In the Course of Duty

Police Constable Kevin Long crouched low in the bushes beside the bend in the road. He was beginning to sweat profusely and flies buzzed around his head. His knees ached. He was having great difficulty operating the “speeding gun” he had been told to use.

“Look, lad,” the Sergeant had said, “this morning I want you to go to the Staples Row crossroads. You know where I mean. There’s a sharp bend in the B85 to the north before the crossroads. Four or five notices telling people to slow down to thirty both beside and on the road, but nobody takes a blind notice! Been three accidents in the last month. I want you to take this contraption and catch a few speeders. It’ll get written up in the local press and make people more careful. I’ll show you how to use it. It’s easy, even you should get the hang of it quite quickly.”

And so the Sergeant had ferried PC Long out to the crossroads with the speeding gun and told him he wanted at least four people caught by lunchtime.

“Keep down as much as possible, lad … if they see you they’ll brake hard.”

Well, it wasn’t that easy. Because it was a very sharp bend you didn’t have any time at all to point the machine at the car before it whizzed past. PC Long decided that if he was going to get a good shot of any approaching car on the other side of the road (which was his objective), he’d have to listen for it coming and then at the last minute squirm onto the road itself. But he must take his jersey off first. Of course, just as he was taking it off he missed a wonderful opportunity—sports car, must have been doing sixty, nearly on two wheels as it went round the bend. Well, he would definitely get the next one. It was already eleven-thirty!

He was tensed up when he heard the next car coming. Yes, it sounded like a fast one. He had moved into the road in a crouching position and pointed the gun when he felt a terrible thud on his protruding backside and a female voice shouted, “Shit …” Then he was lying face downwards on the road. When he looked up, dazed, the speeding gun was lying several yards up the road broken into two pieces. Beyond that was a racing bicycle on its side with its wheel still spinning, and beyond that in the bushes the spread-eagled figure of a young woman in shorts.

PC Long heaved himself up and staggered towards the girl. Even in his dazed state he noticed she was very pretty, with lovely long brown legs. She reminded him of one of the pictures in the magazine he’d been looking at in bed the previous night before his mother had banged on his door and told him to stop reading and to turn his light off otherwise he’d be late for the early shift.

The girl seemed to be bleeding from the head. He experimentally tapped her cheek. She seemed unconscious. Then he patted one of her thighs. Yes, she was definitely out. She must have hit her head pretty hard. Bugger! It was his fault, he supposed, but he was only trying to do his job. Well now, he’d better take some action. He remembered his First Aid. He mustn’t try and move her. Call an ambulance! No, call the Sergeant first and tell him what had happened. He might want to attend the incident himself.

At about the same time, Darren Collins, Chief Negotiator for Percy & Co, Estate Agents, had just risen from a double bed in the end-of-terrace council house where he had been making love to Tiffany Cross. Tiffany had managed to secure the council house and have her rent subsidised because she was a single mother. Her thirteenmonth- old daughter, Wanda, was asleep in the next bedroom.

“Do you have to go just yet, Darren?” Tiffany pleaded, propping herself up in bed on one elbow.

“Sorry love, got to show an old bird round the Manor. Very important sale for us. If I don’t hurry I’ll be late.”

“Oh Darren, when are you going to come to me, perm.?”

“Oh Lord, she’s off again,” thought Darren.

“You said you would, you know. You promised, that time!”

“Look, it’s not that easy.” Thank God she hadn’t started on about it before they’d got into bed. It would have had an adverse effect on his erectile tissues.

“I can’t stop now, darling. Must go.”

He quickly buttoned up his shirt, put his tie round his shoulders and slipped out of the door, forgetting his jacket, which was still on the back of a chair.

“Bugger him,” said Tiffany, hitting the pillow on which Darren’s head had been recently resting. “I’ll go and see that wife of his if he’s not careful!”

Darren didn’t stop to tie his tie as he got into his car. He’d have a little bit of time to spare later. The thing was to get away from the house quickly before Tiffany came running down the garden path in the nude and crying, or something silly like that. After he’d put half a mile or so between himself and the council houses he slowed down, stopped, twisted the driving mirror round and tied his tie. He’d pulled up in front of three newly built houses. “Executive homes” you’d call them. Very nice if you could afford one! The front gardens were still being landscaped and there was a pile of top soil by one of the gateways. Three sparrows were having a dust bath in the sunshine. Darren watched them, fascinated. They made him feel somewhat sad. Although they were obviously enjoying themselves, they quarrelled and attacked one another from time to time.

After he’d shown the client round the Manor he’d got to go and pick up his small son, Barry, from school at lunchtime. The school had the afternoon off for some reason; he couldn’t remember what, and as his wife, Doreen, worked every day until three o’clock he said he’d do it and look after Barry until she came home. He thought of Barry and how he always ran towards his dad and clasped him round the knees whenever he saw him. How could he leave Barry and go to live with Tiff, even though he liked her much more than Doreen at the moment? All Doreen wanted to do these days was to go on holidays and buy more things for the house.

