spittle soak his palm. He wiped his palm on the back of his pants, took a cigarette packet from his back pocket and stuck one of the sticks between his dried lips.
“Those things’ll kill you.” An obligatory warning, spluttered from the mouth of any and every pompous prick who likes to stick his nose in someone else’s business. If he wanted to slowly kill himself for the benefit of a mouthful of smoke and a quick buzz, that was his fucking problem.
Max merely grinned in reply. His partner, a skinny depressive man who had never been near a cigarette but had, over the course of his thirty-eight years, drank enough alcohol to drown a rock band, struggled to return the gesture.
Andrew Simpson had been Max’s partner for five years, and, although he could be a pompous prick, his comments on smoking had always been in jest, offered as a standing joke.
“I don’t get it,” Max said softly, watching as Andrew sunk in on himself, his head in his chest, his hands tucked deep into the long pockets of his rain-soaked trench coat. “Why?”
Andrew shrugged, his coat momentarily burying his neck. “I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore.”
Max was disappointed and annoyed. He looked around, beyond his partner’s shoulders. The police cars still littered the street outside the bank, a throng of spectators gathered behind a police cordon, bracing the cold and wet day for a chance to appear on the news or see the blood spilled by the celebrity criminals. Cameramen and dole-faced reporters were packing their equipment into a series of vans that had arrived almost as quickly as the police had, baying for their pound of flesh and their headline story.
Max took a long pull from his cigarette, tossed the burning stick to the ground where it sizzled on the wet tarmac. “Five years as a detective, fifteen in the force, you can’t--”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Andrew said, lifting his head, his soppy eyes staring into those of his partner. His friend. “It’s not right. I can’t do it anymore.”
Max wasn’t happy but he wasn’t completely surprised. Andrew had problems, always had. Things started off well for him, but after his promotion to detective, after the murders, the rapes and the dregs of society, he’d taken a fall. He had problems with depression and alcoholism as a youth and that came rushing back.
“I thought I’d tell you first,” he said respectfully. “I’m handing my resignation in this evening.”
“You just decided this now? Give it time, think it over. What happened in there, with the security guard--”
“That’s not it,” Andrew said, perking up somewhat. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it. Rodgers was just a poor fucker who wanted to play hero for his kids, he wanted his moment in the sun before he resigned his pointless existence to the big, bland fucking abyss; he didn’t deserve to die, but no, it’s not just about him. It’s about all the others that didn’t deserve it: the young girls raped and beaten; the kids killed by feckless parents who can’t think beyond their next hit; the bar brawls, the one-two-many drinkers who ruin their own lives and end others’ because a few drinks and a careless remark. It’s about the sickness we have to put up with, the violence, the hatred…” he trailed off, exasperated.
Max merely shrugged, waiting for his partner to continue. Andrew finished, retreated in on himself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his chin on his chest. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“So, what?” Max asked. “You gonna go work in Homebase? Flashing fake smiles to customers who think they own you because they can afford to buy the fucking toaster you’re trying to sell them?”
Andrew shrugged. “Anything’s better than this.”
“You’re a quitter.”
“Maybe.”
Max was annoyed, almost fuming, but he could see he wasn’t going to get the heated response he
“Those things’ll kill you.” An obligatory warning, spluttered from the mouth of any and every pompous prick who likes to stick his nose in someone else’s business. If he wanted to slowly kill himself for the benefit of a mouthful of smoke and a quick buzz, that was his fucking problem.
Max merely grinned in reply. His partner, a skinny depressive man who had never been near a cigarette but had, over the course of his thirty-eight years, drank enough alcohol to drown a rock band, struggled to return the gesture.
Andrew Simpson had been Max’s partner for five years, and, although he could be a pompous prick, his comments on smoking had always been in jest, offered as a standing joke.
“I don’t get it,” Max said softly, watching as Andrew sunk in on himself, his head in his chest, his hands tucked deep into the long pockets of his rain-soaked trench coat. “Why?”
Andrew shrugged, his coat momentarily burying his neck. “I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore.”
Max was disappointed and annoyed. He looked around, beyond his partner’s shoulders. The police cars still littered the street outside the bank, a throng of spectators gathered behind a police cordon, bracing the cold and wet day for a chance to appear on the news or see the blood spilled by the celebrity criminals. Cameramen and dole-faced reporters were packing their equipment into a series of vans that had arrived almost as quickly as the police had, baying for their pound of flesh and their headline story.
Max took a long pull from his cigarette, tossed the burning stick to the ground where it sizzled on the wet tarmac. “Five years as a detective, fifteen in the force, you can’t--”
“I’ve made up my mind,” Andrew said, lifting his head, his soppy eyes staring into those of his partner. His friend. “It’s not right. I can’t do it anymore.”
Max wasn’t happy but he wasn’t completely surprised. Andrew had problems, always had. Things started off well for him, but after his promotion to detective, after the murders, the rapes and the dregs of society, he’d taken a fall. He had problems with depression and alcoholism as a youth and that came rushing back.
“I thought I’d tell you first,” he said respectfully. “I’m handing my resignation in this evening.”
“You just decided this now? Give it time, think it over. What happened in there, with the security guard--”
“That’s not it,” Andrew said, perking up somewhat. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it. Rodgers was just a poor fucker who wanted to play hero for his kids, he wanted his moment in the sun before he resigned his pointless existence to the big, bland fucking abyss; he didn’t deserve to die, but no, it’s not just about him. It’s about all the others that didn’t deserve it: the young girls raped and beaten; the kids killed by feckless parents who can’t think beyond their next hit; the bar brawls, the one-two-many drinkers who ruin their own lives and end others’ because a few drinks and a careless remark. It’s about the sickness we have to put up with, the violence, the hatred…” he trailed off, exasperated.
Max merely shrugged, waiting for his partner to continue. Andrew finished, retreated in on himself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his chin on his chest. “I can’t do it anymore.”
“So, what?” Max asked. “You gonna go work in Homebase? Flashing fake smiles to customers who think they own you because they can afford to buy the fucking toaster you’re trying to sell them?”
Andrew shrugged. “Anything’s better than this.”
“You’re a quitter.”
“Maybe.”
Max was annoyed, almost fuming, but he could see he wasn’t going to get the heated response he
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