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Ange’s hand on my shoulder pulls me from a deep sleep. I’m on the sofa in nothing but my boxers and the blanket from the back of the chair. She tells me to go to bed and I listen, do as she says. I don’t have to be on shift until tonight and despite my early finish last night I’m exhausted, the muscles of my torso and thighs bruised, like they’ve had a good workout. I get under the duvet, and a little while later think I hear the click of the front door as Ange leaves. It’s still dark in the room.
*
There’s a small piece about the accident on the Welsh news, but nothing much. No mention of her name yet, no standard sound bite from an inspector or chief inspector, no suspicious circumstances. A camera pans down the length of the motorway from east to west, then cuts to a shot of the tyre grooves in the ditch at the side of the road where the car ended up. A site too dangerous to lay flowers. Another cut to the bridge a quarter of a mile down the carriageway and a handful of bouquets there. The newsreader back in the studio is all smiles and it’s over to the weather. I mute the TV but leave it on.
The toast is like rubber in my mouth, and the coffee when I get to it is tepid and weak. It’s 11.15am and my body doesn’t know which way up it is. It’s always the same on late shifts. I should still be sleeping, but I got in a solid five hours and now I’m wide awake.
In the kitchen I make another pot of coffee and rinse the breakfast dishes while I wait for it to percolate. I think about going in early tonight, catch up on some admin, try to get ahead of myself for once.
When the coffee’s done, I take it to the table and lift the lid on Ange’s laptop, power it up. You get more news from the internet than the TV these days. But after ten minutes of browsing, I come up with little more than was broadcast earlier, a one-car fatality just not sensational enough.
The stairs groan under the weight of heavy footfalls and I freeze with the mug halfway to my mouth. What day is it? Who would be home? For some reason, I look to the dog. Rumpole is a seven-year-old, slightly overweight, grey and white Staffie. He’s laid back and loving and good with children. He’s a shit guard dog. Not even an ear pricks at the sound of shuffling on the stairs, but his chin rests on his paws and he looks up at me with a blink that says one of us is in trouble.
Dan comes into the room in joggers and a hoody. His eyes follow an invisible line across the floor to the table, his hair gravitates to all points of the compass.
‘Alright?’ I say, as he drops into the chair opposite and drags the cereal box and bowl towards him. Ange must have left them out for him.
He responds with something similar, his deepening voice lost to the rattle of the Chocolate Squares hitting the bowl. He fills it to the top, looks around the table, then gets up to fetch the milk carton from the fridge, the one I’d put back earlier; Ange must have left that out for him too. He brings it to the table and I check my watch.
11.39am.
Thursday.
Not holidays. Not yet.
‘Why aren’t you in school?’ I ask, when my brain fails to find the answer by itself.
‘You were supposed to take me,’ he says without looking up, and shovels a spoonful of squares into his mouth. Crunches.
The conversation I had with Ange last night before shift comes back to me. ‘Shit. You should have woken me.’
He shrugs one shoulder and goes on eating.
‘Eat your breakfast and we’ll go.’
Eyes as green as his mother’s come up to meet mine and he stops chewing, swallows hard. ‘Too late now.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ll have you there for the afternoon session.’
The spoon clatters to the bowl when he drops his hand. Milk droplets rain over the table. ‘Great. I’ll look like a right tit.’
‘No you won’t. Tell them your father forgot to wake you.’
He puffs out an unamused laugh that sprays cereal on his chin. He brushes it away with a swipe of his fist.
‘Yeah right,’ he mumbles, and goes back to eating. After each mouthful, the spoon returns to the bowl with a little more force. I feel myself getting riled, but bite my tongue. At his age I was making my own way to school, then returning to an empty house and fixing a hot meal, too.
I sip at the coffee. I should have remembered I was meant to take him, though. I think of the twelve-year-old we nicked last week. For all his moods, Dan’s nothing like that kid.
I watch him scowl as he eats, notice the breakout of red spots on his pale right cheek, fine hairs sprouting in no particular order over his upper lip. He’s just a teenager, that’s all. One with good grades and an excellent attendance record. One that’s never been in trouble.
‘Alright. But tell your mother you weren’t well,’ I say.
