Starting Over Page 2

  She looked at me and grimaced. ‘That’s not funny, Daddy.’

  But it made me laugh.

  When we came downstairs the porridge had gently bubbled to that perfect consistency of creamy thickness that I liked.

  Lara came in from the garden, holding something in her right hand. A cigarette butt. She threw it at me. It hit me in the middle of the chest, just where I always felt the tightness. A spitfire, my dad would say. She’s a little spitfire.

  ‘Do you know what that is, George?’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘That’s another nail in your coffin.’ She sat down at the breakfast table and covered her face with her hands. Ruby and I looked at each other and then back at Lara. ‘Thanks a lot, George,’ my wife said, her voice muffled by her hands. ‘Thanks a bloody million.’

  Then we ate our porridge.

  Rufus was still at the bus stop.

  I stopped the car on the other side of the road and opened the window. He looked across at the car containing his father, his mother and his sister, and seemed to cringe, and looked away. There were a few other kids from his school at the bus stop, but he didn’t seem to be with any of them.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ I shouted, the rush-hour traffic roaring between us.

  He tore his eyes from the pavement and screwed up his face. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Can’t hear.’ Other kids stared across at us.

  I looked at Lara in the passenger’s seat. ‘What could I possibly be asking him? What else could I conceivably be asking the kid?’

  Ruby leaned forward. ‘What’s the capital of Peru? If God really exists then why is there so much suffering in the world?’ She sat back with a chuckle, smiling wearily at her big brother scanning the street for a sign of his bus. ‘He wants to get the bus, Daddy.’

  She was right.

  So we left him at the bus stop, and took Ruby to school – right up to the gates. We were still allowed to do that. She even gave us both a peck on the face, without first checking who might see.

  She really did make me smile all the time.

  And the smile only faded when she fell into step with one of her classmates, and I saw her moving her skinny hips from side to side as she hiked up her grey skirt. She had started wearing her white school socks above her knee and it was not a good look.

  ‘Young lady,’ I called.

  She turned, raised her plucked eyebrows, and gave us a little wave of the hand that could have meant anything. Okay. Goodbye. Bugger off. But the hemline on that grey school skirt did not go any higher, and that felt like the most I could ask for.

  Lara touched her watch as we eased back into the slow morning traffic. ‘I’m going to be late,’ she said.

  I hit a switch on the dashboard.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I said.

  I swung the car to the wrong side of the road as the siren began to wail, watching the oncoming traffic pulling over at the sight of the two blue lights that were flashing inside my grille, and everyone hearing me long before they saw me, and all of them getting out of the way.

  Life the way it should be.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t do this,’ Lara said, sinking into her seat with embarrassment, but laughing at the same time.

  I smiled, happy to make my wife happy, proud that I could get her to work on time, and looking forward to the moment when I was alone at last, and lighting up the first one of the day.

  two

  Just as Eskimos have fifty different words for snow, so the police have endless terms for the copper who never leaves the station.

  Station cat. Canteen cowboy. Shiny arse. Clothes hanger. Uniform carrier. Bongo (Books On, Never Goes Out). Flub (Fat Lazy Useless Bastard). And an Olympic torch (yet another thing that never goes out).

  And despite the light show that I had put on for Lara, that was me. A shiny-arsed canteen cowboy. Or at least, that is what I had become.

  I was third generation. My father and grandfather were both coppers. Unfortunately, policing wasn’t the only thing that ran in the family. So did heart disease. Health issues, a man with glasses called it, not an expression that my grandfather or my father ever had to hear. So despite the dodgy tickers that ran in the family, the old boys never suffered the humiliation of being a shiny-arsed station cat.

  But that was another time.

  When I got to the station, I went straight to the parade. This is the part of the day that the cop shows get right – a room full of men and a few women, most of them in uniform, all of them drinking the first caffeine of the day while listening to an Onion – onion bhaji, sargie, sergeant – also known as the skipper – talk them through the shift ahead. At the back of the room I saw someone watching me. A heavy man in his forties wearing a cheap suit, grubby white shirt and a tie as lifeless as a dead snake. My old partner, Keith, now in the company of some bright-eyed young boy who was actually taking notes. Keith grinned and lifted his Styrofoam cup in salute, spilt a splash of tea on his chin, cursed and wiped it off with the back of his hand. Then, stifling a yawn, he looked back at the Onion.

