They get a taxi home because Mark needs ("wants"!) a drink and Maisie is going to be tired. Jenny waves them off but Brendan has gone back to his game. Zombie nazis line up to die obsequiously.
In the flat Mark starts with some joplin, which is a mistake as it reminds him of lilly. He does three vodka shots until there is no vodka. Then he gets on the whisky. He stands in the kitchen, seeing out the window. The view is just the same, as if nothing has changed.
He can hear the telly. Cbeebies finishes at 7 so he sticks on a fireman sam dvd, hating himself for doing so, but then selecting "PLAY ALL EPISODES"
Back in the kitchen, wet ice in the glass, the indifferent view. Mark washes his face. In the films, this always looks good.
He drinks his drink. "I'm quite drunk" he thinks. He has this thing with feet by the sink and for a while he tries it, but it still does not work.
By the time he's finished the whisky, Maisie is sleeping on the sofa. Tender as a memory, Jones picks her up and puts her in his bed. Their bed used to feel so small. Now he has to pile the clothes he needs ironing on her side just so in the night it doesn't feel so empty. Even though she had the best side by the door, he still takes the rubbish side by the cold wall. He lays Maisie in his bed, so tender he holds his breath so she will not get subliminal messages from the fumes from the whisky, so tender he kisses her. He switches off fireman sam, puts on his coat and then goes out to get his drugs. Wet neon light seeps through chorlton like rain through jeans.
Friday 27 May 2011
a sky of slate
Outside rain clods the sky heavy and dirty. Maise and Brendan come in.
"Only in fucking england eh?" says Julie. She tugs at a packet of Embassy. Mark watches the way she tugs the lid and he watches the way her fingers look as they tear the cardboard. He watches, and because he does not like it, he watches some more.
(The last case he worked on involved a young student getting beaten with a bar in a squash court. Mark remembers the stains on the wall, abstracts of meaning and he remembers that the murderer had used the end of the bar to gouge the students eyeballs out. He remembers how she looked, with the squash balls in her eyes. He remembers how the fingers of his boss twitched as he spoke and Mark remembers thinking how he knew he was going to have to be the one who kept calm, who kept things clear and saw things truly, and he remembers how he failed. And because he doesn't like what he remembers, he remembers some more knowing only that when he gets home and gets Maise asleep, so she has made it safe through the day, it will be alright)
"It was fucking hot this morning"
"Only in Manchester" says Mark "There's a drought down south apparently.l It was on the radio"
"Fuckers should plant wheat here. They should tear down this estate, plant their fucking wheat here and we could go and live in fucking sussex. Win win"
"But you hate the south"
Jenny sighs, like he has said something else, like he has said something else entirely
"Yeah, well"
She lights her cig and Mark forces himself to take a glug of the hot green tea. Its worse every time.
"mmm" he says
"You're a terrible liar" and Jenny smiles, and this time it's like he's said something else entirely too, but something good. She smiles
"Hows it going sis"
"Well, you know. Credit card debt, alzheihmers, unemployment and pm fucking t"
"Could be worse"
"yeah i could be a man" His sister tries on trends like a teenager tries on clothes; rapidly and with a sense that, no matter how hard they try, they'll still look ridiculous. She has always been a lesbian, an activist, a student and an artist. But whatever she has claimed to believe in, to Mark, she's always been his big sister, essentially the same except for the shit hair cuts.
Recently, though, she's been depressed and Mark is worried by this. He's worried by how worried he is.
They go through. Normally he would make some sarcastic remark about her doing tai chi or whatever the fuck it was while listening to the pan pipes of tibet or whatever the fuck it was. Instead, as she sits on the bean bag he sits on the hard kitchen chair and they listen to the music. The chiming stops. The next disk comes on, it is the sound of rain
"Oooh, switch this off, it always makes me want to go for a piss" says Jackie.
"So" she says after wards "Three months to the day eh"
Mark doesn't say anything. He knows all about grief and he knows all about silence too. He knows about bodys and their rate of decompostion, which is why he had his wife cremated.
He looks at the bright walls of the kitchen. He and Maise scattered Lilly's ashes on Derwent water, though Masie didn't really know what she was doing. He remembers the way there was a sudden change in the wind direction as the ashes were being released and the ashes blew over them both. He remembers the face Maisie made when she tasted them and hopes that she'll grow up into the sort of girl who'll he'll be able to tell this story too.
