legally trained
stipendiary who knows what they're talking about, but you
can't have everything. Anyways, thank fuck it's Magistrates'.
Imagine Crown. Putting myself in the hands of twelve people
too stupid to get out of jury duty.
Dwayne Cooper sits behind the defendant's desk. I don't
remember him but he clearly remembers me. I feel his eyes on
me as I walk to the witness box and catch him fidgeting in his
chair, fingers scrunching up pieces of paper. I know it's barely
contained fury: not Twelve Angry Men, just one agitated

tracksuit.
Cooper's defence brief sits in the adjacent chair. Another
sick-souled money-grabber in a slick suit. How he can sleep at
night, looking after these turds, is beyond me. And there's no
way Cooper could afford him in a million years, but that
doesn't matter when people pay taxes that go into the Legal
Aid kitty. Cooper got his services for free, via me.
I get the impression Mister Super-slick is far from happy
He's slumped over the desk, looking like he wished he was
anywhere but here. Looking thoroughly pissed off. Strange.
I take the stand, lift the Bible, hold it in my right hand. The
clerk snaps out of his stupor, asks me to introduce myself to
the court, so I go through the usual spiel. My face is blank,
professional. My voice clear and emotionless: 'I swear by
almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing
but the truth...' I say, and glance at Greg. My left hand hangs
down against my trouser leg, fingers crossed.
It's good to know you've got some leeway in these
situations.
Greg does his bit for the cause then sits down. We're
finished in three minutes: straightforward, boring. Nothing
the fatbodies on the bench haven't heard a thousand times
before. I wait for Mister Super-slick to slither from his chair to
cross-examine but he doesn't move.
Instead, Cooper bumps his own chair backwards and gets
to his feet.
I look at Frank. He shrugs. There's a cheeky glint in his
eyes.
Greg half rises. 'I'm sorry, PC Smith, I forgot to mention.
The defendant has discharged his solicitor of his duties. He's
now representing himself.'
Cooper's brief wilts further.
I start to wish I hadn't crossed my fingers. If you exist Lord,
thank you.
'Whorrit is, righ'...' Cooper begins. He rolls up the sleeves
of his tracky top. Damn, doesn't he mean business! 'You, bra,
are the guy wot smashed me up in that van, ain't you?'
And he's off on one. There's no logic or train of thought to
his line of questioning. He has no clue of the finer points of
law, seeming to base his legal arguments on snippets he's
picked up watching Judge Judy reruns on some ropey satellite
channel. He struts back and forth like Kevin Costner in JFK, gesticulating and grandstanding. But this ain't no Oliver Stone
movie, bra. Black-dogging rears its head but I am poker-faced.
The clerk repeatedly orders him to return to his seat and calm
down but Cooper, in his own tiny little mind, is on fire.
I stand quietly, knowing I've won, and remember the idea
I had in the police room.
'Your worships,' I say, my hand on the chest pocket of my
uniform shirt. 'Would it be in order for me to refer to my
pocket notebook for this matter? The defendant's cross
examination is confusing me a little.'
The clerk nods immediately 'Indeed, officer,' he says with
a withering look at Cooper. 'I understand entirely'
Cooper watches sullenly as I take out my notebook, flip
through the pages. I choose one at random, some nonsense
diversity training I endured months ago where the notes I
made consisted of names I already knew I wasn't allowed to
call black people or the handicapped but the holier-than-thou
condescending civvy prick tutors forced us to write them
down anyway. I clear my throat. The magistrates lean forward
in unison. Cooper's jaw clenches.
'Go ahead, officer,' says the clerk.
My eyes flick over my handwriting.


What a waste of time that day was. Cracking tikka masala
we had free for refreshments, though. Then I give the bench
my version of events as I recall them, not from the notebook
at all. I make it up as I go along, embellish it just to tighten the
screws on a now purple-faced Cooper. I see Greg quickly
flipping through his file, confused. Nobody even bothers to
stop me and check the page I'm reading from.
Inside I'm laughing so hard I could soil myself.

Cooper is apoplectic. I think he's about to have an
aneurysm.
I turn to Frank, check the young journo sitting a few seats
away. My hand taps my notebook back into my shirt pocket.
Job done.

Then: 'Officer!' the clerk squeals.
I swing my head around. Cooper is running towards me.
It's full-pelt stuff, fists pumping air, his hundred-quid-an-hour
ex-brief wide eyed and mouth agape behind him.
Tmgonnafuckindoyoubra!' Cooper squeaks.
The clerk is freaking out, paging security. Out the corner of
my eye I see Frank bolt from his seat. I boot open the door to
the box; it flies backwards and there's the short sharp squ.ee of screws nearly pulled from woodwork.
Cooper's almost upon me as I step down from the dais.
Everything slows. Slows down enough for me to check him
out properly: he's probably five seven, twelve stone in his
keks. A shaven-haired lager-merchant with man-boobs
wrapped in a shocking-white McKenzie tracksuit. I'm almost
a foot taller, six stone heavier. I could bench-press him if he
stopped moving long enough. Must've been something
wrong with me the night we met; how this wimp ever stuck
one on me I'll never know. But why, oh why does it always
have to be this way? What's the matter with these people? I'm
so tired of all this.
Then everything speeds up again and it doesn't matter if
I'm tired because it's always been like this and always will be
like this, so I smash a forearm into Cooper's windpipe, watch
him drop to the floor. He writhes with his hands clutching at
his throat.

'Aaag,' he says. His chest hitches, bloodshot eyes fixed
on me.

Frank is beside me. I hear his faint snort of laughter.
Time to end it. I flip Cooper over, know by now that all
eyes are on me. Baldy and moustache-man are standing at the
back of the court, shaking their heads. At Cooper or Frank or
me, I can't be sure. Frank does the necessary, places himself
between me and the clerk, the bench, shielding me from view.
I go through the motions, pull out Kwik-Cuffs and Velcro
restraints, truss Cooper using Home Office-approved
techniques. Within a minute he's on his front in a figure-of
four, legs strapped and hands cuffed at the base of his spine.
A good old post-Christmas turkey, ready for stuffing. He's still
fighting it though, craning his head around, gobbing thick
lung butter in my direction, and it's disgusting so I kneel on
his neck, grind his face into cream fibres. I think of New Year's
and Karen as I carpet-burn his cheek.
Security arrives, carts him away. After that it's formality
time. The bench find him guilty. A fine, probation. Hundred
quid compensation to me for the eye injury. I'll never see it
but couldn't care less - I'm not even listening any more. Not
listening as the bald cop grumbles that I went overboard with
Cooper. As Greg berates me for flowering up the evidence.
My hands, for the first time ever after a ruck, they're
trembling. I stare at them. I'm squeezing them into fists as
Frank pats me on the shoulder, asks me if I'm okay, guides
me out of the court. I pass the young blond guy at the door,
see him scribbling notes into his pad. He looks up at me,
squints behind his glasses as if examining some lab specimen.
'Seen enough, fucko?' I say, and the kid's right eye twitches.
Twitches just like my hands.
My hands. I can't make them stop.

FIVE

Thirty-eight today.
I'm starting to feel it. Thirty-eight: my father's age when it
all happened. On this date, exactly twenty years ago. Some
birthday this is likely to be. Some anniversary. Only five hours'
sleep after a night turn, just so I can squeeze in some training,
blow off some steam, before the endurance test that is Karen
continuing to ignore me and the kids whining - I guarantee
it - about what they'd rather do on my birthday.
To top it all, Rachael still hasn't replied to my texts or calls.
I've had no messages and I need her. Where is she? Her shift
ski trip ended three days ago and they're back in work tonight.
I know this, I've checked.
I'm simmering already.
Finished, I unscrew the twenty-kilo plates, rack them. Four,
six, eight of the things. The bar weighs fifteen at least and
clangs as I drop it to the gymnasium floor. High-tensile steel,
crosshatched for a better grip, thicker than my wrist to
support whatever ridiculous amount I've been lifting. I bend
over at the waist, nauseous. Ten sets of six reps. Increasing
the load as I went, curling the bar to failure, curling it until
my delts, my burning biceps, they just gave out.

Frank laughs as he watches my bent-over frame in the wall
length mirrors. The Elite is quiet, just a handful of regulars monsters,
pin-freaks, and I'm glad Sinclair isn't one of them
because I don't have his money - lifting massive amounts behind
me. Frank looks tiny in comparison. Jesus, I look tiny compared
to some of the Human Growth Hormone giants in here.
'What's funny?' I ask him, looking upwards. Sweat hangs
from the end of my nose.
'You. "Eeeyaargh!'" he says. 'What was all that about?'
I straighten, strip off my gloves. 'Effort.'
'It looked like an effort,' he says, slapping me on the
shoulder. 'You is getting old, bra.'
Old? Don't be a cheeky bastard. Not today . ..
'Got to get the work in,' I say. 'Make the most of the gear.
I'm on a bulking cycle.'
Today's stack: fifty milligrams of Dianabol. Half a mil of
Arimidex to combat water retention and tender nipples. I've
already got five hundred mils of Testosterone Enanthate and
four hundred of Deca-Durabolin floating around in me.
Frank rolls his eyes. 'False economy, mate. Soon as you stop
sticking needles in your arse you'll deflate and be like, the rest
of us. 'Cept you'll be covered in acne scars and your balls'll be
half the size of mine.' He walks over to the bench press, slips
medium plates onto each end of the bar.
I inspect myself in the mirrors. A couple of other lifters
check me out, eyes on my torso. I move and twist at the waist,
flex my forearms and see the welts across my deltoids and
triceps under the torn fabric of my tatty vest top. Purple boils
at my neckline, down my latissimus dorsi: they give a glimpse
of themselves before darting back under cover. I didn't realise
they were so prominent, so angry-looking. Must've been
mixing up the dosage. It's embarrassing and, thanks to Frank,
everyone in here knows about them now. But how does he know about my bollocks?
I'm vaguely aware of my nails digging into the flesh of my
palm, but I don't feel pain, just dull and distant pressure as
they pierce the skin. Frank lies back, begins quickly pumping
about fifty-odd kilos over and over. Quick and clean jerks.
Toning himself. Pussy style.

I whip off my weight belt, eyes on Frank as he stares at the
ceiling. He puffs out air, puffs, puffs, puffs. I wrap the belt
around my right hand, timing the loops to Frank's breathing.
The thick leather covers my knuckles as I curl my hand into

a fist.
Acne scars. Small bollocks. Getting old.
Where's Rachael? What's wrong with Karen? And why
won't my bloody kids just communicate for once? It's my
birthday after all. My fucking birthday.
I have static in my ears. All I see are Frankie's lips moving
as he exhales.
His lips moving . ..
You cheeky fucker, Frank.
You cheeky, dirty ...
'You going to spot me while you stand there, or what?' he
asks suddenly.
I blink. The belt feels tight around my knuckles, buckle
facing outwards, the chipped metal ready as the first point of
impact.
'Jake?'
I'm right next to him - almost standing over him at his feet
- but can't remember getting here. I find my arm drawn back,
fist aimed squarely at Frank's throat. I look at the belt, at my
knuckles, as if they belong to somebody else.
'Come on,' he says, eyes still on the ceiling. The tendons
on his ripped forearms are wire cables beneath skin. 'Let's get
this out of the way I've got your birthday presents in the car.
You're going to love them, mate.'
I drop my arm before Frank notices. Raise my belt-covered
fist to my mouth. Bite down so hard my teeth cut through
half a centimetre of leather.
Frank doesn't look at me as I move behind his head, lift the
barbell from his hands. That trust. He gives himself to me. If
I wanted I could drop it, all seventy-odd kilos onto his
windpipe. Crushing it.
It clangs as I drop it onto the rests.
'Thanks,' he says, sitting upright. He frowns at me. 'You
okay?'
I swallow. 'Yeah,' I say, not really sure if I am at all. 'Like you
said: getting old.'

Vietnam Encounter II: Charlie Don't Surf, two hundred Cafe
Cremes and the brand-new issue of Foot Worship Monthly.
A PlayStation game, duty-free box of miniature cigars and
a fetish mag for my birthday. I like. Frank certainly knows
what floats my boat. I felt a small pang of guilt as he handed
them to me in The Elite car park then hugged me in a Brokeback Mountain style.
I wish my family were as enterprising. As thoughtful. I'm
standing in the kitchen near the central island, waiting as Ben
argues with his big sis over what they'd rather do for my
birthday. I knew it: what they would rather do. Neither has
asked me what I want. Karen's sitting on a stool at the
breakfast bar, idly flicking through a newspaper, chocolate
hair hiding her face. In eighteen days she's spoken precisely
twelve words. Or rather, she's said no twelve times to
questions I've asked: variations on: are you speaking to me yet?,
will you tell me what's wrong? and are you going to tell me what I've
done?
'But I want to go shoppimng,' whines Naomi.
Ben shakes his head. 'Nuh,' he says. 'You just wanna meet
up with your mates or your boyfriend
'No I don't.'
'Er, yeah.'
I glance at the clock on the cooker: thirteen fifty hours.
This is going to be a very long day.

Karen drops off the stool, folds the newspaper and throws
it between them. I can barely believe it when she speaks. 'It's
y'dad's birthday' she says. I note she doesn't look anywhere
near me. 'Let him decide.'
Naomi and Ben look at me expectantly but I'm caught off
guard. Karen walks back to her stool, slides a magazine from
the rack near the bread-bin, resumes reading.
Is she starting to relent just because it's my supposed
special day? Whatever the reason, I lose control of my
faculties for a moment. Five minutes before she spoke my
brain was thinking of a few hours in the pub watching Sky
Sports with Frank, then out for a pizza with the fambly before
back to the house, Karen to bed and me on the PlayStation
while chain-smoking cigars. Simple, cheap, unfussy Put Karen
ignoring me to one side and just get on with it.
Now I'm thrown. Now I'm thinking: shopping, new clobber
for Karen, pizza and film for the kids, swanky restaurant
tonight - sans teenagers - where we'll bury the hatchet over
several bottles of vino and she'll forgive whatever it is I've done.
We'll laugh together for the first time in as long as I can
remember. We'll come home, Naomi and Ben asleep, and
fumble around on our bed like the good old days when we
were just-married twenty-one-year-olds. It'll be top-up sex of
course. That marriage-saver. Fucking to maintain equilibrium.
To sate each other's appetite so neither goes a-wanderin'. At
least, that's what it's meant to do.
'Yeah, let's go shopping,' I say, and pull out my mobile.
Oddly, I'm quite excited.
Naomi shrieks with pleasure.
'Don't worry, mate,' I say to Ben. 'Domino's for you
tonight.'
He brightens. 'Really?'
I nod, look towards Karen, her face still hovering over the
magazine. 'Your mother and I are going out for the night,' I
say, and start searching dialled numbers on the mobile. At this
she does look up. I can't tell if her open-mouthed expression
is one of pleasant shock or mild horror. I decide on the
former, but that could be misguided optimism.
The voice in my ear is East European. I bark the booking
into my mobile, carefully enunciating each syllable so the
clown'll understand: eight pee em, tay-bullfor two, Smith. It's
The Tidal. Seafood, wood floors, stark furnishings, low lights.
Expensive. Karen's kind of place. I took Rachael there the
week before she disappeared on her Christmas ski trip and
the number's still in my phone. How convenient.
As I end the call I feel a flicker of anxiety: what if they
recognise me? And now I'm with a different woman, ring on
my wedding finger rather than looped on the dog tags around
my neck for the night? I weigh up the odds. The Polish
workers in there can barely string a sentence together in
English anyway; Karen'll hardly be able to understand them,
even before her regulation three drinks begin to take effect.
'Shopping at. . .' I say, and check the cooker clock again.
'Fourteen ten hours. That gives you twenty minutes.'
'That means ten past two to you, loser,' Naomi says to Ben.
He ignores her. There's a lot of that about in this house.
Karen sighs. She's off the stool, pulling her hair into a
ponytail; a black hair-bobble is gripped between her teeth. She
says nothing, follows the kids out of the room.
Think I'll get her something new to wear tonight.
Something red.

SIX

We are that couple you see in restaurants.
That couple tucked in one corner: her studying the menu
for the thirteenth time; him sitting rigid and miserable with
his hand cupping a warm tumbler of JD and Coke, its ice long
melted, a glazed look in his eyes. Neither will speak, other
than to thank the waitress as she offers them another chunk
of granary bread from her wicker basket or pours more
Sancerre.
You pray it never happens to you. You hope your
relationship never reaches that depth, the one marked rock
bottom. It's purgatory. A waste of time. The fun is . . . well,
the fun is beginningless.
I never thought we'd end up this way. We never used to be
like this and I don't know when life became a marriage-go
round of fractious mundanity. This is pointless. Karen and I
could be at home ignoring each other. It'd be a damn sight
cheaper and a lot less public.
The Tidal is full. I feel eyes on me. On us. Karen's not
spoken a word since we waved goodbye to the kids an hour
and a half ago, and she doesn't seem bothered in the slightest.
Our empty dessert dishes are swept away. I can't bear this any
longer.
'So?' I say and down my drink. The Coke is flat, like syrup.
I signal for the Polack waitress to get me a refill.
Karen exhales. Checks her watch, says nothing. She's
wearing the red halter top I bought this afternoon but has
covered it with her favourite black cardigan, buttoned up to
just below her neckline. Beneath our table, her feet are
encased in dull leather boots.
'This is ridiculous,' I say. 'What was the point of coming
here?'
She stares at me. 'I thought there was a very good point.'
Jesus. A sentence.
'Yes,' I say. 'It's my birthday. We're supposed to be--'

'No,' she interrupts, and I notice her teeth are grinding
together. Her Northern accent is more pronounced, always a
sure sign she's pretty miffed. 'Not we. It's nothing to do with we. It's supposed to be you. I need to know you finally understand.'
'I do understand. It's because you haven't spoken to me for
three weeks.'
She sits back, eyes wide. 'So it's my fault?'
Yes. 'No.'
'You think it is, don't you? You think this ... this miserable
effort of a marriage is all down to me. Right?'
'I didn't say that. To be honest I have no idea what the
prob--'
Karen jerks forward, jaw jutting out. There are scarlet
blotches in the centre of her cheeks. Her neck is flushed.
'That's right, Jake. You have no idea. No bloody idea
whatsoever.'
I find my fingernails scraping at the underside of the table.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. I'm sure the hubbub of conversation
from the other diners has lowered in volume. I don't want to
turn around. One pair of eyes. If I see one pair of eyes looking
at us. . .
'If this is about what you said at New Year's . . .' I say. 'I
really can't remember. I'm sorry'
She looks at me sadly. I detect a hint of disappointment, of
incredulity there too. And her bottom lip is trembling now.
She hesitates. I'm not sure if she's about to cry right here in







42 MIKE THOMAS
POCKET NOTEBOOK 43

I
the restaurant or if she's so angry she's choosing her words

carefully.
'I can't do this,' she says then, and looks upwards, almost as
if she's talking to somebody else. Tra not going over it again.

I won't.'
Scratch, scratch. My fingernails scrape at the wooden table.
It's starting to hurt but the pain seems a million miles away.
'What the fuck is it, Karen?'
She blinks, her head recoiling a little. 'It's just you, Jake,'
she says finally. 'You've changed. You're not right lately. I really
think you need help.'
It's as if she's suddenly deflated; the stiffness goes out of
her. I feel blood trickling down my fingers and gathering in
my upturned palm. I wipe it on the fringe of the tablecloth.
Let the Polacks deal with it.
'Well that's really helpful, sweetheart,' I say. 'The usual one
hundred per cent sound advice. Ninety-nine per cent sound,
one per cent advice.'
The waitress, a reed-thin mousy blonde with a drawn and
hollow-cheeked face, she's at my shoulder and coughing in
that oh-so-polite way. I don't answer her when she asks me in
her broken English if everything is all right.
'Oh, bravo,' says Karen. 'Know what? I bet you're just like

your father.'
There's that white noise in my ears again. I swear I feel a
nail tear loose. My hand comes up to my mouth and I bite
down on the ragged skin at the tip of my middle finger. My
blood in my mouth. Salt and iron and lukewarm heat.
The skeletal waitress is gone from my side. The restaurant

is silent.
Karen is sitting opposite me with her jaw slack and mouth

a perfect O.
I didn't even realise I'd screamed.

I don't know how I got here.
Twenty-one twenty hours, I'm at Rachael's nick with a
bloodied white cloth wrapped around the tip of one finger. I
tap in the entrance code, step through the rear door. Breathe
in that old police station smell. Damp. Grime. A healthy dose
of apathy, of weariness. With each step I'm more lucid.
Calmer. These places are my sanctuary. My real home.
It's a hive of inactivity. Probably five plods on night duty if
they're lucky. Jesus, when I used to work here on sector, we'd
turn out fifteen bodies and go kick some arse. I honestly don't
know where we've all gone. All the clueless bosses - those
self-congratulatory politicos masquerading as police officers,
those minority group schmoozers and politically correct
hand-wringing pseudo-liberals who've ruined the job - they're
tucked up in bed, preparing themselves to bollock someone anyone
- when they come into work after an untroubled
night's sleep to find the wheel's come off.
I trawl the corridors and offices on the ground floor and
there's nobody, just dust motes, forgotten files, radios gurgling
to themselves like R2-D2, pieces of kit lying around that I
think about stealing. Rachael's nowhere to be found, so I head
upstairs, along the corridor to the parade room.
I stop in the doorway. Swallow. Watch.
Rachael's filling in some endless Home Office pro forma,
probably because she had the temerity to stop-check an ethnic
and now has to cover her back. The place is a dump. Tired,
dirty, disorganised. The Police Farce in microcosm. Thirdhand
desks and antiquated computer equipment. Faded A4
information posters, most of which had already been hanging
ignored for months when I last worked here years ago. Stress
management. Voting for your Union rep: twenty facts to get it right.
Correct Posture: avoid back pain! Home Office crime-recording






44 MIKE THOMAS
POCKET NOTEBOOK 45
r

procedure which changed before the flyer went up. Neighbourhood Watch crap. Information for the strawberry
miwies, the civvies who think they run this job, about ways
to increase their earning potential. None of it relevant to
front-line workers. Not one poster dedicated to the grunts.
There's mugshots of local sector targets pinned to a
corkboard: so-and-so the prolific autocrime merchant, whatsis-name
the dwelling burglar, Kyle-who-cares the street robber
of students' mobile phones. All fresh turds from the factory.
Scowls and cheap haircuts, fucked-up teeth and sunken eyes.
Juvie scrotes, sons of men I was locking up on this patch a
decade ago. Offspring of their useless villain fathers, taught
nothing other than to suck at society's teat while wailing they are the victims.
Behind Rachael, typing away on a computer keyboard, is
the FNG on her shift.
The Fucking New Guy. The sprog, proby YTS cop. I've had
the misfortune to suffer his small-talk when he's been on
cordon at firearms jobs. He's cocky. Smart-mouthed. A threemonth-in
cherry who talks like a seasoned veteran, typical of
the new breed of arrogant plods. I've got bloody biros with
more service. And I never could remember his name at first,
just referred to him as Seal Pup because all I wanted to do was
club him to death.
Clive Someone-or-other. Your straight-off-the-production
line clone we get nowadays. Standard height, weight,
temperament. A pretty-boy all hair gel and soft good looks, can
reel off word-perfect policy and procedure, law and statutes
learned by rote, but no feel for the job. Nothing warm about
him at all. Fifteen years younger than me - nearer Rachael's age
- but give it time and I'll probably be calling him 'sir'.
I stand in the doorway for a minute. My breath stinks of
bourbon.

Rachael's blonde hair is pulled back into the regulation bun,
pen tucked behind her ear. She's tanned, has caught the sun
on the slopes. Looks healthy, relaxed. But now it's time to get
back on track.
I think of the run-up to Christmas. The screaming matches
with Karen. The finger-pointing; telling me this obsession
with my parents was dragging the family down. How she
didn't want to hear it any more. That I should get over it or
leave her alone until I did. Then the night out with the Tac
Team. The beer. So much beer. Bumping into a drunken
Rachael at her shift do. Flirting with the newbie policewoman,
dazzling her with tales of specialist ops, knowing she'd made
the classic mistake of becoming bewitched by an older,
glamorous officer. I was flattered, got carried away, knew it
was wrong but couldn't stop myself as we staggered here after
I told her it'd be easier to book a taxi from the nick. I needed the company. I needed someone.
I glance across to the radio room. Picture Rachael bent over
so I couldn't see her face, so she could be anyone, my hands
pulling her backwards and onto me by the hem of her party
dress, by her skinny hips, her black high heels clacking on the
floor, fingers clawing at the chipped desktop, at radio cables,
gasping in dust from a pile of unopened boxes stuffed with
obsolete force paperwork as I cried quietly behind her.
And the next night, at her flat after The Tidal, more
comfortable with the guilt now, pushing the envelope a little,
letting her know what turned me on, her face wary as I told
her what I wanted to do to her feet, her gamely letting me
suck her toes as we fucked, then going the whole hog and
asking her if she'd trample my balls while I masturbated - but
it was a too-much too-soon, too big a thing for her to handle
on a second date, and it didn't end well...
Rachael's finished the stop-check chitty, leans backwards in

her chair to look over it. Clive stops typing at the same time,
arches his back. Pop-pop-pop goes his spine as he stretches,
yawns. I hold my breath: their shoulders, an epaulette each,
are almost touching.
'Is that you?' Rachael asks him, not looking away from the
pro forma.
Clive gives a weird sort of half-laugh, half-gasp. Tcheheh. 'All that exercise on the slopes, I'm suffering,' he says. 'Maybe
I'm getting old.' He's rolling his shoulders and neck as he
witters; I note he doesn't have his tie clipped on, the scruffy
bastard. If I was his stripy he'd be in the disciplinary book,

quick-time.
'Believe me, I know old,' Rachael giggles, still not looking

at him.
Still not noticing I'm in the doorway.
'This is all very cosy' I say. It's like I've shot my Glock into

the ceiling.
'Jake,' says Rachael, quickly shuffling paperwork.
'Hello, stranger,' I say. 'Nice holiday?'
'Ah . . . hey, Jake,' says Clive. I note with satisfaction his
Adam's apple is pistoning.
'Cliff,' I say, without looking at him. I'm staring at Rachael.
Her wide blue eyes, darting around to avoid mine.
'It's Clive, actually' he says, and I know this but don't care.
Cliff. Cheeky Little Insignificant Fucking Faggot. Know
your place, boy.
'You got two minutes?' I ask Rachael. 'Got to discuss that
... case file with you.'
She nods silently, follows me out into the corridor. Clive,
Cliff, he watches her go.
I close the door to the writing room. Rachael looks up at
me; she's agitated, nervous.
"I'm really busy, Jake,' she says, her voice low and breathy
and quite possibly irritated, as if my unannounced visit is
rather bothersome.
'Why haven't you answered my calls?'
'Why've you come here?' she says in her fabulous tough
girl voice. 'Did you drive in that state? You could get yourself
into trouble. You could get me into trouble.'
Bless her for caring. But I shrug anyway. 'Who's going to
tug me for a breath test on the way home? You? Every copper
in this city knows who I am.'
Rachael shakes her head. 'What's ... what've you done to
your finger?'
My finger? Ah, my finger. I raise my hand, unravel the
bloodied cloth, see it's a table napkin with a name printed
along one edge in tasteful font: The Tidal.
The restaurant. I've abandoned Karen. Shit.
'It's my birthday' I say, as if this will explain somehow.
'Congratulations,' Rachael says flatly.
I flash the napkin again. 'Remember going there?' I say.
'Good times, right?'
She sighs. 'Yes. Good times.'
Ah, a chink of light. I could salvage the evening here. Got
to be worth a go: 'I thought maybe we could disappear to the
toilets for five minutes,' I say, smiling. 'Replay that night
before Christmas?'
'Jake ...' she hisses, checking around. There's just the two
of us here in the corridor, though I'm pretty sure Cliff has his
standard-sized, perfect-hearing ear pressed up against the
other side of the writing-room door.
My fingers toy with the zip on my trousers. 'Well, get your
boots off then,' I say, and lower the zip, slip my hand inside my
boxers. 'I'll give you a quick foot spa.'
'I'm not into that, Jake. I told you. It's . . . you're not what
I thought.'
She's lying. 'We're good together. Come on, Karen.'
'Karen? Who ...? Is that your wife? And will you please take
your hand out of your pants?'
This isn't going well. I've already clearly buggered it with
Karen and any designs I had on a bit of nonsense with Rachael
are swiftly going south. I recalibrate, think what I could do
next if this pans out as I'm expecting. You've always got to
have a Plan C.
'I've slipped away to see you,' I say anyway, going for the
emotive approach as a last resort. 'To see you. Don't you know
how hard that is for me? Who d'you think you are, blanking
me? Blanking me?'
Her face is twisted, as if she's revolted. 'Leave it, will you,
Jake? Please? It was a bit of fun. Christmas fun . . .'
Blown off. On my birthday. If it wasn't for Plan C I'd be
getting a little more agitated than I already am. 'I'll call
around the flat tomorrow then,' I say, zipping myself up.
'Don't,' she says. She's shaking her head, shaking it over
and over with her eyes closed. 'It was just a bit of fun ..."
'Tomorrow,' I say. 'For my birthday'

SEVEN

'What's up, bra?' I say.
It's twenty-two fifteen. Plan C is in effect. Frank swings his
front door back with a groan. He's wearing some strange
baby blue towelling T-shirt-and-pants combo with leather
moccasin slippers. It's very fetching.
'You're drunk, Jake,' he says, eyeing my wagon and then
the items I'm carrying. His eyes taper behind his specs.
I glance down. Tesco carrier bags in both hands, bloodied
napkin hanging from my left index finger. Empty Stella
bottles chime against the I-can't-remember-how-many
unopened ones inside the bags. I'm not sure why I brought
the dead ones with me.
'I always said you should be a detective,' I say.
'Mel's going to go nuts.'
'Ah, Frosty Bollock,' I say, raising the carriers. 'Fancy a beer?'
'For fuck's sake,' he says, closing the door behind me.
His wife is sitting on a sofa in the lounge, wrapped in a
matching female version of Frank's ensemble, but in light
pink. A DVD is paused, Hugh Grant's cretinous floppy-haired
face frozen on Frankie's widescreen.
I recognise the film straight away and despair. 'NottingHill,' I say. 'Mmm, nice one, Frankster.'
'Well I like it,' says Mel. 'And we were enjoying it.'
Mel's feet are bare but she's got bunions and freakishly long
little toes; I have to clamp my teeth together and swallow as
my mouth floods with saliva. How Frank can even be with
this woman is beyond me. It's all I can do not to retch.
'Frank,' she says, waving a hand at the television.
'Oh,' I say, clinking my lagers. Am I interrupting?'
Frankie looks at his wife, pulls a what-can-you-dol face. 'It is
his birthday, hon.'
'So why isn't he celebrating it with Karen?' she asks.
'Good point, Frosty' I say.
Frank rocks his head back, rolls his eyes. It's a tumbleweed

moment.
Mel's not a happy bunny. 'Here to smash up some more of
my house, are you?' she says, and stands. 'I think I'll call it a
night.'
'No,' I say. 'Please stay.'
Please go. Your feet are making me ill.
Mel tugs at the neck of her flannel T-shirt. She looks at
Frank and I see his eyes doing the same as Rachael's in the
writing room. Evasion. He's in trouble just for letting me in
here so might as well go the whole hog. Might as well get rid
of Mel and deal with the consequences in the morning.
She waits a few seconds. I say nothing, let this mini-drama
play out. Frank is looking at the carpet, the television anywhere
but Mel. I know he wants one of the bottles I'm
carrying. I know him better than his own wife does.
"I'il go to bed then,' Mel says.
'Cool beans,' I say.
She bristles but I ignore it. She knows I'm ignoring it.
'Just make sure Jess is home at the time we agreed, Frank,'
she says, and glares at me. 'And make sure he doesn't smoke
those stinking cigars in here.'
Frank nods. I can tell he's holding his breath.
Jess. Jessica. 'She not home, then?' I ask.
Frank shakes his head. 'No.'
'Oh,' I say, and try not to look as gutted as I feel.
'She's out with friends,' says Mel, yanking open the
lounge door. 'Which gives you pair of idiots plenty of time
to get drunk and swap war stories before she comes home,
doesn't it?'
She slams the door. I'd mentally dismissed her some time
before.
'Oh,' I say to Frank. 'This going to cause you problems?'
He sits. Stares at the floor for a few seconds. Then: 'Just
give me a bottle.'

Twenty-three twenty-five hours.
We're slugging Stella and watching Platoon. Watching those
sweaty GIs yomp through the jungle and we're whooping and
yelling, deep in the boondocks alongside them, just as hot and
sticky as they are but thank God we've got the booze to cool
us down.
Me and Frankie, we're tunnel rats. Specialist grunts, just
waiting for Charlie to show his little face, for the call-up from
the top, from the LT - the lieutenant - to send us in and sort
out their unholy mess, to save everybody else. I wish I'd
brought my PlayStation. We could've doubled-up on Vietnam
Encounter II after the film.
'Let's clear this LZ motherfucker,' I say to nobody in
particular, hoping it's loud enough for Mel to huff and puff
upstairs. 'Get our skinny GI asses into those ratholes and flush
'em out. Into the open so we can bust some caps, man! Clear
the ville of the goddam Vietcong!'
I turn to Frankie but he's flagging on the opposite sofa.
He's drunk one lager to every two of my own, is on the verge
of dozing off in his baby-gro. Lightweight.
I'm about to go shake him when I hear keys in the front
door.
I chug the last of my bottle, shove it onto the glass-topped
coffee table, nudge it across to Frank's side where the rest of
his empties stand. You awful drunken father, you. I tense my
pecs. They bulge against the tight fabric of my shirt. Pumped.
Swollen. Ready. Hold the pose.
'Hey Jake,' she says. 'How's it going?'
Sweeeetjeeesus.
I hear the swell of choral music. Something like Bach's Saint Matthew Passion at the climax of Scorsese's Casino. She's
at the lounge door and everything drags. A movie cliche.
Slow-motion time. I smell alcohol and citrus perfume. She's
drunk; not stupid binge-drinking drunk but enough to qualify
as pleasantly mullered. Eyes slightly bloodshot. She's had
strange red-purple streaks layered into the dirty blonde hair
that falls around her shoulders.
'Hey Jess,' I say, trying hard to sound nonchalant. She looks
at her slumped father as I drink her in.
Jessica's wearing a glittery silver vest, the minuscule straps
looped over her tanned and bony shoulders. No bra, small
breasts moving freely beneath the cloth, a glorious nipple-on
from the cold. Belly-button piercing, some dull metal bar with
balled ends. Black shorts that would be hard-pushed to qualify
as anything other than underwear given the amount of skin
covered, they cling to her rock-hard thighs like they're sprayed
onto her flesh. Despite the sub-zero temperature she hasn't
bothered with tights. While she studies Frankie - who's now
snoring quietly on the sofa, I sneak a look downstairs to see
she's wearing a fabulously funky pair of black diamante high
heeled mule sandals.
I've never seen her feet before. I thank the Toe Lords she
hasn't inherited her mother's gnarly monstrosities and fall in
love with her all over again. They're tiny, slender - about a
size five by my eye - and I imagine how soft they would be to
rub my hands against, how enjoyable it would be to lick and
kiss her teenage heels. Her big toes coil upwards, the nails
painted a deep black. I could suck those things right now. Give
them a good old shrimping.
'Why don't you let me help you with that?' I hear her say,
and follow her gaze down to my lap.
It's so sudden.
My trousers are undone, my hand on my erection. This is
better than the script of the worst porn film. Minimal
exposition. Straight action. All it needs is a Barry White song
to cap it off.
'Yeah,' I say, Platoon running in the background. I can barely
breathe. 'Finish me off, baby. Put your feet on it.'
Jessica moves towards me, kicks off her sandals. They fall
against the legs of the coffee table with a quiet thunk. She's at
the edge of the sofa, calf brushing mine, lifting one foot into
the air. It drops gently and she places the heel at the top of
my thigh, works her toes into my pubic hair.
'Why've you got a hankie on your finger?' she asks.
I shake my head. No, no, no. This isn't in the script. I hear
Frankie snoring somewhere nearby. 'That's right, Jess,' I urge
her. 'Good girl.'
'What?' Jessica asks. I can tell without opening my eyes
she's amused. Are you drunk, Jake?'
I heave my eyelids upwards, glance around. Frank's copping
zeds on the opposite sofa. Platoon is still playing. I look up, to
my right. Jessica hasn't moved from the doorway, is standing
there studying me, her eyes cat-like, the long lashes thickened
with black liner a la Raquel Welch in One Million Years B.C.
'I said, are you drunk?'
My napkin-covered finger is on my crotch, the buttons still
done up. Where was I?
'It's not a hankie,' I say, and lift my left hand to show her.
'It's a napkin from a posh restaurant. Actually.'
'Jess?'
There's phlegm and a cough. Frank's awake. He shoots to
his feet and I lift my right hand from my groin just in case.
Jessica's still watching me, eyes narrowed.
'You,' Frank says to me, finger waggling in accusatory
circles as he blinks behind his glasses. 'Sleep on the sofa again. No driving tonight.'
I lob him the keys to my truck, look at Jess. 'I'm not going

anywhere.'
Frankie. My good friend Frankie. Leave me here for a
while. Get thyself to bed so I can root your daughter.
He gives a bizarre salute and walks towards the lounge
door. I watch as he kisses Jessica on the cheek in that way
fathers do; she proffers her face to him and half grimaces like
any good teenage daughter would. I can't remember the last
time Naomi let me do such a thing.
'So,' I say as the lounge door closes.
'So,' says Jessica, standing over me.
The film's still running in the background. In work, at
home, with Frank, I always know just what to say. Now, I have

no clue.
'D'you want to . . . y'know, watch this for a bit?' I ask,
pointing at the widescreen. I am a teenager trying to unclasp
his first bra. "It'd be nice if you stayed for a while.'
And then I watch those cat-eyes move slowly down to my
crotch, where my hand was when she walked in. 'Yeah,' she
says, and there's no hint of embarrassment; more coquettish
confidence. 'I bet you think it would.'
I don't know what to say. I've had this scenario in my head
for so long and now ...
I slump deeper into the sofa as she paces around me, kicks
off her sandals for real and walks barefoot across the lounge.
It's torture. She goes into the kitchen, gets a glass of water,
crosses back in front of me.
'Stay, Jess,' I say, trying for casual but probably well wide
of the mark. 'You could catch the end of the film
She's at the lounge door, half in the hallway, ready to go
upstairs. Hand on the door handle. 'No,' she says, and tips
the brim of her glass towards me with a wink. 'Because if I
did. . .'
And I want her to finish the sentence. I want her to move
this scenario along because I don't have the balls to. I wish I
could say something so she'd stay just a little longer and
I could take something from this miserable day.
Instead I watch her go, the door closing, machine guns and
explosions sounding quietly behind me on the television. I
hear her soft footsteps up the stairs and then I'm alone again.
So I wait for ten minutes, make sure the house is asleep.
Get up from the sofa, check the shelf beneath the coffee table,
remove the item I've seen so many times before. The fail-safe.
Because the pluses to having a foot fetish are legion. It can
be a flesh fair, especially in summer. A myriad paint jobs on
toenails. Ankle bracelets, toe rings. You walk around looking
and none of them knows. In work, off duty, whenever. They
just don't think you'd be checking them out in that way. That
you're feeling the first stirrings of an erection while waiting in
the queue at the cigarette counter, staring down at the twenty
something's feet in front of you. That you're at a call, some
crock-of-shit drugs warrant where you're the firearms entry
team, where the young girl in the flat is cuffed, sitting barefoot
and cross-legged on the sofa while her place is searched and all
you can look at is the curl of her big toe.
Then there're the visual aids. The shoe section in a Marks
& Spencer catalogue is pure porn, negating the need to
embarrass yourself buying top-shelf smut in the local
newsagent's. Go home, flip it open in the comfort of your
bedroom, choose a selection of slingbacks picturing smooth
fleshy heels, a range of open-toed sandals that show bright
red nail varnish, a choice of ink-black stilettos to provide a
hint of bony skin at the top of the foot.
Slip some real porn into the DVD player if you wish. For

ambience.
I get myself comfortable on the sofa, flip through Mel's
Next Directory. Find the women's shoe section. Thank Christ
it's the spring /summer edition. Bare feet aplenty.
I think of Karen. Of Rachael, Jessica. Of a girl in red on a
frozen street at New Year.

EIGHT

Today's outfit:
ATLAS Assault coveralls with Namex III flash-resistant
fabric and Kevlar reinforcement patches on the knees, elbow
and groin; Damascus Imperial neoprene knee pads; Damascus
Imperial 'Hardshell' elbow pads; 5.11 Tac-Ak Tactical
Application gloves with Kevlar; spare Blackhawk HellStorm
Light Operations gloves; Lava Combat GTX boots; Web-Tex
Cross-Draw Vest for cartridges and percussion grenades,
along with Maglite LED 4D cell torch, plasticuffs, Velcro leg
restraints, Gerber multi-tool and normal Kwik-Cuffs in a
Fobus cuff-case; 5.11 'Field Ops' Sniper Watch; Viper 3-point
rifle sling, modified to hold my pump-action; Bianchi UM92
Military Holster for the Glock; Blackhawk HellStorm Poly
Pro Tactical Balaclava; Bulldog customised ballistic body
armour; Avon FM12 Respirator coupled with an Anson
ATLAS flame-retardant Avon Respirator cover; ATLAS
Ballistic Helmet which offers ballistic and blunt trauma
protection; Gorilla Bar for method of entry and a collapsible
'Quickstep' ladder, both strapped to my back.
All in black. I look cool as fuck. Imposing. Intimidating. A
futuristic street-warrior. Robojake, and you've got twenty
seconds to comply. Only problem is I can barely move.
I glance around the industrial estate car park. The gang's all
here. Full Tac Team for dynamic entry. Dog handlers. Beat
bobbies to clear up the mess after we're done. Drug squad
and CID, half of them suited in their Primark polyester best
with so-called bulletproof ties flapping in the wind, rest of
them scruffed up and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes to,
y'know, be down with the junkies.
Paramedic wagon, a guy 'n' girl team of two sipping tea
from a flask, chatting away with a Pointlessness of Police
Community Support Officers.
Fire crew, the Trumptons, the little water fairies in their
shiny red truck looking pissed off about being called out in
the middle of their Sunday roast.
And there's some bewildered electrician with his plans and
schematics, his meter readings for the target house where the
power consumption is higher than the rest of the street
combined. Bet he never expected this when he tipped us off
about a spike in the readings. Let's hope the sparky's not
Brazilian, or a de Menezes sympathiser. Just make sure you
cut the power, matey. Don't want to be fried by a booby trap
when I blow the front door off its hinges.
All these people. All this fuss. Christ, even Tommy Hall's
managed to drag his lardy behind out into the fresh air.
These last-minute jobs. Cobbled together so the self
important detective wallahs can create a bit of excitement
when they have to work a rare weekend. For a stupid cannabis
factory run by a Triad gangster's lackey. If this goes tits-up
with no booty recovered or body in the cells at the end of all
the expense, some ESSO, an Every Saturday and Sunday Off
desk jockey from the Senior Management Team, will refuse
my overtime claim. Just because they can.
When my mobile went off at oh-nine hundred, I thought it
might be Karen. Instead I got Dave Collingwood, the Firearms
Inspector, calling me into work on a rest day. I don't know what
I was more disappointed about: that it wasn't Karen offering her
humble apologies for shooting her mouth off about my old
man, or the fact I had to get myself into work - still drunk - with
Jess catching zeds. Would've been nice to see her before I left.

