Nick Oldham - Backlash

After stepping into his Y-fronts — comfortable but not fashionable — he pulled his black, cotton-rich socks on. He batted his eyelids stupidly at his reflection and flexed his biceps a few times like a circus muscle-man — without the muscles. He reached for his trousers which were on a wire coat hanger. He eased his legs into them, gritting his teeth as the cheap, rough, sandpaper-like material scraped his skin. They were too generous round the waist, too short in the leg and sagged underneath the groin. He adjusted his privates in his underwear, but still felt very uncomfortable. He fed the black leather belt through the trouser loops and fastened it loosely.

His white shirt was still in its packaging. He ripped it out of the plastic wrapper, carefully extracted the pins, eased out the cardboard collar stiffener and held the shirt up. It was criss-crossed with creases and should have been washed and ironed before today. His lips curled with annoyance at himself for not getting things ready earlier — a character trait which seemed to have crept up on him during his sickness. Procrastination was a way of life with him at the moment. There was no time to do anything about the shirt now, though. He was running late. He put the shirt on, forcing his hands through the cuffs without bothering to unfasten them. He tucked it into the waistband and yanked his belt tight.

On the floor in front of him were his plain black shoes (as per regulations). As the exception to prove the rule, these were ready, cleaned and polished — bulled, actually, to mirror-like perfection. The act of spit-polishing them had become an obsession for him over the last week. He found the task relaxed him for some reason, gave him pleasure. He knew the shoes would be comfortable to wear. He put them on, tied the laces, and gazed proudly down at them.

‘God help any bugger that steps on these,’ he muttered out loud.

He stood upright, fastened his top shirt button and clipped on his black tie. The first time he had worn such a thing for over a decade.

Lastly, he affixed his epaulettes to his shoulders, the two shiny pips on each side reflecting the light.

He gulped, closed his eyes, then opened them to take stock of the finished article: Henry Christie, uniformed police inspector, Blackpool Section, about to go on duty and perform the reactive cover function, dealing with the ‘here and now’ of policing. . in the unwritten uniformed inspector hierarchy, the job usually given to newly promoted officers or those long in the tooth with no ambition or career advancement prospects.

Henry Christie was not newly promoted.

He could not believe the way he looked: how transformed he was and how unlike a uniformed inspector he felt. The whole idea was completely alien to him. His usual dress code was a pretty slick suit, a decent shirt and tie, good quality shoes and an air of superiority over all other mortals.

There was no way on earth he was a uniformed cop any more. He was a fucking detective, for God’s sake. A detective inspector, actually. And a bloody good one at that. At least he had been good. Once. Not very long ago. And now here he was, wearing a uniform, looking like an Italian waiter, and having to work long, unsocial shifts.

With a snap salute to the mirror, which morphed into a sloppy ‘V’ sign at himself, he collected his brown nappa leather blouson from the wardrobe and slunk out of the bedroom wondering how the hell he was going to deal with it all.

With almost half his monthly salary going in maintenance payments, Henry could no longer afford a car. He therefore walked to work, using the opportunity to clear his head and get his brain into gear.

The early evening was dark with a distinct nip in the air. Hunched deep into his jacket, he found the chill to his nose, ears and cheeks pleasant and invigorating. He breathed deeply, expelling stale air from his lungs, feeling new, cold, fresh air circulating round his chest, lungs and heart.

It was a ten-minute journey on foot, giving him ample opportunity to reflect upon his predicament and how he was going to face people at work. The problem was that most people would see the move to uniform as a demotion, although it was not: busted from CID, they would think. Not many people willingly made the transition out of civvies into blues unless it was a specific career move. Usually it was for reasons of bad discipline or poor performance and was perceived as punishment, whatever the circumstances.

At the busy junction of Hornby Road and Coronation Street he stopped and got his first glimpse of Blackpool police station. Every window in every one of its eight floors was illuminated. It was the first time he had seen the building in two months, having avoided looking at it on his infrequent forays into town, hoping that it would go away.

He winced. His insides churned nervously.

It had not moved. It was still there, large and forbidding.

The tips of his fingers twitched. He bunched both hands into fists to stop them shaking — and succeeded. But even repeated swallowing did not eliminate the taste of apprehension at the back of his throat.

He dithered by the kerb edge and almost lost it there and then, almost spun round on his heels and turned back to seek refuge and solace from his friendly and accommodating veterinary surgeon. He knew he could have conned his tame GP to sign him off for a further four weeks. Easy. Another month of grace, avoiding the issue, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, screwing himself silly.

The green man at the pedestrian crossing began to make his ‘pipping’ noise.

Henry stepped onto the road, his feet feeling as though they were trudging through treacle.

No going back now, he told himself firmly. You have crossed the river and the waters have filled in behind you.

A minute later he was approaching the back door of the police station, puzzled by the sight of two uniformed cops standing there, obviously on security duty. He did not recognise either. He edged past them towards the door.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ one said, preventing Henry from passing, firstly with a hand, then the bulk of his body. ‘Can I see your pass, please?’

Henry regarded him with incomprehension. ‘My pass. .?’ he started to say.

The officer clicked on a small, but powerful Maglite torch and shone the beam up into Henry’s face. Henry squinted, drew his head back slightly.

‘Yes, sir, your pass,’ the PC insisted firmly. ‘You need a pass to enter the police station this week. . party conference?’

‘Oh, right,’ Henry said as it dawned on him.

While ensconced in the cosseted world of sickness he had moved out of sync with the real world and its goings-on. He had fed himself a diet of mind-numbing daytime TV and satellite sports channels, occasionally dipping into the Daily Telegraph to keep abreast of crime and rugby, but little else. Certainly not politics — a subject which bored him rigid even when in good health. He had completely forgotten about the annual party conference taking place in town that week.

‘I don’t have a pass yet.’ He nodded towards the nick. ‘This is my. . er. .first day back for a while. . here, here. .’ He rooted through his pockets and produced his warrant card from his wallet, flashing it to the officer. ‘DI Christie,’ he said unthinkingly, then lamely corrected himself. ‘Inspector Christie. . I’m the night cover inspector this week.’

The PC scrutinised the laminated card — a document which invested an individual with incredible power — comparing the photograph on it with the reality of the bearer. Satisfied, he nodded at Henry, stepped to one side and said, ‘There’s somebody dealing with emergency accreditation inside. . you’ll need to get yourself a pass.’