Tony Parsons - Starting Over

Disbelieving groans from the crowd. The Onion glowered at them from under thick eyebrows, playing it straight.

‘There were six stabbings, forty-eight robberies, and a medium-sized riot around the Boombastic Dancehall Sound System when it was asked to reduce the volume at 3.45 a.m. Happily, the environmental health officer who asked them to turn down the Bob Marley –’ mocking jeers from some of the younger officers ‘– is expected to be out of hospital within a month. The council tell us that the loss of his spleen will not prevent him carrying out his duties. Fortunately, and rather wonderfully, none of these incidents were Carnival-related, so citizens should feel free to bring the wife and kiddies for this year’s fun-packed extravaganza.’

Keith’s new partner busily wrote it all down. I watched the Onion’s briefing, feeling like a man with no fruit and nuts in a knocking shop.

I didn’t know why I came here every morning. No, that’s not true – I knew exactly why I came. As the Sergeant went through his shopping list of stolen cars, burglaries, muggings and knife crime, it made me feel as though I was still chasing the wicked, still part of the war on crime, and still the man I wanted to be.

But when the parade was over, I went up to my desk, forbidding myself a glance at my watch. If I could only stop myself from looking, then the time would pass more quickly. So I lost myself in checking MG3s – reports that officers make to the Crown Prosecution Service, who then get to decide which naughty people to prosecute, and which naughty people to pat on the head and release back into the wild.

When I looked over the top of my computer screen Keith was standing there, dabbing at the tea stain on his shirt.

‘Fancy running a few red lights?’ he said.

Keith’s young partner was waiting in the passenger seat of their car. He looked up from his notes with a shy smile as Keith stuck his head in the window.

‘DC Bailey and I are on an undercover operation all day,’ Keith told him. ‘So sling your hook.’

The young man got out of the car with a bewildered look. ‘But – but what am I supposed to do while you’re undercover with DC Bailey?’

Keith erupted with exasperation. ‘I don’t know, do I? Go and do a bit of face painting. Do what you like.’

I slipped into the passenger seat and settled myself. It felt good. Keith eased himself behind the wheel, red-faced and muttering about a lack of initiative among the younger generation. We left the kid standing in the car park, staring after us with a wistful look.

Out on the road, Keith pulled out a couple of packets from under the dash. Zestoretic. Amlodipine. He pushed out a pill from each and washed them down with a swig from a can of Red Bull.

‘Goes a treat with your blood-pressure medication,’ he smiled.

‘We’re getting old,’ I said. Keith was forty-two, five years younger than me, although he looked as though he had even more miles on the clock. ‘In fact, we are old.’

Keith just laughed and pulled out a packet of cigarettes with a skull on the front. Then with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his high-tar snouts, he pulled his car on to the wrong side of the road and really put his foot down, as if he was trying to outrace someone.

We came across a woman crying.

‘Pictures of my children,’ she sobbed. ‘It had all the pictures of my children.’

‘Someone thieve your phone?’ Keith said, and when the woman nodded, he motioned for her to get in the back of the car. ‘Hop in, love,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ll get your phone back for you.’

This was what Keith was good at. This was where he excelled. We drove around slowly, the lady still upset on the back seat, until we were passing a tube station where some kids in school uniform were talking to a skinny guy in his twenties. He had a scabby pallor about him that marked him as a heroin addict.

‘He’s not eating his greens, is he?’ observed Keith, stopping on a double-yellow line. When we got out of the motor and moved closer to the little crowd, I could see how scared the school kids were. The suspect had one hand in the pocket of his shabby parka, and held the other palm outstretched to the school kids. One of them was giving him an iPod. Keith chuckled as he put his arm around the suspect’s shoulder.

‘What’s going on here then?’ he said.

The suspect looked at him with a start. ‘Just listening to some music, officer.’ He handed back the iPod and made to bolt, but Keith’s friendly arm held him in place.

Keith was nodding. ‘Downloading a few banging tunes, are we?’ He nodded at the iPod. ‘What you got on there? Bit of garage? Bit of Shirley Bassey? I’m a Clash fan myself.’ He looked at the frightened faces of the schoolchildren. ‘Never heard of The Clash? What do they teach you at these schools?’ He made a small gesture with his head. ‘Better run off and do some homework.’

They scarpered. The suspect made one last effort to get away. Keith embraced him tighter.

‘Not you, moonbeam,’ he said. ‘You’ve got detention.’

With his free hand, Keith reached into the parka and pulled out a screwdriver. The metal had been sharpened to a vicious point.

‘That’s what he waved in my face,’ said the woman. She wasn’t crying now.

Keith considered the screwdriver. ‘Planning a bit of woodwork, are we? Knocking up a few dovetail joints?’

I went through the rest of his pockets. Each one produced a mobile phone. When the lady found the one that belonged to her, Keith told her to get into the car and wait. She didn’t move.

Keith pulled the thief under a sign that said NO ENTRY and into the tube station. The lady and I followed them. I could hear the trains rumbling far below us. Keith slammed him back against the wall and gave him a slap across the cheek.

‘Stealing someone’s pictures of their children,’ he said. ‘I don’t think that’s very nice.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the suspect said. ‘That’s police brutality.’

‘I can do what I like if you resist arrest,’ Keith said. ‘Did you see him resisting arrest, DI Smith?’

‘It was appalling, DI Jones,’ I said.

‘I know my rights,’ the suspect said. ‘I want my lawyer.’

‘Yeah, call your lawyer,’ Keith agreed. ‘Get him down here from the EU Court of Human Rights.’ His face was getting red again. ‘I’ll give him a good hiding too.’ Then he thought of something. ‘But you can’t call your lawyer, can you? You haven’t got any stolen phones left.’

The lady was standing by his side. ‘Can I have a go?’ she said.

Keith was expansive. ‘Be my guest!’

He held the suspect’s collar while the woman’s open palm crashed against his unshaven cheek. For the first time, she smiled.

‘How did that feel?’ Keith said. ‘It looked like it felt pretty good.’

‘It felt very good,’ the lady said. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘Oh, you’re welcome,’ Keith said politely. He began dragging the suspect to the car. The lady went back at him for seconds, but I gently restrained her. I was already thinking about the Himalayas of paperwork we were going to have to climb, but when we got to the street Keith let him go, like a fisherman throwing back a little one, chuckling as the suspect dashed into the crowds.

‘Not taking him in?’ I said.

Keith shook his head. ‘What’s the point? So in six months’ time some judge can give him community service? It’s not worth the wait.’ He pulled open the driver’s door and I went round the other side. ‘He’s not going to show his face around here again,’ Keith said over the roof. ‘Probably going to devote himself to good works.’

And when we got into the car, the lady opened up her mobile phone and showed us the pictures of her children.