Chris Simms - Shifting Skin

‘Just a hunch, but yeah.’

Alice blew a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. ‘The arsehole.’

He gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, and another thing about my new partner. He’s gay.’

‘So?’

Jon examined his knuckles.

‘Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re scared he’ll threaten your masculinity by trying it on with you?’

Jon picked at the can’s tab again. ‘Well, I don’t know. It makes things awkward, you have to admit.’

‘Why? It only makes things awkward in your head. Don’t flatter yourself. A big grunt like you with scars all over your face? He might prefer smooth-skinned, gentle types.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

Alice sighed. ‘Surely you’ve worked with other gay officers?’ Jon shook his head. ‘It’s not like your job, Ali. We don’t have people flouncing around like Melvyn.’

‘Not every gay man’s as camp as Melvyn. Besides, he puts a lot of that on for the blue-rinse brigade.’ She smiled. ‘The old dears reckon it’s like getting their hair done by Graham Norton.’

‘Yeah, well, this is the police.’

Alice put a hand on her hip and extended one foot slightly in front of the other. Jon called it her barrister stance, because it was a posture she adopted whenever they got into one of their verbal tussles.

They’d started seeing each other almost twelve years ago after a chance meeting in a city centre pub. Jon and several team mates were sitting at the centre table to watch the final of the 1991 Rugby World Cup on the pub’s giant screen. As the match ground its way to England’s eventual defeat at the hands of Australia, a few of his friends had got increasingly annoyed at the referee’s decisions.

When the drinks on Alice’s table were all knocked over she had no hesitation in standing up to have a go at their entire group. Before offering to replace them, Jon had watched her feistiness with admiration. It was the first thing he’d noticed about her and whenever it reappeared he was reminded why he’d fallen in love with her.

‘What about all the equal opportunities stuff we’re always hearing about?’ she demanded. ‘Those posters around town…What was the headline? Something about “All walks of life walk the beat”?’

Jon rolled his eyes, relishing every second of the exchange. The recruitment campaign posters, with their Home Office allocation of ethnic minorities in the photo, had generated plenty of jokes around the station, but not many non-white job applicants. Besides, bobbies walking the beat? They were too busy stuck at their desks completing paperwork for that.

‘There’s a culture in the police, Alice. You know it, I know it. It doesn’t matter how much lip-service they pay to the drive for ethnic minority officers and all that.’

‘And all that,’ Alice tutted. ‘Watch out, Jon, you might find yourself left behind in the last millennium.’

‘I don’t agree with it, Ali, but it’s life. Besides, you say society’s changing, but what you actually mean is that your experience of society’s changing. I’d say that, on the whole, the age-old prejudices are just as alive and healthy as ever.’ He thought about the poster’s headline. ‘It’s just that your walk of life doesn’t take you into contact with them.’ He gave her a glib smile and waited for her response.

She scowled. ‘You’re bound to get racists and anti-gays in the deprived areas you get called out to. You always will until people are educated differently.’

Jon laughed. ‘I’m not talking about housing estates. I’m talking about country estates. Those living at the top of the pile, not the bottom: the aristocracy, the establishment, the elite, whatever you want to call it.’ He pictured the huddles of senior officers, the judges, the politicians. Old, white, married and male. ‘I’m talking about people who’ve had the best educations money can buy. It’s that lot who are most against change. The system suits them just fine. After all, it was created by them, their fathers and their fathers’ fathers.’

Alice was silent for a moment. ‘That’s depressing.’

Jon realised he’d come out of this one on top, but the victory gave him precious little satisfaction. ‘That’s life,’ he shrugged.

‘Anyway, don’t worry. I’m not going to creep around the canteen whispering to everyone that Rick’s gay.’

‘I know that.’ She tipped her head back to yawn and saw the clock on the wall. ‘You coming to bed?’

Jon finished his beer and nodded.

Dawn Poole could almost see the waves of pain radiating out from the back of the patient’s throat with every swallow. Breathing was obviously still difficult because, after a few more sips, the straw was released.

‘Enough?’ Dawn asked, her concern showing in her face.

The patient leaned back against the pillows and gave a single slow nod.

Dawn put the carton down. ‘You’re being so brave.’ She ran her fingers gently through the short spikes of hair on the patient’s head. The haircut reminded her of a singer’s, someone who sang of bruised feelings and life’s injustices. Annie Lennox? Sinead O’Connor? She couldn’t remember.

Bloodshot eyes turned towards the window. A finger was held up, red nail varnish contrasting with the white sheets. ‘Can you crumble a biscuit on the window sill?’

The words were little more than a rasping whisper. Unsure if she’d heard correctly, Dawn stood. ‘Crumble biscuit on the window sill?’

The patient nodded. ‘For a robin. It lands there.’

She smiled uncertainly. ‘Of course, my darling.’ She took a digestive biscuit from the untouched packet and broke off a small piece. ‘Outside? Here?’ she asked.

‘And on the inside, too.’

Dawn began crumbling the biscuit between her forefinger and thumb.

Take a few moments to browse through our selection of handpicked ladies. Prices start at £150 per hour.

Fiona stared at the computer screen. Jon was right: all the girls were listed there. She read a few of their details.

Becky, age 19. Holly, age 20. NEW! Kim, age 20. Mel, age 22. The list went right down to women in their forties. By each name was a tab saying, More info.

Fiona clicked on Mel’s.

A new screen popped up giving the girl’s height, bust, dress size, hair, ethnic origin and occupation (5’6”, 34C, 10, brunette, shoulder-length straight, white British, customer service adviser).

At the base of the screen was a subheading, Reviews . Fiona clicked on it and was taken to a different page called ‘Punter Opinion’. The report was enthusiastic but matter-of-fact, like a review of a well-designed electrical item. The punter would definitely be seeing Mel again, it concluded.

Appalled at the commercial sophistication of the process, Fiona went back to the main listings page. She scanned down the column of names; the word ‘ NEW! ’ was by about a quarter of them. The girls obviously came and went fairly frequently. Alexia could easily be an ex-employee.

Trepidation made her hesitate as she reached for her mobile. But all-too-familiar feelings of guilt flared up in response, and with them a determination to find out if Alexia was OK. Knowing she couldn’t live with herself if she did nothing, she slowly dialled the number at the top of the screen. A woman answered almost immediately, her voice warm and attractive.

Fiona wasn’t sure what to say. Suddenly, the words were coming out of her mouth. ‘Hello. I’d like to speak to someone about working for Cheshire Consorts.’

‘What’s your background, love?’ The voice had lost some of its pleasantness and become more matter-of-fact.

‘Well, my name’s Fiona. I work as a beauty therapist, specialising in manicures. I’ve also done a course in Swedish massage, but that was some time ago. What else? Um, I enjoy going out to the theatre when I-’