Borderlands by Brian McGilloway Page B

feminist beliefs.
    A buzz of
static on the radio, and Costello announced that he was moving in. I drew my
baton and saw the others follow suit. Holmes flicked open the catch on the slip
for his pepper spray, and I wondered what he expected from a seventeen-year-old
traveller boy. The snow fell increasingly heavily, the pattern of the falling
flakes became almost hypnotic, and I realized that I was not paying attention
to what was happening. I heard a thud as Costello knocked on the door. Then
voices. Almost immediately, the curtains across the back window of the
caravan, which was in darkness, were pushed back and the window opened. A
small figure began to climb out, one thin leg first squeezed through, then
another. Finally, the figure dropped silently to the ground and approached the
trees between Holmes and Harvey. As the figure moved into the trees, Harvey
flicked on his torch, momentarily lighting the startled face and the shock of
black hair. Then the figure ran, with Harvey and Holmes crashing after him. I
heard Williams shout and assumed that she, too, was after the boy.
    I was about
to shout to them to tell them it wasn't the right person, when I saw a second
figure climb through the window and make for the trees. This time there could
be no mistake. Even in the darkness, the luminescence given off by the snow
forming at our feet was enough to reveal the almost white blond hair and pale
marble skin. Whitey crept along the undergrowth on his belly, seemingly
impervious to the brambles and the snow. When he felt he was safe, he stood and
began to pick up speed.
    He was about
fifteen feet from me, moving quietly towards the fields. I can only assume that
he did not hear me approach behind him over the din of the shouting and
crashing of Williams and Harvey and the growing chorus of raised voices from
the picnic area, where I guessed Costello was being lectured on police
discrimination.
    Eventually, I
pushed out of the trees completely and, sticking to the perimeter of the field,
was able to catch up with Whitey just as he emerged into the moonlight. I
placed my hand solidly on his shoulder, my baton in the other hand, and began
to speak.
    I recall
exactly what happened next, viewing it as if in slow motion. Whitey turned his
head and I saw in his eyes a mixture of fear and aggression at being cornered.
Then he grabbed my hand and clamped his teeth on it. I felt his teeth cut
through my flesh, until eventually they connected, jarringly, with the bone of
my hand. I could taste blood in my mouth. He shook his head as a terrier might
with a toy, before releasing my hand. I screamed. Then something inside me
snapped, audibly almost, and I felt a surge of adrenaline rush through my
system. Without thinking, I turned and swung my right fist into McKelvey's
face. I felt the cartilage of his nose shatter beneath my fist, felt the hard
crunch as my knuckles connected with his cheekbone and his teeth, and saw his
head snap back as blood and spittle spurted from his mouth.
    He fell to
the ground, legs splayed, and I lifted my foot and stamped down with my heel on
his crotch. McKelvey doubled up, his face contorted with hatred and
embarrassment, and I noticed a stain widen on his trousers as his bladder
emptied. He looked at the mess he had made on himself, touched the wetness with
his fingertips as though he could not believe his own eyes, and then held the
moist fingers towards me. "I'll fuckin' kill ya," he spat, scrambling
to his feet as he cupped his genitals in his hands.
    I almost
chased after him again, until I felt a hand close on my arm and I spun to face
Williams, my fist raised. I saw a momentary flash of fear, or something deeper,
flit across her face, and I lowered my fist in shame, stammering my apologies.
I watched as my colleagues crashed through the undergrowth in pursuit of the
boy.
    Then the pain
in my hand sharpened as the adrenaline dissipated; I doubled over with shock
and pain and vomited into the snow, bile