He notices the way he is holding the handle of his cup and, after a few seconds and two deep breaths, he manages to relax
"yes" he says. Neither of them are speaking but the room is not quiet. Its only a cheap house and the walls are thin. They can hear the noises their children are making as they play on the stairs. Though they cannot see then, therefore, they still know their children are there, are present.
Unlike Lilly.
Outside the sky darkens, its a sea of slate coloured heavy clouds.
"How's work" asks Jenny. She's shy asking about his work, Mark wonders whether it is that she hasn't got anything to say or else that what she has to say is so vast she dare not say it
They talk about his work until it is time to go
"Only in fucking england eh?" says Julie. She tugs at a packet of Embassy. Mark watches the way she tugs the lid and he watches the way her fingers look as they tear the cardboard. He watches, and because he does not like it, he watches some more.
(The last case he worked on involved a young student getting beaten with a bar in a squash court. Mark remembers the stains on the wall, abstracts of meaning and he remembers that the murderer had used the end of the bar to gouge the students eyeballs out. He remembers how she looked, with the squash balls in her eyes. He remembers how the fingers of his boss twitched as he spoke and Mark remembers thinking how he knew he was going to have to be the one who kept calm, who kept things clear and saw things truly, and he remembers how he failed. And because he doesn't like what he remembers, he remembers some more knowing only that when he gets home and gets Maise asleep, so she has made it safe through the day, it will be alright)
"It was fucking hot this morning"
"Only in Manchester" says Mark "There's a drought down south apparently.l It was on the radio"
"Fuckers should plant wheat here. They should tear down this estate, plant their fucking wheat here and we could go and live in fucking sussex. Win win"
"But you hate the south"
Jenny sighs, like he has said something else, like he has said something else entirely
"Yeah, well"
She lights her cig and Mark forces himself to take a glug of the hot green tea. Its worse every time.
"mmm" he says
"You're a terrible liar" and Jenny smiles, and this time it's like he's said something else entirely too, but something good. She smiles
"Hows it going sis"
"Well, you know. Credit card debt, alzheihmers, unemployment and pm fucking t"
"Could be worse"
"yeah i could be a man" His sister tries on trends like a teenager tries on clothes; rapidly and with a sense that, no matter how hard they try, they'll still look ridiculous. She has always been a lesbian, an activist, a student and an artist. But whatever she has claimed to believe in, to Mark, she's always been his big sister, essentially the same except for the shit hair cuts.
Recently, though, she's been depressed and Mark is worried by this. He's worried by how worried he is.
They go through. Normally he would make some sarcastic remark about her doing tai chi or whatever the fuck it was while listening to the pan pipes of tibet or whatever the fuck it was. Instead, as she sits on the bean bag he sits on the hard kitchen chair and they listen to the music. The chiming stops. The next disk comes on, it is the sound of rain
"Oooh, switch this off, it always makes me want to go for a piss" says Jackie.
"So" she says after wards "Three months to the day eh"
Mark doesn't say anything. He knows all about grief and he knows all about silence too. He knows about bodys and their rate of decompostion, which is why he had his wife cremated.
He looks at the bright walls of the kitchen. He and Maise scattered Lilly's ashes on Derwent water, though Masie didn't really know what she was doing. He remembers the way there was a sudden change in the wind direction as the ashes were being released and the ashes blew over them both. He remembers the face Maisie made when she tasted them and hopes that she'll grow up into the sort of girl who'll he'll be able to tell this story too.
He notices the way he is holding the handle of his cup and, after a few seconds and two deep breaths, he manages to relax
"yes" he says. Neither of them are speaking but the room is not quiet. Its only a cheap house and the walls are thin. They can hear the noises their children are making as they play on the stairs. Though they cannot see then, therefore, they still know their children are there, are present.
Unlike Lilly.
Outside the sky darkens, its a sea of slate coloured heavy clouds.
"How's work" asks Jenny. She's shy asking about his work, Mark wonders whether it is that she hasn't got anything to say or else that what she has to say is so vast she dare not say it
They talk about his work until it is time to go
Tuesday 24 May 2011
green tea, green
His sister, Julie, is sitting on a beanbag. The beanbag is the same colour as the green the hill is in Maise's book. It clashes with the red from Julie's corduroy trousers, which are coloured the same as Mark's horrors.
