Peter Helton - Falling More Slowly

She slapped it away. ‘Huh! I bloody won’t. Go and take the bastard away, that’s what I called you for. Anyway, you could be anybody, couldn’t you? Was that you breaking the windows? Show me some identification.’

‘Yes, sorry about the window, I couldn’t attract your attention, Mrs Spranger. I do think it’s urgent that we get you out of here.’ The noise and shouting outside had intensified. He held out his ID but she didn’t look at it. ‘I really think we should leave now, Mrs Spranger.’

She concentrated on her glass of Southern Comfort. ‘Bollocks to that. He’ll never dare do anything while he knows I’m in here. That’s why the house is still standing. The bastard squashed my car. Arrest him. You’re useless. You’re all useless. Just piss off. He might not love me any more but he loves this house, he’ll never do anything to it.’

A crashing and the sound of splintering wood contradicted her. McLusky had had enough. Manoeuvring behind the woman he grabbed her under the armpits and pulled her up. She twisted and screeched her protest, slopping Southern Comfort over both of them. As he bundled her towards the picture window the house shook. He’d intended to get her out by the inset door but she suddenly wriggled free and ran to the hall where clouds of brick and plaster dust billowed. She strutted into it, shouting abuse, throwing the now empty glass at her adversary. McLusky plunged after her, the dust stinging in his eyes and lungs, making him cough. The woman’s verbal onslaught had also been cut short by a coughing fit. A large hole gaped where the front door and window had once been and the threatening digger filled the gap, its bucket arm reaching deep into the hall. It jerked up, once, twice, bashing at the ceiling. Mrs Spranger retreated towards him just as the bucket swung sideways and pushed over parts of the first interior wall. He grabbed her arm and hastened her retreat, pushing her in front of him as they were overtaken by another cloud of dust and the crash of falling masonry. In the kitchen Mrs Spranger stalled. ‘Look at the fucking mess in here.’ The walls shook again. It took considerable strength to push the woman out of her kitchen, even though the ground shook under her feet. Once outside he managed to pull her along by one arm while she clutched at her dressing gown and released a torrent of abuse at him, at her husband and at the constables who took over and ushered her to safety. The street was now full of onlookers, some with cameras and camcorders. The ambulance arrived.

McLusky kept coughing and spitting out plaster dust as he stood on the lawn to watch the end game. One corner of the house had now collapsed, taking large chunks of roof with it. Most of the debris had fallen inwards. It looked like a bomb site. Spranger was still bashing away, but less frantic now, his expression businesslike. He slowly toppled another stack of bricks, then lazily nibbled at the edge of the roof which disintegrated in a shower of tiles.

DS Austin joined McLusky on the lawn. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ He lit a cigarette, offering the pack.

‘No thanks, sir, I gave up.’

‘Me too.’

‘Just the one then.’ Austin eagerly lit his and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. Then he frowned and checked the brand — Extra Lights. It was like smoking stale air. ‘That was quite a performance, if I may say so, sir. Wish we had it on video, we could sell tickets down the station, make a fortune.’ He jerked his head at the crumpled remains of the Skoda, now lying sideways on the churned-up lawn. ‘You didn’t get hurt?’

‘Nope.’ Strange though. He was nervous crossing the street but this hadn’t scared him. Proactive. That’s what the counsellor had called it anyway. As long as he was acting, taking charge, he was fine. Just standing still waiting for something to happen he couldn’t bear. His clothes were a mess.

Austin sniffed. ‘Southern Comfort? Did you find time for a quick drink, sir?’ For a moment he thought he’d gone too far with this unknown quantity of a DI but McLusky raised a tired smile and brushed half-heartedly at his stained shirt and chinos.

The noise abated as the digger shuddered to a stop, its engine falling silent. Spranger got out and stood for a while staring at it all, trying to take it in. Half of his house had collapsed. Water cascaded where the digger had bitten through the bathroom plumbing and the spare bedroom had now slid into the kitchen. He could see through into the living room where everything was dull and dirty, covered in dust and debris. Only on the coffee table a glass paperweight sparkled in a thin ray of sunlight. He remembered. It had tiny starfish inside it. Probably not real. They had brought it back from a long weekend in Cornwall one autumn. Twelve years. All disappeared. Everything was fucked up. At least his headache was gone now, though his stomach cramps still came in hot waves like his anger. Two constables approached him across the debris-strewn lawn, reaching for handcuffs. God, they looked more like kids.

More Uniform turned up. Two fire engines and the press arrived. Firemen moved cautiously into the rubble to secure water, gas and electricity. The place became very busy all of a sudden. Another ray of sun pierced the fast-moving clouds. ‘Oi, no smoking there.’ A fireman gestured angrily at McLusky and Austin to put their cigarettes out.

McLusky flicked his cigarette into the lawn where it died with a hiss. ‘Let’s get out of here, we’re no longer needed.’ As if in confirmation a uniformed sergeant strutted on to the lawn and started asking questions and dispensing orders in all directions. Mopping up time.

Austin found a likely victim amongst the constables securing the scene. ‘Ah, Hanham, glad I found you. You can give us a lift to the station. Our transport is … temporarily out of action.’

‘Temporarily, sir?’ Hanham looked back at the battlefield and the crumpled lump of the Skoda. He’d seen the result of the stunt the new DI had pulled. What a nutter.

Austin shrugged. ‘Yeah well, the build quality isn’t what it was, they make ’em from tinfoil now.’

McLusky pulled his soiled shirt away from his torso for a better look. ‘Drove well though — I’m thinking of buying one myself. I need to change into fresh clothes.’ He let himself fall on to the rear seat and spoke to the tidily barbered back of the constable’s head. ‘Drive us to Northmoor Street first, will you?’

‘Sure.’ Hanham stole a glance at his senior passenger in his mirror. Typical CID. Not a care in the world. The new DI just destroyed a nearly-new car and now he was worried about a stain on his shirt. If muggins here got as much as a dent in the bodywork of this car he’d never hear the end of it, he’d be spending forever filling in forms. If he wrote it off he’d consider his career more or less finished. CID. They lived on another planet altogether. No one had ever suggested to him that he might make detective one day. He’d stay in uniform forever. And between now and retirement there’d be plenty of chances of dying in it, too.

‘Find yourself a parking space, the inspector won’t be long, I’m sure.’ Austin stood in Northmoor Street holding the door on the little panda car, letting his superior get out.

McLusky hesitated on the pavement. He needed another shower but didn’t want to leave Austin waiting in the car. Only his place was a shambles. Hanham would be accustomed to being abused this way and probably thought him a prat anyway. He could send them away and walk back to the station but it looked like rain again. What the hell. He’d never keep up the pretence that he led a normal life. ‘Here.’ He fished a crumpled banknote from his pocket.

Austin touched one finger to an imaginary cap in salute. ‘A tip, sir? That’s very kind, am I to share with the driver?’