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.