My lungs feel swamped with oil. Must've smoked about
twelve miniatures on Frank's patio last night after Jessica went
to bed and I'd finished with Mel's catalogue. A sofa's no
substitute for the king-size at home and my back's in no fit
state to carry this weight. My stomach's doing flip-flops. I
don't feel right. Not sure if it's anticipation, nerves or the
protein shakes I necked at the station while I was kitting up.
One chocolate. One strawberry. Then a pint of powdered
creatine and six tablets of branch-chain amino acids. The
cocktail isn't sitting well with last night's Stella, that's for sure.
Collingwood's droning on but I'm barely listening.
Every one of you up to speed on the intelligence, floor plans and
entry?
I've got a bad feeling about this.
Have any of you been drinking in the last twenty-four hours?
Shake your head, Jake. Make it match your hands.
Are any of you experiencing problems in your private life that
may be stressful?
Life's a ball at the mo, Dave. I wonder if I've got lager cancer?
And then it's through the I.I.M.A.R.C.H. system: information,
intention, method, administration, risk-assessment,
communications, human bloody rights. Health and safety.
Weapon procedure. Which team's on where. What's expected
of each duo. Protection of any suspects is paramount. I tune
him out, adopt the default position: nod, frown, look like
you're sucking it all in. Then just do whatever the fuck you
want to do.
Are you clear, Smithy?'
What? Oh. 'Yessir,' I say, saluting.
The Inspector's looking right at me. Everyone's staring,
even Frank.
'You taking the piss?' he asks.
'Erm . . . sorry' I say, lowering my hand.
He's ex-forces, is Collingwood. Small and hairy but rotund
and with an air of menace. The sort that looks like he beats
his wife, if he has one. Reminds me of a walking testicle.
Heard a whisper long ago he might be ex-Special Air Service,
but of course he'd never admit it. All I know is he barks at
everyone like he's under heavy fire and needs artillery support
ay-sap, even when he's ordering pie 'n' mash at the station
canteen. Get over yourself, sonny. This isn't Bravo Two Zero. This ain't Khe Sanh or Saigon. Let's just get this freak show on
the road so I can go home, pull a quilt over my head and
pretend the world doesn't exist.
'You and MacReady' he says, gesturing at me. 'You're on
white. Understand?'
Front of house. Door-knocking duo. I nod again. Frankie's
ducking his nut next to me.
'Sir,' Frank says, 'do we even know chummy's in there? I
mean, all this performance for one bloke . . .'
Collingwood swaggers over like Frank's his other half and
he's about to give him a shoeing for questioning his washing
up prowess. 'Have you been listening at all this morning, you
pair of mongoloids?'
Mongoloid? If it wasn't for mortgage payments I'd stick my
head on his nose.
'Course we have, boss,' Frank says.
'This guy' he says, and checks to make sure everyone else
is listening. 'This guy Tang Yeh is serious. The Met have been
looking for him since last October after he shot an ex-business
associate through the eyeball. The weapon he used hasn't
been recovered. That's why there's ...' and I wince as he gives
us air-quotes with two fingers of each hand. ' . . . "this
performance". All right, Smithy?'
No. No I'm not. If I'm honest with myself I feel a little . . .
off-kilter.

Collingwood's in the groove, really selling it, polishing the
turd to buggery. 'Plain clothes have done drive-bys so there's
no need for an investigative assessment by us,' he says,
stepping from me to Frank to the other members of the
contact team, jabbing a fat and hairy little thumb at each of
us as he goes. He begins counting off on his stubby fingers: A
car we know Yeh's rented is parked outside. Our informant
has given us the nod and puts him at the premises alone as of
now. Chopper's done a flyover, plenty of heat from the house.
And intelligence says this fella has been parachuted into town
to look after the family cannabis business until the London
fuss dies down.'
I say nothing. Think of the oxymoron that is police
intelligence. Raise my gloved hands a-ways. Just a little, so
nobody else notices.
Even though they're enclosed in Kevlar, I can see they're
trembling.

NINE

I speed through Canningtown towards the target house in an
unmarked car with Frankie.
This hillside village was built around a coal mine that died
thirty years ago and nobody seems to have noticed. Street
after tired terraced street, houses blackened with rainwater
mould, refuse sacks stockpiled against front doors like
sandbag defences. The satnav girl robot-talks her directions
and I follow, but I could be anywhere. Everything's the same.
I wonder what people do to pass the time: no shops, no pubs,
no cinema. There's nothing, just an eerie sense of abandonment,
of an extended death rattle where no one's bothered
to tell the fools living here that the gig is up.
Frankie checks the satnav display. 'Nearly there,' he says,
taking off his glasses and rolling down his balaclava. He winks
at me through an eyehole. 'Nearly Big Fun Time.'
I'm so damn hot in all this kit despite the January weather.
Just wrenching the steering wheel about makes sweat bead
on my temples. The tip of my still-bloody finger chafes
against the inside of my glove. Both hands are at it again.
Trembling. It won't go away. It's pissing me off. Unnerving
me. I whack up the air-con, swerve towards a couple of
mongrel dogs fighting over a shit-stained nappy lying in the
gutter.
'What a rush,' Frank's saying. 'What a buzz.'
'Yeah,' I say, swallowing.
At least he's getting a kick out of it. Of being tooled up and
screaming about like The Sweeney. We're lead vehicle. In the
rear-view I see the support cars, three of them, following in
convoy. I'm starting to wish I was back there. Even back
behind the cordon.
'Da-dum-de-dum-daaa-daah, dum-de-dum-DAAAAAA
DAAAAH!' hollers Frank, and I jump as he punches the roof
of the car and hoots with laughter. He eyes me through the
lenses of his respirator. 'It's Apocalypse Now time, buddy!' he
shrieks, voice high and muffled by rubber. We're Lieutenant
Colonel Kilgore's Air Cav choppering out of the sun! Get me
to. that Vietcong village, Jakey-boy!'
He's loving it. And so he should be, right? This is how it
normally goes. What we usually do. These places are our
jungle. Our rice paddy. Our bunker complex. We're jolly
green giants walking tall through the boonies and nobody can
ever stop us. Except something's not right. I don't feel like
walking tall anywhere. The shake in my hands has spread to
my thighs.
Frank's checking comms in his headset as I yank the gear
stick down into second, drop the clutch, spin into Chapel Row.
'Keep going, keep going,' says Frankie, urging me on with
a gloved hand. 'The house is at the block end.'
I double-park. Yeh's hooch sits near the edge of this
miserable old identikit row of terraces. I adjust my radio
earpiece, unclip the Remington 870 from the door panel, pull
down my balaclava. Jam the respirator over my head, listen
to the sound of my breathing.
I'm a bad-ass asthmatic Darth Vader. A black-clad angel of
death with a touch of emphysema.
There's a burst of static, then Frankie's tinny voice is inside
my left ear.
'Foxtrot X-Ray One-One to Gold Command,' he says. His MP5
sub is butt-down in the footwell between his knees. 'We are
closed at scene, over.'
'Roger One-One. Target has been placed in upper floor of
premises. Policy is still Priority One. All teams in position. Proceed
to contact.'
Frank screams: 'Yippee-ki-ay motherfucker!'
Engine off. Door open. Ballistic helmet on. Shotgun
cradled and safety off.
Breathe. Breathe.
Frankie looks at me, transmits: 'Confirm this is a go, Gold?'
Come on, Collingwood, you dick.
In my ear: 'Confirm, Foxtrot X-Ray One-One. This is a go.
Proceed to white.'
Cher-chuk. I pump the bottom-loader on the 870: one
breaching round feeds into the pipe from the tubular
magazine. Lock 'n' load, right?
It's slo-mo time again. A movie scene, something from
John Woo or Michael Bay or that reliable ol' fruitcake Oily
Stone. A sideways tracking shot perhaps, following Frank and
me as we round the unmarked car, all sweat and low sun and
cooler-than-cool outfits, surrounded by fluttering skybound
white doves, and then we swing our weapons towards Yeh's
hidey-hole, mount the pavement.
Quick cut to handheld camerawork at normal speed,
chasing behind as we sprint to the front door, kinetic wobbles
for that visceral feel so the audience think they're in the thick
of the action.
It'd be pretty awesome but for the tightness in my chest.
I throw my body against the front wall of the target house;
Frankie flits across the doorstep to the opposite side, presses
himself against the mottled brickwork. We look up. Second
nature. Training. Autopilot. The blacked-out window directly
above the front door. Always watch for that friendly
neighbourhood fridge being dropped on your noggin.
And so this is it. I blink behind the eyepieces of my
respirator, feel sweat on my chest. My roiling, choppy
stomach is full of sweet milkshake and old lager, of sickening
adrenalin. Scorched lungs. Crusted fingertip. A domestic
outcast.
It hits me.
I'm in no fit state to be here. But it's too late. I've let myself
get swept along with it again. Just got to keep up the facade,
Jake. Got to keep plugging away. Got to keep--
'Let's go!'
Frank's voice over my ragged, metallic breath. My gloved
Fingers tighten around the synthetic stock of the shotgun. I'm
flat against the wall, Gorilla Bar digging into my shoulder
blades, the pump-action across my sternum.
'Jake?'
Faces in the house windows opposite. I'm taking too long.
The natives are curtain-twitching. Soon they'll be out on their
doorsteps and Gold'U pull the plug. And it'll be my fault.
Collingwood, in my ear: 'Foxtrot X-Ray One-One, power to
the premises has been cut. Foxtrot X-Ray One-Five is on plot at the
rear and covering black. Can you confirm breach?' I'm not breathing. Houston, we have a problem.
The support cars block the road behind us, set up as the
perimeter group. I look towards Frankie, his Heckler & Koch
submachine gun raised, safety off, black leather finger looped
through the trigger-guard and pressing on the trigger itself.
His eyes are wide and on me.
'Hoo-aaaah!' he shouts, thumping a fist against his chest. 'Go, go, go!'
The house is covered front and rear. Everybody's ready...
except me. I can't get my lungs to work. My quads, my thighs,
they're spazzing out uncontrollably, shivering like I'm
squatting two-hundred k to failure at The Elite.
This is new. Something for the mobile-phone cameras
behind the net curtains: a shotgun-wielding six-foot-five
stormtrooper falling to his knees and blubbing like an
anklebiter that doesn't want to play any more. Just imagine
that posted on the web. My career flushed down the YouTube.
'Jake,' Frank hisses, and he lunges for me, grabs the edge of
my body armour. 'Get a grip, bra. We gotta get in there
Collingwood's caught the transmission. Along with
everyone on the open channel. ' What the hell's going on down
there, Smithy?' he shouts, his voice stabbing at my eardrum.
'Frankie,' I say. 'What... what am I doing?'
Frank's looking up at me. His hands are curled around and
behind my ballistic vest, pulling me down to him so I can see
his bugged-out eyes through the fogged glass of his breather.
' C'mon, Jake . . . not now,' he says. 'Not in front of the whole
world, mate.'
Breathe, lungs. Please breathe.
'Foxtrot X-Ray One-One, I repeat, I want an urgent update.
Immediately.'
Update: I'd like to shoot you, Collingwood.
Jake, let's do this,' says Frank, pulling me closer. We are
mask-to-mask, eyepiece-to-misty-eyepiece, nuclear-fallout
lovers. 'Think of the 'Nam. A real man's war, right? Isn't that what
you always tell me? What would those grunts do, eh? Wouldn't they
just walk on into the ville?'
He releases me. Please don't let go, Frank. Never let go.
"Nam .. .' I say, and force a breath. 'Hoo~aah
I swing the Remington around to Yeh's door.
Frankie watches me for a second. 'Atta boy,' he says.
'Rock 'n'fuckin' roll...' I say, and try to make my eyes look
like I'm smiling.
The recoil. It slams the butt of the pump-action into my
right pec, throws my shoulder backwards, makes me stagger.
I steady myself. Stare at the first ruined door hinge. My ears
ring as if with tinnitus. I shuck the bottom-loader, feed in
another breacher. Aim. Fire. The second round takes out
most of the top of the door; shrapnel splinters ping off my
helmet.
Frankie transmits, his screeched words bleeding into one
another as he shoes the wrecked door, makes entry at a crouch
with his MP5 shoulder-ready: 'Foxtrotxrayone-oneconfirmbreach!'
I hear notes from a bass guitar, a hypnotic rhythmic finger
plucking.
The opening bars of Jefferson Airplane's 'White Rabbit'.
Psychedelic, man. Platoon time.
I am calm.
I follow Frank into the house.

Oh yeah.
This must be what it was like for them.
Gloom. Greenery. The smell of exotic alien foliage, your
heart pumping like a cokehead who's just done five lines and
needs peeling off the ceiling.
Those GI boys in the 'Nam. Terrified but getting on with
it. That's where I'm at. That's where I am right now. All I have
is the light from the broken front door, Frank squatting and
sweeping in front of me, my own breathing in my ears.

The stench of the plants feeds through my breather.
And the music in my head.
The guitar's been overlaid with a rolling military drumbeat.
I pan the Remington back and forth, looking for the suspect.
The intelligence was bang on for once: there must be at least
two hundred cannabis bushes on the ground floor alone.

Ganja. Weed. Blow. Puff. If it was Stanozolol or Trenbolone
Acetate or Equipoise, some synthetic I could inject into my
quivering thigh, I'd start filling my pockets; instead it's just
hippy happy shit I couldn't give a toss about.
I'm surrounded, engulfed by the admittedly pretty jagged
leaves. Unlit hydroponic arc lights hang overhead, dead due
to the cut in power. I duck into the foliage, let them brush
against my breather, caress my body armour. Pretend I'm in
the forested wetlands north of the Perfume River waiting for
the 'Cong offensive.
The windowsills are prickled with mantraps beneath the
blacked-out glass, ten-inch metal skewers set in cement and
covered with cardboard waiting for any plod stupid enough to
clamber through an opening. Booby-trap wires snake from a
cupboard to the window frames, front door and door handles;
I know from previous jobs they're plugged directly into the
mains and would've given Frank and me enough voltage to
fry us on the spot. Bless the sparky who killed the juice.
I immerse myself in the jungle of this lounge, knees bent,
pump-action arcing in front of me. Nobody here. Might as
well enjoy the game. Have some fun. 'Room's clear,' says Frank in my ear.
My head-music plays on. The song's mesmerising,
undulating. Creeping onwards, rising in volume. A noodling
guitar intro peeks its nose in. Frankie signals for me to
take the stairs to the first floor with a sharp flick of his right

hand.
I hear Grace Slick over the music, singing about a pill
making you larger.
Doesn't it just, sweetheart.
'Gold to Foxtrot X-Ray One-One, any update, over?'
Collingwood. That bollock on legs.
'One-one to Gold,' I hear Frankie in my ear. 'Commencingslow
search to contact.'
Good on you, Frank. Stall him. Keep the other teams out
so we can play soldiers.
We climb the stairs. The first floor mirrors the ground.
Neat rows of cannabis plants everywhere. Lighting equipment
jerry-rigged from the ceiling.
Grace is singing about chasing rabbits, but I ain't after any
rabbit, lady. I'm flushing out the Vietcong.
'Think there's any dinks hiding in here, Frankie?' I transmit.
He jerks his helmeted head towards me, eyes goggling
behind his mask.
Jefferson Airplane lay it on, the vocals louder now. I suck air
through my breather, follow Frank up the last flight of stairs.
The top floor, where our supposedly reliable informant saw
somebody moving not fifteen minutes ago.
The uppermost landing has two doors: one ajar, the other
closed. Frank takes the last step up, swings the MP5 around,
heads to the front of the house where the door is open. I
shuffle into place behind him to provide cover with the 870,
can see the tiny bedroom is jammed with samey-same.
'There's nothing in here,' I say. Just more plants.'
Frank doesn't turn around. He's squatting at the doorway,
weapon raised, shoulders hunched. 'Gotta make sure
I check behind me, to the closed door. 'It's just plants,
brother. What about back there? It's the only sealed room in the
entire building.'
The only closed door.
Frank doesn't reply, edges forward.
'White Rabbit' is building to a crescendo. There's an
urgency to the surging drums, the rhythm guitar, the looping
bass notes and the otherworldly echo of the vocals. It's
spellbinding, galvanising. I watch Frank work his way into the
room. Nothing happens. Nobody else there. He lowers his
weapon, looks at me. Shrugs.
I turn to the closed door.

Look at Frank.
Back to the closed door.
Later, Frankie. It's glory-boy time.

Jake
I sprint across the landing towards the back room, the pine
door closed.
Load up the Remington with a few pulls on the slider.
Come on, you NVA mothers.
Grace is yelling over the music now, screaming at me to
feed my head, feed my head, feed my head, and then the song
crashes to an end. What timing. What synchronicity.
My boot connects just beneath the door handle and I lurch
into the room. No time to lob a flash-bang. Seconds to take
everything in. Quick tactical visual sweep. Shotgun barrel tied
to my line of sight. It's small. Dingy. Stained mattress on the
floor. Solitary unlit bulb hanging from discoloured ceiling
plaster. Bin bag taped awkwardly across the sealed window,
letting in a thin shaft of daylight.
It's taken just over two minutes from breach to get here.
I've stopped breathing again.
And I recognise him from the mugshots.
Tang Yeh stands in front of me, eyes wide, unsteady hands
held up in front of his sunken chest. He ain't all that. Small,
sinewy, buzz-cut black hair. But then who needs muscles
when you've got a handgun to shoot someone in the face?
Yeh's weapon. The Met never recovered it.
'Hey, hey, got me,' smiles Yeh, raising his hands as if in
surrender, and I'm pretty sure a pistol isn't in either of them
but I bring the butt of the shotgun down on his nose
anyway.
He drops to the floor. The hiss of interference fills my skull.
'Are you Vietcong?' I scream and hit him again.
I raise the shotgun. Hit him.
Raise. Drop. Raise. Drop.
My voice across the airwaves: 'Are you VC? Are you? Are you
VC? There's enough fuckin' rice here to feed a whole goddamn gook
regiment!'
I'm vaguely aware of others in my head. I hear Frank, that
irritant Collingwood, other jumbled words hissing in my left
ear. My chest heaves, breathing heavily now, the eyepieces of
my mask fogged to obscurity, I can feel my arms lifting and
dropping whatever I'm holding but can't remember why I'm
doing it.
I can't even remember where I am.
Jesus Christ!'
That voice. So familiar.
I feel a pair of hands pull on the back of my body armour.
Then I'm on the floor, the Remington skittering away from
me. I snap to my feet in a crouch, draw my Glock. Wish my
respirator would clear so I could assess the threat. I get rid of
my ballistic helmet. Yank off the breather, the balaclava, then
I'm sucking cold air and pungent cannabis fumes.
Frank's standing over me, his MP5 levelled at the centre of
my face.
I can see a crumpled shape on the floorboards behind him;
a pair of disgusting bare feet stick out of tracksuit bottoms.
Crenellated blood-spatters cover the wall and floor. Next to
the feet I see something metallic sticking out from under the
mattress.
What have I done?
I lookup at the business end of Frankie's submachine gun,
see his finger against the trigger. Behind the weapon his large
eyes glare at me through the clear plastic of his mask. His
head moves, the rubber around his respirator disc shifts. He's
talking but I can't hear. My earpiece was attached to my
breather.
I drop the Glock back into the Bianchi holster and point to
my ear, slowly. No sudden movement. 'No comms,' I say.
I look down again as Frank pulls off his headgear. I know
where I am now. That's Yeh lying motionless behind Frankie's
tactical boots. And I know I need an 'out' here. Something.
Anything. Quickly. Or I'm going to end up as somebody's
prison bitch.
The metal object is still there, jutting out from the mattress

at Yeh's feet.
'You're fucking crazy,' I hear Frank say, but ignore him and
squint. I can see rivets and crosshatched etching on the object.
I tilt my head. The object catches the tiniest chink of daylight
from the bagged window.
And I've found my out.
I sit back on my haunches. Look up at Frankie. 'He pulled
a shooter on me, mate,' I say, and puff out my cheeks with a
shake of my head. 'That was a close one, I tell you.'
Frank's eyes are narrowed. His MP5 is still pointed down at
me. 'What?'
'Check by his feet,' I say. 'There's a bloody gun there.
Aimed it right at my eyepiece when I came in. Shit meself, I

did.'
I hold my breath as Frank kicks Yeh's legs away, toe-pokes
the side of the mattress.
Hallelujah. It's a revolver. Nickel-plated. A .38 to my eye.
I know my guns when I see them and I'm gladder than hell

I saw this one.
'You were supposed to be covering me,' he says, lifting
the piece from under the mattress. He slips an evidence bag
from the thigh pocket of his coveralls, drops the revolver

inside.
I sit on my backside, lean against the wall. 'And you're the
second person in the last five minutes to point a loaded
weapon at my eyes.'
I pull my best hurt face.
Frank presses his lips together and looks at me for a long
time.
Then he unhooks his spare Tetra set from his body armour:
'Foxtrot X-Ray One-One to Gold. Premises secure. Suspect in
custody and weapon recovered.'
He looks back to me. 'If we'd stayed together I could've
tasered him, Jake. Now we've got to deal with this.' He
gestures at the groaning Yeh, transmits again: 'Can we have
the standby paramedics at scene, please? The suspect has
injuries after drawing his weapon on Smithy'
Good on you, Frankie.
'I'll cuff him for you, shall I?' I offer with a smile. 'No hard
feelings about threatening to shoot me, eh?'


TEN

I sit alone on the rear footplate of a prisoner wagon, drawing
on a miniature cigar.
Too many people here. All eyes on me. I hang my head,
hope they think it's down to my hastily contrived brush with
death-by-revolver and leave me alone. That I'm in shock. That
I need a little space. No questions or congratulations for
bagging the bad guy at the moment. Because I need time to
think. I need to get things right.
This one'll go straight to the IPCC for investigation. I've
got to fill in the blanks. So many blanks. Got to explain everything
I said - can remember saying - over the air.
I look up. Frank's standing on his own, fifty feet away and
outside the cordon, blue and white police tape fluttering
against his midriff. He's just watching me, eyes slitted behind
his spectacles. He hasn't said a word to me since I cuffed Yeh.
'Smithy?'
I turn, see Dave Collingwood at the side of the van. His
face is stony and pale, a telltale sign of barely controlled fury.
Beside him is a big-boned woman in her early thirties; she
has thick ginger hair which she's unsuccessfully tried to
disguise with blonde streaks. Her face is peculiarly flat, like a
dog that's spent too much time chasing parked cars. She says
nothing, just stares at me with her puffa-jacketed shoulders
hunched up against the wind.
I dump the cigar. 'Sir?' I say, and look down again.
Collingwood's perfectly bulled boot kicks the cheroot away
from him. He speaks slowly. 'Take your firearms car. Follow
the prisoner van to the cells now,' he says. 'Book Yeh in and
get yourself looked at by the med examiner. Leave MacReady
here so I can speak to him. Clear?'
I nod silently, glance over at Frank again.
'What about the debrief?' I ask, looking up at the Inspector
and Ginge.
'Fuck the debrief,' he growls. 'I'll debrief you at HQ first
thing tomorrow. Alone.'
I lower my head. Don't scream, Jake. Don't say anything.
I walk to the firearms truck, look to Frankie who doesn't
move, just stares at me in a way I've never seen before and
which makes me feel strangely sad. I climb into the driver's
seat, close the door. As I start the engine, one of the Tac
Teams from down west walk past the front of the wagon.
They haven't seen me. They're laughing uncontrollably.
"Are you VC?!'" one of them shrieks.
'Yeah, what's this thing about the rice? What is he, the
Chinese takeaway police or something?'
'I thought he was going to bottle it at the start. Tosser.'
My fingers squeeze the steering wheel; I contemplate
flooring it. Instead I pull forward slowly until I'm square with
the prisoner van containing Yeh. Let's go, I gesture to the
driver. She hesitates, looking at me with an expression of mild
distaste. Then she nods, moves off towards the perimeter tape
and I follow.

I've nothing left except my coveralls, boots and the notebook
hidden in my back pocket.
Collingwood must've been on the blower before I arrived.
CID and some of the Drug Squad were already milling
around the cell block, muttering and eyeing me while I
booked Yeh into custody. Once I'd given the spiel and the
stripy granted detention, the Detective Sergeant and one of
his token pretty-girl plonk DCs collared me, shoving a dozen
clear plastic evidence bags into my hands as Yeh was dragged
away by the civvy jailer, shouting something unintelligible at
me as he went.
'We need all your kit bagged up, city boy,' the DS said, his
ruddy face expressionless. 'Y'know, chain of evidence an' all
that.'
'You can strip in the rape suite out back,' the plonk offered.
I would've argued the toss considering most of the stuff
wasn't personal issue but gear I'd bought over the 'net. But I
sensed the atmosphere was less than jovial and the DS looked
in no mood for me to kick up a fuss. I knew what it was all
about, just as much as they did. Chain of evidence, my rock
hard arse. They wanted my stuff to hand over to Professional
Standards for the investigation when Yeh makes his obligatory

complaint.
Fuckers'd better be careful with my kit. I want it all back,
soon as this nonsense is cleared up and I'm on the road with
Frankie again.
'And the knuckles, please?' the Force Medical Examiner says
coolly. I'm squatting on a wobbly plastic chair in the med
room at the front of the custody suite. My coveralls stink, a
vile mixture of cannabis and stale sweat. The FME is attractive
yet tiny; her face is barely level with my chest.
I turn over my outstretched hands. You won't find anything
there, doc. Maybe some old nicks from New Year when I fell
out with Frank's kitchen door, but I usually try to keep my
hands clean on the job.
'What happened to your fingernail?' she asks.
'That's not from today,' I say.
'I'm aware of that,' she says. 'This wound is a day or
two old.'
'Freak nose-picking accident,' I say.
'Indeed,' she says, and pulls off her latex gloves. 'We're
done, thank you.'
'No, thank you,' I say with a smile, but she ignores me.
In the custody suite the bulletproof ties have left and there's
nobody about but the bored sergeant behind the booking-in
desk. The noise is deafening and the place smells worse than
I do: cells full of Sunday afternoon White Lightning drunk
and incapables; crackhead hookers with their crotch-rot and
equally foul mouths; unwashed scrotes brought in on warrant
the previous morning and waiting for Monday's court where
they'll be set free on bail again by the magistrates. And always
the 'banger'. Some muppet who knows his rights, wants a fag,
wants his farkin' slisittor, and'11 hammer that cell door for nine
hours straight until he gets them.
I'm looking around and feeling sorry for myself, wondering
what's going on at the debrief, hoping Frank doesn't sell me
out to Collingwood, when I catch sight of a prisoner's property
bag hanging from a hook on the wall behind the sergeant.
There's a bright red hooded coat sealed inside the clear
plastic. Fur-lined. Fuck-Me Boots squashed in behind them.
I stare at them for what seems like five minutes.
'Mind if I just take a last look at my boy, Sarge?' I ask the
stripy, but he's engrossed in his newspaper and waves me
away.
The bagged coat has a yellow label fixed to the white plastic
seal.
Cell 5 (F), it reads.
'I'll just log the visit on the computer, okay?'
The sergeant doesn't even respond, eyes never leaving the
sports pages.
I round the counter, take a seat on the spare terminal
behind him. Log into the custody board for this station. Cell
five. Cell five. Come on. Where is she . . . ?
And there you are. In for shoplifting. How mundane. How
beneath you.
I bring up her details, slip out my pocket notebook, snatch
a pen from the desktop.
I thank the sergeant, don't listen if he acknowledges, make
my way down to the female block. At pokey number five I
lower the suicide hatch, peek inside.
She's sitting on the bench, knees tucked up under her chin,
socked feet pressed against the wall. That hook of dark hair is
still there, hanging across one eye as she turns and looks at
me through the hatch.
'Yeah?' she says, curling her lip. 'Where's my fucking tea,
piggy
Ah, yes. Red Riding Hood.
I smile. Feel warm inside.
'Hello Lowri,' I say. 'Remember me?'

11 
There's no reply from the intercom but I know she's home.
I move out from under the entrance, carefully take a couple
of steps down to look up, check I wasn't seeing things when I
arrived. Rain makes my eyelids flutter. The arc light above the
apartment-block doors leaves retinal imprints when I blink.

The second-floor window is lit. Her lounge window. The
blind's down. Rachael's all for the environment, Little Miss An Inconvenient Truth. Never leaves appliances on if she's out
for the evening.
I pull out my mobile, hold it a few inches from my face.
Shake my head. Shake away the whisky fug. I'm wobbling on
the step as I search for her number, decide I'm going to end up
on my arse in the gutter so climb back up to the entrance
porch. Concentrate, Jakey boy. One thing at a time. One thing.
The floor's level here so I scroll through my contacts, miss
Rachael's house number three times, keep trying. Have to
keep blinking then widening my eyes to focus.
Got it. I press dial, exhilarated that I even completed the
task, hold the phone to my ear. It rings and rings and I clear
my throat of cigar-induced grot, will her to answer. My guts
clench when I hear her say hello so I say hello back then she's
still talking and I realise this isn't a conversation, only her
answerphone message.
I kill the call. Kick the wall beneath the entry intercom.
Wish I hadn't because even though I'm wearing my tactical
boots it's agonising; I'm going to wake tomorrow to find I've
probably fractured something and won't even remember how
I did it. Another UDI. Unexplained drunken injury.
Squinting and swaying, I try to find Rachael's mobile
number. Focus, Jacob. I fight with the buttons on my phone
keypad, find the number, speed-dial it. Hear the automated
voicemail message.
'Hey,' I say, and it's an effort to stay pleasant, to make my
lips work. 'Know you're in there. Why you no' answer the
door, eh? Or your house phone? Lemme in, yeah? F'me
birthday?'
I say nothing else, just hold the phone to my ear and
breathe. Maybe she'll hear this message right now, not
tomorrow. Maybe if I wait on the line she'll sense something,
pick up her mobile, turn it on and - like magic - I'll be there
so we'll talk then she'll let me in and everything will be all
right again.
I wait. And wait. And it's just dead air in my ear.
I end the call, drop my mobile into my pocket, wish I'd
made some effort to go home and change because I reek of
weed, body odour and cheap spirits, but then what's there to
go home for?
My finger dances around the intercom, the lines of raised
buttons and square panel reminding me of some gigantic
metallic Lego block sticking out from the brickwork and I
don't know why but this makes me laugh, throw my head
back and giggle until I overbalance and have to flap my arms
to right myself.
I can't get my eyes to settle on the right buzzer. 'Just do it',
like the Nike man says.
I jab a finger at Rachael's intercom and hear a faint
monotone hum. I hum along with it for a few seconds until
there's a crackle and then:
'Hello? Rachael?' I say. 'Lemme in.'
Silence.
'Karen ... I mean Rachael, s'me,' I say, and I'm so relieved
she's answered that it just gushes out of me. 'I miss you.' I
nod, agreeing with myself even though it may be a lie but
I really can't remember. 'No, honestly, I do so can you please
let me in? Just t'see you for me birthday? Promise I won't ask
for anything more than a foot job, I swear.'
I sign a cross over my heart and I know she can't see me
but don't care.
'Mmm, tempting,' says the voice. 'But you've got the wrong flat.'
'Rachael?'
'No, mate,' says the voice, and I note the sarcasm. 'It's not
Rachael or Karen or even your wife. But they sound like lucky ladies
with the foot thing'
'Hardy-har. Just lemme in,' I say. 'I can find my own way to
her apartm--'
The voice cuts me off. "I don't know who you are and I'm not
letting you in anywhere, you bloody pervert. Go away before I call
the law.'
Crackle, hum. She's gone.
'I am the law!' I bite down, grind my teeth and begin
stabbing fingers at buttons, feel unpleasant numb pressure on
the circle of skin where my nail used to be, keep going until
I'm leaning into the intercom and hitting those small raised
discs with the knuckles of both hands.
I'm spent. Gulping in air. I hobble towards the steps, fish
out my keys and return to the truck. As I start the engine I
glance up at the front of the building.
The lit blind, the lounge window of the flat. Silhouettes
there. Plural. Two figures, one curling their fingertips around
the side of the material to peek into the street.
How fucking dare she? This needs to be addressed. Right
now!
I open the car door, place one foot down onto the wet
tarmac, start to climb back out.
I am rage personified. I picture pummelled heads,
splintered bones, deep red blood sloshing across the laminated
floor of Rachael's lounge, a torrent of crimson, a viscous
wave driving and rolling through each room before exploding
in red spray like the elevator scene from The Shining.
I hear the faint wail of sirens. See distant blue strobes in
the rear-view mirror.
Weigh up the odds. Quickly. Self-gratification or self
preservation.
The door slams shut by itself as I shove my ruined foot
down on the accelerator.
I'm gone.


I'm losing the will to live.
Seventy-seven years old, living alone and watching Bad Boys
II at maximum volume at nearly two in the morning. I pity
her neighbours. The woman's almost completely deaf: all ay? and you what, dear? from the settee when I explain she's been
trying to change channels on her television using the house
phone. And this is the high point of my night.
I'm standing over her, rigged up and cradling my H&K.
'You've been pressing the nine button on your telephone,
sweetheart,' I say, pointing to the cordless in her waxy right
hand. 'We thought there was something wrong.'
She looks at me blankly, then back at the screen. It's bigger
than the one I've got at home, probably fifty inches and
dumped there by her relatives to keep her occupied so they
don't have to.
'He's lovely, innee?' she says, and I turn to the FNG who
shrugs.
'Who?' I shout at her.
'That Will Smith,' she says, and sucks at her chops.
There's nothing for me here. There's been nothing all night,
just a stream of human garbage calls which we've blue-lighted
towards only to be called off as we turn into the street. And to
top it off, Collingwood's doubled me up with someone from
the northern sector, some skinny FNG who's fidgeting with his
MP5, a jittery cherry whose name I don't even want to know
and who's only been on the Tac Team for weeks. Frankie's
crewed with someone else for the shift and I have no clue why.
I have to leave. Immediately. I'm so glad I'm not a tit-head.
Those lowly sector plods can make the tea and fill in the
forms for the useless Social Services while this old crone gurns

at Big Willie.
I crawl around side streets in second gear for ten minutes,
then slip the wagon into a lane. Turn off the engine, lower
the window, feel chilly air rush into the cab.
'What a night,' the cherry says, staring ahead.
I nod, spark up a cigar. 'Yep.'
I don't say anything else. Why encourage small talk? I don't
even know you. I take a puff on the Cafe Creme, exhale, settle
back in the seat and let him suffer the awkward silence.
We're surrounded by terraced houses, the lives of others.
I listen, feel the mild thrill of a peeping torn. From somewhere
behind the firearms truck I hear raised voices, muted by thick
walls but undoubtedly a couple in the throes of a drunken
quarrel, and I wonder how long it'll be before we get a call. A
few houses further along I hear a woman panting and yeahing, zone in on the noise and see a rear first-floor sash window
propped open. I smile yet feel oddly sad. Then a male groaning,
muttering a name I can't quite make out but it could be
Bev or Beth but it doesn't really matter because he gives one
last guttural grunt then he's spent and there's nothing more
to listen to.
Neither home resembles my own at the moment. We're a
DVD on pause. It's been so long since Karen and I spoke, the
silence seems normal. Own cars, spare bedrooms, own toilets:
all the trappings of comfortable suburban life which allow you
to stay apart. We're two single parents living under one roof.
I glance at the cherry. See the wedding ring.
Do you wake in the middle of the night and fuck your wife,
newbie? Does Mrs FNG sense you're awake and aroused and
know what you want in that way a good woman always does?

Allow you to paw her hips and thighs, grab roughly at her
breasts from behind her without so much as a by-your-leave?
Do you lift her leg with your knee then shift closer, enter her;
she accepts you and you fuck then finish, roll away, back to
sleep and it's okay because you love her, she loves you and
that's all that matters?
Do you, cherry?
'Do I what?' he asks. He's looking at me, confused.
'Do you . . .?' I say. 'D'you reckon Frank'll be back after
tonight?'
The cherry shrugs. 'Dunno. The boss rang me out of the
blue this afternoon, says I'm crewed with you until further
notice.'
Then he's bumping his gums about what a pisser it is with
all the extra travelling he'll have to do now but I've stopped
listening. Because nobody rang to tell me about the change.
I think of the debrief I had with Collingwood, when he
bawled at me for an hour in his cramped little office and I just
drifted in and out of the moment, glazed over, dismissed him
out of hand and sat there while he huffed and puffed and got
it out of his system.
Did I miss something?	

I slide by JoBlo's to RV with Sinclair. Leave the cherry in the
wagon; tell him it's a witness I need to speak to about an
extremely important case I'm dealing with.
'Wh'appenin, blood?' Sinclair says, looking uncomfortable
as he palms me this week's vials. I check they're right.
Testosterone Propionate. Trenbolone Acetate. Anavar and
Arimidex. Good for the cutting cycle. Get rid of some of the
Christmas flab. Get ripped. Get better.
'Something wrong?' I ask, looking past him. The club is
kicking out.
He forces a smile of brilliant white teeth; the scar on his
face is hideous. 'Look, been checking the ticklist,' he says.
'You owes for the last nine months, bra. And most of that
juice you been buying ain't cheap.'
I'm scanning the crowd when I see a flash of red coat.
'Yeah,' I say, not really listening. 'Just add it to the tab, amigo.'
'No, Jake,' he says, and I'm wishing he'd move out of the
way. 'You gotta pay now. I owe my supplier much dollar for
the gear and you holding up the line. He leaning on me and
don't care who I am or what you do for a living. Five-oh, MI5
or even Batman, he want his money. One way or another.'
'I'm good for it. I'll square with you at The Elite.' My eyes
on the bodies spilling out onto the pavement. Was that Lowri?
I blink a few times, search the teenagers milling around the
pavement. I can't see her anywhere. I will her to appear at the
club doors.
'Jake, you don't get it,' says Sinclair, and his voice is a whine
in my ear so I dump the vials into my cargo pocket, grab his
forearm.
'You don't fuckin' get it, brother,' I say, looking into his eyes.
'I'm the sheriff and I say what goes here, and what goes is I'll
pay you at the fuckin' gym, right?'
Sinclair pulls his arm from my grip, straightens up, the
smile gone. His face is expressionless, unreadable. He's bigger
than me, a real beast.
'I hope so,' he says.
'Now I've got important policey stuff to do,' I say. 'Stuff
you wouldn't understand. I'll settle up later today'
I walk back towards the firearms wagon.
'Problems?' the cherry asks, looking across at Sinclair. As if
the bag of bones would be of any use if that monster decided
to kick off.
'None,' I say, getting into the driver's seat. I'm gunning the
engine, waiting for the FNG to buckle up and all I can hear is
Sinclair's voice from across the street, calling after me as I ease
away from the kerb and work the wagon through the pockets
of clubbers.
'Six Gs, Jake,' he's shouting. 'Six thou, bra. Serious.'
I wish he'd shut up.
I raise the window, drive towards the docks.

It's oh-three oh-five hours.
Me and the FNG, we're trawling the industrial estate
watching the handful of streetwalkers plying for trade, the
desperate scags looking to perform that last ten-quid suck job
for a post-club punter. I can't find Lowri anywhere. This
pleases me and pisses me off. If she's not here she's safe at
home, but then I'm not going to get the chance to see her.
Not going to spend time with her, finish off the conversation
we had in the cells.
Fuck it. I unclip my mobile from my body armour, dig out
my pocket notebook, flip to the entry I made in the custody
suite after the raid.
'Who you ringing at this time of the morning?' the FNG
asks.
A friend,' I say, as if it's anything to do with him anyway.
And I'm not sure if Lowri is a friend but I know I'd like her to
be. I can't stop thinking about her. I picture her, this girl who
knows nothing about me, this teenager who reminds me of
everything that's missing in my life.
It rings for an age and I think I'm going to be speaking to
her answerphone when there's a click then a voice and I can't
believe it's her on the other end of the line.
'Hello?' she says groggily and it's clear I've woken her. I
smile just hearing her voice; am happy because if she's asleep
she's at home, not servicing someone in the back of a car or





MIKE THOMAS
POCKET NOTEBOOK
being defiled in some shithole B&B or swallowing anybloke's
DNA underneath the railway arches that border the city
centre.
I say nothing. Breathe quietly.
'Hello? Who is it?' Lowri asks, and I press the mobile tightly
to my ear, gently rub my thumb down its side, stroke the
corner of the plastic. We could do so much for each other,
Lowri. So much. I see it in you just from the little time we've
spent together. You could fill all the voids. I close my eyes,
imagine her lying in bed with her mobile up to her ear, that
dark hook of hair falling across her face, and I'm there; just
like with the girl in the Clio I'm holding one of her hands and
telling her everything's going to be okay, shhh, everything's
going to be okay, it's all right, I'm going to help you. And I
know this time it's the truth.
This time, with her, everything's going to be all right.
'If you're not going to speak then go fuck yourself she says,
then cuts me off, and I sigh, can't help but grin.
'Goodnight, sweetie,' I say into the mobile, close my
notebook then turn off the phone. I'm clipping it back to my
vest, see the cherry staring at me, shaking his head a little and
just staring at me.
'Girlfriend, you mean,' he smiles, nodding towards my ring
finger.
I look at the figures skulking in the doorways of the
business units, the walking cliches in their fishnets and ittybitty
skirts calling out to us, laughing and gesturing that we're
wankers, knowing we can't be bothered to stop and in reality
it's just a game. They're on it, we're part of it.
'Got to have a few aunties on the patch, haven't you?' I say,
and think of Rachael. Of the night outside her apartment.
The two silhouettes.
Of unfinished business.

