MAGPIES
One For Sorrow
Two For Joy
Three For Girl
And Four For Boy
The Beginning
Sirens blared and blue lights strobed as the harsh, sharp rain pelted down from the black midnight sky. A thick mist rose from the ground like fingers, clawing at the dense darkness. A solitary streetlight burnt through the night air, dispersing the minuscule water droplets in a giant halo of fierce, fiery orange. Large muddy puddles filled the uneven troughs of the tarmac, periodically escaping to the deep, muddy ditches that lined the country road.
The streetlight reflected off a thousand shards of plastic and glass. Shimmering slivers of sharp multicoloured razors carpeted the dark grey concrete for fifty yards. The carnival of colour, showered with flashing blue and white, tinkled as they were scattered by heavy footsteps. Shiny black rubber torn from the car like tendons and ligaments was strewn across the road reaching the wooden and wire fence on the opposite side. Larger panes of glass reflected metallic red panels that had been ripped and shredded during impact. Cold, hard, grey steel stood cold and motionless as leather interiors and plastic moulding contorted in the heat of burning petrol.
Two large shoes tapped at dark muddy puddles and absent-mindedly shuffled at the colourful detritus. The immaculately polished footwear repelled the rain but absorbed and contorted the wreckage. The wind threw the rice-hard rain into the face of the solitary figure as the ambulance lurched away. The sirens balled once more, out of duty rather than urgency and gradually faded like a wailing widow as the ambulance swept out of view. The shoes tapped, irritated, as thirty painfully cold seconds dragged by. The figure pulled at his soaking sleeve, stretched the glove and exposed a silver watch – showing the precise time in a cool neon glow. The shoes stamped momentarily, a decision made. They marched quickly towards the last remaining police car and stepped quickly in.
A minute later, a fresh trumpet of noise startled the night and the lamppost was suddenly drowned as a comet of noise and blinding light hurled itself forward, skidding to an abrupt painful screech a foot from the police car. The driver’s door exploded outwards, its occupant steadily and deliberately walking towards the wreckage as the police siren slowly died in a waterfall of crying harmonics. These new feet swept and swirled like those of a debutante, halting, turning, pausing, then returning to the car. The door opened noisily then slammed shut once again.
These heavy, battered pale-brown leather shoes stamped through the water splashing the scruffy turn-ups with dirty water. A long coat swept through the mist towards the other police car. The driver’s door was closed, the windows steamed up, the radio murmuring. The figure slowly reached for the handle and yanked. The uniformed man started, dropping his cigarette onto the car seat. He leapt for it, endeavouring to flick it out of the car and in doing so, knocked the foam cup that had been precariously placed on his knee. Scalding coffee cascaded down his neatly pressed trousers and onto the car floor. The overweight officer scrambled for the cup, desperately trying to save the last drop of thick sweet coffee and thumped his chin against the steering wheel. His glasses flew off of his nose and straight into the steady hand of the amused photographer.
“Oh Jesus, Pointer, You bastard”. The overweight officer grabbed the glasses and thrust them back onto his large red nose. “You frightened the life out of me.”
“Nice to see you’re on your toes, Bill.” He leant over the officer and clicked off the radio. “Who’s winning?”
The officer flushed and stepped out of the car into the pouring rain.
“Nah, it’s just the fight build-up. It’s on for another three hours.”
“What fight?”
“Blimey, what world do you live in? Tyson –Lewis. Th rumble on the river. Boxer versus monster. No biting, kicking, stamping or butting allowed. Let’s get on with it. I don’t want to miss the fight.”
“Okay, I’ll be quick. Have you had a hard day? You look ill.”
“I’ve been standin’ in the bleedin’ rain waiting for you, that’s why! Think I ‘aven’t got better things to do? I practically drowned waiting for you. You should have been here an hour ago.”
“Okay, calm down, you’ll have a coronary. My car broke down. I borrowed one from the office.” He pointed at the police car.
“About bloody time that banger of yours was off the road.” Seargant Bill Briers swung his legs onto the tarmac and stood up. “That bloody car of yours should be a major discussion point at the next environmental summit.”
“Have you been reading your wife’s magazine again? Just don’t start spouting health tips, please.”
“I’m only bloody concerned for you, you know.”
They turned towards the wreck.
“I guess I’m too late to see the casualties?”
“Yeah, about two hours. Driver was a right mess. Made me puke.” The policeman pointed at a faint mustard stain on the tarmac.
“Thanks for that. Why don’t you finish your footy whilst I take some snaps?”
“Listen – whilst you’re takin’ those bloody photos, some of us have to do real police work.”
“What, like drinking coffee and smoking? Give over.”
“I work a damn sight harder than you and look where it’s got me. Stuck in the middle of bloody nowhere in the freezing bloody cold, arguing with a trumped up bloody wedding photographer earning a pitiful salary for my wife to spend on sandals and holidays. I’m gonna finish my cuppa.”
Pointer smiled to himself. He enjoyed the banter he had with Bill. It kept him feeling positive. It kept his mind off the job. Because sometimes, it could get messy.
