wouldnât usually shake someoneâs hand after handing them a ticket â itâs a safety thing. He shrugged, flashed me another smile and then climbed back into his car.
The silver Audi slid off the sidewalk and back into traffic.
Before he faded into the sea of metal, I spotted Jamie waving a greeting of thanks to the driver that let him in, and I kicked myself. I should have said or done something cool! I should have at least shook his hand.
Or perhaps invited him for a pint.
Or borrowed a cigarette off him.
I donât even smoke.
I tried to call Commander Smith but was instead greeted by an inspector who said heâd meet me at the police station for a debriefing in person. It turned out that the system should have flagged up a warning message as soon as I ran the car through the PNC (Police National Computer). Normally, the message that would have shown was: âMust not be stopped without Trojan assistanceâ, but due to a glitch that didnât happen.
They never did tell me who Jamie was or what he did (or, indeed, if that was his real name), only that he was not âjobâ (so, not working for the police) but did work for the government.
Out of all the traffic stops Iâve done, Jamie is probably the only spy Iâve ever seen ⦠That I know of.
Crossing over to the other side
âCall an ambulance,â I shouted, as I ran across the road to the man on the asphalt. He was making a horrible gargling sound. In the three seconds it took me to cross the road, his white T-shirt had been soaked with claret.
I applied pressure to his throat to try and stop the bleeding, but it kept coming out with a surprising amount of force; I didnât seem to be able to even slow the bleeding.
The passer-by I had shouted at for an ambulance was fumbling with her mobile phone. She said something, but not loud enough for me to hear. âWhat?!â I barked back.
âI donât know the number,â she blurted out, and burst into tears.
There wasnât time to stop and ponder about the sheer idiocy of that statement. Even though I was now covered in blood trying to save the manâs life, an old joke forced its way to the forefront of my mind: âOperator! What is the number for 911?!â
It had all begun barely a minute earlier. I was on my way to a late shift. We were parading at two, so I left the house at about noon. I treated myself to a full English breakfast and a couple of cups of nuclear-strength java, before walking to work.
I was at an intersection. Traffic was backed up, so a couple of my fellow pedestrians took the opportunity to cross between the cars. As long as the road is clear, thereâs no problem with this; there are no laws against jaywalking in the UK.
I considered crossing myself, but I looked further up the road, and through the front windshield of a bus, I saw a motorcycle moving up the far side of the line of traffic at a lofty pace.
âA bit risky,â I remember thinking. A fraction of a second later, someone brushed past me, and darted in front of the white Transit van that was stopped in front of us.
His timing could not have been worse. I opened my mouth to warn the pedestrian about the motorcyclist, but before as much as a syllable had shaped in my vocal cords, I was interrupted by a sickening sound. The motorcycleâs mirror was the first point of impact against the pedestrian. The force against the right handlebar made the motorbike turn right, and it crashed into the back of the car that had stopped just in front of the van, sending the motorcyclist sailing through the air.
The pedestrian went down like a sack of spuds. As he did, he smashed his head against the side of the pavement. He must have sliced his throat open against something on the motorcycle â before I even managed to make it over to him, he had grasped at his throat and then blacked out.
I shouted at the shocked lady: â999! Itâs 999!
The silver Audi slid off the sidewalk and back into traffic.
Before he faded into the sea of metal, I spotted Jamie waving a greeting of thanks to the driver that let him in, and I kicked myself. I should have said or done something cool! I should have at least shook his hand.
Or perhaps invited him for a pint.
Or borrowed a cigarette off him.
I donât even smoke.
I tried to call Commander Smith but was instead greeted by an inspector who said heâd meet me at the police station for a debriefing in person. It turned out that the system should have flagged up a warning message as soon as I ran the car through the PNC (Police National Computer). Normally, the message that would have shown was: âMust not be stopped without Trojan assistanceâ, but due to a glitch that didnât happen.
They never did tell me who Jamie was or what he did (or, indeed, if that was his real name), only that he was not âjobâ (so, not working for the police) but did work for the government.
Out of all the traffic stops Iâve done, Jamie is probably the only spy Iâve ever seen ⦠That I know of.
Crossing over to the other side
âCall an ambulance,â I shouted, as I ran across the road to the man on the asphalt. He was making a horrible gargling sound. In the three seconds it took me to cross the road, his white T-shirt had been soaked with claret.
I applied pressure to his throat to try and stop the bleeding, but it kept coming out with a surprising amount of force; I didnât seem to be able to even slow the bleeding.
The passer-by I had shouted at for an ambulance was fumbling with her mobile phone. She said something, but not loud enough for me to hear. âWhat?!â I barked back.
âI donât know the number,â she blurted out, and burst into tears.
There wasnât time to stop and ponder about the sheer idiocy of that statement. Even though I was now covered in blood trying to save the manâs life, an old joke forced its way to the forefront of my mind: âOperator! What is the number for 911?!â
It had all begun barely a minute earlier. I was on my way to a late shift. We were parading at two, so I left the house at about noon. I treated myself to a full English breakfast and a couple of cups of nuclear-strength java, before walking to work.
I was at an intersection. Traffic was backed up, so a couple of my fellow pedestrians took the opportunity to cross between the cars. As long as the road is clear, thereâs no problem with this; there are no laws against jaywalking in the UK.
I considered crossing myself, but I looked further up the road, and through the front windshield of a bus, I saw a motorcycle moving up the far side of the line of traffic at a lofty pace.
âA bit risky,â I remember thinking. A fraction of a second later, someone brushed past me, and darted in front of the white Transit van that was stopped in front of us.
His timing could not have been worse. I opened my mouth to warn the pedestrian about the motorcyclist, but before as much as a syllable had shaped in my vocal cords, I was interrupted by a sickening sound. The motorcycleâs mirror was the first point of impact against the pedestrian. The force against the right handlebar made the motorbike turn right, and it crashed into the back of the car that had stopped just in front of the van, sending the motorcyclist sailing through the air.
The pedestrian went down like a sack of spuds. As he did, he smashed his head against the side of the pavement. He must have sliced his throat open against something on the motorcycle â before I even managed to make it over to him, he had grasped at his throat and then blacked out.
I shouted at the shocked lady: â999! Itâs 999!
Similar Books
