Cuffed Page 3

  I have to be more secretive. I have to make entries privately, keep the journal to myself, never discuss it with anyone. She could be part of some conspiracy. My Hell Bell is going haywire on this one. That sweet-looking chick’s a smiling assassin.

  My reputation has always protected me from spies and moles. People knew that if they backstabbed me I’d make them pay. Fear has a useful influence. But it seems that she’s unconcerned. She wants to take me on, just like The Poet...

  Thanks to me, we now have his DNA. SOCO retrieved that from saliva the sick fucker left at the scene. Unfortunately it matches nothing stored on our database, so he hasn’t been nicked before. Everyone who gets nicked has their DNA taken. Quite often, simple arrests like drink-drive will clear up serious crimes, all because of DNA matches. That’s why a motivated, front-line copper is beyond value.

  He’s going to kill more than one person at a time, I realise. Two people make plans to meet each other, discuss where they’re going to go and how they’re going to get there. One person keeps it to themselves. The Poet waited five seconds after shooting the first kid. Five seconds to enjoy the second kid’s fear...

  ‘One by one, will be no fun,’ I whisper.

  6

  ‘You seem so... defensive–’

  ‘No. You’re not attacking me.’

  ‘What am I doing, Razors?’

  Calling me by my nickname makes her feel awkward. At the beginning of the session she addressed me by my real name, but I told her not to.

  ‘You’re prying.’

  ‘I’m assessing your wellbeing.’ She’s leaning towards me, her face creased and concerned. She’s about fifty, her brittle hair turning grey. She has exactly the same hair as a woman I dealt with a few weeks ago. It was a domestic incident – I nicked the woman’s husband for throwing a cereal bowl at her head.

  This ‘shrink’ has a weird double chin. The smaller of the two is like a golf ball tucked beneath her skin. It intrigues me. When she talks it looks as if it’s going to pop out. ‘We are here to help officers, not to investigate them. You have a very difficult job and welfare issues can make it unbearable.’

  I smile. ‘So you’re here to help the job really?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘If policing’s unbearable for an officer then he’s gonna project a bad image to the public, right?’

  Lorna shakes her head. ‘No... well, that’s a possibility, but that’s not what we’re primarily concerned with. We offer support and help for individuals. We want an officer to feel focused, without personal problems affecting what he or she does...’

  She avoids eye contact for a moment, then delivers a guilty glance. I needn’t add anything to that.

  ‘Razors, you made an obscene gesture in public view. One gentleman complained, but many others may have been caused distress–’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ I lean back, interlock my fingers behind my head. Lorna starts back a little. ‘This world’s not made of glass, love. Ever heard of sticks and stones?’

  ‘Yes I have. But it’s not really applicable to officers using such language, or exhibiting such behaviour.’

  ‘The only reason I’m here is because one of those fuckers was an MP. No one else would’ve given two shits. This is a waste of time.’ My eyes bore into hers. ‘There’s a killer working our ground. Shot two kids in the head. Hear about it?’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘Well I’m gonna catch him. But I can’t do fuck all while I’m listening to this bullshit!’

  She’s unperturbed. ‘Listen to me, Razors...’ Her voice is calm, annoyingly so. ‘Whether you respect me or not, and regardless of whether you think occupational health is a pointless service, you have been referred. That means I have a large say in whether you can continue to perform front-line duties. If you are such a good cop you should know that.’

  I sigh and thrust my face into my hands. ‘Get on with it then.’

  ‘I know about your past.’

  I spread my palms wide open. ‘Who doesn’t?’

  ‘You can’t expect me to brush it aside–’

  ‘Say what you’ve got to say. Two kids are about to get shot.’

  I notice her left hand tremble for a second, before she realises this and quickly grips it with her other hand. I don’t do this to alarm her, I just want to get on with my job. Occ health’s fine, the force needs it, but it has no place in my life.

  ‘Your father lost his life while apprehending a burglar, and then you joined the police service. Why, Razors? Why did you–’

  ‘I like the helmet.’

  ‘Being uncooperative is going to delay things.’ Her voice is firm but calm. ‘The burglar was brought to justice–’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but he served time in prison...’

  ‘Yep, that’s true. Is that justice to you, Lorna?’

  ‘Yes it is. You don’t agree?’

  ‘Course I do, Lorna. He deserves to be rehabilitated. Everyone deserves a second chance. Lord forbid, fifty-odd years ago murderers were hanged. Doesn’t bear thinking of...’

  ‘If you disagree with the legal system then why did you choose to work with it?’

  ‘Because some justice is better than none.’ Should keep her sweet. I mustn’t give too much away. Who knows what I might do in the future?

  ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about your mother? Where is she?’

  I shrug. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Is she still alive?’ I shrug again. ‘Do you really not care about her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘We both moved on.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Did she abandon you when you were young?’

  ‘It was a mutual decision.’

  She studies my face, hoping no doubt for signs of sadness. There are none.

  ‘How old were you when that happened?’

  ‘Can’t remember. Young.’

  ‘Did that upset you at the time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does it now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who raised you then?’