He looked at his watch. God! He was going to be late for his appointment to view the Manor unless he drove like fury. He’d been sitting looking at those stupid sparrows for much longer than he’d thought.

He was probably doing fifty miles per hour when he rounded the bend before the Staples Row crossroads. The Sergeant had just stopped and parked his car as far off the road as the hedge would allow opposite to where PC Long was bending over the cyclist. Although the Sergeant had put his hazard warning lights on, Darren was going so fast that he only saw them at the last moment. He clipped the offside rear of the police car hard from behind, slewed round in the road and overturned.

“Oh my God,” yelled the Sergeant as smoke began to erupt from the radiator of the upturned car. “Quick, let’s try to get him out, lad, before the bloody thing goes up in flames!”

Somehow they got Darren out. They noticed that the front air bag had failed to open and he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. Between them they carried him away from the car just before it exploded. He looked in a pretty bad way.

The ambulance which had been called to the cyclist also carried Darren off to the Accident & Emergency Department of the local hospital. When they were received there, it was noted that neither of them was carrying any identification.

Because Darren didn’t turn up to fetch Barry from school, Doreen was phoned at work and asked to collect him. She was very worried. She couldn’t understand where Darren had got to. He didn’t answer his mobile, which he always carried in his car. She phoned his estate agency. They were worried too. He hadn’t turned up to show the lady round the Manor and the lady was very cross.

By two o’clock, Tiffany had made a decision. She’d had two gins with the fish and chips from the van that always called round on a Thursday. As Darren hadn’t come back for it, she was going to take his jacket back to his house and talk to his wife. She knew exactly where Darren lived. It was quite a little walk, but never mind. She put on a bit of make-up, strapped Wanda in her pram and set out purposefully with Darren’s jacket draped over the handle.

Meanwhile, the Sergeant had made a preliminary report to the station about the incidents and summoned photographers and the forensic people. He’d organised a breakdown lorry to remove the burnt-out wreck of Darren’s car. As he drove his badly dented car back to the station with a glum PC Long beside him, he started to have forebodings about what the Superintendent was going to say to both of them.

At the campsite, Michael had been sitting in the sun by the camper van getting steadily crosser and crosser. It was the third time during their holiday that Sandra had ridden off on her bike in a tantrum. She’d come back after about an hour the last two times, but this time she’d been gone over three hours! They were supposed to pack up and go home that afternoon, as he had to be at work the next day. It was, he thought savagely, time to make an end of it all. They lived in his house. He earned all the money, paid all the bills and the mortgage. She just sat around all day writing this novel which she would never let him read and seemingly never progressed further than the first three chapters—which she kept on rewriting. She could, of course, have cycled the whole way home—it was only about forty miles—or she could have had an accident. Both unlikely. Sod it, he would pack up. He loaded his own racing bike onto the back of the camper van and drove off angrily. By the time he reached the motorway he’d definitely decided to get rid of Sandra. There was that rather nice girl at work who kept smiling at him …

“Daddy will be home soon, I expect,” said Doreen to Barry, who was sitting at the kitchen table colouring a book which she’d bought him on the way home from school to make up for the disappointment that Dad hadn’t collected him as promised. “I can’t think what’s become of him.”

There was a ring at the front door bell. She went and opened it. It was a small, dark young girl who she’d never seen before, with a baby in a pram.

“I’ve come to bring Darren’s jacket back. He left it behind,” announced the girl, waving Darren’s jacket in the air.

“Oh,” said Doreen. She immediately thought that Darren must have been looking round the girl’s house to value it or something like that. “Thank you. Would you like to come in for a moment and bring the baby? You see, I’m worried about Darren, he seems to have disappeared.”

The girl turned her head sharply as she started unstrapping the baby. “How do you mean, disappeared?”

“Well, he was supposed to pick up young Barry from school, dinner time, but he didn’t turn up. I’ve rung the office but they haven’t heard from him either. He didn’t turn up to show a lady round the Manor. When did he leave you?”

Tiffany had a sudden strange feeling that this wife must know all about her and Darren.

“Suppose it must have been about eleven-thirty-ish,” she said defiantly.

“You’d better come through into the lounge,” said Doreen. “Barry’s in the kitchen. I don’t want him worried.”

This girl looked a bit like a gypsy. Surely she couldn’t be selling a house?

“Have you phoned the police or the hospital?” Tiffany said.

“No, not yet.”

“Mum, who’s that?” shouted Barry from the kitchen.

“Oh, just a lady who’s called,” Doreen shouted. Then to Tiffany, “Look, dear, I don’t know your name.”

“Tiffany, but people call me Tiff.”