He composed himself and, turning to face the wreckage, breathed in deeply. His eyes half closed, he could feel the rain-drops falling lightly on his hair, dripping down his cheeks like tears. He began his little ritual. Ritual number 58;
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven…”
This one had seemed natural at the time. His first fatal crash all those years ago. It calmed him down. Made him believe that there was some reason, someone controlling it all. Besides, he liked to pray. It reassured him. He wasn’t religious, or at least, he didn’t believe in religion. He wasn’t sure if there was a God or not. But he liked to pray though. And this little ritual was now his little calm in a picture of chaos.
A car door squeaked open. “Will you get on with it Pointer!”
“Alright, chill. Just a few quiet words.”
“You’re a morbid nutter.” The door slammed shut.
“…The power and the glory, forever and ever, AMEN.” Then he crossed himself. He didn’t know why. He didn’t even know whether he was doing it right. He wasn’t even sure if he knew a Catholic and there was no easy way to find out apart from checking in the men’s toilets. And he didn’t want a reputation.
His little ritual finished as he banged his heel on the cold, hard, road. The sharp jolt started proceedings slowly towards the wreckage. He swung the bag off his shoulder and pulled one of his digital cameras out of it. He snapped off the cover, turned a couple of switches, turned on the flash and stood, looking. He was only there to take a good quality record for the police files. But Pointer had seen so many crashes in the last four years. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. The running commentary was to desensitise himself – to see it through someone else’s eyes. It worked most of the time. But sometimes the pictures flooded back with all that pent-up gut-wrenching emotion magnified by months of suppression.
“Right, let’s see,” He spoke softly, “Speeding car travelling, say seventy, eighty.” The click and whirr of the camera helped him think. He swivelled neatly on his heel towards the wreck and back again. Click, whirr, click, whirr. “Slight incline, uneven road.” Click whirr. “Sudden trough…” Click, whirr. Pointer paced along the road and paused, kneeling to inspect the tyre marks more closely. They began in a perfectly straight line, then curved one way before darted back sharply, almost turning back on them selves. “A Bump there and a long scrape in the tarmac…” Click, whirr, click, whirr, “…an inch of water.” Click, whirr. “Right. Rubber tracks start here…” Click, whirr. “Swerve, brakes. ABS can’t save you now, I’m afraid. Skid towards grass verge, full brakes here…” Click whirr, click, whirr. “First impact, right fender, soil everywhere.” Click, whirr. “Ricochets back, more skid marks, screeching, tail flips around,” click, whirr, “Maybe slowed to fifty, now. Rear hits verge…driver prays to God…”
He crouched slowly and tilted, imagining the impact. His eyes followed the line of wreckage and he began to take pictures rapidly. He moved in a wide circle around the car, his battered shoes caked in mud as he shuffled across the verge. Click, whirr. “Car jumps slightly and tilts…” Click whirr. “Lamppost brings Porsche to abrupt halt. Drivers side. No Chance.” Pointer shook his head and sighed. The skid marks became lost amongst the metallic debris that spread from the wreckage like a comet’s tale.
Click, whirr, click whirr. “Driver dead on impact.” Click, whirr. “Blood on lamppost…” Click, whirr. “Airbag exploded. Huh, not seen that before. High forces on impact. Drive shaft through driver’s seat, still spattered with blood..” Click, whirr, click, whirr.
Slam. Pointer jolted as Bill closed the heavy car door with inpatience.
“Are you finished yet, Pointer?”
“Nearly. Rain’s stopping.”
“Great. Great! Now you’ve done it. Bloody tempting fate again. It’ll be raining for a month of Sundays now.”
“And you have a go at me for being obsessive?”
“Just get on with it. I’m starving.”
“Me too.” He turned back to the car to take those final few photos. “I see what you mean – must have been messy. Was there anyone else in the car?”
“Yeah – his girlfriend, we think. Pretty messed-up. Barely alive. She left the scene a fair while ago. The driver – the paramedics took half an hour to find all of him. The paramedic said, to be blunt, he said it was the worst mess since his mother-in-law overcooked the Christmas turkey.” Bill mimed being sick.
“Great, thanks for that, Bill.”
“No problem, I know how you like the detail. How can you be so relaxed doin’ this stuff?”
“Meditation. Rituals. I don’t know.” Bill raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Who was the driver? Anyone we know?”
“Huh. Lucky guess. Yes sir. Registration YC51 9LU. Porsche 911, bought by a certain Mr Fabio Cannezarro.”
“The footballer?”
“Yes”
“Christ. So was it definitely an accident?”.
“Of course it was a bloody accident. He was probably drivin’ at some unholy speed down here. There was also a big bag of white stuff on the passenger seat. Probably not washing up powder.”
“My God, Bill. Your powers of deduction amaze me. You’ll make detective in no time. I thought he was playing tonight.”
“Christ, where have you been?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You mean you missed a deadline? FIFA suspended him last week for assaulting that referee with a corner flag. Don’t you remember? Then he punched his own goaly and assaulted the physio after the match.”
“Oh yeah. Nice fella.”
“Shouldn’t say that, Pointer. Judge not lest you be judged.”
“What”
“You know, the old bible saying.”
“Bill, you’re such a hypocrite. Anyway, I’m done here. You can get off now, or call in the clear-up team, or whatever it is you do. I’ll see you back at the station.”