TWELVE

We're doing room clearance in pairs and I know it's because
of me. Because of Yeh and ditching Frankie to check the rear
bedroom. Nobody's said as much but today's original training
plan has been abandoned and now we're doubled up in full kit
with blank 5.56 ammo loaded into the G36 carbines. The
warehouse is stifling despite the subzero temperatures outside
and no one's happy. The other AFOs are sitting about the
training facility with their rigs ready to go through this stupid
apartment mock-up and they're looking at me. Not all the
time but I see the sideways glances, hear the whispered curses.
I'm with the cherry again and he's so excited to be here actually
thrilled to be doing a full training exercise in this heat,
the tool - and I can't bear it; wish I was doing this with
Frankie, but he's sitting on a bench near the tea makings on
the other side of the hall and chatting into his mobile phone.
I haven't had time to speak to him, put the arm on him to
find out if he's heard anything, and this FNG is at my ear
wittering about how awesome the G36 is but he much prefers
the C-Compact model variant because the barrel's shorter, it's
got a four-prong open-type flash suppressor, the carry handle's
got an integrated Picatinny rail plus of course the hooded
front post and flip rear aperture on the rail-mounted iron
sights. I want him to shut up, please shut up, you're making
my ears bleed, you weedy little runt. . .
'All right, I was only sayin," he says, stepping away from
me sulkily, and I've done it again - maybe I should apologise,
but before I can decide if I'm bothered, here comes whats-is-
name, the firearms medic from down West, Paul or Phil or
Pete, I can never remember but we all know him as Thrombo
because he's a slow-moving clot.
'Boss wants you in his office,' Thrombo says, and I'm
nonplussed but glad for the opportunity to be out of this heat
and away from the rambling FNG.
I look at Frank. He's finished talking on his mobile and is
watching me. In fact, everyone has turned towards me, even
the cherry.
Everything is still.
'What for?' I ask.
Thrombo shrugs. 'Dunno. Collingwood just wants you in
there ay-sap.'
Ay-sap. Ay-fuckin-sap. He's even got the grunts saying it. I
take a breath, suck on the warm air in this sweltering building
and stare at Frankie who's slumped back in his seat, not
looking at me, not looking up at all but has his head in his
hands and is scanning the concrete floor.
I walk across anyway. Take a seat beside him.
'What've you heard, droog?' I say to him. 'Come on.'
He looks at me. Looks at me for a long time before he says,
'Why don't you go see your father, Jake?'
Just the mention of it makes me want to puke. There are
days when I wish I'd never told him. It's involuntary: my
hands ball into fists and then I'm rubbing them on my thighs,
back and forth from knee to groin and there's the ssshhh-sshhh of skin on cotton and my collar is suddenly too tight.
'Don't say that,' I tell him. 'Don't say that, Frankie.'
'It could help, y'know,' he says. 'If you talk to him, do your
thing, just get it out of your system. Mel agrees.'
Static. That hiss, building in my ears. 'You fuckin' told her?'
'I tell her everything. Why d'you think she puts up with so
much of your crap?'
I shake my head. 'It's pointless.'
Frank shifted his body towards me. 'But it's that time of
year, isn't it?'
'Right,' I say. 'The great anniversary. The date of all dates.
Except this one's a little more special, isn't it? I mean, how old
am I this year?'
I turn to him and see he doesn't understand for a moment.
Then it dawns on him and his mouth opens slightly. He grabs
my left wrist to stop my knuckles kneading my thigh. His
fingers clamp around my skin. 'You ain't your old man, Jake,'
he says.
And I think about that. I think of my life and what I've
become.
'I'm not sure what I am any more,' I say.
'Collingwood,' Frankie says, squeezing my forearm. 'You'd
better go.'
'Okay' I say, standing, looking at him and feeling a little odd,
anxious maybe. I glance around the warehouse, at the target
range and staging area, the briefing corner where I've spent so
many hours on Gold command procedures and negotiation
techniques; the rows of plastic chairs where I've sat with
Frankie and Thrombo, even Tommy Hall, and shot the shit
for hours about gigs we've done and doors we've jemmied and
that one time when I had to rappel down the side of a pie
factory after some kid went postal with a meat cleaver and
took the whole sausage-roll production line hostage.
'Okay' I say again, and leave the building.

Collingwood's your typical boss with a my-door's-always
open policy just as long as what you've got for him isn't griefy
I'm sure the piles of boxes are a recent addition to the polished
desk and empty in-tray and those sad little foreign-police-force
plaques he collects every time he goes on holiday.
He's lumped behind the desk, squat in his leather swivel
chair, and eyeballing me as I walk in. I'm surprised to see the
ginger woman from Canningtown making tea in one corner.
I didn't know he'd been given a secretary. I'm slightly nervous:
he obviously thinks he needs one to take the minutes of what
I now know is clearly a formal meeting.
'Take a seat, Jacob,' Collingwood says. He never calls me
Jacob and his voice is gentle, all touchy-feely, not like him at
all. My guts are suddenly loose as he gestures to one of the
hateful bucket chairs in front of his desk. They're stunted little
fake leather things, low enough for him to look down on
whoever's sitting in them.
I sit anyway, look around at the cardboard boxes.
'Deliveries, boss?' I ask, and try to smile, but the muscles
around my mouth are quivering annoyingly and it comes out
wrong and I think I leer at him.
'No,' he says, and looks quickly at Ginger, who's turned
around and is stirring her mug of tea and hasn't offered me so
much as a cup of cold piss. He looks back at me and says:
'Packing. I'm moving on to pastures new'
'Promotion?' I hadn't heard any whispers about him getting
his third pip.
'Office job,' he says, and I'm confused because I thought
he already did one. 'I'm off to learning and development.
Training school.'
'Yeah, right,' I say and laugh, then stop because he doesn't.
'We've all got to move on sometime,' he says, and I detect
a tone there and he waves a hand at Ginge and then he smiles
and says: 'Jacob, while you're here I'd like to introduce you to
the new Firearms Inspector.'
Ginge, she places her mug on Collingwood's desk, steps
towards me, proffers a hand. For a second I can't move, want
to laugh out loud and bat her fingers away, ask Dave if he's

joking, but I turn to him and when I see his face I know he's
not. He's serious. This doesn't compute. I watch my hand rise
as if of its own volition, move towards Ginger's meaty fingers
and then I'm shaking hands with her and she's looking down
at me with a shit-eating grin, that shovel-face of hers is so
close it fills my vision, I can smell her lemon-tea breath, I'm
counting the freckles across her pug nose and wondering
what the hell is going on here.
Too fast. This is happening too fast. Let me take a breath, here. Let me .. .
'Inspector Howells has excellent credentials, Jacob,' I hear
Collingwood say. 'I'm confident I'm leaving the place in very
safe hands.'
'Pamela Howells,' she says, pumping away.
And I can't let her hand go. I feel her trying to pull away, I'm
looking up at her and she's stopped shaking it but my fingers
just won't work, won't open. I've been doing this job for years
and never clapped eyes on this woman, which tells me all I
need to know. She's an office dweller, some fast-track promotion
plonk with a third-rate uni degree. Someone whose shoes
have barely touched the street in the few years she's been
working. One of the new breed who knows the buzzwords
but can't cut it operationally. Probably has friends in high
places, too. The good of police casting couch.
'Pleased to meet you, ma'am,' I say, but I'm not. Not in the
slightest.
'You can stop now,' she says, and narrows her eyes at my
hand, so I do as I'm told because it's been bred into me to
obey anyone with stripes or pips even if they're a total dick.
Respect the rank not the person, right? I release her. She
brushes her hand on the front of her suit. 'I've heard a lot
about you, Jacob,' she says, slurping at her mug.
I glance at Collingwood then back to her. 'All Marmite.'
'You've lost me,' she says after a moment.
'Well, you'll either love me or hate me, y'know?'
Ginge, Pam, she takes a deep breath, lets it out very slowly.
'Personally I can't bear the stuff,' she says. 'Leaves a horrible
taste in my mouth. Y'know?'
I'm looking up at her and trying to absorb all of this when
Collingwood clears his throat. 'Ah, which kind of brings me
on to the reason you've been asked to come in here, Jacob,' he
says. 'As I said, we've all got to move on sometime .. .'
And I look at him and see his expression, which is a strange
mixture of smug self-satisfaction and malice and not a little
fear, and suddenly I know what's coming and I can't believe it.
Why Frank's been avoiding me, why they've kept him away
from me since the cannabis job. Pam wants to hit the ground
running. New broom syndrome. A hatchet woman. Setting
her stall out, because when the rest of the guys hear about
this they'll cream their coveralls and be nodding dogs for as
long as she's in charge. My heart thumps so hard against my
shirt, my body armour, I worry it's about to rupture my
sternum like the chest-burster in Alien, spew onto the floor
where Pam can stamp on it and twist her heel before hawking
a loogie and gobbing it onto the flattened muscle tissue just
for good measure.
From somewhere in the wind tunnel between my ears I
hear Collingwood tell me my performance has been less than
satisfactory since December and the organisation is worried,
that I'm considered a liability at present and as a result they're
withdrawing my firearms ticket.
They're kicking me off the team.
'It's just a temporary measure,' says Pammy, but that's
what they always say. I can't bring myself to look at her as I'm
bent over at the waist, dry heaving at the nice thick carpet her
nice thick carpet - and part of me wants to spill my
breakfast onto the lovely cream woollen fibres as a joint
farewell /welcome present.
And Collingwood's still talking, telling me there's a slot on
one of the reliefs in the city centre and he thinks it'd be good
for me to go back to basics and do some sector work and get
my hands dirty while I work things out with the force
therapist and y'know, she's really good at what she does and
you never know, Jacob, in six months, once everything's blown
over you'll be back here with Frankie and the guys and it'll
be like you've never been away . ..
And then the telephone on his - her - desk rings.
I'm still swallowing saliva as Collingwood uh-huhs and
okays then says, 'No problem, send him in.'
When the door opens I look up and just when I thought
things couldn't get any worse I see a twenty-something guy
with glasses and carefully spiked bleached blond hair and for
a second can't recall where I've seen him before. Then it clicks;
it's the fella who was sat at the back of the court the day I
potted Cooper and I remember what I said to him as I left.
And I know I'm really in trouble.
'Jacob,' Collingwood says. 'This is Detective Inspector
Ewing from Professional Standards. He's here to see you.1
And I don't know where they're getting these bosses from
nowadays because this guy is way too young to be a DI, but
it doesn't really matter what I think because he walks towards
me in his neatly pressed slacks and metallic purple tie and
holds out a sheet of paper that I reach up and take without
thinking.
It's a Regulation Nine notice.
'PC Smith,' this man-child detective says in a voice that tells
me he's done this many times before. 'You're being investigated
for allegations of assault on two prisoners and harassment of a
female colleague. Do you wish to say anything?'
He cautions me. Cautions me.
I look at the sheet of paper in my hand, then up at this DI
Ewing. Across to Collingwood. Over to Pammy. All so
serious. All so damn holier-than-thou.
What a carve-up.
'I just want to say fuck-you all very much,' I say, and screw
up the piece of paper.

THIRTEEN

I'm home and don't know what time it is but it's dark so could
be anytime after seventeen hundred and everyone's upstairs,
I can hear them in their rooms, and it's just noise and bright
light down here; even the television's on and playing MTV or
TMF or The Hits or whatever it is to nobody and why the
fuck can't people turn anything off around here?
They've asked for my pocket notebook. And I can't
remember what my reply was exactly because all I could think
about was not being there any more and how I was going to
dodge this bullet and explain to the investigating officers
tomorrow that I haven't exactly been following the evidence
recording rules in the strictest sense so I just muttered something
about losing it.
Losing it.
I climb the stairs and my legs feel drained, muscles shaky
like I've given them a good going-over on the squat machine
and I'm coming unglued, yes I am, I'm coming apart at the
seams here. I'm back where I was ten years ago as a bloody
beat bobby and beneath the dread, flickering but still present
and correct, is the faint knowledge that everything I know is
slipping away from me. My family, my job. Frank, Rachael,
Jessica. My status. My place. I close my eyes, urge my leaden
legs up each step, try to work out when this all began, when
everything started to go wrong, I think about it as I lift my
feet and climb towards the landing where every door is ajar,
Karen and the kids in their own rooms, cut off in their own
little worlds, getting on with their lives; and then I stop
thinking because I know when everything started going
wrong, it was the night of my eighteenth birthday. And it's
been building since then. Growing inside me like a tumour.
And now everything's going too fast.
I need to press rewind. I need to go back. I can't let history
repeat itself.
So I tap on the door of our bedroom, step in, and Karen is
sitting at the vanity unit brushing her hair, lips rouged, jet
black eyelashes curled and thickened, dark grey satin camisole
covering her upper body, lacy hold-ups stretched over her
beautiful feet and stopping midway up her thighs. I shuffle
forward. She looks so good. A little black dress I've never seen
before hangs from a wardrobe door and I wonder for a
moment if all this effort is for me so try to smile but she
doesn't even look my way, doesn't even stop what she's doing,
hand rolling at the wrist, brush bristles working through her
ebony hair, and then I see the beige card on the tabletop and
it's an invite of some sort, gold leaf around the edges, Nurse's
Valentine Ball embossed on the front.
She hasn't mentioned it but I'm too tired to be angry. All I
feel is a sense of defeat, of humiliation, of emasculation. And
even though it may be too late I try to tell her: Karen, I'm
sorry, I wish we could talk about this, I'm losing everything
here, it's all running away from me and I don't know what to
do and I don't want us to end up like my parents, y'know? I'm
floating loose, I'm all alone here and I need you.
I really need you.
I see myself in the mirror and my mouth hasn't moved
because I don't say any of it. Big macho man Jake with your
granite abs, your shrunken testes, you've bottled it again. So
I take a breath, say to her: 'They've booted me off the
Firearms Unit.'
Karen stops brushing. Doesn't turn around. Just looks at
me in the mirror. Says nothing but pulls a face, an expression
that says just how low we've sunk and makes me want to claw
at my own eyes. Disgust.
I leave the bedroom.
I stop at Naomi's door because maybe I can find solace
here, reconnect with her somehow, and I'm about to knock
when I hear her voice; she's talking on her mobile, talking to
some guy by the sound of it. Nah, she's saying, I don't know
where he is, none of us know where he is most of the time, y'know,
it's just so much hassle here at the moment. He's, like, really freaking
us all out and keeps going off on one like he's stoned - what? yeah
it was great, Finch brought a couple of joints - where was I? Yeah,
my old man he's such a dick and to he honest I'm not surprised my
mother's had enough he's, like, totally pissed her off, uh-huh, uh
huh yeah cool, well pick me up at eight. Love ya ...
I'm breathing at the door. I hear my fifteen-year-old
daughter, my baby, this stranger moving around inside, then
there's the tap-tap-tap of a keyboard and I wait five whole
minutes before pushing open the door to find her sitting in
front of her computer.
'Hey,' she says, and smiles.
'Hey,' I say. 'What's up?'
'Nothing much,' she says, nodding at the PC screen. 'Just
Facebooking. Catch up with the girls sort of thing.'
'Okay' I say and can't move.
All right with you if I go to the cinema tonight?' she asks.
'Lucy wants to see the new Orlando Bloom.'
'Okay' I say again. My face feels weird and numb. I may be
grinning.
'You okay, Dad?' Naomi asks.	/
'Okay' is all I can say, and shuffle backwards, her eyes
narrowing as I close the door.
I walk into Ben's bedroom without knocking, find him
sitting on his queen-size, eyes closed, knees hugged to his
chest, floppy emo hair hanging over his face like a black frill.
He's wallowing in misery, isn't he? And it's my fault. I'm
ruining my son, just like my father ruined me, and this makes
me nauseous so I step to the foot of the bed. I have to speak
to someone tonight to tell them why I am like I am. Because
Ben and Naomi don't know. And they need to know, I need to
tell one of them before it's too late, before I lose them once
and for all. So I hold nothing back, gaze at my son as I recount
what happened to me - to my parents - when I was just a little
older than he is now, when my father was the same age as I
am now, and Ben might not be looking at me as I talk, his eyes
might be closed as I say don't end up like me kid, but he's
nodding so it's obviously sinking in and suddenly this is so cathartic, I can't stop myself, I'm disgorging it all, spewing the
poison out, my son's nodding like he understands everything
and for the first time in as long as I can remember I feel like a
human being once more.
Then I've finished, tell him he doesn't have to say anything,
not yet, just absorb it, the magnitude of it all, and I thank him
for just being there. He's still eyes closed and nodding but I feel
like I've shed a hundredweight so walk to the door, turn
around, see he's shifted on the bed, hair flopped to one side.
And I see the iPod 'phones wedged into his ears.
So I leave and think how I really need to speak to my father.

FOURTEEN

I've got a busy day, things to do, and I don't know what's
happened but I woke this morning at oh-five forty-five, still
dark outside, two hours' sleep, and I had this terrific rush of
energy, of optimism, bordering on euphoria, and I don't know
where it came from given yesterday's events but suddenly it
was clear to me I obviously needed a fresh start and now I'm
holding on to this feeling and hoping it lasts.
I really hope it lasts. I need to get on the front foot.
It's time to do some joined-up thinking, Jacob.
So I'm up early, pressing my uniform in the spare bedroom,
my bedroom, steaming those creases into my trousers as if
it's my first week in the job, starching the sleeves of my white
short-sleeved shirt, bulling my boots and burning the gloss
with my cigar lighter until the tips are shiny as the nose cone
on a cruise missile. I won't let the fact that Karen didn't come
home until one in the morning dampen my mood.
Got to sustain this energy, make it a high-protein, low-fat
day. After a dose of Trenbolone, breakfast is a pint of
skimmed milk with two scoops of whey protein and three
whole raw eggs. Then I neck another three egg whites and
eat a plain bagel. It's going to be a long day and I don't know
if I'll have time to eat at headquarters so wrap six wholewheat
crackers spread with peanut butter in tin foil and put them in
tny rucksack, add a sealed tub of low-fat cottage cheese mixed
with pineapple plus half a packet of rice cakes - salt and
vinegar flavour of course. Then I grab my utility belt
and leave, get into the truck, try Frank's moby but it goes to
answerphone. I leave a message asking him to ring me, then
try Lowri's number, which I've added to my speed-dial list,
but her mobile's turned off.
Not a problem. Everything's good.
I drive towards the gym and on the way realise this will be
the first occasion I've gone there with any other intention
than to rack plates and pump weights. The first time I've ever been there in uniform. The only time I've ever been there on

official business.
It doesn't take long, I just stride in and it's full of the usual
midweek morning musclehead shitbags because none of them
has got anything better to do except come here or burgle
people's houses while they're at work. Or maybe come here then do the burgling, I can never remember which way it goes,
but the thought is lost and I'm working my way through the
obstacle course of fixed-weight machines looking for Sinclair
while the crowd stops what they're doing, every last one of
them, because they didn't know what I did for a living and they
can't believe it, I'm the fackin'filth - I've bought juice from some
of them, how amusing is that? - and somewhere in my head I
know I'll never be able to come back here. I feel a stab of sorrow
but will not let it ruin this good mood so force myself to think:
does that really matter? We've all got to move on sometime.
Sinclair's in the middle of a set of reps, blasting his triceps,
kneeling on a bench doing dumb-bell kickbacks. He sees me,
stands and drops the weights, and I watch them roll from his
feet a-ways on the rubber mat; see he's got Christ-knows-how
many kilos on the bars, Ivanko plates too. He's an animal, this
guy, ripped and vascular, but this is police work and I'm in full
uniform so size doesn't matter, as they say.
'What the fuck you doin' here in that fancy-dress outfit,
you prick?' Sinclair says. 'I got to do business after you gone,
Jake. Who's gonna want to deal with me now?'
And I flip out my pocket notebook and say to him you do
not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not
mention when questioned something which you later rely on in
court, and in fact anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do
you understand, brother?
'What?' he says, and I'm not sure if he's going to laugh at
me or knock my front teeth out. He blinks several times like
he doesn't quite know what to do, which I consider to be an
appropriate reaction given the gravity of the matter. 'You
cautioning me?' he asks, the scar twitching. 'For what?'
So I tell him I am good for the money I owe and I will pay
it ay-sap and if he ever humiliates me in such a manner in front
of a colleague again he will feel the full force of the law
because I am a sector bobby now and I will straighten out my
patch and my patch happens to be the city centre where he does his business, am I clear?
'You threatening me?' he asks, confused but getting angry.
'No,' I say, Tm telling you off this time. Consider it a verbal
warning about your behaviour. I've made a record of it in my
pocket notebook, see?'
And I hold it out to him to show my handwriting.
'You don't come here and tell me off, Jake,' Sinclair says. 'Ever.'
I pause. Look at him. So that's how he wants to play it.
'Fine,' I say, and slip a Fixed Penalty ticket from the
document pouch on my nice new belt. 'You had your chance.
How would you define your ethnicity?'
 'Eh?' he says.
I tilt my pen to the Fixed Penalty. 'For the form. What are
you, White European, Black, Asian, Mixed Race? There's
quite a few to choose from
Are you serious?'
'Of course I am,' I say, and wait a few seconds, but he
doesn't say anything else, just sort of goggles at me. 'I'll just
tick "refused", shall I?'
I sign, time and date the ticket and hand it to him. He
doesn't take it, so I let it drop to the floor and he lowers his
head to stare at it for a short while then looks back up at me.
'You're giving me a Fixer for disorderly conduct?' he asks.
I nod. 'I tried to warn you but you continued with a course
of action that caused me harassment, alarm or distress. You
left me with no choice.'
And then Sinclair does laugh, bends over at the waist and
slaps his huge hands on his even bigger thighs, calls me a crazy
motherfucker and I think I might agree with him but I'm too
busy to discuss this today. I make my way back through the
various exercise machines, ignore the pig noises, the calls of babylon and filth and cuntstable, walk out of The Elite for the
last time, get into my truck in the car park and drive away,
quite proud of the fact I've just successfully completed my
first Fixed Penalty notice for public order with the minimum
of fuss. I should really make an entry in my Personal
Development Profile.

I've been waiting here more than an hour and run out of
things to occupy myself with.
This is so unprofessional considering they're supposed to
be Professional Standards. A real case of bad manners. Don't
they realise I've got a job to do? I could be patrolling the city
centre instead of sitting here on their plush little royal blue
couch waiting for them to finish whatever it is they're doing
upstairs.
The brassy receptionist, some old hawk dripping with
pearls, a name-tag I can't be bothered to read pinned to the left
breast of her royal blue force blazer, she gives me her pinched
and knowing smile.
'Won't be long now,' she says again. This is mental abuse,
surely. I'm being softened up here. Guantanamoed by a
receptionist ready for those vicious little people from the
Complaints department. Those fast-track slickies, the rubber
heel squad that you can never hear coming after you, the types
who'll fuck you over given half the chance, no matter how
many good things you do in your career.
I swivel around, tell hawk woman I'd really rather she
didn't speak to me for a while, in fact never again please
because I'm not very happy about being treated in such a rude
manner by the organisation. She waits a beat then looks
down, picks up the phone and pretends to dial somebody. I'm
wishing I wasn't sweating so much because my armpits are
damp then the doors to the inner sanctum of headquarters
hiss open and three men walk out, head for the exit, don't
notice me in the corner.
'Hey' I call after them; I don't know why but it seemed the
right thing to do for some reason. I step forward as they turn
to look at me and there's something vaguely familiar about all
of them, like I've seen them in a film: two plods and some
skinny little guy in his fifties, a civilian in a baggy singlebreaster
with a blond fringe that's pasted sideways across his
forehead. The civilian does a comical double-take and one of
the cops, a bald fella, he sighs and resumes walking towards
the exit ramp.
I take a few steps closer but the civilian steps away and the
other plod, some old sweat with a frazzled handlebar
moustache who reminds me of a Seventies porn star, he
places a hand up to my chest and says: 'We can't talk to you,
you know that, Jake.' And I have no idea what he's on about
or how he even knows my name and I start to ask him when
the civilian reaches out with an arm the thickness of a Twiglet
and pulls at porn man.

'Let's go,' he says. 'We've given our statements.' Then he
looks at me and says: 'You need help, PC Smith. If I'd known
the full facts of the case I never would have prosecuted
Cooper for you.'
Cooper. Cooper? Ah, yes! Cooper.
It clicks but they're walking away, following baldy down
the ramp. A sweat rivulet traces its way down the side of my
torso from my left armpit. I reach into my shirt pocket, wish
my hands would stop shaking, pull out my pocket notebook,
need to check it now I remember what I'm here for. I hoist
my rucksack off the floor, don't look at the receptionist but
tell her I'll be in the urination station if anyone wants me.
I don't need a piss but lift the toilet seat anyway, drop my
trousers because I'm so damn hot then sit on the plastic ring.
I flip through the notebook pages and can't recall writing half
the stuff in there to be honest. Cooper. I check my prisoner
list in the rear, trail my trembling, nail-less finger down the
rows of names. Where are you? I say. And my voice bounces
off the walls of the windowless toilet so I say Cooper Cooper
Cooper, and suddenly I'm singing it and that's okay because
the acoustics in here are pretty damn good.
Page fifty-eight. Dwayne Robert Cooper. I turn to the
entry, speed-read my notes. It makes me laugh. I laugh so hard
I'm doubled-up, trousers around my ankles, sitting on the loo
with my boxer shorts still on and I sing his name again and I
love that echo, man, that reverb, it's awesome. I'm sweating
worse than ever now. I think I might be in a spot of bother
here. Unless there's some minor miracle, I could end up
smoking Lamberts and watching Jeremy Kyle all day.
I stand, dress, unlock the door and step out. I'm walking
across to the mirrored sinks when I hear a toilet flushing. I
didn't think to check the other cubicles when I came in, so
turn around, see the door to the far left is closed and there's
someone in there; now it's opening and I think about legging
it out of here but I won't have time. Then out steps some
ranker. It takes me a second to work out where on the ladder he is, but there're crowns on his epaulettes and it's a
superintendent, of all people.
He eyes me for a long time, hands hanging at his sides, his
left eyebrow arched in a Roger Moore stylee. Then he says:
'What's your name?'
'MacReady, sir,' I say. 'Frank MacReady'
And he looks me up and down, shakes his head a little, and
his beady, slitty eyes are on me for an eternity before he finally
decides he's seen enough and without saying anything steps
past me, uses the sink to wash his hands, gives them a onceover
under the dryer and leaves.
I wait a few minutes then go out into the foyer. 'They're
ready for you,' the receptionist says, and her hand hovers over
the switch that buzzes open the double doors.
I pull out my notebook and pen. This isn't too clever a
move here, but it's necessary to keep an accurate record to
prove this conspiracy.
'Your full name, please?' I ask the hawk woman.
'Barbara Williams,' she says without thinking, years of
conditioning, of being a prole, causing her to blurt it out
when asked by a figure of authority. Then she realises her
mistake and cocks her head.
'Why did you want to know that?' she asks, frowning.
I sigh. Try to be patient. I tell her I'm taking her name
because her behaviour has been unacceptable and her
inability to provide me with sufficient detail about when I
would be allowed upstairs is tantamount to obstructing a
police officer.
'I am warning you on this occasion,' I say, actually starting
to enjoy this sector bobby lark. 'Don't let it happen again.'

This woman, she places a hand on her chest in an oh-my gesture, and I hear the rattle of her jewellery beneath her
fingers.
'Nice pearl necklace,' I say to her. 'Buzz me in.'
And for the first time since I arrived this morning, she does
as she's told.

FIFTEEN

I'm relieved to see Frankie even if the conversation is
minimal.
As I reach the top of the stairs he's coming down the
corridor looking over his shoulder, all furtive like, as if to
check for any rubber-heelers sneaking down the lovely thick
HQ carpet. Nobody's following him so he takes me by the
arm, pulls me into an empty office. I'm just glad to have some
sort of contact with him even if it's being dragged about.
'I've missed you, honey' I say. 'Give us a kiss.'
He just peers at me over the rims of his glasses, looking
tired. 'You've got to take this seriously, Jake,' he says.
I slap him on the arm. 'I'm good,' I say, and even though
I've never boxed in my life I find myself bobbing and weaving,
throwing air punches. 'I'm ready for 'em.'
Frank swallows. 'You'd better be. They could do your legs
good and proper. Is it true about this plonk you've been
stalking?'
I stop mid-punch and think about Rachael, about Cooper,
about all the other stuff swirling around in my head. I can't
latch on to anything tangible, any solid recollection of the last
few weeks. I know Karen isn't overly keen on me at the
moment, but that's about it.
'I . . .' I say, but nothing more comes out. I open my
clenched fists, hold my hands up in front of my face. They're
shaking again.
Frank steps closer, takes hold of my upper arms, and then
I worry he really is about to give me a kiss, but he simply
looks up at me and there's something in his eyes, the tight
expression on his face, that I've never seen before and can't
quite describe.
At a push I suspect it may be pity.
'If they see me talking to you before you go in I'm in more
trouble than you,' he says. 'I just want to tell you I've done all
I can.'
'Where've you been, Frank?' I ask.
'Where've you been, space cadet?' he says, smiling
awkwardly. 'Spoken to your father yet?'
I shake my head slowly. 'Later,' I say.
'After this,' he says.
'Yeah,' I say, but this might be a lie. After this.'
Then he nods, wishes me luck, and walks out of the office.

The red LED timer on the machine reads 43, as in minutes,
and I'm watching the little brown tape coil around the spools
as Ewing drones on in the seat opposite and I'm thinking,
Christ, how much more of this?, because this is the fourth
three-quarter-hour cassette they've slotted in there and they
don't appear anywhere near done. I calculate: one hundred
and seventy-eight long minutes I've lost for ever.
If this runs over my hours of duty, can I claim overtime? I
make a mental note to check the regs.
Today Detective Inspector Ewing is looking pretty slick:
metallic black-and-white chequered tie, gunmetal satin shirt
that's been starched to buggery, platinum cufflinks which
match the expensive-looking diver's watch on his left wrist,
though I suspect he's never strapped an oxygen tank on his
back at any time in his short little life. No funky glasses or
spiked hair; contacts and carefully coiffed locks are the order
of the day. He looks the business, means business. And he has
not stopped.
Next to Ewing is Superintendent Doug Jones, Deputy
Head of the Professional Standards Department. I haven't
been able to look him in the eye, even when he's asked me
questions, and he must think I'm weird and a stinking liar now
because he's the dude from the toilets. I almost fudged my
underwear when I walked in and saw him sitting there and
I'm still wishing I'd just given my own name when he
appeared from the cubicle and asked me who I was.
This is just endless. They've wittered on about Dwayne
Cooper and the Vietnamese or whatever-he-was chap from
up the sticks. They've thrown in the usual open questions,
closed questions, leading and oppressive questions that even
a junior solicitor could argue out of the room. But then I
didn't read the Reg Nine notice properly and forgot I could
ask someone from the Federation to come here and represent
me as a 'friend'. So they've been pretty much going for it
hammer and tongs and I'm sick of it now and do they really
think I can remember every tiny irrelevant scrap of
information, each single moment of every incident I've been
involved in since New Year?
Ewing checks his posh watch, announces the time and
presses the stop button on the recorder. 'D'you need a
comfort break, PC Smith?'
I'm playing with my dog tags through the cotton of my
shirt and not really listening because I'm too busy thinking
of other things like Karen, Frank, my parents, the fact I
haven't had sex since before Christmas, where I'm going to
get my juice now I've ditched Sinclair, how I'm going to find six thousand pounds to settle my debts, how on earth I'm
going to clear the cave section on Vietnam Encounter II because I've saved my position but I'm running out of ammo for the
Ml6 and my energy bar is pretty low. Maybe I should log on
to the 'net and find some cheats for the game?
'PC Smith,' Superintendent Dougie says, and he doesn't
sound very happy. I look up but not at him. The clock on the
wall shows fifteen fifty hours, I've been up since oh-six
hundred or so, only slept for a couple after waiting in my
uncomfortable single bed in the spare room for Karen to
come home from wherever she'd been and I'm so tired I could
weep.
'No energy or ammo,' I blurt, then close my eyes and my
hand is against my mouth, I'm gnawing at the skin on the
knuckle of my thumb.
'What?' asks Dougie, his voice rising an octave.
'Sir?' I say and sit back, my head kind of fuzzy, stuffed with
cotton wool, and I still can't bring myself to look at the
Superintendent so my head is rolling around on my neck like
Stevie Wonder's. I see Ewing has inserted another cassette
into the machine. Aren't we done yet?' I ask, incredulous. I
have a horrid sinking feeling in the pit of my belly.
'I said, do you need a break?' Ewing says. 'Cup of tea,
stretch your legs?'
'I want to go home,' I say. I wonder if welling up might do
any good then decide against it. Ewing looks the sort who'd
capitalise on any display of weakness.
'Well you can't,' he says and presses the record button. 'So
let's crack on, shall we?'
'Hoorah for me,' I say.
I can't stop my right knee twitching under the table, the
heel of my tactical boot jiggling up and down like it has been
since I first sat here. I'm exhausted. The fluorescent clipped to
the ceiling tiles is making my eyes sting.
Ewing pulls out a handheld Dictaphone and looks at me,
almost disgusted, then he says: 'In relation to the final matter
of harassment, this message was recovered from a female
officer's phone. We believe it to be you speaking, PC Smith.'
His nicely polished thumbnail clicks 'play' and I hear
Rachael's answerphone spiel then it's me talking, or trying to
talk. I can barely understand most of what I'm saying but the
recording goes on and I hear I needed you, you slag, 'n' you've
stabbed me in thefuckin' heart, right, I saw wha' was goin' on at
your place tonight . . . two of you, yeah, I saw shadows in the
window, Karen, yeah you, no you I mean, Rach, 'n' lemme tell you,
let me tell you, hang on I needs a smoke, hang on . . . right lemme
tell you I will fuckin' kill whoever you're with now, I swear on my
kids' lives I'll take afuckin' axe to 'im because and I can't listen
any more so place my hands over my ears, ask Ewing to turn
it off.
So he does, but not without an exaggerated push, a
dramatic click of the stop button. His dark pupils are fixed on
me.
I'm fucked, I say under my breath.
'Is that you talking to PC Rachael Gallagher?' Ewing asks.
'Yes,' I whisper.
'Then we're done here,' says Ewing. He reads the time
again and stops recording.
'We've arranged for you to see a therapist,' Dougie says,
and then I do look at him.
Ewing's nodding next to him. 'Your record up until recently
was more than satisfactory' he says. 'But these allegations are
extremely serious. However, the organisation is ... concerned
about you. Hence the suspension of your firearms ticket. We
feel you need a period of less intense work coupled with
regular appraisals by an independent therapist.'
'I don't believe in all that touchy-feely shit,' I say. 'None of
the grunts in the 'Nam did it. They just got on with it. And
I've got people I can speak to.'
Dougie, he waits a beat, clearly weighing up whether he
wants to prolong this further. Then he says: 'I have no clue
what you're on about with this Vietnam thing, Jacob. But this
isn't a debate. You're doing it. Twice a week, starting next
week. Maybe somebody better qualified than me can work
out what's going on with you.'
Ewing's still nodding away. 'PC MacReady has enlightened
us a little about your . . . personal circumstances, which of
course we take into account. But this isn't going to go away,
PC Smith. I'll make sure of it.'
'I'm sure you will,' I say.
And Rachael Gallagher,' says the Super. 'You steer clear.
That's a direct order.'
He's looking pretty serious now, is Dougie.
Are we finished?' I ask.
Ewing says nothing, starts boxing up tapes. The Super
stands, thanks me for coming in, and I tell him it was my
pleasure but really I feel like I've been run over, gone the full
twelve with an in-his-prime Mike Tyson. I step towards the
door, legs a little unsteady so I have to reach out for the handle
before I crumple to the floor.
I'm on my way out of the interview room thinking: thank
fuck that's over with, and all I want to do is get in my car and
smoke when Ewing is at my shoulder, tapping me on my
tricep, so I bunch it just so he can get a feel of something he'll
never have.
Almost forgot,' he says, 'your pocket notebook. We need to
sign it for today'
I look down at him, see the all-consuming hunger for
greater things in his eyes, the way he'll sell anyone down the
river - sell his own soul, probably -just to reach ACPO rank
and beyond, the toadying, backstabbing career boy.
'I told you yesterday, I lost it,' I say and hold my breath.
Ewing starts shaking his head, swivelling it from side to
side very slowly in a disapproving parent kind of way and he
does this for ten whole seconds - I see them tick by on his
never-used-properly diving watch - and then he says: 'We'll
just add that to the list of incidents under investigation then,
shall we?'
'Whatever,' I say. 'I haven't seen it since the raid, when you
got the CID to take all my kit off me - which still hasn't been
returned. So maybe you should ask that lot what the fuck
they've done with my notebook while I just arrange for a
replacement from Div Office?'
And I leave the interview room, really not caring any more
what Ewing or Dougie or anyone else in this sterilised ivory
tower of a building thinks about me. I take the steps down to
the foyer, ignore the receptionist. In the truck I pull out my
notebook, jot down a summary of today's events and spark up
a cigar, thinking: now I'll have two of them to complete.

It's already dark when I drive through the entrance gates.
Nothing's changed in three years, not since the last time I
came here. Since she was transferred here on a Section Forty
Seven. Can't believe it's been so long.
The driveway is slick tarmac, concrete edging, lush green
lawn mowed to a uniform half-centimetre. They've thrown
in half a dozen hateful speed bumps along the quarter-mile
route. I'm feeling nauseous enough already without my truck
lurching over each raised strip. Have smoked six, maybe seven
miniatures on the drive over, and my mouth is dry and woody.
The skin on my head feels tight, like I'm wearing a swimming
cap. A pain in my chest just won't go away.
Mum. I should visit you more often.
The truck rumbles up the wet drive. The closer I get, the
worse the twinges in my chest become. I pull over to one side,
let the engine idle. The clock on the dash shows seventeen
forty hours.
I'm a teenager again. Growing up in the war zone that was
my parents' house. Watching from the sidelines for years as
they drank and fought and my mother pushed all his buttons,
my father shifting from sullen to rage in a heartbeat, the
words becoming slaps then punches then the dam was broken
and there's no going back, just getting worse because once
you start you can't stop and by the end he was just a drunken
brawler and my mother his personal punchbag. Until that one
night. . .
That one night. My eighteenth birthday. I close my eyes,
see it play out like a movie scene for the ten-thousandth,
hundred-thousandth time. There's no slo-mo, no orchestral
score, no hammy histrionic movie-of-the-week drama, just
blunt, shocking violence, so sudden, so unexpected, and it
became the night I realised just what we're capable of if we're
pushed hard enough.
My eyes fly open. Is this a panic attack? The palms of my
hands are glossy with sweat and for a second I can't breathe.
I'm feeling like I did outside Tang Yeh's house. I undo my
seatbelt, lower the window, pull at my shirt collar. My pulse
is maxing out; I can feel it thrum in my fingertips as I grip the
steering wheel.
I reach across to the passenger seat. Let my fingers settle on
the cellophane, hear the crackle, feel stems through plastic.
Tulips. She always liked tulips. Or was it lilies? They'll have to
do because I was double-parked and in a rush, but at least the
young woman in the florist's looked relieved when I asked her
for something other than Valentine roses.
Fuck it. I stamp on the accelerator before I change my
mind, drive up to the car park, find a space at the back of one
of the redbrick wings. Grab the flowers. Stand outside the
truck for a few minutes, cold drizzly air tickling my face. Zip
up my fleece to hide my uniform, watch some guy shuffling
along in the rain, a blue puffa jacket over his pyjamas.
I take the steps up between two whitewashed pillars,
through wooden double-doors into reception. Breathe in the
musty, antiseptic smell that reminds me of an old school.
Tiled walls, polished floors. Ornate cherubs, rolled cornices
on the ceilings of this Victorian building. I wait for the bald
guy behind the desk to stop mumbling into the phone,
mumbling something that's obviously not job-related because
he's chuckling and cooing to whoever's on the other end, so
I drum my fingers on the counter.
'How can I help you?' he asks without looking up, his
flirting session over.
'I'm here to see my mother,' I say. 'If you're not too busy,
that is.'
Baldy jerks his head up then, eyeing me. 'Name?'
'Mine or hers?'
'Hers,' he says, face all pinched and upset.

'Bernadette Smith,' I tell him. 'Ward East One A.'
He waits a beat, watching me. Judging me. Relishing the
fact he knows what she's in here for because now it makes
him better than me. That my mother's a killer shipped here
for indefinite treatment after a prison sentence. And they've
always been like it. That momentary pause before they
assume the air of superiority. That sniffy attitude. It's one of
the reasons I stopped coming.
Ah, Bernie,' Baldy says knowingly. Smugly. He looks at the
bouquet I'm squashing under my arm. 'She'll love those. Bless
her. Hang on a sec'
So I wait for the staff member he tannoys, another staff
member with an affably bored expression, an air of weary
amusement wrapped in baggy corduroys and comfy shoes.
He leads me through rubber doors and past Blu-tacked flyers
offering counselling, therapy, drug rehabilitation. This chump
in his jumbo cords is crapping away as we walk and I recognise
the voice, it's the guy I spoke to when I rang on New Year's
Day and he could be saying anything, maybe that he's in love
with the hairless fella on reception or how he gets his kicks
dry-humping the mad old birds in here after he's given them
their medication each night, but I'm not hearing a word, have
got my heart thumping quick-time in my ears.
We round the last corner and I almost bump into some old

guy.
'Whoops,' he says, stopping. Actually looking down at me.
A tall and tanned silver-haired fucker in a blue windcheater
with some sailing-club logo on the arm.
I'm about to reply, tell him to bloody well watch where he's
going, the Saga merchant, the Ralph Lauren wannabe. Can't
he see I'm a little busy here? A little het up because of my
situation? But I don't because the guy looks me in the eyes
then snatches his head away, towards the wall, the way some
of those mental cases do when you make eye contact. I think
I know him. He's oddly familiar, and I'm trying to work out
if he's some septuagenarian lag I nicked maybe fifteen years
ago for thieving council-house boilers, when suddenly he's
giving it toes, walking quickly up the corridor. Then he's gone
and it doesn't matter any more.
My mother's gazing up at the television bolted to one
wall next to the solitary window. Glazed over. Sitting in a
bedside chair with a blanket across her spindly legs. She
looks older, thinner. Worse than ever. Not eating again,
probably. Hiding the food they bring in here just so she can
bawl them out for starving her. I'm annoyed to see Jerry
Springer on the box, two dumb shitkicker trailer-park sisterfuckers
brawling over who's the father of the pig-ugly baby
the gurning fifteen-year-old cradles in her arms. My mother
stares at the screen.
Corduroy guy, he leans over to me. 'She's having one of
those days I'm afraid.'
Aren't we all, matey? I step over. Drop to my haunches and
place the flowers on her lap. 'I've brought you some tulips.
Your . . . favourite?'
There's nothing. She's staring catatonically at the TV at the
Yanks fighting over Darlene and her inbred kid. And I've had
enough of Jerry and Darlene and Wayne and Troy and the
bouncers trying to separate the happy family. I stand, switch
the television off. Take a seat on the edge of the bed near her
chair.
'Mum,' I say.
And then she turns towards me but her eyes, they're not
quite there. Not quite focused on anything. 'Keith?' she says.
Are you back?'
I feel a twinge in my chest. She doesn't recognise me and
it's all my fault. I turn to the staff guy. Are you Keith?'
'No, Bernie, it's your son,' he says, shaking his head, then
looks to me. 'She's been gumming her meds. Spits them out
when we leave the room. Take no notice.'
So I lean forward at the waist, reach out a hand, just want
to touch her for a moment because, despite the glazed eyes
and the fact she has no idea who I am, this is my mother. And
I need her. My fingers caress the side of her face.
'Don't!' yells corduroy guy.
But it's too late because she's started screaming, is clawing
at me, pushing herself away from me and kicking out, the
blanket falling from her legs, taking the tulips with it.
'Don't hit me again, Nathaniel!' she's screeching. 'You stay
away from me, you hear? Stay away from me!'
I'm leaning back on the mattress, supporting myself with
unsteady arms. I can't move. The staff guy, he's pressed the
panic button, is struggling to push her back into the chair. I
can hear hurried footsteps approaching in the corridor.
'Mum,' I croak.
'I'll do it to you again, Nathaniel,' she's squawking, and I
have no idea why she's yelling at my father. It's not like he's
going to pop in here on the off-chance, is it?
More staff arrive. I stand, move over to one corner. Squash
myself up against the wall and watch the chaos. Watch as they
grapple with my mother. As they jam a big fucking needle
into her skinny thigh. As she struggles for a few seconds then
just conks out, head flopping down, stringy hair hanging over
her face.
'You shouldn't touch her face or hair,' Corduroy is saying to
me, his breathing laboured, his nice shirt missing a few
buttons. 'We can never touch her face or hair
I did not know this.
I wait a while, pressed into the corner. For the chance to
explain. But nobody in the room looks at me again, so I
leave.

