Run
Get
The
Fuck
Out
Now
Before…
Burning with zeal, she had done a year of Social Science. That burnt out. On a whim, she’d applied to the police. Here she was, scared witless. The desk sergeant asked, ‘What would you like to do today?’
She’d been about to respond, ‘A little light traffic to start and home early.’
The desk sergeant was grinning, said, ‘How does the North Peckham Estate sound?’
Sounded awful is what. Before she made a total fool of herself, a voice said, ‘Lay off her, Dennis.’
Brant. He nodded at Dennis, said, ‘He likes to fuck with new people. I need a WPC … let’s go.’ And he was already moving.
The desk sergeant offered, ‘Outta the frying pan…
Sarah had hoped for a nice cup of tea to begin. She was up all night pressing her uniform. Brant was climbing into a battered Volvo, asked, ‘Wanna drive?’
‘Ahm, no thank you.’
A huge smile and he said, ‘I love fuckin’ manners.’
Falls was getting obsessed with Brant and didn’t try to fight that. It stopped her thinking of Rosie which she couldn’t get a handle on.
In the pub one time, they’d all been celebrating. A little tipsy, she asked him, ‘How come you’ve never come on to me?’
‘What?’
He was mid-Cornish pasty and stared.
‘You’ve never hit on me. All the times we’ve been thrown together. Am I not yer type?’
He looked at the pie, said, ‘Ever notice with these things, you start off cold. Lulls you into a false sense of security and then the middle is burning, leaps to the roof of yer mouth and clings?’
She laughed, asked, ‘Is that a metaphor?’
He dumped the remains on the floor, said, ‘Naw, it’s just a pasty. But naw, yer not my type.’
More bothered than she would have anticipated, she got silly, said, ‘Is it a black thing?’
‘I like black fine as long as they’re bimbos.’
‘Oh come on sarge, I don’t buy that.’
He grabbed a pint, drank half, belched, said ‘I have no problem with women talking. Hell, it punctuates the time. What I hate is women thinking they’ve something to say.’
She was horrified, let it show, then, ‘That’s the most chauvinistic thing I’ve ever heard.’
He drained the glass, said, ‘I’ve got a question…
‘Go ahead.’
‘When this shindig’s over, will you let me jump you?’
She physically drew back. ‘How dare you!’
‘See … you’re a good cop, Falls, and not bad looking. But yer not a babe. You’d want to talk after we’d done it. Me, I want me kip, so I’m off, grab a bimbo, whisper sweet shite, then wham, bam, and lock the door on yer way out.’
Then he was gone. For the first time in her life she lamented not being a babe.
Sarah Cohen and Brant pulled to a stop outside McDonald’s on the Walworth Road. The radio was squawking gibberish. Brant seemed to comprehend it, said, ‘We’re on it.’
Turned to Sarah, said, ‘It’s a couple of drunks, my only suggestion is, don’t get too close.’
Sarah didn’t answer. She intended getting a hands-on approach from day one-being a real police person.
To the left, as you enter McDonald’s, there’s a children’s area. With toadstools for seats and other such furnishings to put the children at ease. On the wall is a portrait of Ronald McDonald, the spit of John Gacy. Not so much a haven for little people as a creation by little-minded people. A man and a woman were holed up there, shouting obscenities and hurling burgers at the staff.
Brant said, ‘Pissed as parrots.’
Sarah asked, ‘What’s the strategy, sir?’
‘I’m gonna get some doughnuts, want one?’ And he headed for the counter.
Sarah felt this was her window, began to approach the couple, said, ‘I say.’
Thought, Oh God, I sound like a school girl. Get some street in there.
The woman had been nodding, almost out of it, then her head snapped up, spotted Sarah, called, ‘C’mere love.’
Sarah did. The woman struggled to her feet and threw up over Sarah.
Brant came with coffee and doughnuts, asked, ‘Jelly or sugared?’
Took a look at her, said, ‘Now, that’s sick.’
Peered closer, added, ‘I spot pepperoni, it’s a bastard to keep down, here hold these.’
Then he walked to the side, pulled the fire extinguisher from its bracket, strolled back, muttering, ‘Point the noozle where?’ Opened it up, shouting, ‘Go on, get outta it.’ Drenching the couple and literally spraying them to the street. A round of applause from the staff. He nodded to Sarah, said, ‘That’s about it I’d say.’ And walked out.
Sarah followed, trying to unsuccessfully clean the uniform with wafer thin napkins. She looked at the soaked couple, asked Brant, ‘Aren’t we taking them in?’
‘Do you want to put them in the car?’
She got in beside Brant and he said, ‘Open the window love, vomit will linger.’ And he put the car in gear.
Back at the station, she rushed to the bathroom, was attempting to clean up when Falls walked in. She’d heard about the black WPC, said, ‘I’m new.’
‘Oh really?’
She looked in the mirror, wanted to bawl. Falls looked at the soiled tunic said, ‘You’ve already met DS Brant.’
Sarah smiled, felt it was an overture, went for it. ‘I’m sorry about your friend.’
‘Why … did you know her?’
‘No … but …
‘Then ration your grief, you’ll be getting plenty.’
Sarah couldn’t help it, babbled on: ‘I mean, I know I can never replace her and…
Falls cut it short, said, ‘You got that right.’
And left her.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Brant was waiting. Sarah felt she already hated him. ‘There you are love, c’mon I’ll get a tea.’ And she warmed to him again.
In the canteen, he said, ‘Get us a tea, two sugars, I’ll grab a table.’
Sarah looked round, every table was vacant. She got the teas and the canteen lady said, ‘You’re the new girl?’
Oh, Jesus.
‘Never you mind, pet, the teas are on me.’
Not a grand gesture, just a moment of kindness and Sarah wanted to hug her. The woman nodded at Brant, said, ‘Watch that ’un, he’s an animal.’
Brought the teas over and Brant asked, ‘No biccies?’
‘Oh.’
‘Never mind but you’ll know next time. I’m partial to the club milks.’
She said, ‘Could I ask you something?’
‘As long as it’s not for cash, if s a bit early.’
‘Oh Good Lord no. It’s about my predecessor.’
‘Rosie?’
‘Yes. I know I’ve no right but … what was she like?’
‘A loser.’
She was shocked and maybe a tad relieved. Brant finished his tea, said, ‘Yeah, she got to pull the ultimate sulk you know-na-na-na-na-na-you can’t catch me, like never. Everybody gets to feel guilty and she’s outta here.’
Sarah thought a defence of some calibre should be shown, said, ‘But if her state of mind was disturbed?’
He stood up, his closing words, ‘She was a cop, yer mind is always disturbed, otherwise we’d be social workers.’
The Super’s wife was a dowager. Leastways, she looked like one. She was never young but, when she got seriously aged, she’d be Barbara Cartland, or Windsor, or both.
Her home was in Streatham Vale but she was a Belgravia wannabe and managed to mention said place in every conversation. Her car broke down near the Oval and she had to abandon it. Walking down towards the cricket ground, she was in fear of her life. Her husband did bring his work home.
She saw a black cab. Oh merciful God! A man stepped up beside her and grabbed her arm, pinned it under his and neatly removed her Cartier watch, shoved her back, said, ‘You can ’av this piece o’ shit,’ and slung a Lorus at her.