Angels of Mourning - John Pritchard

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and the triple span cast a long deep shadow, soaking the road. A glimpse of the westering glow beyond made it seem for all the world like a gateway out of hell.

      With a sentinel on sombre watch beside it.

      I slowed almost to a stop; the impression was quite unnerving. Then I realized it was a policeman waiting there.

      I felt a rush of reassurance; but only for a moment. As I drew closer, and took more in, I saw details that unsettled me afresh.

      He wasn’t a beat PC: oh no. Not with that short black carbine across his chest – cradled lightly in the crooks of his arms. A weapon as real as the ones I’d seen at work, and twice as ugly: I couldn’t stop staring – not even when he turned his head to watch me pass. His eyes were flat and unfriendly beneath the peak of his cap. A black muffler covered his mouth against the cold, its ends tucked into his turned-up collar. I could see the in-the-ear headphone he wore, wired up to the handset beneath his coat.

      I wondered what was up. A crackdown on the crack dealers, perhaps. Or maybe this was part of the anti-terrorist response we’d all been promised: more police on the streets, with the wherewithal to finish the job.

      I sensed him follow me with his gaze as I walked on into the gloom. Heard him murmur something to his radio, and I knew he was talking about me. And even as my ears began burning, my stomach shrank towards the opposite extreme. In all my innocence, I realised I felt guilty. Suddenly I’d have preferred any number of building-site ‘appreciations’ to that quiet, clipped report.

      The dimness I’d walked into was damp and smelly, but the sunlight beckoned beyond it. A rhythmic clunk of sleepers overhead, and then I was out; the bridges behind me, and their dour guardian too. I could have sighed with relief.

      There was a big police transit up ahead, parked with its wheels on the pavement; its bodywork like gleaming bone beneath a patina of grime.

      I closed the distance slowly, curious now. Perhaps I’d get to see an operation underway; the sightseer in me felt a flash of anticipation at the thought. But the waiting vehicle still left me uneasy, like they always did: not just for its cold, aggressive bulk, but for its grimmer features – the wired-in lights, and the riot shield racked up above its windscreen like steel mesh shades. Community policing kissed goodbye; the riot sections rode in things like this. And the firearms units too: coppers with guns, like the one back there under the bridge.

       God, Nick. Stick with your squad car. Stay smiling.

      The side and rear windows were ambulance glass: I couldn’t see whoever was inside. I knew they could see me, though. I could almost feel the watchfulness coming through those black panes as I passed.

      The driver was in his cab, and gave me an unsmiling glance. He made me feel like a potential criminal as well. I lowered my head and kept going.

      ‘Excuse me, Miss …’

      I wavered – that guilt again – and then turned towards the man who’d spoken. He was already crossing the road towards me, a radio in one hand. Wearing one of those high-visibility yellow jackets over his uniform, the reflective stripes like ribs. There were silver pips on his epaulettes, I noticed. He’d be an Inspector or something.

      ‘May I ask where you’re going, please?’ Quite politely – but some reckless part of me still wanted to mutter No, you may not. The sort of witty riposte that gets you a night in the cells if you’re not careful.

      ‘Camden Town,’ I answered, sensibly; trying to appear all calm and unruffled. ‘I’ve been helping with a soup run by King’s Cross.’ Trying to seem the interested citizen too as I added: ‘Is this to do with the bombings, then?’

      He looked like he hadn’t had more than two nights’ sleep in seven: his face pale, and shadowed with stubble. But his smile, when it came, was genuine enough: it widened his light blue eyes, and made him handsome. I guessed he was a little older than me; but even after all he must have been through these past few weeks, there was still something almost youthful in that wry expression.

      ‘Afraid so. We had some information … but it’s come to nothing.’ His tone was low and pleasant, with just a hint of exasperation. I found myself beginning to warm to him. With some people, things just click.

      ‘You … look like you’ve been on the job a while,’ I ventured.

      ‘Too bloody right.’ He scratched absently at the roughness of his cheek. ‘Surveillance stubble, you could call this …’ As he turned his head to glance upstreet, I saw a neat receiver tucked into his ear, too, its wire leading down into his collar.

      The transit behind us started up, and sat there ticking over.

      The Inspector lifted his handset to his mouth. ‘All units from Whisky Oscar One … Back to the transport, we’re moving on.’ He lowered the radio, and smiled at me again.

      ‘Best be on your way too, Miss. It’s not the safest area to be on your own in …’

      I nodded; though it still felt safer than the one I’d left behind me.

      Walking on, I couldn’t help wondering if they’d caught a whiff of Razoxane’s terrorists: somewhere round here. Or maybe Razoxane herself. If their information had really been correct, they’d have had a result, all right: a total blood-bath. No prizes for guessing who I thought would walk away. And I’d shared a smile with that bloke while knowing what I knew.

      This time the twinge of guilt was real.

      I’d walked a hundred yards or so when the transit passed me, cruising. I glimpsed the Inspector sitting up beside the driver. They reached the intersection just ahead – and came scrunching to a stop.

      Give Way said the sign; but nothing was coming. The intersection stayed deserted, like the street. But the transit just sat there – its brake lights all the brighter now that the day was losing colour.

      For no obvious reason, I began to slow my pace.

      And then they were off again, tyres rasping over tarmac as they turned north, and put on speed, and were quickly lost to sight.

      A personable bloke, that Inspector; but something told me he knew his stuff. As did his men, if the one I’d seen was anything to go by.

      Well, Razoxane, I thought, resuming my thoughtful walk. I’d watch my bloody step if I were you.

      Maybe the outcome of their encounter wouldn’t be such a foregone conclusion after all.

      According to the Know Your Medics notice on my office pinboard – a classic fifth-generation photocopy – Consultants can clear tall buildings in a single bound, walk on water and give policy to God. But when Murdoch put his head round the duty-room door, it was only to ask if we were all okay for transport next Thursday evening.

      ‘I’ve room for two more if not; three, if you count the roof-rack …’

      We assured him that we’d manage, and were looking forward to coming – which was true. Sickness and workload had conspired against the unit’s Christmas meal out last month, and it had gone by the board; an act of surrender that had left us feeling pretty flat. He’d picked up the vibes – and quietly organized a party at his own house. I don’t know about the others, but that gesture had really warmed me inside. Some Consultants stay aloof; but Murdoch, medic and manager, was very much one of our tightly-knit team.

      It promised to be fun: a night off we all needed. I just hoped I wouldn’t be the spectre at the feast …

      ‘Well if there’s nothing else, I’ll be wending my merry way homeward …’ He glanced down at his briefcase. ‘I’ve got my mobile, if anything interesting crops up.’

      I smiled goodbye, and listened to his footsteps click away towards the exit; then looked round at the others.

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