With that, Pointer span towards his car and splashed through the puddles back towards the car. As he slumped into the driver’s seat, his stomach let out a loud gurgling complaint.
“Okay, my friend,” he said, patting his belly. “I’ll feed you first”, and he sped off towards the city in search of nourishment, leaving the ever disgruntled Officer Bill standing in fresh torrential downpour.
An hour later, Pointer’s borrowed car pulled up to the front of the city police station. It was approaching 3 in the morning. He was beginning to feel the strain of the long day. He had attended four fatal crashes that day. No, five. Five, including the Porsche. A heavy day by anyone’s reckoning. Definitely a record for one day. He pulled on the handbrake of the borrowed police car and unfastened his seat belt. He stepped out of the car and into the towering shadow of police headquarters. A twenty-storey building, clad in concrete. Built to last and definitely not to be pretty. He clutched tightly to a paper bag containing a coffee and doughnut purchased from Ronald Macdonald’s very own high quality food establishment. His heavily padded camera bag was swung over his shoulder. Still inside, the camera and data cards carrying pictures of twelve crashes, two break-ins, four assaults, five deaths and so many ruined lives. Still, at least the rain had stopped but now the bitter north wind attacked his face. He hated these northern winters. To Pointer, it seemed that year by year the bitter winters peeled off the layers of human kindness, sensibility and feeling. Almost like long-term exposure of the soul. People here just put up with the weather. They soldiered on. With their pale skins and grumpy faces, everyone had SAD for fifty weeks of the year until the annual excursion to some cheap foreign country or other brought them home burnt, hung-over, but happy. This always wore out after one miserable week.
He ambled up the steps towards the entrance, his legs feeling weak and tired after the arduous day. He still managed to keep up ritual number 3 – every other step. He glanced at the revolving door, usually locked at this time of night. Ten more steps, eight, six. He noticed Lorraine at the front reception desk, the object of his desire. His heart beat faster as it always did. Play it cool, just say hello and ask her out. Four steps, two. Lorraine had noticed him through the glass and gave a little wave. His heart jumped. He smiled back. Be cool, be cool.
As he stretched for the last step, his brown shoes scraped the step-edge and as he missed his footing, his weight tumbled forward. A warm slosh told him that his doughnut was now coffee flavoured. He managed to right himself with a swift extension of his hand but the momentum of the fall brought him to the door rather too quickly. He swivelled to take the impact with his shoulder and he slammed against the revolving door. The door jolted then span, his legs trailing behind him. The paper bag was wrenched from his grasp and the polystyrene cup tossed itself towards the glass of the door, exploding in a volcano of thick black fluid. The door continued spinning and his left foot trailed behind, catching in the glass partition. His shoes leapt from his foot and the heavy door collided with his ankle. He came to an abrupt halt as his torso hit the cold marbled floor of reception, his foot jamming the door.
Lorraine sat, her head in both hands. Did he detect a slight shake of laughter? So much for cool.
“Should have thought it was you from the racket.” Great, Bill was there too, just coming out from the lift. “You know, you are the clumsiest guy I know. Look at the state of you.” Pointer picked himself up slowly, looking behind him. Thick sickly coffee was dripping from halfway up the glass door, onto the waxed floor. He watched as it crept around his escaped shoe and began usurping his exposed sock, creeping towards reception like lava. His shoes did look rather the worse for wear. The bottom six inches of his trousers were caked in mud, still wet from the rain and now spattered with black spots of coffee.
Bill, on the other hand, looked immaculate. A razor sharp crease bisected his trousers, ending at precise turn-ups. His shoes were like glass, unblemished by the earlier mud and rain. Bill’s impeccable appearance was always marred slightly by the large beer belly that overhung his belt. He beamed with delight at Pointer’s plight.
“I’d get yourself cleaned up before you see the boss, if I were you. He’s in a rage with everyone, especially you. You’re already an hour late. Two bobbies have been waiting for their car back. I thought you asked permission?”
“I did – kind of. Anyway, I had to stop for some nutrition!” He pointed to the soggy paper bag.
“That stuff? Christ, you wanna look after yourself like I do.” He slapped his gut and it shook for a few seconds. “You’re a real mess, you know. You need looking after.” “Cheers Bill.”
Bill shook his head and raised his eyes in disbelief, as he looked at the dishevelled Pointer. A tut and a sigh, just to rub it in and he strolled off to finish his supper. Pointer watched as Bill walked towards the central lift. No doubt back to his desk, where there would be a nice healthy chicken salad waiting for him. He would never admit to the Snickers bars that he stashed in his desk..
Pointer sighed heavily as he bent to pick up his shoe. His left foot was quite damp, now. He brushed at his wet trousers with his hands that only smeared light brown patches onto the hitherto unblemished parts.
“H-h-hiya Lorraine.”
“Hiya Jim.” Lorraine, sitting at reception, smiled.
“It’s J-John”. Great, she doesn’t even know my name.
“I know, I was only joking. Are you alright.”
“I’m okay. I’m used to falling over.” Yeah, nice one!
She smiled curiously, tilting her head slightly, like a green eyed puppy.
He smiled back at her and lingered, thinking desperately of something to say.
