clean sunny Oxford. But for some silly reason he had foregone that pleasure out of some feeling of empathy with his new outcast colleague. The more he thought about the similarity of their situations the more it bothered him. He shuffled from one foot to the other. Nobody in the station ever invited him for a drink. He was not ‘one of the boys’ and he hadn't invited a woman out since the death of his wife. He wondered what else he and Moira might have in common. The evening ahead filled him with trepidation. One drink and he would be off home to Inspector Morse and the lasagne.
He felt rather than saw the presence of someone behind him.
"Ready," Moira stood directly behind him stuffing a handful of computer printouts into a well-worn black attaché case. A wide grin covered her face and her earlier gloom appeared to have disappeared.
Wilson looked furtively around the hall. The Duty Sergeant stared in their direction with a leer on his face. Screw you, Wilson thought. The news would be around the station before they had their first order in. The inferences people would make would not be very complementary for Moira.
"Let's get on," Wilson smiled warmly at the young constable. "I've a thirst that'd do justice to a camel."
As he walked through the door, Wilson flicked up the hood of his anorak. "Where's your car?" he asked
“I wouldn’t dignify my mode of transport by calling it a car,” she nodded at a battered and rusted white Lada looking abandoned in the corner of the car-park. “My Polish made chariot - without horses of course.”
He looked in the direction she indicated. "We better go in mine," he said. "The weather's too bad for push starts."
"No Lada jokes, please. I've heard them all,” she said following Wilson at a run across the parking lot.
Wilson settled himself in the driver's seat of his Toyota Corolla and flipped open the passenger door. He put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it.
"I don’t want you to take this in the wrong way," Wilson said staring out through the water streaming down the windscreen. "But I think that we shouldn’t go local.”
Her lips curled into a knowing smile.
“Most of the lads from the Station drink locally and I don’t want a sea of faces staring at me every time I lift my pint. This is only day one. Let’s give them a bit of time to get used to you.”
“You’re the expert around here,” she said maintaining the smile. “If we go local tongues will wag. If the look on the Station Sergeant’s face is anything to go by they may already have started. To be honest I wouldn’t feel comfortable in a cop bar right now so let’s go somewhere quiet.”
"I think that you have a future in this business, Constable," Wilson smiled and flicked the ignition switch and the Toyota's engine sprang into life. "There's a couple of yuppie pubs on the Malone Road where money is more important than religion. If you can deal with the sound of mobile phones ringing every second or so we could head up there."
Wilson manoeuvred the car carefully through the crowded carpark towards a barrier between the remains of what had been two mounds of fortifications. Like a mining district it was difficult to put back the police stations in Ulster to their original state. There would always be a scar of what had been. Water ran down the shiny black raincoat of the constable on duty at the barrier and there was a suggestion of reluctance in the man's salute as he raised the barrier to permit the Toyota to enter the outside world of Belfast. The city they entered was grey and dark.
He felt rather than saw the presence of someone behind him.
"Ready," Moira stood directly behind him stuffing a handful of computer printouts into a well-worn black attaché case. A wide grin covered her face and her earlier gloom appeared to have disappeared.
Wilson looked furtively around the hall. The Duty Sergeant stared in their direction with a leer on his face. Screw you, Wilson thought. The news would be around the station before they had their first order in. The inferences people would make would not be very complementary for Moira.
"Let's get on," Wilson smiled warmly at the young constable. "I've a thirst that'd do justice to a camel."
As he walked through the door, Wilson flicked up the hood of his anorak. "Where's your car?" he asked
“I wouldn’t dignify my mode of transport by calling it a car,” she nodded at a battered and rusted white Lada looking abandoned in the corner of the car-park. “My Polish made chariot - without horses of course.”
He looked in the direction she indicated. "We better go in mine," he said. "The weather's too bad for push starts."
"No Lada jokes, please. I've heard them all,” she said following Wilson at a run across the parking lot.
Wilson settled himself in the driver's seat of his Toyota Corolla and flipped open the passenger door. He put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it.
"I don’t want you to take this in the wrong way," Wilson said staring out through the water streaming down the windscreen. "But I think that we shouldn’t go local.”
Her lips curled into a knowing smile.
“Most of the lads from the Station drink locally and I don’t want a sea of faces staring at me every time I lift my pint. This is only day one. Let’s give them a bit of time to get used to you.”
“You’re the expert around here,” she said maintaining the smile. “If we go local tongues will wag. If the look on the Station Sergeant’s face is anything to go by they may already have started. To be honest I wouldn’t feel comfortable in a cop bar right now so let’s go somewhere quiet.”
"I think that you have a future in this business, Constable," Wilson smiled and flicked the ignition switch and the Toyota's engine sprang into life. "There's a couple of yuppie pubs on the Malone Road where money is more important than religion. If you can deal with the sound of mobile phones ringing every second or so we could head up there."
Wilson manoeuvred the car carefully through the crowded carpark towards a barrier between the remains of what had been two mounds of fortifications. Like a mining district it was difficult to put back the police stations in Ulster to their original state. There would always be a scar of what had been. Water ran down the shiny black raincoat of the constable on duty at the barrier and there was a suggestion of reluctance in the man's salute as he raised the barrier to permit the Toyota to enter the outside world of Belfast. The city they entered was grey and dark.
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