old and worth about a grand.
He watched them larking around throwing chips at each other. Charlene wasn’t with them. Maybe she hadn’t come. He waited until they’d finished their lunch and set off to the arcades.
He’d been hanging about for nearly an hour and was itching for a toot. He was about to give it up and head back to the estate to score when he saw her. She was on her own, as usual, fingering a rack of cheap trousers, the sort that hung too low on the hips. Crap like that would cost a fiver at the most so he got out of his car and approached, intending to buy them for her.
Unaware that she was being watched by Max or anyone else, the girl slipped the trousers into her bag. As she turned to leave, the burly stallholder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, caught her by the arm and a scuffle ensued.
Charlene struggled to get away and clawed at the man until her false nails began to snap off one by one, sounding like popcorn in a hot pan. She screamed that she was being attacked, but the stallholder clung on, his cigarette in place, one eye closed against the plume of smoke. A crowd began to gather, amused by the spectacle, glad for a reason to put down their shopping bags on such a warm day. They pointed and tittered; even Big Lynne put down her spatula and leaned her not inconsiderable girth over her greasy counter to see what the fuss was about. She gave a fleshy thumbs-up to her fellow market worker who seemed to have the situation under control until the girl gave her captor a swift kick in the groin.
‘Ooh,’ cried the audience as one.
In an effort to protect himself the stallholder let go of the girl’s arm and she instantly fled, unchallenged by the shoppers until another man caught her around the waist.
‘Jack Mc-fucking-Nally,’ she shouted.
‘Charlene Clarke,’ he answered.
At the sight of the policeman Max cursed and slunk back to his car.
Hermione stirs her coffee but doesn’t drink it. She already feels giddy with power and caffeine might send her over the edge.
When central office had suggested she request a meeting with the Chief Superintendent she had not shared their confidence that he would have any interest in hearing her views, but less than twenty-four hours later here they are in his office. The inner sanctum.
She wishes she had someone to tell, to share in the excitement. She is forty-six and doesn’t have a friend. She has never had a friend. Colleagues yes, associates plenty, acquaintances by the truckload, but no special friend.
Even at boarding school, forced to spend twenty-four hours a day with the same set of girls, she didn’t forge any firm bonds. She wasn’t bullied nor deliberately excluded, just overlooked. In the dorm the other pupils would share her tuck and copy her prep, but she was never invited to birthday teas or slumber parties. During the school holidays the others often visited one another but Hermione was never asked. She supposes she should have done the inviting, but home was always fraught, with her father’s ceaseless moans about money and her mother’s demands that he get a better job.
Hermione recalls one summer when her mother had told every guest passing through that her daughter had been all-round winner at sports day with a special commendation for gymnastics. When the vicar had implored the singularly un-athletic Hermione to strut her stuff she’d been forced to perform a ludicrously cack-handed cartwheel.
‘Actually,’ said her mother to the embarrassed assembly, ‘Hermione has sprained her wrist, but she’s too polite to say.’
For the remainder of August her mother had suggested Hermione might like to sport a bandage.
Hermione sighs. She would have loved to share today’s good fortune with her mother. Still, she has William.
The policeman smiles politely. ‘You’ve been somewhat critical of the police in recent days, Mrs Barrows, and I’m wondering where you’re going with it and whether
He watched them larking around throwing chips at each other. Charlene wasn’t with them. Maybe she hadn’t come. He waited until they’d finished their lunch and set off to the arcades.
He’d been hanging about for nearly an hour and was itching for a toot. He was about to give it up and head back to the estate to score when he saw her. She was on her own, as usual, fingering a rack of cheap trousers, the sort that hung too low on the hips. Crap like that would cost a fiver at the most so he got out of his car and approached, intending to buy them for her.
Unaware that she was being watched by Max or anyone else, the girl slipped the trousers into her bag. As she turned to leave, the burly stallholder, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, caught her by the arm and a scuffle ensued.
Charlene struggled to get away and clawed at the man until her false nails began to snap off one by one, sounding like popcorn in a hot pan. She screamed that she was being attacked, but the stallholder clung on, his cigarette in place, one eye closed against the plume of smoke. A crowd began to gather, amused by the spectacle, glad for a reason to put down their shopping bags on such a warm day. They pointed and tittered; even Big Lynne put down her spatula and leaned her not inconsiderable girth over her greasy counter to see what the fuss was about. She gave a fleshy thumbs-up to her fellow market worker who seemed to have the situation under control until the girl gave her captor a swift kick in the groin.
‘Ooh,’ cried the audience as one.
In an effort to protect himself the stallholder let go of the girl’s arm and she instantly fled, unchallenged by the shoppers until another man caught her around the waist.
‘Jack Mc-fucking-Nally,’ she shouted.
‘Charlene Clarke,’ he answered.
At the sight of the policeman Max cursed and slunk back to his car.
Hermione stirs her coffee but doesn’t drink it. She already feels giddy with power and caffeine might send her over the edge.
When central office had suggested she request a meeting with the Chief Superintendent she had not shared their confidence that he would have any interest in hearing her views, but less than twenty-four hours later here they are in his office. The inner sanctum.
She wishes she had someone to tell, to share in the excitement. She is forty-six and doesn’t have a friend. She has never had a friend. Colleagues yes, associates plenty, acquaintances by the truckload, but no special friend.
Even at boarding school, forced to spend twenty-four hours a day with the same set of girls, she didn’t forge any firm bonds. She wasn’t bullied nor deliberately excluded, just overlooked. In the dorm the other pupils would share her tuck and copy her prep, but she was never invited to birthday teas or slumber parties. During the school holidays the others often visited one another but Hermione was never asked. She supposes she should have done the inviting, but home was always fraught, with her father’s ceaseless moans about money and her mother’s demands that he get a better job.
Hermione recalls one summer when her mother had told every guest passing through that her daughter had been all-round winner at sports day with a special commendation for gymnastics. When the vicar had implored the singularly un-athletic Hermione to strut her stuff she’d been forced to perform a ludicrously cack-handed cartwheel.
‘Actually,’ said her mother to the embarrassed assembly, ‘Hermione has sprained her wrist, but she’s too polite to say.’
For the remainder of August her mother had suggested Hermione might like to sport a bandage.
Hermione sighs. She would have loved to share today’s good fortune with her mother. Still, she has William.
The policeman smiles politely. ‘You’ve been somewhat critical of the police in recent days, Mrs Barrows, and I’m wondering where you’re going with it and whether
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