Risk Street5

Sergeant Jenkins sat staring at the blank piece of paper, his notebook jammed open in front of him, more of a lucky charm, as he hadn’t yet had time to write anything in it. He was the only one that could do the paperwork; to have returned to the dark mahogany cubicle of his desk in Hall Street. He could hear the echo of ‘Turnkey,’ Turnkey,’ from the holding cells as if they underwater singing and their voices was bubbling up to him. They were always at it, shouting for a fag, a light, a bit of toilet paper, any stupid-fucking-thing. They were always at it. Anything to keep the duty officer Rodgers busy, opening and slamming shut the newly reinforced metal doors that made the old Victorian building shudder and smell faintly of piss.

Jenkins stabbed out another fag. He didn’t want to-it would never have happened in his day-but had to send PC Gooch home. The boy wasn’t cut out to be a police officer. He was too soft; would probably end up behind a desk somewhere, grow fat as a neutered lab mouse and keep getting steadily promoted, as somebody’s pet, until he retired as an Inspector. That was usually the way it worked.

PC King, he’d been taken to the hospital by the ambulance and would be off for at least a week, maybe two, or more if he milked it. He figured, if he could control his temper, then King had a chance. He might make it as an officer.

Jenkins bit at his thumbnail and moved seamlessly onto the index and middle finger, each course feeding his thoughts as the blank piece of paper sat waiting. Retirement, that was the thing. PCs Gooch and King acted as if they were grown up. That made him smile, for the first time that night. Another few years and he’d have the full package. It was almost lying on his desk waiting for him to pick up. But he frowned and chewed on the end of his pen, tapping the plastic casing against his teeth, before placing it carefully down again. He needed to be careful. He’d been through it a thousand times.

That boy, his name was encrusted on the blotting pad, written over a 1000 other names, like the white cast on someone’s leg. But his name had been underlined so vehemenently he’d almost chiselled a line into the desk. Bernard Porter. He must have been on…couldn’t really remember the name…some American drug…PCP or acid or heroin. It must have been something like that. He didn’t seem feel any pain, and his voice was just weird, not at all like thirteen year old’s. If pipistrelle bats could speak that’s how they would have sounded. Otherworldly. And he was strong. Incredibly, strong. It must have been drugs.

They’d said on the phone that his mum had cracked up too. She’d collapsed, after he’d taken her home, and had some kind of mental breakdown. That wasn’t his fault. He didn’t need to include any of that in his report. He balanced his chair on its back legs and rocked backwards and forwards. He’d need to get his story right, need to make sure Gooch and King were on the same wavelength. He’d make a point of visiting them, see how they were, kind of thing, so that he could fill them in on how it was going to be. The boy’s father was flying home, some kind of engineer, a big-wig. That could make it tricky.

Facts. That’s what he needed facts. The boy had admitted to him and PC King that he’d killed that other boy John Summerville. He was covered in blood. They had enough to arrest him. He’d even given them a motive; why he did it. It was simple. He was fucking his little sister and that other boy, Summerville had challenged him, called him out. And he’d killed him. It was that simple.

‘Turnkey, Turnkey.’

Jenkins stroked his chin. He’d need to go home and shave, put on a clean shirt. He kicked at the bin below his feet. The blank piece of paper waited, stretched in front of him, like the whole iron wrought weight of his chain of command; his gaffer and his gaffer’s gaffer, all the way up, waiting for his report. The press would be involved.

‘Turnkey, Turnkey.’

He lit a fag. The smoke settled his nerves. The first thing to get down was that they weren’t arresting the boy; they were taking him to the hospital for treatment. Then he’d need to put in something about how, once he was there, he was going to contact ‘a responsible adult’. They liked that kind of language. He filled his lungs with smoke. It was better than saying he phoned the boy’s mum, when it was too late.

He should have known. She sounded shrill on the phone. He could almost picture her, peroxide blond, as sharp and thin as a eight inch stiletto heel and a mouth that opened and shut like a fresh water trout. Not that it was water that she drank. But she wasn’t drunk. The shock maybe had sobered her up. He didn’t know what to say. Might even have arrested her for police assault. Her long painted nails; red, finding red on his cheek.

‘My boy! My little boy!’ she’d shouted. ‘Where is he? Where is he?’

He’d had a hold on her thin wrists as she threshed about in front of him. She screamed something in his ear. He could still hear the ungodly sound as she finally realized and slumped at his feet.

‘I’ll take you home.’ He thought about saying something about having a boy the same age and two daughters. ‘Home, for a nice cup of tea.’ He knew he was talking to her as if she was a child, but couldn’t help it. ‘Home to see your daughter. She’ll be waiting for you.’

Her long blond hair swept from side to side, as he helped her to stand. She frowned and shook her head, as if dislodging thoughts. ‘I haven’t got a daughter. What makes you think I have?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe you have a young niece or something staying with you?’

‘No. There is just me and Bernard. And now you’ve killed him.’ She hit out wildly again.

It wasn’t his fault. He’d need to get that across on the blank sheet. The boy had been delivered, bloodied, but still alive, to the hospital. He hadn’t formally been arrested so was not under his jurisdiction. That was it. If he’d hung himself, the hospital were the adults, ‘in absentia’, that sounded about right. Sounded good in fact. He picked up his pen.