asked the woman if she was okay. I asked him the same. They both replied with a nod. It felt like something hung in the air between us that I wasn’t allowed to touch. There seemed to be a palpable prompt the scene itself was giving me, other than the possible violence between them. Another cue that I wasn’t picking up on.
The silent couple… The noises through the wall… That neighbour’s face.
‘There’ve been reports of a disturbance coming from this residence. I’m duty bound to follow that up. So… anything I need to know?’
Nothing but the shaking of heads.
‘Anything at all?’
In the next deafening silence, I tried to communicate to her wordlessly that she didn’t have to take any shit. And to him that if he was doing something to her then I’d be back with uniformed friends and trouble. But all I said was:
‘Well, we’re a phone call away.’
I shook off the tingle and reluctantly got out of there, resolving to do the only things I could: make peace with my limitations, and with the sour fact that she would probably never make that call, and record the encounter in my pocket notebook.
I can feel my mind listlessly erasing the encounter, as I make my trudge through grey reality towards traffic duty.
But then, they’ve recently found you can’t erase memories. They’re physical things. They make visible changes to the brain. Some are hard to access if you haven’t exercised them recently, but they never disappear. If you took my brain out of its case, you could see it all.
• There’s the crease that holds my parents’ smiles at my fifth birthday party.
• There’s the blot that is my first crush’s face.
• There’s that neighbour’s face, just next to it.
• There’s the dot of possible heroism. Watch me be disheartened, watch it degrade and fade.
This is not the electrode up my arse my life needed. This isn’t even a power trip. Perhaps I should have stuck with charity fundraising on the phones, say my thoughts. But I guess mum and dad would be prouder of me doing this.
The radio kicks in.
‘PCSO Mondrian? This is Duty Officer Levine, over.’
‘Yeah. Yes, this is me.’
‘… You’re supposed to say over.’
‘Over,’ I monotone.
‘So when someone calls for you, say go ahead, over. Over.’
‘Go ahead, over.’
‘Understood? Over.’
‘Yep.’
A pause. I wait.
‘Don’t say yes, say affirmative. And you didn’t say over. Over.’
I sigh, away from the walkie-talkie. Then steel myself.
‘This is PCSO Tom Mondrian. Affirmative. Go ahead. Over.’
‘Understood. Hearing you loud and clear. I’m over by the loos, over.’
‘Understood… over.’
‘What a wanker,’ I mutter to myself.
Cccchhhhhh...
‘And after you’ve finished speaking, take your finger off the PTT button. We all heard that.’
Crackles of laughter from someone else on the line.
‘You forgot to say over, over,’ I say.
I remember to take my finger off the button this time as I walk along.
‘Not funny, over,’ he says.
But it was a bit.
Levine is clearly the pedant of the bunch. I keep walking, my feet crunching in the snow.
Here we are. Broken glass on the tarmac. Red faced fella at the side of the road. A light blue Astra with one door open, diagonally up the kerb. Levine sees me and holds up a hand. His posture says, ‘I’ve got this thing locked down, you just stand way over there.’
La-di-dah. The beat goes on.
The ABC. The body. The beat. All firsts.
I wonder if anyone has ever fallen asleep while directing traffic. Could be another first for me this week.
I check my watch and see there’s an hour until my week ends. Nearly time to head back to the station locker room, change, clock off. Maybe a drink with the team if I’m unlucky.
Levine signals me to allow traffic around the car from my side, while he holds vehicles at a stand at his end for a while.
I signal. I smile courteously at the drivers as I do so. La-di-da.
I see many faces I recognise.
Amit from the paper shop down the road. Zoe Hughes from Maths drives past, averting her eyes to ignore my existence. She didn’t always.
I glance to the cluster of shifty kids on the other side of the road to make sure they see traffic is being held and let through at intervals. I’m only looking out for them, but they take one covert glance at me, put up their hoods and scarper off, one holding something weighty in a black plastic bag that’s got them pretty excited.
I probably should be curious about what it is, but that’s not really very me.
‘Dee. Dah dah dah dee dah, dah dah, dah dee…’
I stop the flow. I can barely see the driver in front of me through his tinted windscreen. But I squint to get a look at him in there and see his outline change. He taps the wheel, jittery, maybe coked up, which would account for the nerves. But I’m not going to create any extra trouble for myself. He glares at me, stiller now, as I hold my ground, letting him know I know there’s something up.
Then I wave him through. He shoots away hastily, as I snigger, enjoying my power to intimidate. Then I move to the side of the road, making sure I’m still visible to passing traffic.
Blue car. Red car. White car. Mini. Bus… Bus…
Oh!
I feel tired. Not just tired, faint. I shake my head. Somewhere I hear the bus stop but I don’t see anything. It’s darker now, all around me. I feel sick. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I try to go to ground, layer by layer, as a tower block might be detonated or dismantled.
I feel like I’m going to vomit but I don’t want to in front of all these people. It’s a shame-based reflex. I try to hold it in. I try to hold it together. There are shouts behind me.
The sound of footsteps. Running. I just need to reach the floor and everything will be okay. But my ears are going crazy horse. A high-pitched squeamish noise. A fresh white blah blah blah. Like TV failure.
Nearly at the ground now. It all flashes. I swallow ocean breaths. I wonder whether I’m causing scenes. My hands reach for the tarmac black. That high pitched squeal blazes on.
The world looks like it’s under a slow strobe.
Then my back is against the kerb. Clouds forming, crowd forming. I know something is wrong for sure.
I pull out my phone and try and call the… or should I use my… what’s the number for the 999…
I stare at the phone. Not fainting yet. Holding on.
Its numbers are strange. Just lines. Like Greek, or Latin. Symbols I don’t understand. I comprehend nothing.
My head is wet with something. But I don’t know what. I see Levine running up to me. I’m not sure whose blood this is.
I shout to him to check everything is all right.
‘Take