“Well, Tiffany, I think you’re right. Would you please go and talk to Barry in the kitchen and keep him there while I phone. I don’t want him listening.”

Tiffany walked slowly into the kitchen to see Barry. God—he looked so like Darren as he turned and looked at her.

“This is Wanda, Barry. I brought her in to see you.”

She put Wanda on the floor and Barry watched fascinated as Wanda crawled towards him using her elbows and knees.

Afew minutes later Doreen put her head round the door and beckoned to Tiffany. She whispered, “The hospital say that they’ve got an accident case, man and a woman, neither with any identification. Both unconscious. They think I’d better go and see if it’s Darren. About the right age, apparently. Early thirties. It’s only five minutes walk to the hospital. If I phone my Mum it’ll take her about an hour to get here. Could you possibly hang on a bit and look after Barry? I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

“Sure,” said Tiffany. “We’re all getting on fine.”

She went and sat back at the kitchen table and helped Barry with his colouring book. Wanda carried on crawling round the floor and eventually came to Barry’s chair and hauled herself up onto her feet and stood swaying and looking up at him for about thirty seconds until she fell backwards onto her padded bottom and laughed. Barry laughed too.

“Do it again, Wanda,” he said.

“I don’t think she understands you,” said Tiffany. She was trying to stay calm and bright but all the time she was worried. God, she hoped it wasn’t Darren unconscious in hospital.

“Where’s Mum?” asked Barry suddenly.

“Oh, she’s just popped out for a few minutes. She’ll be back soon.”

“I want my tea.”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait a bit.”

Barry turned and looked up at her. “Well, can I have a drink of orange then please?”

Darren and Sandra were lying side-by-side on trolleys in the “Assessment Room”.

“Yes, that’s my Darren,” said Doreen.

“Do you know this young lady at all?”

Doreen looked at Sandra and shook her head. Why had Darren been in this accident with this blonde girl? The girl had a terrible injury to her head, but Darren looked awful—much worse. The nurse gave Doreen a chair and took some particulars and presently a young doctor came and sat beside her and spoke to her. She only vaguely took in what he was saying.

“Skull fractured … would have to operate. Possible injury to the spine and broken arms … Difficult to say what the results would be … As she lived so near and had a small son to look after, no point in waiting … Best to go home—they’d phone.”

Tiffany could tell that things were bad when she saw Doreen’s face as she came into the kitchen.

“Barry, you just look after Wanda a minute would you? I just want to have a word with your mum,” she said.

They went into the lounge.

“Yes, it’s Darren. He’s been in an accident with some young girl. I’ve never seen her before. Both unconscious. He’s got a fractured skull and maybe injuries to his back. They’re going to have to operate,” said Doreen, sitting down in an armchair and beginning to cry. It was strange, but she noticed Tiffany was crying as well.

“I’m very sorry,” Tiffany said. “I’d better go now. Barry said he wants his tea. I gave him some orange squash.”

Tiffany went and fetched Wanda. “Who the hell was the blonde girl he was with?” she wondered.

“Look, that’s my phone number,” she said as she went into the lounge again on the way out and pushed a piece of paper into Doreen’s hand. “Let me know what happens.”

Doreen couldn’t seem to move from the armchair. She crumpled the piece of paper and let it drop on the floor. Two minutes later she looked at it and wondered where it had come from.

Alittle later Barry came through from the kitchen and stood looking at his mother.

“I heard you crying … Why are you crying, Mum?” he said. “Is it something to do with that lady?”

The Sergeant was called in to see the Superintendent.

“You’ve heard that the motorist has died and the cyclist is on the critical list?”

The Sergeant nodded.

“Potentially we have two actions against this police force. It’s a serious matter, Bill. Why on earth did you send young Kevin out with a speed gun and leave him unsupervised?”

“I didn’t know what else to do with him, sir. He’s not very good at anything.”

“My very point! And then why on earth did you park your car on a blind corner?”

“It was in the course of duty, sir. I was rushing to the scene of an incident. I parked tight up against the hedge and put the hazard warning lights on!”

The Superintendent sighed. Like many men before him he could see himself taking the blame for all this even though he’d had nothing directly to do with it.

Just before he went home for the evening, PC Kevin Long heard the news that the cyclist had also died in hospital. He simply couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t thought she was that seriously injured.

When he got home, his mother thought he was very quiet. Eventually she asked him what the matter was.

“Woman cyclist hit me while I was doing a speed gun trap. She fell off and died later in hospital.”

“Oh,” said his Mum. “Well, not your fault.”

“Suppose not. Just happened!”

While his mother was washing up, he went quietly up to his bedroom and found the girlie magazine he’d been looking at the previous night. First putting it into an old plastic carrier bag, he crept down the stairs and then out into the back yard. He stuffed it right down into the bottom of the rubbish bin and put the lid back on the bin. He stood with his eyes closed for several minutes as darkness fell.