  ‘Social services.’

  She presses the ends of her fingers together. ‘Razors, no one can shut out emotion. One might think they can, but they can’t. That emotion will manifest itself somehow. It can be anger, frustration, depression... or irrational, unacceptable outbursts–’

  I laugh. ‘You can’t put me in a box, love.’ I rake my fingers through my hair. ‘Listen, let me make it easy. I called the MP a wanker because he was an impatient, obnoxious son of a bitch. He hooted me while I was waiting for someone to cross at a zebra crossing. It had nothing to do with my father, mother or my no siblings.’

  ‘Are you married? Do you have a partner?’

  ‘I’m straight and no.’ I close my eyes and grunt, thinking she’ll probe me for gayness.

  ‘You’re single then?’

  ‘I have a fuck-buddy...’ She looks a little drained.

  ‘Why do you refer to her in this way?’

  ‘Because our relationship is a sexual one.’

  ‘Are both of you satisfied with that?’

  ‘Very satisfied, thanks.’

  ‘Could it not progress to something more meaningful?’

  ‘No, I just like banging her.’

  ‘But she would like it to progress?’ Her questions are sharper, delivered more aggressively.

  ‘Is this relevant? I mean, is this any of your business?’

  ‘It’s very relevant, Razors... Who do you love? Is there any one person you love in your life?’

  ‘No,’ I say nonchalantly.

  ‘Do you want to love someone?’

  ‘I’m falling in love with you, Lorna.’

  She ignores this. ‘Do you want to love someone?’

  ‘Yes please. You gonna write me a prescription?’ I laugh. ‘Take one hu
man daily and love ’em!’

  ‘This is not a humorous topic, Razors. Do you feel empty inside? Wanting for something?’

  ‘Nope.’

  She pauses for a few seconds. ‘I think you’re lying to me.’

  ‘And I think you’ve set your personal standards too high. Lorna, I’m beyond diagnosis.’

  ‘No, Razors, you are easy to diagnose.’

  ‘Despite what I’ve told you?’

  ‘In light of what you’ve told me–’

  ‘Jesus, you’re a stubborn bitch.’ She’s tight faced, frustrated. ‘Answer me this – do I look to you as if I’m suffering stress or anguish?’

  ‘No you don’t, but that doesn’t mean–’

  ‘Whatever. If what you say is true I should be an embodiment of pent up stress.’

  ‘Your reactions are expressed through anger. Your record contains numerous allegations of police brutality.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’m aggressive, I admit that, but I’m fair and in control. That record contains far more commendations, quality service reports and letters of thanks.’

  ‘I’m interested in the irrational behaviour. I’m here to stop you harming someone.’ She speaks quickly so I can’t cut in. ‘You have a reputation of being hot-headed. That inclination normally ebbs as officers get involved in relationships, have children and take on other responsibilities. But in your life, Razors, no one is more important than yourself. There is nothing to quell your hatred.’

  ‘Hatred?’

  ‘Yes. Hatred of life for taking your father from you and destroying your family, your childhood. Now you won’t get close to anyone. You are a stone wall!’

  She’s red-faced, angry. ‘That’s right, I am. You’ll get no tears from me. There’s nothing you can do to improve my life. Though you don’t believe it, I’m content. Content to soldier on and put scumbags away. The best you can do for me and the public is let me carry on. I promise I’ll show more restraint. I’ve learned my lesson. This took up way too much of my time.’

  7

  I watch a chopper cut across the blue sky. How the fuck does a chopper fly? It's ridiculous. Somehow a big hunk of metal, a piece of dead weight, can suddenly ascend into the clouds. It's gotta be me, it's gotta be. And for some reason I felt it necessary to invent planes too. I couldn't have a chopper perform transatlantic flights, no it had to an aeroplane, a machine that needs a runway.

  Since entertaining the idea that this was my universe, everything that’s happened has backed up this theory. I will explain.

  My first memories took place before I was five. I say this because I read a book that said humans remembered very little of their lives prior to the age of five. But I remember my father well. I remember him kissing me, throwing me in the air, playing football with me, running his (covered) electric razor over my cheeks... I could go on – there are countless recollections. And of course he was murdered when I was five.

  With the exception of his death, they were normal memories, slowly shaping my understanding of life. I continued to amass more memories as I grew up, which helped me comprehend actions and consequences – A leaf falling from a tree would be carried by gravity to the ground; a stone thrown into a lake would cause a ripple; a voice in a cave would echo. Sounds simple, but this knowledge was comforting. It meant the world made sense to me, that I knew what to expect.

  It was when these expectations regularly failed to pan out that I started to ask questions. Things were untrue, acting abnormally. For instance, I could see my reflection in one puddle but not another; I would pause live TV but the images would continue to move; people would talk to me but their lips would not move in synchronisation with their voices, like a badly dubbed movie. The world was becoming increasingly unpredictable, uncertain, erratic.

  I felt confused but at the same time exhilarated and challenged. I knew this had to be about me. I’d always known I was special, different. At school I knew my mind was gifted, creating ideas beyond the capabilities of my school mates.

