Faithless (50 page)

             
"Aye, better than you do."

With a roar Duncan ran at him. He barrelled into John and both of them fell onto the pavement, scattering tourists as th
ey tumbled over and over trying to get an advantage. Duncan landed half a blow but it only hit John's shoulder. Then John managed to stop rolling and got himself on top. He pulled himself up so that he was on his knees. He balled his fists and he rained blows on Duncan's face. Duncan put his hands up to defend himself but John hammered down again and again and enough got through so that Duncan was spluttering blood through his burst lips. His nose was bleeding and his eyes closing. John kept going hitting him again and again. He was screaming, "You fucking bastard. People like you think you can do what you want. I'll fucking kill you."  And then two police officers came from nowhere. They ran up and pulled him off. They roughly dragged John away and handcuffed him. One held him, breathing heavily. The policeman said with a grin, "What's going on here? Two fine gents brawling in the streets as if they was just like us."

             
His mate called up from where he was crouched over Duncan. "Better get an ambulance. He's done some damage to this other one."  People were flooding out of the Ministry of Defence. Cries of horror and outrage could be heard from Duncan's colleagues. Some of them came to talk with Duncan but the police officers kept them back.

             
"You ruffian. He's a good man. You deserve to go to prison," shouted one middle aged lady.

             
"Away and shite," shouted John back. The police officer gave a yank on the cuffs so that John shouted in pain. "Watch the language Jock," he said. Then they took him away to Vine Street Police Station. All his belongings were taken off him and put in a plastic bag and then the desk sergeant read him his rights and asked whether he was on medication or mentally ill. He wasn't.  After that he was deposited in a cell.

John waited in the cell for hours. It smelled of urine. The walls were covered in stains and uninspired graffiti. At first he lay down on the narrow bed. Then he  paced up and down, up and down. He did press ups. Eventually, emotionally exhausted, he rest
ed his head on the door. He wasn't feeling suicidal; he didn't regret what he'd done. He was still on fire with anger. They came to offer him a cup of tea, which he took, thanking them. After all he had no quarrel with the police. Eventually when they had processed the whores and pickpockets in the adjoining cells, they came to take him to the interview room. A CID constable took his statement; helping him explain what had happened.

             
"So you went to Whitehall to find this man who you had a grudge against. What was the grudge?"

             
"He beats his wife."

             
"Well, I don't hold with that. Men shouldn't hit women. And who is his wife? Your sister?" He grinned.

             
"I'm sleeping with her."

             
"I don't hold with that either John. You shouldn't shag other men's wives. It's not gentlemanly."

             
"I generally agree," said John.

             
"But not in this case?"

             
"It's different."

             
The officer shrugged. "So he has a grudge against you and he hit his missus. Did he find out?"

             
"He guessed."

             
"Still he shouldn't have hit her. If he'd come looking for you, well that's different. But he didn't. You had to go looking for him."

             
"Because he hit her."

             
"Very chivalrous. Almost makes up for your previous lack of chivalry for shagging her."

             
"I'm Lancelot of the Lake."

             
"Is that another name you go by? I had you down as John Gilroy. Are you into this role playing lark then? You pretend to be a knight and go and rescue her from a dragon. Dungeons and Dragons is it, with a sexy twist?"

             
"Not really, no."

             
"So it's a pretty simple story. You're shagging his wife. He belts her. You belt him."

             
"That's about it."

             
"Most things are simple in my experience," said the policeman. "Mind if I smoke? It calms my nerves."

             
"Why are you nervous?"

             
"Well, these statements are evidence so if I get them wrong then they can be thrown out by your brief. Sets my nerves on edge."

             
"I see. What's the charge?"

             
"I think we're looking at Affray and Actual Bodily Harm."

             
"What's the sentence?"

             
"Six months-ish. Where'd you meet his wife?"

             
"I work with her."

             
"Office romance. Classic. Tasty is she?"

             
"Is this part of the statement?"

             
"No, just curious. Anyway, someone told me you're a spook. Is that true? It was a bit James Bond come to think of it. Two elegant suited gents fighting in Whitehall. Lucky you didn't use exploding pens."

             
"I work for the Ministry of Defence."

             
"So does he."

             
"Not in the same Department."

             
"That's handy. Think of the angry looks over the xerox machine if you did."

             
"You're a comedian."

