‘We can fool ourselves into thinking that this job isn’t hard on our families. That they can take it.’
Henley wiped away the beads of condensation from the neck of the beer bottle. The rooftop seating area of Nando’s wasn’t busy and Ramouter and Henley sat in the far corner overlooking the Thames. The sky had already descended into a splash of purple, amber and turquoise while the lights of a growing cityscape flickered in the distance. It was as if the only job of the glass and steel of the city was to provide a distraction from the death and chaos on the streets.
‘The thing is, our families tell us that they can handle it and for the first few months, or even a year if you’re lucky, they can handle it but then something happens. Reality kicks in. You’re never home on time, you miss your father-in-law’s seventieth birthday party, you refuse to talk about your shit day and then some lunatic tries to kill you,’ Henley finished, then took a drink.
‘I know that it’s hard, but I’ve wanted this for so long. I surprised myself how much I wanted it.’ Ramouter poured the hottest peri-peri sauce onto his chicken. ‘And you know that the worse part of this job – for us, I mean – is trying to convince yourself that you’re not betraying yourself and your community.’
Henley thought back to the red-hot arguments with family and friends over her decision to give up a lucrative job as an investment bank analyst to join the Met’s graduate recruitment programme.
‘My brother Simon didn’t talk to me for three months,’ said Henley. Ramouter nodded empathetically. ‘By the time he was twenty-five he had been stopped thirty-two times by the police for driving because he was black and there I was telling him that I was off to Hendon.’
‘My mum prays for my soul every time she goes to Temple. She said that joining the police was more shameful than my decision to marry a non-Sikh.’
Henley relaxed a little as they ate and enjoyed the warmth of the city night. She’d been so pissed about having a trainee that she’d forgotten he was an actual human being.
‘I’m sorry about your wife. Haven’t you thought about going back?’ Henley was acutely aware that she sounded like Rob, asking Ramouter to choose: his job or his family.
‘What? And give up rooftop dining at Nando’s?’ The grin on Ramouter’s face disappeared as quickly as it came. ‘It’s what she wanted for me.’
‘But did you want it?’ Henley asked.
‘I want the job and I want my family. It just seems like I can’t have both at the moment.’
Ramouter picked up a napkin and dabbed quickly at his eyes.
‘Peri-peri sauce get in your eye?’
‘Something like that.’
Henley knew she could get under people’s skin. She had an innate desire to see what made people tick, which buttons to push to make them falter. She wasn’t sure if she was inherently manipulative or simply had the gift of persuasion.
‘What about you?’ Ramouter asked while Henley scooped rice onto her fork. ‘You seemed to have managed it. You haven’t been forced to choose.’
‘My husband used to ask me to choose once a day. It became twice a day after Olivier hurt me and I was signed off with PTSD.’
‘PTSD? I didn’t know. I’m sorry.’
Henley waved the apology away. ‘There’s nothing for you to be sorry for. You’re part of the team and you’re working with me. You should know.’
‘Part of the team.’ Ramouter grinned. ‘But you’re good now? The PTSD, I mean.’
Henley looked up as a couple of Chinook helicopters flew overhead, back to the army base nearby, carrying away her reply.
‘It’s managed.’