For the first time in a few weeks I’m leaving the property with the intention of going to work. I look across the street and can see that the dark skid marks have begun to fade and the freshly torn up grass berm shows signs that nature is repairing herself. A wave of happiness fills my body allowing a smile to creep across my face, not that I’m too concerned, but I wonder how the driver is.
Stuck in the court cells on light duties probably isn’t the smartest of places to put me. Mind you there was an officer working in the court cells who had been suffering from cancer and at one stage had a colostomy bag. So I suppose I shouldn’t expect too much compassion from the organisation. Mind you this guy loves being at work, hell, if I got given the choice I’d be at home.
After getting into my uniform at work I notice a nice new vest has arrived. A quick inspection reveals there is no hole where the knife defiantly outwitted the armour and no putrid metallic smell of dried blood. I place the vest over my shoulders but somehow it doesn’t feel the same. My vest always gave me that extra little bit of confidence, a feeling of safety, but now it feels foreign and somewhat false. I pull the Kevlar around my stomach and attach the Velcro. The wound is still tender and lets me know that this might be a little bit tight. I’m not going to be busting my arse today so I can’t imagine this being on for too long.
Looking down at my watch, a sickly tension fills my stomach when I see small drops of dried blood in the strap. Memories uncontrollably flood back of that day. I try and shake it off but I can feel my body temperature rise and saliva begins to fill my mouth. I quickly make for the hand basin and splash cool water on my face subduing this unwanted feeling. I look into the mirror and my eyes meet with my reflection, everything looks normal but I know it’s not. I look around the changing room and thankfully no one is there to see me in this state of vulnerability. Part of me doesn’t want to face the day but I know I have to. When I walk out of the changing room and into the muster room I’m meet by my colleagues who stop and awkwardly convey their feelings with smiles and pats on the back. Hopefully this doesn’t last too long. In a station like this, old news is replaced fairly quickly with a new scandal or hot piece of gossip. Thankfully everyone is drooling over the latest new couple that has emerged from the ranks especially when it’s two woman. Jokes about female locker room antics seem to be rapidly consuming every males mind.
I know it won’t take long before I’m settled into the routine of court section. The roster is pretty relaxed, and consists of only working four days a week so I’ve got no complaints about that. A day in court is fairly straight forward. Start at 8am, pick up the shit kickers from the station, and take them to court. Then pick up the next pedigree of shit kickers from the prison and take them to court. Then we sit around making coffee and talking shit waiting for the court staff to organise themselves. I swear some days it seems as if a retarded monkey is running the show. Seems to be a waste of four constables to be honest.
Once all the monkeys are in their cells the next onslaught of torture begins. Having to listen to the caged muppets whinge and moan for ten hours can be quite tiresome. I got quickly shut down by my colleagues when I suggested that I should put up a sign informing the prisoners stating the unfortunate truth that they are not as important as they think they are, and we are not there to meet there every want and need. I even offered to use my own ink and paper, but it was quickly decided that it was politically incorrect. By now if your soul hasn’t been completely crushed, the next stage of torture begins and what is left gets run through the mincer. This is the point when the unusual breed of the ‘lawyer’ enters into our day, and it’s not long before they also start to whinge and moan.
This particular morning starts off as normal as any other mornings on court section. I have a look at the custody console and we’ve got four prisoners waiting to be taken over to court from the main station. Once the prison truck is backed into the sally port and the garage door is down and secured. We open the up the cell and begin loading them into the back of the truck. The usual pleasantries are exchanged as they exit the cell. One, two, three but no number four. I take a step towards the cell and find number four standing in the corner of the cell with his head bowed and his back towards me.
“Hey, number four time to head off to court fella, Come jump in the back of the truck” I say, however the words seem to float across the cell only to be refracted by the back of his head. He turns around almost in slow motion revealing his face to me for the first time. I am met by a very pronounced primitive looking brow, his eyes are dark and beady, and his hair a short dirty blonde colour. All this perched upon a golem like physique. He replies to me in a menacing tone. “I’m not going in the back with those fucken criminals”. This strikes me as a little unusual. I can feel his eyes narrow in on me, his fists clench and his shoulders drop indicating that a physical altercation is about to begin. I signal to the others to lock the van doors and to come and back me up.
“Why don’t you want to go to Court?” I ask in the most caring way I can, because in all reality I don’t particular give a shit. I’m more interested in knowing what his fucken malfunction is. Unfortunately this is just what I naturally think about the majority of the people I deal with. Depending on the circumstances, I can guarantee most people would be appalled if they knew what was running through a cops mind when being spoken too.
“I’m not going with those fucken criminals” he repeats with his eyes still fixated on me.
By now my colleagues have stepped into the holding cell, however he doesn’t seem to be phased by the extra bodies in uniform that have appeared.
“I can’t be in with those fucken criminals” he demands.
“You’ve got no choice in the matter, you’re going to Court now and that’s the end of it” I angrily protest. I should know better than to even make that statement as its success rate is very minimal, I begin to feel my temperature rise as I’m thinking this. I wonder if it shows that I’m starting to get pissed off at him. Part of me wants to drag him by one of his weirdly shaped ears out of the cell and into the back of the van kicking and screaming. Funny as it sounds it would be slightly counterproductive, especially as we will have to look after him for the rest of the day and should at least try and keep him onside.
As if being stuck on some monotonous pre-record, number four recites the only words he seems to know.
“Okay” I say, my words stammer as I just realise I don’t know what this guy’s name is. Number four seems fitting but is very impersonal.
“Okay mate, hey what’s your name?” I ask in the most sincere tone I can manage.
His eyes still remain fixed on me, almost as if he is seeing more than just me standing in front of him.
Unexpectedly he opens his mouth and seems to exhale the word “Harley”.
“Well, Harley, I’m Nate” I reply.
He just stares at me. In fact I still don’t think I’ve seen him blink yet!
“Look Harley, you have to get in the van as we are all going over to Court”.
He sharply replies “I’m not getting in the van with those fuckers”.
It suddenly occurs to me.
“So you’re not getting in the van with those fuckers?”
Harley nods and lowers his brow.
“That’s fine mate because you will be in the van by yourself and once we get you over to Court you will be in a cell all by yourself, so there is no need to worry about the others”.
His eyes finally release their gaze from mine and he stares at the floor for a few seconds. Time seems to stand still and after what feels like an eternity he looks back up at me his face revealing his changed expression. He’s gone from a painful look of insubordination to a look of innocence.
“Really?’ He asks, ‘because I don’t want to hurt them”.
“And I don’t want that either Harley, so come on let’s get you into the van”.
He sheepishly walks towards me as the other two officers g
ive him some room and he walks towards the cell door.
I can only describe his walk as if he’s carrying two surfboards or a giant watermelon under each arm, add the accentuated sway in his shoulders and he’s walking like one of the usual fuck wits that we deal with.
He probably doesn’t realise how much of a cock he looks like, I’m sure he’s got a theme song playing in his head as he walks along.
He slowly gets into the van and takes a seat I close the aluminium door and secure the latches. I look at my two colleagues who both have a look of amusement on their faces. “You were going to wind him up weren’t you?” One of them says.
“Nah we don’t need the day to be any longer than it’s going to be” I reply.