Her eyes were fixed solidly on his. His heart began pumping. Such beautiful eyes. They were bright green in this light. He could stare at them for hours, given the chance.
“Are you okay? Have they stuck you on front desk again?” His tongue was thick. He felt as if he were drunk. He knew his voice was wavering. His sight was misty, like an old romantic movie.
“I’m afraid so. Mind you, I wouldn’t have missed that entrance for the world.”
Pointer blushed slightly and looked away. Yeah, she must think I’m a right imbecile now. He had been hoping to pluck up the courage to ask her out but he had never said more than three words to her at any one time. Six months he had fantasised about her but he could never pluck up the courage. And he always made a fool of himself.
“I’m all wet.” Idiot. Now I sound like a four-year-old. He leant against the desk, trying to relax, and placed his shoe on the desk momentarily.
“Get that off!”
“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” He had left a wet smear on the desk.
“I’m not bothered about the mess. It’s bad luck, that is.”
“What?”
“‘Shoes upon the table’”. She quickly wiped the wet smudge with a tissue. Ultra-balm, he noticed. They were the expensive ones that stop your nose from going all dry and flaky.
“Oh. I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of that one before.” It would undoubtedly become a new ritual in time. Maybe a few weeks to internalise.
Lorraine sneezed loudly.
“Bless you. Are you okay? You have a bit of a cold?” Maybe if I show my sensitive side?
“I’m fine, really.” She smiled.
At this moment as if to prove the point, she sneezed violently. Failing to get a tissue to her nose, she caught the sticky mass on her hand.
“Bless you”, Pointer said, quickly.
“Thanks.” She grimaced as she wiped her hand on a fresh tissue. Another violent sneeze.
“Bless you”, Pointer repeated.
“Tar, love.” The timing with the tissue was impeccable this time.
Hachoo.
“Bless you”,
“Ta”,
Hachoo, hachoo.
“Bless you, bless you”.
Hachoo.
“Bless you. Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to get something for you? Lemsip or something?”
“No, I’m fine, really. It’ll be gone by tomorrow, I’m sure.”
He noticed that her nose was slightly red and a bit dry and flaky.
“How about you, John. Are you alright? You look a little pale.”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m okay, you know. Just had a long day. I’m a bit hungry, you know?”
“Bill’s right. You do need looking after.” She smiled coyly, her eyes glistened slightly. John blushed again. Had she really just winked at him? What should he say? He was terrible at this. The words eluded him as his mouth gaped. He wanted to ask her out. Say something. Anything.
“I’ve got a doughnut.” He raised the soggy paper bag to her as if it were the answer to all his problems.
“Hmm. Not very healthy is it.” She had a look of concern in her eyes. He was well into uncharted territory and his pulse was racing.
“I could do with a good meal myself”, she said. “Where do you fancy taking me?”
“Huh?” He had been paying attention, but he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“Do you fancy taking me out for dinner?”
“W-Would I? Dinner? Yeah. I mean, Yes. Of course I would.” Now he sounded like an excited Twelve-year-old. At least he was getting older.
“Okay, that’s a date”, she said confidently and continued with her paperwork. He had barely spoken to her in six long months and all of a sudden they were ‘going out’. The words slowly sank in. He tried to repress the smile in case it took the top of his head off. His heart thumped and his eyes stung with emotion. All of a sudden, she was interested in him. Maybe she feels sorry for me, he thought. Still, the result was the same. At last, something to be cheerful about.
He ambled thoughtfully towards the lifts, stepping easily between the tiles, avoiding the cracks. Moving like a knight on a chess board. He looked back several times. Still baffled at the last five minutes of his life. This was completely out of the blue. Must be my lucky day. She is so gorgeous.
A cheerful ‘ping’ told the Pointer that the lift had arrived. Please be empty, he silently prayed. He hated lifts at the best of times, being ever so slightly claustrophobic. He looked at his watch as the dull grey doors slowly opened. Of course, it was only just three in the morning. Thankfully, the lift was empty. There were probably only thirty people in the building at the moment. As he stepped in he noticed the smell of stale sweat, wet clothes and maybe the slightest trace of a fart. He held his breath immediately, quickly tapping floor 12. Oh yes. Bill’s just gone upstairs. He might be neatly dressed, polished and nicely creased but his personal hygiene had something to be desired.
He wondered if he could hold his breath all the way to floor 12. His compulsive, brain immediately leaped upon the notion that it might influence the Boss’s inclination towards him. It would take a minute and a half. Easy. Pointer tapped his foot gently on the hard rubber flooring of the lift, trying to take his mind of his foolish fate-tempting. He could definitely feel his sock and shoe squelching slightly from the spilt mac-coffee. He could almost hear it too. The light flicked onto floor 6. Ping. The lift stopped abruptly. No, no. The doors slid open. Nobody there. He pounded the floor 12 button. The doors closed sluggishly. His lungs were beginning to burn slightly. Floor 7. Stretching like a balloon. Floor 8. His lungs were bursting, breaking. Begging to be refreshed. I mustn’t breath. Floor 9. Desperate for just one cool gasp of air. Floor 10. Deafening him with a flashing hell of cries, urging, pushing, squeezing. Floor 11. Screaming, screaming in the deafening, gagging silence of his self imposed personal hell. No. No. No. Damn it. Floor 12. Damn it. Damn it. Silver flashed before his eyes momentarily and his small world fell into a slow undulating rhythm. His legs swayed and nearly buckled. His hearing became tinny and distant. He could feel his pulse beating strong, drumming at his brain, pounding at his eardrums. There was a faraway ‘Ping’ and the lift doors opened at floor 12. “Paaah”. The air rushed into his lungs like a cool white torrent, quenching the fires, the noise of his gasp echoing around the stairwell.
