Human Frailty, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (4 page)

"What wee swim would that be Brendan?"
Gillian said.

"Last night shift", Darren said, grinning
like a Cheshire cat, "Brendan chased that idiot from the robbery in
town. They ended up in the harbor. The person could obviously swim
and disappeared into the darkness and escaped. Brendan was bobbing
around like a big blue duckling. He forgot that he was wearing body
armor and boots. I don't know who was the bigger idiot, the robber
or Brendan".

"I had no choice Darren, as my partner
couldn't keep up
…
” Brendan said, punching Darren in the
shoulder. "Someone had to give it a go".

"You're like an old married couple, you
two", Gillian said, "Stop bickering and tell us about the
wife".

"Well it turns out your big guy in the cells
might not be a tough as he looks", Brendan said. "We found the wife
in the lounge, large as life and twice as ugly. She was fairly
pissed and had a nasty temper on her. She took an instant dislike
to Darren, I'm not going to repeat some of the things she called
him".

"Was she badly injured? Our man had a fair
amount of blood on him", Steve asked.

"Not a scratch on her, it all belongs to
him. It seems that we have a case of a battered husband, and I
don’t mean ‘deep fried’ either. The little girl confirmed it.
Apparently, mummy gets angry when she drinks her special drinks.
She yells at daddy and occasionally daddy has scratches and bruises
on his face. Daddy tells her he got drunk and fell over, but the
little girl is brighter than they both think".

"She was pretty matter of fact about it
all", added Darren, "I believe her, and by the look of the
recycling bin outside, they drink a lot of special drinks".

"So you sprayed an innocent man", Steve said
looking at Gillian with a smile. "Which means he was assaulted by
two different females in one day, it has to be some kind of record,
don't you think".

Gillian looked at Steve,
disappointment on her face "I don't think it's something you should
joke about Steve", she said sternly. "That poor little girl is
caught up in the middle of her dysfunctional
parent
’
s
issues. It is going to really mess with her head. What a shitty
life she must be leading".

"We took her with us'" Brendan chipped in.
"Mum was too drunk to look after her, so she is downstairs waiting
for a social worker to pick her up".

"Well at least that's something", Gillian
mumbled under her breath.

"I guess we need to go down to the cells and
speak with Mr. Sutcliffe and see if he wants to make a complaint of
assault", Steve said.

"Its Mr. Sutcliffe now is it, what
happened to all the names you were calling him
before?
”
Brendan said.

"A man can change his mind", Steve
replied.

The radio on Brendan
’
s belt crackled into
life.

'Any available units are
required at the Revive Club on George Street; reports are coming in
of a large disturbance outside'
.

Gillian looked at the clock on the wall; it
was five minutes before midnight. It is starting early tonight, she
thought, sucking in a deep breath and wishing she could have a
cigarette.

It took less than two minutes for the
procession of patrol cars to leave the police station and arrive at
the club in George Street. Three cars had responded from the
central police station, moving through the streets like a disco
snake, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Late night revelers took
no notice as the noisy parade flashed by. One patrol car had
responded from North Dunedin and had approached from the other
side. In all, there were eight police officers on the scene.

There was a sea of bodies moving in unison,
funneling in and out of the tight alleyway leading to the entrance
of the club. Within the flow, people were fighting each other over
petty reasons, fuelled by alcohol and false bravado. Fists raised
above the melee in different places, like schools of angry fish
jumping out of the waves. The two dark suited bouncers on the door
were bravely trying to prevent anyone from entering into the club,
not wanting the tide of violence to wash into their dance
floors.

The eight police officers gathered on
the edge of the mêlée, momentarily stunned at the task ahead of
them. No one spoke; adrenaline was coursing through them, heart
rates increasing, the body
’
s way of preparing for the impending
violence. Fight or flight was the saying. Unfortunately, for the
eight people there wearing a blue uniform, flight was not an
option.

The sound of glass breaking behind them
broke the impasse as a full bottle of beer shattered against the
gutter, spraying foam all over a young female bent double and
vomiting onto the pavement, the brown liquid mixing with the bile
and flowing into the drains. The female just wiped her mouth and
sat down, oblivious.

A few meters in front of them, two other
females were trying to drag the culprit away before he could
reload.

Some of the crowd had noticed the uniforms
now and had started to turn their attention towards the police.

"Right", Gillian said, "We need to get this
under control before those jealous boyfriends turn their attention
from their love rivals to us.” She looked at each of the officers
in turn to make sure they were all on the same page. “Start at the
back and move as many as you can, no time for any arrests unless
absolutely necessary. We can follow up on that later".

Gillian looked up at the camera on the pole
and hoped it was recording.

Then the blue uniforms waded into the
tide.

Like most angry crowds, ninety percent of
the participants are just there milling about, hoping to see
something violent happen, not actually wanting to join in. The
voyeuristic bloodlust is the same as that of the audience to the
ancient gladiator fights. Most people move on when confronted with
a hyped up police officer holding an extended baton and telling
them to go home, some did not, they needed more convincing. They
were mostly young men, high on alcohol or other substances, with an
inflated sense of self-importance making them buck against
authority.

Mostly…

Gillian stood nose to nose with an
animal by any description. Alcohol and fury had ravaged the
girl
’
s
features into a snarling spitting mess. Her unfocused eyes were
trying hard to focus on Gillian but not succeeding.

"Fuck you pig bitch", she spat. "You can't
tell us to go home".

Her friends standing in the background were
coaxing her on, trying to get her to lash out.

