was going to take a while, which exacerbated my nerves. I placed my hands on my lap and tried to listen. I continued to look around the room, but did so with the minimum of movement because each move that I made was the focus of everybody’s attention, or at least that’s how it felt. I began to think of my friends from school. I couldn’t believe where I was. I wondered what they were doing at this very moment. They would never believe this if I told them—Michael Bunting, a police officer? Then my turn to be sworn in arrived.
‘PC Bunting, please,’ came a voice, out of the blue. I looked at the front and the officiating magistrate nodded his head and smiled at me. It was as if he sensed my anguish. I stood up and tentatively approached him. I looked over to my mum and dad before taking the oath. My formal acceptance to the service was complete. I had even been given my dad’s old West Riding Constabulary collar number, 451. As a chief inspector of the same force, he looked on with the pride I had expected. I’d done it.
I spent the next fifteen weeks at the Police Training School in Warrington. On the final day, after having studied law in the classroom, done riot training on the drill square and performed role play scenarios in mock streets, I completed the passing-out parade with hundreds of other recruits from five different police forces. Once again, Mum and Dad came along with my grandma and grandad (Dad’s parents) to join the crowds of proud onlookers as these new police careers began.
My life’s ambition to become a police officer was complete. I wondered what the next thirty years had in store for me.
My first memory after my initial police training is the sudden and unexpected death of my grandma. Just two weeks after she had proudly watched me in the passing-out parade, she suffered a fatal stroke, chilling in its timing. All she ever wanted was to see me become a policeman, just like my father had in the sixties. My grandma had enjoyed good health all of her life. Her death seemed cruel, especially to my grandad, who relied heavily upon her as he was partially disabled from a gunshot wound sustained to his right arm during the Second World War. On reflection, and having seen both my grandfathers suffer long illnesses before their deaths, I feel Grandma’s death was a dignified conclusion to her life. She had enjoyed it to the full, right to the end and I now realise that this is something for which we should be grateful. As a result of losing Grandma, the relationship between Grandad and me became even stronger. For the last four years of his life I visited him regularly. For months, he would accidentally call people ‘Lucy’, my grandma’s name. It was heart-breaking. You could feel his loss.
Unfortunately, it soon became clear that death was a thing that, as a policeman, I would have to get used to. Having almost fainted during a day attachment to the mortuary, I knew I didn’t like dealing with the deceased.
I remember being sent to my very first sudden death. I was with my tutor constable, Gary, when the call came over the radio. I looked at Gary. It was four o’clock in the morning, and it was cold.
‘You okay with this, Mick?’ he asked.
‘Gotta get my first one out of the way, mate.’
Gary began to drive the car. ‘Check to see if we have a Form Forty-nine, will you?’ (A Form 49 is the paperwork used by West Yorkshire Police for sudden deaths. It usually involves interviewing the doctor and family members of the deceased. The mention of this form is guaranteed to make most police officers feel at least a little uneasy.) I found the relevant paperwork and told Gary that we were okay to attend. I tried to imagine the sight I was about to face. I sat quietly in the car. I didn’t want to speak. I had to prepare myself. People at the scene would expect me to know exactly what to do and to be able to handle the situation without showing any emotion at all. After all, I was a policeman. The thought of a dead body was daunting, though. I hadn’t been trained to deal with the emotional side of death; this could only come with experience. I opened my pocket notebook and began to jot down the address.
‘What number house is it?’ I asked. My mind was preoccupied now and the relevant information had escaped.
Gary repeated the whole radio message virtually word for word. He wasn’t fazed. We pulled onto Barnsley Road and saw an ambulance halfway down. ‘That’ll be it, lad,’ said Gary, with a look of concern on his face. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yep.’
‘Let me do the talking at this one and you learn as we go. I’ll do the form as well. They’re a nightmare when you haven’t seen one before.’
‘Okay, mate.’ My mouth was dry, and I felt cold. People had gathered in the street. We were the sole focus of their attention as we drove towards them.
‘Coppers are here,’ I heard one person say.
I took a deep breath and got out of the car. A young couple approached me and pointed to the house. ‘It’s there, officer.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ I noticed they were still wearing their slippers. I found this rather strange. One of the ambulance crew walked out as Gary and I approached the door. He shook his head and said, ‘Hi lads. There’s nothing we can do here. He’s dead. Doctor’s been called to confirm death. We’ll have to leave it with you, I’m afraid.’
‘No probs, mate. Thanks a lot,’ Gary replied.
We walked into the hallway. To the left was a half-open door leading to the living room. I could see the man’s legs. He was lying on the floor. I tentatively pushed the door open and looked at his face. He was an elderly gentleman and he lay in an unnatural posture on the floor. His face was white and his mouth was wide open. The ambulance crew had placed his dentures next to him. I noticed he had a wet patch on his trousers and the dreadful smell indicated he’d had a substantial bowel movement upon his death. His fingers were purple and curled round into a partial fist. His hair looked immaculate. It was a really bright white colour, parted perfectly and styled seemingly with precision and pride. It looked unaffected by his death and this recovered his dignity despite the soiling of his trousers. I noticed photos of children on the fireplace. I assumed they were his grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren. I also noticed an old-looking black and white photograph of a woman dressed in old-fashioned clothing. A cross with some religious prose hung over this photo. I assumed it was a picture of his deceased wife. I sensed his loneliness.
Gary walked over to the window and began to inspect it. This baffled me. ‘What you doing that for?’ I asked.
‘When we go to deaths we have to check the place for forced entry, signs of a struggle, anything nicked and stuff like that. You never know, one of these could be a murder and your feet wouldn’t touch the ground if you missed it and let the scene go.’
‘Oh yes. I see. This isn’t a murder, is it?’
‘No, mate. Poor old sod has seen enough of this life. Looks like a heart attack to me. Their mouths always stay wide open like that when it’s a heart attack. We’ll have to strip the body too, Mick. We have to check for bruises.’ Gary seemed to know exactly what he was doing and this filled me with reassurance. ‘Have you got your surgical gloves on ya?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, they’re in the car.’
‘You’ll need ‘em for this bit, mate.’ Gary looked at me and gave me a forced smile.
‘Right.’
I went outside and noticed more people had gathered. I felt very self-conscious and made a deliberate effort not to show any expression on my face. ‘What’s happening, officer?’ asked the same man who had spoken to me earlier.
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’ This seemed to be the right thing to say but I wasn’t sure whether it was or not. I knew that I wasn’t allowed to tell people much so it seemed to be the best answer. I walked back into the house and unwittingly took a deep breath just as I entered the living room. The smell had worsened, as Gary had moved the man’s body, causing more excrement to leak out. I turned my head back in