hearing things. Even so I don’t need
telling I can leave twice.
I
make my way out of the cell tentatively, my knee feels like it has exploded and
I’m scared to put my weight on it in case I do it more damage. As I limp along
the corridor out of the custody suite, one hand flat against the wall in order
to keep my balance, other officers glance in my direction. Their glances are
fleeting, followed by an approving nod at MacIntyre, the equivalent of a
Facebook ‘like’ I suppose.
The
Custody Sergeant is brisk this time, as though keen to process me and send me
on my way before someone with a conscience sees the state I’m in. MacIntyre has
been careful not to hit me anywhere that’ll show a mark while I’m dressed, but
I can’t mask the pain radiating out from my knee nor the rivulets of sweat
running from my hairline. The Custody Sergeant’s antipathy suits me; I just
want to be away from here, so I can crawl into a corner and die. It seems
ridiculous now but Mum wanted me to join the police for a while, back when I
was in school. She thought it would be a good way to channel my aggression. She
didn’t seem to get that they were often the cause of it.
Out
in the car park the glare of the low evening sun forces me to shield my eyes as
I emerge from the station building. The car park is quiet; shift change isn’t
for another couple of hours so the only people milling about are those bringing
food or clean clothes to sons or husbands held in the cells overnight, or
drivers ordered to produce their documents at the main reception.
I
wish I’d thought to phone someone. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and
remember I don’t know anyone with a car apart from Marcus and there’d be more
chance of him voting than coming to pick me up. All the while MacIntyre is
hovering around me like an expectant father, even helping me down the station
steps when my knee gives out. The touch of his hands on my arm makes me
shudder, and the thought of climbing into a car with him fills me with dread.
This is a man capable of carrying out two vicious assaults in one day – one
within earshot of his peers, the other just yards from passers-by; just what
the hell was he capable of if he knew he was totally alone?
‘John,
wait up!’ We’re nearing a row of parked squad cars and MacIntyre has unlocked
the nearest one. It’s the kiddie cop, bright eyed and eager like a new puppy.
‘Sarge
has said I’m to go with ye,’ He slows to a stop by MacIntyre’s shoulder, leans
into him so he can lower his voice. ‘Regulations an’ all that shite,’ he adds,
then quieter still:
‘For
ye own protection.’
I
bristle, the one who needs protecting here is me, not this maniac, but then if
Kiddie cop is tagging along MacIntyre should keep his hands to himself.
MacIntyre catches my eye as though reading my thoughts and I force the corners
of my mouth into a smile. We climb into the car and drive in silence bar the
cackle of their radios and an occasional wise crack from MacIntyre regarding
some of the call outs broadcast over the network. Tosser seems to be his
word of the day and is used for criminals and colleagues alike, along with
pedestrians stepping onto zebra crossings or small children who wave at his
car. Kiddie cop is tapping away on his smart phone like a terrorist sleeper.
MacIntyre doesn’t seem to mind, occasionally he glares at me in his rear view
mirror and I glare back at him to let him know we are even.
As
we turn down Leith Walk I see Aunt Jude with the twins outside Majestic Wines.
They are walking arm in arm, Aunt Jude in the middle, heads tilted back to
catch the last of the sun as they laugh and swing their shopping bags about
them. They turn into the vennel that leads to their home, heads together as
they share a joke. ‘Can ye take me down here?’ I ask quickly, pointing to the
narrow entrance.
‘We’re
no’ City fuckin’ Cabs,’ Kiddie cop snipes, but MacIntyre ignores him. ‘Aye,
it’s nearer than
telling I can leave twice.
I
make my way out of the cell tentatively, my knee feels like it has exploded and
I’m scared to put my weight on it in case I do it more damage. As I limp along
the corridor out of the custody suite, one hand flat against the wall in order
to keep my balance, other officers glance in my direction. Their glances are
fleeting, followed by an approving nod at MacIntyre, the equivalent of a
Facebook ‘like’ I suppose.
The
Custody Sergeant is brisk this time, as though keen to process me and send me
on my way before someone with a conscience sees the state I’m in. MacIntyre has
been careful not to hit me anywhere that’ll show a mark while I’m dressed, but
I can’t mask the pain radiating out from my knee nor the rivulets of sweat
running from my hairline. The Custody Sergeant’s antipathy suits me; I just
want to be away from here, so I can crawl into a corner and die. It seems
ridiculous now but Mum wanted me to join the police for a while, back when I
was in school. She thought it would be a good way to channel my aggression. She
didn’t seem to get that they were often the cause of it.
Out
in the car park the glare of the low evening sun forces me to shield my eyes as
I emerge from the station building. The car park is quiet; shift change isn’t
for another couple of hours so the only people milling about are those bringing
food or clean clothes to sons or husbands held in the cells overnight, or
drivers ordered to produce their documents at the main reception.
I
wish I’d thought to phone someone. I pull my mobile out of my pocket and
remember I don’t know anyone with a car apart from Marcus and there’d be more
chance of him voting than coming to pick me up. All the while MacIntyre is
hovering around me like an expectant father, even helping me down the station
steps when my knee gives out. The touch of his hands on my arm makes me
shudder, and the thought of climbing into a car with him fills me with dread.
This is a man capable of carrying out two vicious assaults in one day – one
within earshot of his peers, the other just yards from passers-by; just what
the hell was he capable of if he knew he was totally alone?
‘John,
wait up!’ We’re nearing a row of parked squad cars and MacIntyre has unlocked
the nearest one. It’s the kiddie cop, bright eyed and eager like a new puppy.
‘Sarge
has said I’m to go with ye,’ He slows to a stop by MacIntyre’s shoulder, leans
into him so he can lower his voice. ‘Regulations an’ all that shite,’ he adds,
then quieter still:
‘For
ye own protection.’
I
bristle, the one who needs protecting here is me, not this maniac, but then if
Kiddie cop is tagging along MacIntyre should keep his hands to himself.
MacIntyre catches my eye as though reading my thoughts and I force the corners
of my mouth into a smile. We climb into the car and drive in silence bar the
cackle of their radios and an occasional wise crack from MacIntyre regarding
some of the call outs broadcast over the network. Tosser seems to be his
word of the day and is used for criminals and colleagues alike, along with
pedestrians stepping onto zebra crossings or small children who wave at his
car. Kiddie cop is tapping away on his smart phone like a terrorist sleeper.
MacIntyre doesn’t seem to mind, occasionally he glares at me in his rear view
mirror and I glare back at him to let him know we are even.
As
we turn down Leith Walk I see Aunt Jude with the twins outside Majestic Wines.
They are walking arm in arm, Aunt Jude in the middle, heads tilted back to
catch the last of the sun as they laugh and swing their shopping bags about
them. They turn into the vennel that leads to their home, heads together as
they share a joke. ‘Can ye take me down here?’ I ask quickly, pointing to the
narrow entrance.
‘We’re
no’ City fuckin’ Cabs,’ Kiddie cop snipes, but MacIntyre ignores him. ‘Aye,
it’s nearer than
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