Gross Decency

It smelt of stale tobacco. Fur growing on the old coffee grounds in the bottom of discarded  but not disposed of polystyrene cups. Setting the finishing touches to the scene was the Formica topped table with its ragged edge, picked away by the nervous finger nails of a long procession of sweating, intimidated interviewees.

One interesting piece was shaped like an American Indian, in full feathered headdress. Obviously sculpted by some very bored artistic pervert.

“He was probably being kept waiting while the arresting officers cooked up some evidence against him and got their stories straight, rehearsing each line carefully.” Thought the worried little man, as he sat at the table, trying desperately not to add to the dilapidation that was all around him.

He could hear the two approaching C.l.D Officers quite clearly in the corridor outside, even through the closed door. The thought suddenly struck him that people passing by, during his soon to be interrogation, would be able to hear everything.

All his denials. All his pitiful pleading that he had done nothing wrong. All his alibis for the time the crime was committed, scoffed at by total strangers, that just happened to be walking by interview room number four.

The injustice of it all.

They were discussing him now. He could hear them a full twenty or thirty yards away. “My God, that was the young one. He’s Judged me already and found me guilty.” He thought. “They’ll be passing sentence in a minute, for whatever they think I’ve done.” He could see the headlines now. “John Timkins, helping the police with their enquiries.” “For the next thirty years.”

It had been a bad day already and it was only 0945. Detective Sergeant Harold George of the Walisham C.I.D had known it would be. It had started last night when young Judy George had come home late, and just as he was about to launch into one of his famous, “young thoughtless people of today, your mother’s been worried sick that you might have been in an accident or attacked” speeches, Judy had pre-empted him by grabbing mother’s hand and propelling her bodily through the door to the kitchen. Saying in a worried voice of her own “Mum, I’ve got to talk to you.”

All that happened for the next three quarters of an hour were the muffled strains of his daughter confiding in her mother, a partially stifled cry from his other half and a plaintive wail of “But what are we going to tell Da…….”

That could have come from either of them.

“Time for bed.” Harold had said in a quiet mumble to no one in particular. His son, Alan, two years Judy’s junior, the apple of his eye, the fruit of his loins and the one in whom all his future ambitions and aspirations lie, ignored him. The continuer of the family name in the years to come, didn’t bother to look up from the mind-numbing drivel being performed on the T.V.

He couldn’t hear his father anyway because of the monotonous Chee Thud, Chee Thud being blasted into his ears by the personal stereo. The one that his father could not remember at the time of his son’s birth, but that he supposed must have been there and he must have just missed it. What with all the excitement at the time and so on.

He had been asleep when mother had finally come into the bedroom. He vaguely remembered being woken by the sound of static between the Marks and Sparks Nylon Shift and the Marks and Sparks Guaranteed Run-Proof Thick Nylon Tights. Like a whispered “Goodnight,” between illicit lovers. Two brief thoughts came to him. “I wonder if they put them on the same hanger in the shop and use the sound as a kind of anti-shoplifting device?” “Or maybe it’s a kind of rape alarm, designed to attract the attention of passers-by who have a very acute sense of hearing?” With a last, appropriate name that, Marks and Sparks, I wonder if they do?” He had drifted back to sleep.

In the morning he had awoken very late. On his mad dash to the bathroom the dawn chorus of breakfast well under way greeted him on the landing. A cacophony of early sounds, the clink of plates and bowls, the gentle gurgle of the electric kettle and of course the inevitable Chee Thud, Chee Thud.

Half shaved, half dressed and the signs of sleep only half washed from his eyes he made his way to the table. Now, if only he could focus on the morning paper, with all this noise going on around him. He might be able to catch up with what had been happening in the world while he had slept. “Yes dear, of course I’m listening to you.” He’d said. “I told last night when I came to bed.” Was all she had given him as a clue.

Now he wished he had listened. Something was niggling at the back of his mind, something important. If only he could remember what it was. To top it all, his egg had been over done.

Yes, a bad day already and it was only 0946.

*******************

“A right nasty piece of work this one Sarge!” said young Wilson as they made their way past the doors of rooms one and two.

“A good lad.” Thought George. “A bit on the slow side, an underachiever, unambitious but dresses smartly.” He observed. “Probably do well in the force. Might even end up as my superior.”

“Acting as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” continued Wilson. “Hasn’t got a clue why we pulled him in,” he added with more than a hint of sarcasm.

