Dirty Doves
Chapitre Un: From Whaddon to Leon
Part 1/2
Chapitre Un: From Whaddon to Leon
Part 1/2
August, 2012: Leon, France
It is an unusual tale of the mind that explains how I got to where I am now: surrounded by hordes of the brain-washed, side-by-side with a sister I had not spoken to in decades, and the soft red dawn of a new day over Leon.
It seems funny too, that someone like me should fall into such a situation; for I am, though much the expert of life’s true terrors, much the simpleton of the life’s true values. I feel that I should make clear, before telling you of my tale, that I am no hero. If anything, my dear audience, I am a villain: a villain of my own values; a villain of my own people; a villain of my own blood.
August 2003: Whaddon Village, United Kingdom
Meeting with my DCI meant an early awakening. He wasn’t a particularly friendly man. It seemed that where the DCI was a morning chap, I was an evening chap. This had caused much distaste in the choice of our out-of-hours meetings, and usually meant that I’d be at the mercy of him thanks to my lack of everything thought-related, pre-10am. It wasn’t because I was particularly lazy. I’d found myself take on many upon many evening shifts. This could’ve, quite plausibly, only been blamed on my loneliness and dependency on my 64 year-old Uncle George as the closest thing to a friend. But, truth be told, I never did get much done when I was not working, nor did I feel quite so at home.
I banged hard on the cherry-wooden door. It was marked with a heavy lead plaque; the DCI’s name was carved formally into its smooth tile-like surface. There had seemed to be a mandatory moment of silence between the knock of the DCI’s door and his response, regardless of the mood he was in or in how late you dared to be. In fact, this piece of hobby had always been amusing to me. It seemed as though a sketch of the DCI quickly zipping up the flies of his trousers and slapping his mouse to close down the Internet on his desktop computer was outplaying itself and, upon the seconds of a deep breath to bring himself back together, he’d respond. Right on cue.
“Come in,” he chanted in a muffled huff. I pushed open the door and found the DCI jump up from his chair, as he tended to do often, with surprise for his new guest. “Ah, Carter, it’s about time. Couldn’t get up, eh?”
“Not at all, Sir,” I grinned. “You know how beautifully the coffee works. I’m as awake as anyone could dream, never mind wish.”
Of course, we all know that such a thing was untrue. My eyelids were as heavy as they had been before the two consecutive coffees I’d drained back at home and were just as focused as when I’d been listening to PC Jones’ dreary stories, when I had been waiting on the cheap metal chairs parked outside the DCI’s cherry door. However, it was only natural that the DCI had caught on to this too.
“Very funny, Carter,” he replied in jest, obviously in a better mood than usual. “That kind of sarcasm will go down a treat in London. Just the kind of place it belongs.”
The DCI’s subtle distaste for my sarcastic remark didn’t put me in place as much as it would’ve done normally, for the mention of “London” had most definitely awoke me, more than any amount of wet caffeine would be capable of doing.
“London, Sir?”
“That’s right, Carter. You’re going off to make DS in the Great Capital. Christ knows why they want you in the Met, but they do. Perhaps they have a soft spot for dry humour night owls.”
I laughed. “The Met, Sir?”
“That’s what I said. Seems they want a village boy’s perspective on things up there. Perhaps you can bake come cakes for all the Juvenile lads that they’ve banged up for knife crimes – Or run ‘em a flower show.”
The DCI laughed from his gut at the oddness of what he was telling me. He hadn’t seen it as a promotion, from what I could tell, but more of a transfer that I was unlikely to accept. Perhaps the old fellow was right. I’d been a village DS for a good five years and the most I’d had the bad luck to enjoy was a couple of drunken OAPs causing havoc in the local Off-License. Not only would the city life be one hell of a change, but it’d most likely mean a lot more early mornings and talking to chaps just like the DCI. Yet, there seemed to be something undeniably attractive in the offer. I hadn’t known it then, but what I had been given in those short few minutes with one of the most frustrating people I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting was the best offer a man could get.
That thing was purpose.
“When do I go?” I said, interrupting his laughter and defeating all sound in the room to silence, besides the whistle of a photocopying machine behind the cherry door.
“I believe a Detective Inspector by the name of Wheatfield wanted to meet you at 1.15pm. Hence my early call.”
“Ah, that’s rather short notice.”
“It’s the Met, Carter. They couldn’t care less if you’d planned to go cookie-tasting on the day they happened to call you up – or if you’d prefer to sit around mentally preparing for the city life. To be perfectly honest, Carter, I don’t think the Met would give you two shots at an opportunity like this. Take it.”
“Pleasure to.”
Without a handshake, a look back or a single feeling of happiness or gratitude, I left through the cherry door of that office. On the way out, I had conflicted whether or not to return home and try to box up anything of sentimental value or need, but there would be nothing worthwhile to collect. The lack of aesthetically pleasing things wasn’t something that had generally crossed my mind, but it seemed that, through points in your life, a desire of attachment to a painting, album or photograph would’ve been a little pleasing. It wasn’t to be. I’d never kept a photo album, never had the will to formulate a diary nor had I ever purchased a painting.
My wallet, mobile phone and car keys were firmly dotted around the pockets of my tweed blue suit and there was always a spare can of deodorant lying around in my car that would suffice for any bad odours over the time consuming act of showering. With that bit of knowledge, it seemed most beneficial to drive straight to London and send any loose items up at a later time when I was settled. I had no idea how long the drive would take me and a glance at my wristwatch informed me the time was a quarter to ten. My inability to guess the time lapse of my journey was simply down to the lack of time I had spent out of the village. Everything I needed – or wanted – seemed perfectly present in the village and thus had always deemed an adventure out of it unnecessary. There was the odd occasion, however, when I’d drive down to Limington Cemetery and place a rose or two upon my Mother and Father’s grave. That too, was a journey of length.
As I clambered into the front of the car and fished my keys out of my suit and pressed them into the ignition I took in a deep breath. All of what had happened, so fast, hit me in one blow. It didn’t take my brain long to acknowledge the offer I’d taken up, the rudeness I’d been more than happy to display and the confidence of my striding to the car. There was a mildly tempting notion to go on back into the station and shake the DCI’s hand, or say good-bye to Jones. Yet, as the car revved to start, I found my will power to do so was crushed by the tempting thoughts of breakfast on the edge of the ring road out of Whaddon and on to London. After all, fulfilling my hunger would only naturally be more pleasing than listening to Jones or cringing at the sweat drenched handshake I’d experience with the DCI.
No. It was time to move on and chase my purpose.
The one thing I always love about your writing though Ben is that it's so... British. I really do love that. I can't even say 100% why it seems so British because it's not as though you fill the piece with British words, although I do like the odd insert of words like chap and lads. I think it's just the feel of the piece overall.
I think it's because of the whole city cop turning into village cop, except in your case, it's the other way around. Sorry, that's totally unrelated...
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