I blink, my head pounding as it does every time I wake up. I squint at the bedside clock and see it’s 7.02am. That means I got just over four hours’ sleep last night. It might not sound much, but that’s the most I’ve managed for weeks.
My brain feels dull and fuzzy, the lack of sleep having clouded my mind to the extent that it takes me a few moments to realise where I am. The worst part of insomnia isn’t the confusion, though; it’s the frustration. Every night I go to bed frustrated that I can’t get to sleep and every morning I wake frustrated that I haven’t slept. Not properly, anyway.
I reach for the painkillers, vaguely recalling a dream about sirens and police radios. I can still hear the crackling noise and the muffled voices somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind. Great. Now I’m even dreaming about work. I guess these things never quite go away.
I often wonder whether it’s work which is causing me the stress that’s stopping me from sleeping. Deep down, I don’t mind if it is. I love my job and wouldn’t want anything else than to spend my day catching criminals and solving murders. The mind’s always on the job, though, and that can’t be healthy. It’s something a lot of coppers suffer with, apparently. Not that that makes me feel any better.
It’s just another one of the reasons why the divorce rate is so high amongst police officers. Can’t be much fun to be married to a zombie. I know it wasn't much fun for Suzy, anyway. She told me often enough.
They often say that police officers make good listeners. I only wish I’d listened when Suzy told me how much the job was getting in the way. Listening the first time might’ve been a good idea, but after the thousandth time she’d given up and — well, let’s just say she sought personal attention elsewhere.
And now I’m here, bleary-eyed in the early morning, living on my own and sitting around in my underpants, unable to sleep and unable to wake up. As the story decreed, I’m the archetypal troubled Detective Inspector. Troubled. Now there’s a word.
The thing that most people don’t understand is that being a police officer isn’t a job you choose; it’s a job that chooses you. It’s a calling in life. I don’t know anyone whose lifetime ambition is to split their time between looking at mutilated dead bodies and being consistently and continually shat on from above. The job’s not what it was, but that’s what they say about all jobs, isn’t it?
As I swallow the second paracetamol tablet, my mobile rings. I have a sudden moment of clarity as I wonder if that’s one of the reasons I can never drift off into a proper deep sleep — I’m constantly aware that this blasted thing could ring at any moment. I answer it without reading the display. ‘Thomas.’
‘Nick, it’s Lynda.’ A Detective Sergeant from my team. She’s a bit older than me and, although she’s technically below me she has this burning ambition and air about her which makes her seem superior. Deep down, I think a part of her resents having a younger boss. She absolutely oozes sex appeal, though, which I guess is one of the reasons why I put up with it. ‘Listen, we’ve got a body. Possible murder. Are you able to come and take a look?’
‘Uh yeah,’ I mumble, swinging my legs out of bed and pulling on the trousers that were left crumpled on the floor. I glance at the bedside clock again, trying to work out how much sleep I’ve lost in waking up before my seven-thirty alarm.
I find myself visualising Lynda, her bright red hair gleaming as she’s stood resplendent over a body in her navy blue trouser suit, her ample bosom swelling in an open-necked white blouse. Being greeted by that would be enough to wake anyone up. ‘Where is it?’ I ask.
’47 Strathmere Road. Uniform are already there. I’m on my way as we speak. Probably be a few minutes. How long will you be?’
‘Uh, not long,’ I say, perhaps sounding a little sarcastic at first but then remembering that Lynda probably has no idea where I live. Why would she? ‘That’s literally just across the road from me actually,’ I say, waking up very quickly. ‘I’ll probably be there before you.’