On the beat Pete

“This one’s a Josephine Harris” said sergeant Ingold as I rang the bell, “no mention of a husband or boyfriend.”

We waited for a minute or more, I had to ring again a couple of times before the young woman eventually appeared, wearing just a dressing gown, with her hair bandaged in a towel.

“Miss Josephine Harris?” I said.

“That’s right,” she replied, “Jo Harris. What can I do for you?”

“We’re police officers,” I said,, holding up my badge, “the escaped tiger’s been seen in this area and we’re evacuating all the houses.”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t understand, why are you evacuating the houses. Surely you should be telling people to lock themselves safely indoors.”

It made no sense to me either, if the tiger was out here somewhere why weren’t we trying to catch it. Instead, a dozen police officers would end up spending the whole day visiting the houses in the area, by which time the tiger could be twenty miles away. However, my job isn’t to think, it’s to follow orders, no matter how daft they are.

“It’s a routine public safety measure,” I said as reassuringly as I could, “we cordon off the area, move out the general public, then move in the specialist tiger team.”

That seemed to placate her somewhat. “So where do I go?” she asked.

“Wherever you want, friends, relatives, anyone that can put you up.”

“So you’re not moving us to a safe place, you’re just kicking us out of our homes. While there’s a tiger on the loose.”

She was right. This was madness. “It’s just a temporary measure,” I said, “there’s no need to relocate people, it’s just for one night, two at the most.”

“Two nights? But I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve just moved here, I don’t know anyone. I don’t even have a car I can sleep in.”

“Well a hotel then?”

She laughed. “A hotel? In London? Are you paying?” I shook my head. “I can’t afford to eat between now and when I get paid on Monday, all I’ve got to live off until then is a loaf of bread, some tins of beans, a jar of marmite, half a pint of milk and some jam. I don’t even have butter for the bread, that’s it, the austerity diet I call it. How the Hell do you think I can afford a hotel. I don’t even have the bus fare to get to a hotel.”

Sergeant Ingold had been silent up to this point, and she’d addressed her answers exclusively to me, but clearly the Sergeant had decided that the conversation wasn’t progressing and he stepped forward to take over negotiations. Rather than repeat the same arguments I’d made, he simply made his hand into a fist and struck her harshly in the face.

She collapsed on the floor, through shock as much as anything.

“You hit me,” she said, as if the thought of being assaulted by the police was unthinkable. I used to think the same when I was a naïve young cadet.

“I don’t wanna hear your stories about being hit,” replied Ingold, “no more than I wanna hear stories about being too poor. You don’t have to stay in the Ritz, just anywhere you can afford.”

“But…”

“No buts, here,” he said, pulling her up by the hair, “just get out of the house.”

She understood that he meant get out immediately.

“But I’m not dressed. I’ve just got out of the shower. I’m virtually naked.”

“Well that’s perfect, you can go on the streets, tout your wares and get a bed for the night. Save on hotel fees.”

With these words he swung her by the hair, which had fallen out of the towel in the initial confrontation, and flung her out of her own doorway onto the pavement. Not letting her get up, he proceeded to kick her prostate body for a number of minutes until he was content.

He looked at his clipboard. “Let’s try number 17, a Mr and Mrs Postgate.”

I tried to move, but couldn’t take my eyes of the girl. I was desperate to see signs of life.

“Leave her for the fuckin’ tiger sonny, we’ve got a job to do. The public need us.” With heavy pat on my shoulder he moved me onwards to the next house.