A Pitying of Doves by Steve Burrows

crane her neck back, expose her throat, to prevent the steel points from piercing deeper into the flesh. More blood flowed.
    Behind Maggie, Maik was up and moving. Holland, too. But they were behind desks, farther to go. Trueman was closer. Trueman, first among alphas, there so swiftly you wondered how he had covered so much ground without anyone noticing.
    â€œThey took them away,” said Maggie. Now her voice began to rise, shrill with anger, control sliding away. “They can’t do that. Those birds belong to me. They are my property. I’ve got the paper.” She steadied herself to plunge the scissors in.
    With a blur of action, Trueman reached one arm inside Maggie’s extended weapon hand and slid his other under her other arm, spinning her rapidly toward him in a move of almost ballet-like grace. A clump of Salter’s blond hair came away, trapped between Maggie’s fingers. With a deft flick of Maggie’s wrist, Trueman romanced the scissors from the woman’s hand, closing a restraining arm around the frail body at the same time, pinning her arms to her side. Maggie looked confused, eyes darting wildly around, as if seeing her surroundings for the first time. She made no attempt to free herself from Trueman’s hold, futile as that would have been.
    â€œAll right, my love, you just settle down,” said Trueman softly. “You go with these nice people. They are going to help you work things out.” He nodded for two officers to come forward and handed Maggie’s unresisting, limp form to them. Each placed a restraining hand on one arm and Maggie was shuffled out of the room toward the holding cells.
    In the collective exhalation of pent-up breath and excited conversation, it would have been easy to miss what happened next, but Maik was watching for it. Trueman was beside Salter in seconds. She was still wide-eyed with fear, her skin pale and paling, except for two red blotches on her cheeks.
    â€œI didn’t … I didn’t see it coming,” she said. “I should have …”
    Maik knew it wasn’t the assault that had unnerved her. In her job, Salter was well used to the occasional bout of violence, and was more than capable of defending herself. It was the irrationality of the attack, the unpredictability. One minute you’re having a conversation with somebody, the next you have pointed steel digging into your throat. No amount of training can prepare you for that. Maik would have told Salter this, and more, but Trueman was already there, leaning in close, comforting her.
    â€œAll I could think about was Max,” said Salter, in a voice far removed from the present.
    â€œOf course,” said Trueman. He dabbed at the thin trail of blood from her neck with a tissue. “Listen, Lauren is it? If you had thought of anything else, you wouldn’t be normal. So tell me about this Max. This him here?” He picked up a photograph that had fallen to the floor in the struggle and set it back on her desk.
    She nodded. “My son, he’s seven.” She breathed deeply, trying to get herself back under control.
    â€œI’ll bet he’s a handful. They’re into everything at that age, aren’t they? Has he got a favourite football team yet? I hope it’s not Norwich. You tell him from me he’s in for a world of disappointment if he chooses to follow that lot.”
    And more of the same, as he helped her to her feet and walked her over to the doorway, hand on her shoulder, the reassurance of physical contact. At the door, Trueman handed her off to a female officer, to lead her, hand on arm, to the cafeteria, for the magic elixir of a restorative cup of tea while they awaited the arrival of the medical officer.
    Maik had seen it before. Keep engaging. The mind, the verbals, then the kinetics — the standing, the walking, the holding — all the normal things, to re-establish balance, put the trauma back in