By the time I get home it's nearly nineteen hundred hours
and I'm completely chinstrapped, my ears ringing. I dig a
Stella out of the fridge and crash.
I'm sitting on the settee thinking about the shitty day I've
just had and how it's only through my own strength of
character that I've remained so positive. I can't work out
what's different for several minutes so glance around, sniff
the air, cock my head.
And then I realise: it's quiet. The house isn't lit up like a
Christmas tree. There's no lingering aroma of cooked food.
And I don't have a music channel blaring on my Sony Bravia.
I drop the lager bottle on the coffee table, check the
downstairs rooms. There's a stillness that I'm not used to. I
climb the stairs, check the kids' rooms. No one here. I walk
into the master bedroom. Nothing. When I check out the
window I see Karen's Mini is missing off the driveway. I didn't
even notice when I pulled up.
I go into the spare room, to my uncomfortable single bed,
and it's there I see the envelope wedged underneath the spare
tin of Cafe Cremes on my bedside table. Something in me feels
like a plug's been pulled, as if all my innards are rushing south.
I desperately need to take a piss and my knees have gone again.
I pickup the envelope, pull out the paper, unfold it. Karen's
handwriting. Brief and to the point, just like her.

Jacob,
you aren't working any more
We aren't working any more.
I tried to tell you at Christmas, and at New Year, but you just didn't listen.
Please don't try to contact us, all you need to know is that we are safe.
Karen

I sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the letter for a very long
time.
Someone please help me here.
Then I can't help it and begin to cry.

SIXTEEN

'Jake, you're on the car with Laptop,' says the stripy.
I groan inwardly as everybody around the table laughs at
Baker's joke yet again. I've only been on this shift a week after
the powers that be gave me five days' compassionate leave to
get my head together but it clearly hasn't worked. It's lucky I
don't have access to guns any more because it's quite possible
I'd take them all out before swallowing a bullet myself.
The guy I've been doubled-up with is some midget twentyyear-old
probationer and they call him Laptop because he's
just a small PC. It's so fucking hilarious.
'Woot!' says Laptop and shakes his tiny fists in the air. Then
they all do it. Their little in-joke. Their way of dealing with
unpleasant news. They giggle among themselves and I close
my eyes, measure my breathing like the doc told me to do,
imagine myself in the firearms car with Frank doing real work
instead of listening to these muppets.
Inhale. Exhale . . .
My new shift. A sergeant with four years in. Nine other
plods, male and female, with a combined service that doesn't
even add up to my own. Everything they do is at full pelt,
laced with excitement and wide-eyed amazement.
Everything's so nauseatingly jolly. They're fresh-faced young
puppies and surely I was never this green-looking? And the
nicknames! I can't bear it.
There's Laptop, of course. Two Backs, a flat-chested rake
of a filly. Some lazy bastard called Gurkha because he doesn't
take any prisoners. A gurning idiot who can't drive properly
known as Chi-Chi due to all the pandas he's fucked. BMX, a
girl who's allegedly done a few of the Senior Command Team
so everyone thinks she's the station bike and easy to ride.
Some jug-eared halfwit predictably called Plug. Gravity, a
miserable bastard who's always bringing everyone down.
Three Amp, this wiry fellow with a short fuse. Then there's
Roid, an irritating, opinionated chunk of a girl, a sturdy little
wench with strawberry-blonde hair she consistently fails to
keep in a regulation bun. Her first name is Emma and, of
course, you put it with 'roid' and you've got a pain in the arse.
I struggle to remember their real names because I care so
little. And what's wrong with plain old Frank or Jake?
Nobody's labelled me with anything yet - at least not to
my face - but I suppose it's because I just sit and stare, not
talking to anyone unless I have to, while they slurp tea, talk
shop and try to work me out. There's stuff I just don't
understand. Computer systems I just can't get my head
around. Job-speak that rolls from their mouths, like
sanctioned detections, street bail, special population groups,
corporate approach to hate crime. They may as well be
speaking in tongues.
I'm lost. I haven't been on sector for ten years. I don't
belong here. I get the feeling they don't want me either. I see
it in their eyes. I'm an outsider, a cop on a disciplinary,
someone who's been booted off a specialist unit. When it's
like that your length of service, whatever you've accomplished,
it all counts for nothing. Everything rewinds to the
year dot.
Laptop is sitting next to me and I'm trying to write up my
pocket notebook when he nudges me with his elbow. 'Ready
for some action then, Jake?' he says.
I shift my notebook so he can't see. I don't look at him.
'Does your mother know you're up so late on a school night?'
I ask, and I can sense I've hurt his feelings. Don't care in the
slightest.
I listen to the burble of my Airwave handheld, the nonstop
chatter of the channel as the dispatchers in control send plods
flying about the city. I know what my night has in store. Shitty
calls with a proby who wets his drawers over a simple
shoplifter.
And the real pisser is they've unintentionally stuck me on
the same shift pattern as Rachael. I'm bound to bump into
her at some point. And what am I supposed to do if that
happens? Hide in the panda with my tit covering my face?
Then I hear my callsign blurt from my radio and Laptop's
on the case and answering; it's a domestic in the street next to
the athletic stadium, some shaven meathead giving his missus
a tuning. I picture my father pummelling my mother and feel
numb.
Laptop's shouting code fifteen into his handheld to tell them
we're en route and I snatch the panda keys from his hand.
'I'll drive,' I say, gathering my kit as slowly as I can, planning
on tootling down there at fifteen miles an hour and hoping
this battling couple will be gone before we arrive because I
can't bear the thought of getting a prisoner out of this one, of
spending the next eight hours in a stinking custody suite with
this child copper at my heel, listening to his endless questions.
And most of all it's because I don't know if I'll be able to
contain myself if I get my hands on the bloke who's doing it.
Baker smiles at us. And so it begins,' he says sagely. I almost
laugh at him.
'Woot!' says Laptop and gives a little shimmy.
'Woot!' says everybody else.
I clench the keys in my hand.
Inhale. Exhale . . .

The mundanity of it all makes my head reel.
I'm neither surprised nor exhilarated by anything I've done
or any call I've been to in the last week. Just constantly
shocked by the pettiness of it all, how the people I'm
supposedly serving are so inept as to be virtually incapable of
looking after themselves. I'm society's garbage man, just here
to take out the trash, to spoonfeed these spastic sink-estate
dwellers, the trolls and inbreds in their shellsuits with their
state-funded cinema-sized surround-sound tellies, these
women - these girls - who think spewing out babies by
different and now absent fathers qualifies as an occupation.
Already I'm sick of being used by these fakers - these
underclass chavs who take and take and never give anything
back - to run their lives for them when I should be out there
fighting real crime. The poor genuine members of the public
moan about never seeing us and now I know why: I'm too
busy mediating between Chantelle's new boyfriend's brother's
girlfriend Shazza and Letitia across the way because Letitia
knows Shazza's been calling her a slag behind her back and
that's why she and Shazza have been exchanging abusive text messages for the last three days. I'm their referee, their
personal plod now they've latched on to my name.
I spent the whole day in the custody suite with them both
yesterday, interviewing and fingerprinting, taking photos and
submitting paperwork to the GPS, all the time knowing it'll
never go anywhere and both of them will be back at it in a
few days. Either at each other or some other plebian resident
who's failed to show them respec'.
I can't get over how busy it is on sector. And I can't believe
how much shit we have to deal with nowadays, like we're doing
everybody else's job as well as our own. I'm some strange
hybrid of policeman, fireman, paramedic, teacher, social
worker, parent. I'm Frankenstein's public service monster.
Laptop loves it and I know Frank's on a night turn as well
tonight so I'm driving around the city centre willing him to
pull up next to me in the firearms wagon just so I don't have
to listen to the overexcitable midget in my passenger seat for
twenty minutes. Just to catch up, talk real work, find out if
he's heard anything about my disciplinary. But I know as soon
as I see him kitted up with someone else riding shotgun I'll
want to weep. Or throttle the FNG next to me. I can't even
have a Cafe Creme because Laptop's a nonsmoker and a
newbie who'll drop me in it if I spark up.
It's twenty-two fifty hours and my companion's constant
wittering is like someone gouging my eardrums with
toothpicks.
I'm parked up doing my unofficial notebook so everything's
recorded properly when the complaints people finally
make their decision. Laptop's moved on to stream-of
consciousness ramblings and I haven't had to answer him for
ten minutes because it's like he's talking to himself, the crazy
fucker.
Karen's mobile is unobtainable and both kids' phones go
to voicemail, so I've left yet another message for each of them
but won't hold my breath because they haven't replied to any
of the hundred or so I've left in the fortnight since they did a
flit. I tried Frank's moby but it was off so I switched to the
firearms talkgroup on the in-car set. He's in the sticks again,
plotted up at the rear of some detached Walton family farm
where John Boy's gone mentalist and holed himself up in an
outbuilding with a hunting rifle.
I was angry about Karen and the kids and I'm angrier still
about missing out on some action. I've got Mini-me with his
motor-mouth sitting in the passenger seat, the city centre is
dead but Laptop's going on and on about how he went to
Divisional Consultation with Sergeant Baker the other day
and, well, it was sooo interesting how they're trying to
instigate crucial tactical change to decipher crime trend
statistics that determine resource requirements. It's like a
high-pitched whine. I'm chewing the crescent of new nail on
my left index finger, biting at it, at the calloused skin. I can
taste blood and it's enough to make me puke over myself, to
stop the panda and walk away with the keys left in the
ignition, just walk and keep walking, anywhere, because I'm
trapped here, really fucking trapped with nowhere to go and
I don't think I'm going to last six months of this.
I don't think I'm going to last another six hours.
'You're the most boring person I know,' I say to Laptop,
and it aggravates me even more that this boy thinks I'm
teasing him all the time now, like we're buddies, because he's
grinning at me with shiny eyes. He's become attached, like a
talking limpet.
Then, praise Jesus, I get a point-to-point personal call on
my radio and it's the front desk clerk at the nick telling me
someone's there to see me and no, they won't give their
name.
I blue-light it over there with heart hammering, thinking
at last my wife or maybe even Rachael's dropped in to see me
and this is my chance to clear the air with one of them so my
head isn't so cluttered. So I can get to the bottom of why I'm
being treated like this. I feel elated as I scream through reds at
junctions, Laptop holding on to the Jesus handle above the
passenger door, sirens peaking and troughing, speedometer
nudging eighty in the thirty limits. Who's going to know
anyway? We're just another couple of busies on our way to an
emergency.
I drop Laptop off at the side entrance to make a brew, peel
around to the front of the nick, can't see Karen's red Mini
parked anywhere, take the steps three at a time.
'Someone wants to see me?' I ask the desk clerk and she
just nods, tips her head to some dude with an oil-black flat-top
and dirty brown leather jacket hovering near the public
information board in the foyer.
Not Karen, then. Gutted. I buzz myself out through the
security doors.
'You've got an appointment with me?' I ask, and the guy
turns around slowly. He's olive skinned, Mediterranean or
possibly East European. Early thirties.
He smiles. 'Depends,' he says, calm and measured, voice
deep, eyes blacker than his hair. There's no discernible accent
and he's a good-looking chap, I'll give him that. Like a young
Al Pacino, maybe. I'm struggling to recall if we've met.
'You here to give a statement?' I ask, but can't remember
arranging one since being moved here. I've made a point of
avoiding too much lengthy paperwork because it takes an age
and I have trouble concentrating. 'Or you answering bail?'
Chummy steps towards me then stretches out a hand and
I see the expensive-looking Swiss watch buckled to his wrist,
the spiky tribal tattoo that looks like a bullet hole surrounded
by lightning sparks on the web between his thumb and
forefinger. I'm sure I don't know this bloke so leave the hand
hovering in mid-air. 'I assume you're PC Jacob Smith?' he says.
'Who's asking?' I say, wondering how he knows my name.
For some unaccountable reason I hear The Godfather theme
in my ears.
He drops the hand. 'Relax,' he says, grinning. Those awful
lifeless eyes on me. His teeth are glossy white and even, as if
he's had them worked on at great cost. 'We have a mutual friend.'
'I don't have any friends,' I say. 'Perk of the job.'
He nods. 'I've heard you're a funny guy' he says.
The Godfather score ends abruptly. I feel peculiar, perhaps
nervously amused or intrigued, like this isn't real, like I'm a
bit-part player in some really poor London gangster flick. I
glaze over, can't help myself. 'Funny how?' I say, mimicking
Joe Pesci's psycho turn in Goodfellas. 'What am I, a fucking
comedian?'
His smile dies but he looks positively serene, completely in
control, as calm as a cardigan-wearing dad speaking to a
garden centre sales assistant. Suddenly I feel foolish. This man
is no amateur villain. I see with absolute clarity what he's
capable of. The unspeakable acts he's probably carried out in
his line of work. I can smell it on him, know it's in his blood,
his pores, his soul. I study his features, the crow's feet at the
sides of his eyes, the small scar on the point of his stubbled
chin, glance down at his meaty hands with their nicks and
rough skin around fingernails he's clearly paid to have
polished. I picture his face with lips drawn back, that tattooed
hand gripping a tyre iron or length of pipe or maybe a nice
long machete while he's raining blows on whichever street
soldier has been stupid enough to cut the drugs he's been
given to sell or skim a few dollar from the proceeds.
And I should be dealing with this, sorting this chump out
because I'm the fucking police, right; this is my turf, the foyer
of my own damn station and what I should really be doing is
grabbing this heavy by the spikes of his carefully waxed flattop
and lobbing him down the entrance steps.
But I don't. This is a message from somebody further up
the food chain. Way further. My own final warning. And I'm
in more trouble than I ever realised.
'I've told Sinclair I'm good for the money' I say, checking
through the segregation window behind me. The desk clerk's
head is down and I'm sure she can't hear because my voice is
a husky whisper and Young Pacino has that menacing softly
spoken thing going on.
He stands there with those black marbles on me, unblinking,
breathing slow and shallow. Silently taking me in. He says
nothing for so long it's unnerving and I try to convince myself
he's ill or perhaps narcoleptic and has slipped into some deep
slumber, forgetting to close his eyes.
Then he blinks as if to snap himself out of his fugue state
or whatever little ultraviolence daydream he's having where
I'm probably the chainsaw victim shackled to a shower
curtain rail, reaches out one of those freakily muscular hands
and pats me on my left bicep.
'You look in good shape, Jake,' he says.
I feel oddly light-headed. 'Yes.'
And you have a lovely family.'
'Thank you,' I hear myself rasp.

He winks. 'Let's hope nothing happens to change any of
that.'
I swallow, my throat giving a sort of spasm, and I want this
fucking guy to leave now please, then I hear my name being
called from somewhere behind me, some whiny boy's voice
I never thought I'd be glad to hear again. I swivel at the waist
to look through the glass to the front desk and it's Laptop
holding my mug of tea.
I turn back to face the Pacino lookalike, to tell him it's all
in hand, that I've just got to get a grip, talk to my shrink about
this, get some help to see me through the next couple of
weeks with the disciplinary and the stuff with my family and
my parents, but he's gone into the night, the front doors to the
station swinging quietly closed behind him.

SEVENTEEN

I slip upstairs to the sixth-floor gym, which I know will be
empty at this time of night. I drop my uniform trousers, my
boxer shorts, straddle the squat machine, zip open my
battered leather carry-case, pull out my works. My last glass
vial of Testosterone Propionate, a third of it left. I jam the
needle into the rubber cap, draw out some juice, clear like
glycerine, pull the hypodermic from the little glass bottle, then
hold the syringe skywards and flick it with the gammy nail on
my left index finger to clear the air bubbles.
This visit from Young Pacino is a worrying development. I
could be heading for a shoeing. Or a kneecapping from the
boss, maybe. Ablowtorch to my eyelids. Blunt and rusty razor
cuts across my torso. Or perhaps they'll skip the entrees and
go straight to the main course of testicle removal? They'll be
disappointed with their prize if they do because mine have
atrophied to shrivelled prunes. Ironic, considering it's their
gear that caused it.
I steady myself on the seat, lean to my left, slowly push the
needle into the skin below my right hip. Intramuscular jab
time. Just east of my glutes. But I'm not concentrating, feel
the sharp point go awry and it's like someone scraping my
femur as the pin goes too deep but I press the plunger anyway.
I know I've nicked something I shouldn't have because when
I pull the pin out a fan of thick purple blood spouts from the
tiny hole. I see clear fluid bubble out and down the needle
scarred skin of my flank, curse myself for making such an
amateur mistake.
I press my palm over the puncture hole for a while. Tidy
my kit, pull up my underwear and trousers and then go for it,
blast out some sets on the squat machine just because I'm on
it, because I'm angry. Then I flip over and off the apparatus
and go to the free weights, screw a hundred and twenty kilos
onto a barbell, do some incline bench presses while imagining
I'm lugging Pacino about and laughing at him while he
grizzles and cries like a little pussy and wishes he'd never even
contemplated confronting me. I picture my shrink or
therapist or whatever that job-imposed hand-wringing
busybody is supposed to be called, with her cod-psychology
nonsense about the reason for my foot fetish and pathetic
efforts to deconstruct me by means of cognitive therapy, of
psychoanalysis, her threats to introduce pharmaceutical
treatment. Serotonin uptake inhibitors. Dopamine blockers.
Drugs that'll fuck up my muscle-building cycle, negate the
effects of the steroids. She'll be pushing for the Ludovico
Technique before I know it. I shove that bar to failure, creak
it upwards and back, do this for ten minutes until I'm spent
and flaccid and almost heaving and can't remember why I
started. I sit up, rub my hands over my hair, which is getting
long now, to be honest. Does it really matter? Does it? In the
grand scheme of things? I will beat this. I am pumped.
Vascular. Ripped.
I sniff at my damp armpits through the cotton of my white
uniform shirt and in all honesty think they're fine so stand
and leave the gym to find that gonk Laptop.
I need someone to talk to.

I want to go to the docks.

Oh-three hundred hours. Bang on.
I'm so pleased to see her. She's on a drizzly Radcliffe Street.
All the desperate old pros have either picked up paying
fuckbuddies or called it quits after being passed over by
drunken punters.
Lowri. Walking the street alone. Same red jacket, black
skirt, tights, FMBs.
'Leave me alone,' she says, and I'm driving alongside her
with the window down. Laptop's in the passenger seat with a
mildly appalled look on his face but I ignore him and keep
rolling the panda at five miles an hour.
'Just making sure you're okay' I say.
And I see it in those dark eyes of hers. Know she's tired,
bored, sick of this.
Just like me.
'I said, piss off, ossifer,' she says, still walking, not looking at
me, so I speed up, drive ten feet ahead of her, then park and
climb out.
'Oh,' she says, smirking, 'it's you.'
It's raining properly now, pattering on my body armour,
fat drops bouncing back from the pavement. Her hair's getting
wet. The fur-lined hood of her jacket is already soaked.
'You're going to catch your death out here,' I say.
'Who gives a fuck?' she says, shrugging.
I can't help but chuckle, then I'm serious and think: actually
I do give a fuck, more than you probably realise, Lowri, and
I know what you're doing isn't good for you, that you should
be looking after yourself, and if you can't then I'll make sure
I do. You remind me of someone. The girl in the RTC. And
this time I could save you.
You could save me.
'Er, hello?' she's saying, and knocking her tiny fist on my
chest so I blink, bring myself back, and she's staring at me
with narrowed eyes, an amused expression on her delicate,
girlish features.
'I can help you,' I say, and think of Tom Cruise in Jerry

:
Maguire. 'Help me to help you. Help me,' I place the palm of
my hand against my armour, then point at her, 'to help you.'
'You're weird,' she says, looking at my fingertip.
I shrug. 'Probably'
She's grinning and it makes me want to place my arms
around her but we've got company. I turn to a mortified
Laptop, give him some bullshit story about this girl being my
snitch, that I'm after some info, tell him to wait where he is
and remember my rules: don't touch anything, don't go
anywhere, don't talk to anybody, because you will fuck it up.
'Let's take a walk,' I say to Lowri, and she hesitates for a
few seconds, looks from me to the midget sitting in the
panda, then around at the buildings of the industrial estate.
She's mulling it over so I wait and watch and when she says
okay I feel thrilled, recognise this marks a new stage in our
relationship.
I am a teenager on his first date. A husband rediscovering
his wife after years of numbness. A proud father shepherding
his young daughter to her nuptials. A son stepping alongside
his beautiful mother.
I feel all these things and more. I'm wet and cold and bone
tired yet could not care less. I haven't felt like this for as long
as I can remember. Lowri is walking beside me and saying
nothing, glancing at me occasionally, a quizzical look on her
face, and this is fine. We walk further into the industrial estate,
away from the main drag, and I check over my shoulder, know
Laptop can't see us any more.
I lean down and take Lowri's hand.
'What're you doing?' she says, and stops. She stares at me
then down to my fingers, which are now meshed with hers. I
hold tight as she tries to free her hand, checks around the
buildings, scans for shadowy figures in the doorways and
overhangs.

'Please,' I say. 'There's nobody else here, Lowri.'
I like hearing her name slip from my lips.
'Let go, man,' she says. 'This is out of order. Who the fuck
d'you think you are?'
'Please,' I say, and turn to face her. 'It's going to be okay. I'm
going to take care of you, Lowri. If you're willing to spend
time with me I'll make sure I'm always here for you
She's pulling, looking shocked and confused and not a little
unhappy, but I don't care. Other than pummelling people, this
is the first physical contact I've had for a long time. I can't let
her go.
'Get off me, officer,' she's saying, so I hold tighter, kneel
down in front of her, into the puddles of rainwater so I'm
looking up at her.
'It's Jake,' I smile.
She frowns, stops wriggling. Her shoulders relax. Our
fingers are still intertwined, which pleases me, and I know
she's just given up fighting. She knows I'm not going to hurt
her, would never hurt her. She flicks her eyes down to my
hand, back up to me. She's sodden now; the hook of dark hair
has become a limp black rope swinging next to her ear.
'Why?' she asks, and I'm not sure which part of what I've
just said she's asking about, but don't care.
I think of Sinclair, of my visitor in the foyer, how much I
already owe, how I'm up to my neck in it, but I grin anyway
and tell her: 'I'll pay whatever you want.'
'Pay me for what, exactly?' she asks.
It's a good question. I puff out my cheeks and say: 'Your
time. For now.'
Lowri studies me for a minute. 'This'd better not be

entrapment.'
I shake my head. 'No. I wouldn't do that to you.'
She closes her eyes, tilts her head backwards and to the sky.
I see her breathe in the cold, the drops of rain landing on her
upturned face. Thinking. Our future in her hands. Then she
looks down, back to me. She nods.
'Okay' she says quietly.
'Okay' I say. I am elated.
'But you can't turn up here any more, though,' she says.
'Dressed like that or not.'
'I won't,' I say. 'I'll ring you. I've already got your number.'
'Was that you the other night? How'd you get my . . .' And
she stops because she knows what I can do. Knows the things
I'm capable of.
'Just one thing,' I say.
She knots her eyebrows, stares at me. 'What now? I gotta
go . . .'
'What're your feet like?' I ask.
'You're so fuckin weird, Jake,' she says, but this time there's
a gleam in those dark eyes of hers.
I picture us, her standing over me in the rain, me in my
plod outfit kneeling like I'm proposing, looking up at her with
a goofy grin and my fingers laced between hers. 'You're not
wrong there, sweetheart,' I say.

EIGHTEEN

I'm knocking on Frank's door, a pain behind my eyes like
brain freeze, like I've swallowed a gobful of ice cream; my
face is twisted, eyes screwed shut and I'm thinking: why can't
you sleep, Jake? You really, desperately need to close your eyes
and crash for eighteen hours because this is killing you. And
I think I might be ill. Possibly something terminal. There's a
dull, painful throb in my stomach that just won't go away. I
picture a tumour there, a ruinous lump pulsating against the
folds of my intestines, microscopic tendrils needling into my
stomach lining, my pancreas, my colon.
C'mon, Jake. Peach in. Green out. Like the doc says:

positive chi.
My rest days have been a blur. I've achieved nothing. Can't
switch off. Last night I lay in bed watching the bedside clock
as if my eyelids were stapled open. Worrying about the
money I owe. Imagining what Karen was up to. Then
Rachael. Then losing track of who was who. I finally clicked
off at about oh-six ten hours, dreamed some freaky trip where
I was cuffed and stuffed, being led through the ruined city
centre, a hybrid of Children of Men and Gilliam's Brazil, some
twisted dystopian cityscape of belching factory fires and
bombed-out shopping arcades, Vangelis's Blade Runner theme
playing while armed quasi-military police baton-charged the
scavenging proles into orderly bread queues. Bizarrely
Frankie was running the show, decked out as Hitler and
ordering his gun-toting minions about the high street from a
raised dais planted in front of Ann Summers. Instead of a
megaphone he held a dildo. I was pushed and shoved onwards
by barefoot porn actresses in soldier outfits, and everyone was
watching. Watching and laughing. They dumped me in a
grimy anteroom, a wall of plate glass on one side, and I
looked through and saw Karen sitting in a viewing area with
Naomi and Ben. Next to them was Rachael. Then Lowri.
Then Tommy Hall, Collingwood, the Chinese guy. Ewing.
Cooper. Even Mel with her gippy feet. All of them in a neat
little row, reading through their programme notes, their little
pamphlets with Jacob Smith: Why Bother? on the front. At the
far end stood Adolf Frankie, waving his Rampant Rabbit
about like a crazed conductor. Then I was sitting in the
electric chair, wet sponge and copper skullcap wedged on my
head, hands and ankles shackled to the wood frame, leather
strap between my teeth to stop me gnawing through the tip
of my tongue when the inevitable bite reflex kicked in. And I
heard the opening bars of a song seep from unseen speakers:
the fuckin' Spice Girls. 'Goodbye', I think it's called; the one
they released when the Ginger minger quit. So in they came
from a side door: Sporty, Posh, Baby, the other one. Linked
hands with Karen and the rest of the audience and as one they
stood, crooning to me through the window.
Goodbye, my friend ...
It's eighteen oh-five hours and I'm leaning forward, hand
on Frank's door, when it opens and Jessica's standing there in
a white vest top and cut-off jeans with bare feet. I'm
momentarily lifted.
'Jake,' she says, a little concerned.
'Your dad in?' I ask.
'Yeah...' she says, opening the door wider. Are you... okay?'
I straighten up. Rub a hand over the top of my head. My
hair growing out. Longer than it's been for years. 'I'm ticketyboo,'
I say, stepping inside.
'You don't look it,' she says.
I'm disappointed to hear this, so implement my breathing
plan. Draw in lungfuls of air, of clean energy. Exhale, force
out the negatives, the green and poisonous shite that's ruining
my karma.
'Well, thanks for that, Lowri,' I say.
'Who?' she asks, but I'm in the hall now, walking towards
the lounge, can hear Frankie's voice and really need to speak
to him so remind myself to finish this particular conversation

later.
He's in his armchair on his mobile and I don't know who
he's talking to but he kills the call. 'Jake,' he says, standing.
'You look terrible, mate.'
I feel terrible. My guts, they ache like buggery. My eyes are
sore, itching.
'Cheers,' I say, and point at his mobile. 'Who you talking

to?'
He waves a hand, dismissive. 'Oh, nobody interesting.'

'Really,' I say.
He looks at me strangely for a few seconds. 'Yes, Jake,' he

says. 'Really'
'Not Sinclair, then?' I ask. 'Or was it Al Pacino?'

Frank's shaking his head. 'Wha . . . who"?'
Ah, yes. He doesn't know. That's why I'm here/isn't it?
Jessica's feet threw me a tad. And I notice she's walked into the
room, is standing behind me and to my right; I can smell that
citrus perfume of hers.
Frank is looking from me to his daughter and back. There's
silence, as if nobody quite knows what to say. I'm just glad Mel
isn't here because I'm sure she would've chipped ih by now.
Then Frank sighs, asks Jess to put the kettle on for us, so I watch
her go, check those slim feet of hers as she paces out, toes
scrunching through carpet fibres, and I'm trying to work out
just when it was I last had sex, when I had any form of intimate
contact with a woman other than holding hands with Lowri,
and as hard as I might I really can't recall. Weeks. Months,
maybe? And Frank's saying something to me but it's distant,
muffled like his head's in a bucket, so I tune back in and he's
asking me what's been going on, how am I, what's the news
with Karen? So I lie and tell him everything's good, there's
nothing going on, just sector work and catching up with myself y'know, just a little me time like the doc told me so I can figure
things out before Karen comes home. Frank's saying, Yeah,
how's that going, the therapy thing? and I want to tell him it's a
crock of shit but at least it's keeping Professional Standards off
my back, but I don't because it's not why I'm here.
I breathe through my mouth. Peach in. Exhale through the
nose. Green out.
'Can you lend me six thousand pounds, please?' I ask.
Frank says nothing. I'm not sure if he's totting up his
current bank balance.
And I explain to him about the money, the visit from Young
Pacino, that li'l Mexican standoff in the foyer, but I don't need
to elaborate because Frank's not stupid; he inhabits the same
strange and cruel world I do. He gapes at me for a minute or
so before sinking into his chair, placing his head in his hands.
'My God, Jake,' he says at last, fingers still covering his eyes.
'I take it that's a no, then,' I say, and wonder if a packet of
Turns might get rid of this belly ache I've got. Some Gaviscon,
perhaps. I've heard Gaviscon is good. I make a mental note to
drop into a chemist on the way home. 'I need help here,
mate,' I say. 'My credit cards are pretty much maxed out. I'm
desperate.'
Frankie looks at me. Just looks. Then he gets up from his
chair, walks past me to the lounge door, and I'm starting to
think he's going to tell me to leave but he's got his mobile in

his hand and he pauses in the hall, turns to me, and I swear I
feel myself welling up when he says: 'I've got to ring Mel.
Discuss what we're going to do to . . . help you.' He jabs the
phone in the direction of the kitchen. 'Stay here. It could take
a while.'
He looks miserable as he says this and I'm torn between
hugging him and feeling ashamed, so do nothing. I just watch
him disappear, hear footsteps on the stairs. I drop to the settee
as Jessica reappears.
'Thank you, sweetheart,' I say, taking the mug of tea.
She stands over me. 'Where's Dad?'
'Important phone call,' I say. 'He told me to tell you you've
got to entertain me.'
She doesn't move for a moment. Just eyes me, those thick
black lashes of hers static beneath her shaped eyebrows. 'Did
he, now?' she asks.
Is she teasing me again? Peach in. Green out. Where's your
balls, Jake? Shrivelled, yes. Removed? No. 'Thought we could
finish off the conversation we had the other week?' I say
before talking myself out of saying it. I look from her face to
her chest, her midriff with its pierced belly button, to the
three-quarter-length jeans, her feet.
'Really?' she says, her eyes narrowed, hands balled and on
her hips. 'Which part would that be?'
'Where you couldn't stay downstairs with me to watch Platoon,' I say. 'Because if you did . . .' I let the sentence hang
there, just as she did.
Jessica blinks, lets out a sigh. She checks the doorway. We
can hear Frank's voice from the room above: it's high and
strained, like he's arguing.
'I was pretty drunk that night,' Jessica says finally. 'I can't
really remember coming home, never mind what I said.
What's my dad doing?'
I don't want her to get sidetracked so just take the plunge.
'Your feet are so beautiful.'
I'm not sure what her reaction is. Shock? With a side order
of disgust? Then she says: 'How can you call feet beautiful?
That's sick.'
I'm having one of those moments when I wish I could
erase the last few minutes, delete them from the DVD hard
drive and start afresh and damn, my tumour hurts so much.
'Ha, yes,' I smile, feeling like vomiting. 'It's, y'know, a line
from a film.'
And she kind of laughs, like it's a big weird joke she doesn't
quite understand, but that's all right it's good old Uncle Jake
messing about again so she drops into a chair, switches on the
television, mentally dismisses me. I shake my head, try the
breathing plan but can't get my diaphragm to operate and I've
had enough of people telling me things like this, I'm sick of
people telling me I'm sick, that I need help, that there's
something wrong with me. I sense that wave start to build
again, hear the white noise in my ears, and I don't want to
explode here, not now.
She's staring at the soap on TV and it's like I'm not here.
One foot dangles from the edge of the chair. I listen to
Frank's muffled voice, think how I should just tell Jessica
everything. Maybe she'll listen. I was paying you a compliment,
Jess. You do have wonderful feet. You're so lucky. Explain
to her how the doc says I'm a podophile, that it's not sick,
that I could list other peccadilloes people have which would give her reason to freak out: creepy shit like wanting to fuck
lactating pregnant women, acrotomophilia where I could
only get it up if she were a multiple amputee. There's some
crazy stuff out there I could tell her about, stuff I've
discussed in therapy and checked on the 'net. What I've got
is a form of paraphilia, brought on by an intensely
traumatic experience as a teenager. That should tug at her
heartstrings, right?
But as I'm thinking this I'm staring at that foot hanging off
the edge of the settee, imagining myself dropping to all
floors, crawling across to it, licking the arch, the heel,
shrimping those toes. And Jess will writhe on the cushions,
arch her back, moan softly as she closes her eyes, yes, Jake, she'll say, that's right, as one of her hands slips down the front
of her cut-offs, as she places her other foot on my groin,
grinds her heel against it, tramples my balls ...
I blink. I have my biggest hard-on in years. It's colossal.
Throbbing at the front of my jeans. Visible, like a thick tube
beneath the denim. And Frank's stopped talking upstairs. He's
finished the call. Shit.
'Erm,' I say, 'I have to go.' And I do. Now. This boner ain't
going anywhere. I could hold my breath for an hour and it
wouldn't deflate. Not with Jessica here. If Frank sees it I can
forget about any help with the money. He'll know. And now
I can hear him moving about up there.
'Oh,'Jessica says, turning to me. Aren't you going to drink
your tea?'
I let the mug hover over the bulge. 'I forgot an important
. . . thing.'
'What shall I tell my Dad?'
'I'll ring. Yes. I will.'
She stares at me, head cocked to one side. 'Ooo-kay . . .'
So I stand, mug still placed strategically. Jessica rolls her
eyes and shrugs, swivels her head back to the TV That foot,
those painted toenails, still dangling there.
I know in her mind I'm already gone from this house.
She's not even looking in my direction. I pace into the
hallway, feel that wretched clawing sensation in the bottom
of my guts and wish I could just hug her, simply place my

1IKE THOMAS
arms around her frame. Nothing sexual. No perversions or
erotic transgressions.
I step out of the front door into drizzle and think: I just
need someone to hold on to.

I lay out my supplies on the lounge coffee table.
The dregs of a Testosterone Propionate vial. Two
Trenbolone Acetate. No Arimidex at all, but my nipples aren't
tender so I can deal with that. Some old Equipoise, barely a
hypo's worth. An almost-empty blister pack of Clenbuterol.
That's it. Nothing else. I don't know where I'm going to get a
top-up.
I check the fridge for beer, the shelves for spirits, and there's
none, so slump into the settee. Getting dark outside. I switch
on corner lamps, uplighters. Channel-hop through property
programmes, chat shows, twenty-four-hour-misery news.
Think about firing up the PlayStation but the prospect of
repeating the same level while trying to conserve ammunition
for the big boss fight at the end is unbearable.
No ammo. No steroids or booze. No wife or kids. Nothing.
Four empty days. I ring Frank, get no answer on either phone.
Walk the downstairs rooms, brush my fingers over favourite
cups, photo frames, ornaments; find myself staring into the
kitchen sink with the tap running and can't recall getting
there. I climb the stairs, see posters and jewellery and
unwanted music CDs Ben and Naomi left behind. In the
master bedroom I open Karen's wardrobe, touch the few
items of clothing hanging there. Find the red halter top I
bought her on my birthday, raise it to my face: it's been
washed but I can smell her perfume, the faint floral scent. I
bury my face in it. Breathe it in. Where are you, Karen?
It's nineteen fifteen hours. I don't know how long I've been
awake.
I stagger into the bathroom, turn on the shower, strip off.
Then I remember about my hair, what a mess it is now, how
unprofessional it must look while I'm patrolling. I dig out my
clippers from the drawer in Karen's bedside table, plug them in,
turn them on, adjust the blade then sit in front of the mirror.
Strike a pose. Flex. Tense my pecs, my delts. Rock up my abs. I
think I'm losing weight. Is something eating me from within? Is
it over thirty-six hours since I slept properly? Forty-five minutes
this morning, does that count, especially when it involved the
Spice Girls and my best friend poking the air with a sex toy?
I walk downstairs, ignore the fact I'm stark bollock-naked
and the blinds are still up, check my mobile for messages.
Nothing from Frank. Maybe I could ring Lowri. Have a nice
chat, right? I drop to the settee, rolling that lovely name
around my mouth again, thinking maybe this'll calm me
down a little before I shave my head, before I wash away the
day. I speed-dial her number and I'm saying LowriLowriLowri and she answers after one ring, knew it was me because she's
added my name to her contacts list and that pleases me. It
makes me happy. I am Lowri's friend.
'Hey, Jake,' she says and I know she's smiling from the tone
of her voice.
I grin, push myself back into the cushions, stretch my bare
legs out. This is strangely erotic.
'Hi,' I say. 'It's so good to hear you, d'you know that?'
She laughs; it's deep and throaty. A dirty laugh. I like it.
'You saw me a few days ago,' she says, and I think about that
for a moment and really can't remember if I did or not.
'Just talk to me, Lowri.'
She giggles again. 'You're mad,' she says, and on this occasion I forgive her for saying it because now I'm relaxed.
Naked. Phone in my left hand. My limp cock and shrunken
scrotum in the other.
'Just talk to me,' I say again, and she hesitates, asks if I
mean dirty and if it does it'll cost me so I tell her yes, if you
like, and yes, I'll pay whatever you want just put it on the tab
and fuck knows where I'm going to find the money but then
off she goes and it's all premium-rate sex-line stuff so I smile,
I'm nodding, rubbing myself and there's nothing happening
there, nothing at all, which is a disappointment, but my eyes
are blinking slowly, I'm listening to that earthy voice of hers,
those words in my ear, the breathiness, the obscenities and
descriptions of what she's doing to me, what she's going to do
to me when she sees me next and I sink further into the
cushions, hand falling away from my groin to the settee, I can
hear the shower running upstairs, remember the clippers are
still on and shaving nothing but air and I really should lower
those blinds, drop them now before we go any further and I
will but just need to close my eyes for a second and listen,
breathe in the peach, blow out the green, breathe in, breathe
out, breathe.

NINETEEN

Laptop volunteered us to ops room before I could grab his
dwarf hand, stop his stumpy fingers transmitting, and now
I'm here in this hovel, this stinking one-bedroom ground-floor
council maisonette with its kitchen-stroke-diner, its sink full
of scummy water and festering dishes.
There's kiddies' TV playing on the battered set in one
corner. The girl on the sagging settee is five, maybe six, a
hollow-eyed angel with black hair in untidy bunches, staring
vacantly at the television with her mouth full of cornflakes.
She's in a school uniform of some sort, a red and white
gingham dress, knee socks grey where they haven't been
washed properly, once-patent leather shoes scuffed and losing
their stitching. Her mouth works at the cereal, eyes on the
gigantic purple dinosaur prancing across the screen to some
inane ditty. I'm not sure if she's desperately trying to avoid
watching the commotion around her, or is so inured to it she
hasn't even noticed. Like it's the norm. But then I suppose if
you live in shit long enough you don't smell it any more.
The girl stops chewing for a second, looks up at me, at
Laptop.
'Is she getting better?' she asks, but there's no emotion
there. Her voice is flat, listless. World-weary before she's old
enough to know what the phrase means. I glance across the
room.
Two paramedics, a blur of green jumpsuits, they're working
on her mother where she lies on the floor near the other
chair. The woman looks about thirty-five, thirty-six, but I'm
probably well off the mark because the heroin's aged her
prematurely. Her works are laid out on the glass-topped coffee
table. Dirty needles. Couple of hypodermics. A bent spoon,
blackened where she's cooked up. She's all grey-green skin
and dark hair matted with vomit. Pulse fading. No breathing
there. C'mon, they're saying to her, rummaging through their
bright orange kitbags for adrenalin shots, saline, more
needles. C'mon, love, stay with us. I watch the dinosaur dance
across the screen.
They'll be lucky to find a good vein on her. Old track
marks, telltale mini-bruises and scab lines, they're dotted from
her wrists to what's left of her biceps. When we put the front
door in she was comatose on the settee, jeans around her
ankles, half-full syringe of brown shit hanging out of her
groin. A nice straight femoral scag injection.
I look at the little girl, this pretty thing with black crescents
beneath her eyes, her alabaster skin, and try to imagine the
things she's seen. The life she's had with this junkie mother.
And I look back to this woman wasting the time and effort
and equipment of the paramedics and my fists clench.
'Your mum's going to be okay' says Laptop, and he's
probably right; they'll bring her back around and she'll take it
easy for a while, for a couple of weeks perhaps, and then the
memory of what she's put her daughter through will fade.
Then some other plod, some other ambulance crew, will be
standing here doing it all over again.
So I wait and watch, wishing I was someplace else, and the
woman's suddenly awake, sucking in a chest full of air, sitting
up against the settee and looking around at us with dried puke
on her chin.
'Wha' the fuck you lot doin' 'ere?' she shrieks, and she's
yanking at her jeans, rolling onto her knees with her bony
arse hanging out for all to see; pushes past the two guys
who've just saved her life and shuffles across the room to her
daughter. She hugs her, knocks the cereal bowl with one
scabby elbow. Milk spills onto the little girl's lap. Her eyes
never leave the television.
'Get out,' the mother hisses, so I look to Laptop, to the
paramedics.
'You're a disgrace,' I say to her, really not caring any more.
This scrawny woman, she snaps her head around, draws
back her top lip. Her teeth are brown, stunted and rotted from
the gear. She looks feral. An animal. 'You can't talk to me like
that,' she says. 'I pays your fuckin' wages . . .'
So I step over to this smackhead, feel Laptop's tiny hand on
my arm, shove it off. I lean down to the woman, take her
skeletal, grubby hand in mine, and while she's looking up at
me all saucer-eyed and fearful I shake it. And then I can't let
go. I'm squeezing, can hear a faint click-click-click, realise it's
her knuckles popping, her carpals and metacarpals cracking,
and I tell her thank you, I've always wanted to know just who it
was that paid that money into my bank account every month and I
should be grateful, shouldn't I, I mean how hard must you find it,
paying all that cash to me so I can do my job, especially when you're
the victim here, isn't that right you're just so unlucky in life and
you never had a choice and really you need all the money you can get
for your habit because sticking a needle in a major artery in front of
your daughter is your only means of escape, and my hand
squeezes, she's crying now, big whiny sobs tearing out of her
and the daughter's crying too, then Laptop's pulling my arm
and the paramedics are at it as well so I let go. Just stand over
her, breathing hard.
'You fuckin' pigs,' she screams.
'You fuckin' junkies,' I say back.
'Jake . . .' says Laptop, staring at me. The paramedics are
standing in front of the television doing the same. I can hear
music, some nursery rhyme, the mother's hugging her child
and they're sobbing together so I turn to the medics and tell
them to move, they're upsetting the little girl because she
can't see her programme, so they shuffle out of the way,
confused, still watching me. I place my hand on the kid's
skinny shoulder.
'Be good,' is all I can say to her but it seems hollow and
pointless so I walk towards the door, swipe a handful of the
paramedics' sterilised hypodermic syringes from the top of
the coffee table, think how I'll need them for my juice later
today, and leave the flat. Leave Laptop to fill in the forms, to
ask ops room to ring Social Services.
I sit in the panda car, engine running, counting as the
wipers chug across the windscreen and I don't know how long
I'm there but hear more vehicles arrive, the junkie woman
screeching and screaming, the unmistakable sound of van
doors slamming shut as she's locked in the rear cage. I hear
the soft and vacuous words of a male social worker, picture
him with his goatee and brown corduroys, ushering the girl in
the gingham dress to his car so he can dump her with the
nearest foster family.
Laptop climbs into his seat, bringing a burst of rain and
cold air with him. All sorted,' he says.
I don't look at him. 'I need a drink.'
He waits a beat. The wipers judder. Then: 'We didn't think
you'd be interested so nobody's mentioned it,' he says. 'But
the shift is out tonight. Hitting the town to blow off some
steam. Seven pee-em at Anzac's. You're welcome to come.'
I weigh it up: standing around some city-centre bar with
kindergarten cops I have nothing in common with, or sitting
in an empty house in my boxer shorts trying to get it up
while Lowri whispers filthy nothings down the phone. It's a
tough call.
'I haven't been to Anzac's since I was your age,' I say.
'The licensee owes our Inspector a few favours,' says
Laptop. 'Drinks are free for the first two hours.'
I turn to him. 'Sold.'