"Stand back", Gillian demanded, before
pushing the girl in the chest and reaching down to her belt,
feeling for the comfort of her spray. She backed away slightly as
she fumbled with the fastening, trying to give herself some room.
The girl stumbled backwards into her friends arms, they immediately
shoved her forward again, eager to help the violence. She stumbled
towards Gillian.

"I told you to stay back", Gillian said as
she raised her small blue canister in front of her for a second
time that night.

The girl regained her balance, raised her
fist in an exaggerated manner and kept advancing.

Her intentions clearly signaled by her
actions, decision made, Gillian depressed the button at the top of
the canister. She heard the hissing sound of the canisters pressure
filled contents expelling, but saw that the girl was still
advancing. She tried to focus her eyes to pick up the stream and
direct it into the girl
’
s face, the girl kept advancing. There was no
stream.

She realised the hissing sound was the ugly
sound of an empty canister. Then the hissing stopped, the canisters
pressure was exhausted.

Gillian did not see it coming but she sure
felt the girl’s fist connect with her left eye, it was a
surprisingly heavy blow. She felt her knees go weak, stars sparked
around inside her eyes.

Dizzy and losing her balance, she stumbled
backwards and sat down heavily, winding herself. The girl was
standing over her, looking between Gillian then back at her friends
for praise. Momentarily infamous for her actions, buoyed up with
what she had done. Crossed a line that she thought she was the
first to cross.

Gillian was struggling to regain the
upper hand. The girl was still standing astride her, trying to work
out what to do next, she aimed an ineffectual kick that glanced off
her shoulders. The girl
’
s initial dose of anger had seeped out of
her, replaced by uncertainty. The more rational side of her mind
was fighting against the alcohol soaked majority.

Gillian reached for her extendable
baton; it was not where it should be. Shit, it must have fallen out
when I fell, she thought. She frantically searched the ground
around her, not taking her eyes off the girl. She was scratching at
empty ground. The girl
’
s eyes locked on hers, alcohol winning the
battle. The evil smile on her face painted a vivid picture in
Gillian's mind as she watched her raise her foot and smash it down
towards her face.

Her intoxication had caused the girl to
misjudge the distance between them and the stomp connected squarely
with Gillian's chest, her stab proof vest taking most of the impact
out of it.

Gillian was now flat on her back.
Above her, she could see the girl
’
s triumphant look turn to shock as a
flash of blue uniforms shoved her roughly to the ground

She looked over towards the mound of
bodies. Jo Williamson had a knee in the small of the girls back;
her blonde hair had come out of its tie and was hanging down over
the girl as she struggled to place the handcuffs on the
girl
’
s
wrists. She watched as Jo stood up and hauled the girl to her feet,
both girls red with exertion. Both Jo and the girl were of similar
ages, both had blonde hair, but the difference was startling. Jo
looked almost angelic against the struggling, snarling mess beside
her, Beauty and the Beast.

Gillian laughed inside at the comparison.
The only other female on her group, Jo Williamson was a likeable
and capable police officer. She would have to remember to tell
her.

The angry noise in her head was
fading, looking around her she saw the legs of running people, the
noise that had greeted them had died to a hushed silence. The sight
of a police officer being hit and falling to the ground had made
the crowd realize the seriousness of the situation. Most of them
had decided that they did not want to be part of the crowd anymore
and had disappeared. The girl
’
s friends had disappeared, leaving their
friend to her own fate.

"Are you Ok?
”
Steve asked, crouching down beside
her.

"Yeah, just a lucky shot that's all".

"Well it looks like you're going to get a
black eye at the very least for your trouble, might have to take
the next couple of days off. Not a bad thing though, I know how you
hate early shifts".

"We'll see", she replied standing up.

That
is
the second time tonight I have
felt detached from the scene, she thought to herself, I need a
break.

Breathing in and looking around her from her
standing position, she saw various intoxicated people in handcuffs
sitting against the wall. An eclectic group of specimens found only
in the darkness of night. The tide had gone out and left everything
behind that was to slow to realize the difference. She saw her
colleagues talking to some very intoxicated Detectives; one had his
tie wrapped around his head like a bandana.

"Don't tell me Mike
’
s lot ended up here, were
they involved in this?
”

"I don't think so from what they are
saying," Grant replied, "But they are pretty pissed".

"Is Mike with them?
”

"Darren saw him slipping off into the
darkness with a certain blonde lawyer just after it all went pear
shaped. He's married isn't he?
”

"Does that stop any man when he's pissed",
Gillian said.

"Hey I don't play around on my girlfriend
when I'm drinking", Steve said with mock offence, “If anything it
makes me want her more the drunker I get".

"You're a saint Steve", Gillian replied, her
mind already on the paperwork ahead as well as what to do with Mr.
Sutcliffe and his abusive wife.

Looking at her watch the time was ten
minutes past one in the morning, they were supposed to have knocked
off at ten o’clock the previous evening, it was turning out to be a
long night.

He could hear the phone quietly
ringing somewhere in the distance, the ring tone was
Beethoven
’
s
ninth symphony, a fitting tune for the warm comfortable place he
had found himself on the sand to watch the waves crash on the
beach.

Bloody cell phones can let people reach you
anywhere, he thought.

The ringing got louder, the waves
started to disappear into the horizon. Left in their place was a
feather duvet wafting up and down in front of his face.
“
Your phone is
ringing
”
,
the duvet was telling him in a singsong female voice. He opened his
eyes fully just as the duvet settled on top of him, looking around
with a start at the vaguely familiar surroundings. He saw a shapely
half-naked figure walking out through a door on the other side of
the room.