estates - everybody was tucked up inside their homes with their three bar heaters on, all was nice and quiet.
For once, Darrin wasn’t minding the lull too much, although he was still regularly pestering a tolerant Moz about getting a gig on the on-going op, which had seemingly stalled with the meagre pickings that had been garnered from Manning’s arrest. It looked like Moz had been proven right.
He’d seen Jolika on the change over and told her of his plans to get down to the dance lesson this Thursday. Johno had overheard him and it was all round the fucking station by lunch the next day. They had given him the usual crap about sequins and being a poofter. The numbskulls wouldn’t be saying that if they’d been there last Saturday, it had been wallto wall, tasty tush. He kept that to himself though, he didn’t want it to become a gawping policemans’ ball and he thought that Jolika would be doing likewise, which made him briefly contemplate why she’d invited him in the first place. Nice bloke Stuart, he thought, a damn pity though.
Mid-week he had tea at his folks’ place, his dad had spent most of the time behind the paper, his mum good naturedly wittering on about his sister’s kids, which, in his opinion, was the best thing to happen to the family for years. The young ‘uns took a little of the rough edge off the old man and they fed his mum’s incessant need to be a mother. He was grateful to get off that particular hook. The old lady certainly had an awful lot of love to give.
After the meal he chatted briefly with the old man. The old boy was more than a little preoccupied with the future of his gym. The possibility of local authority cut-backs was now being given open slather in the media. His dad had built up a lot of good favour over the last thirty years but, as the old man, said these were ‘different times,’ and he was finding it hard to get the numbers down there.
Dougy didn’t mind sharing his analyses of the problem with him.
‘Fucking lazy this new lot yer know - too much given to ‘em for nowt. Hope there’s not a war in the next few years, cos these fuckers won’t know which way to point the bloody rifle!’
The old lady had chided him for the profanities and the old man had grunted a reflex, ‘sorry love.’
The old man had a point though, you’d have to bribe a lot of the kids to get them anywhere near a gym and then probably the only way they would make it through the doorswould be with the support of a rake of social workers who were being employed through some fucking community scheme.
‘You know what the problem is son. They get their arses wiped and they’ve got next to bugger all to look forward to.’
That rang a vague echo in his head, something Mick Cochrane had said to him when Darrin had first started drinking in the local boozers. It had been a few years ago now, well before he joined the plod. There had been a long and heated debate at the bar about the state of the nation’s wayward youth. Mick had turned to him and breathed whiskey and Guinness fumes in his face, a fierce glitter in those intense eyes of his. ‘You know what the trouble is with the young people lad? They have nobody to look up to!’
Darrin shared the memory with his folks, the old man had snapped his paper and given him his industrial strength withering look.
‘Well that’s bloody Mick for you, he’d have a political argument about opening a packet of bloody biscuits. Bloody prophet of doom, he is.’
Darrin looked over at his mum who gave him a little raise of the eyebrows. He made with his excuses and got ready to go. She folded up a pile of his washing that had been sitting on the dining room table and with a few deft movements placed it all in his gym bag.
His dad asked him if he was popping down the gym tomorrow.
With a hesitation that he tried but failed to hide Darrin told the old man that he had something else on.
‘On the arm are yer then son?’
‘Aye, summat like
For once, Darrin wasn’t minding the lull too much, although he was still regularly pestering a tolerant Moz about getting a gig on the on-going op, which had seemingly stalled with the meagre pickings that had been garnered from Manning’s arrest. It looked like Moz had been proven right.
He’d seen Jolika on the change over and told her of his plans to get down to the dance lesson this Thursday. Johno had overheard him and it was all round the fucking station by lunch the next day. They had given him the usual crap about sequins and being a poofter. The numbskulls wouldn’t be saying that if they’d been there last Saturday, it had been wallto wall, tasty tush. He kept that to himself though, he didn’t want it to become a gawping policemans’ ball and he thought that Jolika would be doing likewise, which made him briefly contemplate why she’d invited him in the first place. Nice bloke Stuart, he thought, a damn pity though.
Mid-week he had tea at his folks’ place, his dad had spent most of the time behind the paper, his mum good naturedly wittering on about his sister’s kids, which, in his opinion, was the best thing to happen to the family for years. The young ‘uns took a little of the rough edge off the old man and they fed his mum’s incessant need to be a mother. He was grateful to get off that particular hook. The old lady certainly had an awful lot of love to give.
After the meal he chatted briefly with the old man. The old boy was more than a little preoccupied with the future of his gym. The possibility of local authority cut-backs was now being given open slather in the media. His dad had built up a lot of good favour over the last thirty years but, as the old man, said these were ‘different times,’ and he was finding it hard to get the numbers down there.
Dougy didn’t mind sharing his analyses of the problem with him.
‘Fucking lazy this new lot yer know - too much given to ‘em for nowt. Hope there’s not a war in the next few years, cos these fuckers won’t know which way to point the bloody rifle!’
The old lady had chided him for the profanities and the old man had grunted a reflex, ‘sorry love.’
The old man had a point though, you’d have to bribe a lot of the kids to get them anywhere near a gym and then probably the only way they would make it through the doorswould be with the support of a rake of social workers who were being employed through some fucking community scheme.
‘You know what the problem is son. They get their arses wiped and they’ve got next to bugger all to look forward to.’
That rang a vague echo in his head, something Mick Cochrane had said to him when Darrin had first started drinking in the local boozers. It had been a few years ago now, well before he joined the plod. There had been a long and heated debate at the bar about the state of the nation’s wayward youth. Mick had turned to him and breathed whiskey and Guinness fumes in his face, a fierce glitter in those intense eyes of his. ‘You know what the trouble is with the young people lad? They have nobody to look up to!’
Darrin shared the memory with his folks, the old man had snapped his paper and given him his industrial strength withering look.
‘Well that’s bloody Mick for you, he’d have a political argument about opening a packet of bloody biscuits. Bloody prophet of doom, he is.’
Darrin looked over at his mum who gave him a little raise of the eyebrows. He made with his excuses and got ready to go. She folded up a pile of his washing that had been sitting on the dining room table and with a few deft movements placed it all in his gym bag.
His dad asked him if he was popping down the gym tomorrow.
With a hesitation that he tried but failed to hide Darrin told the old man that he had something else on.
‘On the arm are yer then son?’
‘Aye, summat like
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