  I subtly probed my police colleagues for similar experiences. I tried to keep it subtle, because they already thought I was mad and I didn’t want them thinking I was a becoming a liability. Succumbing to the red mist and giving some slag a good kicking is one thing, completely losing touch with reality is another.

  But their perceptions of life were consistent. And ‘normal’ for them had always been constant.

  It was just me who was receiving disjointed information, through my own eyes and ears. Everyone else’s world was unaffected. That had to mean that I was modifying my perception of the world. I don’t believe in any greater being – no one other than me can alter my fate. I know I’m fit and healthy, so why is this happening? Why am I fucking with myself?

  Because I’m in control of everything... Could that be it? I wondered. If I had designed the world then I could change it when I pleased. I was certainly open minded enough to believe that I created space, the ecosystem and the circle of life.

  I was – and still am – cautious, but inspired. Certain things didn’t fit – my father’s death for instance – while others did. And the more I merged this view with everyday occurrences, the more things started to make sense.

  I compared myself to a powerful computer. It had a limited amount of memory. Once that capacity was reached, everything started to slow down and some programs got corrupted or failed. If I was overloaded with information then my universe would struggle to maintain its good working order. Perhaps my own perceptions would suffer first, because I selflessly chose to damage my own world before anyone else’s. This is huge, I know... It’s like watching a DVD recorded on a dirty disc. Random blocks appear on screen and struggle to join each other to display the correct image. My mind is struggling to join together my pieces of life. It can’t remember that a fox is supposed to be cunning, that reflections should be consistent and that a fat man wearing a stripy bow tie can only move so fast. And that set of curtains blowing in still air – it shouldn’t be happening.

  It explains why so many people I meet these days have surnames that could be first names – Peter John; Lisa Jane; Ian Barry... the list goes on. I have no space for new names, I’m simply reusing what I already have.

  And foreigners. Look at the two foreigners chatting away to each other on the tube the other day – rather than use their own language, they were conversing in broken English. It was laborious for them and hindering the fluidity of their conversation. Surely they should have used their own tongue, but they’re doing this because of me. Foreign lingo was being phased out – I no longer had room for it, so these foreigners were having to use my language. Not a bad thing that, not a bad thing at all...

  So now can I expect cars to use the sky and choppers the road? Probably. That will look fucking weird.

  What does this mean for the future? I have no idea. Even though I may well have created everything, it seems I’m no longer in control. But I’m gonna make sense of all this. I’m gonna work this shit out!

  *****

  ‘It smells in here.’

  ‘Of?’ I ask.

  ‘Decay... Is there rotten food in your bin?

  ‘No.’ I watch her suspiciously. She won’t win. Whatever she’s trying to gain by fucking with me, she’ll lose.

  She sits down next to me. There’s some survival programme on the box.

  ‘How did you get on with occupational health?’ she asks.

  ‘Cliff told you, did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you just fuck him? Then he’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘I’m not a slut.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be. You’re not in a relationship.’

  She turns her head to me. ‘Well, I’d say we’re more than just friends, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I told Lorna we were fuck buddies.’

  She takes a while to realise who I mean. ‘And what was her response?’

  ‘She called me a stone wall.’

  �
�That doesn’t sound very constructive.’

  ‘She tried her best.’

  She turns back to the screen. Some bloke is eating an animal turd. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘Ideally, I fall in love. Realistically, I have to see her next week.’ The bloke on the telly is still chewing. ‘Could you eat an animal turd?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be very different to licking your backside, would it?’

  We both laugh. We often lick each other’s cracks.

  ‘Did I tell you some fucker’s been nicking my mail?’ I lie. I watch her intently.

  ‘He’s been stealing your post? How do you know that?’

  ‘Cos it’s not fucking there. My letterbox is at ground level, isn’t it? He reaches through and tea-leaves my letters.’

  ‘What have you done about it? Have you taken any action?’

  ‘Yep, a couple of weeks ago I installed a hidden camera outside.’

  She stares at me blankly for a few seconds, her brain working hard, her face a little flushed. It was her all right. She wrote ‘STOP WRITING JOURNAL’. That note was posted last week.

  ‘And is… is the thief on it?’

  ‘All my mail comes at the start of the month. I’ll check the camera after that.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ll start recording next month?’

  ‘No, it’s been running since I installed it. Might as well use it if it’s there. Useful security, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course.’ She’s hasty, shaken. ‘So where are the images?’

  ‘Why are you so interested?’ I ask. Because, if I wasn’t actually bullshitting, it’d show her posting the note. And, I suppose, she might think it would show the thief stealing it.

  ‘Because I’m thinking of buying one myself.’

  Smart bitch. But not smart enough. ‘The images download onto my computer. It’s all digital. I can’t be arsed with tapes.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  We watch a few more minutes of the survival programme. The narrator is explaining how water can be extracted from a leaf. You have to tie a bag onto the leaf and leave it overnight. Cassandra is waiting to say something. Waiting long enough to make it seem sporadic and unimportant.