The parade room's deserted so I log on to a terminal, thinking
maybe I should fill in some online forms or check through
my deliberately slender workload, but end up snooping about
to see if there's been any incidents involving Karen or the kids
so I can trace them that way.
I'm digging through the calls that came in on my days off
when my mobile rings. The number's withheld. Lowri, calling
from a landline somewhere? Frank?
'Jake?'
Male. Cheery. I vaguely recognise the voice.
'Er . . . yeah?' I say, clicking through reams of shitty
domestics.
There's a pause. Then: 'I want my fucking money, Jacob.'
My mobile suddenly feels very heavy in my hand. Hot
against my ear.
'Pacino,' I croak.
'Who?'
'How . . . how did you get my number?'
Another pause. 'I'm very resourceful, buddy. Tenacious,
you might say'
'You can't do this to me,' I say. 'I'm the bloody poli--'
'That's of no relevance to me,' Pacino says, still sounding
affable and really rather buoyant. 'Six thousand. From you or
Sinclair, it makes no difference.'
'It's all in hand,' I say.

'Please don't let me take this to the next level, Jake,' he says,
and cuts me off.
I stare at my mobile. Look around. Thank fuck there's
nobody here. I throw the phone in the nearest bin. Stare at it.
Retrieve it. What if Karen tries to get in touch? If Naomi or
Ben call? If Frank rings to tell me the money's sorted? And
this is the only number Lowri's got.
I have an unshakable image in my head. My genitals in a
vice, the handle being turned by a smiling drug warlord.
I kill the computer, stand, kick back the chair. My vision is
blurred. I'm stumbling out of the parade room, down the
corridor, feeling with my hands, trying to remember where
the damn toilets are and I bump into somebody and I think it's
Baker and I mumble sorry, Sarge and know he's looking at me
oddly but can't stop and then I'm in the gents leaning over the
toilet and up comes my breakfast. Porridge. Two bananas. A
rice cake. All pink and sugary from the strawberry protein
shake I washed them down with. My first decent meal since
God-knows-when.
I slump down the toilet wall, sit on my haunches. I don't
even realise I'm wailing until there's a knock on the cubicle
door.
'Jake? You okay?'
It's Baker.
I don't answer. Place a hand over my sticky lips. If I stay
here long enough, stay quiet enough, maybe he'll just go
away.

I spend three hours getting ready. Iron the clothes I bought
on the way home. Iron them again. Hang them in the spare
bedroom to maintain the creases. Polish my shoes, bull them
to a parade-ground shine. Shave my hair. Shower for a whole
hour.
I eat in the lounge, sitting with no clothes on again, fill my
empty stomach, line it with the last tin of tuna from the
kitchen cupboard, two plain chicken fillets with rice and
broccoli. Slug a pint of milk mixed with six egg whites. Pop
the last two Clenbuterol tablets, use one of the clean needles
the paramedics gave me, or I took from them, I can't
remember which. I draw out the last of the Testosterone
Propionate, stretch the skin below my left hip, use my thumb
and forefinger to pull it taut, stick the needle in and press the
plunger. Almost weep as the Testosterone disappears into my
body. Pull out the needle. Sit back.
I wonder if Young Pacino knows where I live. That's a
fucking worry. And I can't get hold of Sinclair for gear nor
money. I need to speak to him. Urgently. I hope Frank comes
through. I hope he's talked Mel around, explained how
serious the situation is.
I check the time on the DVD player. Eighteen ten hours.
Too early to drive into the city centre. So I wait. And wait.
Sit naked and alone in silence. Can hear my stomach bubble
and whine as the food settles. Rachael. Don't think about
her, Jake. Don't. But I wonder if she'll be there tonight?
Maybe that's why I've put in all this effort to get ready. To
make her see what she's missing. I lean forward, flex
my pecs, my delts, curl my hands into fists to pump my
forearms. What we had was good, wasn't it? Brief but
beautiful. A beautiful mistake.
And I know I shouldn't but I'm running scenarios through
my head, how I'll react if she shows at the Anzac bar tonight;
then I'm pacing the lounge, naked, talking aloud, losing
myself. Smiling, trying casual and indifferent. Frowning and
doing angry, humiliated. Weeping, all hurt and heartbroken.
The DVD clock shows eighteen fifty. Running late. Maybe this
is for the best. Maybe I should hold these thoughts for later.
Because if Rachael's there . ..
No, Jake. Stop it.
I climb the stairs to get dressed.
because I should just make Ae most of it, make Ae most of a very bad -time, a
spectacularly shifty -time.


My belly's full of lager, warm and bloated.
An hour and a half without moving from my seat. Laptop's
making my head spin, shooting back and forth to the bar to
get them in before our two hours of gratis drinking are up,
wooting and doing some odd little dance to the Eighties synth
music with a goofy smile on his face. I'm necking everything
he places in front of me and secretly considering changing his
nickname to Lapdog.
I've plotted up so I can watch the door. Watch everyone
coming in. Scanning for Sinclair. Young Pacino. Rach. Karen.
Sitting here at this trestle table pocked with old fag burns,
rows of dim red bulbs hanging from the ceiling beams.
Surrounded by people, alone. I think about slipping out to
spark up a cigar, perhaps slipping away full stop because none
of them would notice. But I don't. I'm still hanging on to the
hope that Rachael will turn up.
I swivel my head, look out the window, to the arcade
outside, the line of pissed-up cops queuing to flash the badge
at the squat little hardnut at the door. Do you take warrant card?
That'll do nicely, sir. And in you come for free. All the men
dressed in the regulation off-duty jeans, Timberland boots and
surfing shirt combo. The women with their hair down, war
paint on, still stiff and alert despite half a dozen Bacardi
Breezers. A new generation coming through Anzac's front
doors; half the city's plods in here and barely a civvy in sight
because they know Old Bill have taken over.
Baker's sitting opposite me, flanked by his kiddie cop shift.
I  can't seem to stop catching his eye. He nods at me again so
I lift my pint, take a swig, nod back.
'You okay, Jake?' he asks, leaning forward and shouting over
the music.
'I'm wonderful,' I say. 'Can't you tell?'
Baker scoots his chair closer to the table. 'I thought... you
know ...' he stutters, glancing around furtively. 'The thing in
the toilets today? Was it the incident with the mother and her
kid?'
/
Jesus. I don't need this. This boy, sergeant or not, asking me if I'm okay. Like he can help somehow. Like he can empathise,
use his vast life experience, all twenty-five years of it at most,
of nothing but school and drinking his way to a uni degree
and accelerated promotion. So I tell him yeah, it was a shocker
but I'll manage, then turn away, eye the queue again. Get up
for the first time since I arrived, neck the rest of my pint, step
over to the bar for another freebie, find my legs aren't working
properly, but I've missed the slot and now they're charging,
the bastards.
Then Laptop's next to me, pissed, elbows on the bar counter
and swaying, sleeves of his shirt mopping up the spillages. All
right there, Tee?' he says, like we're fast friends, buddy cops,
Butch and Sundance except nowhere near as cool.
'Whas' this "Tee" thing, pigmy?' I ask him, and marvel at
how pissed I actually am now. My mouth feels Novocained.
Laptop laughs uproariously, throwing his head back.
Everybody looks. He overbalances, stumbles against the bar.
Watching him makes me feel sober, so while he chuckles away
I order another pint, just the one, no going in rounds with
these muppets now they're charging and I down it in one, slam
the empty pint back on the counter, signal for another.
Laptop's arm is suddenly around my shoulder, hanging at
an awkward angle because he can't reach properly. I freeze.
Can't bring myself to look at him. 'S'our nickname f'you, big
guy' he shouts in my ear. He must be on tiptoes. 'Y'know ...
T Rex? Get it?'
But Baker's pulling him away before I can reply, sitting the
gonk down next to him and having a quiet word. T Rex?
Huge, frightening, powerful? Is this what they call me when
I'm not about? I pick up the new pint of lager, have lost count
of how many I've sunk since arriving here, my guts are
sloshing about, my six-pack morphing into a keg. My head's
starting to feel a little loose on my neck.
T Rex. Big, strong meat-eater. The nasty fucker in Jurassic
Park. I like it.
I step back to the table, surprised how heavy my feet feel.
'My round,' I say, feeling a little strange, that this could be
a turning point, a watershed moment where I finally become
part of this shift. Where I become part of something again.
'Time for T Rex to gerrem in!'
Everyone laughs. Laughs with me, I'm sure of it. Laptop's
off again: heeyaaargh-argh-aaaarghl BMX is rocking back and
forth, slapping her surprisingly dainty hands on her thighs.
Her nicely toned thighs in their tight jeans. Even that taciturn
golden boy Baker, he's shaking his head and grinning.
And I actually start enjoying myself. The drinks are still
coming and I don't know if it's me that's paying or Laptop
fishing out twenties and I don't care because these faces are all
around me now. Gravity, Chi-Chi, Three Amp. My shift. These
wild and crazy guys who've gifted me this awesome nickname,
who've embraced the man I am, accepted me into their little
clique, and the music's playing and it's classics like Depeche
Mode's bouncy 'Just Can't Get Enough', Soft Cell's seminal
'Tainted Love', Duran Duran's New Romantic masterpiece
'Rio', and those red lights pulse in the rafters.
I see BMX and Roid watching me from one corner, know
now that Rachael's a no-show and it kills me but you've gotta
have a fallback, gotta have a Plan B, and this girl, this easy ride,
she's pretty hot in a plumpish kind of way, chunky but funky,
she's eyeing me now as I head towards her, my shoes still not
quite gripping the floor of the bar.
'Wanna dance?' I say to BMX, tensing my pecs.
I can smell her perfume; it reminds me of Jessica's. Citrusy
delicate. Her hair's a dark brown Louise Brooks bob. Her feet
are short and stumpy, but the toenails are glossed and most
importantly they look clean. Not too shabby ...
'With you?' she asks, smiling.
That sour-faced munter Roid, she's glowering at me but I
ignore it. 'Yeah,' I say, grinning, knowing I'm on to a winner.
'C'mon. Dance with T Rex.'
/
'Ooo, I'd be honoured,' BMX says, looking down at my
feet. "Specially since you made the effort to dress up.'
And they walk away laughing. I'm confused because it's not
play-along laughter, it's mocking and spiteful, so I check down,
wonder what she's on about, see I've worn my tactical boots to
the bar, completely forgot about the shoes I spent half an hour
polishing. I watch the girls go and I'm getting angry here
because BMX was my Plan B, my fail-safe, some stocky little
no-mark I'd never give a second glance under normal circumstances
but here she is taking the piss with her poisonous little
redhead friend and I'm walking after them, desperately trying
to carry out my breathing exercises, my chest tight, can't inhale
never mind exhale and they're still laughing, I'm closing the gap
and if I get my hands on them ...

Then I hear Roid: 'Dickhead. As if. Who does he think
he is?'
And BMX: 'Yeah. T Rex. Smelly old fuckin' dinosaur
I stop walking, stand at the edge of the dance floor, pick
up the nearest pint glass, push away hands that try to grab it
back, smash the glass on the floor, then I can't hear anything
because my head's full of static, it's rocked back and I think
I'm screaming. My throat straining. Eyes on the shitty little
bare red bulbs. And I know if I look back down I'll drown
under the weight of everybody's gaze because they'll all be
watching now. Watching; saying nothing in that judgemental
squeaky-clean new-breed-of-copper way. So I close my eyes,
wait for the hiss in my ears to fade, wait for the music to wash
in and then it does, it's Culture Club and I can't remember the
song title but it doesn't matter because I won't hear it finish.
I keep my eyes on the floor, push through whoever gets in
the way and leave.

Code </r Code <?* Code </r Code 4* Code 4* Code f<r Code f* Code fs- ¦ pounds Code </<r

I wake, cold, eyes gummed shut with sleep-gunk. Can feel a
warm, heavy weight on my chest. Can't move. Don't know
where I am. It's freezing, the hairs prickling on my forearms.
I know I'm still drunk, know I'm lying on my back. There's a
tapping noise above and behind me, an incessant hollow
knock - tonk tonk tonk tonk tonk - and my swimming head
throbs, amplifies the sound until it's the beat of a bass drum
between my ears and I'm fighting the urge to be sick. My
God, Young Pacino's burying me alive, isn't he? That noise,
it's him hammering in the last few nails ...
Open my eyes quickly, squinting. Murky grey light. Grey
everywhere. Look down, see dark hair. Somebody's head on
my chest, my jacket hiding the face. Still the knocking, so I
force my head backwards, tilt it so I'm looking upwards,
ignore the twinge of my muscles where I've slept awkwardly
and see a face pressed up to a window.
Some guy, forty-something, pasty faced, wearing a beanie
hat. Unshaven. Not Pacino, thankfully. He looks half puzzled,
half amused. His spindly fingers are curled into a fist and
hovering against the glass. I see nicotine stains around the
fingernails.
'Thought you two were dead,' he shouts, mouthing it as
well, as if I may be deaf or just plain fucking stupid.
You two. I shift my head, look down the length of my body.
See the black hair splayed under my jacket. I push the jacket
to one side, see the red coat underneath and then she moves,
lifts her face, eyes all puffy, blinking at me.
'Mornin',' Lowri says, croaking a puff of breath into the
cold air. /
I quickly look around, neck burning. We're in the back seat
of my truck.
'Get up,' I tell her, pushing her off me, away from me,
feeling a mild sense of panic. I hoist myself up on an elbow,
shuffle backwards, sit upright. There're empty bottles of Stella
in each footwell. The dash clock shows oh-six fifty-three
hours.
Lowri sighs, looking miserable and tired. She has bed hair.
She pulls at her coat, covers herself against the cold, shifts
across to the far side of the seat.
Beanie hat is still gurning at the window. I look past him,
see lit streetlights, low redbrick buildings, roller-shutter doors.
An industrial estate someplace. Not Radcliffe Street. I have no
idea where I am. 'Take a picture, mate,' I say to him. 'It'll last
longer.'
His hand is still resting against the window of my wagon.
His face falters, the cheeky little smile vanishing, and then he's
a tad put out that he can't watch any more, that I haven't
thanked him for waking me up like this, so he twists his hand
at the wrist, raises his middle finger and flips me the bird
before walking away.
'He likes you,' says Lowri.
I check my clothes: still buckled and buttoned. 'Did we ...?'
I ask her, not sure how to finish.
'No,' she says, shaking her head patiently. 'We just talked.
Or rather you did.'
'Good,' I say, closing my eyes. I think I'm relieved.
'Good!" she says, and starts to pull on her coat. 'Thanks very
much.'
'I didn't mean it like that,' I say, but I'm not quite sure what
I meant.
'Whatever,' she says, and pulls open the door. 'Ring me
when you want to bore me about your parents again.'
'Lowri, wait
'Fuck off, Jake,' she shouts.
Then she's climbing out and I'm reaching after her with
one hand, reaching across the back seat to the open door
because I don't want her to go like this. I can't remember what
we talked about last night but I must've needed it, must've
known she'd listen. I want to tell her more, to explain how I
feel about her, to work out what she means to me while I'm
doing it.
But the door slams shut and she's gone, her jacket a fading
red smudge through the condensation on the truck windows.

TWENTY

Lapdog's strangely subdued.
No annoying laugh, no stream-of-consciousness ramblings,
he's not even volunteered us for anything tonight. It's like I've
gone deaf. We do a couple of drunk nuisance incidents, turn
over a car full of shit, and they're clearly on the rob but we
find nothing so I consider winding them up for a public order
arrest but remember the paperwork involved. Cut across the
city to help out at a domestic when, predictably, the wife who
rang us for help started attacking the bobbies who were
arresting her husband for chinning her. Turn up at some OAP
complex, find our Inspector there with Baker and Gravity,
Trumptons swarming about playing with their hoses, hear it's
a genuine, that some old dear's turned herself into a crispy
critter so disappear sharpish before the CID rock up and collar
us to take twenty-seven-page statements. Boring, monotonous
sector stuff. Pondlife and drunks, mongoloids and druggies.
People not knowing how to look after themselves.
The calls dry up at oh-one hundred, so I just drive. Drive
anywhere and everywhere, like I used to with Frank, when
we were the firearms night crew with the whole force area to
cherry-pick. Except I'm not with Frank, I'm with this sulky,
catatonic midget and there's six hours to kill. Six long hours
of silence, of atmosphere. I don't know who's done what,
who's the bad guy here. Who's supposed to be angry with
who. Maybe Baker tore a strip off him last night for the
nickname thing. Perhaps he thinks I'm pissed off about it,
want to lay into him a little and am waiting for the right
moment. What he doesn't know is I really have more
important things to be worrying about. That I miss my family.
That I'm so tired I feel the ache in my bones.
It's a shame. The gonk was starting to worm his way into
my affections. Like an over-enthusiastic puppy you can't be
bothered to kick any more.
I give it an hour, do a last loop of the centre, the panda
puttering along in first past the Duke Road shops, the castle,
the dead pubs and clubs on the high street; through the pall of
greasy air and river of chicken curry cartons on takeaway
alley. It's cold and late, there's nobody around, like the city's
taking a breather. Lapdog's quiet throughout. I reverse the
car into the entrance to one of the arcades, deep enough so
the civvy camera operator at the nick can't pick us up, lower
my window and turn off the engine.
'So,' I say, turning to Lapdog. 'What's up with you, drama
queen?'
There's nowhere for him to look, nothing for him to
pretend he's interested in. Just a shop wall. His head kind of
vibrates, like he's struggling not to turn my way. Then he
gives up and looks at me with his wide boyish eyes, those
weirdly long lashes of his fluttering beneath furry eyebrows,
and I know he's nervous but there's something wrong,
something wrong here again, a problem in work and I'm not
sure if it's of my doing but want to know.
And then he says: 'I can't say'
Jesus. 'No, actually you can.'
Lapdog looks upwards, glances at me, gives a nervous
smile, teeth stringy with bubbles of saliva. 'Gossip . . . you
know.'
'Obviously I don't know,' I say to him, calmly as I can.
'Because if I did I wouldn't be asking, would I?'
And I'm beginning to wonder what Baker's cooking up
behind the scenes, what contact he has with Ewing at Professional
Standards, whether he's been tasked with keeping a
watchful eye and promised he'll progress his career if he finally
kills my own, and I'm mulling all this over, breathing hard and
gritting my teeth; but then I'm thrown, lose my train of
thought because Lapdog does the strangest thing: he begins
to cry. Right there in the passenger seat with my face pressed
up to his, an inch apart, seatbelt straining at my shoulder. My
top lip drawn back, bottom lip wet, spittle gathering in the
corners. His baby fingers covering his eyes. My spittle on his
fingers. I feel his warm breath on my face, puffing out the sides
of his hands as he sobs and hitches his chest.
'Hey come on,' I say, moving away from him a little,
settling back into my seat. How embarrassing. I'm checking
around, making sure there's no public about, no passing
drunk to see me leaning over this midget with calming hands
raised as he blubs and drips snot onto his utility belt. 'C'mon,
fella. I was just asking.'
'It's just rumours . . .' he snuffles. His voice is thick,
churning words. He's sucking in tiny gasps. About you and
... stuff you did with someone. Someone who's a friend of a
friend. I. . . I just don't want to get you in any trouble.'
Christ on a crutch. I can't be doing with this so fuck the
consequences. I pull out my cigars, light one. Pull on it as hard
as I can, fill my airbags with good, dirty smoke. Exhale. Blow
out the green. Or on this occasion the blue-grey but whatever:
I feel instantly better.
'You can't smoke in police vehicles,' Lapdog says and I
swing my head to him, shrug. His cheeks damp and pitiful.
His eyes cracked with red, mournful.
'Have one,' I say, offering the tin. 'You know you want it.'
'I don't smoke,' he sniffs, all prissy again.
'Yes you do, Ben,' I say.
One of those bushy brows of his arcs in the middle. 'Ben?
My name's Ma--'
'Shut up,' I shout.
I hear a familiar petrol engine whining. Screaming almost.
See a flash of red pass across the front of the panda. Chili red? Karen . . . It's Karen's Mini Cooper. Got to be. I turn the key
in the ignition, ditch the cheroot, push down on the throttle.
'What're you doing?' Lapdog yells, eyes wide, head darting
about.
'The car,' I say. 'Got to check that car.'
'I didn't see anything,' he says, holding on to the Jesus
handle as I peel out of the arcade entrance. I ignore him,
accelerate in Karen's direction, see brake lights flash in the
darkness a hundred yards ahead. It swings left past the Euro
Arena. She's really motoring. Crimson lights flashing on and
off as she cadence brakes around bends at speed.
'Shall I call it in?' Lapdog's asking, fingers on his radio, eyes
glittering now, adrenalised, excited, thrilled to be part of a
follow. No more blubbing and snot runners hanging from his
conk.
'Leave it!" I say. 'Ops room'U just stand us down.'
The car judders as it takes a right at the next set of traffic
lights, straight through a red, must be nudging fifty by my
reckoning. I'm closing the gap.
'It's two up,' Lapdog says oh-so-helpfulfy and I say nothing,
just straighten my right leg, push my boot onto the
accelerator pedal. I can see, boy. I have eyes. A driver and a
passenger. Karen and Naomi, maybe. Or Ben. Or . . . wait.
Her new beau? Some guy she's already shacked up with, who
the kids are already calling Daddy? Oh, dear. How I wish you
weren't here, Lapdog. How I wish I was on solo patrol, behind
this car, behind Karen, fingertips hovering near the dashboard
control panel, just one click away from illuminating the blue
strobes, the wailers. From making her stop so I can see who
she's with. So I can deal with it. With him.
Then we're taking a left fork at about forty, more
streetlights here, the roadway more illuminated, and as we
enter Vichy Boulevard my heart hangs heavy when I see it's
just some Corsa, a red kiddie car with body kit, twin chrome
exhausts, tinted windows. Souped up, Max-Powered to the
hilt. Not a Mini. Not Karen after all. Just some boy racer out
for a spin.
I flick the strobes on anyway because Lapdog's looking like
he's about to wee his pants and will start crying again if I drive
off without him getting the chance to have a word. The Corsa
runs for a little, the driver contemplating whether to stop.
Possibly pissed. It's done a half-dozen moving traffic offences
anyway, but I couldn't care less. I'm trying to recall why the
dwarf was crying.
Halfway down the Boulevard, the Corsa pulls over and I
ease in behind it, see the silhouettes, the dark shadows of the
guys inside gesturing and waving their hands about, short
sharp movements like they're arguing.
All yours, mate,' I say to the midget, and he's out of the
panda car with his booklet of Fixed Penalties before I can
finish the sentence.
So I sit, let my pulse settle, watch Lapdog talk through the
front passenger window. To some hulking brute, by the looks
of things. Shoulders filling one side of the car. Neck thick as
the headrest. The driver's bent over to one side, looking past
his companion at the stunted police child at his window.
Whoever it is, he's an agitated fucker. Jerking his arms about,
slapping the steering wheel. Pointing and jabbing his fist at
li'l Lapdog.
I sigh. Climb out of the panda. I don't want any aggravation
tonight or any night from now on, thanks very much, so
step towards the Corsa, preparing myself to defuse the
situation, to spare Lapdog a mauling at the hands of these
two clowns, just as long as it negates any paperwork, as long
as I don't have to stand in court again for a case I don't give a
shit about. Too much going on, Jake. Too much . ..
The passenger door opens, Lapdog steps back a-ways and
the big guy unfolds himself from the Corsa.
It's Sinclair.
'Well, well,' I say, and he's checking from the midget to me,
back and forth. Like a tennis spectator. But there's something
not right. For a monster of a man he looks pretty fucking
perturbed. Twitchy. In the background the driver's gobbing
off, still in his seat, telling me we've only stopped them 'cos
they is black, innit? As if I can see through tinted glass from
sixty yards away at fifty miles an hour at night, the cock.
'Shut the fuck up,' Sinclair yells at his companion, then
looks at me, eyes still nervous, still shifty. 'Jake,' he says.
'Thank God it's you.'
I'm confused. I thought he'd be asking me for money. Not
looking desperately relieved to see me here. I quickly check
the driver: some black kid in his late teens. Not Young Pacino
from the station lobby. I breathe a sigh of relief of my own.
'I'd like to speak to the driver alone,' squeaks Lapdog.
I'm just watching Sinclair. Never seen him like this. Not in
all the years I've known him. The guy's normally an animal.
Something's definitely rotten in Denmark.
'It's my nephew, Jake,' Sinclair says, waving a hand at the
driver. 'Family you know?'
'I know all about your family, bra,' I say to him. 'That your
brother who came to visit me the other night while I was in
work? I can see the resemblance.'
'I'd like to speak to the driver alone,' whines Lapdog. I can't
see him but picture him stamping a foot on the road.
My eyes are on Sinclair. Studying him. Reading him. He
gives the slightest of shrugs, a microscopic widening of the
eyes. Silently pleads.
'Put the driver in our vehicle then,' I say to Lapdog, and
step towards Sinclair. 'I'll deal with this guy here.' I take him
by the arm, by his forearm which is almost thicker than my
thigh, lead him back to the passenger seat, sit him in it. He
closes the door as I walk around the Corsa, climb into the
driver's seat.
'Before you start, I'm good for the money' I say, not
looking at him. He's rifling around in the glove compartment.
And then he says: 'Fuck the money, bra. You gotta help me
out here.'
I snap my head towards him. 'Help you? You want me to
help you? They've got my mobile number. They probably
know where I live.'
'Please, Jake.'
And it's then I see the package in his hands. A brown paper
bag with the top rolled closed, lying on his upturned palms
like an offering to the gods.
'What is it?' I ask, looking at the indistinct shape within
the bag. I can smell something familiar. And I can smell
sweat, smell fear coming from the man in the passenger seat
next to me.
'You gotta help me out here,' he says again. 'My nephew...
he ain't got no licence to drive, man. No insurance, nothing.
I know your buddy back there's going to find that out pretty
soon and you'll have his wheels towed. And once he sees my
boy's got form for dealing he's gonna be crawling all over the
car with a fine-toothed, y'know?'
And he's right. I can hear Lapdog running checks with ops
room right now. The registration plate on the Corsa I'm
sitting in. The name of the kid driving it. Then he's asking for
a drugs dog to RV for a sniff, gets Baker to authorise a garage
call-out, to seize the vehicle for scrapping because Sinclair's
nephew probably can't even spell drive legally.
Sinclair hears the transmissions.
'When they take the car they'll find this,' Sinclair says. He
shifts the paper bag towards me. And then he'll, both of us,
We'll be in a world of shit, Jake
I Tm not taking anything from you,' I say to him, shaking
my head. 'You've got me into enough trouble.'
'They're looking for me too, bro,' he says.
'My heart bleeds.'
'I'll get your debt written off,' he says then. 'Gone, baby.
All gone.'
I stare at him. Look down at the bag. See dark stains on its
surface. Smell that annoyingly familiar aroma. It looks light.
Inconsequential. Like there's air trapped inside the paper. This
crumpled gift horse. This six-grand golden handshake.
'What?' I ask him.
'Do this for me, Jake,' Sinclair hisses, thrusting the package
closer. It's nudging my ribs now. 'Do it and I'll see the money
you owe becomes a big fat zero. I swear.'
I look down at his shovel hands. Glance behind me,
through the windscreen of the panda car, see Lapdog's soft
little face flashing blue and white beneath the strobes. This is
my out, here. I can sense it. I can walk away clean. One strand
of the fuck-up that is my life at the moment sorted out.
'What is it?' I ask Sinclair again..I take it from his hands.
Feel the weight, guess it's in the ounces. Feel damp on my
fingers. The aroma tickling my nostrils. I bounce it once,
twice. This is our agreement, then. I will take it from him,
whatever it is. He will square everything with his business
partners. We are gentlemen. We have each other's word.
'Thank you, brother,' Sinclair's saying, but I'm not really
listening. I'm calculating just how costly this favour is likely
to be.
So I unfold the top of the bag, pull it open, it's got to be drugs,
got to be gear of some sort and I reach in thinking what the hell
I'm going to do with a big chunk of base amphet, a bar of
cannabis resin, but at least I'm going to be free of debt so does
it matter? and please, please, please let it be juice instead, let it be
some vials of Propionate. I feel my heartbeat pick up speed,
begin to sweat like Sinclair, hear the whumpwhumpwhump of
blood in my ears, am vaguely aware of Sinclair opening the car
door, squeezing himself out into the night, trudging over to his
nephew. Of Lapdog finishing his checks over the radio. Of
flashing blue lights on roadside foliage.
I pull out the contents of the bag. It's a rag. A folded piece
of dirty cloth. Something solid inside. I carefully open each
corner, tug at the frayed edges, then my breath catches and I
know what that smell is now, it's oil; so I transmit to Lapdog,
tell him to let Sinclair and his nephew go. That the Corsa is
clean. We'll just tow it away to teach 'em a lesson.
I look down. Look down for what feels like a long time.
The rag is open on my lap, splayed like the petals of a filthy
flower.
Well, well. Say hello to my li'ljrien'.
It's a Kahr PM9 nine-millimetre ultra-compact in black
polymer. Matt-blackened stainless-steel slide. Three-inch
barrel. The ultimate concealed weapon.
A mouse gun.
Nice.

I've had just three hours' sleep after the night turn - blissful,
dreamless sleep - and ordinarily I'd be rather upset to be
woken this early, but now I'm absorbing what Ewing's just
told me, his gutted and begrudging tone, and it's enough to
make me push that to one side and savour the moment. Feast
on it. Revel in it.
Because I'm in the clear. Ready to rock 'n' roll again.
Good old Frankie. Stood tall when it was required. Backed
me up over the Oriental guy with his ganja factory and the
gun. With that sorry-looking chav on New Year's Eve.
Corroboration, that's the key. Complaints dropped. No further
action. NFA. Yeah, I've got to play the nodding dog about
giving Rachael grief, most likely have those matters informally
resolved, but I'll sign whatever paperwork they want so it's all
filed away and forgotten about. It's a small price to pay.
I told Ewing I considered being removed - temporarily, I
stressed - from the firearms unit punishment enough. All
quite upsetting, I said. Humiliating, even. He stammered and
stuttered, desperate to get off the phone, but this was my
moment, my time, me time, so he coughed and cleared his
throat and told me my ballistic kit, all the hard-earned tactical
gear they swiped for examination after that incident up the
sticks, had been released by Forensics and I could collect it
from HQ whenever I liked. Office hours, of course.
I lie on my bed for a while. Stare at the ceiling. Whoever's
up there, I thank you. No more complaints. No wife and kids,
sure. No firearms work... yet. And I'm hoping Sinclair's done
the decent thing and called off the heavies. But the worm has
definitely turned!
I ease myself up on one elbow, pull open the drawer on the
bedside table. Push aside my unofficial pocket notebook. The
oil-stained rag rests among the household crap. I lift it out,
marvelling once again how light it is. Drop it on the surface of
the quilt, unfold the corners. Look at the mouse gun. A dark
and beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a nine-millimetre pocket
rocket.
I stroke the snub-nosed barrel lightly, delicately, with the
pad of my forefinger.
Aren't you a pretty little thing?' I say. I lift it, wrap my hand
around the grip, wave it about, bang-bang-bang, I hear myself
say, and if there was a mirror in this shitty spare bedroom I'd
do the Travis Bickle thing from Taxi Driver. I slip a finger into
the trigger-guard. Pull on the slide, yank it back, amazed at
how effortless it is. How easy. Like wielding a toy. I check the
mag, drop it from the grip, count four rounds plus the one
I've just chambered.
Good job things are getting better. Improving. Just think,
Jake. Just think what could've happened if you'd had this thing
at the nick when that heavy turned up. Or in Collingwood's
office with Ginge leering at you. Or perhaps while you stalked
the corridors of power at HQ after being bullied and tortured

by Ewing.
I'm folding the rag back around the PM9 when I hear a
knock on the front door. I freeze. Look about quickly. I'm not
expecting anybody. Do they know I've got an illegal firearm in
here? A drug dealer's shooter? Is this a raid? Who can it be? I've
just been picturing popping a cap in Young Pacino's face; is it
him? Here to collect the cash I owe? Or maybe to tell me I'm
free and clear, that Sinclair's put the word in, that he thought
he'd drop by and tell me in person because it's the proper
thing to do. No hard feelings, eh?
I scoop up my mobile, tuck the mouse gun in the waist of
my boxer shorts at the base of my spine. Jog to the top of the
stairs. 'Hello?' I call.
No answer. My right hand reaches around to my lower

back, fingertips brushing against the pistol grip. I take the stairs
slowly, holding my breath, bare feet soft and soundless on the
carpet. Do a tactical sweep. Flatten myself against the wall;
small steps, quiet steps down the hallway, up to the front door.
I slide to one side, press my ear up to the door. I'm
picturing Pacino out there right now and know it's all gone tits
up, Sinclair couldn't pull it off, couldn't help me out; in fact his
business associates, those guys at the top of the food chain,
they were outraged at his suggestion that my debts be wiped
and now he's in pieces in a suitcase on the side of a road
somewhere, Pacino's at my door with a Samurai sword,
blowtorch and quite possibly a rocket launcher and all I have
is somebody else's cap gun that I'm not even sure works.
'Identify yourself,' I call, and hate the sound of my voice.
High, tremulous. A schoolgirl on helium. I'm about to vomit.
My hand is squeezing the mouse-gun grip. My other hand
grasps the mobile, ready to dial three nines.
'Open up, you fuckin' donut,' shouts Frank. 'It's me.'
I could weep. I'm starting to well up as I tuck the shooter
back into my pants and unlock the front door, so glad my
buddy's turned up because now we can celebrate, I can thank
him for everything, can hug him and punch him on the arm,
laugh and joke about everything that was once wrong but is
now starting to go right.
Frankie stares at me, eyes flicking up and down behind his
glasses. 'Sexy look, Jake.'
I have no clue what he means so check myself, rub the back
of a hand over my chin and feel growth, look down, see
there's the odd questionable stain on the front of my boxers,
see the definition on my abs has softened, my fingernails are
gunky and blackened, the skin on the edges of my right fore
and index fingers are mustard brown from the cigars. I
examine my nails again. Sniff them. They reek of oil.
The gun. It's still tucked into my boxers.
'Frank!' I say, a little too loudly, and he flinches. I step backwards,
push myself flat against the wall, feel cold paintwork
on my shoulder blades, my latissimus dorsi. Keeping the
shooter out of sight as I usher him in.
So he steps past me, eyeing me as he goes, walks towards
the lounge and I check outside. All clear. Close the front door,
follow him, making sure I'm behind him all the way, hiding
the mouse gun. He flops into one settee, winks, congratulates
me about Yeh and Cooper, about the complaints from the
gook and the chav being NFA'd and the rest just swept under
the carpet, so I ask him how he knew and he gives a mini
shrug, says you know what it's like, mate, word gets around, so I
nod and grin, wait in the doorway, silently pleading for him
not to ask me to get him something from the kitchen because
I'll have to explain why I'm walking backwards out of
the lounge.
Then I panic when he gestures for me to take a seat, the
copper in him coming out, that commanding presence thing
Frank does so well, so I shuffle forwards with the cheeks of
my arse clenched, pushing out my gut so it tightens the
waistband, so the PM9 doesn't drop to the floor. I scoot to
the two-seater nearest the door, ease myself down gently with
my mobile in one hand, place it on the arm of the chair,
breathe an audible sigh of relief when I'm on the cushion, my
pants still in place and the handgun invisible, pressing into the
small of my back.
'You got piles or something?' he asks and I nod, pull a face,
a yeah-rm-guilty-of-overdoing-the-rich-food dismal expression,
as if Karen leaving has turned me into a takeaway king.
Anyway' he says, and I'm fidgeting in my seat, wondering
if I'm about to shoot myself in a kidney because I'm not sure
if I clicked the safety on the mouse gun, can't remember if it
actually has a safety, and Frank's obviously dismissed my
faffing about on the cushion as a side-effect of my arsegrapes
so takes a breath, reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out
a thick envelope.
'Here,' he says, leaning forward, gently holding the envelope
between outstretched fingers, face pale and serious, so I stretch
my arm out, careful not to move my upper body too much,
mindful that I could take out a large portion of my spinal cord
if the cushion I'm resting against catches on the trigger.
I take it. Open it. It's stuffed with banknotes. Fifties.
Bundles of cutter, wrapped tightly with strips of white paper
across the centre of each package. I flick through one of
them. Count the bundles. Do the maths. Twelve of them at
five hundred quid a pop equals six grand.
'I guessed Sinclair's people wouldn't take a cheque,' he
smiles.
And I'm numb. I gaze at the cash in wonder, muse how
today has been a day of receiving unexpected gifts, of tiny
things with great power, of how Frank - despite his best
intentions, despite his answer to my calling - may just be too
damn late.
But I'm thanking him anyway, telling him wow, you really
didn't have to do this, and he's speaking slowly, patiently, telling
me how he's gone through murder with Mel to talk her round
so he can give me the money but it's what friends are for and this is how we're going to play it, this is how we're going to clear
your debt with Sinclair, okay, buddy? And then you're going to pay
us back every month, starting next month, interest free, matey, of
course, no strings, just get yourself sorted so you can work on Karen
and the kids coming back, and blahblahblahblahblah I'm not
listening. The gun barrel's gouging at a strip of skin where
I've shifted position, digging away at the meaty part around
my hip as I push back into the cushion to keep it in place.
It's going to go off. I know it.
I'm breaking into a sweat, feeling hot and cold flushes,
suffering here, wallowing in misery, in torturous white-hot
agony. I try to maintain the smile. This loaded pistol, one edge
of its muzzle now half a centimetre into my flesh. Please get
out, Frank. Please leave immediately. Please.
'I know you're suffering so I won't drag it out,' he says at
last, and pushes himself up from the settee. 'I'd better make
a move.'
'Oh, thank you,' I'm saying, the envelope clasped in my
hands in front of my slick chest, my chin raised, eyeballs
bugging. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you.'
'No need, Jake,' he says, slapping me on my shoulder as he
walks towards the lounge door. 'It's times like this that you
need your friends to pull around you. I'm sure you'd do the
same for me.'
I nod. Just keep nodding, Jake.
'Don't get up,' he says. 'Those haemorrhoids are a bitch.
Take it easy'
He's leaving. 'Thank you,' is all I can say. I'm rigid in my
seat. I'm not sure if it's warm sweat or blood I can feel
trickling down the crack of my arse. I want him gone. Out of
here. Nothing personal. It's not you, it's me, honey.
'By the way . . .'he says, stopping at the lounge door.
Christ. Jesus. God all-fuckin'-mighty Won't you please go? And
then he tells me about some party he's arranged, some getting
away with it bash at his place later this week when we're next
on matching rest days, y'know, a few drinks with some of the
firearms lads to celebrate Professional Standards dropping
the complaints, Mel doing some buffet food 'n' that 'cos she knows
what you've been going through, and I'm just ducking my nut
here, nodding like a nodding machine, and I tell him yeah,
Frankie that'll be great, that'll be a blast, all the old crew around
again, lemme give you a ring and hey, thanks for everything, mate,
you're a real trooper, you really are...
And then he's gone and I'm just a curled-up ball of greasy
sweat on the chair. Doubled over. Muttering praise be to
whoever. Frank's cash still clutched between my thumb and
forefinger, smudged with the oil from my fingernails.
I reach around, pull the muzzle out of the skin to the right
of my spine. It pops, a watery sucking sound, and I feel faint.
Sparks in your eyesight time. I sit back, taking it carefully, owow-owing
as I lower myself into the cushion. Check the PM9,
see blood and tissue around the muzzle. Wipe it on my boxer
shorts, add to the stains.
I lift the envelope to my face, squint the flashing dots away,
see the bundles and bundles of cash that I may not even need
any more.
'Good of Frankie,' I say.
And then my mobile rings and Lowri's number's on screen.
I haven't spoken to her since she stormed out of my truck.
'Hey darling,' I say. 'Sorry about the other morning.'
There's silence on the other end of the phone. I look at the
money. Think about my tab with her. The walking and
talking, the holding hands. All those wanna-fuck-me-stud
telephone marathons. Those times when I know she's
charging me to sit listening with my limp cock in my hand.
Those times I didn't have any cash to give her.
I drop the envelope to my lap, run my fingers across the
flank of the mouse gun.
'Want some fun together?' I ask, and shudder as she giggles
in my ear.