“Are you alright?” A small middle-aged woman looked concerned and slightly troubled. “Pointer, isn’t it?”
Great, my reputation precedes me. He placed his hand over the small round sensor to keep the doors open and began the first of several deep slow breaths. Don’t overdo it, don’t hyperventilate, he told himself.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just an asthma attack, that’s all.” Well. He could hardly tell the truth, could he? Ritual number 24.
He recovered quickly and began the slow ascent up the remaining levels of stairs to level fourteen. He guessed that Arthur would be pissed at him. He didn’t think the breath-holding thing would have worked but, well, he just did it. Force of habit. His brain latched upon these silly ideas, as if he they would exert some influence on the world around him. He swung open the heavy wooden door and entered a large office space strewn with desks, paper, partitions and notice-boards. Bill greeted him with a shake of his head, grease from his noodles-in-oyster sauce smeared on his chin. He lightly dabbed it with a lemon-fresh wet-wipe, then a paper napkin. He took a deep breath and turned slightly.
“Chief, he’s here!”, he bellowed.
A door slammed at the other end of the floor. Pointer could feel the tremor of Arthur’s footsteps rock the building. He mentally crossed himself and took another deep breath.
“Ah Pointer. Here at last.” He was talking in a glaswegian accent. Pointer knew he was in for it. He always slipped into his native Scottish accent when he was angry. He hadn’t heard him sound this glaswegian before.
“Now, Laddy. I have a few wee things to say to yer, laddy.” He pointed a guiding hand back towards his glass-fronted office. Bill looked disappointed. He liked gossip.
Pointer walked past the maze of desks at pace towards the Inspector’s office, paper ruffling as he swept passed. Inspector MacArthur followed behind with a fresh cafetierre of coffee, which he placed on his wide, empty, mahogony desk. The aroma of the coffee seemed to pervade his entire body. Pointer knew that the coffee sensation he was about to experience would not be a pleasant one. The coffee was a supermarket ‘own brand’ and invariably tasted of tar, with maybe a hint of bovril. The Inspector was never concerned with the taste of the stuff, however. It was the fragrance. He treated these cafetierre moments more like aromatherapy than beverage consumption. As Pointer watched Inspector MacArthur aggressively slam the door, he hoped that the aroma would start working its charm quickly. Preferably before the glass pains in the door stopped rattling.
The Inspector strode towards his ample leather desk-chair and slumped down. Pointer still stood waiting for the nod to take his chair. He looked as if he was muttering under his breath. He half closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Pointer imagined the coffee particles rushing towards his nostrils like debris being sucked into inescapable twin black-holes. It was a ‘handsome’ nose. That meant large, possibly with French roots. The sort of nose that a wine-taster would be proud of. He also had a veritable forest of nose hair that could probably be knitted into an ample toupé. The coffee particles had the desired affect - the heavy creases in the Inspector’s brow softened slightly and his shoulders sagged a couple of inches. He pulled open a draw and pulled out some cigarettes. Menthol flavour. Strange that he should like his coffee tasting of tar but not his cigarettes. Pointer watched again as he inhaled deeply, the creases in his brow softening more. He lifted his feet and placed them onto his desk, his chair rolled back slightly until it hit the wall. He draped his arms until the cigarette almost brushed the carpet. The thin grey whisps of smoke rose towards the roof of the office where the ceiling installed fans sucked it away. Maybe I won’t get the drilling I thought I would, thought Pointer. He hoped that MacArthur would notice soon that he was still standing up. Maybe it was punishment.
There was a sudden jolt as one leg of the chair slipped slightly and, in an over-reaction counterbalance move, MacArthur flung himself forward towards the desk, arms outstretched. The cigarette was consequently thrust against the mahogony and bright orange sparks sprayed light fireworks. Now there was a distinct smell of singed carpet. MacArthur slammed his hand on the desk and looked at Pointer with menace in his eyes, as if he was the cause. Pointer was about to say sorry when MacArthur slammed his fist on the desk again, leapt up from his chair and stormed out of the room. He could now hear him shouting at Bill who was meekly obeying the ferocious orders. So much for an easy ride, Pointer thought. And he didn’t even know what he was in for yet. Please don’t be the blue folder, he prayed.
He looked around the familiar surroundings of the room. Pointer had been in this office many a time. He looked about the walls. They would have been drab and discoloured, the last refurb being at least six years ago. Fortunately, the walls were almost completely covered with framed pictures and photographs. Nostalgia, guilt-framed for posterity. Almost every inch a tribute to the police force of Yorkshire. There were many posthumous awards for bravery; there were group photos of co-workers, family and friends; there were awards for distinction as well as long service awards.
