Chapter 2.04
Roberta glowered at the TV screen as the Six O’Clock News chuntered away and a beige sklodge of cauliflower cheese congealed on her plate.
Ignored in favour of the pink-square-and-custard.
Like being back in school again, only with fewer sweaty gymslips and lunchtimes spent fantasising about Lisa Armstrong in the year above.
Wonder what happened to her . . .
Bet she ended up marrying some prick like Graeme Anderson – currently slithering his way through a pre-recorded interview, while a heavy-set-and-pretty journalist tried to make him answer the sodding question instead of immediately pivoting to his nasty little talking points.
They were in the House of Commons lobby, with the occasionally recognisable political stinker slinking about in the background.
Miss Curves-And-Bumps gave up on the hard questions, lobbing the bastard a softball instead: ‘. . . and is that why you’ve introduced this private members’ bill?’
A slippery smile. ‘That’s right, Olivia, we must rise to this challenge and give our police officers the powers they need to take these people off the streets.
’ He frowned: serious and resolute, hamming it up.
Tit that he was. ‘We know extremists tried to silence me with a cowardly bomb, but it’s just made me more determined to stand up and say, “Enough is enough!”’
The news cut to a shaky video of white and grey, and then Graeme Anderson emerged from the dust cloud, carrying Roberta’s unconscious, bleeding body. Him looking all noble and manly, while she damsel-in-distressed in his arms, like a half-deflated sex doll.
It was from a different angle to the photo in every paper, so must’ve been one of the other journos who took it. When the bastards should’ve been helping the injured.
Back to Westminster, where Anderson stuck his rugged chin in the air. ‘It was my honour and privilege to save that brave officer’s life. After all: the police do the same for us, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. And we must stand behind them, every step of the way.’
Roberta grabbed Boris Johnson and crushed his stupid grinning head: pkongk-glonk.
‘I know that Detective Inspector Roberta Steel would support this bill to make her, and every police officer’s job safer. Especially as it’ll help them be more effective in keeping hate off our streets.’ Churchill pose. ‘That’s why I’m calling it “Roberta’s Law”.’
She bared her teeth, growling.
How dare he.
How sodding bastarding dare he stick her name on his racist shitefest legislation.
Pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk-pkongk-glonk . . .
Day 43 – Tuesday 29 July (13:45)
‘Well, I don’t know, do I.’ Logan hobbled along beside her, leaning heavily on one of those NHS crutches with the elbow brace built in. Fibreglass cast thunking against the polished floor in its fat leather Frankenstein boot. ‘Maybe it’ll be cool having a law named after you?’
‘Grrrrrrrrrrrr . . .!’ She’d abandoned the Zimmer frame, taking a heavy wooden walking stick out for a spin instead. Lumbering along the corridor in her pink piggies.
The view wasn’t half bad from up here: all the way out to the beach and the North Sea beyond. Supply ships and offshore wind turbines sparkling in the sunlight. Seagulls wheeling in the sapphire sky.
Logan smiled at her. ‘Moan, whinge, complain.’
The corridor art was that experimental abstract embroidery-and-collage stuff. What happened to good old-fashioned traditional paintings of naked women? Nice roundy ones, getting their Titians out.
‘Is it no’ bad enough, every time I open the paper, there’s Buggering Beardy Beattie making a cat’s-arse of my cases?’ She gave Logan a wee scowl. ‘Thank you very sodding much.’
‘Don’t look at me, I didn’t pick him – that was all the Chief Super. I was laid up with Stinky The Itch Monster here, remember?’ Pointing at his manky cast.
She harrumphed. ‘Beattie couldn’t investigate—’
‘His nose for bogies, his pants for skidmarks, poop for sweetcorn, the . . . American president for stupid. Yeah, we get it.’ Shrug. ‘Nothing we can do about that now.’
‘But you could take my investigations off him.’
‘And how do I do that? I’m up to my ears in crap as it is. Don’t need his disasters as well.’
They’d reached the end of the corridor, which was the perfect place to give Logan a proper glowering at. Useless sod that he was.
Not that it seemed to bother him. ‘Look on the bright side: I get my cast off on Friday.’
‘And how does that help?’
‘It’s really itchy.’ He leaned against the windowsill, gazing out at the sun-glittered city.
‘Besides, you know what Beattie’s like: by the time you’re out of here, he still won’t’ve solved the murder or the stabbing.
You can ask for both cases back – bet he’ll be glad to get shot, after cocking everything up. ’
‘Ghaaaah . . .’ She slumped against the windowsill, directing her glower at the wheeling gulls instead.
And the glowing trees. And the shiny traffic.
Took a deep breath. ‘Susan says I should malinger about on the sick till I retire. Wants me to be a stay-at-home mum – waiting for her every evening, in my pinny and gingham dress, with a cocktail in one hand and a tray of freshly baked scones in the other.’
‘Yeah . . . don’t do that. I’ve had your scones: volcanoes spit out rocks that are more edible. And less burnt.’
‘Hoy!’ Cheeky sod.
‘Besides, they stuck a metal plate in your head, remember? That’s going to take a while to get over.
Even for you.’ He nudged her with his elbow.
‘See how supportive and compassionate I am? You should remember that when you make your retirement speech. About how I’ve always been an inspiration. Someone to admire and look up to.’
Roberta boinked her forehead off the window. Drooping beneath the weight of it all. ‘She was pregnant, Laz. Someone cut off her fingers, bashed all her teeth out with a hammer, and ditched her naked body in a lay-by wheelie bin. How do I let that go?’
Logan reached out and put an arm around Roberta’s shoulders. Pulling her in for a sideways hug. ‘You’ve just got to do your best.’ As they both frowned out at the horrible, unfair world.
Far below, a patrol car raced up Westburn Road, lights flashing.
Young families played in the park.
A pair of herring gulls squabbled over a dead pigeon.
Roberta sighed. Smiled. Then shrugged Logan’s arm off. ‘All right, that’s enough mushy stuff. Don’t want the nurses to think we’re shagging.’