She sits up
Maise
she say
Goo goo whose getting big
she asks
Mark smiles. His sister puts a hand through her thick hair and then moves to her brother and kisses him. She has thick frizzly hair which make her look as if she has just come in from a storm outside. Again Mark feels a pang of envy. Why couldn't he have had his mother's hair, or at least any hair. He shaved his off just before his wife died. Lily always used to say she liked it and hated him with a shaven head as it made him look like all the other stereotyped coppers. He promised her he'd grow the grade 1 crop out but she died before his hair was ready. Now he keeps it shaved.
darling
she says. Honestly, you'd never guess they were sisters or that she was from Gatley.
I was just meditating
she says
You'd never guess you were from Gatley
He says
You'd never guess you were my brother
she retorts and then she adds
would you like a cup of tea?
He follows her across the cheap laminate that is pine coloured and the tropical plants pining for a light more real than the halogen from the spotlights.
Her son Brendon is on the xbox. A line of zombies are queing up and Brendan is blasting them away. It looks great. Mark bought the game for the kid's christmas, mainly to annoy Julie. She treats her son more like a lodger than a son so felt unable to outright forbid him from playing the game, rather she just moralised constantly on the evils of hollywood. (The game was designed in scotland, but Julie doesn't know that and Brendan doesn't care)
How you doing then
she asks
Fine
he says
You know. Same old
She sighs, she sighs to show yes, she does, she knows.
For a moment she stares at the dried green tea leaves as if they are the most profound thing in the world, but only for a moment, and only shallowly sadly.
Maise coos in her pushchair. She wants to get out.
darling
Julie shouts to her son
do you think you could look after your cousin
There's a sigh and Brendan takes her. Thirty seconds later, though, the zombies are forgotten and he slips back into childhood happily
"He's doing nothing with his life" thinks Mark, briefly, but he's not that bothered and the thought is not large enough to dwell upon for long.
Brendan takes her out into the garden space. Its not really a garden. There's some herbs by the back door, as if Julie one day had woken enthused with alternative energy, had started off and then tailed off.
Wasteland leaves a stain and leaves wait to lilt. Mark keeps an eye on Maise through the dirty window. He knows what this estate is like. Paedos and scumbags are crouched behind the broken fences, waiting to pounce. He knows all about what they can do, an autoposy where the saw was longer than the body.
Its OK
Julie says, but she doesn't say it like she means it, or else she says it knowing she won't be heard
Yeah
says Mark. The water in the kettle shrieks as it starts to be boiled.
She sits up
Maise
she say
Goo goo whose getting big
she asks
Mark smiles. His sister puts a hand through her thick hair and then moves to her brother and kisses him. She has thick frizzly hair which make her look as if she has just come in from a storm outside. Again Mark feels a pang of envy. Why couldn't he have had his mother's hair, or at least any hair. He shaved his off just before his wife died. Lily always used to say she liked it and hated him with a shaven head as it made him look like all the other stereotyped coppers. He promised her he'd grow the grade 1 crop out but she died before his hair was ready. Now he keeps it shaved.
darling
she says. Honestly, you'd never guess they were sisters or that she was from Gatley.
I was just meditating
she says
You'd never guess you were from Gatley
He says
You'd never guess you were my brother
she retorts and then she adds
would you like a cup of tea?
He follows her across the cheap laminate that is pine coloured and the tropical plants pining for a light more real than the halogen from the spotlights.
Her son Brendon is on the xbox. A line of zombies are queing up and Brendan is blasting them away. It looks great. Mark bought the game for the kid's christmas, mainly to annoy Julie. She treats her son more like a lodger than a son so felt unable to outright forbid him from playing the game, rather she just moralised constantly on the evils of hollywood. (The game was designed in scotland, but Julie doesn't know that and Brendan doesn't care)
How you doing then
she asks
Fine
he says
You know. Same old
She sighs, she sighs to show yes, she does, she knows.
For a moment she stares at the dried green tea leaves as if they are the most profound thing in the world, but only for a moment, and only shallowly sadly.
Maise coos in her pushchair. She wants to get out.
darling
Julie shouts to her son
do you think you could look after your cousin
There's a sigh and Brendan takes her. Thirty seconds later, though, the zombies are forgotten and he slips back into childhood happily
"He's doing nothing with his life" thinks Mark, briefly, but he's not that bothered and the thought is not large enough to dwell upon for long.
Brendan takes her out into the garden space. Its not really a garden. There's some herbs by the back door, as if Julie one day had woken enthused with alternative energy, had started off and then tailed off.
Wasteland leaves a stain and leaves wait to lilt. Mark keeps an eye on Maise through the dirty window. He knows what this estate is like. Paedos and scumbags are crouched behind the broken fences, waiting to pounce. He knows all about what they can do, an autoposy where the saw was longer than the body.
