William Scott: Fragile: Chapter One

Chapter One

I Woke up on a hard wooden bench in a cold concrete box. This is not how I imagined waking up today. But what did I expect? There were no windows so I couldn’t tell what time it was. The bench was worn and well used, and the walls were solid concrete, probably feet thick and painted a dull green, the years have faded it some, peeling in places. They were eight feet high to a concrete ceiling with a single light in the centre.

The back of my head hurt, a dull, throbbing kinda hurt. I reach back there and feel dried blood, not a lot, it crumbles under my touch. The taste of blood in my mouth, an ache In my jaw and more dried blood under my nose. It wasn’t broken. All of that and the pounding headache could mean one of two things, I got shit-faced drunk and tripped over my own feet. Or I got my arse kicked.

I’m going with the latter.

The worn-out green colour of the walls and the steel door with a slotted food hatch and 2-inch peephole tell me I’m in a police cell, not my best start to a morning, but it could be worse. I can’t tell if this headache is from the fight or the booze, no taste of vomit or puddles on the floor.

Either could explain why I’m in a gaol cell.

Police took my watch my laces and my belt. I normally wake up early no matter what, it smells early. It’s a throwback to my days before I was a Private Detective, a hired, gun, a bodyguard, a peeping tom. Ain’t no dignity in this line of work. I can’t hear anything outside that steel door, it’s early, maybe 5 am early. The drunks are still asleep.

I could do with more sleep, my head feels like the floor of a Taxi cab. I lay back down on the hard wooden bench using my arms as a pillow and stare up at the ceiling and cross my ankles, the paint is peeling off around the light fixture. I can almost hear the light bulb buzz. It’s as bright as a cloudless summer day. Don’t look directly at it. There’s nothing worse than wanting to sleep but being on full alert, senses on fire, another throwback to the days before all the glitz and glamour I’m living now. The smell of stale coffee in a paper cup over a freshly bleached floor. The sound of footfalls of new leather shoes.

I close my eyes and try to block it all out but that’s easier said than done, my brain is on fire now. I need to calm down. Close my eyes. Relax my body. I could be here for a while.

The footsteps are coming this way. It’s the guy with the new leather shoes, the steps echo off the concrete walls outside the steel door. They stop just outside. He fumbles with the keys, his chain is probably too long, rookie mistake. The key turns, and the lock opens. Door follows.

‘Sir’, the voice uncertain whether he wants to wake me up.

‘Sir’, A little louder this time, ‘It’s time to go.’

I open my eyes and without moving my head I look at him. He’s maybe six foot, not built big but not skinny either, on the fitter side of average is the word I would use. I move to get up pulling up my torso and swinging my legs over the bench, the new guy steps back, hand moving to his right hip. Sometimes I forget that the police are armed now. This is what happens when you leave the country for too long, shit changes without your permission. I don’t wanna get shot by the jittery new guy. I slow down my movements and raise my hands.

‘It’s cool, kid,’ I say.

It made no difference, he was still tense, a coiled pit viper ready to strike. I gently lower my laceless boots to the floor. He backs away, the new leather creaking, left hand on the door ready to slam it shut or use it as a shield, his right hand still on his hip.

I hear a voice echo through the corridor, ‘Relaaax’, it said.

It was so lackadaisical I thought I heard his chin scrape the floor. Sounds like Phil, the desk sergeant.

I push myself up and move slowly to the door, my old leather boots not making a sound, my hands still up. The new guy backs away, eyes on me like I stole his girl, right hand on his sidearm, square on, knees bent a little. I move past him slowly, turning my back and start for the front desk. He closes the door and follows behind me about six passes. His new leather footfalls match mine. I approach the deck, it’s Phil.

‘Morning, Phil,’ I say.

       ‘Scott,’ he replies with his usual disapproving tone, like a primary school teacher catching you pissing in the corner of the classroom.

‘Who’s the new guy,’ I ask, thumbing over my shoulder.