Above the desk – the queen, princess anne, diane skaing hands. And his father. ws covered by photos, some of family, some of friends, some of MacArthur collecting awards.
More description here – wax desk – immaculate.
One picture he particularly liked. It showed a photo of MacArthur handing a plaque and a medal to Pointer’s father. Pointer was also in the picture, beaming the red rosy smile of a proud eleven-year-old. There were a number of highly polished shooting trophies in a cabinet. A fresh arrangement of flowers filled a crystal vase that sat on the window sill. A good selection of lilies. The perfume reached his nostrils. Why did they remind him of Lorraine?
Slam. Pointer was abruptly woken from his daydream and a thick blue ring-binder slid across the desk.
“Sit down.” His voice barely a whisper, now.
He slowly sat, perching himself on the edge of low black office chair. He looked up into MacArthur’s red face.
“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” Was it his imagination, or were the Inspector’s eyes bulging?
“Sir.”
“What? This is it, you know? All the things I’ve done for you. I’ve had it. I’ve never met such a dis-organised, dishevelled mess. You’ve had your last warning and what am I to do? Your father would be ashamed of you. Ashamed. Well, I can’t take this any more.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry? You took a patrol car. A patrol car! You wasted the time of two of my men and you say sorry? Do you think we have unlimited resources? Do you think the rapists, muggers and robbers will wait around because you’ve gone off with a patrol car? Do you think the victims will be okay because you are sorry? We’re over worked and over stretched as it is! And do you think that the paramedics would wait around for you? An hour they waited for you.”
“I’m sorry.” He looked down at the floor.
“Sorry? Do you think everyone else should fit in around you? You over claim expenses, you wreck your car, you drive off with a patrol car with no say so from me? You are consistently late and ill-prepared. You have missed all your deadlines bar one. You are a total absolute mess. You’re a shambles. And look at the state of you. You look like a farmer in those shoes. Don’t you have any pride in yourself, or your work? You’ve made a fool of yourself, of me and of this station.” Yes, definitely bulging.
MacArthur reached for the cafetierre and pushed on the plunger. He took a deep breath and loosened his tie. The heat went from his face as the oxygen reached his brain and his blood pressure notably fell. Maybe the worst was over.
“Help yourself, John.”
“Thank-you, sir.”
“What’s this sir, business anyway? You’ve never bothered before.”
“Sorry, I’m just a bit worried.”
“A bit worried? You should be, John.” He waived a thick binder. “This is your record. I’ve done as much as I can for you but I’m not sure I can hold them off any longer. I have no option but to suspend you. Finish the file that you’re working on and go home.”
“Suspended?”
“Don’t look so surprised. God knows I’ve tried. Your father begged me to look after you but you can’t even help yourself, can you? I’ve done all I can.”
Pointer could feel tears forming in his eyes. Suspended? What had he really done that was all that bad. Bill was right, he was only a photographer. As long as the files were complete and the photos were clear, why should anything else matter?
He poured coffee into one of the small cups.
“Do you have any sweeteners?”
“Just drink the bloody thing, will you John.”
He didn’t mind unsweetened coffee but he needed to stir it anyway. He placed the cup right in the centre of the coaster. Geometrically perfect to within half a millimetre. He picked up a spoon and tapped twice on the side of the cup. Then slowly and deliberately, he stirred the coffee in wide circles, sending waves of black liquid over the rim and onto the saucer. A couple of dark black drops splashed onto the waxed table. One, two, three…
“Why don’t you think about getting a job at the local rag? I know the editor there. I could get you a leg up.” MacArthur grabbed a tissue from a box in his drawer and wiped the small spillage. He scrunched the tissue up and aimed carefully at the waste bin five feet from the desk. A swift graceful movement sent the tissue spinning towards the bin. It hit the rim and fell to the carpet.
“Damn.”
Four, five, six…oops, just splashed onto the desk.
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m just getting settled.” Seven, eight, nine…
“You can’t handle the pressure, here.” MacArthur grabbed a tissue and soaked up the coffee again. Once again he screwed up the tissue and aimed. His steady hand aiming once more. A brief flick sent the new paper ball sailing towards the bin. It dipped suddenly and joined the previous tissue. He gave Pointer a slight flash of annoyance.
“Maybe you’re right.” Pointer admitted. Ten, eleven, twelve. Tap, tap, tap, splash, done. “I don’t know what I want anyway.”
“I just want the best for you. I really do. How old are you now? Twenty-eight, isn’t it? You could make a fresh start and still make your mark.”
“I dunno. I dunno if I want to make a mark. I dunno what I want anymore.”
“Well, you’ve got about a month to decide. I have to formally suspend you as per the rules. I suggest you go to bed and sleep on it. Spend some time with your mother. She’s lonely, you know.” With that declaration, he pulled at one final tissue and mopped up the coffee residue. He balled this one tightly, aimed with one eye slightly closed. This time, the tissue arced through the air like a beckham free-kick, dipping slightly and swerving at the last minute as it crashed into the bin. Pointer noticed MacArthur smile with the achievement. I wonder what he’s just done. A lottery win maybe. A promotion? Ah yes – Lennox Lewis beats Mike Tyson. Maybe he’s got a bet on. Whatever.