Its OK
Julie says, but she doesn't say it like she means it, or else she says it knowing she won't be heard
Yeah
says Mark. The water in the kettle shrieks as it starts to be boiled.
Sunday 22 May 2011
doors with locks, unlocked. Empty clocks
Jones walks along the road to the council estate his sister lives on. Masie is in her push chair looking at a book. There is a picture of a tree. Tree, it says. Hill, it says. There is a picture of a large, empty hill. There is a blue sky, a sun and two lambs. There is nothing about streets, or taxis or takeaway shops.
Jones hates nature. When he was a plod the worst job he ever had, worse than telling sleepy mothers that their sons was dead, was policing the bypass demos. The activists had cameras everywhere and so he couldn't truncheon as many of the little gobshites who so richley deserved it.
He got one girl though, he remembers the shudder as he hit her, and then he remembers the spurt. His balls stir. As he is passing a bargain booze, he pops in. He walks down the road drinking and pushing Masie. But this is Chorlton and he is drinking ostentatiously obscure ale (even the bargain boozes in chorlton sell real ale). So he's fine.
If it were up to him, he'd tarmac over every beauty spot. He'd pay dole scum to burn down forests and he'd make every factory output its shit into the clean clean rivers. God is only nature, and man is stronger than nature.
A breeze blows, but DI Jones does not feel it through the gortex.
He throws the empty bottle into the bushes of the his sister's neighbour.
"hi Sis" he says as he pushes the front door open. For a red split of a second of a second, images he has seen before on entering doors unanswered flash before him, white as sunlight and red as rotted desire. He blinks
"Hiya" he hears. His sister.
He shuts the front door behind him. There are four locks on the door, but since their father has died his sister has not felt the need to lock them
Jones hates nature. When he was a plod the worst job he ever had, worse than telling sleepy mothers that their sons was dead, was policing the bypass demos. The activists had cameras everywhere and so he couldn't truncheon as many of the little gobshites who so richley deserved it.
He got one girl though, he remembers the shudder as he hit her, and then he remembers the spurt. His balls stir. As he is passing a bargain booze, he pops in. He walks down the road drinking and pushing Masie. But this is Chorlton and he is drinking ostentatiously obscure ale (even the bargain boozes in chorlton sell real ale). So he's fine.
If it were up to him, he'd tarmac over every beauty spot. He'd pay dole scum to burn down forests and he'd make every factory output its shit into the clean clean rivers. God is only nature, and man is stronger than nature.
A breeze blows, but DI Jones does not feel it through the gortex.
He throws the empty bottle into the bushes of the his sister's neighbour.
"hi Sis" he says as he pushes the front door open. For a red split of a second of a second, images he has seen before on entering doors unanswered flash before him, white as sunlight and red as rotted desire. He blinks
"Hiya" he hears. His sister.
He shuts the front door behind him. There are four locks on the door, but since their father has died his sister has not felt the need to lock them
Monday 16 May 2011
piss crystals
Back in his flat, DI Mark Jones settles Masie.
She has just started to crawl, so the middle of his small appartment above the cycle shop on Barlow Moor Road is taken up by a gaudy play pen. The bars are white, with cheap plastic covering cheaper metal. There is a little gate, which does not open properly, and Jones opens it.
Inside, tender as sleep, he lays Masie down and changes her nappy. The nursery give her cheap ones. He changes it for a fresh Pampers one. On the nappy is a picture of a dancing teddy bear. Di Jones does not know why they bother adding the design to the nappy.
He stands up, shuts the gate and puts the old nappy in the food bin. (Jones is not really a fan of recycling). The nappy is so heavy that the crystals inside it have started to leak. The piss crystals spill on roaches, and blackening soft banana skins and jars of baby food. Jones looks out the back window. The view is not worth the light. He looks back at the sink. This sink used to be so clean. Sighing, he runs the tap.
The water does not remove the stains, it just covers it up. Mark Jones knows all about stains, professionally speaking. Stains on the clothing and stains on the ceiling and stains on the floor. Stains of stains of stains, dirty and sordid and unhidden, spilled over, spurted from exploding secrets. He shuts his eyes and turns the hot tap off. The boiler hisses as it cools, as it calms down from its seething. There is tiny silence in the kitchenette but massive deep silence from Masie. Di Jones walks over, hating the ceaking of the badly fitted fake white oak laminate flooring, kisses Masie on the top of her head and smokes a joint out the bedroom window. He has three kit kats and a beer for lunch, hating the way the lager and kit kat taste when they are mixed. He listens to 'Careless Love' and texts his sister. Then he wakes Masie (taking delight in her disturbance), cursoralily plays with her and feeds her. Her pushchair and equipment is already good to go.