He’s still there, six passes behind me. I imagine still with his hand covering his sidearm.

‘That’s George, how’d you know he was new?’

‘The shoes,’ I say.

He looks down at them and nods. Phil’s large, both in height and in the frame when he shrugs you feel it, even across the desk. 6’5” easy, mid 50’s with a little grey starting to appear on his temples. But his skin is as smooth as it was new. He hands me some paperwork to sign with a hand that doesn’t give up his age. He had cancer a while back, beat it, probably into submission. You couldn’t tell to look at him, except the eyes. He never has that cloudy ring around the iris before. He’s a cool guy. He’ll treat you nice if you behave. I learned that the hard way, I can respect it.

I learned to read quickly in my previous life. I see ‘fighting’, and ‘disturbing the piece’ under charges.

‘Well, at least I wasn’t drunk this time,’ I say.

I sign the papers and Phil drops a bag on the counter. I look over my shoulder at New Guy, his eyes are set like sapphires in marble.

‘What did you tell him about me?’ I say.

Phil chuckles to himself, ‘Gotta have some fun, man. And Newbies are always out to impress, hey George, relax and go get mister Scott here a cup of coffee.’

My reaction to that request can not have been subtle.

‘What, you don’t like our coffee?’ He says.

       ‘That depends, Phil,’ I say, I can see the hurt in his eyes. I grab the bag and pull it closer, ‘Do I like drinking stale, hotter-than-hell, coffee-flavoured toilet water?’

‘Hey, it’s free.’

        ‘Doesn’t mean you should drink it.’ I look over and see that George is waiting by the coffee machine. Phil waves him off with a paw.

Opening the bag I take out my laces, belt, keys, wallet, watch, phone, smokes and lighter. I do a quicker than I’d like lace up, I’ll fix that later.

‘We all done here, Phil?’ I ask.

        ‘Yeah, we’re done’, he says in a sad, disappointed father, kind of way, ‘Don’t let me see you back here, Scott, I mean it.’

He is one of a few cops in this city that I like, he cares about people, sees the best in them, and wants to see them do good. But in this city, with my job. No dice.

‘See you soon, Phil,’ I say like a smart-ass kid.

As I leave I pass the New guy, ‘George,’ I say, looking at my pack of cigarettes, ‘next time, take the safety strap off so you can draw your weapon without taking the holster with you, and move it more around your hip. The six paces you were behind me, I could have taken your weapon and killed you and Phil. And I like Phil.’

The chuckle from Phil sounded like a steamroller on gravel. George however is turning pale, his face tightens up his lips stretch back and his eyebrows raise. He wants to look down at his sidearm but doesn’t want to stop watching me. Was I joking?

I take a cigarette and flick open my zippo.

‘Y you can’t light that in here, this is a…’ he stops.

I look him in the eye over the flame and I light my cigarette. He finishes.

‘Government’ pause and a little quieter, ‘Building.’

I turn and walk to the door, Phil presses the button to unlock it, it buzzes and as I pass through, into the light, ‘See ya, Phil’, raising a hand. Before the door closes I hear, ‘George, get over here.’

Poor New Guy, His first day on the job and he gets Phil and Me. New Guy can’t catch a break. Good luck New Guy.

It’s early, the sun is barely up, an orange glow sits on the horizon and the sky is cloudless, frost is still on the ground. I can always tell what part of London I’m in by the desk sergeant on duty. Phil means my bus stop is just around the corner. Enough time to smoke this. I check the time before putting my watch back on, 05:47, the roads will be clear, should be back at the office in about twenty minutes.

I like early mornings in the city, it’s fresh, clean, and filled with optimism, just about the only reason to wake up early. See this place the way all the normals see it. Good luck to them, because once you see the real London, you can’t un-see it. It becomes a part of you, draws you in and if you’re not careful it’ll destroy you. You say the wrong thing to the wrong person and, well… Fuck it.

I light my cigarette, cupping the flame from the gentle breeze, and take a long drag. The bus stop is just around the corner.