He woke late and scrambled to get ready, pulling on his crappy trousers and running for the tube. He remembered the book at the last minute, shoving it into his bag with his badge and a packet of Orios. As he slumped into the train seat, he wiped the sweat from his head, breathing hard. Damn job, damn night shift. He sniffed, then leaned back in his seat, smiling broadly as he remembered the last passage he’d read.

Another quiet night and he sat behind the desk, picking at the cookies and flicking through the book. He found another pay out, a few pages after the first. The insurance scam the other fella he’d managed to track down this morning went well, and he had another chunk of cash sat in the bank. He was flicking idly, when he saw something else, something that made him stop, crumbs dropping unseen from his protruding lower lip.

He was woken by a banging on the door, and the shouts of his eager comrades from the station. He hadn’t thought for a second that they hated him, but as he heard the fierce joy in their faces as they threatened to break in, he understood just how deep their loathing ran. He was found out, and there was nothing that made coppers angrier than a fellow policeman breaking the law… 

He slammed the book shut, eyes flicking back and forth, like a fly in a hot room. They couldn’t know, not yet, he had only started it that morning. But they found out. How did they find out? He pored back through the book, eyes flashing across the lines far more quickly than before. His head began to thump, and he grabbed for the cookies, stuffing sugar into his mouth. There was nothing, nothing! They found out, but he didn’t, so it wasn’t in the book. He slammed it again, then picked it up and threw it at the desk, watching it bounce off and onto the floor.

He stormed down the corridor, kicking the wall as he went, huffing and cursing.

He would need to be ready, have his defence worked out. He could go back, tell them not to worry about it. It was too late for that, they’d seen him, they could identify him if anything went wrong. Shit, damn.

There was a gun, in the evidence locker. He could take that, then he’d be safe. They wouldn’t break in if he had a gun. No, they’d just call AR and then they’d break in, and shoot him. He booted the wall, hard enough for his toes to feel broken and he slumped against the other wall, sinking down and resting his head against his knees, eyes burning. It wasn’t fair!

Screw it. He had some holiday due. He’d take the gun, just in case, and go home. If he didn’t come out again, they wouldn’t be able to finger him when they got caught. He stomped back upstairs, and re-read the passages before they came for him. According to the book, he went about work as usual, checking up on his money-makers and readying himself for the incoming cash. So if he went home now, and stayed there,  things would have to happen differently. Maybe he should quit, get away from the station altogether.

He headed for the locker, pulling out the sawn-off shotgun they’d picked up last week. Why didn’t pikeys use nice guns? He shoved it into his bag, along with the book, and stared at the wall. The night went slowly, every noise in the station making him jump, his nails the turning the crack of his arse raw where he scratched. After what felt like forever,  the day shift came in and he ran out the door, sprinting to the tube.

He was stepping in through his front door, when it struck him. He’d taken the shot gun. That was catalogued, they knew it was supposed to be there. They’d check with him, of course they would. He couldn’t take it back though, not now, how the hell was he supposed to explain it? He slammed the front door, putting every ounce of force into it, and leaned against it. He went in his bag for the gun, but came out gripping the book to his chest like a shield.

That was how he slept as well, the shotgun on one side, the book on his chest, his open laptop on the other side. He woke late afternoon and opened the book, then a loud thumping came on the door. He read, feverishly, swearing under his breath, as his stubby finger ran along the lines.

The police was knocking, knocking at the door, and even though James knew they couldn’t have found out about his money-makers, not yet, he still clutched his shotgun and prepared for the worst.

Did he really write like this? It was just so…wanky. But how had they found out, why were they here? The voices got louder, ringing around the flat.

“Open up, James, we know you’re in there. Come on fella, don’t be daft.”

He pulled the sheets up, but the pounding continued and he realised with a chill that ran down his back and made his balls shrink, that there was no hiding from this. Throwing them off, and pitching the book and laptop into his bag, he crept into the hallway, then knelt, the shotgun braced against his shoulder. He sighted at the middle of the door, as it shook under the strains of the hammering.

“James, you need to let us in. This isn’t too serious, but it could become so, stop being stupid, we can look after you.”

He spat, shaking his head, unaware of the thin laugh that escaped his lips. They wouldn’t protect him, not in a million years, not after what he’d done. He lined up and took the shot. The shotgun slammed into his shoulder, throwing him backwards and making him shout with the pain. The noise was deafening as the front door exploded. He heard shouts from the other side of it, someone screaming and others yelling ‘christ’ and ‘what the fuck was that.’ Then the same voice cut through the hollering.

“He’s got a shotgun. Sam, call an ambulance, then get armed response. The rest of you, get away from the door.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know why you did that, or where you got the shotgun from, James, but it was a really stupid thing to do. Assaulting a prisoner doesn’t look good, but we could have claimed self-defence, or bloody anything really, what do expect us to do now?”

His shrunken balls tried to climb up into his body as the sweat broke over his forehead. Assaulting a prisoner? Then he remembered the mace, and the drunk with the poncey voice. He stared down at the shotgun, then back out into the hallway. He could see nothing beyond the remains of his door, his fellow policemen vanished and waiting for the big boys with guns. They’d shoot him, they’d actually shoot him.

“Wait, guys, I’m coming out, I’ve put the gun down.”

He placed it on the floor, watching as his hands shook. Then he turned the handle, and pushed the frame full of splintered wood out and stepped through. They came for him and he went face down on the floor, one knee in his back and another resting on his neck. The floor was covered in blood and all could smell was the rich scent of iron. He could hear someone whimpering, then he was dragged out and shoved in the car.

He was sharing a cell. He’d always felt big, but the other guy was huge, six six maybe, and covered in muscle. As the gate slid shut behind him, he stood motionless, working on keeping his knees still and his face calm. His cell mate took the two steps it took to cross the space between them and smiled down at him.

“I heard you’re a copper. That right?”

The smile widened.

Next installment, Tuesday 23rd July