TWENTY-ONE

Shit.
Baker climbs into the passenger seat. Didn't see him
coming. I quickly close my notebook, tuck it into the pocket
_of my body armour. Try to remain calm, twist my hands
around the steering wheel as he shuts the door on the pissing-
down rain.
'You're keen, doing your notes already' he says with a
matey grin. 'Great to see.'
I say nothing. Why are you in this car with me, Baker?
Where's Lapdog? I feel safe with Lapdog.
'The old fella was a bit of a handful, wasn't he?' Baker says.
I'm staring straight ahead. 'Not really'
'Oh,' he says. He's quiet for a moment. I sense he's struggling
to remain cheery, to mask the real reason he's taken it
upon himself to ride shotgun. I've got you pegged, Baker.
Sussed. You're Ewing's bagman. Professional Standards'
lackey. Their snitch.
'Shall we go for a spin then?' he asks.
'If you like,' I say, not liking the idea at all.
I can see he's nodding to himself, see his neat hair, his
perfect career-climbing unaffected-by-the-weather hair, moving
back and forth out the corner of my eye.
'Be nice to have a chat,' Baker says. 'I haven't really had the
chance since you were moved .. . since you transferred on to
the relief
I start the engine. Watch as the uniformed OompaLoompas
close the van door on the tramp. Lapdog's standing
in the murk, eyes on the panda car, on me and Baker, as the
city centre gets back to what it was doing before this brief
carnival sideshow began. I wish I'd remembered to speak to
him. About the gossip. About why he couldn't say anything
to me. But I got a little sidetracked. With Sinclair and the
money and the gun. With everything else again. So maybe
this is where I find out.
So I drive, touring the pedestrianised shopping streets,
down to the Bay where Baker waves at the tourists stupid
enough to come here in this weather, back up to the industrial
estates where I think about Lowri, wonder what her feet look
like, imagine coming over her toes, her small and clean and
slender toes with nails varnished in purple - yeah, I think
she'd probably choose purple - and I'm not listening to my
companion at all. Grunting and yeahmg where I consider
it appropriate, where there seem to be pauses in his
conversation, as if he's seeking acknowledgement or for me
to concur with whatever jobspeak nonsense he's banging on
about. We're husband and wife and I'm trying to watch the
football while she yaps about her mother's gout problem
alongside me on the settee.
I'm chewing the inside of my mouth, this chump's voice
needling at my ear. This leader of chumps. Can't wait until
tonight. Frank's house. The party. All the guys, all the real
police from the firearms teams. A few ales to celebrate not
losing my job. To see Jessica again. It's the only thing that's
getting me through today.
Then Baker's touching my arm, his fingers tugging at the
sleeve of my jacket, so I flinch and he's saying to me, 'Pull
over here, Jake.'
I look at him for the first time since he got in the car.
'We need to talk,' he says.
So I pull over, engine idling, find I've driven back to
Radcliffe Street without thinking; that we're next to some
plumbing depot, the rain's heavier now, hammering down, a
metallic drumming on the roof of the panda car, and here we
go, this is it, this is where Baker admits he's watching me, that
Ewing's assigned him to dig the dirt, to bury me if he can, to
finish the job Professional Standards couldn't.
Except he says nothing of the sort, just asks me how I am,
how things are, tells me he knows it's been tough and he's
been through tough times himself, and I have to stop myself
from laughing, from giggling at his cack-handed touchy-feely
nonsense, and he feels more uncomfortable than I do now,
but then you wanted the stripes, kiddo, so you get to deal with
this sort of crap. His face is drawn, nervous. He keeps talking,
even brings one knee up onto the seat as he faces me, trying
for casual, but he's pale and his throat is working as he
swallows, tripping over his words and reaching for the right
things to say. This twenty-something singleton still wet behind
the ears, who's been in the job a strawberry season, dispensing
words of advice to me.
And I know things got a bit out of hand the other night at
Anzac's, with the nickname thing, but I've had a word with
the shift and it won't happen again,' he's saying, and I chuckle
to myself because I can barely remember. It seems so long
ago.
It's painful, sitting here listening to Baker, and I've had
enough, so I just wave a hand and tell him: 'It's all good,
Sarge.' Because it is, really. Everything's starting to work itself
out.
He lets out a long breath. Relieved, probably. Anyway' he
says. 'We're out again tonight if you're interested. Take two,
as they say. Booked out one of the restaurants down the Bay'
'The Tidal?' I ask. Karen's favourite.
'Yeah. Nice, right? You fancy it?'
'No can do,' I say. 'Got plans.'
So Baker nods and tells me it's a shame but if I'm busy, he
understands, just thought it would be nice to come along and
show some support, one of the girls from the other side of
the city just passed her exams, has got her ticket to sergeant,
and I'm mentally rolling my eyes at the thought of yet

another copper with no service strutting around telling
people like me what to do but then he's talking about who it
is, the girl who's being promoted, and my guts, my aching
guts, they do a little somersault and my chest suddenly feels
like it's being crushed.
It's Rachael.
'Don't really know her myself,' Baker's saying, but I'm
staring out into torrential rain and my head feels frozen,
deadened. 'You know what it's like, all these faces across the
city' he's saying from somewhere in the panda car. 'But
Laptop joined the job with her other half, Clive, I think his
name is, you know him? Anyway Laptop's been invited then
he sort of asked us along and
I've tuned him out. I'm here but I'm not here. I'm working
things out. Calculating. Making a mental itinerary. Seeing if
I can do both. Frank's. Rachael's. Rachael and Clive. Cliff. All
this stuff cluttering my head. All these things to resolve. All
these people abandoning me. Whenever I'm getting on the
front foot something always knocks me back.

After work I take the hour-long return trip to pick up my kit
at HQ, ignore Ewing while I'm there, mock the chicken
necked receptionist, then drive home at ninety miles an hour.
At home I press my clothes, remember to put my tactical
boots away so I don't wear them again. Shower, do the whole
beauty thing, exfoliate, scrub those shitty boils clustered
around my shoulders and collarline. Ring Sinclair but get no
answer, rant down the phone at him because I'm still getting
funny fucking phone calls from Young Pacino and it's obvious
he's squared nothing away yet. Do two hundred crunches, flip
and press-up to failure, until my upper back and pectorals feel
nice and warm. I sit on the edge of the bed, reach down next
to the bedside table without looking, lift up one of the
dumbers and start working my arms, do set after set of reps,
swapping hands, controlling my breathing, the peach and
green. This is easy. Oh so easy.
Imagine the faces if I did walk in The Tidal. Not that I
would. But imagine Rachael sitting there, mid-whisper with
Cliff, the whole place going quiet like that scene in the
country pub at the start of An American Werewolf in London. I'm working my arms and picturing it, me breezing in on the
rain, doors swinging shut behind me, the music and
conversation dying. Cliff soiling himself. Right in front of the

entire police division. Sorry, he'll say, an apology for everything.
For all he's ever done or will do. For being him.
And Rachael will realise her mistake, excuse herself from
the table, rush over to me and we'll embrace, right there in
front of Baker and Lapdog and all the other tools I have to
work with. And the music will start up again because normal
service will have resumed. Order will return to the galaxy.
And I won't have to do anything, because I'm on a roll now
and this is how it will be.
I stop lifting because I'm getting carried away, I'm thinking
about things I shouldn't, and anyway the dumb-bell feels odd
and misshapen in my left hand. Way, way too light.
I look down and realise I've been holding the mouse gun all
along.


It feels so good to be back among the fold.
Frank's house is all banter and Sixties sounds. Joplin,
Hendrix, The Doors. Bottles of Jack Daniel's. Stella kegs.
Cigars on the patio in the cold. Political incorrectness. Real
war stories from seasoned grunts. Genuine laughter. Most of
it at the expense of Ginge, the new Inspector. Nearly twenty
of us here and not a midget cop or FNG in sight. Frankie,
Thrombo, the rest of the crew. I can smell testosterone.
There's Tommy Hall, of course, but you can't have everything.
The Sarge's avoided me since I arrived, deployed
himself in the kitchen with fat hands permanently hovering
over the weird finger-food things Mel clearly sweated over
when she had to slide pre-packed Tesco trays into the oven
for ten minutes until done.
But... all this for me. I've felt the odd twinge since the
tales got going, since they've been discussing incidents I've
missed after being shipped back to sector. But we've all got
our weapons somewhere. I'm still part of the firearms team.
I'm in the lounge, arm draped around Frank's shoulder, the
Kahr PM9 tucked snugly into my sock, notebook in
the pocket of my jacket hanging off the end of the hall
banister. The booze, it's eating at my guts. Warmth spreading
to my chest. The minuscule pigs in blankets burnt by Mel
aren't soaking any of it up. Got to be careful. Got to conserve
some energy, stay sharp if I decide to take a trip down the Bay.
'I owe you, bra . . .' I'm telling Frank, because I feel like I
should be saying something, should be showing a smidgeon
of gratitude for this bunfight, for the money.
'Is no problem,' he says, head wobbling about, one eye
closed behind his glasses, and tells me he knows I'd do the
same for him. And I'm not sure that I would. I'm not sure
about anything at the moment because Jessica's eight feet
away and sitting on one settee with her friend. Some pissed
up mousy-haired thing, a Plain Jane I've never seen before.
Both of them dolled up to the eyeballs. Denim hotpants,
halter tops. Pure jailbait. Whispering to each other.
And then Frank asks me about the cash, if I've settled
everything with Sinclair, Jagger's roaring out 'Paint It,
Black', and I nod, lying, tell him yeah, mate, all sorted, because I can't really get into this now as Jessica's legs are
crossed at the knee, a three-quarters empty highball glass of
Jack nestled between her naked thighs, her right foot raised
in the air and completely bare. She's wiggling her painted
toes, rotating her foot at the ankle. Showing it off as she
gossips with Plain Jane.
I down my drink, grimace. Make for the kitchen, find a
sober, sour-faced Mel there, apologise again for ruining her
kitchen door, thank her for everything, gesture at the food,
sigh as she huffs and tells me there would have been more but
she didn't have the money, know what I mean, Jake? and
Tommy's beside her, arms folded, nodding slowly to himself
with his plump little lips pressed together. I snatch up a couple
of pathetic vol-au-vents, shove them in my mouth, tell them oooh, I'm stuffed, then pour myself a tripler, a Greek measure,
a big old hit of Jack with a Coke afterthought. I neck it. In
one. Slam the glass down on the worktop.
'Yaaaaarrrgh!' I growl, striking a pose. Bent over slightly at
the waist. Arms curled, knuckles of each fist touching in front
of my midriff. Classic Schwarzenegger. Mr Olympia time.
'I don't care what you've been through,' says Mel. 'You're
a dick.'
Yes, but Jessica's toenails are a glorious bright red tonight.
Strumpet red. I refill my glass, omit the Coke. Back into the
lounge, find Frankie's crashed and burned in one corner, head
on chest, glasses hanging off one ear. What a wuss. It's only
twenty-one twenty hours. People are still dancing, throwing
moves, cutting some rug around him and over him.
I slip in between Jessica and Jane. Shuffle them apart, ignore
their blatantly fake protests. I will take control of this situation
before I lose control. Before the drink hits me. I am on a roll.
'My life can only get bett-aaaaah!' I sing.
'It's things,' says Jessica, rolling her eyes. 'Things can only
get better .. .'
'It's the twelve-inch remix,' I say, lying. 'Haven't you heard
it?'
'Whassa twelve . . . twelve-inch?' asks Jane, and I see she's
looking up at me in a peculiar way, the way Lapdog
sometimes does, eyes wide and shiny. I ignore her.
'Nice display earlier,' I say to Jessica. I'm close enough to
smell her, feel the heat of her body against mine. The
shampoo scent of her hair. The JD on her breath, strong and
bitter. She's well oiled here. I'm willing myself not to look
down the front of her tight white halter top but it's a struggle.
I wonder if she'd notice?
'Meaning?' she asks, eyebrow raised.
Oh, you know what I mean. You know exactly where I'm
coming from, you foot-twirling little minx. 'Very impressive
stuff,' I say, winking.
Jessica checks around, at people waving hands in the air as
Free's All Right Now' chugs from the speakers, at the slumped
form of her lightweight father, over to the kitchen door where
her mother's probably still griping about me while she counts
out ready-made ham and cheese spirals. She checks her
watch, lifts her right foot; I see it's been slipped back into a
matt-black leather pump.
'Is this a film quote thing again, Jake?' she sighs.
You teenaged temptress. You've got me in the palm of your
hand. Or is it the arch of your foot? Ah, who cares? I can't
breathe, can feel her rubbing the side of her shoe against my
leg as she taps her foot to the music. Just the briefest of
touches, a gentle sweep up and down the outside of my left
calf. I'm starting to feel pissed. Intoxicated. With the alcohol,
the situation. And my stomach isn't hurting for the first time
in so long. Instead I feel a wave of small shivers through my
lower guts, my groin. Thank Christ the lights are dimmed
because I'm sitting on Frank's settee with his daughter and
nothing but the three-millimetre-thick cloth of my trousers
separates her from my hard-on.
'Gotta go toilet,' I say to Jess. I need to. Five minutes, that's
all. Got to piss. Catch my breath. Stop my head spinning.
Time to adjust. I have to adjust to what's going on. And I
really have to adjust my underwear. 'We'll finish this
conversation shortly' I say, standing and holding her gaze for
a few seconds, and she just stares right back and I know now
that I'm in here. I'm on a gold-plated promise. I can't fucking
believe it.
So I take the stairs four at a time, hand covering my crotch
tent, see Frank still dozing next to the speakers, Jessica
laughing with the other girl, probably laughing at how brazen
she's been with me, how she's so dirty and dangerous and full
of life and really, really crazy to be doing it but she's going to do it with her dad's hunky best friend, tonight. She's finally
decided to give herself to me. To me. Possibly with her mate
tagging along for the ride. I could manage that. A little bit of
charity never hurt.
I can't believe how I've managed to turn things around in
such a short period. Is there no end to your upward trajectory,
Jacob Smith?
I lock the bathroom door, try peeing in the toilet but
everything's standing to attention so give up and piss in the
sink. Check my face in the mirror. Rearrange myself, zip and
button myself back up. Pull up my right sock, ensure the
mouse gun's secure. Throw a few poses, my casual shirt
bulging in all the right places. Check the front of my
trousers, chuckle to myself. Throw my head back and laugh
out loud.
I walk downstairs, trying for casual, as casual as can be with
shaky knees after more than three-quarters of a bottle of JD,
with a nine-millimetre concealed weapon rubbing the skin of
my ankle. I can't see Jessica. Nor her desperate drunken
friend. Did they follow me up and I missed them? No worries.
Head for the kitchen, keep myself in the driving seat, grab
another drink. There's just Mel, Tommy, and what's left of
the food. I'm confused now. A little concerned. I step out onto
the patio; maybe they like a crafty fag and they've slipped out
to have a snout.
There's nobody there.
'Where she gone, woman?' I ask Mel in the kitchen.
'What?' she asks. Tommy's pretending not to notice, like
he's discovered an extremely interesting prawn wrapped in
filo pastry. 'Who the hell d'you think you're talking to?' Mel
almost shrieks, and I'm glad the music in the lounge is loud
enough for nobody else to hear.
'I.. .Jess?' I say. 'I was ... We were talking 'bout something
and hadn't, y'know, she hadn't finished. Jessica.'
Mel just glares at me, cheeks burning, and I wonder if she's
overdone it in front of the oven. 'She's gone,' she says.
What the fuck? 'What d'you mean she's gone?'
'Out, Jake,' Mel says, and I feel that sickening, roiling
sensation explode in my belly again. 'Clubbing, probably.
How should I know? Nobody tells me what's going on around
here any more. And why do you care?'
'But. ..' I say. 'We were talking about. . . stuff'
'Well boo-bloody-hoo,' she says, and it takes all the strength
I can muster not to reach down to my sock. 'It's what they do, Jake,' she's saying. 'Why on earth d'you think Jess would want
to spend the whole night here with us oldies? Her and Izzy
just took the free drinks and food then cleared off to meet
their mates. And to be honest,' she looks me up and down,
then at Tommy, 'I can't blame them.'
No, no, no, no, no. No. This is simply not right. I was on a
promise. I have an erection here, for God's sake. Jessica's still in
the house. I know it. She's just teasing. Yanking my chain
again. I'll search upstairs. Play her game of hide and seek if
that's what it takes.
I pour another tumbler of bourbon, neck it, leave the
kitchen. Step over Frank's feet, dart into the hall, stumble up
the stairs. Legs shaky. Too much Jack again. Can feel it
muddying everything. That tingle in my arms, my throat.
That heat on my tongue, my breath.
I'm swaying as I check the upstairs rooms, flinging open
doors as if to catch her by surprise. Bathroom, cloakroom,
spare bedroom. Nobody there. No Jessica. Hide and seek, is it,
baby? I'll play along. I've all the time in the world here.
Never been this far along the landing, seen inside these
rooms, in all the years I've known my best friend. New
territory. Strange, exciting times. I get to the master bedroom
door, really into this now, my hard-on back to full strength.
Locked and loaded. I reach in through the doorframe, feel
along the wall for the light switch, flick it on, jump into the
room with the tent in my trousers on full view, arms raised
and fingers waggling, ta-daaahl, and see her lying there on her
parents' bed, lying there spread-eagled and waiting, but then
I focus and it's just a pile of coats. And she's not in the
wardrobes, under the bed. Where are you?
I push open the last door on the landing, push it open
slowly, savouring this pause for breath, this feeling of
impending nirvana. Delaying the final pleasure for just a few
seconds more. I will remember this moment. The muffled
voices and laughter downstairs. Music pounding through the
floorboards, Jim Morrison wailing, 'Don't You Love Her
Madly . . .' My heart keeping time with the bass line. The
giddy swirl of my head. Lips tacky from the whisky.
'Respect the cock!' I shout, and turn on the light in Jessica's
bedroom.
There's nobody here. Rock posters, desktop computer,
clutch of oversized teddy bears on the single bed, clothing
strewn about the carpet. And me. With my pointless erection.
I dig my fists into my eyes. Push against the lids until it
hurts. You fool, Jake. You stupid fucking idiot. She's gone. She
knew. Even got her homely friend to play along. 'You
scheming little pricktease!' I shout, then hunch over, finger to
my lips. Shhh. Got to keep it down, bra. Got to be quiet while
you're in this room. Gather your thoughts. There's still Plan
B. Still the restaurant and Rachael. I need to get my head
straight. Need to sound this out with someone. Too drunk,
man. Too drunk to make a decision here.
I pull out my mobile, dial Lowri. 'Hey J,' she says. 'What's
up?'
I'm so relieved to hear her. So pleased there's someone in
my life who'll listen without judgement. Who won't dangle
herself in front of me then whip everything away just for a
fucking giggle. So what if it costs me? Doesn't everything cost
you something somewhere along the line?
'I'm stuck,' I say to her, breathing heavily down the phone.
'I need help.'
'Oh, I'm sure I can sort you out, honey' she says, then she's
off and I'm trying to stop her, saying no, wait Lowri, that's
not what I mean, but she's talking in my ear in that breathy,
gravelly voice of hers, that smoky voice I love so much. I'm
standing here in Jessica's bedroom with a boner in my
trousers, it's all so surreal, such a bizarre situation, and Jessica,
no Lowri, it's Lowri, she's going for it, telling me how she's
gonna ride me like a pony next time she sees me, clamber on
top and grind it, Jake, yeah I'm really gonna grind it, and the
phone's digging into my ear now, I'm pressing hard enough to
make pain shoot down my jawline, pacing about the room
with this voice coming out of my mobile while I pick up a
pillow from the bed and sniff it, smell that familiar citrus
scent, drop it back to the bed. I'm so horny I could scream. So
pissed I can barely stand. So lonely. So alone.
And I'm rubbing at my crotch while she whispers that
smut, the brilliant filth, and I pull open a wardrobe and oh, be
still my beating heart. It's the black diamante high-heeled
mule sandals. I think of the night Jessica started all this.
Wearing them when she came home.
'You know you want to, Jake,' she's rasping in my ear. 'Do
me,' she's saying, and my left hand cramps as it squeezes the
phone. My breathing is shallow, quick. My other hand is
frantically undoing my trousers. Belt. Button. Zip. I drop
them around my ankles. Lower my boxer shorts. Feel the
material gather slightly around the bulge of the mouse gun.
Stand in front of the open wardrobe, in front of the sandals.
This is so wrong. But such blessed relief.
My hand gets to work. Those sandals are beautiful.
'Do me now,' the voice says, and I picture her, see Frank's
daughter naked, feet circling the air, which is a lovely surprise,
isn't it? Very pleasant. 'Take me anyway you want,' she's
saying. 'Take me every way you want. Treat me like the slut I
am. D'you wanna fuck me, baby?'
'Yeah. Yes I do . . .Jessica.'
I'm so lonely.
'Then fuck me, Jake.'
'I am. I am. I am . . .'
I am so alone.
'Harder
'Yeah . . .' Somebody please help me. 'Yeah . . . yeah . . .
yeah .. .'
'Harder, Jake
'Help me, Jessica.'
'What the^ucfe d'you think you're doing, bra?'

I turn, see Frank in the doorway. He's pale. Shaking.
Sucking lungfuls of air through his nose. Snorting almost, like
a bull about to charge. I wonder how long he's been standing
there. Long enough, I suspect. I look down, see my hand still
gripping my penis. Softening now, as you'd expect given the
rather awkward circumstances.
'Frank . . .' I say, but I have no time to say anything more
because he's on me, always so quick over short distances, one
hand against my throat and barrelling me backwards into the
wardrobe. He's squeezing. Hard. My eyes are closed. He reeks
of booze. Sorry, I'm trying to say. Sorry, Frankie. Sorry sorry
sorry . . . but I can't get any words out. He's strangling me
here. My phone's in my hand, the hand I'm using to try and
push Frankie away. Can hear Lowri, bless her, she's still talking
dirty, her voice tinny and faint. And then I'm being pulled
forwards by the collar of my shirt, so quick I can't see
anything but a blur of teddies and indie pop stars when I open
my eyes, my legs waddling inside the tangle of my bunched
trousers, Frank's hands on me, slapping me, thumping me a
few good ones on the face and neck and perhaps I need this,
maybe this is right, this beating, this pounding I'm getting. So
I let myself go with it, allow Frank to do whatever he sees fit,
then I'm onto the landing, can hear him screeching something
but it's unintelligible, he's too drunk to make sense, I'm too
drunk to understand, then there's more pushing and I'm on
my way down the stairs with my limp dick bouncing about in
the fresh air, falling, tumbling over, the carpet burning the
skin of my arse, my thighs, my knees, the music's still blasting
and nobody in the lounge even knows what's going on.
And then I'm sitting on the cold wet driveway, one leg of
my trousers completely off, rainwater freezing my shrunken
nuts and the slamming of Frank's front door reverberating
around my skull. My jacket lies in a puddle, thrown out after
me. The business end of the mouse gun is peeping out of my
sodden sock and pointing at my face.
'Jake?' I hear, a voice seemingly from far away. 'Jake? What's
happening?'
I glance down at my hand in my grazed and chafed lap and

after all that's just happened find the mobile curled between
my fingers.
Lowri's still on the line.

TWENTY-TWO

I'm home, in bed, there's sunlight in the room and I can't
remember getting here but feel like I've been run over. Or I've
got polio. Does it happen that quickly? One minute you're a
walking talking human being, then you go to sleep and the
sneaky fucker creeps over you, spreads through you, and
when you wake your central nervous system is shot?
Am I paralysed? Is that what this is?
I'm trying to wiggle my fingers, my toes, groaning under
the quilt when nothing happens and silently cursing Mel
because this is probably her fault with those undercooked
mini sausage rolls. Then I remember Jessica's bedroom, Frank
turfing me out and ... I think I'm going to puke.
I strain every muscle in my upper body, will them to work
so I can roll over. Don't want to drown in my own vomit lying
on my back, can feel it rising upwards already so over I go,
onto my side, dog tags tinkling. I piece together what I can
from the abortion that was last night, those memory
flashbulbs going off in my chronically aching skull as I'm dry
heaving towards the bedroom carpet.
'Frank . . .' I moan, and it turns into a coughing fit. 'I'm
sorry, brother
Then I hear someone coming up the stairs.
I'm on my side, frozen, staring at the bedside table where
my unofficial pocket notebook sits alongside a pen and the
pistol, the footsteps are louder, whoever's in my house is
nearing the top of the stairs. I'm hoping it's Frank and
last night was a bad dream, a sweaty vol-au-vent-induced
hallucinatory nightmare, that he's here to do the wakeywakey
eggs 'n' bakey routine before wheeling me into the
shower then we'll head for the gym so I can blow it off, our new gym which is miles better than The Elite could ever hope
to be. But no matter how hard I try to kid myself, I know it
won't be him. Not this morning. Maybe not ever again.
I reach out towards the mouse gun, one stiff trembling arm
across a gap of maybe two feet that feels like a mile. I grasp
for the pistol grip, miss it, grab for it again. See fresh cuts and
nicks on the skin around my knuckles. Take hold of the PM9,
ease it under the quilt as the person approaches the bedroom
door. Maybe it's Karen, then. Karen and Naomi and Ben. Surprise! they'll yell as they burst into the room. Carrying
gifts, of course. Yeah, Jake. Right.
What about Rachael? Here to kiss 'n' make up. To tell me
she's made a horrendous mistake. That Cliff is gay. That he's
really a transsexual. That he's actually a gay transsexual
eunuch married to a lesbian. Called Ginge.
I hold my breath, peer over the edge of the quilt as the bedroom
door slowly opens, and when I see Lowri there holding a
mug I don't know whether to laugh or cry or tell her to get the
fuck out of my house, you filthy whore. I drop my head back to
the pillow, breathe. Eyes on the ceiling. I'm so tired.
The mattress rocks a little as she sits on the edge of the
bed. 'Are you . . .?'
'Awake?' I grunt, not looking at her. 'Unfortunately'
Are you okay? I made you some tea. Didn't know if you
take sug--'
I flip the top of the quilt down with my fingers. 'What are
you doing in my house?'
She rolls her eyes, places the mug next to my pocket
notebook. 'You asked me to come back here with you,
remember?'
I shake my head. Feel pain down the back of my neck.
'Thought not,' she says. 'But then you were fuckin'
smashed.'
I'm sore all over. 'Did we . . .?' I ask, and steel myself for
another tongue-lashing, but she just smiles and shakes her
head, tells me no, no we didn't do anything and your settee is really
comfortable to sleep on, and for a moment I'm surprised at how
understanding she is. But then you can buy a lot of patience
when you wave six grand under somebody's nose.
I'm watching her, this stranger in my house, this teenager
who reminds me of a dead girl in a Clio, this sad and fragile
looking thing who's probably tougher than any man I know.
So pretty. Such a dirty, pretty thing. I think about Karen again,
what I'd say if she came home right now, found me lying in
bed with an eighteen-year-old tea-making hooker and a gun
in one hand.
Lowri's glancing about the bedroom, quiet now. Her face
has softened; there's something in her eyes I've not seen
before. She looks happy. Relaxed, even.
'You've got a nice place here,' she says eventually
I nod. A nice, empty place. 'Why d'you do the things you
do, Lowri?'
'Why do you do the things you do, Jake?'
'I can get you out of your . . . line of work. Help you,
y'know.'
She chuckles, waves a hand around at the room. 'You

already are.'
'You can't stay here forever,' I say. 'I had . . . have a

family'
'So you've told me.'
I can't recall this. 'What about your parents? Aren't they
worried about you?'
'What about yours?' she asks, her face hardening for a
second. Then she reaches across to the bedside table. 'Cool!'
she says. 'Is this your, like, police booklet?'
My shoulder screams as I snatch my pocket notebook out
of her hands. 'Don't,' I tell her. 'It's official police, er... stuff
For work.'
I tuck it under the quilt, slide it next to the mouse gun.
Can't remember writing in it last night, but must have done.
Must've come back here and completed my notes after what
happened at Frank's.
'What's with all the cuts and grazes?' she's asking, eyeing
my hands and forearms from beneath the dark whorl of her
fringe.
I'm too ill to explain. To conjure some lie. I sink back onto
the pillow again, feel sick just from the smell of the tea she's
made. 'I used to call you Little Red Riding Hood, you know,'
I say, draping an arm across my eyes to block out the sunlight.
'To my friends. My friend. When I had one.'
She doesn't reply. There's silence and I sense she's watching
me. Then I feel her shift off the bed, hear her softly padding
across the carpet to the door. I wonder if she's barefoot?
'Because of my coat,' she says. 'I know, you've said. C'mon,
you'd better get up. You're a late today, apparently/
'What?'
'You told me to tell you. You're a late. In work.'
Shit. Work. I'm on afternoons. A bloody late turn, feeling
like this. Looking like this. I check my watch. An hour before
I have to leave.
'How about I rustle you up some breakfast?' she asks.
I swallow. Headache kicking in now. Mouth arid, lips gluey.
'Bloody make yourself at home, why don't you?' I croak, and
it's only teasing really, just needling her slightly because that's
what we do, isn't it? Me and Lowri, that's what we're like
together. We're Richard Gere and Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.
Except she's quiet for a few seconds.
'It's just nice to have a home for a little while,' she says then,
stepping out of the bedroom, and I wish I could take it back.

I'm feeling sick and miserable when I walk into the parade
room and it's obviously going to be one of those days because
the kiddie cops are sitting about with long faces. Silence but
for the burble of radio traffic. Everybody motionless, staring
into space. Like a wake or something.
I keep my scabbed hands in my pockets, wait for anyone
to speak, but get nothing so shrug and go prepare a brew. Dial
Frankie's phones for the hundredth time but his house rings
out and his mobile's off. Lose count of the sugars I spoon into
my mug, stop caring, slurp it as I walk back into the parade
room and gag because it's sweet as a milkshake.
I take my seat next to Lapdog, dump my paperwork on the
tabletop. 'What's happertaining, paizanT I ask. 'Somebody
died?'
Lapdog looks at me with those oh-so-emotional fawn's
eyes. His staring makes me feel uncomfortable.
'What?' I ask, and check around the table. All of them Roid,
BMX, Three Amp, the rest - wretched expressions on
their faces. Sergeant Baker's got some serious anger going on,

too.
'Haven't you heard?' Baker asks.
'Heard what?'
Baker gives a small shake of his head and juts out his
bottom jaw, showing a predictably perfect set of white teeth.
'We've got one of our own in hospital,' he says. 'And he's in a
bad way'
Ah. Injury on duty time. Always gets the blood flowing
across division. Some poor plod's had a shoeing at a call, I bet.
Knife pulled on him, maybe. Or in the wrong place at the
wrong time against the wrong crackhead burglar who just
wouldn't take telling when he began sticking a screwdriver in
the copper's neck. And now everyone's thinking about
revenge. About their own vulnerability. It could've been me,
they're thinking. There but for the grace of God . ..
'Shit,' I say, not really caring that much at all because I'm a
little preoccupied with my own problems right now, but I try
for a despondent look to match everyone else's. 'Wow. That's
bad luck. How'd it happen?'
'Got jumped,' says Lapdog from beside me. 'At a cashpoint.'
BMX bangs the table with a hand, love her. Ooh, the
emotion. 'Some fucking coward attacked him when he
popped out from the restaurant last night,' she shouts.
What?
'Okay calm down,' Baker says but there's that sudden
whooshing in my ears. I can't hear him properly. Everything's
off-kilter. I'm looking at him but it's another face I see.
'Hang on . . .' I'm saying. My voice seems distant, like I'm
going under a general anaesthetic. Just slipping away and the
doc's asking me to count to ten . . . 'He wasn't. . . wasn't on
duty? Who we talking about here?'
'Clive Turner,' says Lapdog, and I feel his eyes on me.
'From Clinton Street nick.'
'Oh,' I hear myself say. Look down at my hands beneath
the table. See the cuts and raised lumps around my knuckles.
Did I come straight home with Lowri? After Frank's? Where
did you go, Jake? Where have you gone?
And Baker's shushing the kids, telling them not to worry,
the CID are on it big time. I can't sit here any more. I stand
and steady myself, make sure my legs are going to work when
I walk to the tea room, tell them in sombre tones I'm gonna
make another brew, make a nice cup of tea for us all as we
bond over this traumatic incident. I walk to the kitchenette,
switch on the kettle and grip the edge of the worktop. Bent
over. Head lowered. Breathing deeply.
And then I giggle my fucking head off. Giggle so hard my
shoulders are juddering, my cheeks wet with tears. Then I
stop. Check the doorway. Hear them in the parade room, the
raised voices, Baker calming them all down as they piss and
moan about their banged-up buddy. Oh, thank you, whoever
you are up there. Thank you for this gift, for doing this job
for me. I lift up my hands, see the grazes, know I got them at
Frank's. I know it wasn't me who gave Cliff a tuning. Too
drunk, bra. Too damn drunk to do much of anything as far as
I can remember.
So I make the tea, wipe my damp eyes, get my poker face
ready and go back into the parade room.
It's gone deathly quiet again.
'Tea's up,' I say, standing there with the tray.
Everyone's staring at me.
And I see Baker's holding my work pocket notebook, my
official one. Good for you, son. Check it over. Sign it off like
you do every week, make sure it's all in order for those
muppets up at Professional Standards.
But he's holding it up between finger and thumb like it's a
piece of shit he's discovered, like it's some poisonous lump
that'll infect him in some way. He swivels his head towards
me, swallowing. The blood's drained from his face.
'Laptop ...' he says, eyes wide and on me. 'Laptop wanted
your notes from the tramp arrest yesterday morning
'Yeah,' I say. And?'
He lifts my notebook up further, dangles it in mid-air. 'He
found . . . What have you written here, Jake?'
Oh, for fuck's sake. I step over, dump the tea tray on the
table. Take my notebook from him. Check the page he's been
looking at. Read what I've written there. The frantic, jagged


handwriting. My private, drunken thoughts. The description
of what I've done. What I did. To Cliff. To Clive. Because it
was me after all.
And I wrote about it in the wrong notebook.
I can't move. Can't look up. Perhaps if I stay like this they'll
just ignore me and go away. Leave me alone. Understand what
I'm going through at the moment. That I need help. But I hear
the sound of chairs being pushed back from the table, of
protection equipment rattling on utility belts, of footsteps
advancing towards me.
When I raise my head I'm surrounded by the shift.
Encircled. All of them. Looking up at me, fury and disgust
and astonishment in their eyes. Lapdog's right in front, the
point man with Kwik-Cuffs out of their pouch and poised in
the Home Office-approved application position.
'I thought it might've been you,' he says, his voice queerly
menacing. 'Clive told me . . . told me everything about you
and Rachael and ... I didn't. . . didn't want to believe him.'
'C'mon, Lapdog,' I say, shrugging.
'My name's Martin,' he growls. And I should've said
something . . . done something before you got to Clive
I never liked working here anyway.
'You'll never take me alive, fuckers,' I say to them, and
smile.

Then they're upon me.

TWENTY-THREE

I'm at home but completely lost.
Everything I've ever clung to has gone. I'm just a man sitting
in his pants staring at a widescreen television I haven't finished
paying for. In a house where I can no longer afford the mortgage.
Trapped by the hire-purchases of comfortable suburban life.
With unanswered texts and voicemail messages from Young
Pacino on my mobile, telling me the jig's up and I've forced his
hand, that pretty soon he'll have something to really grab my
attention. And my very own teenage ho preparing lunch in the
kitchen. I'm mulling over going upstairs, wrapping my lips
around the muzzle of the PM9 and pulling the trigger while
she's pottering about. This busy little streetwalkingbee, making
nice and homely. Getting her feet - which I still haven't clapped
eyes on - under the table while I sit here not caring.
'Talking to yourself again?' she asks, and I turn to see her
slinking into the lounge carrying a tray. Her movements are
relaxed, languid. She glides, almost. Not like an awkward
teenager. Two deep bowls rest on the tray, braids of steam
twirling upwards in front of her face. She pauses as if waiting
for me to speak, looks mildly irritated. 'Fine,' she says when I
don't answer, and sets the tray on the coffee table. 'Talk away.
Just don't call me a ho, all right?'
I can't be bothered defending myself. Just thinking out
loud, baby. I swivel my head back to the telly.
'What you watching?' Lowri asks, sinking into the settee
beside me. She curls her legs beneath her, socked feet towards
my bare thigh. Coiled. Catlike.
I say nothing because I have no clue. It's talking heads.
Could be the news. A 'Nam documentary, perhaps. Maybe
even hardcore porn, some weird shit with hairy dwarves or
something. Who knows?
Lowri's digging quietly at her microwaved spud. I can see
her out the corner of one eye. See her glancing at me every
few seconds.

'You've got to eat,' she says.
'I will,' I say, but probably won't. Not today. My stomach ...
She reaches across; the skin on the palm of her hand is soft
and dry on my forearm. It makes me catch my breath. I look
at her looking at me.

'Those are some good cuts there, J,' she says, squinting at
my wrist.
The cuff marks. Lapdog stuck them on good and proper.
Locked, rigid. By the time they'd pinned me to the floor and
got them on me I was exhausted. Nine of them to bring me
down. Takes it out of a man, wrestling with so many people,
child cops or not. And then for good measure they gave me a
blast of CS spray, which was a tad uncalled for in my opinion.
'I'll survive,' I say, but I'm really not sure about that any
more. Been doing a lot of thinking these last few days. Had a
lot of time on my hands. Plenty of long, drawn-out seconds
that've ticked into minutes then bled into hours and I don't
think I've slept since they booted me out of the cells with a
charge sheet gripped in my hand. GBH, guys. Serious stuff.
Bailed to court in two weeks with conditions I don't enter the
city centre. That I don't enter any police station within the
force area. That I leave Cliff and Rachael and pretty much
anybody connected with them well alone.
They made me hand in the uniform I was wearing. My
friction-lock baton, cuffs, CS spray, too. And the old warrant
card. Suspended good and proper. On full pay, but it'll just be
a matter of time. Just be a matter of potting me in court for
shoeing Clive and then it's adios, Jacob. Goodbye and thanks
for all the fish. It's been emotional.
Worst thing is, they took my official and unofficial pocket
notebooks. Right there in the custody suite after they locked
me up. Bagged and tagged. Huzzah for them. But what am I
going to write in now? What about my evidence?
'Fuckin' pigs, man,' Lowri says.
'Yeah,' I say. Ain't they?'
And I could go over the wall for what I did to Cliff. Couple
of years at Her Majesty's pleasure, most likely. Three hots and
a cot with an hour of exercise each day.
Lowri finishes eating, gets up, asks me if I want any of the
food and I don't reply so she tuts, gathers up the tray and
sashays out of the lounge, so comfortable in my house now.
So at home. My surrogate wife. My proxy partner. My
replacement child. This beck-and-call girl who's all things to
this man.
I hear her cleaning up in the kitchen, running the tap,
loading the dishwasher, opening cupboards, spraying and
wiping and humming to herself. Happy. Relaxed. I watch her
come back into the lounge, skinny hips rocking gently from
side to side in her jeans, toes curling upwards in her socks as
she pads across the floor. She has an easy look about her.
Contented.
In the fingers of her right hand she holds a joint. A thick
fuckin' doobie. Five Rizla papers long, at least. A Withnail
and I Camberwell Carrot.
She flops back onto the settee. 'D'you mind?' she asks,
flicking the spliff skywards with a look that suggests she
couldn't give a toss if I minded or not.
'Drugs,' I say.
'Yes,' she says. 'Well spotted.'

'Illegal drugs,' I say.
'Yes, they are,' she says with a lopsided smile. 'Very
naughty.'
'And I'm a police officer,' I say to her. Aren't I?'
Lowri places that soft hand on my forearm again. Looks
into my eyes. 'You really need to chill out a bit, Jake,' she says.
And she relaxes back into the cushions, sparks up the
joint. Draws on it, takes a big chest full of smoke, removes
it and closes her mouth, holds her breath, puffs out her
cheeks and glances at me. I watch, mentally timing her, counting
silently. Then she's bobbing her head because I'm
counting out loud, bobbing down then up in little jerks as
I'm counting forty-four, forty-five, forty-six to see how long
she keeps it in. And suddenly this is funny. This is fun.
While she's sitting there gurning with her bulging, amused
eyes, I sit forward, look around for my Cafe Cremes, can't find
them, take my ashtray from the coffee table and place it on
the settee between us. Then she faces me, jerks her eyebrows
up, leans over and exhales. Blows the smoke in my face. It
billows around me and I gasp, breathing it in.
'Give it to me,' I say, taking it from her. Bollocks to the job.
I stick it between my lips, take a good, long hit. Fill my lungs
with ganja, man. Hold my breath. Hold it and stare at Lowri,
see her laugh as she counts for me now, start bobbing my head
as she's saying eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three with widening
eyes and then I open my mouth and let the smoke drift out,
thick grey plumes rising up and over my face.
'Nice,' I say, nodding, and she chuckles. That deep, rough
sound of her voice.

So we sit and pass the spliff back and forth in silence, my
little hoochgirl and me, my partner in crime. When it's done
and my head is reeling she skins up, a masterful display of
roll-up creation, a long and tight joint packed nicely with
blow. It's awesome. Wow, I hear myself gasp. Out the window
I see the sun hanging low in the sky. No cloud. Warm orange
light falling through the windows onto my naked midriff.
A beautiful day at last.
Lowri's drawing on the end of the second spliff, eyelids
heavier, cuddling a pillow in front of her, legs tucked up on
the settee. Such a pretty girl. Lush dark hair plunging down
to her shoulders. Her tiny frame, her small, compact breasts,
that slim, delicate neck. And those eyes, those huge black eyes
with their long spiked lashes.
I would, Lowri. I would but for the things you've done.
Why have you ruined what we could've had? If only I'd gotten
to you sooner. If only I'd taken you away from it all; if I'd
saved you before you immersed yourself in that world of filth.
But I still would, you know. I think I really would . ..
'What?' she asks, puzzled. She outs the joint in the ashtray.
'You would what?'
I look away. Place a hand over the front of my boxer shorts
to hide the bulge that's formed there. 'I. . . Do you . . .?'
She shifts position, moves closer. I feel her fingertips on my
chin, those long nails of hers. She gently pulls my face around,
back in her direction, and now there's barely three inches
between us and I can feel her warm breath on my cheeks,
smell smoke and cannabis resin. Her eyes are huge. So close.
They fill my vision.
'Do I what, Jake?' she asks softly. Her fingertips are
caressing my jaw, my throat. Her other hand cups my left hip.
Our legs touching. Electricity there. My hairs standing on end.
'Do you want to . . .?' I stammer, the tickle of her nails
making my breathing rapid, my heart race. I push down on
my boxer shorts. Push it away.
'Want to what?' she's whispering in my ear now, hot breath
on my flesh, fingers rubbing against my neck then my delts,
my pecs, and down my abdominals towards my groin. And
she knows what I mean. She knows what I want.
And I would, Lowri. But all those faceless, nameless
strangers. Those paying punters you've sucked and fucked.
The things you've done . . . My grubby angel. My polluted
princess. You foul feast for the eyes. You sexy slattern. You're
nothing but an achingly gorgeous filthy flatback. Too late,
Jake. Much too late again, like that night with the Clio. Like
the night with my mother and father . ..
And suddenly it clicks. I know where I've been going
wrong.
'D'you want... to double up on the PlayStation?' I ask.
She jerks her head back, hands falling away from me.
'Erm . . . what?' she asks, but she's grinning and shaking her
head. Completely stoned. Totally nonplussed. Mouth loosely
open. Face flushed. I wonder if I look the same. I don't feel
that different but I'm having difficulty blinking. Like invisible
fingers are pulling up my eyelids.
I stand, switch on the PlayStation, grab the controllers. The
lounge judders, like I'm viewing a film that's jumped its
sprockets on the cinema projector. Had to be skunk we were
smoking. Potent. Lowri watches me, tongue pushed into the
side of her mouth. Amused. Annoyed. Vietnam Encounter II loads, the title screen flashing onto the television. I sit down
again, can't stop smiling. Can't seem to blink and my eyes are
drying out.
'You want me to play a shooting game with you?' Lowri
asks, staring at the widescreen. 'Come on, Jake. Wouldn't you
rather--'
'It's 'Nam, baby,' I grin, handing her a controller. 'The
fuckin' 'Nam. Now light up that spliff and let's play, hoochgirl.
I got some cleaning up to do.'
She hesitates for a moment, eyes narrowed, mouthing
hoochgirl? as she shakes her head, but I don't mind because
after tonight it's the start of everything. I watch her spark up
the doobie, think how I'm going to enjoy this last blast
because I know what I have to do now and what it's going to
take. I've gotta be quicker. Gotta get in there sooner. Gotta
work from the bottom up. Begin the clean up. Alone. First at
home, with this game. Clean the goddam VC out of the ville.
Then move on. Move out. 'Cos those gooks are running riot
out there and the sun may be shining but this is still a
desperate, desperate land we live in.
And I don't want to be too late to deal with anything any

more.
So we work the tunnels first, busting caps in tandem, our
strange little relationship transposed to the screen. Mowing
down VC, fragging ammo dumps, pausing to high-five.
Lowri's shouting, screaming with laughter and I'm ordering
her to tell me love you long time, GI, you Number One, me wan'
suckyfucky, and I'm laughing too, taking more hits on the
spliff, hitting that marijuana, that Mary Jane, then Lowri's on
a rampage, her grunt going berserk, she's got the red mist, is
wiping out wave after wave of Charlie and basically kicking
my arse with her score.
'You're bloody rubbish,' she snorts at me, falling back into
the cushions as she kills the last Big Boss to complete the
game, and normally I'd turn the fucking PlayStation off for
that, maybe even write her out a Fixed Penalty, but I don't
because she's right. This girl who has nothing, who's so happy
in spite of it, happy because of what I've done for her and
who's shown me what I have to do to make things even better,

she's right.
So I keep on laughing and I think it's because I'm frightened
to stop.

