Smokescreen Chapter 5

Twenty minutes later, Needles is gone. I’m alone except for five empties and the last half. It’s cider: I’ve left it ‘til last, it’s the street-alkie’s drink of choice and I’ve never liked it much. I’m in the 2-pint buzz-zone. Everything feels right; you know the next thing out of your mouth will be witty, insightful or both. A hardened drinker can make this feeling last a long time, as long as 8 or 9 pints. Like every drinker, I know that after that it’ll end in puke and punches. I can handle it though; I have to, every day. Someone’s eyes are on me, I know it. I scan the room. Eventually my eyes light on Kilgour and Elvis: Elvis nods and gets up.

‘Murray, you need a change of clothes.’

He looks at the empties,

‘You won’t be driving, then? Very well, you’ll take my car. Sgt Wilson is out front. The code is ‘Smokescreen’. Get her to drive you home. Back by 5.’

‘Northwood and back? By five. I’ll do my very best…sir.’

Elvis clenches his fist. Walks off. I feel even better.

‘Lucky you!’ gets bellowed in my ear.

Great! Former pride of the Namibian Police force, Frikkie Du Toit -Fritz the Twat to his acquaintances – has been earwigging. The not-quite-Japie drone goes on:

‘All afternoon with the ACC’s pet kaffir. Going to get yourself some dark chocolate?’

I barge past him. He laughs at my back. I get in the BMW, one of the newest cars the Met has. It is 5 years old.

‘Hi, Joyous. Elvis says ‘smokescreen’. Drive me home, would you? Apparently, I’m not presentable enough.’ I hold out my lapels with finger and thumb.

‘Northwood isn’t it?’ Sgt Joyous Wilson asks.

‘Yeah, back by five.’

She snorts. Guns the motor.

I want to talk.

‘What the fuck are you doing in the Met, Joy? ‘

‘It’s a job, isn’t it? More than a lot of people have.’

‘How long have you been in?

’12 years.’

‘2003? You must have noticed then?’

‘What?’

‘How white was your intake at the Police College?’

’60, 70%, why?’

‘How many whites at our nick?’

Joyous Wilson shrugs. ‘Does it matter?’

‘It should.’

We’re quiet for a while. I look at the piles of rubbish in the streets. Kids looking through likely piles for something, anything.

‘There are laws. Murray. No racist comments, no discrimination…’

‘Oh yeah, there are. I bet you’ve never heard the n-word.’

‘Not from Whitey.’

‘What do you think the wankers do behind your back? Christ, you wouldn’t belie-‘

‘Does a tree fall in the wood?’ The conversation is over.

 

I come out with three coat-hangers’ full draped over my shoulder.The door has slammed behind me. My wife, Yolanda, has said a grand total of two sentences to me, in the half-hour it’s taken to shave, shower and get my shit together. I’m almost at the car when the patter of trainers precedes a pair of arms wrapped tight around my thighs. I kneel down and look at my beautiful daughter, Victoria, and wonder again at the chocolate-drop eyes and at how different they are from my pictish blues.

‘Stay, Dad.’ She says, and a tear darkens her skin several shades.

I slam the car-boot lid, the clothes are in a heap inside. I sit next to Joyous, who’s looking at me like I’ve grown a second nose:

‘There’s always someone to hear the tree fall.’ I say. ‘Drive.’

 

Joyous dropped me off. I rapped on the window.

‘What’s this ‘Smokescreen’ shit?’

‘Don’t you know?’ She laughed and drove off to a parking bay.

My carefully chosen changes of clothes didn’t enjoy the journey, but at least they were clean. Apart from the Press having departed, nothing much had changed in the Commons’ Bar. The barman still looked bored. The TV was still on, but no-one was watching. Kilgour was sitting alone, looking smug. The ACC wasn’t in sight. I headed off to the lav to get changed. Elvis came out wiping the back of his hand across his nose. His eyes glittered:

‘Back already? Well done.’

And it was. Joy had driven fast and decisively and knew her A-Z, or at least which bits of it were accurate, nowadays. Not even police cars had satnav.

I got changed. Hung the spare and dirty clothing on the hook in a cubicle. Checked my mobile for power. Just a quarter of battery left. It beeped. Another message: didn’t recognise the number.

’12.15. Report 2 me. B4 M-’nite. Station. McCracken.’

I reckoned if I laid off the booze until then I’d be alright to drive. Shame Harry had bailed out.

The three uniforms were carrying office-type furniture in. Cubicle partitioning was being set up to imitate a wall behind a desk. A BBC crew were watching in the background, ready with lights, camera, waiting for the action. Elvis pulled me close, spoke into my ear, his breath moving the hairs:

‘Ray Murray: this is your moment, you’re going to be on the telly.’

‘What for?’

‘Can’t you guess? I bet you know your lines when I give you the cue.’

Then the ACC and I sat behind a desk, microphones in front of us, for all the world as if a real press conference was taking place. There was even a nameplate on the desk for me.

Elvis kicked off:

‘I have been asked to make a statement concerning the investigation into the circumstances of the Prime Minister’s sudden demise…’

I wondered where this kind of language came from; did anyone - ever - really speak like this, unless they were reading from a script? The letters on the autocue were massive: death of royalty size; Needles explained some of the old typesetters’ nicknames for font sizes once. Elvis obviously needed glasses, but wouldn’t wear them for the Telly.

‘…new evidence has come to light which completely exonerates the Home Secretary. I now hand you over to my colleague Detective Inspector Ray Murray, CID for a brief explanation…’

I glanced at the autocue. It was completely blank. Elvis’ head was down, pretending to look at important papers, a hint of a smirk was still visible. To me at least. I cleared my throat.

‘The Home Secretary was helping myself in the course of another enquiry at the time of the Prime Minister’s death.’

The cameras stopped rolling. Elvis looked at me like I was a dog who’d mastered a difficult trick. It was easy, in the end. Except I didn’t actually know the Time of Death, did I?

The BBC crew left. I turned to Elvis:

‘That it then?’

‘Yes, that will be all. The Home Secretary mentioned a tape..?’

‘Oh that. The recorder didn’t work, last one in the building, sir. Shame, eh?’

‘A shame it is.’

He gave me a look that said he was quite sure it was a shame for me.

It was getting on for a quarter to 6. I cupped my hands over my nose and mouth, breathed out. Not sweet, not too strong. I headed out to the company car. I could always say the magic word if I was stopped: ‘Smokescreen’ – maybe I’d find out what it meant if I said it to enough people.