James hated the night shifts. It was, they told him, all part of being a copper, but fact was he hated them, and nothing anyone said would change that. On the plus side, the cells were occupied, so at least he something to do. With a grunt, he threw the half slice of pizza back into the box and heaved his not-inconsiderable bulk out of the chair. Late shifts were like fitness tests, petty, pointless, bureaucracy invented by people to piss him off.
He rearranged his trousers. They called them stretch fit, but they didn’t stretch and they didn’t fit. He chuckled to himself, that was a good one. He waddled down to the cells, and ran his keys along the bars, grinning as the man behind them jerked awake on the narrow bunk. The prisoner sat up and gave James just the kind of look he expected, that holier-than-thou, ‘you’re just a copper’ glare that made him want to get the mace out. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea.
He glanced back up the corridor. He knew no one was coming in, but anyway, you never knew. Then he pulled the can from his belt and leaned into the bars, spreading his thick lips back over his teeth, ignorant of the bits of pizza that bristled like cannon from the side of a battleship at the hapless prisoner.
“Do you think you’re better than me?”
The man shook his head, that look changing as he saw the glint in James’ eye.
“It’s just, the way you looked at me then, looked like you thought I was something you just scraped off your shoe.”
He paused, enjoying watching the change in the man, the way his eyes dropped, and deference replaced arrogance.
“But I’m sure that wasn’t it. I’m sure you think you deserve to be in here, and that everything I do is just perfect, don’t you?”
The man looked back up at him, and James saw what he hoped to, that little spark in his eye. Just another little push.
“In fact, I bet you think I’m fucking amazing don’t you. You’re probably thinking ‘that guy shouldn’t be here, he should be at my house, giving my missus a seeing to, cos he’s bound to do it better than me’. That’s just what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“Look, I don’t have to sit here and listen to this. You’re a policeman for god’s sake—“
“And you’re scum, drunken scum, good for nothing, piece of shit!”
He screamed through the bars, spit flying in arcs toward the man, who came up off his bunk and toward the bars, fists clenched. Yes! He waited until he was a little bit closer, then out came the mace, straight in the eye, wham, bam and thank you very much. The man staggered back, shouting in pain and James watched greedily, drinking it in. Now this was what night shifts were about.
It got boring pretty quick and he headed back upstairs. Maybe the evidence locker would have something interesting in it. A few minutes later and feeling utterly deflated, he sank his bulk back into the chair, a rush of air escaping as he crushed the seat cushion. In his hand was a book, which, yes, was stupid cos he hated reading almost as much as night shifts, but there was something about it. It looked old, like the penguin classics his mom used to have, nothing on the cover just soft leather. But it didn’t smell old; it smelled like rich people and hotels.
It began with a birth, and not a pleasant one at that. The child came out in the taxi on the way to hospital. Fine though, kicking and screaming, and making a fuss. Then it was just life, boring stuff. Why did anyone write this crap down? Like anyone cared?
He thumbed through it. If it was a biography, maybe there was some sex. The words flicked past and he realised he wasn’t taking anything in. He dropped it on the desk, and it fell open to a page. He leaned forward, grunting, and glanced down at it.
James sprayed the mace in the prisoner’s face, possibly blinding him, and certainly causing him some quite serious pain. James felt the same thrill he’d experienced all those years before when he’d burnt ants beneath his magnifying glass, that same sense of self-importance that fuelled everything in his small, petty life.
He closed the book, stared at the cover, then opened it again. He re-read the paragraph, giggling slightly at the mention of the ants. He’d been the ant king. Mom had been so chuffed when he got the ant farm, her son was finally doing something worthwhile. Heh heh. They’d learned. He read on, and sure enough the book said next that he went to the evidence locker and stole the book. Hang on, he didn’t steal it, just borrowed it. It was going back in that locker soon as the shift was over. Actually, this book was pretty cool, even if it was a bit snooty. Weird though. Like something off-of Doctor who.
His forehead creased and he opened the front cover, running his fingers across the inside. He wasn’t that stupid, this was a set up. There was nothing though. Right, time to test it. He chose moments at random from the last five years, digging through until he found them. Every time, it was bang on. It felt like it was written by him, everything was how he had seen it. What was really strange though, was that he didn’t like himself very much when he wrote. Or when whatever had written this wrote as if they were him. Or whatever. His head hurt.
He slammed the book shut, and reached for the pizza.
Next Installment, Friday 19th July