TWENTY-FOUR

Today's outfit:
An old pair of Lava Combat GTX boots I've used for
gardening; standard-issue police cargo trousers, ironed with
military precision; Damascus Imperial neoprene knee pads;
a limp and frayed leather belt I found in the bottom of a
wardrobe and which I haven't worn for a decade; empty CS
pouch; Fobus cuff-case, also empty; neoprene friction-lock
baton sleeve with no baton; miniature paperwork holder
with pens, paper, Post-it notes and some ancient, invalid
Fixed Penalty chitties; no new pocket notebook yet but that'll
be resolved imminently; Blackhawk Hellstorm Light
Operations gloves; white shirt, also ironed with a nice hit of
starch; epaulette on each shoulder, one of the numbers
askew because the damn fastener is missing; Web-Tex Cross
Draw Vest with no Personal Protection Equipment
whatsoever; clip-on polyester tie, shiny with age, with all the
times it's been yanked off by whichever scrote fancied their
chances; and an old helmet, my first-ever tit with the force
crest on it, the crest which has changed three times since I
joined. I'm standing by the window now, in the early
morning sunlight, reading the scribbled comments inside my
old lid, the graffiti, the handwriting of all those colleagues
whose names I can't remember, the old sweats from my first
station whose job it was to wind up the probationer, to tease
and taunt you mercilessly, to make sure you shut up and
made the fuckin' brew, boy, clean the bastard panda out
before I sit in it, kiddo, no you do that sudden death, I'm too
long in the tooth for all that mess, FNG. Because it's
character building, isn't it? That's why they did it. What
doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
In fifteen-year-old ink I read JACOB YOU FAGGOT. Turn the
helmet around, check another section of the cream lining, see YOU SOFT FUCKING SHANDY DRINKER. Then THIS
HELMET BELONGS TO PC 154 JACOB 'MENTAL HEALTH ACT'
SMITH. Underneath the sweat-stained brown leather of the
forehead-guard is a childlike drawing of a knife, the words SON OF SCROTE alongside. Ah, those funny guys. Those
cheeky little tinkers. Those happy days.
I've been up for two hours, showered, run the clippers
through my hair again, shaved and moisturised, deodorised
and eau-de-toiletted myself. I still look like a sack of shit, but
it'll suffice. I'm just glad I never throw anything away. Not

deliberately, anyway.
It's early, oh-six thirty hours, and Lowri's watching me
dress from her side of the bed, from her side of the king-size
in the master bedroom we've now moved into, her head on
the pillow, hair all over the shop. She's wrapped in the single
quilt I gave her last night so she could sleep next to me. No
touching, intimacy, contamination. But at least she was there.
I slept like I haven't done for months.
One eye closed, she watches me sleepily. 'Where you
going?' she asks, yawning.
'Work,' I say, snapping on my glossy tie.
She eases herself up on an elbow, blows a stray clump of
hair out of her eyes. 'But--'
I hold up a hand. Stop, in the name of the law. 'I've got
work to do,' I say.
'Jake . . .' she's saying, but I'm walking towards the
bedroom door now, helmet tucked under one arm, thinking
how today is going to be a good day. It's time to get down
and dirty. No more tardiness. No more torpor. I will make
this world a better place and thereby make myself a better
man.
'Are you doing anything tonight?' I ask her at the door.
'Urn . . .' she says, shrugging. 'I wasn't planning on going
anywh--'
'I'll be in touch,' I interrupt. 'We'll RV after my shift. Be
ready'
She narrows her eyes, awake now. 'For what?'
I don't answer, leave the bedroom. Grab my Cafe Cremes
in the lounge, my lighter, my wallet, an unsmoked spliff
because we were so toasted last night we couldn't even lift it
from the coffee table. Wedge them all into the thigh pocket of
my cargos next to the mouse gun. Check the bundle of cash
in the other pocket, drop a couple of fifties onto the table for
Lowri. Check my watch. Oh-six forty-three. Right on time. I
step into the hallway, examine myself in the mirror. Dig my
mobile out of the other cargo pocket, slide it into the radio
pouch on the Cross-Draw vest, plug the lone MP3 earphone
I found in Ben's bedside drawer into my left ear, then jam the
jack into the top of the phone.
And I'm cooking on gas. Let's make a difference, Jake.
Let's get out there and show this world what you can do.
What things could really be like for them if everyone just
did what you're about to do and cleaned up around the
damn place.
So I open the front door, step out into the cold sunny
morning for my first shift on solo patrol. From somewhere
behind me I hear Lowri's pained voice, calling from the top of
my stairs, telling me Jake, no, don't go. But I have to.
I close the front door and walk away quickly. Because I
have to.

26

'Good morning, madam,' I say.
The woman beside the till has the early morning pallor of
someone who hasn't slept properly before getting up at
ridiculous o'clock to meet the newspaper deliveries. Bent over,
plump backside in the air, sweating as she cuts plastic ties from
bundles of red-top rags. She jerks upright at the sound of my
voice, startled. Relaxes when she sees the uniform.
'Oh,' she says, primping her greying hair with one hand.
She gives a relieved laugh, like a whinny. 'You made me jump,
officer. Lordy!'
'God always falls asleep on the job,' I tell her, smiling faintly
underneath the brim of my helmet. Warm but firm, that's the
way to do it. Reassuring, professional. She looks momentarily
puzzled. 'But I don't,' I say. 'Just doing the rounds.'
The woman hesitates then shrugs. She's holding scissors so
I keep my distance because you can never be too careful out
here. 'Well, everything's fine. Just opening up for the day'
'Hmm,' I say. 'But I snuck in here without you noticing,
didn't I? Eh? Right up behind you. Didn't even hear me, did
you?'

'Um . .. no,' she says, blinking up at me.
'You should be more careful,' I tell her, wagging a finger.
'More aware. Old dear like you, on her own at this time of the
morning. Anyone could do you over, snatch the takings.
Know what I mean?'

'But this is a village shop,' she protests. 'We've never had
any problems here . . . And who are you calling an old dear?
What's your name again?'
I tilt my head to one side, hold up the finger I was just
wagging at her, give her a shushing gesture. Is that ops room
transmitting? Can I hear them via the MP3 earpiece? I believe
I can. 'Roger that,' I say to nobody, fingers pressing the side of
my mobile phone, mouth up to the tiny blank LCD screen.
'I'll be clear from my current call in around . . .' quick check
of the watch, '. . . ten minutes.'
The woman waits for me to finish radio procedure,
watching me with sullen eyes. I let go of the phone, shake my
head. 'Yet another incident they want me to deal with!' I say
with a dramatic sigh. 'Can't stay too long. Kettle on?'
'Look,' she says, waving a hand around. The scissors flash
under the fluorescents so I take a step back. 'I'm really rather
busy'

'We're all busy,' I say. 'But there's always time for a brew'
'I'm grateful you popped in,' she says. 'But honestly, I don't
have time for anything at the moment.'
'I'm here to help you, madam. Put the kettle on please.'
She's moved behind the counter now. My eyes are on the
scissors. 'The owner'llbe in any minute,' she's saying, looking
at the door. 'I have so much to do. I'm awfully sorry, officer.
Maybe next time?'
Fine. I glance about the store, this shop sitting half a mile
from home and which I've never been into before. Could've
made a nice little tea stop on the patch. Then I check the
tobacco display, do the litmus test. Can't see any Cafe
Cremes on the racks, know I'll never shop here for anything
as a result.
'You have failed, madam,' I tell her. 'Not a decent smoke in
the whole building.'
She screws up her face. 'What?'
I walk to the door, see the rotary display stand next to it. It's
filled with stationery. I select a red notepad. A Ryman Europa
Midi Pocket Notebook, as a matter of fact. With margin.

Nice ...
'Call me if you need anything,' I say, and slip the notebook
into my shirt pocket.

We are back in business.
'I... I will,' she says, then asks me my name and number
but ops room are transmitting to me and of course I have to
listen. My other finger is upright again. Quiet, woman.
Official police business. She's open-mouthed, staring at me
now, free hand feeling about for the cordless phone I can see
leaning against the Chupa Chups lolly display.
All noted; show me en route,' I say into the mobile and

leave.
I've got the Bee Gees' 'Stayin' Alive' in my head as I pace
down the sloping main drag towards the city's student area
and I'm annoyed because the music is inappropriate for
serious police foot patrol. I stop walking to make the music go

away. Smile at the groups of kids traipsing to the local school.
'Morning,' I nod. 'Morning . . . morning. .. morning..."
Most don't answer. Just glower at me from under their
fringes. These scruffy little iPod zombies. These spotty
walking hormone sacks. How sloppy they all look! Nike
trainers, ill-fitting blouses, tatty trousers hanging off arses to
show their bundles. This isn't right. I may not be the best
dressed officer in town, but it's for a reason. At least I want to
make more effort.

'Oy you.' I point at a clump of shuffling fifteen-year-olds. I
stand in front of them, block their path. 'What on earth d'you
think you're doing?'
They stop. Swap glances. I hear a snigger. One of them, a
chunky fellow with Neanderthal features who's as wide as he's
tall, he looks up at me. 'Wha'?' he mumbles.
'Look at you,' I say. 'Just. Look. At. You.'
Cro-Magnon boy, he sniffs. 'We ain't done nuffin', officer.'
'What's with the pants then?' I demand. 'Eh?'
Five pairs of eyes looking at me. Clueless.
'Our . . . pants?' says Chunky. He looks down at his
trousers.
'Deary deary me,' I say, shaking my head. 'Call that a
uniform? You're just adding to the problems, aren't you? Don't
you think the world is in enough of a mess as it is, without
you lot walking around like you've shit yourselves? Eh?'
'Thought the police weren't supposed to swear,' says Chunky.
'I'll fucking well do what I like, tubs,' I tell him, moving
closer. The mouths on these kids today. The complete lack of
respect. And what I'm telling you lot to do is pull your bloody
pants up! Literally and metaphorically!'
I wait, watch as they yank at their clothing. Tidy
themselves up. Other children rubberneck as they pass by.
Chunky's starting to get upset. I think he's about to start
grizzling. I bend forward slightly, place my arm on his
shoulder. His deltoid is flabby, no definition at all.
'I'm not one for losing my temper,' I tell him, staring into
his weepy eyes. 'But I'd rather catch you now before it's too
late. Before it's too late for me, know what I mean?'
He nods and I'm not sure if he's grasped it but it'll do so I
pat his bulbous upper arm, wince as the flesh jiggles beneath
his shirt. 'Good lad,' I say to him. 'You're all going to be good
lads, I can tell. Now on your way'
So off they skulk, Chunky with his head down, his
companions slapping him on the back and glaring at me. I'm
waving them off thinking job well done, see one of them
flipping open his mobile phone, skinny fingers punching the
keypad three times.
I walk quickly down the hill, take the first turning I come
across, some posh tree-lined avenue. I'm thinking about
Chunky's mate and his undoubtedly grateful phone call to the
station. It's clear my work in this location is complete so I
speed up, take my lid off, carry it. Decide to jog a little. Then
run. If any of the residents sees me I'm just a local plod
chasing down some crims. A bobby legging it to a house
alarm. Nothing to see here, sir! Go about your business. Let

me handle it...
I follow the avenue as it curves left, dart through a gulley
onto a dirt track at the back of these mansion houses. Stop,
squat on my haunches against a wooden garden fence. My
chest wheezing from the cigars and last night's weed. Check
the PM9, my tin of smokes, the reefer. All there. Everything
good.	/
I smoke a couple of miniatures. Do half the joint. Toke and
listen to the ebb and flow of a siren, a siren that comes mightily
close to where I'm sitting and smoking before falling away
again, wailing into nothingness. Out the spliff by pinching the
ash off the end, stick the rest of it in my cigar tin.
Back on the main drag I head downhill, follow the pavement
south, head feeling a little muggy. I go a mile, maybe
two, without passing a soul. I'm bored with nobody around
to provide advice to, so start examining the windscreens of
parked cars. Clocking the tax discs. I'm appalled to find one
in five out of date. Out of date! In this day and age, when
you can order your bloody Vehicle Excise Licence over
the Internet. When you don't even have to get off your
backside!
It's a nuisance not possessing any proper caution forms to
affix to the windscreens so the Post-it notes have to suffice. I
use nearly a whole pad of luminous yellow squares by the
time I'm nearing the student area, leave a long line of bright
pieces of paper warning each and every car owner they need
to get a grip. They're handwritten and not particularly
professional but they'll do. It's small-time stuff police-wise,
but Baker will be proud of me when he finds out. All those
quick hits for the duty register. Sixty-four cars booked up for
no tax! That'll bump up the figures for this month's Home
Office bean-counter report. . .
I keep walking. On the front foot at last. Up and at 'em. I'm
on the fringes of what I think is Rachael's sector, pootling
along nicely, feeling pretty mellow now, stopping to exchange
pleasantries with some of the old grippers out shopping for
condensed milk and cat litter. What's the time, officer? they ask
over and over until I'm telling them - nicely, of course, got to
stay a pro - to buy a bloody watch.
It's all mundane stuff. Stuff I can do without thinking,
which is helpful as the reefer has made me forget where I'm
going and what I'm supposed to be doing. I know I've got to
be quick about it, though. There's a sense of urgency I can't
shake. A sense that time is running out and only I can do
what's necessary . ..
I'm a hundred yards further down the road, feeling a little
tired now, like I need to stop a while and gather myself
because I haven't done such a lengthy foot patrol for years;
my feet are on fire and I'm holding on to a lamppost as traffic
goes by, mulling over where to go next. I know once this shift
is done it's back to Lowri. Sort her out good and proper. Then
Frank. Karen and the kids. My job. Possibly even Rachael and
Cliff. My 'making amends' list. Rebuild the bridges and
rebuild your life, Jake. Stay on the road to somewhere. But I
have a vague idea that right now I may be getting too close to
something, to a place I shouldn't be, but as I'm trying to
remember what that's all about I see three kids loitering in an
alleyway to my right.
Three teenagers, seventeen at the most, all sports clothes
and shaved hair. Skater trainers, Chucks or Vans, thick
coloured laces that aren't done up properly. One of them has
a Halfords carrier bag. They haven't seen me, are too
engrossed in whatever the one kid has in the bag, are huddled
together while they fish around in it and then, oh dear, out
come the aerosol cans, one each, and I can't believe it when
they begin spraying the whitewashed wall. Hands jerking
about, quick movements as they squiggle in bright spray
paint, laughing and gesturing, and if that wasn't bad enough
one of them pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, they
study it for a few seconds then work on the wall again.
Working as a team. I stare, shaking my head as I realise what
they're doing. They're starting to spray a mural. A mural! Not
thirty feet from the main road. Unbelievable.
'Stop right there!' I shout, and it takes some considerable
effort to make my legs move. I'm running, thinking how I
could be home with Lowri now, that this is quite tiresome, all
this plodding about, when I could have my feet up on the
coffee table while she beats me on the PlayStation.
They freeze. Gaping at me as I sprint towards them. The
one with the carrier bag does a strange kind of shimmy as if
he's about to give it toes but then decides not to bother. I'm
too quick. Right on top of them before they can get going on
the mural. They drop the aerosols, swap brief glances, look
about as if to say nope, officer, weren't us. Don't know nuffink
about spraying nuffink.
'D'you think I'm stupid?' I ask them, breathing heavily. 'Do
you?'

Silence. They're studying the tarmac floor of the alleyway.
'You're in for it now,' I tell them, looking at the graffiti on
the wall. 'What the hell's all this supposed to be?'
'Street art,' one of them says quietly.
Art?' I laugh. 'It's just luminous scribbles, boy'
'We was jus' taggin' our names, mate,' another one says.
'I'm not your bloody mate,' I tell him. Gesture to the wall.
And look at it! It's just... mess! Nothing but a dirty mess for
other people to have to endure.

'They don't have to look at it,' Carrier Bag boy says.
'You're not getting away with this,' I shout. 'Don't you
know that low-level crime increases the public's fear of crime
overall?'

'Eh?' asks Carrier Bag.
Idiot. 'What you've done here is just the start,' I say, moving
closer. 'It's just a few small steps to a life of crime, boy.
Possibly worse. You could end up as a threat to the security of
this country. It's lucky I got to you so quickly. To nip it in the
bud.'

'It's just spraying a wall..." one of them mutters, eyeing
me with an odd expression.
'Right,' I say. 'You've asked for it.' I whip out the old Fixed
Penalties, ask their names, addresses, dates of birth. The boxes
on the pro forma aren't big enough for all the details but I
write them down anyway. Fill in three of them as best I can.
Rip the top copy off each, hand one to each of the artistes.
'What's this for?' Carrier Bag asks, looking at the chitty
with a mystified expression.
A fine,' I tell them. 'For criminal damage.'
'But it's a parking ticket,' he says, wrinkling his nose.
'Don't be clever with me!' I yell, then clench my jaw as they
look at each other, look at me. Start giggling. Cheeky little
bastards.
'Come on,' Carrier Bag says to his chums. 'Let's chip. This
dude's a freak.'
My fingers toy with the mouse gun through the fabric of
my cargos. I feel the muzzle, the trigger-guard. The handle
with its magazine of five nine-millie bullets. 'Laugh all you
want, boys,' I tell them as they shuffle towards the main drag.
'You won't be laughing when you've got to find eighty quid
each for those fines, yeah? Ha! Yeah? Are you listening to me?'

They disappear around the corner. I hear screams of
laughter. Bend down, grab one of the aerosol cans. See green
paint on the nozzle. Slide it into my CS pouch. Take a deep
breath, try to relax after the confrontation. Another job well
done. Another small incident taken care of for the greater
good. I pull out my cigar tin, select the half-smoked reefer,
light it and take a long drag. I hold my breath, lean against
the wall. Exhale. Nice. Very, very nice. Just chill and smoke
and work out what you need to do next, Jake. I finish the spliff,
amble out of the alleyway.
My face hurts and it takes a moment for me to realise.i'm
grinning uncontrollably. I really can't relax my cheeks or lips.
Not to worry. Adds to the agreeable air. The smiling, helpful
policeman. I nod at a couple more pensioners. Wave back at
a bus full of primary school children, forget to stop waving even after the bus has driven off and it's just me shuffling
down the street with my arm in the air. I lower it. See
bemused drivers watching me. Decide to take a detour so
duck into the first store I come across.
A basement Internet cafe, some dimly lit oh-so-trendy gaff
like the coffee shop out of Friends. Heads turn as I walk through
the door. Funny looks. No friends here, then. But that's cool,
man. I'm here to do a job, aren't I? This is what I get paid for.
To be unpopular. I can hear static from the banks of computer
flatscreens, a loud buzz in my ears. I ignore the soap-dodging
students who whisper and mutter as I prowl the workstations
checking over their shoulders for any dodgy goings-on. Bank
fraud, maybe. Online gambling. Illicit paedo stuff. They're
hunching over their screens so I can't see anything.
This is proving far too difficult. 'Any online fraudsters in
here?' I ask instead.

Faces swing towards me. Huge eyes everywhere. Nobody
says a word. Hmm.

Any kiddie fiddlers, then?' I shout. 'Put your hands up if
you are, it'll save a lot of bother in the long run.'

'Haven't you got anything better to do?' I hear from behind
me.

Someone in here's got a bit of front, have they? I turn in
the direction of the voice, see an Asian lad. Late teens, glasses
and weirdly shaped sideburns that start at his hairline then
thin out as they swoop along his jaw. Staring at me over the
top of his specs.
'Why?' I say, glancing around. Everyone's stopped what
they're doing. Am I making you nervous?' I walk over to his
terminal. 'You got something to hide, friend?'

The guy leans, blocks the monitor with one shoulder. 'This
is private,' he says.
'Not on my patch it ain't, sonny,' I tell him, and take hold
of his upper arm, push him to one side. He's on a wheeled
swivel chair so slides about five feet to my left, protesting as
he goes. The website he was looking at shows schematics,
building specs. Architectural blueprints. I click through his
recent history. One of them is of the new Euro Arena, not
two miles from here. I spin around to look at him.
'Why are you looking at building plans?' I ask.
'S' for my degree,' the kid's saying angrily. 'Okay?'
I look him up and down. 'Checking for structural weak
spots, eh? Points of entry? Places to maximise casualties?'
'What?'
'You know exactly what I mean,' I say to him.
'No, actually, I don't,' he says, but I'm not convinced. There's
something wrong here. Something not quite right. It's then that
I see the rucksack on the floor underneath his workstation.
My breath catches. I look from the rucksack to the Asian
kid. I step over to him, take his arm again.
'You're going to have to come with me,' I say, but have no
clue where we'd go if he did. 'I'm arresting you for being
Muslim without due care and attention.'
'What you on about, mate?' he squeals, flapping his arm to

shake me off.
'The rucksack,' I growl at him. 'Your rucksack. I caught you
checking out building plans. Caught you early, before you
could start. Before you could be radicalised, yeah? What's in

the bag, kiddo?'
I sense another person at my side. Won't be any form of
backup, not at the moment. This is solo patrol time. I quickly
check, see a woman decked out in business duds, dark suit
with blonde hair wrenched back into a ponytail. It's too tight,
has pulled the skin on her forehead as well, so now she has
this strange, permanently surprised expression.
'What's the problem here . . . officer?' she asks me. She
appears baffled, looking from the struggling kid to my WebTex
vest.
'Police business,' I say to her, holding up my free hand in
front of her face. 'Back away please, madam. We might have
to evacuate.'
She turns to the kid I've got hold of. 'Is everything all right
here, Rakesh?'
'Get this copper off me,' he shouts, still flapping about on
his wheelie chair. 'He's making out I'm fuckin' al-Qaeda or
somethin'!'
The woman's still swivelling her head back and forth, from
the kid to my vest. Then she asks me: 'Why are you covered
in green paint?'
'What?' I ask.
'You've got paint all over you,' she says, pointing. 'I work as
a Special, you know. Your uniform doesn't look . . . Are you
really a police officer?'
'Of course I'm a bloody police officer,' I tell her, cursing
those kids in the alleyway. Cursing myself for leaning against
the wall while I had a sneaky toke. A real police officer, too,
not some stupid hobby bobby like you. Now please back the
fuck off!'
She takes a step or two away from us. But this is getting out
of hand. I can see other people rising from their chairs,
advancing towards our testy menage a trois. The woman's
pointing at the kid I've got hold of, shouting something about
honours student and research, but I'm losing control of this
situation so press a button on my radio - not my radio, my
mobile - and say to nobody, say to ops room - loud enough for
this kid and the woman and everybody else in here so they
won't mess with me any further - that I need a van, maybe
assistance at the location, nod quickly and say yeah, immediately
please, you're thirty seconds awayl That's all noted, just hurry it up
please and then I see the business woman speaking on her own
mobile phone, saying I don't know who he is, I don't think he really
is a police officer, you'd better send a unit down here straight away
because he's causing all sorts of problems, I think he's not quite right.
You've been looking for him all morning? Well, he's here right

now...
And then I'm surrounded, like a wagon train by Injuns.
Hands on me, pulling and jostling. Raised voices, static from
the flatscreens, sirens in the distance but getting louder. The
kid breaks free from my grasp and nobody's listening as I
explain, no one wants to hear what I've got to say even when
I tell them there's a bomb in the building, so I decide enough
is enough, I'm trying to do my job here but everyone's being
rather obstructive, these people are not assisting me at all and
it's a sorry sign of the times when an officer of the law can't
rely on the public he serves.
I'm under attack. Could end up seriously injured. I reach
down, wrestle my right hand through the clump of arms
gripping onto my vest, try for the mouse gun but can't get to
it. Grab the next best thing. The less lethal option.
I take hold of my CS canister, pull it from its pouch, smash
my arm upwards to force whoever's holding me away so I've
got a clear shot.
'Spray!' I shout, loud enough to warn anybody within the
vicinity that I'm about to discharge a Section One firearm in
the building; that there could be cross-contamination and they
might be affected.
I depress the nozzle, flinch when a big puff of luminous
green paint explodes outwards. Not what I was expecting. Not
exactly CS incapacitant, but it does the trick. I keep my finger
on the nozzle, pressing, arcing the aerosol around the room.
The kid gets a face full, flaps his mouth like a landed tuna,
paws at his eyes. Business woman, her suit's ruined, blonde
hair now a punky green, she's going round in little circles, oh
oh ohing with eyes closed, the outline of her mobile on her
cheek where the spray paint missed. Everybody else backs off.
I look around. Shocked faces. Green faces. Hear sirens. My
backup. Nearly here but too late anyway. I've dealt with this
situation. The matter has been resolved to the satisfaction of
all parties. I stare at the kid, at the paint covering his face and
hair and clothes.
'That's a beautiful colour, man,' I tell him. 'Really quite
vibrant.'
And I thank everyone for their assistance, quickly walk out
through a rear fire door.
Maybe I won't go home today. Not after all this hard work.
Not after this.

TWENTY-FIVE

I tell Lowri to take her time, enjoy a long soak. Stick some
music on the little stereo system they've built into the vanity
unit - whale sounds or something. Light the candles I bought.
Relax, girl. Pretty yourself up. Style your hair. Moisturise
every inch of skin. Perfume all those delicate places, use
whatever's in there. Varnish every single nail. I'm so pleased
you brought the clothes I told you about over the phone. I've
laid them out for you on the bed. On our bed. Make sure
you're wearing them when you come out in ninety minutes,
not before. Make the effort. It's a special night.
She gives me a knowing smile, a look which says at last, at
last we're going to do what I'm paid to do, then I hand her the
large glass of white which she downs in one and I'm thinking
Christ, that's Pouilly, thirty bloody quid a pop here, but say
nothing because there's bottles of the stuff and I've barely
dented the cash Frankie lent me so top her up again. She skips
up the half-dozen steps, disappears into the bedroom.
Moments later, water's running from the en-suite bath taps.
I pick up the welcome book, check the laminated menu,
dial room service. Order half a dozen overly complicated artyfarty
dishes, replace the receiver, forget what I've ordered
because I'm not concentrating but it doesn't matter anyway,
I'm not hungry. Pour another tumbler of Jack at the bar, look
around the hotel suite again. It's enormous. An opulent split
level palace. Lounge area with deep, plush sofas. Dining
section with table and eight chairs that dwarfs mine at home.
Separate - and huge - bedroom. Top spec Bose music system.
Widescreen on the wall that's got to be a sixty-incher. The
place is bigger than my house.
I open the French doors, step out onto the balcony, out into
early evening rain. Balance my drink on the railing. Light up
one of the joints that Lowri rolled earlier, look down at the
traffic, at people going about their business, oblivious to the
uniformed policeman toking on a spliff and watching them
from above. I pick at my fingers, at the brilliant green paint
seemingly tattooed onto the tips after this morning's terrorist
incident.
Wish I'd asked Lowri to bring me a change of clothes when
I rang her and gave her the address. Stupid, really. Bit awkward
when I was checking in, trying to cover everything with my
fleece. Not thinking straight again. I pick up the Jack, breathe
in the sour, malty aroma. Toss it over the railing again. Stay
lucid, Jake. Stay on the page. I take a few hits on the joint to
keep me as chilled as the wine in the fridge.
After an hour I hear her walking around in the bedroom. I
hop up the steps with the last of the Pouilly, rap on the door,
open it a few inches and slip the bottle through the gap. Smile
faintly as she thanks me.
There're three knocks on the main door so I bark at them
to leave it outside, slide a fifty under the gap. Wait, wait some
more, open the door and wheel in the service cart. They've
provided everything. White linen. Polished cutlery. Fine
crockery. The food in silver-service dishes. There're even
bloody napkin rings. I set the table. Light candles. Dim lights.
Flip through the handful of CDs I took out of the truck when
I arrived. Put soft music on the stereo. Movie Adagios, some
multi-CD thing I picked up last year from Tesco or Smith's or
possibly on a rare visit to Chavsda. Pure romantic class. I
check my watch, grab another Jack, pick up the half-empty
bottle. Sit at one end of the table, place the Jack Daniel's bottle
and tumbler in front of me and look around at what I've done
here. Use these last few minutes to mentally run through
what I've got to do tonight.
Lowri appears as I'm picking on a granary roll. Perfect
timing: Mascagni's Cavalleria rusticana from Raging Bull is
soaring from the speakers, the violins reaching their peak.
'How do I look?' she asks, giving me a twirl. She staggers a

little.
I whistle. Smile, nod approvingly. She certainly scrubs up
well. Hair dark and silky. Fingernails and lips a deep scarlet.
Eyelashes thick, curled upwards. She smells fantastic. I'm
disappointed she didn't bother with the skirt and strappy
sandals I told her to bring from home; has opted for her jeans
and the ever-present Fuck-Me Boots. At least she's got the top
on. The red halter top I bought for Karen all those weeks ago.
Aren't you gonna change too?' she asks.
'Does the uniform make you nervous?'
'Not really,' she says. 'It's just a bit.. . odd.'
I shrug. Who cares?
I've already opened another bottle of wine. Lowri takes a
seat opposite me. 'Fine, a meal with PC Plod it is. May I?' she
giggles, pointing at the ice bucket.
'Fill your boots,' I say pointedly.
She glances down. 'Sorry. Sandals didn't quite fit.'
I watch as she pours herself another glass, fills it to the
brim. Takes two large gulps. Sways her head to the music, to
Pachelbel's Canon from Ordinary People, even though she has
no clue who it is. The candles, they're barely throwing any
light around. It's almost gloomy in here. Lowri, sitting there
with her dark hair and that halter top. If I squint, girl. /.
'That colour suits you though,' I tell her.
'Y'know me,' she says, pinching at the top. 'Li'l Red Riding

Hood.'
'I suppose that makes me the big bad wolf?'
She studies me for a few seconds, one eye closed, one side
of her mouth twisted upwards as if deliberating. Then: 'Nah.
You're just a gentle giant. With a few personal issues.' And
she laughs, necks the rest of the wine.
I say nothing. Just smile, cradling the tumbler in my green
tipped fingers. This is going to be easier than I thought. She's
filling her glass again, spilling some of it over the table with
an oops, sorry! And I ask her if she's hungry, if she's ready to
eat.
'I'm ravenous,' she says, eyeing the domed silver lids. 'Wha'
we got? Smells great.'
A Last Supper,' I tell her, standing up with the tumbler in
my hand. I fake a stumble, roll my eyes as Lowri chuckles at
me, point at the half-empty bottle of JD.
She's still cackling as she asks, 'Last supper? What's one of
those?'
'It's what we're having,' I say, and start removing the lids.
She's right: the food smells great. Looks fabulous, too, even
though I have no clue what any of it is. 'The best meal you
could imagine, the last thing you'd want to eat before the
end.'
She stares at me for a moment, head wobbling, eyes heavy.
'Cool,' she says then, slumped in her seat now. What I've said
hasn't even registered. She drains her glass, refills it. Pulls the
two-thirds-empty bottle out of the bucket, waggles it at me.
Ice water flies all over the tabletop but she doesn't apologise
this time.
'Y'might wanna gerranother, J,' she smiles dopily. 'This
stuff is fuckin' lush.'
I dish up, open more wine, light the reefer, pull on it. Those
breathing exercises, so useful. Peach and green time. Bollocks
to the no-smoking rules. I drift off a little, the music filling
my head, then Lowri's telling me not to bum the whole spliff,
to eat some food while she has a toke. And I don't have a
problem with that at all because it'll tip her right over the
edge.
'Wow, tastes good, Jake,' she says after a while, but she's
picking at the food. Too drunk now, past being hungry.
Dropping her fork, slurring. Drawing in the wine like a
machine sump. Stopping every now and then to puff on the

joint.
I watch her performance. Eat. Clean my plate. Gaze at her
as she slouches first one way then the other in the chair. 'I was
thinking,' I say. 'Nobody knows you're here, do they?'
Lowri blinks, stretches those pitch-black eyes of hers, rocks
her head back and forth as if to clear the haziness. 'Erm . . .
M'pimp knows I'm goin' with you,' she says. 'But doesn't
know I'm 'ere. He don' care anyway. Jus' long as you pays me
and I gives him his cut end of the week, he's a happy camper.'
Such good news. I think it may be time to move things
along a little. Are you going with me then, Lowri?' I ask, smiling
thinly at her. My fingers are rubbing the rim of the tumbler.
'We haven't really had a go at anything . . . yet.'
She rests her chin on the palm of her hand, elbow almost
missing the edge of the table. Looks at me in what I assume
is supposed to be a sultry, come-on expression but her face is
slack, her eyes can't seem to fix on me. 'We can 'ave a go now,'
she says. 'If y'like.'
I change the music, slip a Doors CD into the drive. Turn up
the volume. 'Break On Through' kicks off. Time to break
through, Lowri. To push on through to the other side, to leave
behind everything you've ever believed in. Who's thisl she asks,
and I tell her it doesn't matter. I grab the wine bottle, Lowri's
glass. Take her hand, marvel at how small it feels, look down
as she glances up and grins her lopsided grin. Lead her across
to the lounge area. To a sofa that's bigger than my bed. She
sits, pulls at her boots clumsily, wrestles them off. Sinks back
into the cushions with a sigh, curls her socked feet under her.
Lowri the cat. She'd purr if she was able.
So I tell her to sit tight, wait while I freshen up, all that food
and smoking has made me want to clean up a little and she
nods, eyelids heavy, says I'll be waiting for you, Jake. I've waited
this long I can wait five minutes more, baby, I'll be right here.
And I climb the steps to the bedroom thinking: I'm sure
you will but what an odd thing to say, what a peculiar thing to
come out with, but it's probably the wine. I'm in too much of
a rush now to mull it over. In the en suite I throw cold water over my face, stare at my pale reflection in the mirror. Get
everything straight in my head. Put on my fleece, zip it up to
the neck so it covers everything. Check I've got the truck keys,
the last three reefers. My new pocket notebook. The mouse

gun.
Lowri hasn't touched any more of the wine. The bottle sits
where I placed it on the coffee table. She's stretched out now,
has plumped a cushion, placed it under her head. The Doors
are still rocking from the speakers. 'LA Woman'. One of her
feet taps along to the music, out of sync with the bass line. I
stand over her, fingering my dog tags through my clothes.
'Hey Jake,' she mutters, not looking up at me. 'Y'ready?'
I'm ready, Lowri. But are you? My little hoochgirl. My
grubbily gorgeous companion. Are you ready for what's in
store?
'J?' she sighs, eyes closed now.
I sit on the edge of the sofa. Place a hand on the silky skin
of her arm. The track finishes playing. Silence for a moment.
'I'm still here,' I whisper.
'S' good,' she says quietly. Lips barely moving. 'I'm glad.'
I hear a slinky, haunting guitar riff come from the speakers.
Fingerpicking. Like a sitar. The rattlesnake shake of a
tambourine. The beginning of 'The End'. I run my fingers
across her skinny bicep, up towards her shoulder. Hold my
breath. Squint. Touch the red halter top, feel the fabric against
the pads of my fingertips. She stirs, rolls her eyes around
beneath the lids. Her chest rising and falling slowly, breathing

deeply.
'Thank you, Jake,' she mumbles, my fingers wrapped in
that ebony hair of hers. 'Jus' wanna thank you for everything.'
I lean into her. Breathe in that intoxicating mixture of
cannabis and wine. Of her young skin. 'Shh,' I say softly.
'But I love it here . . .' Lowri's muttering, my face millimetres
from hers. My fingers ploughing through the hair
above her ear. 'I love wha' you've done f'me ... I love being
with you . . .' and I can barely hear her now, hardly make out
the words. I rest my hand against the side of her face, my
mouth hovering over hers, so close I feel the warmth of her
skin, her hot breath on me, the faintest tickle of her lips

against mine.
An' I think . . .' she's murmuring. 'I woulda done this
f'nothing 'cos I think . . . y'know ... I think I might be . . .
might be kind of . . . y'know . . .'
I kiss her. Gently clasp her hair. My other hand, it grips the
red halter top. I breathe through my nose, breathe in her
perfume. She doesn't respond, doesn't open her mouth or
probe with her tongue and this is fine, this is how it should be,
this is just me making amends and rebuilding bridges and
putting things right. It was never going to be an easy process.
She's asleep before I pull away. I raise my head, my hands
still holding the halter top, her hair. My eyes narrowed,
blurring everything.
'I'm a good man now, Karen,' I say to her. 'I'm not my
father.'
And I place my arms around her slender frame. Hold her.
Close my eyes and hold her for a few minutes. Then I stand.
Watch her unconscious form, let my eyes roam over her. I
take a last good look. Because it's time to clean up, Lowri.
Time to restore order. And you're just the beginning.
There's one more thing to do here. One more hurdle. Her
socks. I reach down, a flutter in my gut. Pull them off. See her
feet for the first and last time. And I can't help but smile. I
knew I'd be right. I knew it all along. So I just stare, not
moving. Look but don't touch. Remember this moment, Jake.
This feeling that you've moved on. That you're over this part
of your life now.
So I work the socks back on, nodding my head to the
rolling drums, to the hypnotic rhythm of the almost
flamenco-style guitar. Do the boots, zip them back up the side
of her calves, lift her from the sofa.
The song finishes. Lowri is asleep in my arms.
My watch shows twenty-one forty-four hours. Should do it
in plenty of time.

I head north in the darkness.
Take the back roads out of the city, the wipers on intermittent.
The pitter-patter of rain on the windscreen, the
squawk of rubber across glass. The radio's off. The satnav
screen radiates a blue glow. I'm cruising at just under the limit.
Not many cars on the road, the odd pair of headlights coming
up behind me and overtaking. Some flying south on the
opposite carriageway, towards the capital.
I've a vague idea of where I'm heading. Where we're
heading. Lowri's comatose on the back seat, one arm hanging
into the footwell. Hair lying across her face, snoring quietly,
so faint I can barely hear it over the rumble of the diesel
engine. I've tilted the rear-view mirror so I can watch her
sleeping in the pale light of the satnav. Keep an eye on her.
She's drunk so much. She's so drunk. Don't want her to choke
on her own vomit. Don't want anything to happen to her until
we get to where I'm going. Until I've done what I've got to do.
It's just me and the rain and the hypnotic sweep of the
windscreen wipers. An open road ahead. I consider keeping
my foot on the accelerator. Just drive until you can't drive any
further, Jake, until nobody - including you - knows where
you are. Would anyone notice if I disappeared? I wonder. Or
Lowri? I know it keeps going, this thing. This dual carriageway.
Just winds its way north until you hit the sea and then it's
stop and figure out where next or keep going and do a Thelma
and Louise over the nearest cliff.
But I'm not on the road to nowhere any more. I've got
things to do. Things to put right. And this is just the start.
The dash clock shows twenty-two ten exactly. Making good
time. I take the offslip for the sticks. When I see the direction
sign for Canningtown, I wince and accelerate past the turnoff.
It takes another twenty minutes through sinuous thirtymile-an-hour
zones flanked by the shadows of mountains,
through rows of isolated, weary terraces, past long-dead
collieries and fenced-off, rusted, coal-storage depots. I drop
down from the bypass, head into a town, another place full of
narrow one-way streets and lines of ten-year-old cars parked
at the kerb. I see nobody. Not a soul. Just drizzle speckling the
amber glow of the streetlights.
I follow the perimeter road in a huge loop, cut across a
stone bridge, past an empty pub. The road drops away on one
side, drops away so steeply I'm looking over fencing but can't
see a thing. It's just blackness.
I glance out through the window to get my bearings. This
must be it. I think it's time. My heart has picked up the pace
a little. Can feel the mouse gun in my cargo pocket. My nine
mil security blanket. Lowri hasn't stirred once during the
journey.
I climb out of the truck, take off my fleece, dump it on the
driver's seat. Feel chilly rain on my forearms, my bare
forearms sticking out of the short sleeves of my shirt. Raise
my hands, straighten my epaulettes, check the epaulette on
my left shoulder, make sure that bloody loose number's still
there. Tug on my shiny tie, check it's clipped on properly.
I open the rear door, lift Lowri off the seat. She gives a
whimper. I hoist her upwards, carry her in front of me. Kick
the truck door closed.
'It's time,' I say to her, but her eyes are closed, head lolling
backwards, mouth open and catching rainwater. I walk
around the truck, around to the fencing and the blackness and
that sheer drop with the squall of wind whipping upwards,
like a cold hand on my face. I think of what this girl means to
me. I think about it for a long while, standing there with my
shirt getting soaked, the raw and biting blasts of air driving
wet strands of Lowri's hair into my eyes, making them sting.
Making them water.
And she means everything and nothing. She's the end and
the beginning. A means to an end. Something I have to do to
move forward.
'It really hurts me to set you free, Lowri,' I whisper into her
ear. 'But you can't follow me.'
Thank you, Jim Morrison.
And I turn away from the precipice, carry her around the
front of the truck, across the road. Check the numbers on
the houses, the column of narrow two-up two-downs, hope
I've remembered the right address from my old unofficial
notebook. See muted light through curtains in the front
window. I shift Lowri's weight to one arm, hammer on the
front door. Carry her properly again. Wait.
The man who opens the door is a tired-looking forty
something in a sensible grey jumper and grotty slippers. Old
before his time. Thinning comb-over, pudgy white face above
a short, small body. The air of someone who's given up
expecting anything good to happen to him. One of those
handbag-sized dogs is yapping at his feet in the narrow
passageway.
'Oh no, mun,' he blurts, hand going up to his forehead.
Eyes darting about pathetically. Panicking. No idea what for.
If Plod calls at your house this time of night, got to be bad
news, right? Bad news whatever time of day, come to think.
But he's wrong.
'Mr Horton?' I ask patiently. Still in the fucking rain.
'Yep, that's . . .' he says nervously, then his eyes drop from
mine and he trails off.
It takes a second for him to register that I have his daughter

in my arms.
'Oh my God,' he rasps, staggering. He places a hand to the
wall to steady himself.
'This is for you,' I tell him, and step forward. Lift Lowri
over the threshold. Out of the drizzle. Out of my life.
'We thought...' He's stuttering, spitting everywhere. 'We
thought she was . . . Oh, my baby . . .' He lurches forward,
arms outstretched.
A dumpy, big-breasted heffer of a woman appears behind .
him. 'Jeff? Jeffrey?' she's squealing, arms raised. They're saggy
and baggy. Dinner-lady arms. 'What on earth's going on?' And
then she sees, places her hands up to her mouth, flaps those
bingo-wing triceps against her chest and the squeal becomes
a screech. She's screeching her daughter's name over and over,
cheeks wet with tears.
The stupid Paris Hilton dog is still going for it. Lowri's
father sinks at the waist a little when I hand her over, his face
turning a shade of crimson. She instinctively folds herself into
him; I feel an ache in my chest. Take the strain, fella. Hold on
and never let her go again, no matter how hard it becomes.
'Is she ill?' he asks, cuddling Lowri to him. He's got her at
an awkward angle, like a child clutching a ragdoll; one of her
FMBs scuffs against the carpet. The woman is fussing her hair,
hugging her and her husband at the same time. Laughing and
crying at the same time. I'm watching, eyes flicking between
this man and woman and wondering how on earth they
managed to produce such a beautiful daughter. Maybe it was
an adoption job.
'No,' I say. 'Just very drunk.'
'She's so headstrong,' says her mother. Always was. I don't
know why she ever left here but, y'know, officer, there's not
much in the way of excitement up here, innit? You know what
it's like around these parts. We haven't had much to shout
about for so long but we always tried to provide for her, me
working down the Top Club and Jeff here--'

'Well, she did it and that's that,' I say, cutting her off and
wondering why on earth these members of the public insist on telling me their miserable life stories.
'Yes,' she says. 'She probably thought it was a good idea at
the time.'
'Like asbestos,' I say.
'We haven't seen her for so long...' the father says. 'Didn't
know what she was doing. We'd almost given up .. .'
'Where did you find her, officer?' the mother asks.
I shake my head. Back out of the passageway, into the rain.
'It doesn't matter,' I say, and jab my finger at them. 'Just don't
make me come back here. And don't give up on her. Ever. She
needs you. People need their parents.'
They're nodding solemnly, Lowri hanging in her father's
arms, the mother biting at a nail on one of her fingers. I don't
know if their daughter will still be here this time tomorrow.
She could wake in her old bed, realise what I've done, walk
out all over again. I'm not convinced these walking stiffs will
fight to get her back on track. But I've done what I can here.
I've shown them you don't have to give up hope. I've shown
myself I'm capable of fixing something.
'Thank you, officer,' the father says, moving to close the

front door.
'Yes,' says the mother. 'Thank you so much. You must give
us your name.'
I stare at Lowri, glance up into the night sky, the drizzle
like pins and needles on the skin of my face. I'm struggling to
remember ever feeling so good about being a police officer.
'It's MacReady,' I say, looking downwards. 'PC Frank

MacReady. And wait
The father stops closing the door. I step into the hallway.
The mother's watching me intently, still chewing on that nail.
'Wait a minute,' I say to him. Then I kiss Lowri's forehead.
Softly. Breathe in her scent one last time. Smell the damp of
her hair, her hotel perfume. The weed and wine. I touch her
face with my hand, stare at those closed eyes.
'Goodbye my little hoochgirl,' I say, and smile.
'Oh,' the mother says.
'Officer?' the father asks, turning slightly to move Lowri

away from me.
'It's all right,' I say. 'I'm better than my old man. I've just
proved that, haven't I?'
They're still standing in the doorway holding Lowri as I


drive away. Just goggling after me, probably thinking what the
fickl I don't lookback. Light up a cigar. Lower the window as
I puff on it. Puff on it with rain blowing in, thinking about
what I've achieved here. What this will mean to those people
back in that house. What else I've got to do, because this has
shown me what it means to reconnect with your parents.
Even after years have passed.
I get about half a mile down the road. Pull over, engine
idling, wipers flopping back and forth. I'm drawing on the
cigar, taking deep breaths while I suck on the end of the
cheroot, then I'm coughing, spluttering all over the steering
wheel as I think about what Lowri said to me tonight, that
she might... might be kind of... y'know... and the coughing
fit won't go away and, before I know it, it's morphed into
something else entirely.
I begin to cry. Sob like a big pussy. Like a toddler, all snot
and hitching breath and juddering sighs. But that's okay. I feel
like I need to. So I just let it go. Let it all come out. I roll that
name around in my mouth again, curl my tongue around that
L while I weep and laugh at all the times we've had, at all
those things we've done. LowriLowriLowri... And then I stop
saying her name. Swear to myself I'll never say it again.
Resume sobbing, which is fine.
This is just the beginning. There'll be more tears before it's
over.

