Young Writers Society

Dirty Doves
Chapitre Un: From Whaddon to Leon
Part 2/2

August, 2003: Whaddon to Central London

The Little Chef I’d pulled into, about seventy miles outside of West London, wouldn’t have been as appealing had my stomach been full and happy. Fortunately, my stomach was far from full and the grunting bellows it produced told me it was far from happy too. For the first time since I’d set off, I took in my surroundings with admiration. I had since forgotten it was summer, and the sunlight danced upon the evergreens to create a most heavenly scene. Of course it was corrupted by the abnormal level of noise and thin-layered smoke that had built up from the ring road, but all the difference, the scene was still rather quite magical.

Thus it was mildly comical to enter the Little Chef and compare the two contrasts. I had found myself tailing off in a queue of travellers, mostly suited and booted ones, and drowning in an afternoon session of busy consumption and kiddies downing cola. I quickly took the time to scan the menu, discomforted by the quick spirit of service and my running out of time to browse. Most of the menu appeared to be burger related, or at least what I had peered at; instead, a lady’s order at the front of the queue had grabbed my absolute attention. She was rounded, to be put nicely, and had a shoulder-length hair cut and wore a leather jacket and fairly baggy jeans. Her gaze was fiercely focused forward upon the poor lad hiding behind the tills.

“Look ‘ere, son,” she yelled, “I already told you, din’t I? I wan’ed my burger without the darn mayo! You gonna sort this? ‘Cause I don’t have all day – got’a scoot around, things to do!”

Missed a few English classes, I mused.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” the kid replied, “but I can’t replace something you’ve taken half a bite out of.”

“Half? Half a bloomin’ bite? Are you mad, son?” she retaliated eagerly, flailing her obviously half -devoured chicken and mayo burger around the air in distress.

I had seen it my duty, as not only a Police Officer but a good citizen, to intervene with the affairs. It is a decision I no longer believe to be one of good judgement, but all the same, I’d made it and carried it out confidently so.

“Excuse me – Ma’am,” I said, pushing up the queue to much of the disorientation of the other customers. “With all due respect, ma’am, but perhaps you would see fit to retire your efforts, eh? The young lad, here-” I glanced to the name tag, “George – I’m sure he’s thought of all the ways he can help you out, but now you’re merely holding up the queue and, well, with all due respect – people are waiting.”

“You this boy’s Daddy?” she squirmed at me, flinging the mayo in my general direction as though to alter her line of attack. “’Cause he’s got’a lot’a answerin’ for, love!”

At this point, something had evidently crossed her mind that vocal attacks were not resulting in triumph and thus began resorting to much more violent methods of persuasion. With the mayo flinging burger wildly lapping around in her left hand, she’d taken her right and began battering me over the shoulder with her handbag. To a member of the audience, this could’ve been seen as amusing but, to me, I had found this incredibly surprising and, merely as a matter of instinct, I quickly shot back to my police training and began quickly processing the methods of self-defence. My timing to react was perhaps a wee bit slow, but the rounded woman’s chanting of distress and repetitive whacking over my upper body with a female accessory was somewhat distracting.

Bucking up the brain power to function, I retaliated: I grabbed her arm tightly and twisted it behind her back, pulling her wrist outward then sharply inward into a nearby counter to knock out the ‘weapon’ she beheld. I finished by grasping both her arms behind her, pushing her front forwards onto the counter and then slowly started drifting to the realisation of the action I had just took. In all fairness, the woman had no doubt started such a scrap, but – then again – I had most likely bruised, if not cracked, the poor woman’s knuckles and then held her in a position of distain. It was also most unfortunate that the manager of the Little Chef had only appeared to bare witness to the latter of these situations. Instead of the woman being held and, soon enough, arrested by on-duty officers for disorderly misconduct, I’d found myself being imperatively ushered out of the restaurant with the threat of the police and, the woman, ended up with a complimentary free burger – without the God damn mayo.

Having been deprived of my lunch, I quickly found the remaining hour of the journey tiring. A glance at the neon-green digital clock embedded in the dashboard had informed me the time was half past noon. Had I remembered, quite rightly it seems now, that the meeting was at a quarter past one, I would’ve attempted to drop by a fast food restaurant before seeing DI Wheatfield. However, at the time, I’d made the assumption that the interview was at a quarter to one. Such a mistake had resulted in my rushing of the last leg of the journey and a total ignorance to the looks and sounds of Western Central London. I hadn’t even noticed the beautiful marble architecture of the Metropolitan police station that stood around ten times wider than the one at my village does, and a little more than three times the height.

