steel washbasin. The slow trickle of water
took some time to turn from cold to lukewarm. He rubbed the mean piece of soap
between his fingers until he’d whipped up enough cream to produce a lather,
which he then smeared all over his stubbled face.
Next he picked up the plastic Bic razor, and began
the slow process of removing a four -day-old stubble.
He finally dabbed his face with a rough green hand towel, not much larger than
a flannel.
Pat sat on the
end of the bed and, while he waited, read Wesley’s Sun from cover to cover in four minutes. Only an article by their
political editor Trevor Kavanagh–he must surely be an Irishman, thought Pat–was
worthy of his attention. Pat’s thoughts were interrupted when the heavy metal
door was pulled open once again.
“Let’s be ‘ avin you, Pat,” said Sergeant Webster. “You’re first on
this morning.”
Pat accompanied
the officer back up the stairs, and when he saw the desk sergeant, asked,
“Could I have my valuables back, Mr. Baker? You’ll find them in the safe.”
“Like what?”
said the desk sergeant, looking up.
“My pearl
cufflinks, the Cartier Tank watch and a silver-topped cane engraved with my
family crest.”
“I flogged ‘ em all off last night, Pat,” said the desk sergeant.
“Probably for
the best,” remarked Pat. “I won’t be needing them
where I’m going,” he added, before following Sergeant Webster out of the front
door and onto the pavement.
“Jump in the
front,” said the sergeant, as he climbed behind the wheel of a panda car.
“But I’m
entitled to two officers to escort me to court,” insisted Pat. “It’s a Home
Office regulation.”
“It may well be
a Home Office regulation,” the sergeant replied, “but we’re short-staffed this
morning, two off sick, and one away on a training course.”
“But what if I
tried to escape?”
“A blessed
release,” said Sergeant Webster, as he pulled away from the curb, “because that
would save us all a lot of trouble.”
“And what would
you do if I decided to punch you?”
“I’d punch you
back,” said an exasperated sergeant.
“That’s not
very friendly,” suggested Pat.
“Sorry, Pat,”
said the sergeant. “It’s just that I promised my wife that I’d be off duty by
ten this morning, so we could go shopping.” He paused. “So she won’t be best
pleased with me–or you for that matter.”
“I apologize,
Sergeant Webster,” said Pat. “Next October I’ll try to find out which shift
you’re on, so I can be sure to avoid it. Perhaps you’d pass on my apologies to
Mrs. Webster.”
The sergeant
would have laughed, if it had been anyone else, but he knew Pat meant it.
“Any idea who
I’ll be up in front of this morning?” asked Pat as the car came to a halt at a
set of traffic lights.
“Thursday,”
said the sergeant, as the lights turned green and he pushed the gear lever back
into first. “It must be Perkins.”
“ Councillor Arnold Perkins OBE, oh good,” said Pat. “He’s
got a very short fuse. So if he doesn’t give me a long enough sentence, I’ll
just have to light it,” he added as the car swung into the private carpark at the back of Marylebone Road Magistrates’ Court.
A court officer was heading toward the police car just as Pat stepped out.
“Good morning,
Mr. Adams,” said Pat.
“When I looked
at the list of defendants this morning, Pat, and saw your name,” said Mr.
Adams, “I assumed it must be that time of the year when you make your annual
appearance. Follow me, Pat, and let’s get this over with as quickly as
possible.”
Pat accompanied
Mr. Adams through the back door of the courthouse and on down the long corridor to a holding cell.
“Thank you, Mr.
Adams,” said Pat as he took a seat on a thin wooden bench that was cemented to
a wall along one side of the large oblong room. “If you’d be kind enough to
just leave me for a few moments,” Pat added, “so that I can compose myself
before the
took some time to turn from cold to lukewarm. He rubbed the mean piece of soap
between his fingers until he’d whipped up enough cream to produce a lather,
which he then smeared all over his stubbled face.
Next he picked up the plastic Bic razor, and began
the slow process of removing a four -day-old stubble.
He finally dabbed his face with a rough green hand towel, not much larger than
a flannel.
Pat sat on the
end of the bed and, while he waited, read Wesley’s Sun from cover to cover in four minutes. Only an article by their
political editor Trevor Kavanagh–he must surely be an Irishman, thought Pat–was
worthy of his attention. Pat’s thoughts were interrupted when the heavy metal
door was pulled open once again.
“Let’s be ‘ avin you, Pat,” said Sergeant Webster. “You’re first on
this morning.”
Pat accompanied
the officer back up the stairs, and when he saw the desk sergeant, asked,
“Could I have my valuables back, Mr. Baker? You’ll find them in the safe.”
“Like what?”
said the desk sergeant, looking up.
“My pearl
cufflinks, the Cartier Tank watch and a silver-topped cane engraved with my
family crest.”
“I flogged ‘ em all off last night, Pat,” said the desk sergeant.
“Probably for
the best,” remarked Pat. “I won’t be needing them
where I’m going,” he added, before following Sergeant Webster out of the front
door and onto the pavement.
“Jump in the
front,” said the sergeant, as he climbed behind the wheel of a panda car.
“But I’m
entitled to two officers to escort me to court,” insisted Pat. “It’s a Home
Office regulation.”
“It may well be
a Home Office regulation,” the sergeant replied, “but we’re short-staffed this
morning, two off sick, and one away on a training course.”
“But what if I
tried to escape?”
“A blessed
release,” said Sergeant Webster, as he pulled away from the curb, “because that
would save us all a lot of trouble.”
“And what would
you do if I decided to punch you?”
“I’d punch you
back,” said an exasperated sergeant.
“That’s not
very friendly,” suggested Pat.
“Sorry, Pat,”
said the sergeant. “It’s just that I promised my wife that I’d be off duty by
ten this morning, so we could go shopping.” He paused. “So she won’t be best
pleased with me–or you for that matter.”
“I apologize,
Sergeant Webster,” said Pat. “Next October I’ll try to find out which shift
you’re on, so I can be sure to avoid it. Perhaps you’d pass on my apologies to
Mrs. Webster.”
The sergeant
would have laughed, if it had been anyone else, but he knew Pat meant it.
“Any idea who
I’ll be up in front of this morning?” asked Pat as the car came to a halt at a
set of traffic lights.
“Thursday,”
said the sergeant, as the lights turned green and he pushed the gear lever back
into first. “It must be Perkins.”
“ Councillor Arnold Perkins OBE, oh good,” said Pat. “He’s
got a very short fuse. So if he doesn’t give me a long enough sentence, I’ll
just have to light it,” he added as the car swung into the private carpark at the back of Marylebone Road Magistrates’ Court.
A court officer was heading toward the police car just as Pat stepped out.
“Good morning,
Mr. Adams,” said Pat.
“When I looked
at the list of defendants this morning, Pat, and saw your name,” said Mr.
Adams, “I assumed it must be that time of the year when you make your annual
appearance. Follow me, Pat, and let’s get this over with as quickly as
possible.”
Pat accompanied
Mr. Adams through the back door of the courthouse and on down the long corridor to a holding cell.
“Thank you, Mr.
Adams,” said Pat as he took a seat on a thin wooden bench that was cemented to
a wall along one side of the large oblong room. “If you’d be kind enough to
just leave me for a few moments,” Pat added, “so that I can compose myself
before the
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