He always spoke in clichés, “Too much Z Cars as a kid.” Thought George, “What was I trying to remember. It’ll come to me. It’s not important.” The last thought almost made him jump as it was given voice. His own voice. Luckily Harold was used to this as it happened to him quite a lot. He recovered his surprise quickly.”Er, that he doesn’t know why we’ve ‘pulled’ him in. He’ll know in a few minutes anyway.”

They had arrived at the door to number four. Wilson stopped his bosses hand on the door handle by laying his own clammy hand on it. “Who’s going to be the goodie and who’s going to be the baddie.” The fledgling detective asked.

“What?” It was all George could manage.

“You know,” Wilson went on. “Who’s going to be the goodie and who’s going to be the baddie.” He repeated, not making any more sense the second time than he had the first as far as George was concerned.

“Well it’s obvious isn’t it?” George didn’t know how else to explain it, so he just blundered on in his usual way. “He’s the baddie because he’s in there, and we’re the goodies because we’re in the police.” “Yes , he’ll go far.” George managed to keep to himself for once. “But not far enough.”

“What?” Paul asked, more than a little confused. “What did he mean by “Not far enough?” He thought. He went on slightly perturbed. “I mean, which of us is going to play the good cop and which one is the bad cop.” He said. Pointing first at the sergeant and then prodding his own chest.

“Oh , I see.” said George out loud while thinking, “Yes, definitely not far enough.”

“But you still haven’t answe……” Paul put in as George turned the handle and bulldozed his way into the room.

“Shhhh.” George put his finger to his lips.

John Timkins was facing them as they entered the room. They walked around the table to the side that had two chairs. Sat, and Sergeant George started the cassette player in motion.

“I am Sergeant George and this is,” he wanted to say, “A bloody idiot that watches too much telly.” But he managed to keep it formal. Even if only for the benefit of the tape recorder. “My colleague, Detective Wilson.”

At this point Timkins felt like hurling abuse at the two men. which is something he would never normally have even considered. Then again, these were not normal circumstances. To calm himself he imagined that they were two customers who had come to him for a loan to start up a small business. He was going to take great pleasure in turning them down. A decision he had made earlier in his usual manner, with the aid of a small coin. “What do you want. Why have you brought me here?”It hadn’t worked. He could tell that his voice must have sounded a bit like an injured animal by the expression on the older one’s face.

“Oh come on now John, This isn’t going to get us very far, is it?” This is what George liked. He was in the driving seat now. He was in charge, in control. He could smell the fear on this Timkins like an old wet overcoat in a warm room. At least he thought it was fear he smelt. “You don’t mind if I call you John, do you?”

Paul took his cue from what he thought was his bosses kindly tone of voice. The sarcasm completely lost on him. “O.K Timkins, come clean.” An unfortunate choice of phrase thought George. He had an idea what the smell might be.

Wilson decided to strike again while he was hot. ” Come on man, Spill the beans.”

George raised his eyes heavenward. “Good god.” He muttered under his breath. Bringing his gaze back down to earth, he noticed for the first time, the damp overcoat in the corner next to the radiator.

Timkins looked at the sergeant, as if for help. “Why is this officer talking as if he’s out of a very bad Australian soap opera?”

George just rolled his eyes back up to the ceiling. “They’re safe up there.” He thought. At least I don’t have to watch him make an arsehole of himself and the police force, as well as listen to him.

In spite of himself the mild-mannered bank manager was starting to get into the swing of things. “I’m saying nothing until I’ve seen my lawyer.” He said, catching the mood set by the young detective perfectly.

George, giving up, looked at his Watch. 0949 and the day was not getting any better.

“Alright Mr Timkins, I’ll come straight out with it.” The senior policeman thought it was time for a little enlightenment. If only to put a stop to this 1950’s film script they seemed to be stuck in. He put on his best ‘giving evidence’ voice.”At O835hrs this morning, a woman was seen to enter the police station…….” He stopped himself. “If I didn’t know better,” he thought, “I could have sworn I didn’t pronounce the vowels in the word hours.” “This has gone far enough.” He continued in a normal voice. “A young woman has made a very serious complaint against you.”

“It couldn’t have been me. What woman?” It was Timkins who was confused this time.

