thrumming of blood in his ears and the clatter of his nervous teeth.
The call had come in five minutes ago as he and SeniorConstable Harbour trawled the main street waiting for the pubs to spew out their usual collection of Friday-night drunks, brawlers and bitch fights. In a small town there was little else to do at the end of the week than try to out-drink your mates.
Now, as Damien waited with trembling hands, he heard his companion shout, ‘Police, open up!’ Harbour never got tired of saying that. After fifteen years in the force, he was a power junkie who loved the authority of his uniform. He had consistently followed a clear model of policing – punch first; ask questions later. Of course nowadays he had to use the namby-pamby capsicum spray first, but he usually managed to get a few good solid belts in with his ASP on most arrests. Anything else was too good for the low-life scum he dealt with. If he started acting like some of the soft cocks in the city he’d soon lose respect in the town.
In the backyard, Damien’s pale face was vivid against his dark uniform, and he knew that he was a beacon, an unavoidable target for the shooter that might be lurking in the house. Then he saw the point of entry: the bathroom window jimmied open, the torn lace curtain.
Adrenalin surged through him as Harbour’s shout echoed around him. He knew the strategy. Just like dropping a ferret in a rabbit hole. The terrified bunnies always ran out the back-door and into the hunter’s nets. Sure enough, seconds later a wiry figure exploded in a flurry of arms and legs out of the bathroom window, and Thompson, not sure whether to vomit or piss, decided instead to dive toward the offender, arms outstretched.
The suspect nimbly avoided him by weaving to the right and sprinting full pelt through the yard.
‘Aw, shit!’ Damien cursed, knowing he’d be a laughing stock at the station. ‘HE’S GETTING AWAY!’ he bellowed to Harbour as he gave chase.
The suspect, in black beanie and hooded sweats, ducked easily around the patio furniture and over a pile of bricks. Thompson was close behind until he caught his ankle in an unfilled hole, stumbled and then managed to right himself with the help of a rusty Hills Hoist. He threw himself at the paling fence as the offender began to scale upwards, lunging forward and grabbing the climber’s upper body to pull him down.
‘Fuck me! Tits!’ he yelled. Thompson was a shy lad who had seen few live breasts in his time, and touched even fewer, so his first reaction was to release the young lady and apologise for his lack of decorum.
‘THOMPSON, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? NAIL THE BASTARD!’ Harbour screamed as he watched the newbie releasing their perp.
Suddenly remembering who he was and what he was doing, Thompson grabbed again at the offender, holding her tightly by the hips as they both fell to the ground.
‘Name?’
‘Fuck off, pig.’
The station’s harsh fluorescent lighting emphasised the pale cheeks and dark-circled eyes of the young girl as she slumped on the hard bench seat, scowling from behind her black dreadlocks.
‘Now Mikaylah, why do you have to be like that? What’s gotten into you lately? Come on, you know I’ve got a job to do here.’ Sergeant Higgins sighed as he dropped his pen and leaned his beefy arms on the desk to appraise the sullen young teen. ‘Now come on, let’s try it again … name?’ He picked distractedly at the dry, flaking skin on his elbows while he waited for the response he knew wasn’t coming.
Ready to chuck with disgust, Mikaylah turned away. IanHiggins had always been a tosser, ever since he’d dobbed on her when he’d sprung her ditching school in Grade Five.
‘Okay, I’ll do it then … Name: Mikaylah Boomhauer, Address: Is it thirty or thirty-two Old Mill Road?’
Given the full force of her ugliest stare he sighed once more and went back to his form. ‘I’ll just put thirty-two Old Mill Road,
The call had come in five minutes ago as he and SeniorConstable Harbour trawled the main street waiting for the pubs to spew out their usual collection of Friday-night drunks, brawlers and bitch fights. In a small town there was little else to do at the end of the week than try to out-drink your mates.
Now, as Damien waited with trembling hands, he heard his companion shout, ‘Police, open up!’ Harbour never got tired of saying that. After fifteen years in the force, he was a power junkie who loved the authority of his uniform. He had consistently followed a clear model of policing – punch first; ask questions later. Of course nowadays he had to use the namby-pamby capsicum spray first, but he usually managed to get a few good solid belts in with his ASP on most arrests. Anything else was too good for the low-life scum he dealt with. If he started acting like some of the soft cocks in the city he’d soon lose respect in the town.
In the backyard, Damien’s pale face was vivid against his dark uniform, and he knew that he was a beacon, an unavoidable target for the shooter that might be lurking in the house. Then he saw the point of entry: the bathroom window jimmied open, the torn lace curtain.
Adrenalin surged through him as Harbour’s shout echoed around him. He knew the strategy. Just like dropping a ferret in a rabbit hole. The terrified bunnies always ran out the back-door and into the hunter’s nets. Sure enough, seconds later a wiry figure exploded in a flurry of arms and legs out of the bathroom window, and Thompson, not sure whether to vomit or piss, decided instead to dive toward the offender, arms outstretched.
The suspect nimbly avoided him by weaving to the right and sprinting full pelt through the yard.
‘Aw, shit!’ Damien cursed, knowing he’d be a laughing stock at the station. ‘HE’S GETTING AWAY!’ he bellowed to Harbour as he gave chase.
The suspect, in black beanie and hooded sweats, ducked easily around the patio furniture and over a pile of bricks. Thompson was close behind until he caught his ankle in an unfilled hole, stumbled and then managed to right himself with the help of a rusty Hills Hoist. He threw himself at the paling fence as the offender began to scale upwards, lunging forward and grabbing the climber’s upper body to pull him down.
‘Fuck me! Tits!’ he yelled. Thompson was a shy lad who had seen few live breasts in his time, and touched even fewer, so his first reaction was to release the young lady and apologise for his lack of decorum.
‘THOMPSON, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? NAIL THE BASTARD!’ Harbour screamed as he watched the newbie releasing their perp.
Suddenly remembering who he was and what he was doing, Thompson grabbed again at the offender, holding her tightly by the hips as they both fell to the ground.
‘Name?’
‘Fuck off, pig.’
The station’s harsh fluorescent lighting emphasised the pale cheeks and dark-circled eyes of the young girl as she slumped on the hard bench seat, scowling from behind her black dreadlocks.
‘Now Mikaylah, why do you have to be like that? What’s gotten into you lately? Come on, you know I’ve got a job to do here.’ Sergeant Higgins sighed as he dropped his pen and leaned his beefy arms on the desk to appraise the sullen young teen. ‘Now come on, let’s try it again … name?’ He picked distractedly at the dry, flaking skin on his elbows while he waited for the response he knew wasn’t coming.
Ready to chuck with disgust, Mikaylah turned away. IanHiggins had always been a tosser, ever since he’d dobbed on her when he’d sprung her ditching school in Grade Five.
‘Okay, I’ll do it then … Name: Mikaylah Boomhauer, Address: Is it thirty or thirty-two Old Mill Road?’
Given the full force of her ugliest stare he sighed once more and went back to his form. ‘I’ll just put thirty-two Old Mill Road,
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