“Yeah, well. Maybe you’re right. Maybe a change of job would do me good. Or at least a few weeks off.”
“Damn right. Make it a month. Go on, hop-it.”
“Thank-you, sir, Arthur. By the way, happy anniversary”. He nodded towards the flowers.
“Okay, John. John? Have you forgotten something?”
“No? Oh, yes, My I.D. for the hospital.”
“Here. And get a taxi.”
Pointer left MacArthur’s office as if he were leaving home for the first time. Get these photos taken and that’s it. Then what do I do? He walked slowly across the Fourteenth floor, watching his feet shuffle lightly over the carpet. His shoes, at least, were dry now. Thank heaven for small blessings. They were battered, though. He must have had them for four years. He always saw them as his lucky shoes. He did have other shoes, of course, but these were like old friends. They understood him. They knew where he was heading and where he had been. They had been through a lot together. The day he had bought them, he had been offered his first job with the police completely out of the blue. He had polished them six months later and been promoted within hours. The next time he polished them, his application for a mortgage went through that week. Okay, so these were just remarkable coincidences but when faced with so many, it was hard not to accept some kind of positive shoe-related fatalism. Maybe he should buy some more. It wasn’t as if he had no money. It was just…how could he be sure? He knew this fixation was nothing more than wishful thinking. There could be no possible relation between polishing some shoes and… Even thinking about it was stupid. It did make him feel more positive, though. Maybe he would polish them when he got home. Perhaps, when his brain was in a post-polish state, it could influence things around him. Didn’t people say that about positive thinking? When he felt good, good things happened. Maybe he’d keep them after all. Yes, he thought, as he stared at the dry brown scuffed leather. Maybe it’s time for a good polish.
Everyone did it. He noticed everyone’s little foibles. Their little games and ceremonies. Lorraine with the shoes. MacArthur and the waste paper bin. People had so little control over their lives that they would grasp at anything in order to exert some order. He knew that these habits, superstitions and compulsions were utterly and completely foolish. Pointer was more of a sucker for them than most. Maybe anybody. His brain just worked that way. But didn’t everybody do it in some way didn’t they?
“Daydreaming again?”
“Huh? Yeah. Bad news. I’m being suspended.”
“Great – a holiday. Come on, I don’t want to miss the fight.”
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
“Come on. Don’t take these things so seriously. It’s no big deal.”
“I’ve been suspended! I’ll probably not work here again. I feel like my life is in turmoil. I’m living a wreck of a life.”
For the first time in a while, Pointer saw compassion in Bill’s face. He could be a pain sometimes, but they were good friends.
“Don’t worry, John. It’ll all work out.” He put his heavy arm around Pointer’s shoulder. “Now how about that drink? We can catch the fight down at the sports bar”
“I’ve got to get to the morgue first.”
Bill looked at his watch as he gently pushed Pointer towards the lift.
“It’s half past three! You’re going to the morgue at half three in the morning?”
“It won’t take long. I just need to close my file.” He said, shaking his camera bag. “Then my time is all my own.”
“You say that as if it were a bad thing”. He pressed the button, summoning the lift.
“Isn’t it?”
“I wish I still had my whole life in front of me, like you do. I’m thinking of retiring early. Give the wife something to really moan about.” Ping. The lift arrived and the doors opened. Bill stepped in. Pointer didn’t. “I thought you said you were going to the morgue”
“I am. I’ll take the stairs. I’ll meet you at twelve.”
Not for the first time today Bill shook his head.
“Is this another one of your superstitions?”
“No”, he chuckled, “I just don’t want to share a lift with a smelly bastard like you.”
“That’ll cost ya! See you at the bottom!” Bill stood with his middle finger raised in a defiant gesture. Then he cracked. His mouth widened into a broad smile and his eyes lit up with laughter. “See you on twelve.” The doors closed.
As soon as he heard the metallic clunk of the doors shutting, Pointer quickly swivelled towards the exit and the stair well. He could easily get to twelve in time. He had raced the lift many a time. He often joked that if it wasn’t for his tridecaphobia, he may well be two stone heavier. He barged open the heavy door once again and began his fast decent. The stairs were tiled and slightly slippery when wet. Luckily by now, his shies had completely dried. As his feet pounded, his camera bag would rock on his shoulder. He would hold it securely with one hand whilst the other maintained his balance. He reached the bottom of the first flight and leapt over the remaining two stairs onto the square of tiled floor. He performed a well judged skid and turn on one foot – one that any ice skater would be proud of – as he shifted his weight and began running down the next flight. He never tripped. He never put a foot wrong. It was all a matter of rhythm. He could accelerate to quite a speed if he so desired. Reaching the bottom of the next flight, he skidded and turned once more, this time running past down the short landing past the two lifts of the thirteenth floor. He could just about pick out a faint echo of the ‘ping’ when the lift had reached the floor five seconds before. A bit behind, he thought and pelted towards the stairs once more. He increased the pace, bending forward slightly, grasping his camera bag tightly as it thudded dully against his shoulder. His feet tripped from stair to stair like Gene Kelly in “Singing In The Rain”. Another leap and a skid and just one more flight of stairs to go. His legs began to tire. The acid began to burn slightly in his thighs. A final leap, a final skid and he was there, in perfect time. He slid to an abrupt halt and planted his elbow against the wall as the lift door opened.