  ‘Might seem a long way off, but already we need to start thinking about Carnival weekend. I have before me the official figures –’ the Onion was saying, turning a page of his notes ‘– and I know you will all be enormously relieved to hear that, according to these statistics, last year’s Carnival went off without a major incident.’

  Disbelieving groans from the crowd. The Onion glowered at them from under thick eyebrows, playing it straight.

  ‘There were six stabbings, forty-eight robberies, and a medium-sized riot around the Boombastic Dancehall Sound System when it was asked to reduce the volume at 3.45 a.m. Happily, the environmental health officer who asked them to turn down the Bob Marley –’ mocking jeers from some of the younger officers ‘– is expected to be out of hospital within a month. The council tell us that the loss of his spleen will not prevent him carrying out his duties. Fortunately, and rather wonderfully, none of these incidents were Carnival-related, so citizens should feel free to bring the wife and kiddies for this year’s fun-packed extravaganza.’

  Keith’s new partner busily wrote it all down. I watched the Onion’s briefing, feeling like a man with no fruit and nuts in a knocking shop.

  I didn’t know why I came here every morning. No, that’s not true – I knew exactly why I came. As the Sergeant went through his shopping list of stolen cars, burglaries, muggings and knife crime, it made me feel as though I was still chasing the wicked, still part of the war on crime, and still the man I wanted to be.

  But when the parade was over, I went up to my desk, forbidding myself a glance at my watch. If I could only stop myself from looking, then the time would pass more quickly. So I lost myself in checking MG3s – reports that officers make to the Crown Prosecution Service, who then get to decide which naughty people to prosecute, and which naughty people to pat on the head and release back into the wild.

  When I looked over the top of my computer screen Keith was standing there, dabbing at the tea stain on his shirt.

  ‘Fancy running a few red lights?’ he said.

  Keith’s young partner was waiting in the passenger seat of their car. He looked up from his notes with a shy smile as Keith stuck his head in the window.

  ‘DC Bailey and I are on an undercover operation all day,’ Keith told him. ‘So sling your hook.’

  The young man got out of the car with a bewildered look. ‘But – but what am I supposed to do while you’re undercover with DC Bailey?’

  Keith erupted with exasperation. ‘I don’t know, do I? Go and do a bit of face painting. Do what you like.’

  I slipped into the passenger seat and settled myself. It felt good. Keith eased himself behind the wheel, red-faced and muttering about a lack of initiative among the younger generation. We left the kid standing in the car park, staring after us with a wistful look.

  Out on the road, Keith pulled out a couple of packets from under the dash. Zestoretic. Amlodipine. He pushed out a pill from each and washed them down with a swig from a can of Red Bull.

  ‘Goes a treat with your blood-pressure medication,’ he smiled.

  ‘We’re getting old,’ I said. Keith was forty-two, five years younger than me, although he looked as though he had even more miles on the clock. ‘In fact, we are old.’

  Keith just laughed and pulled out a packet of cigarettes with a skull on the front. Then with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his high-tar snouts, he pulled his car on to the wrong side of the road and really put his foot down, as if he was trying to outrace someone.

  We came across a woman crying.

  ‘Pictures of my children,’ she sobbed. ‘It had all the pictures of my children.’

  ‘Someone thieve your phone?’ Keith said, and when the woman nodded, he motioned for her to get in the back of the car. ‘Hop in, love,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ll get your phone back for you.’

  This was what Keith was good at. This was where he excelled. We drove around slowly, the lady still upset on the back seat, until we were passing a tube station where some kids in school uniform were talking to a skinny guy in his twenties. He had a scabby pallor about him that marked him as a heroin addict.

