scarred, and the shiny-arse station cats with bellies like award-winning marrows. They all laughed and cheered and slapped my back. I hung my head and blushed and choked back the tears.
I had never loved them more.
Then I went up to the office, and when I was settled at my old desk, time just seemed to congeal. I had forgotten the mind-numbing monotony of processing charge sheets, witness statements and the edited highlights of police interviews. I had forgotten what it was like to feed the Crown Prosecution Service’s insatiable appetite for pointless paperwork. Or perhaps I had never realised it until now. But my chores seemed drained of all meaning, and my head reeled with the stupefying boredom of it all. How could this behow I spent my day? My first day back at work would last for the rest of my life.
So I slipped away to a place that Ruby had introduced me to. It was like one of those web sites that will beam you to any address in the world, and your head spins with all the dazzling possibilities of life as you watch the planet turn, racing across oceans and mountains and deserts and cities and rain forests. This site was even better because it propelled you into outer space.
Soon the office had faded away and I was falling through the stars. I watched solar systems being born and planets dying. I travelled light years into the infinite blackness, only pausing for a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake when I was staring at the remnants of Crab Nebula, a star that had collapsed one thousand years ago with the radiance of ten billion suns. Then I realised that someone was standing by my desk, and with a guilty touch of my thumb and index finger, I hit quit.
Keith was standing there grinning at me, an unlit cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. He placed a brown paper bag from a coffee shop on my desk and it landed with a soft metallic clunk. I picked it up and was surprised at the weight. I glanced quickly inside at the dull oily gleam of the replica gun and then put the bag in my desk.
‘I want to show you something,’ he said.
Keith’s partner was waiting by the car. When he saw us coming he got into the back seat without being told, giving me a deferential nod of welcome. Keith got behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He knew exactly where he was going. When we were on the road he shook his head and gave me a wonky grin. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said. ‘Because I can’t believe it myself.’
We headed south. We crossed the river. All the tourist landmarks dropped away and we were suddenly in darker, shabbier streets. And then we saw him. Matted beard, tatty coat, and looking like a soup-kitchen Jesus. Exactly as I remembered him. Standing on a corner on Borough High Street, rocking back and forth as he had an animated conversation with himself.
Rainbow Ron.
‘But he had a bloody gun,’ I said to Keith.
‘No,’ Keith said, savouring the insanity of it all. ‘He didn’t have a gun. He had a toy gun. A replica.’
‘Didn’t they bang him up?’ I said.
‘He was sectioned under the Loony Bastard Act of 1814,’ Keith said. ‘Something like that. And later released back into the community awaiting psychiatric reports.’
‘History of mental illness,’ murmured the boy on the back seat. ‘Paranoid schizophrenia. Manic-depressive psychosis. Self-harm. Personality disorder.’
‘The whole raving nut-job package,’ sighed Keith, and he swung the car up on to the pavement, making Rainbow Ron look up with alarm.
‘And he hadn’t been taking his medication,’ said the boy in the back.
‘Stop,’ Keith said. ‘You’re breaking my heart.’
He kicked his door open and got out. Rainbow Ron had not moved. He stared intently at Keith, as if trying to place him. Keith took his arm and gently guided him to the back seat. The boy shuffled over. Then we were off again, Keith steering with one hand and moaning about the grime on his other hand, and telling us to open all the
I had never loved them more.
Then I went up to the office, and when I was settled at my old desk, time just seemed to congeal. I had forgotten the mind-numbing monotony of processing charge sheets, witness statements and the edited highlights of police interviews. I had forgotten what it was like to feed the Crown Prosecution Service’s insatiable appetite for pointless paperwork. Or perhaps I had never realised it until now. But my chores seemed drained of all meaning, and my head reeled with the stupefying boredom of it all. How could this behow I spent my day? My first day back at work would last for the rest of my life.
So I slipped away to a place that Ruby had introduced me to. It was like one of those web sites that will beam you to any address in the world, and your head spins with all the dazzling possibilities of life as you watch the planet turn, racing across oceans and mountains and deserts and cities and rain forests. This site was even better because it propelled you into outer space.
Soon the office had faded away and I was falling through the stars. I watched solar systems being born and planets dying. I travelled light years into the infinite blackness, only pausing for a cup of tea and a Jaffa Cake when I was staring at the remnants of Crab Nebula, a star that had collapsed one thousand years ago with the radiance of ten billion suns. Then I realised that someone was standing by my desk, and with a guilty touch of my thumb and index finger, I hit quit.
Keith was standing there grinning at me, an unlit cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. He placed a brown paper bag from a coffee shop on my desk and it landed with a soft metallic clunk. I picked it up and was surprised at the weight. I glanced quickly inside at the dull oily gleam of the replica gun and then put the bag in my desk.
‘I want to show you something,’ he said.
Keith’s partner was waiting by the car. When he saw us coming he got into the back seat without being told, giving me a deferential nod of welcome. Keith got behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He knew exactly where he was going. When we were on the road he shook his head and gave me a wonky grin. ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said. ‘Because I can’t believe it myself.’
We headed south. We crossed the river. All the tourist landmarks dropped away and we were suddenly in darker, shabbier streets. And then we saw him. Matted beard, tatty coat, and looking like a soup-kitchen Jesus. Exactly as I remembered him. Standing on a corner on Borough High Street, rocking back and forth as he had an animated conversation with himself.
Rainbow Ron.
‘But he had a bloody gun,’ I said to Keith.
‘No,’ Keith said, savouring the insanity of it all. ‘He didn’t have a gun. He had a toy gun. A replica.’
‘Didn’t they bang him up?’ I said.
‘He was sectioned under the Loony Bastard Act of 1814,’ Keith said. ‘Something like that. And later released back into the community awaiting psychiatric reports.’
‘History of mental illness,’ murmured the boy on the back seat. ‘Paranoid schizophrenia. Manic-depressive psychosis. Self-harm. Personality disorder.’
‘The whole raving nut-job package,’ sighed Keith, and he swung the car up on to the pavement, making Rainbow Ron look up with alarm.
‘And he hadn’t been taking his medication,’ said the boy in the back.
‘Stop,’ Keith said. ‘You’re breaking my heart.’
He kicked his door open and got out. Rainbow Ron had not moved. He stared intently at Keith, as if trying to place him. Keith took his arm and gently guided him to the back seat. The boy shuffled over. Then we were off again, Keith steering with one hand and moaning about the grime on his other hand, and telling us to open all the
Similar Books