TWENTY-SIX

Oh-eight forty-three hours.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Couldn't sleep
at the hotel. Not with Lowri gone. Kept waking, thinking
about my trip up the sticks. About what I have to do next. At
oh-three hundred I gave up and checked out. Drove home,
turned into the street with headlights off to find who-knows
what going on. Panda cars everywhere, blue strobes lighting
up the house fronts. Sector plods milling about on my
driveway. Looking for me, no doubt. To commend me for all
the hard work during my tour of duty. I'm not in this game for
the plaudits so thought it best not to interrupt and drove away,
drove off quickly and headed for my father's place. Forgot
they locked the gates at night so tucked the truck in a nearby
lane and toked away on a doobie, mulling things over until I
couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.
And now I'm here. The sun is shining for the occasion. Blue
sky, Jacob. Got to be March by now. Spring at last. Light at the
end of the tunnel.
Answer me,' I say, but he doesn't. As usual.

My old man. Always the strong, silent type. Hold on to
your emotions, boy, he'd say. Stop your grizzling. What are
you, a homo? Some skinny weakling, crying just 'cos I'm
fighting with your mother? Get me another beer, sonny.
Because what do you know? What d'you know about us, boy?
What is the truth to you? You bloody pansy. If you knew what
I'd been through for you, you'd kiss my spotty arse . ..
I kick him. Kick him good and hard.
You prick. If you knew what I'd been through because of you,
you'd fall to your knees and implore me to forgive you. You'd
smother my feet with drool while you wept and begged for
absolution. You made me. You've made me what I've become.
'Why?' I ask again and throw a punch, a thumping haymaker
with my right, but he says nothing. I hear nothing. Just
feel white-hot pain in my knuckles.
There's nobody else around. Just me and Dad, alone
beneath clear sky. I sit down on cold grass, feel damp spread
through the seat of my uniform cargos. I look at him, think
about all those years ago. My eighteenth birthday. The whole
day, in school, worrying about what was going to happen that
night. What version of my old man was going to show. The
morose, uncommunicative bore or the belligerent drunk. I
got the latter. After my guests disappeared and he finished the
bottles of booze they'd left behind it was the same old same
old. My mother and father toe to toe. Her goading him, him
responding in the way he always did. With his fists and feet
and forehead. But that night. . .
There's only so much a person can take. Only so many
years of pissed-up hammerings before something snaps.
Before you lose yourself, grab the first thing that comes to
hand and slice up your husband in front of your only child. I
was too late to save Mum. Waited too long. It'll never happen
again, Dad. Never.

He says nothing, as is the norm. So I stand, pull the aerosol
out of my CS pouch. Point it at the gravestone.

NATHANIEL SMITH
HUSBAND AND FATHER

is etched into the granite. The words surrounded by boot
prints, rubber scuff marks where I've kicked him over the
years. Chips in the stone where I've pummelled him until my
knuckles bled, until my crappy old wooden truncheon

snapped in two.
I spray luminous green paint in front of the first word of
the second line.
I spray the word BASTARD there.
'You deserved everything you got,' I say. I watch for a while
as watery paint runs down the stone. One of the drips
negotiates the carved lines of my father's date of birth, the
weather-induced hairline cracks, the dimples and flaws and
minute puncture holes caused by my feet and fists and even a
penknife I had with me that one time. I will that drip to reach
the end, to reach the plinth and the overgrown grass. I find
myself urging it on, you can do it, go on, son, you can reach it,
keep pushing, fella . . . But in the end it runs out of puff and
just hovers an inch from the bottom, a tiny green pustule
that's achieved nothing.
I walk away.

Ignore the pain in your gut, Jake. Your racing pulse. The fact
you can't seem to take a breath. Just keep walking. Stay on
target. Stay on target.
'Wait,' shouts the receptionist, the bald dude from last time
I was here. If he thinks I'm going to hover at the desk again
while he arranges his evening dogging session on the phone
he's got another thing coming.
'I'm going to see my mother,' I say, zipping up my fleece.
'Bernie, remember?'
'But wait
I'm already in the corridor. Baldy, he's huffing behind his
little counter, threatening to ring security, bitching that he
knows who I am and what I do for a living and he isn't
intimidated, oh no, though he can bloody well do what he
pleases because nothing's stopping me now. His voice is fading
but I can still hear him bleating about not going without a
chaperone, about dangerous patients wandering the building
alone, that my mother's only allowed one visitor at a time.
But I don't care. I'm on a mission.
There's the boom of a tannoy as I round the final corner.
A feedback whine, the receptionist's distorted voice asking for
security to attend my mother's room.
'Mum?' I say at the doorway, because she's sitting up in bed
and smiling. Smiling at the guy flopped nice 'n' comfortably in
her bedside chair next to the sink unit, some leathery old silver
fox with a jumper tied around his shoulders, legs stretched out
under the bed, arm draped casually behind his head. There's a mirror behind him and above the sink; in it I can see he's wearing
a chunky diver's watch, like that Ewing from Professional
Standards. Not the sort a patient would be wearing.
It takes a moment for me to place him. It's Ralph, isn't it?
Ralph Lauren, the Saga dude. The smoothy with the sailing
jacket who almost crashed into me, then legged it before I
could have a word. He looks at me, then around as the tannoy
blares again. I see his nice jacket hanging on the end of my
mother's bed.
Now I get it. He's not some loon. He's Mum's shrink.
Ah . . . hello, Jacob,' Ralph says, standing.
'How . . . How do you know my name? What's she been
saying about me?'
I look to my mother. She's still smiling at him. Like she's in
raptures. Her hair's been washed, has been styled and swept
back from her face. She's got a cardigan on, some pink thing
that looks new.
'It's not. . . we weren't expecting you,' Ralph says.
'Caught again, Keith,' she grins goofily, wet teeth shining
in the morning sunlight.
I look at Ralph Lauren. At Keith. This is the dude she's been
banging on about? Her psychiatrist? But he's so familiar... My
head begins to hurt. There's a stabbing sensation behind my
right eye; I can see bright amber flashes, small starbursts like
cheap-arse garden fireworks going off in there somewhere.
I swallow as Keith bends down to place one hand over
Mum's on the bed. He pats it gently.
'Mum,' I say, my eyes on Ralph. On Keith. 'What have you

been saying?'
'I'm sorry, Jacob,' says Keith, and I'm telling him to shut
up, to shut up because I'm speaking to my mother, and I can
hear footsteps now, footsteps coming down the corridor.
More than one person as well.
'I'd hoped . . . we'd hoped to do this properly . . .' Keith
says, looking from me to my mother. 'We've been planning it
for so long, but you started coming here unannounced
He doesn't finish, just checks over my shoulder and I turn,
see Baldy and his corduroy-wearing colleague. Two beefy
security guards stand behind them just outside the doorway.
'You have to leave,' says a security guy.
'I'm sure we can sort this out,' says Corduroy, apparently to

everyone.
'One visitor at a time,' says Baldy. 'It's the rules.'
'Fuck the fucking rules!' I scream. 'I have my list. And I need
to speak to my mother so get this shrink out of here.'
The security guys move forward.
'You have to leave,' one says again. 'Now.'
'Jacob ...' says Keith softly. I feel his hand on my shoulder.
Shrug it off.
'Let's keep everything calm,' says Corduroy, backing away
from me while maintaining eye contact.
'I fucking well am calm,' I say. My right eye. Those amber
flashes.
'Please, can I have a word?' Keith says then, stepping past
me. He gestures for Baldy and his muckers to move out into
the corridor. 'It would help if I explained.'
I watch them as they hover, swap glances, mull it over.
Keith's doing the placating thing, palms raised, soothing them
with little knowing nods. They shuffle out of the room, the
taller of the security guys waiting that little bit longer to give
me the evil eye before disappearing.
I hear muted conversation from the corridor, Keith
crapping away about something. My mother's just smiling.
Her eyes haven't moved from the window.
'Is he taking advantage of you, Mum?' I ask her.
'Did you bring me flowers?' she asks, and this isn't really
important right now but I think about the tulips and nod.
Take a seat on the edge of her bed.
'I did,' I say. 'I wanted you to know I've been thinking about
you. About us. What we went through. What you went
through
'They were lovely,' she says. 'Died a day later, but the
thought was there.'
'Are you listening?' I ask. 'I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry
about everything. I'm here to show you I'm not Dad.'
Ahh, your father,' she says.
'You've always said we'd never talk about it because it's too
painful,' I say. I reach across, start to place my hand over hers.
Stop. Let it hover, thinking about the last time I came here.
'But I don't want to become like him. I'm losing myself. I'm
losing everything
I pull my hand away, lower my head. Wish she'd rub her
fingers through the stubble of my hair. I'm waiting for her
touch. Willing her to make it all better.
'Don't fret, Jacob,' she says, suddenly irritated. 'You're
always fretting.'
'Mum,' I say. 'I couldn't bear to think that when you look
at me, all you see is him.'
'I don't know what you're getting so worked up about,' she
tuts. 'There's nothing wrong with seeing your father when I

look at you.'
'But you must hate me then, like you hated him . . .'
'I never hated your father, Jacob.'
I hear a cough, crane my neck around. The bloody psychiatrist's
in the doorway. I stand as he walks in and drops back
into the chair. Reaches across to Mum. I'm about to stop him,
tell him no, don't do it, you can never touch her face or hair,
but as I'm opening my mouth to speak, as I'm tensing to dart
forward and push his hand away, his fingers brush against

her.
And my mother closes her eyes. Tilts her head towards
Keith as his fingertips caress her cheek.
He looks at me. 'I've known your mum for a long time,' he

says.
Those flashes. Behind both eyes now. Like strobes. My

head. It hurts so much.
I swallow. 'What's going on here?' I ask. 'She's your patient.' 'She wrote to me,' he says. 'From prison. For years.'
'So you're not her shrink, you're her fucking pen p--'
'But I was living my life,' he interrupts, shaking his head.
'That's why I walked away in the first place. Your mum was
already married, I wasn't ready to settle down. I couldn't give
her what she needed. But when she started writing, explaining,
it changed things. It changed me. And I'm alone now, Jacob.
Not getting any younger. And when she told me
'Told you what?' I ask, looking from him to my mother.
He's squeezing her hand. 'When she told me about you, I
had to come back,' he says, staring up at me from the chair.
'But we wanted to do this properly, Jacob ...'
And he tears up, stretches out his arms, waggles his fingers,
beckoning for me to step over and embrace him.
'Oh, for God's sake,' my mother says. 'Just hug each other.'
I stare at her. She's flicking her head from me to Keith. I
look away, catch sight of my reflection in the mirror behind
him. Blink. Blink again. The fireworks exploding behind my
eyes. I glance down at Keith. That face. So familiar. I lookback
at myself. Down to Keith. To the mirror. To Keith.
So familiar.
My chest. It's too tight. I can't breathe.
I look at Keith, arms outstretched.
I've known your mum for a long time.
I am Luke Skywalker on the gantry in Cloud City.
I'm about to black out.
'Why?' is all I can say.
'Why, why, whine, whine,' she huffs. 'You were always such
a cry-baby, Jacob. I couldn't bear the thought of you grizzling
about it. Nathaniel knew. About Keith. About you. He took
you on as his own.'
'Bernadette,' Keith says.
'It ate away at him though. Not being man enough to
produce his own kids. And didn't he turn out to have a
temper when I reminded him how much more of a man
Keith was!'
'Bernie . . .'
All this time ..." I say, my mouth sopping with saliva. 'I
thought it was him . .. I've spent so long trying not to be like
him...'
She rolls her eyes. 'You're just like he was. Always whining,
always trying to be the good man. That's probably why you
took on that silly job of yours, isn't it? Thought you could
make the world a better place.'
She swivels her head towards the window, lost in thought.
'I'm sorry, Jacob,' Keith's saying. 'I didn't want it to happen
like--'
'You . .. cunt,' I say to her.
'Jacob ...' says Keith, and I'm dropping my hand, reaching
into my cargo pocket.
My mother turns back to me, face hard. The face I saw that
night, the night of my birthday, the night of an eight-inch
Kitchen Devil and the man I thought was my father bleeding
out onto the linoleum.
'I'm the victim here, Jacob,' she says, voice a forced whisper.
She's jabbing her finger at me as she speaks. 'I'm doing my
time. I'm the one who needs help.'
My legs give out. The amber flashes become solid amber,
I feel cold hospital floor tiles on my face. Hands on me. Keith's
voice. Then I'm trying to focus, pushing Keith away. I'm
backing away from them both, towards the door. Pushing
myself backwards using the heels of my tactical boots, the
seat of my job cargos swishing on the floor. I scrabble to my
feet and run for the exit, clutching the mouse gun through
the fabric of my trouser pocket.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I am a bullet.
A loaded gun. A ready-to-fire hand cannon. A weapon of
mass destruction.
No matter how hard I've tried, no matter how hard I've
fought, I haven't changed anything. It was always beyond me.
So I'm not going to sweat the small stuff any more.
I am who I am whether I like it or not. I am my mother's
son.
Nathaniel, I'm sorry.
And there's been a change of plan.
I've been trying to work things out, slumped here in the
truck in The Elite car park. Trying to make sense of everything.
But all I can think is: there's no mileage in trying to be
the good guy. Nobody cares. I don't care. I don't know right
from wrong any more. Goodness is something you choose
and when a man can't choose he ceases to be a man.
So be it.
I'm tucked into a far corner with a perfectly good view of
the gym door. Sweating from the heat of the spring sun.
Swapping the mouse gun between sticky hands. You don't
want to answer the phone, Sinclair? Want to keep me
dangling, not knowing if you've called off the dogs? Well, I've
come to you, brother. I'll give you your nine millies back, all
right. Every last one of them. Then we'll be square, won't
we? But what now? Wait for you to leave, sneak up, shoot you
in the nape? Or is it Columbine time? Go in there screaming,
teeth bared, lob a couple of ten-kilo plates about, boot a
couple of bench-pressing scrotes in the neck, then blow a few
caps into your pecs?
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Hmmm. It's a
toughie.
But then The Elite door opens and my heart starts going
triple-time and I don't have to deliberate any further because
out steps Young Pacino. Leather jacket. Flat-top. Shades.
Tattooed hand pressing a mobile up to his ear. I duck down.
Hold my breath. Listen as he barks into his phone, as he yells
about Sinclair, yells no, I'll keep looking, make sure you keep 'em
there and keep 'em quiet, we're going to sit tight until this is sorted,
until I gets my fuckin' cash. I hear a car door slam shut, an
engine start up.
Initiative comes to thems that wait.
Sinclair, you lucky, lucky bastard. You don't know how
close you came, friendo. Because this is miles better. This is
further up the food chain. Maybe the top of the food chain.
Why kill a grunt when you can go for the colonel? Hoo-aah!
I straighten up as Pacino pulls out onto the main drag. Peels
away in some souped-up blue Subaru. I should've whacked
him right here. No problemo. Quick adjustment. A nice easy
follow, like I've done a hundred times before. Tail him, see if
there's someone even higher up at the end of it. Take him out
too. Take them all out.
I start the truck. Ease onto the street. 'Subject is mobile,' I
say. 'On the move in target vehicle.'
He heads south, motoring towards the bay. For a drug lord
he's not exactly surveillance-conscious. It's straightforward
stuff: no changing lanes, no doubling-back on himself.
Nothing. The clown's even teasing his hair in the rear-view as
he goes, like he hasn't a care in the world. Like he's untouchable.
But it's sloppiness, fella. Your arrogance will be your
undoing. I guarantee it.
This is a doddle. I even spark up a cheroot, lower the
window. Listen to a bit of radio as I follow the Subaru at a
discreet distance, mindful that Pacino might know my truck.
I weave through morning traffic, pulling in occasionally to
give him time to get ahead before accelerating onwards,
catching up, see him take the next bend or rise or junction.
It's stuff Frankie and I do all the time. Did all the time, I
remind myself. I wish he was here, though. Would be nice to
have him in a secondary car; we could be swapping behind so
Pacino doesn't get spooked.
'Target vehicle now left, left,' I say, continuing the
commentary. I have no radio, which is a bummer, so I'm
talking to no one via my switched-off mobile phone, which
I've clipped to the front of my fleece.
The Subaru leaves the link road, roars up an offslip. I know
where Pacino's heading. I've worked this city long enough.
There's nothing but those swanky flats overlooking the
harbour. I hang back, let him disappear. Give him a minute.
No need to worry, no need to be compromised. There's just
one way in and out.
The security gates, they're starting to close when I reach
the high-rise. I dump the truck at the perimeter wall, lose the
fleece because this is full uniform time. Quite possibly for
the last time. I nip through the gap in the gates, mouse gun
at the ready.
Perfect. Pacino's already parked the Subaru, has his back
to me, is strutting towards the entrance whistling 'The
Winner Takes It All'. An Abba tune, of all things. I let him
get halfway across the car park.
I am Harry Callahan. Dirty, grubby Harry. How lucky does
this guy feel? I wonder.
'I'm the winner now,' I say, and he doesn't know what's
hit him.
POCKET NOTEBOOK 257
He's pretty strong, I'll give him that. The tattooed hand,
it's pulling on my left forearm, trying to yank it free from his
neck as I strangle him from behind. I squeeze tighter, pull him
closer, dig him in a kidney with the barrel of the PM9 for good
measure. His leather jacket's squeaking against my polyester
tie, undoubtedly making it even shinier.
'Whaddaferchhh?' he says, voice choked and reedy. Fair
do's, he's still having a right go: tugging my arm, elbowing
my ribs, stamping on my toes. Good old tactical boots with
their steel caps.
Enough. I bring my right hand up and around, around so
he can see what I'm holding, and he stiffens as I jam the
mouse gun into his cheek.
'Hello, Al,' I whisper into his ear, and squeeze at his throat
again.
Pacino stops moving. Shifts his eyes right as far as they'll
go, until he's looking along the length of the Kahr at my face
hovering near his shoulder.
'You,' he phlegms.
'Evenin' all,' I say, and it's probably only lunchtime but,
y'know, so what? I glance around. Check apartment windows.
Nobody. Drop the gun into my cargos, quickly frisk him.
Some drug lord. Just keys, phone, wallet, comb. Not even a
tiny cosh. This guy thinks he's invincible. I dump everything
except the keys. Put them back in his pocket for later. Pull out
the PM9, place it against his right temple.
'You ...' Pacino says again, clearly getting the hang of this
conversing-while-being-asphyxiated thing. 'You took your
time.'
'What? Where's my receipt?' I ask him.
'Wha' you on about?'
Arsehole. 'No one's had the decency to give me a receipt
for paying my debt.'
Pacino gives a short laugh. 'Receipt? I don't... don't know
anything about any receipt. And last I heard, people only got
receipts when they paid for things.'
'I paid,' I say, and thump the butt of the Kahr against his
eyebrow. 'See this? I fucking paid, Al. And I've got more
money too.' Frank's cash. Still in my pocket. What's left of it,
anyway.

He's groaning, squeezing the eye shut. 'Nobody paid, bra,'
he says. 'Not you, not Sinclair, wherever he is. You had enough
warnings. You knew what would happen. Why else are you
here?'
'What the fuck are you on about?'
He pauses. 'Why don't you see for yourself, Superman?'
I try to ignore the awful grin he's got on his chops. 'How
exciting,' I say, not feeling excited whatsoever. 'Let's go back
to your place then, eh?'
I duck-walk Pacino forward, Kahr gouging his face, my arm
locked across his Adam's apple. Reach the entrance. Get him
to key in the door code. Nice 'n' cool in the lobby. Air-con.
Marbled floor. Stark white walls dotted with original artwork.
'Nothing to see here,' I say to the concierge. 'Police
business, move along.'
He doesn't, of course. The only movement is his mouth
falling open and his hand slowly going for the telephone on
the desk while his eyes bug out.
Then Pacino and I are into the lifts, I'm jabbing his cheek
with the PM9, telling him no funny business, telling him to
press for the right floor, and up we go, staring each other out
in the mirrors, my left arm numb now, aching from holding his
neck. He's quiet, gritting his teeth, glancing from me to the
digital numbers above the lift doors: three, four, five, six ...
Ten floors up the doors part and we're out into the
corridor. It's like we've become comfortable with each other.
With the situation. He's given up struggling, is just leading
me onwards with my forearm nice 'n' tight around his throat.
With my mini pistol plugged up against his eye socket.
'Is this it?' I ask him when we stop outside an apartment door.
Pacino nods. Well, nods as best he can.
'You'd better not be pissing me about, Al.'
Shake of the head.
Anybody else in there?'
No response. I jerk the mouse gun up so the muzzle pokes
further into his eyeball.
'You fucker,' he grunts. Then: 'Why don't you look for

yourself, hero?'
I take a breath. A shaky one. Legs a little unsteady now.
Those amber flashes, they're back again. I squeeze my eyes
shut.
'Take the keys out of your pocket,' I say. 'Open the door.

Slowly.'
Those fireworks behind my eyes.
Pacino's unlocked the door.
Open my eyes. Still the yellow starbursts. Another deep
breath.
I barrel him into the apartment, into a hallway with my arm
rammed up against his neck, squeezing at his throat to keep him
quiet, switching the PM9 from his face to the open doorway
ahead of us, arcing it in a one-eighty, back to his face, to the doorway,
grinding my teeth, crushing his windpipe, working out
what I'm going to do when we get into the next room; perhaps
a tactical sweep while I'm still holding him, maybe pistol-whip
the prick so I can free my arm for five minutes, maybe just shoot
him on the spot and be done with it because it's not like we can
discuss what's happened over tea and biscuits, is it?
Then we're through the doorway into a cavernous
rectangular lounge and all these thoughts are lost because
sitting on a settee at the far end of the room are Karen and
the kids.
'Wife?'I blurt.
And she's up on her feet, hands to her face, ohmygodohmygod she's crying and I'm looking from her to my horrified
children, my body slack, arm falling from Pacino's throat, I
don't know where to point the gun, don't know what to make of all this, it's going too fast and I wish those bloody orange
lights would just go away because Al's legging it down the hall
and out the door, he's getting away and I'm about to go after
him when a door opens further down the lounge.
And another guy appears.
Young. Blond. Toned. Handsome. Almost Brad Pitt quality.
Bowl in one hand. Spoon in the other. Solitary Coco Pop stuck
to his bottom lip, mouth full.
'What the?' he crunches. Milk leaks down his chin.
I point the mouse gun at him and he freezes. Look from
him to Karen. Down the hallway after Pacino. To Pitt.
To Karen. What's she doing here with these two? Why
is she . . .? Oh, no. No no no no no. Please God, no.
'You . . .' I say, swinging the PM9 towards her. 'You filthy
fucking whore.'
The kids sob.
Karen holds out a hand, eyes flitting from me to Pitt. 'Jake,
you don't understand
'Two guys? Two?'
I hear a muffled thump. Out the corner of my eye I see a
flash. Not amber. Silver this time. I swivel at the waist, see
Pitt's dropped his cereal on the carpet, is coming towards me
fast and low. It's not a spoon he's holding any more. It's a big
fucking hunting knife.
I jerk the mouse gun around, squeeze at the trigger.
Those fireworks. They fill my vision.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Frankie's on his way in, which means I'll have the chance to
apologise for that night at his house, and I'm checking the
lounge once more, checking the black bin bags I've ripped and
taped across windows are secure. That the front door is
deadlocked, the heavy oak hallway table wedged against the
frame. That the rear kitchen window overlooking the
courtyard ten floors below has the blind lowered. Everything
battened down. Sealed. Searched. Boxed in.
I pace back and forth on the deep carpet, my tactical boots
leaving footprints in the creamy hundred-quid-a-square-metre
lushness. I do wish everyone would stop the hysterics. I still have
a job to do here and the incessant crying is rather distracting.
I look across at the settee. At Karen, Naomi, Ben. Lined up,
sickly faces drained of colour, watching me with fearful eyes.
At Brad Pitt, sitting next to my wife, Karen trying to push
herself away from him as if all of a sudden he disgusts her.
But I'm not buying it, oh no. I'm nobody's mug any more.
'Aw, the new happy family,' I say. 'Everyone comfy?'
Karen shifts forward again, squealing something
unintelligible, and I've already warned her about this, warned
her what will happen if she keeps on, doesn't she appreciate
the situation? That I don't want to hear the nonojakeyoudon't
get it you don't understand please hysterical pleading bollocks all
over again and it's because of her that I shoved the mouse gun
in her mouth to shut her up? That she's terrifying our
children? That it's because of what she's done that they're in
this predicament?
A waggle of the PM9 shushes her. I light a reefer, suck on
it. Glance at pretty-boy Pitt, offer him a toke but he says
nothing, just stares at me silently, so I exhale and resume
walking the floor. He's a handsome sod, despite the Coco Pop
still glued to his chin. Probably a doctor, too. A swaggering
twenty-something star neurosurgeon. That's why Karen fell
for him, isn't it? Swept her off her feet in A and E with his
humorous monologues about cranial excavation.
I finger the mouse gun, imagine flying to the US of A and
offing the real Brad Pitt for having the temerity to look like
the man Karen's shacked up with. Then taking out Brad's
missus and all those kids of theirs as well, even the ones they
bought off the Internet.
My children are weeping next to their mother. Jesus, guys,
it's not like you've had to deal with what I've been through
these last few weeks.
'Karen,' I say to her. 'You don't know what you've done.' 'Please, Jake, you don't know what you've done .. .'
I hold up a finger when my mobile rings. It's Pamela
Howells. Ginge, doing her negotiator thing again. I suck on
the reefer, let it ring. Let her wait. Walk over to the window,
peel back one sliver of black sack I've sellotaped to the frame
and peek down into the car park. They've got the whole world
out there this afternoon. Arrived pretty quickly too. Very
efficient. Collingwood would've had an erection if he'd been
around to see it. There's panda cars. ARV wagons with the
crews covering the apartment block. Ambulances. Trumpton
trucks. Sector bobbies on cordon. Snipers on the roof of the
harbour offices opposite. Television vans. Even Tommy
bloody Hall. It's Dog Day Afternoon time. Attica! Attica! How
exciting for the locals. How thrilling for the concierge who
clearly dialled 999.

'Frank's at the door,' she says when I finally answer.
'Is he alone like I asked?' I say. 'I need time to explain about
wanking over those shoes.'
'What?'
'Never mind.'
'He's alone, Jacob,' Ginge says. 'Like I told you, there's not
going to be any nonsense. I'm more than aware you know
what you're doing and what we're capable of. We just don't
want anyone getting hurt. Anyone else.'
'Lovely jubbly,' I say. 'You enjoying this?'
'Not one iota.'
'No worries,' I tell her, puffing on the joint. 'Everyone'll be

happy when it's over.'
I cut her off, out the spliff. There's a knock on the front

door. I open it slowly.
It's Frank. My buddy. My partner. I check the corridor, see
there's no Tac Team waiting to blow hinges, so relock the
door, shift the table back into position, drop the PM9 into my
cargos, keep telling him I'm sorry about what I did in Jessica's
bedroom, I'm sorry, Frankie, I'm going to make this right, I'm so
glad to see you and he nods quietly. He's looking very smart
today, I see he's bulled his boots and pressed his trousers for
the occasion. Even the Glock in his holster is gleaming. Oiled

and polished.
When we step into the lounge he takes a quick scan
around. A tactical visual sweep. Looks at Karen and the kids.

Sees Doc Pitt.
'Jesus fuckin' Christ,' he says, rushing over to him. 'What
did you do?'
I glance across at the Doc as Frankie takes his hands, leans
over him. See the bullet hole in his left temple. The exit
wound behind his right ear, an apple-sized cavity that's ruined
his neat haircut. I was as surprised as he was when I fired the
mouse gun. It certainly packs a punch for a small weapon.
Knocked him five feet backwards and onto the settee, the
hunting knife still in his hand.
'Wondered why he was being so quiet,' I say. 'He's a brain
surgeon don't you know? At least... I think he is. You'll have
to ask Karen.'
'I don't even know him,' she cries.
'Can't operate to save himself now though, can he?' I laugh
because it's meant to be a joke but nobody else cracks a smile
so I stop.
Frank jerks his head. I can see the corner lamp reflected in
his glasses. 'Jake . . .'
'We fell out,' I say, shrugging. Mentally count the bullets
in the Kahr. Four. Five of us in this room now. What a
dilemma. But then that isn't the way this is supposed to go.
Frank hauls himself up, draws his nine millie. He's looking
at me, shaking his head slowly. Looking at me, pistol gripped
in his right hand as he steps away from Dr Pitt, moves in front
of Karen, Naomi and Ben. Blocking them from my view.
Shielding them. Like I knew he would.
I pull the PM9 out of my cargo pocket. Look down at it as
I hold it in front of my midriff. Glance across at the dead man
sprawled next to my family. Think about my mother, my
father. About the man I thought was my father. About the
only way I'm ever going to make everybody happy again.
'I need you to help me put things right, Frankie,' I say.
'The only thing you need is to put that down and come
with me,' I hear him say.
I look up. 'You know that's not going to happen. Not after
this. I'd never survive over the wall. This has to stop here.'
And it's true. I have made peace with this.
He takes a couple of steps towards me, one hand stretched
out. Leaving me with a clear shot at the settee. 'We can take
care of you,' he says. His Glock hangs against his trouser leg,
finger curled around the trigger. 'You're one of us, Jake. Don't
make this any worse than it already is. Please.'
'I can't do this on my own,' I say. 'Set me free. Set them free
from me.' I wave the PM9 at my family and Frankie tenses.
The Glock shakes. 'I love you like a brother, Frank. You're a
grunt, just like me. I wouldn't ask this of anybody else. I
couldn't take this from anybody else.'
My children are sobbing, faces buried into their mother.
'Please, Frank,' she's shrieking, obviously fed up of trying to
wheedle her way out of this with me. 'He doesn't understand
. . . these men, they came to our flat
'Drop the gun, Jake,' he says, voice louder. He's looking a
little twitchy now. Glassy-eyed, like he's about to blub behind
those awful specs of his. Poor Frank. Such a nice bloke.
I raise the mouse gun, point the muzzle directly at Karen.
She screams, pushes herself further into the settee

cushions.
'No!' Frank shouts and lifts the Glock. Aims at my chest.
And my hand is hovering in mid-air, the business end of the
PM9 levelled at my wife's forehead, my children screeching
and covering their faces with their arms, and this is the way
it's supposed to be, isn't it? This was how I imagined it.
Frankie's got his pistol aimed right at me, the muzzle hole like
a gaping maw with a nine-millimetre parabellum just waiting
in the chamber. But I know he's not going to discharge his
weapon for this; oh no, it'd take a lot more than me waving
my miniature gun about to make him do that because we're
friends, right? We're brothers, grunts, troopers, cops who've
shared beer and smokes, swapped porn films and endless war
stories, endured the misery that is our job and even though
I'm pointing a shooter at my family, Frank will be completely
aware I'd never go through with it, because he knows me
better than anyone.
So I swing the mouse gun across and shoot him in his
left thigh.
And suddenly I'm on my back on the lovely cream carpet
and the room smells of cordite because Frank has fired two
rounds into my chest, an instinctive double-tap just like he's
been trained to do, a textbook bit of police firearms
procedure and well done, Frankie. Good on you. So professional.
A classic riposte.
There's more screaming and I tilt my head to the left, see
Karen holding on to Naomi and Ben, pulling them to her and
hugging them, wrapping them in her arms. Such a good
mother, at least. Always so great with the kids.
My chest, it's ice cold, and I've read about this, about
gunshot victims and the stages they go through and it's
quite intriguing actually, quite interesting to experience it
first hand, so I wait for the next part, the agonising part, in
a detached kind of way. Tilt my head in the other direction.
Check Frank. He's moaning and writhing on the floor,
hands on his thigh, blood pissing out of his work trousers,
and it's a shame because the jobsworth up in the HQ tailor's
department always makes a fuss about giving out replacement
slacks.
And then it's not funny any more because I can't take a
breath, my sternum feels like someone's dropped a two-hundred-kilo
barbell on it, crushing the air out of my lungs
and oh, God this hurts, this burns like nothing has ever
burned before, and I reach my hands up to my chest, feel
warm fluid over my still-green fingertips, can feel hot sticky
liquid pooling on the carpet beneath me, and if old Doc Pitt
was still breathing he'd be having a coronary about it right
now.
I'm coughing blood. Pull open my police shirt, rip those
buttons off, send the shiny clip-on tie flying, touch the
puncture holes in my flesh, one dead centre, the other above
my right nipple, and it's no wonder Frank always topped the
target-range classes because this is so impressive. My fingers
touch two pieces of metal hanging from my neck and one of
them has a hole right through it. My dog tags, man.
But wait. Wait. My fingers claw at my shirt pocket, reach
in, yank out the contents. I see shredded paper. Bloodied
handwriting. Oh, no. Please no.
The horror. The horror.
'Frank,' I say, my voice odd and thick with blood. 'You've
ruined me fuckin' pocket notebook, you muppet.'
He says nothing, just whimpers and calls out for an
ambulance, which means he'll be fine because he's grumbling
as usual, so I drop my head back to the carpet and stare at the
ceiling. This isn't so bad after all. All of this, it's not so bad
really.
I can't feel anything now. Can't feel a thing. Don't want to
move anyway. I'm just happy to lie here for a while.
Just lie here and wait and feel good that things turned out
all right in the end.
My chest isn't working but it's not important. My mouth is
filled with blood but that doesn't really matter. I can't keep
my eyes open any more but that's fine.
I let them close. Let them go. Let it all go.
Fade out.
Cut.
'Come with me,' I hear Frank say, and it's a struggle but
I'm so glad to hear him sounding normal again that I open
my eyes. He's standing over me, reaching out one hand.
I squint up at him. Aren't you angry?'	/
He looks down at his left leg. 'Just a flesh wound, bra,' he
smiles.
So I smile back, take his outstretched hand. Wait for the
pain as he pulls me up but it doesn't come, then I'm upright,
looking at him, and he's grinning, hand still holding mine.
'I'm sorry,' I say.
'No need,' he says and turns to his right. Nods in that
direction.
I follow his gaze. Karen's waving at me from the settee.
Naomi and Ben are either side of her. They look so happy. So
content. It's nice to see it at last.
'Thank you,' she says to me.
'It's my pleasure, sweetie,' I reply.
'Come with me, Jake,' Frank says, his hand tightening on
mine. He leads me to the front door where he pushes the table
to one side, unlocks the deadbolt and it's only now I can hear
some sort of noise coming from outside, a faint musical
melody, and Frank looks at me, asks me if I'm ready and I
think I am. I nod. Yes, Frankie. I'm ready.
He opens the front door and we take the lift to the ground
floor, walk through the lobby where the concierge throws me
a wink, the concierge who looks remarkably like Brad Pitt,
and the sound is growing louder then we're out through the entrance doors and it hits me.
Applause. Music. Wooting, laughing. I see row after row
of police uniforms, number one dress with white gloves and
everything, a sea of faces looking up at me. Placards. Banners. Attica! they chant. Toothy grins beneath helmets beneath
clear blue sky.
'Is this ... is this for me?' I ask Frank.
He squeezes my hand. 'Yes, Jake. All of it.'
So we walk down the steps into the crowd of plods who
part like the Red Sea, who clap and call my name, slap me
on the shoulder. Frank's pulling me along, the music's
getting louder then we're upon a brass band, the force
marching band, and I recognise the tune now, it's The
Doors and they're playing 'The End' and look, it's Baker
and the rest of the kiddie-cop crew, all of them here with
instruments: Two Backs, BMX, Roid, even Plug banging
away on the bass drum like a retard. Then I see little old
Lapdog parping away on a cornet, so stop and tug at his
sleeve.
'I didn't know you played,' I say to him.
He places a hand on my arm. 'I learned just for you, Tee,'
he says.
'Well, you're fantastic' He blushes, then Frank's pulling me
along again. We wind our way through this swarm of blue
serge, this thousand-strong ocean of titheads, and I don't
know where we're going but I'm with my buddy so
everything's going to be okay.
I see familiar faces. Sinclair on the fringes of our human
corridor, clapping and hooting then draping his arm around
Young Pacino who's looking a little sheepish as he cheers me
on. Ewing, slick as ever, holding hands with Dwayne Cooper
and Tang Yeh, all three of them eyes closed and rocking their
heads from side to side in time to the music. Along we go, it
takes an eternity to get there, an age to work our way through
the massed ranks, but suddenly we reach a platform and
everything goes quiet.
'We're here,' says Frank.
I look up at the figures on the raised dais, back to him.
Place my hands on his shoulders. 'Thanks,' I say.
Any time, brother,' he says, and steps away. Melts into the
crowd.
I take a breath. Walk up the steps. Feel a thousand pairs of
eyes on me. And then I'm up with the dignitaries. A line
of people with a table at one end. Dave Collingwood sits
behind it, watching me impassively. Seems like he got his desk
job after all.
'Welcome back, Smithy' Collingwood says.
I nod. 'Cheers, guv' And I walk across to meet everyone.
Frank's worked his way around the back, joined the lineup.
Standing there with Mel and Jessica. Next to them are
Karen and my children. Then Rachael and Cliff, the happy
couple. Ginge. Tommy Hall. Lowri and her parents, along
with their yapping dog that I'm pleased to see has been
muzzled. The girl from the Clio. Whole again. Uninjured.
Grinning. Thank you, she whispers as I pass. Thank you, you
were therefor me, you did all you could. All of them waiting,
hands clasped in front of them. Like they're about to meet
the Queen.
At the far end, dressed in the full uniform of Chief
Constable, is Nathaniel.
My father but not my father.
No, my father.
I walk up to him. Look into his eyes.
'I wish I could be like you,' I say to him.
He gives a warm smile. Takes hold of my hand. 'You are,
Jacob,' he says, his voice quiet and reassuring. 'You're the son
I never had.'
And I lower my head. Begin to cry. His gentle fingers brush
the stubble of my hair.
'I'm so tired,' I say.
'I know,' he says softly. 'Rest now. You've done your duty'
And I look up, look around. Collingwood's climbed out of
his chair. He gestures at it.
So I sit, take the weight off my feet. Slump back, look from
Nathaniel to the line of people next to him, across to the swell
of epaulettes and clip-on ties. Back to the man who gave me
everything and said nothing.
I check the crowd. Can't see my mother anywhere. But
that's okay. That's all right. It doesn't matter. I'm just so
relieved to be here on this beautiful day. To be sitting down.
To be off duty at last.
I am Police Constable 754 Jacob Nathaniel Smith, signing
off duty.
Signing off duty at last.
At last.

The End.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Personal: my amazing wife (a.k.a. the editor/muse/
nursemaid/ego massager/bullshit detector) and beautiful
children; Ma 'n' Pa for the use of the loft and pretty much
everything; my Londonista sister (go Joey Deacon, go!); Nats
'n'James; Seiko (if I must); Jackie, Anthony, Richard, Amanda,
Scott, Hannah-Marie, Shika, Leanne - this is why I haven't
seen you for two years ...
Professional: super-agent Karolina Sutton and the gang at
Curtis Brown; uber-editov Jason Arthur and his fantastic team
at William Heinemann.
'School': at Glamorgan - Sheenagh Pugh for suffering
through countless rewrites, Rob Middlehurst for getting it big
time, Barrie Llewelyn (this is all your fault, y'know ...), Tony
Curtis for the 'publisher ambush' that fateful December night,
Des Barry, Chris Meredith, Cath Merriman, Phillip Gross,
Stephen Knight, Gillian Clarke; my oh-so-talented cohort for
the advice, encouragement and willingness to let me know
when I was talking bollocks - Harvey Marcus (hey roomie!),
Caroline Ross, Stephen Elves, Lynda Nash, Rosie Shepperd,
Sarah Dunlin, Kate Noakes, Luigi di Castri; all the FNGs who
endured the first draft, especially Shauna Busto Gilligan,
Caroline Fox Betts and Claire Williams; at All Round - Shelagh,
Paul, Lizzy and Colin; at Barrie's Writers - the 'Golden Girls'
and in particular Dinnella Shelton for vouching for me all
those years ago.


The Morning/Afternoon/Night Job: Neil The Decider'
Evans, Jevans, Linda Wyer, Sian 'Helga von Sashay' Rees, Li'l
Talbwards, Johnkey Crystal Tips, The Berg, Coxy Coxalino,
Bashelle Bowen and Fanjita 'KwikSuit?' Gravington (apologies
for trying out some of Jake's worst lines on you all. . .); the
'Blue Rinsers' of D Relief/ Team Two/Whatever.

Miscellaneous: Dave, Mart, Fletch and Alan (and maybe even
you, Vince) for the soundtrack to my life; David Kinchen at
TWB; Inspector Gadget and his glorious blog; Uncle Jack; Henri Wintermans; Ken 20; Blocky B's; Empire; George,
George, Steven, Martin, Brian, Fincher, QT, Francis, Oliver, Woody, Frank, Robert, Ang, Stanley, Abel; CP, JRL, SK, TW,
CM, BEE,JF.

And to all the grunts out there in the boonies - may the Force
be with you . . . always.