  ‘He’s not eating his greens, is he?’ observed Keith, stopping on a double-yellow line. When we got out of the motor and moved closer to the little crowd, I could see how scared the school kids were. The suspect had one hand in the pocket of his shabby parka, and held the other palm outstretched to the school kids. One of them was giving him an iPod. Keith chuckled as he put his arm around the suspect’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s going on here then?’ he said.

  The suspect looked at him with a start. ‘Just listening to some music, officer.’ He handed back the iPod and made to bolt, but Keith’s friendly arm held him in place.

  Keith was nodding. ‘Downloading a few banging tunes, are we?’ He nodded at the iPod. ‘What you got on there? Bit of garage? Bit of Shirley Bassey? I’m a Clash fan myself.’ He looked at the frightened faces of the schoolchildren. ‘Never heard of The Clash? What do they teach you at these schools?’ He made a small gesture with his head. ‘Better run off and do some homework.’

  They scarpered. The suspect made one last effort to get away. Keith embraced him tighter.

  ‘Not you, moonbeam,’ he said. ‘You’ve got detention.’

  With his free hand, Keith reached into the parka and pulled out a screwdriver. The metal had been sharpened to a vicious point.

  ‘That’s what he waved in my face,’ said the woman. She wasn’t crying now.

  Keith considered the screwdriver. ‘Planning a bit of woodwork, are we? Knocking up a few dovetail joints?’

  I went through the rest of his pockets. Each one produced a mobile phone. When the lady found the one that belonged to her, Keith told her to get into the car and wait. She didn’t move.

  Keith pulled the thief under a sign that said NO ENTRY and into the tube station. The lady and I followed them. I could hear the trains rumbling far below us. Keith slammed him back against the wall and gave him a slap across the cheek.

  ‘Stealing someone’s pictures of their children,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that’s very nice.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ the suspect said. ‘That’s police brutality.’

  ‘I can do what I like if you resist arrest,’ Keith said. ‘Did you see him resisting arrest, DI Smith?’

  ‘It was appalling, DI Jones,’ I said.

  ‘I know my rights,’ the suspect said. ‘I want my lawyer.’

  ‘Yeah, call your lawyer,’ Keith agreed. ‘Get him down here from the EU Court of Human Rights.’ His face was getting red again. ‘I’ll give him a good hiding too.’ Then he thought of something. ‘But you can’t call your lawyer, can you? You haven’t got any stolen phones left.’

  The lady was standing by his side. ‘Can I have a go?’ she said.

  Keith was expansive. ‘Be my guest!’

  He held the suspect’s collar while the woman’s open palm crashed against his unshaven cheek. For the first time, she smiled.

  ‘How did that feel?’ Keith said. ‘It looked like it felt pretty good.’

  ‘It felt very good,’ the lady said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome,’ Keith said politely. He began dragging the suspect to the car. The lady went back at him for seconds, but I gently restrained her. I was already thinking about the Himalayas of paperwork we were going to have to climb, but when we got to the street Keith let him go, like a fisherman throwing back a little one, chuckling as the suspect dashed into the crowds.

  ‘Not taking him in?’ I said.

  Keith shook his head. ‘What’s the point? So in six months’ time some judge can give him community service? It’s not worth the wait.’ He pulled open the driver’s door and I went round the other side. ‘He’s not going to show his face around here again,’ Keith said over the roof. ‘Probably going to devote himself to good works.’

  And when we got into the car, the lady opened up her mobile phone and showed us the pictures of her children.

  By the middle of the afternoon, I was kidding myself. By the middle of the afternoon, I thought that I was a real policeman again. And that’s when we saw the patrol car.

  It was parked in front of a derelict building, its yellow-and-blue Battenburg markings the only splash of colour on the street. I recognised it as a BMW 530iD, an ARV – armed-response vehicle. There were three cops in uniform crouching behind it, looking up at the building. Keith parked the car and we strolled over to them.

  There were two constables, one of them a girl, and an inspector, the double silver pips of his rank shining on both epaulettes. He looked at us and then looked away, unimpressed. Keith and I smiled at each other.