He slows in his eating to peer up through his fringe. Check if he heard right, or if I mean it. He almost smiles. ‘You’re asking me to lie?’
‘I’m asking you to be economical with the truth.’
‘To save your arse?’
Cheeky sod. I hold back my own smile, thinking about telling him to quit while he’s ahead. ‘That’s what kids your age do, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not a kid,’ he says, poking at the Chocolate Squares with his spoon. ‘Did you?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Lie when you were a kid.’
The longer I take to respond, the more the smirk curls his lips up to one side. But I’m only taking this long over it because I’m trying to find the right answer. To say no would be dishonest. We all lie at some point or another, and usually there’s no harm in it. But I might just as well hand him a stick to beat me with than say yes.
‘Eat your food, big man,’ I tell him, and flick my chin towards his cereal bowl.
*
They’re working on Anna in the operating theatre. I’m the only one in the corridor. Sacha or someone else will be along soon, I won’t be alone for long. I stare at the blue glove I hold in my hands within which is Anna’s mobile, and every possible scenario runs through my head.
It’s switched on, I’ve already checked.
If I do as Anna asks, there’ll be a record of the messages being deleted at precisely this time and date. If I even look at them, there’ll be a record somewhere. Someone at the crash site will recall it was me who retrieved the phone, and everyone will know it couldn’t possibly be Anna who accessed the messages and therefore it must be me. In my favour, I’m an officer, I might be looking for evidence, assessing timelines. However, there’s categorically no plausible explanation why I would delete anything.
But what is the likelihood this investigation will go as far as requiring a forensic examination of her mobile phone data? A single car collision. No one else involved, no one else injured. More likely, the phone will just be returned to her family with the rest of her belongings. And while I can’t be absolutely sure of that, I know I can be sure that there’s something on there that Anna doesn’t want anyone to see. Her insistence on that, given the state she was in, is unquestionable. If nothing else, I’m curious.
I brush my hand over my mouth and wonder why I’m even having this debate with myself. I’m an officer. I’ve been an officer for twenty years. I know my job and its boundaries, and I’ve never overstepped them. Not once. I’ve seen those who have and watched their careers disintegrate piece by piece as they convince themselves they’re in the right. It’s bollocks. There’s no place for rebels in the job. There’s only room enough for commitment and integrity. You do the best you can, you do it fairly, and you hold your head up high. Your position is a worthy one.
Good and bad.
Right and wrong.
Black and white...
I tap on the messages app to open it.
*
‘Are you alright, Steve?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, holding the phone to my ear with my left hand and sliding the patio door closed with the right. Rumpole’s claws tap over the laminate floor and he pauses to shake the outside air from his fur in a Mexican wave that starts at his head and ends at his tail.
‘Is it the one on the news?’ Ange asks. It’s lunchtime and she’s on her break.
‘That’s the one,’ I answer, following Rumpole to the kitchen, running the cold tap and reaching down for his water bowl.
‘I’m so sorry, Steve. It’s tragic, it really is. So young.’
I fill the bowl and put it back on the floor. It spills, but Rumpole doesn’t care. He sticks his head in the centre and spills it some more.
‘Will you have to go in tonight?’ she asks.
‘Course. Why wouldn’t I?’
She softly tuts, but I know it’s not me it’s aimed at. ‘Well, I’ll try and see you before you leave. I shouldn’t be too late.’
‘Actually I might head in early. Lots to catch up on. Paperwork and stuff.’
Now she sighs, and this time it is for me. Rumpole pauses in his drinking to gaze up at me, tongue still lapping the air and water drooling from his chin to the floor.
‘Alright, love,’ she says in my ear. ‘Anyway, last one tonight at least.’
We say our goodbyes and I press my thumb to the screen to end the call, while the finger of my other hand runs down the calendar on the wall to see what shift I’ve got after this one and what my chances might be of snagging some overtime. With hours yet until I book on, I’m itching to put on the uniform. It’s not always like this, I can be as reluctant to get up off my backside and go to work as the next person. But having been given more hours off than expected for a normal shift, I’ve no idea what to do with it.
I unmute the volume on the TV in time for the next local news bulletin.
