Decay Inevitable

WHAT A DAY. Sean knew things were likely to happen that would change his life, but prior knowledge had not served him with the tools to deal with them. He had woken before six and for a lunatic moment he thought he was back home in Warrington, his mum pottering around in the kitchen preparing sandwiches for his dad before he went out to work. But the potterer – too loud, obviously designed to wake him – was Rachel. He had given up on his original plan of writing to her and caught a cab over. The weather had worsened during the night as they talked and by two a.m. gales were battering the house. Inside too, Sean had thought, as he watched Rachel fighting inner storms. He wondered which of her numerous personae might reveal itself to him and had prepared for the most vicious. But when she spoke, it was clear that any fury she might have been cultivating had grounded itself on the rocks of his logic. They finished the night promising to rebuild the friendship that had existed before they became lovers. Her invitation to stay had clearly run its course however, and Sean had dressed hurriedly, hoping the previous night’s reason hadn’t festered, become a final, sour rebuke to spoil things. But they had swapped civil goodbyes, had even managed a hug and a brief kiss.

Now, three hours later, he was sitting on a Lewisham wall, her perfume lingering on his jumper, the memory of her breasts pressing against him for the final time a painful ache in too many places across his body.

Dealing with the inspector overseeing his shift – a gruff but affable old bobby called Rostron with a dreary penchant for the old ways of the Force – had been a relative pleasure.

He had expected a carpeting but Rostron had been accommodating, although he was clearly of the misplaced opinion that Sean was an ambitious constable worried about his future. When Sean’s intentions were made clear, Rostron seemed to shrink, sadly accusing Sean of failure before any real effort had been made to improve his career prospects.

“You’re giving in at the first hurdle,” Rostron had said, pacing his office. “You’re wasting real potential.”

“This is not for me,” Sean had replied. “I’m a coward. You know, even if I had gone to that flat knowing there was a killer inside, I still would have wimped out of it.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Rostron had countered, anger hatching in his voice. “That’s not the voice of a policeman talking.”

“That’s right,” Sean had said, trying to keep traces of facetiousness out of his voice. Rostron wasn’t a bad man. “I’m not a policeman.”

Tired, emotionally hollowed, he managed a small wave and a smile for Sally as she pulled up in her Ford Focus. She was dressed in a grey baggy sweat shirt and jogging pants; he couldn’t think of an off-duty time when he had seen her in anything but.

“Are you really going to do this?” she asked, as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Yes,” Sean replied, not knowing to which of his decisions she was referring. What pleased him was the knowledge that any of them could be answered in the affirmative. For a change he was doing something positive. Acting for himself.

“What if someone recognises you?”

She was talking about the funeral. The newspapers had given it a discreet mention, in contrast to the screamers that dealt with the murder itself on the front pages.

“I’m not going in,” he emphasised. “I’m just going to wait outside the church in the car for a little while. Pay my respects. You know.”

“But her parents,” Sally persisted. “They’ll remember you.”

Through the grimy window Sean thought of a couple eating breakfast on a patio overlooking a distant beach. A dog running through the dunes disrupting clumsy kisses that tasted of apple-flavoured bubblegum, under blankets that smelled of toast.

“That was years ago,” he muttered. “I doubt they’re still alive. They were old even then.”

They drove in silence until they reached Lewisham train station. Sean could have walked or jumped on a bus but Sally was adamant she would drop him off. They both knew what was happening.

“What will you do?”

It was one of the little things about Sally that he would miss, the ambiguous questions. He wondered briefly if it was a trick she had learned in training, a gimmick that might draw some intelligence from a suspect that might not have otherwise been forthcoming. He hoped that wasn’t the case, that it was a fluke in her make-up, like the way she mixed Sea Breeze cocktails or her habit of singing Sex Pistols songs when chasing a stolen car.

She was staring straight ahead at the buses growling and grinding around the terminus. From the train station beyond, a clipped PA announcement was borne down to them on a gust. Something about a diversion. Something else about Cannon Street.

“Work it out,” he said. “Work Naomi out. It’s been such a long time since I saw her last. I could barely recognise her. She looked so... womanly.”

Sally laughed, despite the gravity pulling Sean’s voice down.