  It is a popular misconception that plain-clothes policemen are somehow higher-ranking than coppers in uniform. In fact, we all operate within exactly the same command structure as everyone else. So Keith and I outranked the two young police constables, but our balls were no bigger than the ones on the uniformed inspector. And didn’t he want to let us know it.

  ‘I bet he knows his way around a stapler,’ Keith said to me, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘Bloody chimps.’ Chimps were coppers who were Completely Hopeless In Most Policing Situations. ‘Do you think the chimp’s got his own biro?’ Keith cackled.

  ‘There’s a man in that building with a firearm,’ the inspector said without turning round. ‘Name of Rainbow Ron. You might want to get your heads down before he blows them off.’

  ‘Who’s Rainbow Ron when he’s at home?’ said Keith.

  I looked at the uniformed inspector. He probably had a degree. I had five O-levels from my local comprehensive and Keith might have had a certificate for swimming his width, although I wouldn’t swear to it. I coughed for a bit and then pulled out my cigarettes. Keith and I were just lighting up when there was the crack of a shot. We scooted down behind the patrol car. The inspector was screaming.

  ‘He’s got a gun! He’s got a gun!’

  ‘Get away, Sherlock,’ Keith muttered.

  Seeing us all hiding behind the Beemer, a young man at the end of the street began shouting abuse. Pigs this and filth that. The usual material. He was what we in the trade call a hundred-yard hero: a citizen who hurls insults at the police from a safe distance. Keith and I stared at him for a bit and then I noticed something glinting in the gutter. I crawled across to it and picked it up. It looked like a tiny silver mushroom. I handed it to Keith and he began to laugh.

  ‘That’s a pellet from a .22 air rifle,’ I said.

  Keith wiped away tears of mirth. ‘So do you think we can rule out al-Qaeda?’

  We stood up. Keith handed the pellet to the uniformed inspector. ‘A souvenir of your first shoot-out,’ he said. We began walking towards the derelict house. ‘Come out with your hands up,’ I shouted, as though I was not a canteen cowboy. ‘Or I’ll stuff that pop-gun right up your rectal passage.’

  A bearded man appeared in the doorway of the house, gripping an air rifle by its stock. There were a few steps leading up to the front door and he stopped there, staring down at us. His hair was wild and matted and he was wearing an old trenchcoat. We stopped.

  ‘Rainbow Ron,’ said Keith. ‘Probably an alias. Drop your water pistol, sonny.’

  He could have been a vagrant or a runaway from a funny farm. Either way, he looked like someone with hardly anything to lose. Then, just as I started to feel the fear in my breathing, he threw the air rifle down the stairs. Keith stooped to pick it up. I kept my eyes on Rainbow Ron, and saw his gaze sweep down the street and fix on something. I turned to see what he was looking at. It was some old dear coming slowly down the street, on her way to the supermarket to blow her pension on two cans of cat food. Rainbow Ron started down the steps. I took a quick look over my shoulder; the uniforms were still behind their motor, peeking out at the action. The old woman kept coming, muttering away to herself. I held up my hand. She didn’t see me. She was getting closer. I held my hand up higher and shouted a warning. She must have had the volume on her deaf-aid turned down low, because she didn’t stop. Rainbow Ron reached the bottom of the steps as Keith straightened up, looking at the air rifle in his hand, and the old lady shuffled between us. I saw Rainbow Ron slip one of his dirty paws inside his trenchcoat.

  And I thought – knife?

  ‘Ah, that’s not a gun,’ Keith said, smiling affectionately at the air rifle and looking up to see what I saw at exactly the same moment – the snub-nosed handgun that Rainbow Ron had magically produced from somewhere inside his coat. ‘But stone me,’ Keith added, diving sideways. ‘That is.’

  Then Rainbow Ron had the old lady by her fake-fur collar and he was screaming at us to stay back, waving his black handgun in her face, and Keith and I had our hands above our heads and we were shouting at him to just calm down, calm down, and behind us I could hear the uniformed inspector calling for backup on his radio and in the distance the hundred-yard hero was going hysterical.