Outside the heat has gone away. As has Mary Smith. She stepped out of her life as expertly as an actor from the stage, but Mark doesn't know about that yet. He doesn't know about her yellow coloured passion, nor her red coloured stains, not yet.
In the kichen the water dries in the sink, and the stain reappears. Mark Jones walks along Barlow Moor Road, slower than the schoolkids but faster than traffic.
She has just started to crawl, so the middle of his small appartment above the cycle shop on Barlow Moor Road is taken up by a gaudy play pen. The bars are white, with cheap plastic covering cheaper metal. There is a little gate, which does not open properly, and Jones opens it.
Inside, tender as sleep, he lays Masie down and changes her nappy. The nursery give her cheap ones. He changes it for a fresh Pampers one. On the nappy is a picture of a dancing teddy bear. Di Jones does not know why they bother adding the design to the nappy.
He stands up, shuts the gate and puts the old nappy in the food bin. (Jones is not really a fan of recycling). The nappy is so heavy that the crystals inside it have started to leak. The piss crystals spill on roaches, and blackening soft banana skins and jars of baby food. Jones looks out the back window. The view is not worth the light. He looks back at the sink. This sink used to be so clean. Sighing, he runs the tap.
The water does not remove the stains, it just covers it up. Mark Jones knows all about stains, professionally speaking. Stains on the clothing and stains on the ceiling and stains on the floor. Stains of stains of stains, dirty and sordid and unhidden, spilled over, spurted from exploding secrets. He shuts his eyes and turns the hot tap off. The boiler hisses as it cools, as it calms down from its seething. There is tiny silence in the kitchenette but massive deep silence from Masie. Di Jones walks over, hating the ceaking of the badly fitted fake white oak laminate flooring, kisses Masie on the top of her head and smokes a joint out the bedroom window. He has three kit kats and a beer for lunch, hating the way the lager and kit kat taste when they are mixed. He listens to 'Careless Love' and texts his sister. Then he wakes Masie (taking delight in her disturbance), cursoralily plays with her and feeds her. Her pushchair and equipment is already good to go.
Outside the heat has gone away. As has Mary Smith. She stepped out of her life as expertly as an actor from the stage, but Mark doesn't know about that yet. He doesn't know about her yellow coloured passion, nor her red coloured stains, not yet.
In the kichen the water dries in the sink, and the stain reappears. Mark Jones walks along Barlow Moor Road, slower than the schoolkids but faster than traffic.
Saturday 14 May 2011
Nina Simone
Di Jones fumbles for the cigarettes. While he's reaching down he finds a full half sized bottle of whisky. Its the the stuff from Bargain Booze; it's called Claymore and features an over coloured picture of an unconvincing scotsman. Di Mark Jones hates the scots as a rule but he loves whisky.
He takes a big pull and lights his cigarette. Between the whisky splashing his tongue and burning his throat, he worries about the implication of what it means to find a bottle of whisky under your driving seat. But he's a fast drinker, so its OK
Someone honks their horn; the lights are green. Jerkily, he moves off. The traffic is always a killer in rusholme so he stops after 20 meters. In his uniform days he'd have put the siren on and blasted down Upper Brook Street, but those days are gone. These days he's a detective in the CID at Bootle Street Police Station. The station covers all serious crimes in Manchester. As the tories slash the public sector, DI Jones is the most unaffected public servant in England.
The car is hot from the sun and hotter from the engine. Jones wants to open the window, but the air outside is hot and foetid and he doesn't want the students walking past the the traffic jam to hear the nursery rhymes he has playing. His daughter, Masie, is nearly asleep. He's on a half day and has picked her up late from the nursery. When she sleeps, he'll switch off her favourite CD and put on some Nina Simone.
His heart is aching for some Nina. The traffic blumps along, gears grind, buses chug. He reaches under his seat and finds the whisky. There is an empty can of coke he keeps in the car just for this. With expert drunken clumsiness he pours the drink into can. He swigs the can and takes a big pull of the cigarette. He turns the cd off and opens the window to let the worst of the smoke out.
"goo" gurgles Masie. Why won't she sleep? He leans back and grins at her. She is getting too big for her car seat. The first time he and Lily strapped her in there she looked like a dwarf bean. Now her podgy limbs look cramped.
