wanted. “Fuck off then,” he said, letting his frustrations out. “Fuck off back to your booze and your boring life. The force doesn’t need you anymore. You’ve lost your fucking balls.”
Andrew lifted his head, stared into his partner’s eyes. He thought about replying, even opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal, but decided against it. He gave a gentle shake of his head, turned and left.
Max watched his former partner clamber forlornly into his car, watched him stare at himself briefly in the rear-view mirror, watched him start the car and leave the crime scene. Only then did Max regret his words. He cursed to himself angrily, kicked an annoyed foot into the floor and reached into his pocket for another cigarette; the sooner the toxic sticks killed him the better.
“Detective. A word, please?”
Max sighed.
The prissy brunette with the stick up her arse. Her bland demeanour had somehow won her much acclaim in the area and she was the go-to girl for anything morbid or worthy of a primetime feature. He hated her, had hated her since her very first job three years ago when she hounded him over the murder of a local addict, insisting he wasn’t doing his job and that the public had a right to know things that they had no right to know.
“I’ve told you all I know,” he said sternly as she approached, her microphone held by her side, her cameraman trailing lazily behind her.
“And you’ve been very helpful. Thanks again,” she smiled a fake smile, the stiffened wrinkles at the corners of her lips typically only creased to commit to her nasal and self-important speech. He’d never seen her crack a smile -- an apt idiom considering how her face broke under the strain.
He sighed, “What do you want?”
She paused, raised her eyebrows and then lowered her head. Scratched her chin with the tip of an outstretched finger. Her attempt at casual friendliness hadn’t worked.
“I want to do a feature on the Bleak and Bright bandits, an hour long--”
“No,” Max cut in abruptly.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Let me guess,” he said with a cursory glance at the cameraman who wasn’t filming and looked keen to pack up and leave. “You want to impress the producers, the bigwigs who, until now, see you as the annoying little tart who occasionally reports on the big stories and constantly tries to suck their cocks in exchange for a shot at the big time.”
“How dare--”
“I haven’t finished yet,” Max said, noting the pleased grin from the cameraman whose interest had peaked. “So you want to run a show on the bandits and rope in the head detective to give a few interviews, to twist and pressure me into telling you something I shouldn’t be telling you. Everyone tunes in, you impress the producers and sail your way to national-news-anchor-bitch with your mouth dry and your knees glued.”
Her mouth hung open, her eyes bulged. She snapped her jaws together, screeched a displeased harrumph and stormed off, barging past the cameraman who stood motionless, grinning widely at Detective Max Cawley.
“Wow,” the cameraman said with a slow and impressed nod. “You’re my fucking hero.”
***
Max stopped the car outside his house. Grunted. Cursed under his breath.
His wife was there again, trying to take advantage of the fact that he wasn’t home, seizing the opportunity to rob him blind.
Her car was parked in the driveway to the three-bedroomed segment of suburbia. The boot and the doors were open, as was his front door.
He scuppered down the driveway, preparing himself for another argument. The front door was ajar; it swung open before he reached it. His wife breached the threshold with a brimming box cradled in her arms. Her sleeves were rolled up the elbow, exposing the wispy hairs on her skeletal arms; a line of goose-pimples rose as she braced the cold air.
“Oh, you’re
Andrew lifted his head, stared into his partner’s eyes. He thought about replying, even opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal, but decided against it. He gave a gentle shake of his head, turned and left.
Max watched his former partner clamber forlornly into his car, watched him stare at himself briefly in the rear-view mirror, watched him start the car and leave the crime scene. Only then did Max regret his words. He cursed to himself angrily, kicked an annoyed foot into the floor and reached into his pocket for another cigarette; the sooner the toxic sticks killed him the better.
“Detective. A word, please?”
Max sighed.
The prissy brunette with the stick up her arse. Her bland demeanour had somehow won her much acclaim in the area and she was the go-to girl for anything morbid or worthy of a primetime feature. He hated her, had hated her since her very first job three years ago when she hounded him over the murder of a local addict, insisting he wasn’t doing his job and that the public had a right to know things that they had no right to know.
“I’ve told you all I know,” he said sternly as she approached, her microphone held by her side, her cameraman trailing lazily behind her.
“And you’ve been very helpful. Thanks again,” she smiled a fake smile, the stiffened wrinkles at the corners of her lips typically only creased to commit to her nasal and self-important speech. He’d never seen her crack a smile -- an apt idiom considering how her face broke under the strain.
He sighed, “What do you want?”
She paused, raised her eyebrows and then lowered her head. Scratched her chin with the tip of an outstretched finger. Her attempt at casual friendliness hadn’t worked.
“I want to do a feature on the Bleak and Bright bandits, an hour long--”
“No,” Max cut in abruptly.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Let me guess,” he said with a cursory glance at the cameraman who wasn’t filming and looked keen to pack up and leave. “You want to impress the producers, the bigwigs who, until now, see you as the annoying little tart who occasionally reports on the big stories and constantly tries to suck their cocks in exchange for a shot at the big time.”
“How dare--”
“I haven’t finished yet,” Max said, noting the pleased grin from the cameraman whose interest had peaked. “So you want to run a show on the bandits and rope in the head detective to give a few interviews, to twist and pressure me into telling you something I shouldn’t be telling you. Everyone tunes in, you impress the producers and sail your way to national-news-anchor-bitch with your mouth dry and your knees glued.”
Her mouth hung open, her eyes bulged. She snapped her jaws together, screeched a displeased harrumph and stormed off, barging past the cameraman who stood motionless, grinning widely at Detective Max Cawley.
“Wow,” the cameraman said with a slow and impressed nod. “You’re my fucking hero.”
***
Max stopped the car outside his house. Grunted. Cursed under his breath.
His wife was there again, trying to take advantage of the fact that he wasn’t home, seizing the opportunity to rob him blind.
Her car was parked in the driveway to the three-bedroomed segment of suburbia. The boot and the doors were open, as was his front door.
He scuppered down the driveway, preparing himself for another argument. The front door was ajar; it swung open before he reached it. His wife breached the threshold with a brimming box cradled in her arms. Her sleeves were rolled up the elbow, exposing the wispy hairs on her skeletal arms; a line of goose-pimples rose as she braced the cold air.
“Oh, you’re
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