A kind faced receptionist had pointed me in the direction of DI Wheatfield’s office and offered me a coffee while I waited, informing me that I had arrived half an hour earlier than expected. My increasing hunger had led to a complete disregard for manner, and, just as the receptionist was making her way off to get my coffee – black, two sugars – I stopped her in her tracks and almost demanded a muffin or a biscuit or two. Thankfully the disregard for manner was not mutual and she kindly responded that it would “be her pleasure” to fetch a couple of bourbons from one of the staff kitchens.

It wasn’t much the lunch I had hoped for, perhaps even mildly downgraded from the quality of the Little Chef, but the awakening taste of coffee and the sweet munch through a plate of bourbons had done the trick to quench my needs for the meanwhile. In fact, I had begun to flick through a magazine and failed to noticed the speed in which half an hour passed. The silence of the waiting room – I say waiting room, it was more of a wide corridor, dotted with iron framed chairs and a single coffee table piled with age-old magazines – was broken by the entrance of a man in a grey suit; his figure was slender and slim, but all the same did not lack superiority or intimidation. He had a soft-orange face and dark brown eyes, which were set upon a document in his large left hand.

“Mr Carter,” he grimaced and held out his hand eagerly. I took it and shook firmly. It lacked the sweaty, heated feeling of my DCI’s, but his skin felt soft and fleshy all the same. “I’m very glad you’ve made it here on time, or rather early as I am told, as we are expecting a phone call any moment now. Well, I say ‘we’… The phone call is for you, Carter.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage upon the confusion of why I had been pulled along to London simply to answer a phone call. We stood in the waiting room, face to face in a moments silence, before he realised I was yet to be enlightened.

“Please, Carter, come through to the International relations office,” he said and pushed his way through a pair of white panelled doors at the end of the wide corridor. “The phone call, that you’re soon to receive, is from Interpol HQ.”

The Detective Inspector continued to explain to me as we walked through the busy communications of robot-like suits seated at numerous desks. “You’ll be moving to Leon; today in fact.”

This comment stumped me. Even now, when I realise my reasons for being taken to Interpol, I do not understand the reasoning for such the urgency. I wish I had protested at this point, but the DI was quick to abrupt my surprised thoughts from going much further.

“I’d love to say you have a choice, Carter,” he continued, “but unfortunately, the case they require you for, is not one to fall down due to personal choice. Before you ask, I have no clue of your case details, or why they have chosen you. I am assuming most certainly that they shall be the ones to explain these minor details.” He paused for a moment as we pulled open a single white panelled door and entered a small, empty office that held a single clean desk with a brown landline phone perched on the corner. “I’m sorry that we’re dragging you around quite a bit today. I must also apologise for dumping this on you in such a way as I have done. But it is-”

His explanation was interrupted by the ring of the brown phone on the desk. Neither of us moved at the moment of its intrusion and merely retorted to silence whilst it rung a couple more times. “It’s for you,” Wheatfield finally said to me, gesturing to the phone and then leaving the office and me alone to the phone’s tempting ring.
I picked it up, eager for explanation but got none. Instead it seemed much like a pre-programmed telegram; the voice remarkably robotic.

“Good day, Detective Sergeant Reginald Carter. This is Interpol. You are required to assist us in a case. You have no choice. Plane leaves at 2.30pm. Destination is Leon. Interpol HQ. Contact General Secretary Peter Luiene. Enjoy your flight, Monsieur.”

The line went dead.

hey Ben Franks lovely to meet you and happy christmas eve!

well firstly I have to say that I really enjoyed reading this piece - you are a very good writer and easily engage the audience. I'm not usually one for cop stories, but this has got me hooked!

There are only a few things I'd like to comment on. Firstly, at first I was unsure whether or not it was fiction or non-fiction! It probably is because of your very direct writing style, rather than through any true fault, but I thought it had to be mentioned. The only other point I can think of is that you describe the DCI as both "slender and slim." This to me just seemes a little bit awkward, which only really stuck out because of the fluidity of the rest of your writing.

All in all this is really great, keep it up