"it hasn't been long enough when it's just been too long" he sings. He doesn't know if its from a line from a song or just something he's made up.
Nina would understand.
He passes the gap where Maine Road used to be and moves through Rusholme, past the students, the burkahs, the drunks and the curry houses. The shops selling international calling cards and the mercedes parked out Indian sweet shops. The houses these shops are made from are only a hundred years old, but its been a long hundred years.
Di Jones takes another pull of whisky. He knows he is drinking too much for the time of day it is. It's only lunchtime, but it's been a long, long morning.
This morning he was dropped from the first murder case he was running. English police never officially close a murder case, but the there have been eighteen more killings since poor sally jenkins was found murdered in Owen's Park, and the force have only solved fifteen of these to date.
There's no real stigma in not catching a murderer for a policeman, there is only tired acceptance. Di Jones knows he did his best, knows that the "what if's" won't gnaw at him; he'll be too busy.
He's going to get Maise home, let her have a sleep, have a joint and listen to some Simone. Then they'll go to Chorlton Water Park and have Maccy Ds for tea.
Tomorrow will bring new murder. No question of that.
He waits. After Rusholme is Fallowfield and he'll swing away right to his flat in Chorlton. He only came this way because he had to drop a file off at the MRI and the nurse was so fit he wanted to give it to her in person. But the nurse wasn't on duty and now he's stuck in this traffic jam wasting his time off.
He longs to listen to some Simone. Nina would understand.
He takes a big pull and lights his cigarette. Between the whisky splashing his tongue and burning his throat, he worries about the implication of what it means to find a bottle of whisky under your driving seat. But he's a fast drinker, so its OK
Someone honks their horn; the lights are green. Jerkily, he moves off. The traffic is always a killer in rusholme so he stops after 20 meters. In his uniform days he'd have put the siren on and blasted down Upper Brook Street, but those days are gone. These days he's a detective in the CID at Bootle Street Police Station. The station covers all serious crimes in Manchester. As the tories slash the public sector, DI Jones is the most unaffected public servant in England.
The car is hot from the sun and hotter from the engine. Jones wants to open the window, but the air outside is hot and foetid and he doesn't want the students walking past the the traffic jam to hear the nursery rhymes he has playing. His daughter, Masie, is nearly asleep. He's on a half day and has picked her up late from the nursery. When she sleeps, he'll switch off her favourite CD and put on some Nina Simone.
His heart is aching for some Nina. The traffic blumps along, gears grind, buses chug. He reaches under his seat and finds the whisky. There is an empty can of coke he keeps in the car just for this. With expert drunken clumsiness he pours the drink into can. He swigs the can and takes a big pull of the cigarette. He turns the cd off and opens the window to let the worst of the smoke out.
"goo" gurgles Masie. Why won't she sleep? He leans back and grins at her. She is getting too big for her car seat. The first time he and Lily strapped her in there she looked like a dwarf bean. Now her podgy limbs look cramped.
"it hasn't been long enough when it's just been too long" he sings. He doesn't know if its from a line from a song or just something he's made up.
Nina would understand.
He passes the gap where Maine Road used to be and moves through Rusholme, past the students, the burkahs, the drunks and the curry houses. The shops selling international calling cards and the mercedes parked out Indian sweet shops. The houses these shops are made from are only a hundred years old, but its been a long hundred years.
Di Jones takes another pull of whisky. He knows he is drinking too much for the time of day it is. It's only lunchtime, but it's been a long, long morning.
This morning he was dropped from the first murder case he was running. English police never officially close a murder case, but the there have been eighteen more killings since poor sally jenkins was found murdered in Owen's Park, and the force have only solved fifteen of these to date.
There's no real stigma in not catching a murderer for a policeman, there is only tired acceptance. Di Jones knows he did his best, knows that the "what if's" won't gnaw at him; he'll be too busy.
He's going to get Maise home, let her have a sleep, have a joint and listen to some Simone. Then they'll go to Chorlton Water Park and have Maccy Ds for tea.
Tomorrow will bring new murder. No question of that.
He waits. After Rusholme is Fallowfield and he'll swing away right to his flat in Chorlton. He only came this way because he had to drop a file off at the MRI and the nurse was so fit he wanted to give it to her in person. But the nurse wasn't on duty and now he's stuck in this traffic jam wasting his time off.
He longs to listen to some Simone. Nina would understand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)