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
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