             
"Thank you. This is a dreary job. I have to lighten it up. Did you do it though?"

             
"What?"

             
"The offence."

             
John pointed to his bruised face and showed his skinned knuckles. "Yes, your honour."

             
"I'm not an honour. Just a copper." He finished writing down John's statement. "Anyway I think you can go back to your cell now."

             
"Then what?"

             
"They'll make a formal charge on reviewing the evidence. See what they can get you for. Then they'll probably bail you."

John went back to his cell. He tried to sleep but only managed a doze. His face and hands hurt. Then sometime in the middle of the night a constable came to fetch him. He followed him up to the custody desk. The sergeant gave him a plastic bag with his possessions in. "Sign here John, just to say you got them back?"

             
"What's happening?"

             
"You're free to go."

             
"But I haven't been charged."

             
The sergeant smiled. "No, your victim doesn't want to press charges and though it is a criminal matter for some reason my superiors don't want to either. Maybe someone pulled strings, eh?"

             
"Well, I suppose I'm glad," said John.

             
"Your wife's waiting for you upstairs."

             
"Who told her?"

             
"We rang her. It's two in the morning. She'd be wondering what happened to you."

             
"I didn't give you permission to ring her."

             
"Permission? It's common decency. We didn't tell her why you hit him."

             
John sighed and began to follow the constable out of the custody suite.

             
"There's a complaints form by the door," shouted the sergeant after him.

Karen was raging. "I've had to get the girls up and put them in the back of the car in the middle of the night so I can come and fetch you from a Police Station."

             
"I know. I'm really sorry."

             
He followed her to the car, which was parked on double yellow lines. "I just hope these bastards don't give me a ticket," she said.

             
He got into the car.

             
"Look at your face, for Christ's sake John. They wouldn't tell me any details but I gather you've been fighting like some sixteen year old hoodlum."

             
"Something like that."

             
She started the car and they drove down the relatively quiet London streets in silence. It had started to rain.

             
"So?" she said.

             
"So what?"

             
"What happened?"

             
"I hit a guy."

             
"Yes, but why."

             
"He beat his wife."

             
"Who is he? Someone you work with."

             
"No."

             
"Then how did you get involved?"

             
"It's Ailsa's husband."

             
"Ailsa's husband beats her?"

             
"Apparently. Quite regularly."

             
"So I still don't get it how you got involved. Did she tell you?"

             
"She's got a black eye. I asked her how she got it."

             
"And then you went out like a knight errant to right her wrongs? What's it got to do with you anyway?"

             
"I don't know."

             
"So she turned up to work with a shiner? I thought people kept these things secret."

             
"No. She didn't come to work."

             
"So how did you see the black eye?"

             
"She was off work, so I rang her to see how she was."

             
Karen snorted. "You ring your colleagues when they're off sick? I don't believe it. Maybe you just ring her. anyway"

             
"Not now, Karen."

             
She exploded in anger. "Don't fucking not now me. This is very fishy John. I don't want to believe what I'm thinking."

             
"We can talk about it in the morning."

             
"Ok, but you'd better have a good think about what story you're going to feed me tomorrow. Just so you can make up one I'll believe."

             
They drove in silence the rest of the way. He could feel her anger as the yellow street lights reflected through the rain streaked windscreen. The girls began to cry in the back, sounding tired and fretful. He reached round and one by one held their tiny hands, their fingers curling around his. When they parked, with great weariness he got the twins from the back seat and took them one by one into the house. He realised Karen was crying. He went to hug her.

             
"Don't touch me," she said. He backed off. She turned and went upstairs. He put the girls to bed in their room and switched off the light. He took off his tie and began to mount the stairs towards their bedroom.

             
She stood at the door and looked down at him. "Sleep downstairs," she said.

He was wakened in the morning by the so
und of Karen in the kitchen. She was warming bottles of milk for the girls. He struggled up from under the duvet and went through.

             
"You should have wakened me. I would have helped."

             
"I don't need your help."

             
He looked at her back as she went about getting the bottles ready. 

             
"I'm sorry," he said eventually.

             
"What for?"

             
He shrugged. "I don't know. For bringing shame to the family?"

             
"Is that what you did?" she said sarcastically. "Excuse me." She pushed past him and went into the twins' bedroom. He followed. The girls were pleased to see their mummy. He didn't feel decent or clean enough to go over to them.

             
"How do I make this right?" he said.