“What took you so long? I’ve been here ages!”
“You are so predictable, John. Now stop arsing about. I really need a drink.”
Pointer shrugged and entered the lift.
“God, John, you stink.”
“That’s rich coming from you, Bill.” The lift had begun it’s slow decent back to the reception hall.
“Yeah? Well I’m not the one trying to impress the receptionist with a sweat stained shirt, stinking of B.O.”
“Hmm. You’ve got a point there.” He’d forgotten about Lorraine. His heart began to thump again. It seemed so much had happened since. He was about to see her again and the sweat trickled down his back to the base of his spine. He was not in the best conditions in which to impress a beautiful girl. He would definitely need a shower when he got home. Maybe he didn’t need to try too hard. She had asked him, hadn’t she? Had she really asked him out for dinner? He remembered her smile and their brief conversation. She must think something of me, he thought. Maybe she fantasises about me like I do about her. Don’t get carried away. Don’t tempt fate. Don’t relax. I wonder if her heart pounds like mine? He couldn’t wait to see her and make a good impression. To communicate his emotions, to express his infatuation, to tell her how much she meant to him already. Yeah, he was feeling more positive. Raring to see her and tell her…
“Mind you – you made an absolute tit of yourself before, didn’t you?” Said Bill.
“Ta. As supportive as ever.”
There was the final ping as the lift reached the ground floor. As the doors slipped open, Pointer strained to think of something witty or romantic. Something to make her smile again. He followed Bill ponderously. He could feel his face begin to blush again. His heart began to race. He thought he could hear it echo through the empty entrance hall. Bill reached the desk and signed himself out. Pointer silently prayed that Bill would, for once, keep his big gob shut. No chance.
As he put the biro back in its place, he smiled broadly at Lorraine, winked and said
“So your going to show this pilloc a good time then?”
She smiled politely then grimaced at him as he turned towards the exit.
“Sorry about him. He’s the bane of my life.”
“Don’t worry, John. I’m looking forward to it. Any ideas yet?”
As Pointer rolled the biro towards him. He wanted to look into her eyes again just to keep him going. She returned his glance directly. His vision went misty and slo-mo kicked in. He wanted to live this little moment forever. played with another pen,
“Erm,” He picked up the pen and signed the log book. Then proceeded to fiddle rapidly with the twist-turn mechanism.
“Any ideas?” Oh yeah, forgot about the question.
“I’m not quite sure.” He wanted to be daring and invite her to his house for a slap-up home-made carbonara. He would be more relaxed at home. But would that be too forward? Would it put her off. Her green eyes were so clear. He noticed small gold specks. So beautiful. I’m lost to you already. Shit, I can’t think of anywhere to go. ? She was still looking directly at him, waiting for an answer. Snap.
“Oops. Sorry. I’ve broken it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare.” Lorraine shook her head as she passed him a new biro and cleared away the one he had just broken.
“I think the main thing, John, is that you relax. Why don’t you come round to mine? I could cook something for us. Do you like Italian?”
A huge wave of joy rose to his head and prickled his eyes.
“Do I. Fantastic. That would be great. Yeah. Yeah. I mean yes!”
“Okay. Here’s my number. Get some rest and call me tomorrow.” Her eyes twinkled. “Safe journey home now!”
“Come on pointer, move your arse.”
Bill shouted from the open door.
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Lorraine. Bye”
They exchange smiles and Pointer blushed again. He swivelled and glided to the door on a wave of elation.
“Are you on a promise or what!” Bill slapped him on the back as they neared his Mondeo. “I bet she’s a right saucy little minx”. He began his dirty laugh. More like a gurgle or a cough. The kind of laugh that should be confined to isolated park benches or remote underground stations.
“I bet she’s as nice as she appears to be.”
“Yeah but…She’s gagging for it. Did you see that look in her eyes? She had a demonic sparkle like she was sizing you up…wondering how long you would last. She was probably picturing you tied up on her bed or something.”
They both slumped into the Mondeo front seats. The dash board lit up bright green as Bill slid the key in the ignition.
“You’re such a romantic, you know?”
“Come on, Lighten up. I bet she’s so hot in bed. She knows what she wants, doesn’t she, eh? She’s gonna eat you alive.”
“Well, thanks for the moral support.”
“No problem.”
The Mondeo pulled out from the police car park and headed towards the hospital. The rain hadn’t quite stopped yet. It seemed to Pointer that it never really did. The drops on the tinted windscreen diffused the light from the street lamps into sprays of colour. Amber, red, green shone across his face. Two bright headlights dazzled him as a solitary car approached on the opposite side of the road. The titanium white hurt Pointer’s eyes. He felt a headache coming on.
“Dick head”, Bill growled as he sheltered his eyes from the painful beams. He flashed his lights at the driver in annoyance and sounded his horn. The other driver issued a number of grotesque hand gestures and a string of unheard obscenities. “You fucker. There are some bloody idiots on the road.”
Pointer didn’t like to point out the fact that Bill had already gone through three amber lights, one red and seemed to have forgotten what his indicator was for.