“The young woman alleges that you tried to drag her into a car this morning, as she was waiting for a bus in Upper South Street at approximately 0820.” Sergeant George had to blurt the last of this little speech out in rather a hurry, he could see that Wilson was getting ready to say something and he felt he had to silence him quickly with a stern look.

Timkins also noticed the junior C.I.D man’s deep breath and was just as eager to staunch the flow of rhetoric.”But I was just offering her a lift.”

“I see.” Wilson started to say, but was cut short by another look.

“I see.” George carried on for him. “I see, so you’re in the habit of grabbing young ladies in the street and offering them lifts in your car are you?”

George’s sarcasm was starting to make another appearance. He could feel some of his old confidence coming back to him.

“But I know her.” Timkins almost whined. This was all getting very tiring. “In any case, it wasn’t my car.”

“So it was a stolen car was it?” They had nearly succeeded in forgetting that Wilson was there. This time he got that look from both of them.

“I was in a taxi.” The bankman quickly explained. “I couldn’t get my car to start this morning, and it made me late so I went back indoors and rang for a cab.” He looked at two blank faces. They obviously wanted more, so he gave it to them. “What on earth did you think I was going to do with the driver while I was raping her, sell him a ticket or something?”

“I don’t think you should be making a joke of all this sir.” George said with some dignity. “This is after all a police investigation.”

“Well you started it Sergeant.” Thirty love, thought a smug John Timkins looking in the direction of the younger policeman.

“But why did you lean out of the cab and touch her arm. If you know her and she hadn’t realise who was in the taxi, why didn’t you just call her by her name?” Timkins had to admit the sergeant could put a very reasonable question. And that must have been it. “I don’t know her name,” he replied. “I only know her as the daughter of one of the bank’s long standing customers.”

“That must be the same bank that I use. They like to keep you standing around for ages.” Wilson felt that it was time he said something.

“Shut up Wilson.” But George said it without too much venom. His thoughts were elsewhere. The word daughter had struck a chord somewhere in the back of his mind. Now that the cogs were whirring his brain was off in unstoppable motion. Grinding away until it had turned up the right answer, and popped it into his head. “She’s bloody pregnant.” All the pieces dropped into place for George, it all made sense in one blinding flash. However, as George had bellowed the last three words it was making less and less sense to the other two peoplein the room.

“Is she?” Spluttered the surprised Timkins. “I mean, what if she is?” He dug himself in a little deeper. “It’s not against the law, not if she gave her consent. Or I at least had thought she had given it.”

“So it was aggravated rape!” Wilson, obviously upset by his mentor’s outburst, had gotten this case confused with yesterday’s vicious burglary.

“AGGRAVATED RAPE, AGGRAVATED RAPE???” Timkins could hardly believe his ears. “Aggravated rape, is there any other kind?” He decided to rub it in. “How in the world do you set out to rape someone without them getting aggravated?” The sergeant, sitting with his head in his hands, looked like a man ready to admit defeat. Timkins decided to finish him off. “Do you walk up to someone on the street and say excuse me do you mind awfully if I rape you? And she has to look at her watch in a bored fashion and say no I don’t mind at all, as long as you don’t mind if I finish my book while you’re doing it?”

By this time George had recovered himself again. At least enough to murmur, “I’m sorry, I was miles away.”

“So was I.” Added Wilson.

“I wish I damn well was.” Said Timkins, with real feeling. “Anyway, how did you think she knew where to send you to arrest me, as she must have done? I’m afraid that with the best will in the world I can’t imagine that you found me on your own.” Both men looked at Wilson, who was busy studying his shoes. He could see a look of total despair come into the sergeant’s face. A sudden wave of compassion over came him, but it didn’t stop him adding. “For Christ’s sake, I don’t go around dishing out cards you know. John Timkins Esq, Banker and Rapist.”

“I’m sorry.” Said George. “It’s obviously a case of mistaken identity.” He’d had enough. “Or at least, one of mistaken intent.” He’d had enough of this sarcastic little man, enough of this idiot Wilson and enough of work for one day. If he hurried he could still catch Judy before she left for college and maybe, just maybe he can make some sense of the mess back home which had completely slipped him by. “Huh, some detective you turned out to be Harold.” He thought.

“I’m sorry.” Said George again, this time opening the door wide to allow the irate little man his freedom. “You were only trying to do the decent thing.” “I’m very sorry, but it’s been a very bad day, you see.” And it was still only 0958.

 

The End